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Craig Hartmann sat in his minivan on the quiet side street and watched for any activity from the white center hall colonial with black shutters. Nice house. Perfectly shaped hedges, neatly trimmed and edged lawn, white vinyl fence that no doubt blocked passersby from seeing the pool and hot tub in the backyard, all screamed idyllic. Very nice digs indeed. Which only made Craig’s guilt harder to swallow. Summer Jackson seemed to have a sweet, cushy life. Now, he might have obliterated it with one stupid radio gag.
Squirming in the gray cloth seat, he tried to convince himself he wasn’t a creepy stalker. His conscience would never let him rest until he made sure Summer Jackson was all right. Of course, he had no way of knowing if she was all right based on his parking spot two houses down and across the street. He didn’t even know if she was home.
He sighed. This was stupid. He had to leave. The boys had baseball practice, each at a different field, five and a half miles apart at six o’clock. Which meant immediately after they scrambled off the school bus, homework hour would begin. Then he’d have to get all three kids fed and the boys geared up and dropped off. He sighed. In less than three hours.
Another fast-food night. Here, Chelsea had freely given him custody because he had the steadier job, the better schedule to adjust for their sake. Yet lately, he’d failed miserably on the skilled parenting front. Maybe he should call that company Maureen told him about. The one that helped parents gain time. God knew he could use a few more hours in the day. Or an extra set of hands.
As he turned the key in his ignition, prepared to drive away, a luxury SUV zipped into the driveway and parked. A tall, slender woman stepped out, slammed the driver’s door, and strode toward the front portico. She looked neither right nor left and slipped inside the house too fast for anyone to stop her.
Hmmm...
At this stage of the game, five more minutes wouldn’t matter. Time to go to Plan B. After counting to twenty, he stepped out of the van, walked around to the passenger side, and slid open the door. He’d strapped a dozen perfect fire-and-ice roses, arranged with deep green English ivy and snowy baby’s breath in a cut glass vase, into Madison’s car seat.
Inhale, count to ten, pick up the vase, slide the door closed. And we’re off...
His nerves bounced like balls in a lottery game’s tumbler. This could go one of two ways, and he didn’t like either of the possible outcomes.
He strolled up the brick walk, past the garden gnome in green jacket and red cap who held a mushroom-shaped sign engraved with the home’s address. The goofy sculpture only increased his anxiety. Summer Jackson obviously had a whimsical side. The idea that he might have broken her heart—even by proxy—made him feel lower than worm food. He noted the flourishing tiger lilies and rhododendron, the azaleas that burst into perfect cubes of alternating fuchsia and white. Unlike his own overgrown hedges, weed-choked lawn littered with bikes, and perpetually dying plants, the landscaping here thrived.
Before he lost his nerve, he pushed the doorbell.
Someone opened the door. Someone who looked exactly like how he’d picture a woman named Summer Jackson to look. A tall, slender goddess with blond shoulder-length hair. Her pretty green eyes narrowed on the blooms, and her hands shot to her hips.
“Now, which man thinks I’m stupid?”
He blinked, but inside his ribcage, his heart sank. “I’m sorry?”
“Who sent these? My husband or that idiot deejay?”
No more calls; we have a winner. Or more like a loser.
“I’m sorry?” he repeated.
“Never mind. It had to be the deejay. Brad wouldn’t be stupid enough to cover his mistake this way. Look, do me a favor. Take those to St. Cyril’s Hospital, go straight up to the fifth floor. Ask the nurses for the loneliest lady in the ward. Bring them to her. Tell her they’re from someone who loves her.”
Before he could say anything more, she firmly shut the door.
♥
WHEN BRAD CAME HOME that night, Summer was primed and ready. Her talk with April had bolstered her resolve.
He greeted her with the same, “Hey, Sum,” and then swooped in for his usual evening hello kiss. “How was your day today?”
“Interesting,” she replied. “We went gown shopping for April’s wedding.”
“Uh-oh.” He hung his coat in the closet and turned, a grim smile on his face. “Any casualties?”
One, she thought. But she said nothing, shrugged, and headed into the living room.
“Anything else happen today?” He glanced from the small drop-shelf table near the door to the cocktail table in the living room.
The heartless creep was looking for roses. He still believed his secrets were safe.
Well, she’d disavow him of that notion pretty quick. “What about you? What was your day like?”
“The usual. You weren’t out all day, were you?”
“No. April loved dress package number two, so we were in and out of the bridal shop within an hour. I’ve been here since a little before noon.”
“Anything happen after that? Something come in the mail maybe? Or any kind of package delivery?”
