Pretty Guilty Women

by Gina LaManna

  “If I don’t see your butt on the toilet in two seconds, Tom, I am going to put you there myself,” Ginger called. “Frank, where are you? Can you find Poppy’s other shoe? The pink one. She needs it for the ceremony. Elsie, you’ve packed a library in this backpack. Do you need ninety-four books for a week? And they’re all so torn up and mutilated. Can’t you choose a regular-looking book to read by the pool so people think we’re a normal family?”

  Ginger limply picked up a battered, dog-eared, somewhat stained paperback that her daughter had likely acquired from the neighbor’s Little Free Library. Elsie had a thing for random books and preferred to choose an odd freebie from next door rather than buy her own, which fit very well with Ginger’s budget, but not so much with the image of a neat little family vacationing at a luxury resort.

  However, Elsie was almost sixteen and almost impossible to be around. Arguing with her only made things worse. She’d developed some sort of new attitude that revolved around obnoxious technology, an inability to string a full sentence together, and a general moodiness that affected the entire house. Even vacationing in California had barely tipped the edges of her lips into a smile.

  “Frank!” Ginger looked toward her feet where there were four full-size suitcases, three halfway-zipped duffels, and Poppy’s little backpack—along with an entire zoo of stuffed animals. “A little help here?”

  “Sorry, honey, I didn’t hear you.” Frank Adler careened in through the front door of the suburban three-bedroom house—just a touch too small for the five of them—with a goofy grin on his face. “I was watering the tomatoes.”

  “You were…” Ginger felt her lips parting in shock. “You were watering the tomatoes?”

  “Yeah, well, Leslie won’t be here to care for the plants until Wednesday, and we’re really in for a heat wave. Would hate to see those babies die. I figure a good soak will keep them healthy for a few days.” Frank paused, running a hand through his already ruffled hair. “Hey, I forgot all about my potted lemon tree. And the raised garden bed. Honey, I’ll be right back—”

  “No you won’t.” Ginger felt her voice turn ugly. “Frank, what about your real children? Tomatoes are not living things.”

  “Well, actually—”

  “Forget the damn tomatoes,” she said as her phone burst into a jingle. “I’ve got to answer this. Can you help get the children ready for the trip that you wanted to take?”

  Ginger’s shoulders stiffened with resistance at the horribleness in her voice. This wasn’t like her. Ginger was fun and patient and exuberant. She wasn’t a nag, and more importantly, she loved Frank. She loved his silly hobbies and stupid projects. His very zest for life was one of the reasons she’d fallen head over heels for him in the first place.

  But then life had happened, and kids, and finances, and insurance, and lost pink shoes. And somewhere in the mess of suburbia and second jobs and the monotony of daily life, love just seemed so hard sometimes.

  “Sorry,” Frank mumbled. “I—Er, what did you need me to do?”

  “Forget it,” she said, pulling her phone out from beneath the mounds of other things she had in her arms. “Water your garden. Be in the car in ten minutes, and I’ll take care of the kids and the house and the suitcases and the snacks and the paperwork and the money.”

  “Really?” Frank’s face turned into a childish expression of jubilee. “You’re a doll, honey. Kids, listen to your mother. We’re going on vacation!”

  “Hello?” Ginger was already on the phone. She’d barely glanced at the number as she pushed the phone against her ear and juggled the socks and the suitcases and one of Elsie’s books that had plopped on the floor, looking sad and dead. “Sorry, I can’t hear you. Who is this?”

  “It’s me, Whitney” came a tinkling, manicured voice. “Is everything okay? It sounds like you’re in a war-torn country, sweetie.”

  “Well, that’s the Adler household for you,” Ginger said. “How’s everything going with the wedding? Is something wrong? I swear, Whitney, if Arthur is having cold feet, I’ll stick those frigid toes up his—”

  “No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Whitney said quickly. “Arthur is wonderful. I’ve just stepped out to the spa to get my nails done, and I thought I’d give you a call while I had a second to myself. I’m positively booked every minute from now until the ceremony.”

