THE FUTURE WIDOW'S CLUB Page 6

  Granted she might have to live with Chris for another three months, but rather than looking forward to a divorce as she'd been doing, something about looking forward to being a widow in the interim appealed to her even more. Did that mean she wished Chris would die? No, not really. At least not yet, at any rate. But she wouldn't mourn him if he did, that was for sure.

  Sophia cleared her throat, garnering everyone's attention. "Okay, ladies. Time to call it a night. I'll see you all back here next week." She grinned, sent a meaningful look around the room, which everyone returned. "Until then… Our un-dearly departed—" she began.

  "—may he never rest in peace," they all finished in unison.

  Jolie's smile widened and she quietly echoed the sentiment.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sophia let go a sigh and sailed her hat across the room like a Frisbee, where it landed on the couch with a quiet thump. Per tradition after a meeting, she, Meredith and Bitsy had pulled chairs up around the serving table and were currently gorging on leftovers and homemade muscadine wine. She liked to dabble with various berries and had earned quite a reputation as an amateur wine-maker.

  "Well?" Sophia said, plucking a pig-in-a-blanket from a nearby plate. "How do you think it went?"

  The remaining petite fours in front of her, Bitsy licked a bit of fondant icing from her thumb and absently selected a second. "Like it always does—good."

  "I think Jolie enjoyed herself," Meredith said. She dunked a wedge of honeydew melon into a tub of fruit-dip. "She really started to smile once we moved into Confessional, and I saw her flipping through her book several times."

  Bitsy tilted her head thoughtfully. "I liked that hat she was wearing. Looked good on her, didn't it?"

  Sophia nodded. "She's a very striking girl. Always has been with that bizarre flash of blond in her hair." She selected a brownie, vowing to walk an extra lap around the square for it as penance. "Her grandmother had it, too, you know."

  "I noticed that again tonight," Meredith murmured thoughtfully. She adjusted another chair, leaned back and propped her feet up. "I've seen it with dark-haired people—usually men—but I've never seen it on a red-head."

  "Where'd you get that hat, Meri?" Bitsy asked, still more interested in what was covering Jolie's hair.

  Sophia and Meredith shared a smile. "Prim and Proper," they said together.

  Having eaten the rest of her favorite treats, Bitsy popped a sausage ball into her mouth and chewed bemusedly.

  Meredith glanced at Sophia. "Are you going to call Fran and let her know how it went?"

  "The minute I get home," Sophia said, letting go a sigh. "This latest incident has really upset her." In fact, she didn't think she'd ever heard Fran so angry, hurt and frustrated.

  Like most children, Jolie was laboring under the incorrect assumption that, just because she didn't tell her mother something, that meant her mother didn't know. Not so.

  Though Sophia didn't know where Fran was getting her information—though she had her suspicions—her old friend was perfectly aware of everything that was going on. That's why Fran had contacted Sophia about inviting Jolie into the Club.

  In a noble attempt to help protect her mother, Jolie was preventing her mother from directly helping her. Fran had been forced to do some behind-the-scenes maneuvering. If it had been her child, Sophia knew she would have undoubtedly done the same thing.

  "Well, that's certainly understandable," Bitsy said. "If one of my son-in-laws ever raised a hand to one of my daughters, there'd be hell to pay." She nibbled on a cucumber sandwich, glowered at a plate of cheese straws. "There is absolutely nothing more despicable than a bully. Any man who hits a woman isn't a man at all—he's a coward. If I was Fran, I think I'd try to find someone to give Chris Marshall a good old-fashioned ass-kickin'. Did you see Jolie's lip?" she asked, outraged. "Poor thing."

  "She filed a report, right?" Meredith asked.

  Sophia nodded. "Filed the report, but is waiting to press charges. On what, nobody knows."

  Bitsy grunted. "If she's smart she'll make sure his getting arrested coincides with her filing for divorce and finishing up with those sneaky dealings she's been using to get her mother's money back." She nodded succinctly. "That's how I'd do it if I were her."

