To Trust a Stranger

by Karen Robards

  Which was ridiculous. Sid was many things—Julie could think of more than a few choice epithets now that she turned her mind to it—but menacing wasn’t one of them.

  At least, it never had been.

  She’d held her breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion, waiting for Sid to totally lose it like he did more and more often when he was mad, until she remembered that she was supposed to be asleep.

  Breathe, baby, breathe.

  So she breathed, in and out, real rhythmic—and after a minute or two Sid had exhaled slowly through his teeth and gone away.

  Just like that.

  Without uttering a word about her missing car. In fact, he’d said nothing whatsoever to her until this morning, shortly before nine A.M., the time when he usually left for work and she was usually just getting back from her morning run, which she had skipped this morning because she didn’t want to be the one to notice the car was gone. He’d “discovered” the Jaguar was missing when he started to leave for work. He came roaring into the house and dragged her downstairs to view the broken door and empty garage bay and stomped and cursed and carried on just like she’d known he would—only about four hours too late.

  Give the man an Oscar, she thought with a cynicism that was new to her.

  And give her one, too. Because she pretended to be surprised and bewildered and absolutely without a clue as to what could have become of her car. In fact, she’d been so disingenuous about it she’d reminded herself of the Home Alone kid clapping his hands to the sides of his face.

  My car’s been stolen, oh, my!

  And all the while she had professed ignorance and tried to calm Sid down she had been dealing with the fact that her marriage was dead. Because if his little midnight excursion had been innocent, he would have had his hissy fit the minute he got home at seventeen after three.

  Gotcha, she thought, gazing steadily at Sid, but the knowledge gave her no satisfaction. She didn’t want to get Sid. She wanted to live happily ever after with him, just like they’d been doing for the past eight years.

  Only apparently he hadn’t been so happy. And neither, she realized, had she.

  All the while he ranted and raved, she watched him as objectively as she might have a strange animal in a zoo. Who was this man, with his thinning dark hair, his cold gray eyes, his narrow, clever face? Julie realized that she didn’t know him anymore.

  Maybe she never had. Maybe, with her infinite capacity for mentally spinning straw into gold, she’d made him into the man she wanted him to be, and he’d never really been that man at all.

  To add insult to injury, he threw temper tantrums like a thwarted two-year-old. A grown man beating walls with his fists and stomping his Italian-shod feet on the kitchen floor was not a pretty sight.

  Her reaction to his histrionics must not have been all he’d hoped for, because he turned on her as they waited in the kitchen for the police to arrive.

  “You seem pretty damned unconcerned about the whole thing,” he snarled at her as she sliced a banana into the blender to complete the healthy shake he liked for a pick-me-up. He was dressed in a fresh dark suit, and she was wrapped in a robe.

  “It’s only a car, Sid.” Icy calm, she pressed the blender button and looked at him. As he digested her reply, his face, she noticed with the detached interest that seemed to be the only emotion she could summon at the moment, turned almost the color of the trio of bright red tomatoes ripening on the windowsill behind him.

  “Only a car! Only a car! It’s a fucking Jaguar, you stupid . . . ! Of course you don’t appreciate it. You don’t appreciate any damned thing I’ve done for you. You don’t appreciate your fifty-thousand-dollar car, or your million-dollar house, or this whole lifestyle I’ve given you that is light-years beyond anything you ever had in your life, you with your trailer-trash family!”

  Two police officers arrived just then, which was probably a good thing because she was on the verge of abandoning her icy calm in favor of braining him with the blender. The good news was, she was so furious by that time that lying to the cop was much easier than she had anticipated—no, officer, I didn’t hear anything—because she was thinking about how much she wanted to kill Sid all the while. The bad news was, she no longer even much wanted to try to save her marriage.

  On second thought, maybe that was good news, too.

  Sid and the cops ended up leaving at the same time, which meant that she’d been left home alone with a whole bellyful of nasty things to say and no one to say them to.