  Of course Arthur is perfect. Whitney deserved all sorts of wonderful, so why was the image of Whitney—wildly in love, chatting easily while a masseuse rubbed her shoulders and a nail technician pampered her feet and yet another professional waxed her lady business—so dang frustrating? As if Whitney’s blissful naivete was some sort of sin.

  Just you wait… Ginger thought. Wait for the third kid, the tightening budget, the sleepless nights. Then Ginger would call Whitney back and daintily inquire about her delightful marriage and beautiful children, picturing her baggy-eyed with roots showing and a child on her breast while Arthur watered his fucking tomatoes.

  “I’m thrilled we’ll be seeing you so soon,” Ginger said instead. “We’re trotting out of the house now.”

  “Excellent,” Whitney said. “But that’s sort of what I was calling about.”

  “Go on,” Ginger said, gritting her teeth as a shoe came flying over the upstairs bannister and nearly took her eye out. “What’s bothering you, sweetie?”

  “Emily called,” Whitney said in a rush. “She wanted to know if it would be super rude to last minute change her RSVP and attend.”

  “It’s a little late, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but, well…” Whitney had always been uncomfortable with confrontation. Everything from her angelic blond hair to her precious pale skin shrunk at the first sign of an argument. “I was thinking of telling her she could come. It’s…she thought she’d be traveling, and now she’s not, and—anyway. I thought you should know she’s going to be there.”

  “That’s great,” Ginger said in a high-pitched falsetto. “Thanks for calling, but I’ll be fine. We’re all adults. Now, you just focus on getting married and looking marvelous. We’re running late for our plane, so I’m going to let you go get pampered. See you soon!”

  Ginger sighed and collapsed on the couch, the phone cradled in her limp hand as she stared at the muddy shoe on her white floor. She should have never RSVP’d to this wedding. She’d have to face Emily while towing tomato-loving Frank on one arm and three children headed straight to the juvenile detention center behind her.

  Three

  Detective Ramone: Please state the time and date you arrived at Serenity Spa & Resort, as well as your name, for the record.

  Emily Brown: Emily Brown. I arrived the sixteenth of August at 4:00 p.m.

  Detective Ramone: Did you go straight to your room?

  Emily Brown: No, but I suspect you already know that.

  Detective Ramone: I have an eye witness who claims you joined a man in his room.

  Emily Brown: Yes, Henry. I met him on the plane.

  Detective Ramone: The flight you took on August 16?

  Emily Brown: Yes.

  Detective Ramone: Please describe the nature of your relationship with Henry, for the record.

  Emily Brown: What does that have to do with anything?

  Detective Ramone: I’m sure you’re aware this is an investigation into how a man died, Ms. Brown.

  Emily Brown: I could get a lawyer.

  Detective Ramone: You could.

  Emily Brown: But there’s no need. I fired that gun, Detective. I killed a man tonight.

  * * *

  “Why don’t you hand me both of those, please and thank you.” Emily Brown gestured at the flight attendant carrying two glasses of champagne and forced a smile at him. “I really hate flying.”

  “Of course,” he said, setting both glasses on Emily’s tray table before respectfully bowing hi
s head and returning to the front to retrieve more drinks for the first-class passengers.

  That’s a laugh, Emily thought. She wasn’t a first-class passenger by a long shot, nor was she scared of flying. However, when the airline bumped her up at the last second, what was she supposed to do—decline free drinks?

  Emily settled deeper into her seat, closing her eyes in an attempt to relax. She came up short when a passenger clunked her head with a hefty backpack in passing. Emily’s eyes flashed open as a stressed-looking woman with two small children in tow leaned over and apologized. An apology that was lost when one of her sons elbowed Emily in the thigh during a heated argument with his brother.

