by Joy Fielding
Not exactly reassuring, Joan thought, squirming in her seat and smiling at the nervous-looking woman opposite her, whose name was also Joan. A roomful of Joans, Susans, Gails, and Marilyns, she thought. Not a Tayden or Kayden in sight.
“To succeed at bridge,” the instructor was saying, “you need three things: a fair degree of patience, a modicum of card sense, and lots of lessons. I’m afraid I can’t help you with the first two, but I can give you enough tools in these first five sessions to enable you to play the game. To play the game well—well, that requires even more patience, better card sense, and many more lessons. It would also help to read my book, The Joy of Bridge,” she said, having the grace to look a little embarrassed, as a copy of the slim pamphlet magically materialized in her hands. “It’s available for sale during the break for only twelve dollars, and I think you’ll find it most beneficial. Okay, let’s begin.”
The pamphlet in her hands was replaced by a deck of cards. “Hopefully, I don’t have to tell you what this is, or that playing cards consist of four suits: clubs, diamonds, hearts, and spades. If you don’t already know that, this is going to be a very long three hours. In bridge, clubs and diamonds are the lower-ranked suits and are called minor suits; hearts and spades are higher-ranked and are the major suits. With me so far?”
Joan nodded, her stomach cramping.
“The dealer doles out thirteen cards to each player, who then arranges them in suits. And that’s when things start to get interesting, because in order to play, you first have to bid. The purpose of bidding is to determine who plays the hand and who defends. You and your partner—that would be the person sitting across from you—have to win the bidding in order to play the hand. And to do that, you need to tell your partner what’s in your hand. But of course, you can’t just come right out and volunteer that information. You have to describe your holdings through an elaborate system called bidding. And bidding correctly is the hardest part of learning to play bridge. Which is why I devote the first four lessons in this series of five to covering the twenty possible opening bids.” Joy paused to let these facts sink in.
I’m lost already, Joan thought, trying to recall what she’d had to eat earlier that day that might have upset her stomach. But she’d had nothing out of the ordinary, just her usual egg, toast, and coffee for breakfast and a tuna fish sandwich for lunch. She’d made the sandwich herself, so that couldn’t be the source of her discomfort. Besides, it wasn’t really her stomach that was giving her the problem. It was more a sinking sensation slightly lower down, as if her guts were about to fall out.
Now you’re being silly, she told herself. It’s anxiety, pure and simple. You’re just nervous about these lessons. It’s not easy learning new things at your age and you’ve ventured a little far out of your comfort zone, that’s all. It’s been almost fifty years since you’ve been in a classroom. Of course you’re going to be nervous. A few deep breaths and you’ll feel better.
She took a few deep breaths.
And felt worse.
“The first thing you have to do after looking at your hand and arranging it into suits,” Joy Boothe continued, “is to count your points. An ace is worth four points, a king is worth three, a queen, two, and a jack, one. A singleton—that’s having only one card of a particular suit—is worth two points, a doubleton—that’s two of a suit—is worth one point, and a void in a suit is worth a whopping five points. Unless that’s the suit your partner is bidding. But we’ll get to that later. To open the bidding, you need at least twelve high-card points. Everybody still with me?”
Joan felt a line of perspiration break out across her forehead as a sharp twist to her groin caused her to grab her side. Was she having an appendix attack?
“Are you okay?” the Joan across from her whispered.
“Is there a question?” the instructor asked, looking in their direction, heavy black eyebrows disappearing into her hairline.
Joan pushed herself to her feet. “I’m sorry, but could I be excused for a minute?”
“Of course. The washroom is just down the hall to your left.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m going to hand out some sheets,” Joy Boothe was saying as Joan left the room and hurried down the hall to the ladies’ room.
Could she be passing a gallstone? Joan wondered, finding an empty stall and relieving herself. Or maybe a kidney stone? she added, when she felt no relief. Except she’d heard that passing kidney stones felt much like giving birth. And while what she was experiencing was decidedly uncomfortable, there was no comparing it to the pain of childbirth.
Nor was it her appendix, she decided, pressing down on her right side. She remembered reading somewhere that if the appendix was about to burst, the pain would be greater upon letting go than pressing down, and that wasn’t the case.
Besides, she’d been to the ER twice in the past few weeks and been given a clean bill of health each time. There was nothing wrong with her, other than an overactive imagination. The age of hypochondria indeed! she thought, standing up and adjusting her clothing, grateful that the pain seemed to be easing up, becoming more of an intermittent drill than a complete hollowing out of her inner organs.
She checked her reflection in the wall of mirrors over the line of sinks, touched up her lipstick, and pinched some needed color into her cheeks, then left the room. “An ace is worth four points; a king, three; a queen, two; and a jack, one,” she recited as she walked down the hall. “You need a minimum of twelve high-card points to open the bidding.” She took a deep breath before pushing open the door and reentering the class. “Piece of cake.” She had absolutely nothing to worry about.
* * *
—
“So, how’d it go?” Harry asked, meeting her in the lobby of the hotel. “What’d you think?”
