Читать книгу Take It To The Grave Bundle 1: Take It to the Grave parts 1-3 - Zoe Carter - Страница 11

Sarah

“Sarah, how wonderful to see you. It’s been ages.”

Plastering a smile on my face, I return Genny Winton’s greeting with the ubiquitous air kiss on both cheeks. If there was one advantage to being pregnant, it was having a legitimate excuse to avoid Genny and her tribe. But those days are over—no one can miss the East Hamptons Village Fair, especially when Eleanor is one of the organizers.

“It’s for charity, Sarah. The hospital needs us,” she’d say whenever I’d invent a new excuse. To make matters worse, the sadist had put me in charge of the bake stand. The aromas of sugar and cinnamon are a constant siren call.

“So this is the little man,” Genny says. She appraises my son with a frown. “He doesn’t seem happy.”

Elliot’s face flushes scarlet as he fusses, kicking his little legs and seizing a lock of my hair in a tiny fist. He yanks, and I manage not to shriek in pain. Instead I disentangle myself and bounce him on my hip, doing my best to channel Super Mom. It’s not easy, but then again, nothing is in the 1950s tea dress Warwick insisted I wear. It’s his favorite, and I couldn’t talk him out of it. He refuses to acknowledge that the majority of my clothes no longer fit.

“He’s not normally like this.” I wish Genny would go away so I can give my son another bottle. That’s what he wants, but I don’t dare do it with an audience. “He’s colicky.”

Her frown deepens. “How old is he?”

“Three and a half months.” I watch her brain struggle with the simple math until I’m surprised smoke isn’t coming from her ears. Go away, you stupid cow. Go away and leave us be.

“He should be past that by now.” Her voice oozes with fake concern. “He’s a bit old for colic. Perhaps you should take him to the doctor. Is he sleeping through the night?”

“Sometimes.” More like never, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. I already felt like a failure in the shadow of her perfection. Genny had given birth to her twins, what, a year ago? And within a month or two, you wouldn’t have known she’d ever been pregnant. What was she, a size zero? Double zero? It took every ounce of willpower not to push my old “friend’s” face into a lemon meringue pie. “What would you like, Genny? Is that sweet tooth of yours still plaguing you? I have a few of Tessie’s caramel buns left.”

As I’d hoped, Genny’s appraisal of my son is replaced by an expression of horror. “You know I don’t touch anything made with white flour or sugar. I have to watch my figure.” This last she says with an unmistakable smirk of triumph as she pats one nonexistent hip. I feel like an elephant in comparison. “Actually, that’s what I came over to talk to you about. I heard about Warwick’s little problem.”

Now it’s my turn to be horrified. I pull away from her as if she’d slapped me. “What are you talking about? What problem?”

“Well...” Genny simpers. She drags the word out as she toys with her long hair, twisting a silky strand around one perfectly polished finger. “Tad played a few rounds with your husband last week, and, well...the subject of your weight may have come up.” She smiles at me, her teeth sharp as a serpent’s.

Fire ignites my face, beginning at my neck and rising into my cheeks. It’s impossible to stop, so I pretend to be engrossed with arranging a price card in front of Gretchen Tildle’s shortbread. “Oh?” I try my best to sound unconcerned. The heat of the day, which was just tolerable before, has become unbearable. Sweat trickles down my chest to soak my unflattering nursing bra. My unrelieved breasts ache something awful. Shut up, Genny. Just shut up and go away, please.

She moves even closer, reminding me of a wasp in her yellow dress. I catch a whiff of alcohol on her breath, but I’m far too miserable to take any joy from it. When her lips almost touch my ear, she whispers two words. I’m so startled I have to ask her to repeat them. Her smile is smug, the triumphant grin of a kid who won the spelling bee. “Toilet paper,” she says again. It still doesn’t make sense.

Maybe she’s drunk. Flustered and reeling from the fact that my husband bemoans my weight gain to his golf buddies, I stumble over my words. “Is there a problem with the bathroom?” I paw through my purse. “I don’t have any toilet paper, but I have a pack of Kleenex somewhere.”

Genny’s laugh rivals her smile for smugness. It’s her tinkling aren’t-you-the-cutest-thing giggle. “It’s not for me, silly. It’s for you.”

I straighten, clasping my hands behind my back and digging my nails into the palms. I’m aware this pose strains the buttons of my dress even more, but the temptation to whack Genny in the face with the contents of my table is growing too strong to resist. Is she high?

“What are you talking about?” I focus on relaxing my jaw. I’ve been clenching my teeth so hard they ache.

