Chapter Ten

Ray,

It’s a good thing you’re hot because your brain isn’t worth shit. Four years. It’s been four years. Maggie isn’t that smart. She’s somewhere out there laughing at us and we’ve got to find her. I worked way too damn hard for that money to let little miss priss get away with it. Try looking for large donations to causes such as homelessness, animal shelters, cancer research.

For a little added incentive, I went to East Meets West today and got your favorite...a sphinx. Be good and I’ll let you have a peek. Merry Christmas, darling.

..

Oh Baby,

Meet me at Fayetteville Lake at noon. You know the place. I need to inspect you in the full daylight, you know. Make sure they didn’t miss anything. And wear that garter again.

..

How in the world did I ever agree to marry that guy? What a moron. When he’d first started working at the sheriff’s office, he went undercover as a decoy at Fayetteville Lake—a popular scene for what the British refer to as dogging—sex outside, in a public place. Men met other men there and had sex in the woods. I always thought he enjoyed the assignment too much. The fact that he planned to screw my mother at a homosexual mating ground was more than a little unsettling.

I shouldn’t have hacked on Christmas. Once again, Ray sullied the holiday for me.

I always wanted a big family with boisterous Christmas gatherings. When I was young and Mama still liked me, we had good celebrations. We’d go into the woods with Uncle Kirby and cut down the biggest cedar tree we could find. By the time we finished draping it with tinsel and ornaments, its branches sagged to the floor. After the star was placed atop of old tannenbaum, we’d eat gingerbread.

My sixteenth Christmas was tree-and-Uncle Kirby free. He’d been arrested for his fourth DWI. Mama was furious.

It didn’t take a Mensa member to see her flawed logic. It wasn’t Uncle Kirby’s arrest that upset her. She was pissed because he had the opportunity to go out partying while she was stuck at home with a whiny adolescent.

Instead of staying home and celebrating the holidays with me, Mama went to Las Vegas with one of her friends.

My grandparents died when I was in elementary school. I had no idea who my father was. My mother was in Las Vegas and my only other relative was in jail. That was the first Christmas I cooked an entire feast complete with sweet potatoes and dressing on my own.

Mr. Watson from down the road lived by himself and didn’t have any family. Our neighbor, Miss Hopkins, didn’t have plans for the day. They joined me for dinner. That evening, Mr. Watson played the piano, and we all sang carols. It was the best Christmas I could ever remember, peaceful, loving, and drama-free.

I never told Mama, and she never asked what happened to the twenty-pound turkey she had thawing in the refrigerator.

When Ray and I married, I envisioned candles lighting every window of our house and so many lights adorning our lovely home that we’d need a backup generator to power them all. The scent of cloves and cinnamon would fill the house making your mouth water before you even stepped through the door.

Three Christmases together and what did I get? The first year, Ray worked overtime. Instead of dinner at noon, I waited to prepare everything so when he got home at eight, we’d dine. A silver linen tablecloth and my finest Mikasa china graced the table. Candles glowed, the prime rib was cooked to perfection. As soon as he walked through the door, I popped the Yorkshire pudding in the oven and whipped the cream for the pumpkin pie.

Ray went straight to bed. Didn’t even acknowledge that I’d cooked.

By the time we celebrated our second Christmas as husband and wife, he’d already started hitting me. I considered spiking his favorite almond-raspberry pastry with arsenic, but decided he wasn’t worth going to prison for.

The third Christmas? Ray was so far into the meth that Christmas came and went without him even noticing. I didn’t decorate the house, buy him a gift or cook a thing. I spent the day laughing with friends at their beautiful cabin near Lake Wedington.

Unfortunately, by the time I got home, Ray was in super-paranoid mode. I walked through the door and was greeted with a death grip to my upper arm. Ray’s thick, nasty breath clouded my face when he hissed, “Where the fuck have you been?”

I tried to pull away, but his fingers dug into my flesh, so deep my bones hurt.

When I didn’t answer immediately, he flung me against the door and pinned me with his sweaty body so I couldn’t move. I’ll never forget the humiliation of him whiffing my hair and my clothes. I closed my eyes and refused to cry when he lowered himself in front of me and sniffed my crotch for the smell of another man.

By that time, we’d quit having sex, which was fine by me. His reaction to my return made me fear that he wanted to renew that aspect of our relationship. The thought of him pawing, groping, and probing my body disgusted me, but it was easier to lie still than it was to fight off his advances.