“Very interesting,” Joan told him, trying to ignore the renewed cramping below her waist. “Very challenging.” Especially when she’d missed half the class because she’d had to run to the bathroom every fifteen minutes. “We learned basic bridge terminology and about major and minor suits.” She held out a bunch of sheets as well as the pamphlet she’d purchased from Joy Boothe during the halftime break, a gesture of atonement for spending so much of the lesson in the bathroom. “We’re supposed to study this bidding chart outlining the progression of bids from the lowest to the highest, although today we just covered the first part, opening at the one level.”
“And? Do you think you’re going to like it?”
“I do,” Joan said, a sudden spasm causing her to wince.
“You don’t sound sure.”
“No,” Joan said, forcing a smile onto her lips. “I’m quite sure. I think it’s a fascinating game, and what’s more, I think I’m going to be very good at it.”
Harry laughed. “Then I very much look forward to being your partner.”
“I still have four weeks of classes before I’m ready for that.”
“I’ll be here,” he said.
Joan felt a tingle of excitement at Harry’s pronouncement. It meant he was planning to stick around, that he felt the same way about her that she felt about him.
That feeling was quickly overpowered by the sensation that something foreign had invaded her body and was squeezing her to death from the inside out. “Where should we go for dinner?” she asked, talking over the pain.
“I was thinking Legal Sea Foods. How does that sound to you?”
Another sharp stab twisted through Joan’s groin.
“Or, if you don’t feel like seafood,” Harry said, misinterpreting the pained expression on her face, “we could do Asian. Or Italian. Or more traditional American. Whatever you prefer. Are you all right?”
“No,” Joan said, clutching her stomach and trying not to double over. “I think I need to go to the hospital.”
“My God. What’s happening?”<
br />
“I don’t know. Something’s very wrong.”
“Okay,” Harry said calmly, surrounding her with one arm while signaling the valet to bring his car around. “I’ll call your daughter, tell her to meet us there.”
Joan nodded. While the last thing she wanted to do was worry her daughter unnecessarily—again—she was in too much pain to argue. It felt as if every organ in her body was on fire.
It crossed her mind that she might be dying.
Now? she thought. Just when she was starting to feel more alive than she had in years? How fair was that?
“Hang in there,” Harry said as he guided her into the front seat of his Audi and secured her seatbelt around her. “You’re going to be all right.”
She wanted to tell him not to worry. But the words wouldn’t come. “You promise?” she said instead.
“I promise,” he told her.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
He’s been preparing for tonight all day.
First thing this morning he went to the local butcher and purchased two top-grade sirloin steaks, the kind restaurants always classify as New York cut, although he has no idea why. He could look it up online, he supposes, find a way to toss such knowledge casually into tonight’s conversation. It’s the type of useless information that women always find both charming and impressive. (“How do you know such things?” they invariably ask.)
The steaks were very pricey. Even more expensive than they were the last time he made a similar purchase. He probably could have picked them up for half the price at the grocery store in the mall. But as his mother always used to say, you get what you pay for.
Not that she knew anything about quality. She, who considered flank steak a delicacy. Which was just as well, he thinks, recalling her propensity for overcooking everything, for broiling a piece of meat until it resembled the leather insole of a shoe. “I don’t like seeing any blood,” he recalls her saying. “It reminds me that the piece of meat was once a living thing.”
He laughs. This is exactly what appeals to him.
Still, for his purposes, a cheaper cut of meat would have been more than sufficient. The women never eat very much. Not more than one or two bites, and always under protest. And they never think to compliment him on his efforts, his skill as a chef. But that’s okay. The meat rarely goes to waste. He generally saves what they don’t eat for his lunch the next day.
He overpaid for the vegetables as well. The small specialty shops where he prefers to buy his groceries—there are four such shops in a row along Summer Street that the locals affectionately refer to as “the four thieves”—take an almost perverse pride in gouging their customers, as if they are doing their clientele a favor by even allowing them inside the premises. Soon they’ll be charging an entry fee, he thinks with a laugh.
He doesn’t mind overpaying. He can’t help that he likes nice things. After years of being fed bruised fruit and anemic-looking vegetables—he’ll never understand the popularity of the adjective “wilted” that the better restaurants seem so fond of—he can’t bring himself to buy anything but the ripest-looking watermelon for his watermelon and feta cheese salad, or the largest, healthiest-looking Idaho potatoes for the requisite side starch. He uses only the best ingredients and wine for his marinade, and only real butter and the richest of sour creams will do as toppings for his potatoes. He even buys the most expensive foil in which to wrap them.
Of course, all this is lost on the women he entertains.
Oh, they’re impressed enough at first. That first glimpse of his immaculately clean apartment is always a turn-on, and the white linen tablecloth hiding the cheap glass table beneath, along with the delicate floral china, they love that. They admire his taste in art, wax ecstatic over the cheap prints on the wall. Nadia, poor thing, even asked if he’d painted the obvious reproduction of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. It was a print, for God’s sake. A photograph on a piece of paper. Not a real brushstroke in sight. He’d had to struggle to keep a straight face.
