1
If Grace Stanton had known the world as she knew it was going to end that uneventful evening in May, she might have been better prepared. She certainly would have packed more underwear and a decent bra, not to mention moisturizer and her iPhone charger.
But as far as Grace knew, she was just doing her job, writing and photographing Gracenotes, a blog designed to make her own lifestyle look so glamorous, enticing, and delicious it made perfectly normal women (and gay men) want to rip up the script for their own lives and rebuild one exactly like hers.
* * *
She peered through the lens finder of her Nikon D7000 and frowned, but only for a moment, because, as Ben had told her countless times, a frown was forever. She made a conscious effort to smooth the burgeoning wrinkles in her forehead, then concentrated anew on her composition.
Shed polished the old pine table to a dull sheen, and the available light streaming in from the dining room window glinted off the worn boards. With her right hand, she made a minute adjustment to one of the two deliberately mismatched white ironstone platters shed placed on a rumpled—but not wrinkled—antique French grain-sack table runner. She replaced the oversized sterling forks, tines pointed down, at the edge of the platters. Should she add knives? Maybe spoons? She thought not. Spare. The look she was going for was spare.
Edit, edit, edit, she thought, nodding almost imperceptibly. Less was more. Or thats what Ben always claimed.
Now. About that centerpiece. Shed cut three small palmetto fronds from the newly landscaped driveway … No, she corrected herself. The builders Web site referred to it as a motor court. The palmettos were giving her fits. Shed arranged them in a mottled, barnacle-crusted pale aqua bottle shed plucked from a pile of random junk at the flea market the weekend before. They should have looked great. But no. They were too stiff. Too awkward. Too vertical.
Grace replaced the palmettos with a cardboard carton of lush red heirloom tomatoes. Hmm. The vibrant color was a good contrast against the nubby linen of the runner, and she loved the lumpy forms and brilliant green and yellow stripes on some of the irregularly shaped fruits. Maybe, if she placed the container on its side, with the tomatoes spilling out? Yes. Much better.
She grabbed a knife from the sideboard and sawed one of the tomatoes in half, squeezing it slightly, until seeds and juices dribbled out onto the tabletop.
Perfect. She inhaled and clicked the trigger on her motor-driven shutter. Click. Click. Click. She adjusted the focus so the pale gel-covered seeds were in the foreground. Now, she zoomed out, leaving the tomatoes as red blurs, so that the old ironstone platters were in focus, their age-crazed crackles and brown spots coming into sharp relief.
“Very pretty,” a voice breathed in her ear.
Grace jumped.
Ben rested a hand lightly on her shoulder and studied the vignette.
“Is that for tomorrows ‘Friday Favorites post?” he asked.
“Mm-hmm,” Grace said. “I tried the palmetto fronds and, before that, a basket of seashells, and then some green mangoes, but I think the tomatoes work best, dont you?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
“What?” Grace studied his face, as always, craving his approval. “The tomatoes dont work for you?”
“Theyre nice. In an artsy-fartsy kind of way,” he said.
She pushed a strand of light brown hair off her forehead and took a step back from the table. Shed spent an hour putting the table together, and shed been fairly pleased with the effect shed achieved. But Ben didnt like it.
“Too country-cutesy?” she asked, glancing at her husband. Bens trained eyes missed nothing. Hed been in the ad business forever, and no detail was too small or too insignificant. It was why they made such a great team.
“Its your blog,” he reminded her. “And your name is on it. I dont want business stuff to impinge on your editorial freedom. But…”
“But what? Come on. Im a big girl. I can take it.”
“The Aviento folks sent us a big crateful of pieces of their new fall line,” Ben said, hesitating. “Treasures of Tuscany, the new pattern is called. Its for the giveaway youre doing on Monday. I was thinking maybe you could put the tomatoes in one of those bowls they sent.”
Grace wrinkled her nose. “That is seriously the ugliest pottery I have ever seen, and it looks about as Italian as a can of Chef Boyardee.”
“You dont have to set the whole table with it. Just maybe put some of the tomatoes in one of the bowls. They are spending a lot of money advertising with us now, and it would be good if they could see their product … you know.”
“Stinkin up my ‘Friday Favorites tablescapes,” Grace said, finishing the sentence for him. “Did you promise them I would use it editorially? Tell me the truth, Ben.”
“No!” he said sharply. “I would never try to influence you that way. But would it hurt to maybe try a couple shots with one of the bowls. Or a plate?”
