The Future Widows' Club

by Rhonda Russell

  Unlike most people with a short fuse, however, Jolie didn’t get angry over little things. She had to be thoroughly provoked, and it usually ended up being for someone else’s benefit. She’d been the number one champion for the underdog, always taking up for those too scared or too timid to take up for themselves.

  Like in fourth grade when she’d pummeled the crap out of a boy twice her size for calling Jeremy Pickens “white trash.” Or the year she spent walking three blocks out of her way to personally escort Lanni Wallace--a very small girl who had the unfortunate habit of wetting herself when she was frightened--to and from school to keep kids from purposely trying to scare her. Jake smiled, remembering. She was always the first to offer help, always a friend to the friendless. She was one of a kind.

  Jake’s gaze drifted over her picture once more, to the damaged side of her sweetly curved cheek, her busted lip and anger boiled to the surface once more.

  There was nothing for it, Jake thought as he let go a tight breath. He’d have to hurt him.

  “Mind if I ride with you to pick him up?” God, he hoped he resisted arrest. Then he could legally beat the shit out of him.

  Mike grimaced, hesitated. “That’s the thing. She filed the report, but didn’t want to press charges yet. Just asked for a copy of the report.”

  Jake swore hotly, drug in a harsh breath, felt his blood-pressure rocket toward stroke level. Surely to God she wasn’t going to be this stupid. She knew better, dammit. As many times as she’d heard him complain about domestic abuse cases--particularly those where a woman refused to have the abuser picked up...

  He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, summoned patience from a hidden source. “You encouraged her to press charges, right?”

  Mike nodded. “Of course I did. But she wasn’t interested. Said a copy of the report was all she needed to make him back off.”

  Jake swore. A copy of that report wouldn’t be enough, he thought ominously, but he certainly knew how to persuade him.

  Mike shifted uneasily. “I, uh... I realize that you’re first inclination would be to beat the hell out of him, Jake--I admit it was mine--but it would be a bad idea.”

  Didn’t feel like a bad idea, Jake thought. Felt like a fantastic idea. The best damned one he’d ever had. Nevertheless, he thought, with an inward sigh as reason prevailed, Mike was right. While he’d no doubt take great satisfaction in bitch-slapping the hell out of Chris Marshall--repeatedly--it was against the law. Good cops upheld the law, they didn’t break it, and he’d be damned before he’d let a scumbag like Marshall provoke him into doing something he’d regret.

  But that didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to do anything...it just meant he’d have to get creative.

  He glanced at Mike. “Did you get the impression that she’d eventually press charges?” he asked, unable to believe that she wouldn’t at some point in the foreseeable future do the right thing.

  “Yeah, I did,” he replied, his brow folded in thought. “But she’s biding her time.”

  Then she had a plan, Jake thought, which was more in character. He handed the photos back to Mike and thanked him for letting him know. “There’s a lot of water under the bridge there, but...” His throat tightened. “Anyway, I appreciate it,” he finished awkwardly.

  Mike shot him an uncomfortable look. “There’s more.”

  More? Shit. “Okay,” Jake replied, drawing the word out.

  Mike shot a furtive look toward Sheriff Dean’s office, then leaned in closer to him. “She showed me a couple of pictures that she didn’t let me keep,” he said. “They were of Marshall and--“ He looked around again, lowered his voice. “--Emily Dean.”

  Jake squinted, cocked his head. Surely to God he wasn’t suggesting--

  “Naked,” Mike added significantly. “And otherwise engaged, if you get my drift.”

  Dumbfounded, Jake felt his eyes widen. “Are you saying that Marshall is fuc--“

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Mike interrupted with another furtive look toward Dean’s office. “Got a brass set, doesn’t he?”

  Or a death wish, Jake thought, stunned. Dear God, if Dean ever found out, he’d kill him. He’d rip him limb from limb. Jake shook his head, attempting to absorb it. “Where’d she get the pictures?”

  “She wouldn’t say. But they were time-stamped from last night. Around eight,” he added.