Instead, he sat back on his heels and laughed. “What was I thinking? I don’t want you, why would anyone else?”

Relief flooded over me as he stood and walked away.

My first Christmases as Anne Sutton were delightful, just like the holidays I’d always dreamed of.

Year four was no different. I made a huge dinner and invited all the folks without families to attend. Barrow had lots of people who were away from their families for the holidays and as a result, my house teemed with activity. The officers on patrol, including Joe, dropped by for a quick bite to eat. Bernadette even stopped in for a minute before going to her family gathering. All in all, forty-two people partook in my Christmas feast.

I was curled up on the couch in my red-kittens-and-snowflake flannel pjs watching While You Were Sleeping with Cash and Nelson when a knock on the door sent the cats flying. I looked at my watch. “Who’d come calling this late, boys? It’s almost midnight.”

Better than any watchdog, the boys stood in front of the door howling. I laughed and scooted them away. I opened the door, surprised to find Joe.

“Merry Christmas, Anne,” he greeted. He held a brightly wrapped present.

“Merry Christmas.” I smiled and stepped aside to let him in the apartment.

“Sorry, I know it’s late, but I saw your lights on when Owen dropped me off.” He offered me the gift. “I wanted to give this to you while it’s still Christmas.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything, Joe. I don’t have anything for you.”

“Are you kidding? Those brownies were the best thing I’ve ever received.”

“Oh my, that’s just sad.”

“Yeah, I’ve lived a deprived life.” He smiled. “Go ahead. Open it. My dad says to never give a woman a gift associated with the kitchen,” he explained as I tore the bow off the package. “But I talked to my mom and she suggested this.”

Once I’d removed the paper, I used my fingernail to break the tape that sealed it.

He held his breath as I lifted the lid.

“Oh my goodness, Joe, these are beautiful.” I removed the white linen napkins from the box and examined the exquisite lace work. “Are these handmade?”

“Yes, my grandmother made them.” He shuffled from foot to foot and looked at the floor.

“Get out.” I stared at him. “Your grandmother did this? They’re amazing.” Tears filled my eyes. It was Christmas. It was late, and I’m a sucker for grandmothers. “Thank you, so much.”

“You’re welcome. You’ve been really nice to me and made me feel welcomed.”

“Would you like something to drink? I have coffee, hot chocolate or eggnog.”

“Are you sure? You look like you’re ready for bed.”

“Actually, I was watching a sappy movie,” I explained.

“Oh yeah, what is it?” When I told him he said, “Hot chocolate and Sandra Bullock. I think I can handle that.”

I laughed and went into the kitchen and he followed. I pulled a gallon of milk from the refrigerator and a tin of cocoa from the cabinet.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Making hot chocolate.”

“From scratch?”

“Well, yeah.” I looked at his puzzled expression. “You didn’t think I’d use instant stuff did you?” I shuddered at the thought.

“I thought that was the only way to make it.”

“Oh, my friend, you’re in for a treat.” I smiled. “Do you want marshmallows?”

“Are they homemade too?” He laughed.

“Actually...”

“You’re kidding.”

“Marshmallows are no joking matter.” As soon as the sentence left my mouth, I regretted it. I could hear Ray’s voice in my head. Your cooking is fucking phenomenal, but stick to the salads, babe.

I shook my head to get Ray out of it. Four years. You’d think he’d been cast out of my brain by then, but he still snuck up on me when I least expected it. Just like he always said he’d do.

In order to hide my blushing face, I turned to the stove. With my left hand, I stirred the milk and with my right I attempted to open the cocoa canister.

Joe’s warm hand closed over mine as he took the wire whisk from me. “Here, I can stir, but even that strains my cooking skills.”

My heart slammed against my ribs, and I prayed that he couldn’t hear it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d experienced the gentle touch of a man.

I coughed to disguise my gasp of surprise. “Great. Thanks.”

I opened the canister and with shaking hands measured out tablespoons of cocoa. “Whisk vigorously as I add the cocoa, okay?”

“Vigorously, huh?” He laughed.

I grinned and nodded.

Once the cocoa was clump free, I added sugar and vanilla. Joe grabbed two mugs off the drying rack and we poured up the bubbling goodness. I added marshmallows and led him into the living room.

I relocated to the spot on the sofa where I’d been when he dropped by, and to my surprise, he sat next to me. Not in the chair or the cushion at the far end of the couch, but beside me. He settled in, put his arm on the back of the sofa and took a sip. His eyes closed. He breathed in the heady aroma of chocolate and sighed. “I thought the brownies were a masterpiece, but this...” He nodded to his cup. “Is the best thing I have ever tasted.”