  Meredith and Sophia both blinked, startled at this abrupt pronouncement, then looked at each other. A bemused smile played on Meredith's lips and Sophia felt a grin tug at her mouth. Bless her heart, though there were times Bitsy could be as dim as a burned out bulb, occasionally a flash of brilliance emerged.

  Like now.

  Impressed, Sophia cast a glance at her friend. "Bitsy, that was inspired. I'd be willing to bet that's exactly what she's doing."

  Bitsy shrugged, oblivious to the praise. "Just makes sense." She looked up as though another thought had struck and smiled. "Did either of you happen to see the paper this morning?" she asked, eyes twinkling.

  Meredith chuckled. "I did."

  Sophia shook her head. She'd been too busy fixing her hair and her face so that she could go out in the yard and plant petunias around her mailbox and wait for a certain blue-eyed know-it-all who made her old heart flutter like a doe-eyed virgin's. "What did I miss?"

  "Oh, just another article about Mayor Greene's continuing skunk problem," Meredith chuckled. She bit her lip. "Apparently he decided to install a small electric fence around the perimeter of his house to keep them away."

  Sophia felt her eyes widen and Bitsy positively chortled with glee. "I heard 'em talking about it at The Spa," Bitsy said. "Ginny Martin does the mayor's cleanin' and she was in there giving an eye witness account. Said the little suckers were hitting that fence and spraying like crazy." Bitsy did a comical impression—jolt, freeze, jolt, freeze—then slapped her knee and laughed harder.

  "Needless to say," Meredith continued, "his plan didn't work."

  Sophia chuckled quietly. No, she supposed not. For reasons unknown to Mayor Greene, the host of many professional exterminators he'd called in, and the entire town—with the exception of the three of them—couldn't understand why the crawlspace beneath the mayor's house had become Skunk Central. The pesky animals were digging holes in his lawn, making dens and alternately spraying, fighting and fornicating underneath his home and, as anyone could imagine, the odor was becoming quite … distinct.

  But nothing less than what the old fart deserved, Sophia thought with a sanctimonious little nod.

  For the past three years a city council member had been awarded the coveted Beautification Award. Her lips thinned. It was an appalling abuse of power, the height of political hypocrisy, and had been the scathing topic of more than one Dear Editor letter featured in the Moon Valley Times. Greene doled out the award to those who curried favor, and the rest of the town—who vehemently competed for the nomination—was left completely out the loop, their seasons of hard work ignored.

  In Moon Valley that Beautification Award was the equivalent of a Nobel Prize. Gardening wasn't just a hobby in their little town—it was an Olympic sport. People guarded their tips and secrets with the sort of reverent regard worthy of the Holy Grail and having it handed over to unworthy candidates was blasphemous.

  In fact, it stunk, so it was only fitting that the mayor should as well.

  Sophia looked at the other two and quirked a brow. "Who has duty next?"

  Bitsy, who admittedly had the best garden of the bunch, smiled determinedly. "I do."

  "Throw out a few extra handfuls for our stinky friends, why don't you?" Sophia suggested slyly. "We want to make sure there's plenty for all of them."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "Headed home, Malone?" Mike called as Jake unlocked his truck.

  Jake turned. "Yeah," he said, dragging the word out. "I've got to feed, and I've got a mare I need to keep an eye on. She's due to foal soon." In the next couple of weeks if his calculations were right, Jake thought. He opened the door and tossed his case into the front seat, making a mental note to clean out his truck as
the scent of stale fries and old coffee smacked him in the face.

  Mike nodded, sucked in a breath and scanned the parking lot. "At some point we need to get together and talk about that information we received last week," he said, a significant implication hanging in his voice.

  Jake grimaced. He knew Mike was right, but nonetheless found himself reluctant to get involved, and a week's perception hadn't given him any more insight than what he'd had when Mike had first mentioned the affair that Marshall was having with the Sheriff's wife.