  Which was probably just as well. Before she took a baseball bat to Sid’s head, as she badly wanted to do, she needed to take a deep breath and think, she told herself sternly. There was still a chance, no matter how remote, that she was wrong about what Sid had been up to the night before. So he’d lied about cruising his houses. Maybe he was doing something totally innocent that he didn’t want her to know anything about.

  Like planning a marvelous surprise for her thirtieth birthday? Gee, that wasn’t until November. Volunteering to work the twelve-to-three shift in a homeless shelter? She’d had no idea Sid was so altruistic. Screwing some babe whose husband worked the night shift? Bingo! Give the lady a cigar.

  In any case, she told herself, breathing deeply again, there was a right and a wrong way to end a marriage, or a smart and a dumb way, however you wanted to look at it. If hers had to end, she was going to do it the right, smart way.

  Which meant no going off the deep end. She ordered herself to chill, then got dressed and headed out for the shop. If her life was disintegrating around her she was going to have to deal with it later. She had an appointment with a client at ten-thirty, which meant she was pushing it, time-wise. And she still had to deal with the fallout of having her purse stolen: canceling her credit cards, replacing her driver’s license. . . .

  It was only as she reached the garage that Julie remembered about her missing Jaguar. Her life was going to hell on a greased slide, and she didn’t even have a car. Gritting her teeth, she turned on her elegant stacked heel, marched back into the house, and called a cab.

  It was just like Sid not to remember, or care, that she would need a ride to work.

  Sid was all about Sid. He always had been, but she hadn’t realized it until just recently because for a long time she’d been all about Sid, too.

  No more. Julie was important, too.

  Whatever happened, she was going to face it with dignity. She was going to hold her head up and smile.

  Evidently her smile was less than a success, though, because when she pushed through the glass-and-steel front door of her shop and stepped into the pristine white showroom, Meredith Haney, one of her two assistants, turned from the rack of competition gowns she was straightening to greet her and broke off in mid-hello.

  “What’s up with you?” Meredith asked, her hand falling away from the sparkly blue gown she’d been rehanging. A short, perky twenty-four-year-old blonde, Meredith was a former Miss Marion County.

  Clearly there was no point in trying to pretend nothing was amiss. Best go for the obvious cause.

  “My car was stolen last night,” Julie said as she headed toward her elegantly appointed office. Then, over her shoulder, “Is the ten-thirty here yet?”

  “The Jaguar?” Meredith breathed, ignoring her question even as she abandoned her task to follow Julie into the back. “Oh, my God, were you car-jacked? Or . . .”

  “It was stolen out of my garage.” Julie tucked her purse—a cream-colored straw that felt strangely light because there was so little in it—under her desk in her private office and opened the top left-hand drawer of the desk. There it was, right where she always kept it in case of emergencies. . . .

  “Oh, my God!” Meredith said again, stopping in the doorway and staring at her wide-eyed. The sleeveless denim jumpsuit she was wearing—out of Carolina Belle’s daywear stock—was, Julie noted absently, both chic and becoming. “Are you just sick?”

  “Yes. I’m sick. Absolutely
sick.” She had never said anything more true in her life. Abruptly she changed the subject. “Is everything ready for the ten-thirty? And where’s Amber?”

  Amber O’Connell was her other assistant, a twenty-year-old brunette former Miss Angel of Beauty. Julie’s tone was brusque because she so badly needed to get rid of Meredith. All she required was about two minutes alone to get her fix, and she’d feel a hundred percent better.

  “She called to say she’s running a little late. She had a problem with her car.” Meredith paused, and grinned. “Nothing like yours, though. Hers just had a flat tire. Anyway, everything’s set for the ten-thirty. It’s Carlene Squabb, by the way.”

  Carlene Squabb. Of course, it would be. Her day just kept getting better and better. Now she really needed Meredith to go away.

  “Why don’t you . . .” she began, only to be interrupted by the tinkling little bell that announced that someone had entered the premises.