“You eat it,” she says in a conspiratorial tone.

“Why would I eat toilet paper?” Maybe this is a nightmare I’ll soon wake up from. It’s making about as much sense.

“It’s an old dancer’s trick. You eat nothing but toilet paper and popcorn for a few weeks, and bam! Bye-bye, baby weight.” She giggles again, and this time there’s a maniacal edge to her laughter. I turn my shoulder toward her so my son is safely out of reach.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” I stare at Genny like she’s insane, knowing I’m alienating her but unable to do anything but gawk. Fumbling for a better response, I say the only thing that comes to mind. “But I’m nursing.”

Rather than seem shamed, she shrugs. “So put him on a bottle for a while. Or don’t. It didn’t hurt the twins. It’s your choice, but you don’t hear Tad complaining about my weight, do you?”

That’s it. It’s time to treat my old friend to some dessert. My fingers unclasp and are reaching for a pie when a familiar voice cuts the tension.

“Genine, is that you? You’re looking stunning, my dear—absolutely stunning.”

My so-called friend spins around in time to be embraced by my mother-in-law. As put together as Genny is, it’s no contest. Eleanor has the kind of untouchable beauty you usually only find in history books. Her cornflower blue suit perfectly complements her eyes and pale blond hair. She looks like she’s emerged from an English garden party instead of the raucous village fair. Her clothing doesn’t dare wrinkle.

“As are you, Mrs. Taylor-Cox.” Genny returns the expected air kisses with the deference drones always show the Queen Bee.

“Please, darling.” Eleanor waves a hand in the air so her diamonds sparkle. “Call me Eleanor. You’re a grown woman now.” Pretending to notice me for the first time, her mouth forms a tiny O of surprise. “Whatever are you doing here?”

Certainly not enjoying myself.

“Manning the bake stand.”

The slightest hint of a frown creases her forehead. “This won’t do. This won’t do at all. You should be in charge of the flower stall, or in handicrafts. Somewhere with less temptation.”

Genny’s hand flies to her mouth but not fast enough to block her snigger. My face burns hotter. Before I can remind Eleanor that she was the one who assigned the tables, my mother-in-law makes a tsking noise.

“I swear I would lose my head if it weren’t attached. I forgot my coconut cake in the car.”

“Oh, you can’t forget that. It’s the most popular item at the fair,” Genny says, all but batting her eyelashes. “There’ll be a revolt when people see it’s not here. You’re such a wonderful baker, Eleanor.”

Yeah, right. As if Her Royal Highness would ever risk getting her hands dirty. Everyone knows Hannah, Eleanor’s Michelin pastry chef, is the baker of the house. I suspect no one cares enough about the woman to give her proper credit. She’s only a servant, after all.

“I’ll pop out and get it. No sampling while I’m gone, Sarah.”

Before I can so much as snarl in reply, my mother-in-law disappears in a drift of French perfume.

“I should go, too. It was great to see you. Remember what I said.” Genny winks at me as she walks away. “It’ll help.”

A scream begins in the pit of my stomach, bubbling toward my throat. Only one thing can stop it. Opening my Louis Vuitton diaper bag, I stuff it with the last of Tessie’s sweet buns. For good measure, I throw in some of the shortbread, too.

Andrea Waterton coos in delight when I roll Elliot’s stroller across the path that separates our stalls. Her expression changes to sympathy when I explain my predicament. “Are you all right? You’re a bit flushed.”

“I’m fine.” The smile feels frozen on my lips. “I just need to use the bathroom.”

“Well, of course I’ll watch him. We’re in this together, aren’t we? Take your time.” She grins. “It’ll only cost you a cookie.”

My smile is faltering. The facade is slipping. I can’t keep up appearances for much longer. “Help yourself,” I call over my shoulder as I hurry to the toilets.

Luckily the stalls are empty. I lock myself in the one farthest away from the entrance after checking to make sure the toilet is clean. Close enough. I crouch on the seat, hiking my dress around my thighs to ease the strain on the fabric. Popping the clasp on the diaper bag, I inhale the sultry scent of sugar. Heaven.

Genny’s voice whines in my brain like a mosquito I can’t escape. The subject of your weight may have come up...

Remembering the disapproval on Eleanor’s face makes my head ache.

No sampling while I’m gone, Sarah.

No sampling...

“Of course not, dearest Eleanor. Why sample when you can eat the whole thing?”