  Jake had made it a point to watch Marshall the past few days—one, he wanted to make sure that he hadn't hurt Jolie again—which was best for his continued good health, he thought ominously—and two, he'd wanted to see if Marshall was continuing to see Emily.

  A couple of day-time drive-by's had concluded that he was.

  Given the fact that the Sheriff had flexible hours and could arrive home at any time unannounced, Jake thought it was incredibly stupid for the man to risk getting his knob polished in the Sheriff's bed, but undoubtedly the risk held considerable appeal for the sadistic bastard.

  Mike sidled over. "Any thoughts?" he asked.

  Jake passed a hand over his face. "Should we tell him? Yeah, I think so." He winced, pulled a shrug. "But without the proof to back it up? I dunno, Mike. I'm not looking forward to telling him with the evidence," he told him. "Much less without it."

  "I've been watching him, Jake," Mike said gravely. "The guy's going to Dean's house. He's banging his wife in his own bed."

  "I know. I've been watching, too."

  "If it was me, I'd want to know, and I'd be supremely pissed if a couple of my people knew it and didn't tell me." A muscle worked in his jaw. "He's a good man and they're making a fool of him."

  Right again, Jake knew, but that still didn't silence the little voice that suggested he leave it be, that insisted it wasn't his business, much less his place. Technically, dammit, it was Jolie's. After all, it was her husband who was involved, her husband who couldn't keep his dick in his pants. Jake smirked. Of course, with that kind of thinking, she'd save a considerable amount of time and energy—if not ink—by simply running an ad in the paper and listing all of the women he'd had affairs with.

  "Why don't you talk to Jolie and see if you can get her to give you a copy of the pictures?" Jake suggested.

  Mike shot him an inscrutable look, then chuckled grimly. "You've got a better chance of getting them from her than I do. Why don't you ask her?"

  While a part of him longed to jump at the chance for any reason to talk to her—to see her—Jake instinctively resisted. Just seeing her around town was hard enough. Talking to her, he knew, was beyond the scope of his abilities.

  He hesitated, then gave his head a small shake. "She showed them to you. You took the report." Reasonable arguments, if not the complete truth. "If she'll give them to anyone, then it's you."

  Mike nodded reluctantly. "All right," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll, uh … I'll give it a shot."

  Jake shoved his hands in his pockets, leaned against the side panel of his truck and racked his brain for any sort of solution, preferably one that would spare Dean's pride and would prevent the Sheriff from spending the rest of his life in jail for murder.

  Unable to find one, he shrugged. "I don't think we need to say anything without the proof to back it up."

  Mike snorted. "As careless as that sonofabitch is, it wouldn't be too damned hard to get it ourselves."

  He'd thought of that as well. With Marshall's reputation, a couple of pictures of him going in and out of the house would most likely suffice. That, or the next time Marshall paid Emily a visit, one of them could simply forcefully suggest that Dean go home. Though Dean was older than him and Mike, they'd nevertheless developed a friendship of sorts over the years, not to mention that Jake had a tremendous amount of respect for him. Keeping quiet felt wrong, but telling him didn't feel right either. It was just a bad situation all the way around.

  "Last time I saw Marshall, I noticed he looked like he'd ran into a wall," Mike said slyly. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

  Jake chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to suppress a grin. "It wasn't a wall. It was a door."

  Mike chuckled under his breath, shot him a shrewd smile. "And you would know this because?"

  "Because I was on the other side of the door. Clumsy bastard," Jake said amiably, pushing away from the truck. "He should really watch where he's going."

  "Yeah," Mike agreed. "He could get hurt."

  "Which is precisely what I told him." And precisely what he'd meant. If Marshall laid another hand on her, Jake wasn't so sure that a strong respect for the law would be enough to prevent him from hurting the louse.

  Still laughing, Mike turned and walked away. "I'll let you know what happens with those pictures."

  Good, Jake thought. Until then, he'd try to put it out of his mind.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "Can you talk?"

  Jolie shouldered the cordless phone, walked down the hall and shot a look toward the bathroom. "Yeah. He's in the shower. What's up?"