“Ill try it out. But if it looks as crappy as I think it will, Im not going to run it. Right? I mean, you promised when we monetized the blog, we wouldnt be whoring me out by using the advertisers product in a way that would compromise my aesthetic.”
“Its your call,” Ben said, picking up one of the tomatoes and examining it. “These are weird looking. What kind are they?”
“Dont know,” Grace said, gently taking the tomato from him and replacing it on the table. “JAimee picked them up at the farmers market.”
“Kids got a good eye,” Ben said. He glanced back at the table. “How long before youre done here?”
“Maybe an hour? I guess Ill try some shots with the Aviento stuff. Then I need to edit, and Ive still got to actually write the piece.” She glanced down at her watch. “Good Lord! Its after six. Ive been piddling around with this tabletop for hours now. Why didnt you say something?”
“Didnt want to interrupt the genius while she was at work,” he said. “But since you brought it up, is there any actual food to go on these pretty plates?”
“Nada,” she said apologetically. “Im sorry. I completely lost track of the time. Look, Ill just take a couple more shots with the Tuscan Turds, then Ill run down to Publix and pick up some sushi. Or maybe a nice piece of fish to grill. I can have supper on the table by seven. Right?”
“Finish your shots,” Ben said easily. “JAimee can pick up supper.”
“No, Ill go. Ive had JAimee out running errands all afternoon.”
Ben dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Thats what assistants are for, Grace.”
“But I hate to bother her,” she protested. “She just went back over to the apartment an hour ago.”
Grace gestured in the general direction of the garage, which was at the back of the “motor court.” JAimee, her twenty-six-year-old assistant, had been living in the apartment above the garage since she was hired three months earlier. Her battered white Honda Accord was parked in the third bay, beside Bens black Audi convertible.
Their builder had referred to the apartment as a mother-in-law suite, or even a nanny suite. But Graces mom lived only a few miles away on Cortez and she wouldnt have moved to this “faux chateau,” as she called it, at gunpoint. Bens mother lived quite happily down in Coconut Grove. And since the fertility specialist still couldnt figure out just exactly why Grace couldnt get pregnant, the apartment, for now, was the perfect place to stash an assistant.
“Finish your shoot,” Ben said, settling the matter. “Ill walk over there and roust JAimee. In fact, Ill ride to Publix with her.”
“Thanks,” Grace said, going back to her camera. “Youre the best.”
Ben gave her a gentle pat on the butt. “Thats my girl,” he said.
Grace went into the kitchen and found the heavy wooden crate with the Aviento shipping label sitting on the polished black granite countertop, pausing, as she always did, to flick a crumb into the sink. She hated the black granite. Even the tiniest fleck of sea salt showed up on it, and she seemed to go through a gallon of Windex every week, keeping it shiny.
But Ben and the builder had ganged up on her to agree to use it, after the granite company offered the countertops at cost in exchange for a small ad on Gracenotes.
She was soon immersed again in her work, barely registering the familiar roar of Bens car as it backed out of the garage. Grace looked up in time to see that hed put the Audis top down. He did a neat three-point turn and gave her a carefree wave before he sped down the driveway, his forearm casually thrown across the back of the passenger seat, and JAimees long red hair flowing gracefully in the wind.
Ben reminded her of Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief, a golden boy, elegant, aloof, mysterious, maybe even a little dangerous? She reflected briefly on how unfair life really was. At forty-four, Ben was six years older, but youd never know it from looking at him. He never gained weight and never seemed to age. He kept his tennis tan year-round. His gloriously glossy dark brown hair still didnt show a speck of gray, and the faint crows-feet around his eyes lent him the look of wisdom, not imminent geezerdom.
Grace, on the other hand, was beginning to spend what she thought of as an alarming amount of time on maintenance. At five-four, even five extra pounds seemed to go right to her butt or her belly, and shed begun coloring her sandy-brown hair two years earlier, at the suggestion of Ruthanne, her hairdresser. Her face was heart-shaped, and only thirty minutes in the Florida sun left her round cheeks beet-colored, giving her even more of the look of a little Dutch girl when Ruthanne got carried away with the blond highlights. Ben insisted she was still as pretty as the day theyd met six years earlier, but they both knew that with Graces blogging career about to take off, she would have to be that much more vigilant about her appearance.
Blogging? A career?
