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Chapter One
Maisy Morganfield advanced closer to the pearly gray casket and peered down. Yup, no doubt about it--it was really her ex-husband stretched out on all that pristine white satin, and he was really dead. Well after all, that's what the obituary in the Chicago Tribune said--prominent Schaumburg, Illinois real estate broker, John Morganfield, age 40, dies of heart attack--but she had to come to the funeral home and see it with her own eyes. There he was, rigid and supine, and still flaunting that damned arrogant smile. An unwelcome shudder rippled through her body. How in the hell the mortician managed to affix that smile intrigued Maisy enough to want to poke John in the ribs, just to be sure, but she judiciously overcame the urge. A quick glance to either side insured that no one else was close to her. "You robbed me, you son-of-a-bitch," Maisy said under her breath. "You had to die and cheat me out of my moment of glory--my sweet revenge--and I'll never forgive you for that you bastard." Standing over the bloodless corpse that had once been the man she loved, she tried to feel some emotion--any emotion--other than bitterness, anger and hate. Nothing. It just wasn't there any more. Long ago John Morganfield had succeeded in obliterating every last ounce of love or compassion Maisy felt for him.
It's not that Maisy was happy to see John dead--well, actually, she had wished him dead more times than she cared to remember. In fact, Maisy had often fantasized about plotting the perfect murder, killing the jerk off and reveling in a naked dance of joy on his grave. Cringing at the morbid recollection, Maisy bit back the trickle of guilt that threatened to surface. It's just that, if John had to go and die, couldn't he have had the decency to wait a little while longer--just long enough for her to exact a teensy bit of well-deserved revenge? Selfish in life, selfish in death--that was John. What a great epitaph. The thought teased Maisy's lips with a smile, which she immediately expunged, reminding herself that nice ex-wives shouldn't revel in such nasty thoughts about their dead ex-husbands--especially when the ex-wife was standing over her not-so-dearly departed ex's casket.
Expelling a great sigh, Maisy gave John's pasty remains one last, narrow-eyed, glimpse before turning to leave and finding herself face to face with Sharon Chaney--the anorexic-looking redhead who was once John's mistress and now his grieving widow. A healthy sneer curled Maisy's lip as she took in Sharon's mourning garb. The tight black dress stopped at mid thigh, where it was met by sheer black hose and black stiletto heels. A profusely veiled, wide-brimmed black hat, fashionably slanted over her long, brazenly out-of-the-bottle red locks, completed the ensemble. If there were a Widow's Weeds magazine, the widow Morganfield could easily be voted playgirl of the month--and, if there were a Tramp's R Us magazine, Sharon Chaney Morganfield would be the publications all-time favorite cover girl. Fighting the urge to give in to an emerging head to toe shudder, Maisy hiked back her shoulders, lifted her chin, and looked the widow Morganfield right in her heavily mascaraed eyes.
It was clear that Sharon didn't recognize Maisy--and why should she? Eighteen months had passed and a hundred and twenty-five pounds of fat had been painstakingly shed from Maisy's five-foot-nine frame since she last saw Sharon, or John for that matter. Compared to her mortifying high of two hundred and seventy pounds, Maisy was positively svelte now at a hundred and forty-five--and that wasn't all that had changed in the last year and a half. Gone was the limp, drab-brown hair, and in its place glistened bouncy blonde curls, the color of sunlit honey. Okay, granted, Maisy's golden locks were also straight out of the bottle, but at least they looked as though they could have been God-given. Now, instead of chubby chipmunk-cheeks, her creamy ivory face was elegantly sculpted with blessed little hollows under newly visible cheekbones. The chalky pallor resulting from the no make-up-natural-look that she'd dutifully adopted according to John's wishes during their 10-year marriage had been trashed--instead, Maisy's attractive features were flawlessly accented with make-up. In fact, the only original, telltale visages left were her incredible, large, Prussian-blue eyes and full, sensuous lips.
Today, exuding the allure of a Vogue model, she wore a beautifully tailored size-ten black wool suit--just slightly snug. A wicked bit of scarlet lace from her camisole peeked out at the v-neck closure. A slash of red lipstick, garnet earrings, and a red silk carnation on her lapel completed Maisy's carefully chosen, farewell-you-bastard, outfit. The beautiful, ultra-chic woman who stood before the widow Morganfield was a deliberately, painstakingly designed creation.
Clearly clueless as to Maisy's identity, Sharon Chaney Morganfield rendered a bland, obligatory, 'hello,' as she extended a limp hand. "Thank you for coming," she said, giving Maisy the same compulsory little welcome speech that she'd no doubt given everyone else who strode by John's casket that morning. No, there was still no seed of recognition apparent-- the widow Morganfield's heavily made-up eyes were glazed over with disinterest as she rattled off her apathetic little spiel.
Disregarding the handshake overture, Maisy relished the moment, squelching the burgeoning urge to smoosh her hand into the widow Morganfield's face hard enough to send Sharon careening backwards and ultimately landing her on top of her dearly departed husband. "Hello, Sharon," Maisy hissed through her sneer. It was only after hearing Maisy's voice that Sharon's detached gaze widened in shocked disbelief.
"You!" Sharon furrowed her brows and stiffened. "What in the goddamned hell are you doing here?" She slowly gave Maisy the once-over with a gaze so caustic it could have cut through hardened porch paint.