The so-called art isn’t even his. The prints—by Van Gogh, Renoir, Degas, Monet—came with the unit. He’d thought of replacing them at first, just as he’d replaced the cheap Melmac dishes and plastic placemats Imogene Lebowski had supplied, then thought better of it. Some things were best left the way they were, and he didn’t want to chance insulting Mrs. Lebowski, who’d proved to be such an ideal landlady: old, partially deaf, more than half-senile. What more could he have asked for?
And now she’s gone, off to her daughter’s house to await being carted off to an institution. The second-floor tenant departed two days ago, which leaves him the home’s sole remaining occupant.
Could things have worked out any better?
He was planning to leave soon anyway, and now he can take his time, relish his remaining conquests. He doesn’t have to worry about making too much noise. The women can scream their fool heads off. No one will hear them. He can indulge his most lurid fantasies without the fear of disturbing his downstairs neighbor or waking poor Imogene. His last two kills will be his best.
First up is Audrey. Audrey, who likes sappy movies and working out.
He pokes at his marinating steaks with a fork, imagines doing the same thing to Audrey’s pliant flesh. He’ll give her a workout she won’t soon forget.
Except, of course, she will. The dead don’t remember anything. He laughs. That’s all right. He’s more than happy to keep the memories alive.
His phone signals the arrival of a text message, and he smiles. Wildflower, he thinks. Taking him up on his offer to call him anytime, to inquire after his mother, to make arrangements to meet him in person. Women are so predictable, he thinks, extricating his cell from the side pocket of his jeans. Even Wildflower has fallen into line.
But the message isn’t from Wildflower, which both annoys and delights him.
Still on for tonight? comes Audrey’s text.
Of course, he texts back, his shoulders stiffening. Is there a problem?
I was worried you might have had to go back to Wisconsin.
Wisconsin? What the hell is she talking about?
You said you might have to go back. To see your father.
His father? Shit. Of course. His sick father in Wisconsin. Not his sick mother in Florida. Shit.
How’s he doing?
He’s much better, thanks. Sorry. I forgot I told you about my father.
Looks like my prayers worked.
Looks like they did.
So, I’ll see you at Anthony’s tonight at seven?
Wouldn’t miss it. He disconnects, returning the phone to his pocket, feeling somewhat shaken. It’s not like him to get his stories mixed up. He’ll have to be more careful. The last thing he wants is to mess up now.
It’s just that he’s been so preoccupied with Wildflower.
The one who almost got away.
Almost.
“Almost only counts in horseshoes,” he recalls his mother saying, yet another one of her more idiotic expressions. What does it mean, anyway?
He temporarily bristles when he recalls Wildflower’s initial indifference, her casual disregard, the dismissive way she turned from him in the bar without so much as a backward glance. She thinks she’s so good, so smart.
And she is smart. Smarter than he’s used to, at any rate. A strategic planner. Which gives them something in common. What is he, after all, if not a strategic planner?
“And I have big plans for you, my little Wildflower.” Tonight would be a dress rehearsal of sorts, a chance to try out some new moves, test Audrey’s reactions before springing them on Wildflower.
He gives the marinating steaks a final poke, then takes the juicy, ripe half-watermelon out of the fridge and starts cutting it into bite-sized squares. He’ll use the same knife on Audrey later, he thinks with a smile. He arranges the pieces o
f watermelon on top of some lettuce, already artfully laid out on small plates, and then slices up some tomatoes to fill out the tableau, followed by a generous sprinkling of feta. The oil-and-vinegar dressing will be applied at the last minute. Balsamic vinegar of course. Extra-virgin olive oil.
He laughs. What the hell is an extra virgin, anyway?
The potatoes are already wrapped in foil, and he stabs at them with his fork, making a series of holes to allow the heat to penetrate. The oven is already preheating. He’s learned from experience that it’s best to have the potatoes prebaked. Big ones like these take at least an hour to heat through. Nothing worse than potatoes that are hard and undercooked. He’ll pop them into the microwave at the last minute, letting them warm up while the steaks are being grilled. That way he doesn’t have to waste another hour making excruciating small talk. He’ll have already put in his time at the bar. Having to listen to a woman natter on about her pathetic little life was interesting only when she knew she was on the verge of death.
He checks his watch. After five already. Just two more hours till Operation Audrey.
He’s humming as he walks into the bedroom, although it takes him a minute to recognize the tune and put words to it. Something about Saturday night being the loneliest night of the week. Not for him, he thinks with a smile, recalling that his mother used to love that song. She’d sing it off and on for hours in her surprisingly pretty voice until his father would yell for her to “shut up already.” And if she didn’t shut up fast enough, well, a punch to the jaw would usually shut her up pretty damn quick.
He reaches into the top drawer of the nightstand beside his bed and retrieves the set of metal handcuffs that have served him so well during his stay in Boston. He’ll get rid of them before he leaves town, as he prefers to start fresh with a new pair in each city he visits. A kind of good luck charm. He checks to make sure they lock properly, tosses the key to the nightstand, and throws the cuffs on the bed. They land beside the rope already laid out. He runs his hand along the rope’s harsh fibers, expertly and effortlessly tying it into a noose, his erection stirring as he imagines twisting it around Audrey’s throat.