Take it to the Grave Bundle 1 Page 5

  “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.

  “What? Are you crazy? I don’t have to—”

  “Lock yourself in a stall. Turn on your phone, and put it somewhere so I can see when I FaceTime you.”

  Dumbfounded, I can only stare at my husband in shock. He’s kinky, but never this kinky. “You want to watch while I pee?”

  “No, I want to watch while you get yourself off.” Pulling me closer in what appears to be an innocent hug, he grinds his groin against mine, making sure I feel his giant erection. “Now, Sarah. Do this for me, and then you can see the baby for the rest of the day.”

  Warwick kisses my neck in the way I like, patting me on the butt in the way I don’t. I hurry into the bathroom, more to keep his mother from seeing us than anything else. If she catches me abandoning the bake table for the washroom again, there’ll be hell to pay.

  In the short time that’s passed since I was last in here, things have gotten messy. I choose a stall that’s better than the others, but it’s still disgusting, the bowl of the toilet clogged with paper and urine. Breathing through my nose, I use a wad of toilet paper to lower the seat. I’m careful not to soak my sandals in the puddle of God-knows-what on the floor.

  My phone vibrates and I rest it on the paper dispenser, hating the image of my chubby face in the corner of the screen as my husband pops into view. I look like a pig. A tired, old pig. No wonder Tessie seemed disgusted by me.

  I’m disgusted with myself.

  “You’re so hot, baby,” Warwick says, his eyes bright with lust. “Can you put the phone at more of an angle? I can’t see everything.”

  “It’s really gross in here. Can’t we do something else instead?”

  “Don’t think of that. Think of me. Think of how much I want you, how much I’m dying for it. You’re so sexy, honey.”

  Dying for it. In spite of my revulsion, I feel the tiniest flicker of guilt. I’d been reneging on my part of the deal. If I’d been a better wife, meeting Warwick’s needs as I’d promised, he wouldn’t have to stoop to stuff like this. Taking a deep breath through my mouth, I prop the phone on an empty toilet-paper roll.

  My husband licks his lips. “That’s it, baby. That’s awesome. Now touch yourself. Touch yourself and imagine it’s me.” His voice suddenly changes. “Hello. Not too bad. How about yourself? Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  The ridiculousness of the situation makes me want to laugh. If people only knew what Warwick Taylor-Cox was like behind closed doors, they’d be shocked. Or, then again, maybe they wouldn’t be. I try to imagine the golf-sweater-wearing Tad asking Genny to do this.

  “Okay, he’s gone. Did you miss me?” Warwick’s lower lip pushes into a pout. “You haven’t even started.”

  “Sorry.” Closing my eyes, I make an effort to concentrate, ignoring the fact that both my dress and bra are digging into me, the entire room smells of shit, and my breasts are leaking. I can’t tell Warwick about that—it will only turn him on more.

  As I play with my clitoris, I make sure the phone is angled just right so my husband can see.

  “Oh, God, baby. That’s it,” he moans. “Keep doing that. Are you thinking of me?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  It’s a lie. I’m picturing the meadow with my family again. My dad is showing me how to make a flower crown, and my mother is asking if she can have one, too. My little chest swells at the thought that I can make something she’ll like. As if picking up on my happiness, baby Maisey claps her hands and beams.

  The fantasy works, whisking me away from this grimy bathroom until I can smell nothing but wildflowers.

  A toilet flushes in the stall next to mine, startling me back to reality.

  Opening my eyes, I see Warwick staring at my body with rapt attention. He obviously didn’t hear the interruption and I keep going, waiting for the other woman to leave so I can end this performance.

  How much did she hear? Will she notice my husband lurking outside the bathroom? The Hamptons is like a small town. People talk.

  Finally she leaves and I quicken my hand, using the other one to rub my breasts, knowing how much he likes it when I do that. “I think I’m going to come,” I tell him, making sure my
voice is breathy and excited. I have never felt less sexy.

  “Do it, baby. Come on, come for me. I want to watch you come.”

  Closing my eyes again, I roll my head back on my neck and pant for a little while before I gasp. Luckily it’s a lot easier for a woman to fake an orgasm than it is for a man.

  “That was so hot,” my husband says, his voice a low growl. “I want you so badly right now. Don’t wash your hands.”