She flashed him a smile more dazzling than a case of priceless diamonds. “You mean, like roses from Cliff’s Flower Shop?”
His expression turned smug. “Ah, so they did arrive. You scared me for a minute there. So, where are they? Let me see what my hard-earned dollars bought me from that place.”
“There aren’t any roses. Never were. Your girlfriend set you up.”
He blinked. Once, twice, three times.
“What are you talking about?”
Her eyes narrowed until his outline grew fuzzy around the edges. “Your girlfriend, Briana,” she reminded him. “You remember her, don’t you? She called in to The Cliff Hanger Show today. Suspected her boyfriend had lied about being married.”
He laughed, feigning amusement, but fear flourished over his expression. “Oh, come on, Sum, where’d you hear something like that? Your mother? One of your sisters? It’s ridiculous.”
“I heard the broadcast. You know how I love The Cliff Hanger Show. Imagine my surprise to hear my husband fail the fidelity test by ordering flowers for me from some phony salesman while his girlfriend heard the whole sorry episode on another line. And all for the delight of millions of radio listeners across the country! Why didn’t you just post a message on the Jumbotron in Giants Stadium?”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about. I have no girlfriend.”
Pain shredded her as he stood there, a look of utter sincerity pasted on his face.
He’ll lie, April had advised her earlier. He’ll lie so smoothly your heart will fight to believe him. Don’t fall for the act. Believe what you know is true, not what your heart hears. Confront him. Make him admit the truth.
“Give it up, Brad. You’ve been caught and I’ve been humiliated. What I’d like to know is why. What did this Briana have that I didn’t? I’m assuming she’s a lot younger—”
“Age has nothing to do with it.”
Ah, almost an admission. A hot knife slid between her ribs, cut deep into her heart. “Then what made her so special?”
No reply.
“What, Brad? If age has nothing to do with you throwing away ten years of marriage, what does? I think I deserve to know where exactly you found me lacking. I’ve been a pretty good wife, as far as I know, and—”
“She’s spontaneous, okay?” he blurted, raking a hand through his thinning hair—obviously the hundred dollar per month prescription was a bust. “Like you used to be.”
“Spontaneous?” The word refused to permeate her foggy brain. She’d prepared to react to a dozen different arguments he might have made, but spontaneity was never one of them.
“Yes, spontaneous. I can call her at ten at night and she’ll meet me for coffee without worrying that she has to get up early the next day for some garden club meeting. She doesn’t care if her lipstick’s smeared because we made out in the parking lot. Everything in her life doesn’t have to be perfect every single minute. Briana embraces chaos and mess and passion. The way you used to.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Do you remember when we were newlyweds? I never knew what to expect when I walked in the door. You’d set up a picnic in the middle of the living room, complete with champagne, candles, and lots of rose petals. Now, I’m not allowed to set foot in the living room for fear I might track dirt on the white carpet. You keep this house as if it were a museum. And everything in it is some precious relic, to be looked upon but never touched. Including you.”
Her mouth tasted Sahara dry. Still, she managed to rasp, “Why didn’t you say something? Why couldn’t you have talked to me?”
His lips tightened, drawing commas deep in his cheeks. “That’s the point, Summer. With Briana I don’t have to say anything. She’s just... spontaneous.” He strode to the closet and yanked out his coat. “In fact, I think I’ll go see her now.”
Guilt momentarily stole her thunder, but then anger overtook her. Why should she feel guilty? She hadn’t cheated.
“What makes you think your precious Briana will welcome you after finding out you’ve lied to her, too?”
He shrugged. “I told you. She’s spontaneous.” Pulling open the front door, he paused to look at her, his face a mixture of solemnity and relief. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’ll come back over the weekend to get my stuff.”
With the slam of the door, he was gone.
Summer wasted no time mourning his loss. Fury, bitter but inspiring, dogged her steps as she raced upstairs to their shared bedroom. Spontaneous. He wanted spontaneous, she’d show him spontaneous.
Flinging open the double closet doors, she studied the neat contents perfectly organized inside. Cashmere sweaters caught her eye first. Oh, yes.
She gathered the rainbow sherbet of colors and carried them into the bathroom where she dropped them on the floor of the shower stall. She twisted the tap to full hot and let the steaming water cascade on the soft garments.
Back in the bedroom, the next victims were his suit jackets, all organized according to color and season. They soon joined the cashmere swamp in the shower stall. Under the sink, she found a bottle of cleaner with bleach. She removed the spray trigger and splashed the caustic liquid onto the soggy mess.
His perfectly pressed and folded dress shirts with monogrammed French cuffs, she carried downstairs to the kitchen sink. Now what? Unlike the sweaters, soaking the shirts in hot water and bleach wouldn’t appease her ravenous appetite for destruction.