If anybody had told her two years ago that shed make a living out of journaling her quest for a more beautiful life, she would have laughed in their face. And if anybody told her that she would become enough of a success that Ben would quit his career to run hers? Well, she would have politely written that person off as a nutcase.
But it was all true. She and Ben were on the very verge of the big time. This house, a 6,500-square-foot Spanish colonial located in a gated golf-course community had been one of the subdivisions model homes, and the builder, whose wife was an avid Gracenotes reader, had given them an incredible deal on it in exchange for a banner ad across the top of the blog. Most of the expensive upgrades on the property—the landscaping, the pool and spa, their amazing master bath—had also been trade-offs for advertising.
Shed always loved writing, and had tinkered with photography for years, but once the blog took off, it had somehow caught the eye of magazine editors and television producers. In addition to having their own house featured in half a dozen magazines, writing, photography, and decorating assignments had begun coming her way. Shed become a contributing regional editor for Country Living and Bay Life magazines, and next month, they were going to start working with a production company out of California to shoot a pilot television show of Gracenotes for HGTV.
All because of her silly little blog.
* * *
She couldnt say why she awoke so suddenly. Normally, Grace fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, and she slept so soundly Ben often reminded her of the time shed slept through Hurricane Elise, not even stirring when the wind tore the roof totally off the screened porch of their old house in a slightly run-down Bradenton neighborhood.
That night was no exception. Shed retreated to her office after dinner, writing and rewriting her Gracenotes post and fussing over the photographs before, finally, shortly before eleven, pushing the SEND button and crawling into bed beside her already-slumbering husband.
For whatever reason, she sat straight up in bed now. It was after 1:00 A.M. Her heart was racing, and her mouth was dry. A bad dream? She couldnt say. She glanced over at Bens side of the bed. Empty.
She rubbed her eyes. Ben was probably downstairs, in the media room, watching a tournament on Golf TV, or maybe he was in the kitchen, looking for a late-night snack. Grace yawned and padded downstairs, already planning her own snack.
But the downstairs was dark, the media room deserted. She went out to the kitchen. No sign of him there, either. The kitchen was as spotless as shed left it three hours earlier, after finishing up the last of the dinner dishes and packing up the faux-Tuscan pottery. Not even a cup or a spoon in the sink.
Grace frowned, and this time she didnt bother to worry about wrinkles. She checked the downstairs powder room, but the door was open and there was no sign of her husband. She ran back upstairs and peeked inside the two guest suites, but they were empty and undisturbed. She walked slowly back to the bedroom, thinking to call Bens cell phone. But when she saw his cell phone on his dresser, along with his billfold, she relaxed a little. And then she noticed the keys to the Audi were missing, and her heart seemed to miss a beat. She went to the window and peered out, but saw nothing. There was only a quarter moon that night, but it was obscured by a heavy bank of clouds. The backyard was wreathed in darkness. She couldnt even see the garage.
“Its nothing,” she told herself, surprised to realize that she was talking out loud. She shrugged out of her nightgown, pulling on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, slipping her feet into a pair of rubber flip-flops. “Hes fine. Maybe hes out by the pool, sneaking a midnight cigar.”
The sandals slapped noisily on the marble stairs, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged stairway. She ditched them by the back door, carefully switching off the burglar alarm before stepping out onto the back patio. She paused, put her hand to her chest, and could have sworn it was about to jump out of her body.
“Ben?” She kept her voice low. It was pitch black, except for the pale turquoise surface of the pool and the eerie green uplights on the date-palm clusters at the back of the garden. Cicadas thrummed, and in the far distance, she heard a truck rumbling down the street. She crept forward, her hands extended, edging past the pair of chaise lounges perched at the edge of the patio, feeling the rough-textured coral rock beneath her feet.
Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the dark. There was no glowing cigar tip anywhere on the patio or the garden. She glanced toward the garage. No lights were on in JAimees upstairs apartment, and the garage doors were closed. Was Bens car there?
For a moment, a train of scenarios unspooled through her imagination. Ben, passed out, or even dead, at the wheel of his car, an unknown assailant lurking nearby. Should she retreat to the house, find some kind of weapon, even call the police?
“Dont be an idiot,” she murmured to herself. “Youre a big girl. Just go look in the garage. You live in a gated community, for Gods sake. The only crime here is dogs pooping on the grass.”
She tiptoed toward the garage, skirting the electronically controlled metal doors, heading toward the side door, trying to remember whether or not it would be unlocked.