  “Gosh, I’m so sorry,” the woman said again. “We’re terrorizing you. Boys, what did I say about behaving? You get none of the cookies we packed if you don’t say sorry this instant.”

  “Sorry,” they chirped in unison.

  “It’s really okay,” Emily said. “I understand. I used to be a teacher.”

  The woman gave her a grateful smile as the line moved along, and she barked at her children to keep up.

  Emily had been a preschool teacher for long enough to understand exactly how difficult it was to get small children to do much of anything in an orderly way, let alone behave on a cross-country flight. But her patience for that sort of work had expired long ago.

  Her career as an educator had been short-lived after college, and over the past ten years, she’d transitioned instead to corporate America. She had eventually settled into a comfortable position as a project manager at a marketing company. It was much safer there.

  Wincing at the memories, Emily took her first sip of champagne and glanced at the empty seat next to her. With a small laugh, she shook her head and then closed her eyes again. The only reason they’d bumped her to first class was probably because she was still single, no children. At thirty-eight, her biological clock was winding down.

  Emily finished her second glass of champagne and stacked the two cups on top of each other when a shadow appeared over her shoulder. She glanced up at the hulking presence, noting that her new seatmate was one fine specimen of man.

  But when Emily truly laid eyes on him, her first impression was that he was tired. The same sort of bone-tired she herself often felt. She continued her assessment of him, ticking off observations on some arbitrary mental checklist: handsome, worn, rugged. A hint of reckless. This man had lived a lot of life—but Emily didn’t care. She only wanted to be left alone with her champagne.

  This man had ruined everything. She’d almost had the row to herself until he showed up. A surge of illogical frustration bubbled in her chest as she sat pointedly back in her seat and ignored him. It wasn’t as if the man had actually said something; he just waited, expectantly, as if she were supposed to read his mind.

  He cleared his throat and edged closer.

  Emily still gave him nothing. She had no idea why she was being so rude except she was tired too. A lifetime ago, she would’ve apologized and made a huge effort to move out of his way, offering polite niceties and appropriate small talk. That was before the incident. Now, Emily was a bitter shell of herself, and the more she noticed it, the more she sank into the role like a comfortable, old sweatshirt.

  “Ma’am, I think that’s my seat.” The man’s voice was deep and rocky, like a desert gravel road crunching against tires.

  “Ah.” Emily moved her legs ever so slightly closer toward the seat. “Can you get by?”

  He threw a small backpack in the bin above and then climbed roughly over her. Apparently both of them were in a mood, but it was nothing Emily couldn’t handle. If he knew half of what Emily had gone through, he might think twice about getting on her bad side.

  As he adjusted and buckled his belt, Emily couldn’t help but glance over. He brought no personal items with him to stash under his seat, a choice that always mystified Emily. What was he planning to do all flight? Stare out the window? Pick at his fingernails? Sleep? Heaven forbid his plan was to talk to her.

  “Sir, can I get you a beverage?” The flight attendant appeared again, politely ignoring Emily’s two empty glasses. “We have sparkling water, champagne, sodas, liquor, wine…”

  The man’s eyes flicked toward Emily’s empty cups, then to her hands clenching around the seat arms, then back to the flight attendant. “Whiskey for me, two champagnes for the lady.”

  The flight attendant stared blankly at him. He clearly didn’t believe in serving Emily four glasses of champagne before the wheels lifted for takeoff, but there was a certain weight to the way this guy carried himself, as if it would be unwise to mess with him, so the attendant nodded. “Very well, sir.”

  The more Emily studied the man next to her, the more intrigued she became, albeit reluctantly. Her champagne savior looked something like a cowboy with worn jeans and a simple, buttery-soft black sweater. The alcohol already twirled lazily through Emily’s brain, and she wondered what it would be like to rest her cheek on his shoulder and close her eyes. To have his hand come up and dance lightly over her skin as she drifted into the safety of a nap.