  Around eight? But how was that-- Jake frowned as the pieces clicked into place. His dinner reservation had been at eight and she’d been there, at the restaurant. Waiting for Marshall while he’d been shagging the sheriff’s wife. God, what a bastard, he thought again. He told Mike about seeing her at Zeus’s. “So you know what that means?”

  Mike nodded, shot him a shrewd look. “It means she didn’t take those pictures.”

  “Right. She couldn’t have.”

  Mike arched a brow. “You think she’s hired a private investigator?”

  Jake shrugged, unsure. “It’s possible.” But knowing Jolie, he doubted it. He didn’t see her putting that much trust into someone she didn’t know. If he had to hazard a guess, he’d say Sadie--or maybe even Rob--was helping her out.

  Only one way to find out, Jake thought.

  Mike regarded him with a shrewd smile. “Your hair looks like shit, Jake.”

  Jake grinned. “You think so.”

  “Definitely. You could use a trim.”

  He agreed, nodded absently, and turned to leave.

  “Keep me posted,” Mike called.

  “You got it.”

  * * *

  An hour later Jake walked out of Sadie’s salon with a neat cut and the information he’d been interested in. Even if Sadie wasn’t Jolie’s best friend, The Spa was the first place to go to get the low-down on what was happening around town. Information was disseminated from within those walls with a frightening efficiency that would no doubt rival some of the FBI’s best channels. Odd that the only woman who was capable of keeping a secret owned the place, Jake thought with a wry smile. Thankfully, in this instance Sadie wasn’t interested in keeping one from him.

  In fact, she’d been very eager to share.

  Just as he’d suspected, Sadie had taken the pictures--the ones of Jolie and of Marshall. In addition, she’d confided that she’d taken many more, that Jolie was amassing quite a case for her divorce and her husband’s subsequent take-down regarding their business.

  While she hadn’t filled in every blank, she’d shared enough to let him know that things were considerably worse than what he’d ever suspected, and the genuine worry he’d heard in every word she’d uttered had compounded his own. The more he’d learned, the madder he’d become, and as such, he’d cruised around town until he’d managed to put Chris between the cross-hairs.

  He hadn’t been at home and, on a hunch, he’d cruised by the sheriff’s house. Sure enough, though he apparently had a gram of brain power, Marshall hadn’t parked in their drive, but had parked his flashy little-dick compensation three houses down.

  Jake had waited for him to come out of the house, then fell in behind him. Marshall had stopped by the bank, by the post office, and had presently disappeared into a convenience store.

  Jake parked in front of the door and smiled. He’d been waiting for just this sort of opportunity. He stayed in the truck until he saw Marshall move to the register, then calmly slid from behind the wheel. Just as Marshall reached for the door handle to leave, Jake pushed open the door--with a little more force than was technically needed--and it slammed into Marshall’s face, knocking him backward off his feet. Blood spurted from his nose and the coffee he’d been carrying had landed on his chest, scalding him. He rolled around on the floor, flopped like a fish out of water, swore and howled with pain.

  The clerk behind the counter squealed in belated alarm, grabbed a stack of napkins and hurried toward him.

  Grimly satisfied, Jake stood over him. “Sorry,” he said unrepentantly, his voice hard and menacing. “You should be mo
re careful, Marshall. Accidents aren’t fun and you don’t appear to have a high tolerance for pain.”

  “Are you threatening me?” he asked, his voice an outraged nasal-like wail.

  Jake cocked his head. “Merely stating the obvious. That looks like it might be broken. You should probably have it checked out.” He picked up a package of M&M’s, slipped a buck to the clerk, then smiling, made his way back to his truck. Not as satisfying as breaking the bastard’s nose with his fist, Jake conceded as he pulled out of the parking lot, emptying M&M’s down his throat, but it’d do.

  CHAPTER 6

  Armed with a marinated vegetable salad in a pretty cut-glass bowl--a good southern girl didn’t show up for a party, meeting or any gathering of females for that matter, without having the thoughtful consideration to bring food--Jolie stood on the front porch and, insides quivering, waited for someone to answer the door. The multitude of cars in the drive, not to mention the excited chatter coming from inside told her that she had the right address. She’d successfully found the secret meeting place of the Future Widows’ Club.