My control lasts until the first morsel of bread passes my lips, and then I stuff the caramel buns and cookies into my mouth, faster and faster. Crumbs shower my vintage dress, but I don’t care. When every last sweet is gone, my stomach lurches. I lift the lid of the toilet.

Hoping I’m still alone in the washroom, I vomit until my body shakes with dry heaves. Take your toilet paper and stuff it, Genny. I know a few tricks, too.

My hands tremble as I fix my makeup in the cloudy bathroom mirror. My color is too high, my eyes too bright. Eleanor will realize something’s up. Patting my French twist into place, I clean my face with a damp paper towel. My mascara is smudged and there’s nothing I can do about it—not even baby wipes will budge it. Deciding I’m as good as I’m going to get, I straighten my dress and leave the washroom, hoping my mother-in-law won’t notice the smirk on my face.

By the time I return to the bake stand, Eleanor is waiting. She’s making small talk with Andrea, but keeps glancing in the direction of the bathroom. Her mouth curves downward when she sees me. Crap! How long was I gone? Any bravery inspired by my little act of defiance disappears, and I quicken my step.

“Really, dear, if you’re going to leave the table for that long, you should have let me know.”

“It’s okay. She asked me to keep an eye on things.” Andrea brings over my son’s stroller. “It’s not like anyone goes near that table, anyway. God forbid one of these ladies ate a carb.”

As Eleanor glares at her, the laugh dies in Andrea’s throat, but the damage is done. My mother-in-law’s reprimand has lost its sting. I decide I really like Andrea. Back in the days before Elliot, I didn’t spend much time with her. She wasn’t considered glamorous or sophisticated enough for our group of friends. But things have changed.

Everything has changed.

Turning her back on Andrea, Eleanor thrusts the coconut cake into my arms. It’s heavier than expected, and my little episode in the bathroom has left me weak. My hands shake as I search for the right place on the table—front and center, but not too much so. Eleanor wouldn’t want anyone to think she abuses her influence.

“Have you heard from your sister yet?”

The question comes from out of nowhere, startling me so much I almost drop her cake. Caught off guard, I blurt out the truth. “No, not yet.”

“That’s strange, isn’t it? How long ago did you contact her?”

I sigh, using the task of rearranging the table as an excuse to avoid her eyes. She knows exactly how long it’s been because she’s asked me the same question multiple times. “It’s been two weeks. But I’m not sure how often she checks email when she’s traveling. Maybe Wi-Fi isn’t available where she is.”

Maybe she doesn’t feel the need to jump when you snap your fingers. Even though I haven’t seen my sister in years, I suspect she doesn’t jump for anyone. My sister is having adventures I can only dream of.

My mother-in-law’s eyes narrow. “Wi-Fi is available everywhere. What kind of girl can’t be bothered to keep in touch with her own family? It’s terribly rude, if you ask me.”

I didn’t ask, not that it matters. I struggle to keep my temper under control, but my shoulders stiffen at her criticism of my sister. Where does she get off? Maisey is a million times better than anyone in Eleanor’s sad, shallow family.

“Maisey’s a nurse who spends her days helping people in developing nations countries, Eleanor. She has less time to check her phone than the rest of us.”

If I’d hoped that would shame her, it failed miserably. Eleanor lifts her chin, managing to look even haughtier than usual as she shifts the baked goods around—anything to better show off Hannah’s masterpiece. “The party is in two weeks. How can I be expected to welcome your family properly when I don’t know if they’ll trouble themselves to attend? All I’m asking is for you to get in touch with your own sister. I can’t understand why that’s so difficult.”

Before I can respond, her attention is captured by something over my shoulder. Her face brightens as she yanks Elliot’s stroller from beside me. “Ah, there’s Grace. I have to show off my grandson.”

“No, wait!” But she’s already gone. My son’s tiny hand waves in the air like he’s bidding me goodbye. Cramps ripple through my stomach and I’m afraid I’ll be sick again. I lean against the table, breathing heavily, as a cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. This is ridiculous. Eleanor is his grandmother. She’d never hurt him. Still, I can’t stop scanning the crowd for my son. My mother-in-law has vanished into a cloud of women in pastel suits, and for a minute I’m tempted to run after her.

A tentative touch on my arm makes me flinch. It’s Gretchen, channeling Grace Kelly with her soft waves and demure sundress. It’s obvious from her figure she doesn’t eat any of her own shortbread. “Are you all right? You look like you’re about to faint.”

The kindness in her voice almost fools me—almost. Gretchen is no Andrea, and my old crew surrounds her. The women eye me as if I’m a cornered tiger, destined to bite.