Luckily, it was. The knob turned easily in her hand, and she stepped inside the darkened space, her hand groping the wall for the light switch.
And then she heard … heavy breathing. She froze. A mans voice. The words were unintelligible, but the voice was Bens. Her hand scrabbled the wall for the switch. She found it, and the garage was flooded with light.
A woman squealed.
Grace blinked in the bright lights. She saw Ben, sitting in the drivers seat of the Audi. He was bare-chested, his right hand shielding his eyes from the light. His hair was mussed, and his cheeks were flushed bright red.
“Grace?” He looked wild-eyed.
And thats when she realized he wasnt alone in the car. Her first instinct was to turn and run away, but she was drawn, like a bug to a lightbulb, to the side of that gleaming black sports car. The top was retracted. She looked down and saw that distinctive mane of flame-red hair.
JAimee, her loyal, invaluable assistant, was cowering, naked, making a valiant effort to disappear into the floorboards of the car.
“What the hell?” Grace screeched as she yanked open the passenger-side door.
“Im sorry, Grace, Im so sorry,” JAimee blurted, her eyes the size of saucers.
JAimees clothes were scattered on the floor of the garage, and, come to think of it, that was Bens shirt—his expensive, pale-blue, custom-tailored, monogrammed, Egyptian cotton shirt that Grace had given him as a birthday gift—that was flung over the Audis windshield.
With the passenger-side door open, Grace saw, at a glance, that her husband was nearly naked, too—if you counted having your jeans puddled down around your ankles as naked.
For a moment, Grace wondered if this was some bad dream she was having. Hadnt she just been asleep a moment earlier? This couldnt be happening. Not Ben. Ben loved her. He would never cheat. She shook her head violently, closed her eyes, and reopened them.
But this was no nightmare. And there was no mistaking what shed just interrupted. Suddenly, she felt a surge of boiling hot rage.
“Bitch!” Grace cried. She clamped a hand around JAimees upper arm and yanked her out of the car in one fluid, frenzied motion.
“Ow,” JAimee whimpered.
Grace flung her against the side of the car.
“Stop it,” JAimee cried. Her face was pale, with every freckle standing out in contrast to the milky whiteness of her skin. For some reason, Grace, in an insane corner of her mind, noted with satisfaction that JAimees breasts were oddly pendulous for such a young woman. Also? Not a real redhead.
“You stop it!” Grace said, drawing back her hand.
“Jesus!” JAimee screamed. She raised her arms to cover her face, and for a moment Grace faltered. She had never hit anybody in her life. She dropped her hand and glared at the girl.
“Now, Grace,” Ben started. He was wriggling around in his seat, trying in vain to surreptitiously pull up his pants. “Dont get the wrong idea. Dont…”
“Shut up, just shut up!” Grace shouted, her eyes blazing. For a moment, she forgot about JAimee. She flew around to his side of the car, but before she could get there, Ben had managed to slide out from under the steering wheel, zipping up his pants as he stood.
“How could you?” she cried, raining ineffective punches around his head and shoulders. She was aware that her high-pitched shrieks sounded like the howls of a lunatic, but she was helpless to stop herself. “You? And JAimee? My assistant? You were screwing her? Under my own roof?”
He easily caught her fists and held them tight in his own. “No!” Ben lied. “Its not what you think. Look, if you would just calm down, lets talk about this. Okay? I know this looks bad, but theres a logical explanation.”
“Like what? The two of you snuck out here to the garage while I was asleep and you decided to have a business meeting in your car? A clothing-optional meeting? And suddenly, JAimee decided to give you mouth-to-penis resuscitation? Is that the logical explanation for this?”
“Calm down,” Ben repeated. “Youre getting yourself all worked up…”
Grace saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye and looked over just in time to see JAimee scoop up her clothing and make a run for it.
“Oh, no,” Grace said. “Youre not getting away from this.” JAimee darted out the door, and Grace went right after her.
“Stay away from me,” JAimee cried, running in the direction of the house. “Ill call the police if you come near me … Its aggravated assault.”
“You dont know the meaning of aggravated,” Grace shouted. She flinched when her bare feet hit the lawn, damp from the automatic sprinklers, but ran after JAimee, who was surprisingly slow for a young woman unencumbered by clothing. She picked up her speed until she was only a few yards behind her former assistant. She reached out to try to snatch a handful of JAimees hair, but her prey danced out of reach.