  “That’ll be Carlene,” Meredith said, sounding as cheered by the prospect as Julie felt. She turned and headed toward the showroom, and at long last Julie was left alone. She snatched the Hershey bar out of the drawer, unwrapped it, broke off a piece, and popped it into her mouth.

  As it melted, bathing her tongue in chocolate, she closed her eyes in the closest she’d come lately to ecstasy.

  “Julie Ann Williams, are you eating candy?” Her mother’s scandalized voice caused Julie’s eyes to pop open. For an instant she stared guiltily at the comfortably plump, shockingly redheaded woman in the doorway. Then she swallowed.

  “Yes, Mama, I am,” she said, and defiantly popped another of the succulent rectangles into her mouth right where her mother could see. Her mother didn’t really resemble her in looks even if you didn’t count the red hair, which you couldn’t because it was dyed. Her jaw was wider, her features were less regular, and her artfully made-up eyes were hazel. Julie, as her mother always said wistfully, looked like her father. For all his faults—and they were numerous—Mike Williams had been one good-looking man.

  “A moment on the lips, forever on the hips.”

  “Mama, my hips are a size six.”

  “See what I mean.”

  “Mo-ther.”

  “They were a size two when you won the title.”

  “That was eight years ago!”

  “So are you planning to go up two sizes every eight years? I’m just asking because that’s exactly what happened to me, you know. A little here, a little there, and bingo, I’m a size twelve.”

  Her mother, as Julie well knew, was actually more of a size sixteen. Dixie Clay lied about everything from her weight to her age to her shoe size to how many times she’d been married. It didn’t matter. Julie could feel the sugar hitting her bloodstream at about the same time the guilt hit her brain. Her mother, blast her, was right. The cost of wallowing in chocolate was high, especially for a woman who might soon be single again. Julie slid the drawer shut—discreetly—and narrowed her eyes at her sole surviving parent.

  “Did you want something?”

  “I heard your car got stolen.” Her mother came on into the office and stopped in front of the desk, planting hands tipped with bright tangerine nails on the black acrylic surface, looking Julie over with a critical eye. Julie braced herself for criticism of her simple white linen sheath: her mother preferred bright colors. Whatever else might have changed over the years, Dixie’s taste in fashion had remained exactly the same: bold and eye-catching, just like Dixie herself. She was dressed today in snug white capri pants, a vividly patterned purple, orange, and white tunic-length silk blouse, and high-heeled white mules. With her fire-engine red hair in an Ivana-style upsweep, bejeweled sunglasses dangling from a gold chain around her neck, and beaded earrings the size of chandeliers just brushing her shoulders, she was a sight to turn heads.

  Just like she’d always been. Ever since she was a little girl, Julie could remember people staring at her mother. Dixie might never have been a conventional beauty, as she would be the first to admit, but she’d certainly had something that made people want to look at her.

  Sid said she was tacky, tacky, tacky. Which, Julie reflected with a quick stab of angry pain, was just one more reason to get rid of Sid.

  “Last night.” Julie nodded in wry confirmation, relieved not to have to defend her clothing choice. The urge to tell her mother everything was suddenly strong, but if she did there would be no putting the genie back in the bottle. Her mother would be horrified. She would dissect the subject to death, then call Becky and dissect the subject to death with her, and then, as there was not a subtle bone in her body, probably be all for confronting Sid.

  Which was something Julie wasn’t ready for. Not yet. Not until she had some answers herself.

  Instead Julie asked, “How did you find out? It’s only been about an hour since I reported it to the police.”

  “Kenny told Becky, and she called me.”

  “Oh.” Kenny was Becky’s husband. Most days, as one of the company’s two vice-presidents, he worked directly with Sid. Sid would have arrived at work livid about the stolen car. Kenny would have called Becky pronto, and her mother, the next to be alerted, would have instantly been on her way to check on her younger daughter for herself. That was how the family’s jungle-drum system worked.

  “They stole it right out of your garage? You didn’t see anything?”

  Julie repressed a sigh. “I was asleep.”