Undaunted, she dug around inside her pantry until she found a jar of spaghetti sauce on the bottom shelf. She popped the top and poured the contents all over the pristine pile of white in the sink. After swirling the sauce with a long-handled bamboo spoon for maximum coverage, she tossed the mess into the dryer and turned the temperature gauge to high to let the red stains set in permanently.
Yum, yum. Scarlet Letter parmigiana.
For the next hour, she devised new and exciting ways of destroying every garment Brad owned. She flung his dress shoes into the pool where they floated briefly before sinking eight feet to the bottom. She ran his silk ties through the paper shredder until the blades jammed. All his slacks—wool, khaki, and denim—met their demise on the blades of her gardening shears. The carefully paired dress socks were separated, with one of each pattern taking a plunge into the garbage disposal. The singles were then haphazardly matched—blue argyle with gray stripe, solid brown with black microdot—and returned to his drawer.
At last, her spontaneous destructive streak spotted her Holy Grail: his golf clubs. Only one thing to do with his favorite sports accessories.
She dragged them downstairs. Thunk, thunk, thunk. Out the front door and to the driveway. There she arranged the clubs, one at a time, in a nice even line. Once empty, the bag itself landed in the trash can for tomorrow morning’s pickup.
Satisfied with everything’s placement, Summer proceeded into the garage and started up the engine of the Escalade. A shift into reverse and she drove downward. The golf clubs made a lovely crunching sound as the SUV’s massive weight warped their shape. At the bottom, she shifted into drive and ran over them again. Then down again, up again, down again. At least a dozen times in each direction. On her way into the driveway on her final jaunt, she regretted not including his golf shoes with the clubs. Oh, well. After a brief respite and a glass of wine, she’d take his electric sander to his spikes. She still had to go through all the junk in the garage anyway.
Leaving the wreckage glinting under moonlight in the driveway, she returned to the house. While she plotted the next phase in Operation E-Bradicate, she opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio and filled a water goblet. She’d promised April she wouldn’t get drunk, but one glass wouldn’t hurt. Moving into the den, she sat on the white leather sofa, and her eyes lit on the fireplace. Devious wheels turned in her head.
She was sipping her second glass of wine when Brad stormed into the house.
“Summer!” He strode into the den where she sat before a roaring fire. In his hands he held a warped nine-iron, the shaft cracked and bent in two different places, the head twisted to an impossible angle, suitable only for some bizarre Alice in Wonderland croquet game. “What have you done to my golf clubs?”
She took another sip of chilled wine before answering. “I showed them my spontaneous side. Whoops. Looks like my fire’s dying. Time to throw a few more logs on.”
Rising from the couch, she offered him her most innocent smile. While her gaze never left his enraged face, she reached into the open humidor beside her and scooped a handful of imported Dominican cigars from the cedar shelf.
“Summer, don’t,” he said, extending a pleading hand in her direction.
“Don’t what?” Before he could stop her, she tossed the expensive, imported, hand-rolled stink sticks onto the fire. They sparked, and then, beneath a soft whoosh and blue flame, ignited, filling the room with their strong odor.
“You’ve gone insane.” Brad reached to pull the humidor away from her.
She rolled it closer, cradling the burl chest as if it were an overlarge shield. “No, darling. That’s where you’re wrong. I was never more lucid during all the years of our marriage than I am right now. Why’d you come back? Briana threw you out, too?”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “She’s angry right now, but she’ll get over it.”
“Ah, yes. That spontaneity factor again. Well, I hope you don’t think you’re sleeping here tonight.”
“Why not? This is my home.”
“Correction. This was your home. Until you decided to start a spontaneous affair with Briana. But I can be spontaneous, too. In fact, I’ve spent the last few hours being totally spontaneous.”
“Totally neurotic is more like it.”
Her smile turned rabid. “Cut your losses, get out now, and I won’t ruin any more of your personal belongings. Stay here, and I’m liable to take a sledgehammer to your Porsche while you’re sleeping.”
He shook his head. “You’re making a mistake, babe.”
“No, I’m correcting the mistake I made ten years ago when I said, ‘I do.’ Get out. Now.”
To emphasize her point, she rolled the humidor closer to the fire.
“I’m going,” he said quickly. “Give me ten minutes to pack.”
“You won’t need ten minutes. You’re making a clean break, Brad. New girlfriend, new golf clubs, new home, new clothes. A whole new start.” She tipped the wine glass to her lips, drained the sweet-sour Pinot in one swallow. “You should hurry. I’ve already begun to live without you.”