  Light-headed, I stumble into the sunshine, wincing as it blinds me. Warwick wraps an arm around my waist to steady me, hugging me to him. Bringing my hand to his lips, he sucks on my fingers. “Good enough to eat. Just as I thought.”

  His actions are so sexual it makes me nervous. What if his mother is watching us? Or any of her friends? I’d be so embarrassed. Flustered, I try to pull away, but he holds me tight, nibbling my thumb. Caressing my damp hair, he tucks a lock of it behind my ear.

  “Always remember,” he says. “I own you.”

  Taking my hand in his, he walks me back to the bake stall. We’re just another perfect couple, enjoying a beautiful day.

  Maisey

  I stared at the tiny text of the email on my screen, still stunned. Getting back to Bangkok was like opening the floodgates, with a large cache of emails to wade through. I almost missed this one, buried deep in the bulk, in between a cryptic, nonsensical email and an active wear brand’s newsletter. A bag jostled my shoulder, and I leaned into my seat, allowing the rest of the passengers as much room to maneuver as possible as they boarded the flight to New York. The sooner everyone got seated, the sooner we could take off, the sooner I could catch some z’s. I hadn’t been sleeping well since leaving the village. I’d been having nightmares. About a baby.

  Let’s not think about that. I frowned, and focused on the email, reading it for what seemed like the hundredth time.

  Oh. My. God. Sarah. I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe she’d sent me an email. After all this time. My fingers tightened on my dinged and battered cell phone. My stomach dipped, as though butterflies were stirring, and it took me a moment to realize it was from excitement more than anything else. My sister. We hadn’t spoken in, what, years?

  Where did the time go? How could I have left it for so long? A warm wave of nostalgia flooded through me, and I rubbed the phone in my hand. I remember my sister’s hand in mine, so many times. Always there to reach out, to help.

  Just be careful, that little voice whispered. I smiled. I had nothing to fear from Sarah.

  My sister always had amazing timing, and this situation was no exception. It was perfect. An opportunity, a real reason to leave Thailand as opposed to the contrived excuse I’d planned to concoct. An opportunity to go back home to the States. Jeez, I haven’t been home in years.

  Home.

  Okay, so maybe it was Sarah’s home, not mine. I didn’t actually have a permanent residence, in the US or anywhere else. A rolling stone. That was my mission. There’d be no moss on me, baby. Still, this was family. I still couldn’t believe it. My heart thudded, and those charming little butterflies did a little Mexican wave in my stomach.

  The flight attendant started to talk over the on-board PA system, and I switched my phone off and slid it into the pouch on the back of the seat in front of me. I settled back as the attendants walked down the aisle, took up positions and went through the motions of the safety message. I’d seen it so many times I could do it myself. Yep, I could do that lovely little hand gesture to indicate the floor lighting that would come on in case of an emergency. I glanced briefly at the older woman sitting next to me, then looked again.

  She was gazing ahead with a wide-eyed stare behind spectacles with colorful zigzags along the frame, and her fingers were clamped on the armrests with a white-knuckled grip. As I watched, she swallowed, the muscles in her throat contracting.

  She reminded me of patients eyeing a stethoscope for the first time ever, the poor love. Luckily, I had experience in this kind of situation.

  “Hi,” I said, intentionally interrupting her concentration.

  The woman blinked, then looked at me. She smiled shakily. “Hello,” she said. She looked so sweet. Her white hair was cut short and neatly styled, her jewelry was chunky, and her clothes were colorful, and there was a warmth about her that was just so darn magnetic.

  “Do you fly often?” I asked politely, tilting my head, although I figured I knew the answer to that one. Didn’t matter. It wasn’t information I was after. Maintain eye contact. Smile. Draw that attention. The woman turned to me a little more. Gotcha.

  She shook her head, her silver-and-beaded earrings clacking with the movement. “No, not really. My daughter got a job here, teaching. I flew over with her to help her get settled.” Her eyes darted to the nearest flight attendant as the woman acted out my favorite part of the safety message, and pretended to fit an air mask over her perfectly coiffed hair that would take more than a plane crash to mess up.

  “It’s going to be fine,” I whispered, and the woman smiled briefly. The flight attendants started to walk down the aisles, checking seat belts, luggage and tray tables.

  “I’m Agnes,” the woman said, her thumb pointing to her chest before she realized she’d let go of the armrest, and she slapped her hand down again to clutch it.