  “I hear Sid had a cow.” There was concern in Dixie’s voice. Julie met her mother’s frowning gaze, and wavered. Again the urge to confide in her was strong.

  The little tinkle that announced someone’s arrival sounded again. Saved by the bell, Julie thought.

  “I’ve got to get to work.”

  Meredith appeared in the doorway. “Carlene Squabb, Julie.”

  It was all Julie could do to suppress a grimace. The urge for chocolate was suddenly strong again. She was having a really bad day, it was only ten-thirty, and one more little bite wouldn’t condemn her to a lifetime of plus sizes—would it?

  “Take her on in, Meredith. I’ll be right there.”

  Meredith nodded and disappeared. Her voice mingled with Carlene’s in the distance. Julie stood up. Her fingers inched toward the drawer, and she clenched them into a fist as she looked at her mother. “Mama . . .”

  “Don’t forget you’re supposed to be at Becky’s at two,” Dixie said. “Did you remember to get a gift?”

  “Malibu Barbie.” It was Kelly’s birthday. Kelly, age four today, was Becky’s baby. Becky was having a party for her, the little girl’s first real birthday party, and Julie had volunteered to help out.

  “She’ll like that. Is Sid coming?”

  Julie shook her head. The mere mention of Sid made her stomach twist into a knot. Oh, God, if she divorced Sid, Sid would fire Kenny, and Becky and Kelly and six-year-old Erin would have their comfortable lives ruined. “I don’t think so. He’s busy.”

  “Seems like he’s always busy these days.” Her mother looked her up and down, frowning, then held out her hand imperiously. “Julie.”

  Julie met her unyielding gaze, and realized she was busted. Which was probably just as well. Swallowing hard, she opened the desk drawer, picked up the candy bar, and reluctantly handed it over.

  “See you at two,” Dixie said, satisfied, tucking the candy bar into her purse, and turned to leave. “Oh, and by the way, you should add a scarf or some beads or something to that dress. It needs a little color.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Julie had long since learned the futility of arguing with her mother. As a general rule, she pretty much agreed with whatever Dixie said, then she did as she pleased. She walked her to the door, said good-bye, then after she was gone just stood staring for a moment out at the bright and busy street. With the world ablaze with heat and light outside, how was it possible that her glass-fronted shop could feel so cold and dark? Julie closed her eyes, then determinedly opened them again. Enough of that. She re
fused to wallow. Wallowing was for sissies.

  Pushing all thoughts of Sid and corollary images of chocolate from her mind, Julie headed for the largest of the fitting rooms, where she knew she would find Meredith and Carlene. Sure enough, as she entered, Meredith was in the act of easing a glittering scarlet ball dress over Carlene’s raven head.

  “God, I need a cigarette! Could you please hurry up?” Carlene said as her head popped out of the dress. All four walls were mirrored, and as a result about eight images of Carlene stared at Julie as she entered.

  Julie greeted Carlene, nodded wordlessly at Meredith, and took over. The dress was her own design, lovingly conceived and executed because Carlene, however trying Julie might personally find her, was a strong candidate to win the Miss Southern Beauty pageant to be held the following Saturday night. If Carlene won Miss Southern Beauty, then she would go on to the Miss American Beauty contest. If she was victorious there—and Carlene, if she kept her mouth shut and her bitchy tendencies in check, was lovely enough to make it a possibility—she would compete for Miss World Beauty. All providing wonderful exposure for Carolina Belle, of course. And exposure for Carolina Belle took on a whole new level of importance if she was contemplating divorcing Sid.

  “This will just take a minute,” Julie said, carefully zipping up the back of the gown. It was a truly gorgeous creation, if she did say so herself. One of her most inspired. Both Carlene and Mabel Purcell, Carlene’s handler, had gone gaga over it when they’d seen the sketches. “I don’t anticipate having to make any changes. It . . .”

  Julie’s voice broke off as the zipper stopped halfway up Carlene’s back. Frowning, she looked more closely at the elegant folded edges of scarlet silk concealing the zipper and the inches of smooth tanned back that still remained between them.