  Emily gratefully reached for a glass when it arrived and held it up, clinking the cheap plastic lightly with his. “Cheers. What’s your name?”

  “Henry,” he said. “And yours?”

  “Emily.”

  “Emily no last name?”

  “Henry no last name?”

  Henry raised the glass of whiskey to his lips and downed it in one gulp.

  Emily watched him with interest. “So, are you from Chicago, Henry Anonymous?”

  He glanced out the rain-streaked windows and watched men and women dressed in neon-orange vests shuffle around below, carting bags and directing traffic beneath the gray clouds hovering over O’Hare. “No. I’m only passing through.”

  “I moved here a few years ago from Minnesota after college,” Emily offered. “That’s the reason I’m headed to California—I’ve got nothing better to do, and an old roommate of mine is getting married. I fucking hate weddings.”

  Henry sucked his teeth. “Is that why you’re still single?”

  Emily saw Henry glance at her bare ring finger. She raised her hand, wiggling her fingers to make it easier for him.

  He arched an eyebrow and looked out the window again, and Emily found herself peeking for a glimpse of a ring on Henry’s hand, but it was equally as naked as hers.

  “One more question,” she said as she reached down to her own bag stashed beneath the seat and pulled out headphones, a marker, and a small photo album. “What are you planning to do for a whole flight?”

  Henry’s eyes flicked toward Emily’s supplies. “Not an art project.”

  “I never understand why people don’t bring a book or a tablet with them on the plane,” she said. “Won’t you be bored staring out the window?”

  “I inevitably sit next to women who want to talk the entire flight.”

  “If you’d brought headphones,” Emily pointed out, “you could’ve plugged them in and pretended you couldn’t hear those annoying women.”

  Henry gave a half smile for the first time all flight, reached into his pocket, and withdrew two earbuds. Without another word, he popped them into his ears and rested his head against the seat, staring out the window. The other end of the cord dangled uselessly between his knees.

  “Nice.” Emily shook her head and looked away. “Subtle.”

  He gave a soft laugh, and it changed something in Emily. It warmed her blackening heart, softened the bitter taste in her mouth, like tea that’d steeped too long, and added a hint of honey to make it palatable. She—Emily Brown—had made this surly, fine-looking gentleman laugh. A stranger.

  As Emily polished off her champagne, she studied the man next to her more overtly, counting the grooves on his face like battle scars, noting the laugh lines that seemed to have
softened over the years, as if Henry hadn’t had a reason to smile in quite some time. She could relate. And if the weekend went as awfully as she expected, she wouldn’t be smiling again anytime soon.

  So why had she called Whitney and RSVP’d at the last moment? Emily still didn’t have an answer. Part of it had been curiosity. In college, some fifteen years ago, Emily, Whitney, Kate, and Ginger had been the best of friends. Then Emily had made one choice that had sent the four spiraling down wildly different paths through life.

  The thought sent a chill along Emily’s spine. She hoped Henry didn’t noticed her reluctant shiver. Turning toward the album on her lap, she thumbed through pages of happier times. She racked her brain for captions to add beneath the photos while the flight attendants prepared everyone for takeoff. However, her time was mostly spent chewing on her pen and daydreaming instead of jotting down lovely, heartfelt phrases—even after the pilot had gotten the four-hour trip well underway.

  Sometime later, Emily found her head bobbing forward. Her hand slid over the book, and she closed it, sensing Henry’s curious glance at her lap. She resolutely turned her head the other way, let her eyes collapse shut, and before she knew it, she found they were halfway to California.

  Shaking herself awake, Emily dropped the tray table before her and placed the photo album on top, still disoriented from her unexpected doze. She wiped at her eyes and blinked a few times until the alertness settled back in her brain, hampered only by the slight lingering effects of her champagne.

  Hunching over the weathered album, Emily resumed her scan of the images. The book featured those smallish square photos from disposable cameras, the stills taken long before phones or digital versions had made perfection so much easier.