  I smiled. “I’m Lucy,” I lied easily, the words falling from my mouth automatically, without any conscious effort. “Pleased to meet you, Agnes.”

  Agnes nodded, then startled as the plane started to roll forward.

  “So, Agnes, do you live in New York?” I asked casually, leaning forward to snatch her gaze again. The poor woman looked like she was about to throw up. Nerves, anxiety—I felt a faint spark of sympathy for her. She seemed nice, like someone’s granny. I couldn’t sit next to someone’s granny and not make things easier—for both of us. She was not going to puke, not if I could help it.

  Agnes shook her head. “Uh, no. I live in Florida, but I thought I’d visit my other daughter and grandkids on the way home. They live just over the border in New Jersey.”

  I smiled. Grandkids. Knew it. This was going to be easy. I could keep us talking on that one subject alone until we circumnavigated the globe, if necessary. The plane shuddered as the engines roared, and I covered Agnes’s hand with my own in an effort to reassure her.

  “How many grandchildren do you have, Agnes?” I asked as the force of the takeoff pressed me back into my seat.

  Agnes smiled through a nervous grimace. “Three.”

  What the hell was it with the number three when it came to kids? First Rich, now this lady. I glanced down as I tapped my finger on the back of her hand. “Three, huh? Sounds lovely—but also sounds like a handful! How long has it been since you’ve seen them?”

  “Oh, maybe four months...? I generally try to drive over there a couple of times a year.”

  “Sounds like quite the trip.” The plane was still climbing. Agnes glanced toward the ceiling. “Do you have any photos?” I asked casually. “Of your grandkids, I mean.” I didn’t necessarily want to see photos of a trip, but if that would calm her, I’d sit through that, too.

  “Oh, uh, yes. Yes, I do,” Agnes murmured, a slight frown pulling her brows together as she fought to focus on the ceiling and her anxiety, then lost the battle at the opportunity to show off her darlings. She leaned forward in her seat for her patchwork handbag on the floor. It was so colorful it looked like a floral rainbow had thrown up all over it. She pulled the bag up by the strap. I leaned forward to help her, and within moments she’d pulled out her purple wallet. This woman was a living, breathing, kaleidoscope of color.

  “Here’s a photo of my munchkins,” Agnes said softly, a trace of warm pride in her voice. I smiled as I looked at the image behind the clear window in her wallet.

  “They’re adorable,” I responded. For once,
I was being honest. I liked kids, and these kids were too cute. A boy of about five years old, at my best guess, with younger sisters that looked so close in age they could have been twins, but weren’t quite. Maybe two and three years old. Blond hair, blue eyes, the familial resemblance was striking, particularly around the eyes and mouth. I eyed the image closely, then slid my glance at the very pleased and satisfied grandmother who’d forgotten she was trapped in a flying tin bucket. “Do you have any more photos?”

  Yeah, I knew that was like asking if the Pope was Catholic. Agnes’s eyes lit up, and she reached into that rainbow pukefest of a handbag and pulled out a pocketbook-size photo album. The time-honoured treasure of grandparents the world over. We spent the next little while flicking through the photos, and I listened patiently as the woman described each situation captured forever in the book. I should have been bored, but it was so nice, listening to normal. So...nice. And alien.

  I gazed at one of the photos. Agnes’s daughter Ellie Sue lay on an elbow on a picnic blanket, with the “munchkins” sprawled about. Ellie Sue didn’t inherit her mother’s gift for color apparently. Her clothes were by and large dark and somber, although she smiled happily enough for the camera. The youngest girl, Dakota, looked like she was about to nod off, her head on her mother’s lap. An idyllic sun-drenched afternoon in the local park. It looked so unspoiled and peaceful. Matthew, Chloe and Dakota were growing before my eyes, from the baby snaps to this more recent picnic. Matthew is very much into superheroes, and he wore Batman pajamas for two weeks straight once—which was the darnedest thing, apparently, and Chloe is all about fluffy animals and desperately wants a puppy, and Dakota—well, she’s only just beginning to talk, so we’ll find out soon enough what she’s into... I flicked the page, and Agnes’s chatter drifted to a halt.

  The kids stood with their mother and a tall man in front of a large, sprawling house that looked like the Brady Bunch home had had a modernized makeover.