“Dont you touch me,” JAimee cried, backing away. “I mean it.”
But Grace was quicker than even she expected. She managed to grab JAimees arm, and the girl screamed like a stuck pig.
Lights snapped on at the house next door. A dog began barking from the back of the property.
“Get away,” the young woman screeched, dropping her clothing onto the grass and windmilling her arms in Graces general vicinity. “Get away.”
Now they heard the low hum and metallic clang of the garage door opening. Grace glanced over her shoulder to see Ben come sprinting out of the garage. “Are you insane?” he called. “For Gods sake, Grace, let her go.”
In her fury, Grace turned toward her husband, and in that moment JAimee slipped out of her grasp. While Grace watched, speechless, JAimee scampered, naked, around the patio. A moment later, shed disappeared behind the thick hedge of hibiscus that separated the Stantons property from their nearest neighbor.
“Go ahead and run, bitch!” Grace screamed. “Youre fired. You hear me? Your ass is fired!”
Ben was walking slowly across the grass, his hands raised in a cautious peace gesture. “Okay, Grace,” he said, making low, soothing sounds at the back of his throat, the kind youd make to coax a cat out of a treetop. “Oh-kay, I know. Youre upset. I get that. Can we take this inside now? Youre making a spectacle of yourself. Lets take it inside, all right? Ill make us some coffee and we can sort this out…”
“We are not going inside,” Grace snapped. “Coffee? Are you kidding me? You think a dose of Starbucks Extra Bold is going to fix this? We are going to stay right here. Do you hear me?”
“The whole neighborhood can hear you. Could you lower your voice, please? Just dial it down a little?”
“I will not!” His calmness made her even crazier than she already felt. Grace megaphoned her hands. “Hey, people. Neighbors—wake up! This is Grace Stanton. I just caught my husband, Ben Stanton, screwing my assistant!”
“Stop it,” Ben hissed. “I was not screwing her.”
“Correction,” Grace hollered, lifting her voice to the sky. “She was blowing him. My mistake, neighbors.”
“Youre insane,” he snapped. “Im not staying around listening to this.” He turned and stomped off toward the house. “Well talk when youve calmed down.”
“One question, Ben,” Grace called, running after him. She grabbed him by the shoulder to stop his progress. “You owe me that.”
“What?” He spun around, rigid with anger. She noticed three small love bites on his collarbone. Hickies? Her forty-four-year-old husband had hickies? A wave of nausea swelled up from her belly. She swallowed hard.
“How long? How long have you been fucking her?”
“Im not…” He shrugged. “Come inside. All right?”
“How long?” Grace felt hot tears springing to her eyes. “Tell me, damn it. This wasnt the first time, was it? So tell me the truth. How long?”
“No matter what I say, you wont believe me,” Ben said quietly.
“Tell me the truth and Ill believe you,” Grace said.
“No,” he said softly. “Not the first time. But we can fix this, Grace.”
“Fix it?” Grace exploded with pure, white-hot rage.
“Fix it,” she said, lifting her voice to the heavens. “Hes been screwing her for a while now, and he thinks we can fix it.”
“Thats it,” Ben said. “I wont stand here and let you humiliate me like this.”
“Dont you dare walk away from me,” Grace called.
“Im gone,” Ben said. True to his word, he stalked away toward the house.
She raced to the back door, to discover that hed locked her out.
“Let me in, damn it,” she screamed, pounding on the kitchen door.
Nothing. She kicked the door. Still nothing.
She looked around for something, anything, to break the glass in the door. Just then she spied the heap of clothing JAimee had discarded in her hasty escape.
Grace scooped up the clothes and returned to the back patio. She craned her neck in the direction of the hibiscus hedge, hoping she might spot JAimees bony white ass back there, hiding in the foliage or, better yet, being gnawed on by the neighbors dog, a vicious-tempered chow mix named Peaches. But nothing moved in the shrubbery.
She had an idea. She stepped onto the patio and found the light switch for the outdoor kitchen, with its granite counters and six-burner gas-fired barbecue.
Earlier in May, her Gracenotes blog had dealt with barbecues.