His arm slid from the back of the couch to my shoulder. He pulled me against his side, tucked me under his arm and asked, “So, where are you in the movie?”

He was so casual about the contact that I wasn’t sure what to do. I picked up the remote and hit play. At least five minutes passed before I could hear the movie dialogue over the roar in my ears from my pounding heart.

When he finished his cocoa, he handed me his mug. I leaned forward and put both of them on the coffee table, and he pulled me back to his side.

After a few minutes, I heard a light snore and felt a rumble against my back. I closed my eyes and relished his warmth. Selfishly, I liked the security of his strong body against mine and finished the movie before waking him.

I should’ve remembered the last time I’d waken him. My wrist had been bruised for a week, but I felt safe with him and didn’t even think about his previous reaction.

I turned and moved slightly away. With one hand on his thigh and the other on his chest, I whispered his name.

His eyes flew open. He grabbed my upper arms and pushed me away. I fell off the couch and whacked my hip on the coffee table on my descent to the floor.

Nelson and Cash, who had been sharing the couch with us, bristled. Nelson scratched Joe’s arm. The blood surfaced about the same time Joe woke up.

He grabbed his arm, looked around, and paled when he saw me on the floor.

“Oh, shit. I did it again, didn’t I?” He reached for me, but I refused his help and pulled myself up.

What the hell is the matter with me? I’d dated plenty of guys before Ray and none of them ever raised a hand to me. Now, after years of an abusive relationship, I’m attracted to yet another psycho cop.

“Anne, I’m so sorry.” His black eyes pleaded for forgiveness—just like Ray’s did every time he hit me. “Bad dreams.”

“So you’ve said.” I rubbed my hip and walked around the coffee table, out of his reach, toward the door. No subtlety to my message.

“Oh, God, Anne. Really. I’m so sorry. I’ve never hit a woman before. Ever. It’s the dreams.”

“Might I suggest counseling?” I held the door open.

He walked toward me. When he reached for me, I didn’t flinch. With a gentle hand, he stroked my cheek. “Please forgive me. I’d never hurt you.”

My only answer was a nod.

I shut the door behind him. There was something different between Joe’s request for forgiveness and Ray’s. Joe’s was sincere, or so I thought. I wanted to trust my judgment, but I’d done that once before and it resulted in permanent scarring.

Time to do some digging and find out about Joe’s life.

I went to bed, closed my eyes and cleared my mind of all things. The interaction with Joe brought back some latent emotions, and I feared Ray nightmares. Instead, dreams pulled me back to my school days and the string of boys that I liked who didn’t even give me the time of day.

It didn’t take a shaman to analyze that dream.

It seemed like I’d spent most of my life dealing with unrequited feelings. Not that I had any feelings for Joe, but I could if given the opportunity and he learned how to wake up without whacking me.

In the second grade, I met Brad Pierce and fell in love. He was on my unrequited list through high school. Shoot, he’s still there. One phone call and I’d come out of hiding, risk confrontation with my abusive, meth-dealing husband and my mother to be by his side.

Simply dreamy.

By the fifth grade, I realized that Brad had no interest in me, but I was still there if he ever decided to acknowledge my existence. I was smart though and chose to have more than one unreciprocated crush. Wanted to have a pool of prospects to choose from if someone ever returned my feelings. There was a string of boys. Fifth grade, Stacy Turner. Sixth grade, Max Mick. Seventh grade, Sammy Slaughter. Eighth grade, James Pianalto. Ninth grade, Richard Smith.

High school was a fresh hunting ground and my heart didn’t discriminate. It fell for a wide range of boys. Its feelings crossed all the social cliques—ropers, dopers, jocks, bandies, even those kids who were too socially awkward to be in a clique—such as myself—were fair game. To no avail. Homecoming, Colors Day, Prom all came and went without my presence.

I had friends. Friends who dated. They tried to set me up on more than one occasion, but it never worked. My always helpful buddies attempted to explain my datelessness to me. I was too funny, too smart, too loud, too quiet, too tall. I was always “too something.”

My first order of business when I went to college in Boston was to lose my virginity. I didn’t care how or where it happened, but I wasn’t going to be the only freshman virgin on campus. To my surprise, college boys, or maybe it was Yankees, liked me. My deflowering was a natural process that didn’t require the drunken set-up—him, not me—I had devised in my head.