“I’m fine.” Sounding as cheerful as I can, I move behind the table. “What can I do for you ladies?”

Tessie peers at me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I smile harder, hoping it doesn’t seem like I’m baring my teeth. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Well, your makeup is smudged, for one thing. I don’t think I’ve ever see you look less than perfect.” Tessie’s nose wrinkles as if she smells something bad. My waterproof mascara has clearly committed a criminal offense.

“Ladies, ladies, be kind. She’s just had a baby. She’ll be back to her old self soon, won’t you, Sarah?”

I didn’t think it was possible to feel any worse, but I’m tempted to hide under the table when I see Jessica is the one who’s come to my rescue. While the other women are demure flowers in their pale frocks, Jessica is an exotic bird in her emerald green dress. It plunges in the front, displaying her assets.

“Well, I don’t know about that.” I’m relieved my voice is steady. “They say motherhood changes you forever.”

“That’s true, I suppose,” Tessie says, but I can hear the doubt in her voice.

“Of course it’s true.” Jessica’s eyes glitter, betraying her amusement. “Everyone gains weight during pregnancy. It can’t be helped. She’ll lose it, won’t you, Sarah? She just needs my personal trainer.”

“Hey, you’re sold out of my shortbread already,” Gretchen says. “That’s great.”

Tessie rushes over to inspect the table. “My sweet buns are sold out, too. That’s even faster than usual.”

“Really? Who bought them?” Jessica asks.

Icy fingers creep up my spine. “What do you mean, who bought them?” I roll my eyes and gesture to the crowd. “There must be hundreds of people here.”

She pins me to the spot with her unwavering scrutiny, and I panic, terrified she can read my mind. She focuses on my hips, where my dress pulls the tightest. “Yes, but we both know the majority of them won’t touch a sweet, and the rest aren’t allowed to.”

Smelling blood, the other women lean in for my reply. I think I might faint, after all.

“Okay, ladies, sheath your claws. I can hear your hissing from over here.”

My face breaks into the first genuine smile of the day as Warwick pushes past them to snag one of my Imperial cookies. “How much for this one, darling? No matter what you charge, it can’t be enough.” Before I can answer, he takes a huge bite.

Kissing a crumb from the side of his mouth, I briefly press my forehead to his. “Three dollars.”

“A veritable bargain!” He selects a five-dollar bill from an embossed clip and tucks it between my breasts before I can stop him. “Keep the change.”

Tessie gasps. “Warwick, you’re a scoundrel.”

My husband winks at her. “Guilty as charged. Tess, Gretchen, you’re lovely as usual. Jess, you need to quit blending into the background. You’re turning into a regular wallflower.”

The three women titter in response. “You haven’t changed,” Jessica says, slapping him on the arm. “You’re a bad boy.”

He grins, deepening his dimples. “Why should I change? You can’t improve on perfection.”

“Well...” Jessica draws the word out, letting it roll on her tongue. Her hand snakes up to caress my husband’s shoulder, and as I watch, unbelieving, his other arm encircles her waist. “That is true.”

“Takes one to know one, doesn’t it?” Warwick winks again, and I can hear the gruffness in his voice. He’s getting turned on.

As Jessica and my husband ogle each other, oblivious to the rest of the world, my chest tightens. How can he do this to me? He knows how I feel about Jessica, knows she’s always trying to take my place with the other women.

I clear my throat, and when neither acknowledges me, I lose it. “Warwick! Earth to Warwick?”

My husband turns from Jessica long enough to shoot me a warning look. His blue eyes have deepened to a dangerous hue. “What is it, dear heart?” His words are friendly enough, but they’re forced from between clenched teeth.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a satisfied expression creep across my rival’s face.

“Your mother took off with our son quite a while ago. I’m getting worried. Will you go find him, please?”

“If Mother has him, I’m sure he’s fine. You could use a break, darling. Why don’t you relax and enjoy your few minutes of freedom?”

Disentangling himself from Jessica, he slips behind the table to stand next to me. His fingers tighten on my hips as he pulls me into him, and I startle at the suddenness of it. His lips graze my ear.

“Your panties,” he murmurs. “Take them off. Now.”

I don’t believe what I’m hearing. We’re surrounded by people—surely he isn’t serious. “I can’t,” I whisper, praying the other women didn’t hear what he said. They still watch us with interest, but Jessica’s smirk has faded away.

“You can. Give them to me.”