  And after Chris’s performance last night, the idea of being a widow had begun to sparkle with the shiny sheen of a brand new toy.

  Evidently too hung over to work, he’d never made it into the office--which had been a good thing because she’d managed to shuffle some things around and had netted another five grand for her cause--but he’d mustered the energy to go somewhere and had stumbled home at the relatively early hour of ten o’clock. His nose was broken, his eyes black, which had complimented both his mood and his soul, if you asked her, she thought with a droll smirk, and he’d been fully prepared to finish what he’d started the night before--until she’d dangled the complaint she’d filed at the sheriff’s department in front of him.

  For the time being, his desire to stay out of jail seemed to be greater than his desire to hit her, but in all honestly--like Sadie had pointed out--she didn’t know how much longer that would hold true. He was becoming increasingly reckless, beyond caring. He’d been a hateful ass, so rather than laying into him the way she’d wanted to, she’d excused herself to the bathroom and gleefully used his toothbrush as a toilet bowl cleaner again. Petty revenge, but she happened to enjoy it.

  The door finally opened, revealing the taller woman Jolie remembered from the trio at restaurant. She wore lots of high-end jewelry and a stylish black hat over her short dark bob, one that would have looked nice with a sleek black dress, but hardly matched the trendy pink sportswear ensemble she had on.

  “Ah, you made it,” she said with a warm smile. Her gaze dropped to the bowl and her dark brown eyes gleamed with approval. “And you brought food. Come on in, dear,” she told her, waving her inside, “and we’ll get you settled. I’m Meredith by the way. Meredith Ingram.”

  Somewhat bemused, Jolie managed a smile and followed her into the foyer, where the chatter she’d barely heard outside rose to a delighted buzz. Meredith had stopped and was currently pilfering through a box, one filled with an assortment of little black hats. She decided on one, then swung around and, to Jolie’s surprise, settled it over her head. “Oh,” Jolie said. “Er...thank you.”

  Meredith studied her critically, made a face and shook her head. “Too round,” she said as she whisked it off. “As you’ll hear in a few minutes, finding the right hat is one of the first tasks on your list to prepare for widowhood--“ She rummaged some more, pulled out another one and plopped it on her head. “--but it can be a real pain in the butt, I tell ya, to find the perfect one.” She inspected this one with the same thorough regard, then smiled. “But this one works nicely. It’s a little big, and certainly not just anyone could pull it off, but with your hair and coloring it’s trés chic. Prim and Proper down on the square carries it and it’s a steal at under forty dollars,” she confided, as though sharing a trade secret. “Let’s put your dish on the serving table and I’ll start introducing you to everyone.”

  Petering on bewildered, Jolie trailed behind her deeper into the lovely antebellum house. To the left of the foyer was a long living room and, just beyond it, separated by French doors, was the dining room. A dozen or more women were in each room, all of them wearing casual clothes and black hats. They were huddled in circles, chatted and laughed amiably, and the sheer pleasure they garnered from their company pushed a small smile up Jolie’s lips.

  “Here we go, dear,” Meredith said as she moved a plate of canapés aside. “Just set your dish here and I’ll get a spoon from the kitchen.” She turned and was nearly knocked down by a small, plump woman racing by on a powered scooter. The shorter woman, Jolie realized with a start.

  Meredith staggered and put a hand against her heart. “Dammit, Bitsy, you nearly ran me over,” she snapped. “Go park that thing before you kill somebody.”

  Bisty eeked to a stop and, multiple chins quivering, beamed at her. “Sorry, Meri,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m still trying to get the hang of it.” Her eyes rounded with delight behind her small purple glasses as her gaze fell upon Jolie. “Oh, you came!” she cried happily. “I’m so glad.” She leaned in and inspected Jolie’s cheek, which still bore the bruise and she tsked softly under her breath. “Heard about that, the bastard. Well, not to worry,” she said briskly. “You’re in the right place now. We’ll get you trained up good until you can put that rounder out on his thieving philandering hide, or until he kicks it,” she added grimly. “Whichever comes first.” She gestured toward the table. “Go ahead and fix a plate, then come sit down. We’re about to start.” She tooted the horn and her head jerked backward as shot off.