Mr. Grace and I are fortunate to live in Florida, where grilling season never ends. But just because were dining outdoors doesnt mean I serve burnt hot dogs on spindly white paper plates. I love to spread a white matelassé bedspread diagonally across our glass-topped patio table and anchor it with a pair of heavy black wrought-iron candelabras, or, if its a windy day, Ill place votive candles in old Mason jars anchored with a layer of bleached-out seashells. Especially for casual occasions like this, you do not have to have a set of matched plastic dishes. Ill let you in on a secret: I hate matchy-matchy! Instead, I have an assortment of mismatched Fiestaware plates picked up at junk shops and yard sales over the years, in bold shades of turquoise, green, pink, yellow, and orange. Paired with silverware with ivory-colored Bakelite handles, and oversized plain white flour-sack dish towels bought cheap from Ikea, and a bouquet of brilliant zinnias cut from the garden, they telegraph the message to guests: the fun is about to begin!
Speaking of fun, Grace chortled as she tossed JAimees clothes—a T-shirt, pair of shorts, bra, and pink thong panties—onto the counter and then reached into the stainless steel bar fridge and found herself a perfectly chilled bottle of Corona. She didnt really like beer all that much, and there were no lime slices handy, but shed just have to make do. She uncapped the bottle and took a long, deep swig, and then another. She pushed the IGNITE button on the front burner and the blue flame came on with a satisfying whoosh.
The beer wasnt bad at all. She took another sip and tossed the panties onto the burner. The tiny scrap of synthetic silk went up in flames and was gone in a second or two, which was a disappointment. The shorts made a nicer display, and she watched the blaze for two or three minutes, reluctantly adding the T-shirt and then, after another five minutes, the bra. The bra, which had heavy padding, smoldered for several minutes, sending up a stinky black fog of smoke.
She looked around for something else to add to the fire, and remembered Bens shirt, still draped over the windshield of his Audi.
Ben loved expensive things. But Grace, raised above her parents working-class bar in the nearby fishing hamlet of Cortez, could never quite get comfortable with the luxury goods that her husband had grown up with as the pampered only son of a Miami bank executive. The day shed bought the shirt at Neiman-Marcus, for $350, shed walked away from it twice, finally forcing herself to pull the trigger and buy the damned thing.
Grace stood in the open doorway of the garage, scowling at the Audi. If the shirt was Bens favorite, the Audi, a 2013 Spyder R8 convertible, was beyond his favorite. It was his obsession. Hed bought the Audi without consulting Grace, right after they signed the pilot deal with HGTV. Ben wouldnt disclose what hed paid for the car, saying only that hed “worked a deal” on it, but when she checked the prices online, shed discovered that the thing retailed for $175,000! Shed somehow managed to swallow her resentment over not being included in the decision to buy the new car, telling herself that if Ben, who handled all the family finances, thought they could afford the car, then she shouldnt worry.
She walked around to the drivers side, snatching the shirt off the windshield. Looking down, she noticed the keys were still in the ignition.
The next thing she knew, she was using the shirt to wipe down the bucket seats leather upholstery—just in case. She slid beneath the wheel and turned the key in the ignition, smiling as the powerful engine roared to life.
Ben didnt exactly prohibit her from driving the Audi, but he didnt encourage it either, telling her it was “a lot of car” for a woman and pointing out that her experience driving a stick shift was limited, although shed learned to drive on her fathers beat-up manual-transmission Chevy pickup.
Maybe, Grace thought, shed just take the Audi for a spin around the neighborhood. Wouldnt that just fire Bens rockets? She hoped he was watching from one of the upstairs windows. Hed have a stroke when he saw her behind the wheel. She eased the car into reverse, carefully backing it out of the garage.
Maneuvering an expert three-point turn, she was about to head down the driveway when the kitchen door flew open.
“Grace!” Ben yelled. “What do you think youre doing?”
“Going for a drive,” she said cheerfully, raising the Corona in a jaunty salute.
“The hell you are,” he barked, walking toward her. “Youve been drinking and youre in no shape to be driving. Get out of my car.”
“Your car?” she raised an eyebrow.
“You know what I mean,” he said. “Youve had your fun. This is taking things too far.”
Too far? Grace revved the Audis engine and slammed the car in first, screeching past Ben, who was a shouting, raving blur. Now she was at the edge of the patio, knocking over chaise lounges and the wrought-iron table with its jaunty green umbrella. The limpid turquoise surface of the pool was straight ahead. She closed her eyes, held her nose, and stomped the accelerator. The shock of the water was a final reminder. This was no nightmare. She was awake.
Copyright © 2013 by Mary Kay Andrews