He leaves me then, sauntering around to Jessica and crew like the prize rooster in a henhouse. “So, Tessie, where are those sweet buns of yours? I’ve had a craving.”

Tessie giggles.

“Haven’t you heard? Your wife is running the most successful bake stall in the history of the East Hamptons fair,” Jessica tells him. “Almost everything is sold out.”

Bitch.

“Really?” Warwick cocks an eyebrow at me as he runs a finger over Jessica’s bare arm. The hateful woman practically quivers with ecstasy. “That’s a shame—for me. I’m hungry. What did you bring, Jessica dear?”

While he has her distracted, I duck under the table, using the gingham cloth that covers it to hide what I’m doing. “I might have some more of the buns under here,” I say, yanking at my sweat-soaked panties. I’m wearing a magenta lace thong—ridiculous underwear for a nursing mother, but Warwick detests what he calls “Grandma panties.” He refuses to let any in the house. At least the thong is tiny enough to hide in my hand, but getting it over my feet without the other women noticing is another story. Finally I tear the flimsy lace off my ankles. There’s no way I’ll want to put it back on, anyway.

When I pop up from under the table, exhausted from my efforts, Tessie looks at me expectantly. “Well?”

My husband has apparently said something humorous, since Jessica is laughing and leaning against him as if she can no longer support her own body weight. It takes every inch of self-control not to roll my eyes, and for a minute I’m so distracted I forget Tessie is waiting for an answer.

“Sarah? Did you find any?”

Right, the sweet buns.

“All gone, sorry.” I tuck my hands behind me to hide the incriminating lace. “It was a long shot, anyway. You know they always sell out first.”

Imagine her reaction if she ever found out most of her masterpieces were flushed down the toilet. I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning.

“No luck, darling?” Warwick leaves Jessica long enough to lean over me. He uses his broad back to hide his hand, which plucks the underwear out of mine so deftly I barely feel it.

“No, they’re sold out.” My voice catches in my throat, sounding garbled, but only Tessie appears to notice. She wrinkles her nose at me again, but before she can say anything, my husband seizes me by my wrist, pulling me out from behind the table.

“Warwick, what are you—”

“Jessica, can you do me a small favor?” he asks.

“That depends.” She continues playing the part of the seductress, flipping her red hair over her shoulder, but her mouth tightens when she sees my husband holding me.

“Can you watch the stall for a few minutes? I have something I need to show my wife.”

My stomach flips. What on earth is he thinking? Is he really going to insist on having sex here, in front of all these people? I try to wrench my wrist away, but he holds it fast. “Really, Warwick, it can wait.”

“No, really, it can’t. What do you say, Jessica? I’ll buy you a cookie.”

Warwick thanks her before she can refuse and drags me along with him, clutching my arm close to his side. “What about Elliot?” I ask, scanning the crowds. For a minute, my heart quickens as I spot my son’s blond head, but it’s a false alarm, another baby. “If your mother comes back and I’m not there, she’ll go ballistic.”

I don’t dare tell him about my first encounter with Eleanor that morning. Warwick is too smart. The long visit to the bathroom, the sold-out baked goods—no one will have to connect the dots for him.

“Hey, Warwick!” It’s Tad, the now-detested golf buddy, long-suffering husband of Genine. I’m not up for making polite conversation with him, especially after the bombshell Genny dropped on me. Thankfully, my husband doesn’t slow his step, only waving in response.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Warwick squeezes my arm when I don’t reply. “Smile, my love. We’re about to have some fun.”

He walks so fast I stumble to keep up. “Where are we going? It’s too crowded here. Your mother—”

“Forget Mother. I don’t want to talk about Mother. I want to talk about you, and how good you smell.” His voice deepens, growing husky, and I know he’s not referring to my perfume. “Maybe it’s your proximity to all that sugar, but you smell good enough to eat.”

To my surprise, he stops in front of the washroom, the very same bathroom where I’d binged.

“Do you have your phone?”

Nodding, I pat my pocket. About the only positive thing about this dress is that it has pockets. I wish I’d thought to call Eleanor. Just then I see her over Warwick’s shoulder.

“There they are!”

Elliot shrieks with delight as a group of older women fuss over him. Every sign of his morning tantrum is gone, and my arms ache to hold him close, to bury my face in his neck. This horrible day will fade into the background once I have him next to me again.

Warwick blocks my path.

“What are you doing?” My voice sounds angrier than I’d meant, but I don’t have time for his games. Not now. Not after the way he cozied up to Jessica in front of me.

“Go into the bathroom,” he says, and gives me a little shove.