  Smiling fondly, Meredith let go an exasperated breath. “The great fraud,” she confided. “She doesn’t need that thing. She’s as healthy as a horse. She’s just pissed because her kids wouldn’t let her have a Harley. Now she’s threatening to buy one of those mini-motorcycles.” Meredith rolled her eyes. “As if that would be any better. She’s blind as a bat.”

  Jolie chuckled, watched Bitsy nearly upend an occasional table.

  “Go ahead and load your plate, hon,” Meredith told her with a glance at the table. “And be sure and try the petite fours before Bitsy spots them--she has a tendency to hide the whole plate, then take them home after the meeting. Sophia makes them and they’re divine.” Meredith hurried away, presumably to get a serving spoon for her salad.

  Rather than risk insulting anyone, Jolie managed to put a small dab of each dish onto her plate, ladled up a glass of punch, then nervously made her way into the living room and found an empty chair against the wall. She’d just popped one of the petite fours Meredith had told her to try into her mouth when Sophia sat down beside her.

  “I’m so glad to see that you’ve decided to join us,” she said, her face wreathed in a welcoming smile. She pulled a small pale pink booklet with a black hat and gloves logo on the cover from a tote bag and handed it to her. “This is your handbook,” Sophia said. “It has a to-do list for becoming a full-fledged member--things like getting your hat, your outfit, additional life insurance and whatnot--in there, as well as our official rules and regulations. For obvious reasons, we’re a secret society, but I know you’re going to want to tell Sadie about us. Since she’s capable of keeping a secret, that’s fine, but it would be best if you didn’t mention it to anyone else, okay?” With another warm, commiserating smile, Sophia laid a hand on her knee and gave her a pat. “Trust me, sweetie. Things are about to get better. We’re here to help you.”

  For reasons which escaped her, in that instant the weight and toll of the past two years seemed to come crashing down on her--for the first time since this all began she let herself fully acknowledge how terribly awful things had been--and though she’d only met Sophia a handful of times, Jolie suddenly wanted to drop her head onto the woman’s round shoulder and sob with relief.

  Because she got it. She understood.

  Not to belittle Sadie in any way--Jolie knew she genuinely worried about her--but there was simply
no way she could understand how wretched Chris had made her feel. She couldn’t because she had a husband who doted on her, who loved her fully, completely, and without the smallest bit of reservation.

  Jolie bit her lip, blinked back tears and cast a glance around the room. But these woman...she had something in common with them, and she fully believed Sophia, believed that, with their help, things would get better.

  Jolie swallowed. “Thank you,” she said, her voice tight.

  Sophia gave her knee a squeeze. “You’re more than welcome.” She smiled. “Now let’s get this party started.” Sophia stood and made her way to the front of the room.

  “Good evening, ladies,” she called above the still-chattering crowd. Smiling, she waited for them to completely quiet before continuing. “Welcome to another Future Widows’ Club meeting. Before we begin Confessional, I’d like to take a moment to introduce a new member.” Her gaze swung to Jolie. “This is Jolie Marshall. For those of you unaware of Jolie’s story, it’s a sad but familiar one.” Her lips curled with droll humor. “She married the wrong man. He’s a thief, a liar, a cheater—“ Her voice hardened. “--and as you can see by the bruise on her cheek, a bully as well.” She lifted her shoulder in a negligent shrug. “He’s a bastard.”

  The women all smiled knowingly, sent her smiles of encouragement and woebegone glances.

  “And, as such, she needs our help. We’ve all lived with one--and some of us still are--and we know what it’s like. We know how to help her. Now let’s take a moment introduce ourselves, state our status, and offer condolences.” She looked at the woman seated directly to her right. “Margaret, let’s start with you and form a line.”

  To Jolie’s continuing surprise, all the women stood up and began to form a line in front of her. The woman named Margaret smiled and offered her hand. “Margaret Bendall, Future, looking forward to your loss.”

  “Lynn Willis, Official, may he never rest in peace.”