I dated several guys. Some serious. Some reckless. Even had a fling or two with college professors. By the time I graduated—magna cum laude, for the record—I was a confident woman.

Graduate school and a year studying abroad—international business in Hong Kong—further empowered me.

While I was out of state attending college, Mama underwent therapy. She discovered that blaming the child for the unwanted pregnancy was akin to blaming the rainbow for the rain. Our relationship improved and I returned to Arkansas when I was offered a job with a multinational company in Bentonville.

My life was on the happy side of easy. I had a great job with a generous salary and many travel opportunities plus a chance to mend barbed-wire fences with Mama. We started off on shaky ground, but it steadily improved. We’d have dinner every couple of weeks. She’d just started a new job as a 9-1-1 emergency dispatcher for the county and worked odd hours.

She loved the work—the first position with authority and responsibility she’d ever had. My father, whoever he was, kept us housed, fed and clothed. Even after I went to college, the man not only continued to support Mama, he paid for my tuition, books, and housing. Whoever he was, he was loaded, but Mama had to work temp jobs for extra spending money.

She liked the finer things in life, and for some reason, she never convinced my father that she needed a sporty Mustang convertible or trips to Mexico every spring to get a head start on her tan.

Mama planned her phone conversations with my dear father when I wasn’t around. At first, I thought she was protecting me, but that gave her credit for a maternal instinct. I do remember overhearing a conversation about spending money. She was working as a secretary at a feed store and was none too happy about it.

“You don’t think manicured nails are important?” She tapped her foot, and her normal shrill morphed into a shriek.

A scowl joined her restless foot. She drummed her squared-off, French-manicured nails against the kitchen table. “If I remember correctly, you never complained about them when they were digging into your back.”

She slammed down the phone and picked up a pack of cigarettes. I remember her sitting at the table with a smoke ring circling her head as she admired her manicure. That could explain my hangnails and unsightly cuticles.

After a few months of limited exposure, I decided to see Mama more often, to test the waters and see if the mother of my youth could be found once again. Eventually, we hit our stride and our relationship once again included a friendship component.

I often think back and wonder why I didn’t hear warning bells. Hell, it was my mother. She was being nice to me. Fire alarms, foghorns, air-raid sirens should have been rupturing my eardrums, but I was naïve. I wanted my Saturday-matinee-hot-fudge-sundae mom back. The mom who’d wake me early in the morning so we could ride our bikes to the park and feed the geese before I had to leave for school.

Unfortunately, I didn’t discover that sweet, adventurous mom had been smothered with a pillow by screaming-banshee-what’s-in-it-for-me mother until it was too late.

One Friday evening, I met Mama for dim sum. Once my eyes adjusted to the dark restaurant, I noticed she wasn’t alone. Sitting beside her drinking a Bud Light was a brawny, clean-cut, star-quarterback-looking guy. When she thought I was old enough to be considered competition—FYI, the magical birthday was thirteen—she’d quit introducing me to her boyfriends. So, I thought the boy toy at her side might be something serious. He looked a bit young for her, but when did Mama care about such trivialities?

She stood to greet me. Her hot-pink, leather bustier blinded me. Some poor bovine sacrificed its life to create that fashion monstrosity.

“Hello, darling.” She air kissed my cheek. She turned to Mr. All-American and said, “I’d like you to meet my daughter, Maggie.”

I doubt she was aware of it, but she actually ran her hand over her flat stomach when she introduced me—a not so subtle way of drawing attention to the fact that her loins had been violated by having to push me through them.

“Mags, I can’t believe that I didn’t discover the sheriff’s office sooner.” A giggle. A hair flip. “That sounds like I’m a criminal or something.” She placed her hand over surgically-enhanced cleavage and looked at her guest. “What I mean is that it is a giant, bubbling cauldron of spicy, hot maleness.”

Oh, God.

How does one respond to that? Me? I turned beet red and fought back bile. There’s nothing grosser than your mother talking about vats of virility.

Mama sat down and sipped her margarita. I scooted my chair to the table and reached past her. “Nice to meet you.” I offered my hand. “Mama didn’t mention your name.”

Mr. All-American swigged back the last of his beer and wiped his hands on his jeans. Before he could reach for me, Mama said, “Oh. I’m so silly. Maggie, this is Ray. He’s a deputy, and we work the same shift.”

Imagine my surprise when I realized she was actually setting me up on a date.

Kudos to her counselor.