  "I saw Mike Burke come out of your office today," Sadie said. "Anything in particular that he wanted?"

  Jolie grinned. Sadie didn't miss much and even if she did, she'd hear about it at The Spa. "Yeah," she said. "He wanted a copy of those pictures you took of Chris and Emily Dean."

  "Did you give them to him?"

  "I did," Jolie replied hesitantly. She'd shown Mike the pictures, hoping that he would let Dean in on what was going on, but Mike hadn't wanted to do that without the proof to back it up. Jolie understood, couldn't blame him really, and, though it was completely self-serving, she'd originally intended to keep the pictures in her own possession until she filed for divorce, strictly because she didn't want Chris aware of the fact that she was secretly documenting his behavior.

  The less he knew the better.

  But it was hardly fair to Sheriff Dean to hide the proof of the affair, and in good conscience, she simply couldn't tell Mike no. She'd made the copies and had felt better after she'd handed them over.

  "Well," Sadie said. "For what it's worth, I think you made the right call. Dean's an innocent bystander in all of this as well."

  "I know," she said heavily. They all were, except for her. She considered herself at fault for the original mistake in judgment. Jolie swallowed. "He, uh… He also shared something with me." Something that had made her heart alternately jump and squeeze, that had forced her to blink back tears long after Mike had left.

  "Oh? What?"

  Jolie let go a shuddering breath. "He told me who broke Chris's nose." She'd been curious about it, of course, but had refrained from asking because she knew Chris was just vain enough to draw the incorrect assumption that she cared. She'd just figured another pissed off husband had planted him a facer.

  Sadie's voice positively vibrated with glee. "Oh, do tell? To whom do I owe my thanks? My gratitude? My firstborn?"

  A broken laugh erupted from her throat. "Jake." Just saying his name aloud made something twist deep down inside her. Love and loss, regret and longing. His image rose readily in her mind, the slant of his cheek, that slightly full mouth, the very shape of his hands and the way his calloused palms felt against her own.

  "Oh, Jolie," Sadie said, her voice tight with emotion.

  She forced another laugh. "Last person I expected," she said. "I honestly didn't think he cared enough anymore to go to the trouble."

  "I've told you all along that he did. He came in here the same day that you'd filed the report. Mike must have told him," she said, reaching the same conclusion that Jolie had.

  "I, uh … I guess so," she replied haltingly, still having a hard time absorbing it, though he'd certainly come to her defense many times over the years.

  One incident in particular stood out. Senior year, homecoming. They'd won. She'd been standing outside the locker room, waiting for Jake to come out w
hen a couple of guys from the opposing team had walked by. One of them had mouthed off about her hair—she'd gotten that a lot over the years, particularly as a child. He'd called her a freak, then a witch. Jake had caught the tail end of the taunts and…

  Jolie could still remember the way he'd looked that night. Dark hair wet from the shower, his face flushed from the heat and excitement of the game. He'd been muscled but rangy, a good-looking boy hovering on the edge of manhood. He hadn't uttered a single word, just walked up cool as you please, and slammed his fist into the guy's jaw. Then he'd dragged him up, hauled him over and shook him until he'd apologized to her. After it was over, he'd wrapped his arms around her. "Stupid idiot," he'd said. "Everybody knows that's the mark of an angel's kiss." Then he'd kissed her there as well.

  Jolie released an unsteady breath. She could still remember the absolute bliss of that moment. He'd been her rock, her champion.

  And she'd been too impatient. She'd given him up for Chris … and, though Jake might care enough to throw a punch on her behalf, she knew it was nothing more than what he'd do for anybody else. He hated a bully. Reading anything beyond regular human decency into it was an invitation for more heartache and, while she couldn't deny that she'd brought it upon herself, she'd had all she could stand of that for the time being.

  She glanced at the clock and started. "Oh, crap. I've got to go. My meeting starts in fifteen minutes."

  "You'd better hurry up then," Sadie told her, a smile in her voice. "After all, you've got a lot to report this time."