Fortifying herself with a deep breath, Maisy resolutely maintained her poise as she mustered the courage to converse with the woman she despised above all others. She had waited a year and a half for this opportunity--ingesting little more than salad, steamed veggies and skinned chicken--and now Maisy was terrified that she'd get cold feet and the words she'd rehearsed so carefully would stick in her throat like peanut butter. Mazel Lynn, whatever you do, don't you dare chicken out now! she silently warned herself. Holding her head high, and beaming a narrow-eyed glare straight into Sharon Chaney's dog-poop-brown eyes, Maisy cleared her throat and ignored the thunderous thumping of her chicken-shit little heart.
"After all, Sharon, dear, he was my husband before he was yours," Maisy managed to say matter of factly. Fluffing her hair in a calculated manner, Maisy conjured a coy little smile and continued, "Oh, by the way, is the rumor true? Everyone's saying that John keeled over with a heart attack right smack dab in the throes of passion . . . with another woman--a much younger woman, in fact." Pausing for effect, Maisy studied Sharon's deliciously livid reaction. If the widow Morganfield's eyes grew any wider, Maisy feared they'd pop right out of her skull, bouncing down the red carpet runner that led from John's casket. Satisfied that her words were having the desired effect, Maisy continued. "My, how distressing that must have been for you, Sharon dear. I can't possibly imagine how embarrassed you . . . oh," Maisy touched her fingers to her mouth and tittered a demure little laugh, "silly me--but of course I can imagine it. How foolish of me to forget that I caught you and my husband, doing God knows what, right in my own bed just over eighteen months ago." Maisy finally released the wicked smile that had been clawing at the inside of her face, begging to escape. "Well, as they say, Sharon--what goes around comes around. Now, if you'll excuse me." As Maisy took a step to the side, Sharon grabbed the sleeve of her suit.
"Not so fast, you little bitch."
"Little?" Maisy said, batting her eyelashes as her hand flew to the base of her throat. "Why thank you for the lovely compliment, Sharon."
A depraved smile crept across Sharon's features as she gave Maisy a piercing once-over. "I don't care how much weight you lose, Maisy. You'll always be a cow, as far as I'm concerned," Sharon snarled through clenched
teeth. "A big, fat, frumpy, repulsive heifer." Licking the angry spittle from her stoplight-red lip, she strained to keep her voice to a near whisper. "Let me see . . . what was John's favorite pet name for you again? Oh yes . . . his little wart hog." Scrutinizing Maisy, as if she were fly-larva, Sharon tapped her finger against her angular chin. "Yes, even with the weight loss, the term definitely still fits."
"Well, at least I'm not a devious, henna-headed, husband-stealing, belly-crawling viper," Maisy countered with a half-smile.
Tightening her grasp on Maisy's sleeve, Sharon yanked her closer. "Nobody had to steal John from you, Maisy--you and all that disgusting flab of yours pushed him away. I just happened to snag him as he was trying to escape, that's all." Sharon flashed a sinister smile. "Sure, Maisy, you can get thin, color your hair, and slap make-up all over your plain-Jane, farm-girl face, but, you know what they say . . . you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. And in your case . . ." Sharon jutted her chin high and uttered a deep guttural laugh. ". . . we're talking about more than just a sow's ear--we're talking the whole goddamned sow." Her sharp cackle curdled in Maisy's ears. "It's no wonder the thought of sleeping with you made John's skin crawl."
Her stomach roiling from the acridity of Sharon's copious perfume, Maisy yanked her arm away and brushed at the bunched fabric. Sharon's spiteful comments scorched like a jalapeño pepper poultice over an open wound--albeit an old wound--and Maisy was angry with herself for allowing it to hurt so much. For just an instant, she found herself wishing that she could get her hands on some chocolate and find a nice hole under the mortuary floorboards to crawl into where she could feed her face and escape having to deal with Sharon--but she'd come too far and worked too hard to let herself crumble now. Whatever you do, don't let Sharon see you flustered. Remember, you're cool, slender, and sophisticated now. You've had eighteen months of practice, Mazel Lynn . . . you can do this.
Straightening her shoulders and jutting her head proudly, Maisy said, "It must be terrible for you to have to bury your husband, Sharon. Did I mention how sad it makes me that you can't join him?"
Once again, Sharon's eyes grew so wide, Maisy half-expected they'd pop right out of their sockets, dangling from little springs. "Why you . . . you," Sharon sputtered, "you contemptible, wretched little bitch. You listen to me, Maisy Morganfield," she jabbed a bony finger at Maisy's breastbone, "this is my day. You don't have any business being here." Sharon's face became a kaleidoscope of colors that Maisy had never remembered seeing before on a human being. "If John could get up out of that coffin, he'd kick you out himself, so, why don't you just haul your fat ass out of here?"
"On the contrary, Sharon," Maisy said. "If John could get up out of that coffin, the first thing he'd concern himself with is finding a bouncy little twenty-something to hump one last time before they put him in the ground."
Sharon opened her mouth to speak, but before she had a chance to react, she and Maisy were joined by a striking man so tall and remarkable that he took Maisy's breath away for a moment. Suddenly aware that her jaw was hanging open and she was in danger of drooling--which might discredit her sophisticated, cool-as-iced-vodka performance just a teensy bit--Maisy snapped it shut. Damn, this guy was one hell of a looker. His princely frame crisply tailored in a charcoal gray suit, he glistened with style and class.
"Sharon, aren't you going to introduce me to the lady?" he said, flashing Maisy a dazzling smile, seemingly unaware that the two women were in the throes of a seething, verbal joust and fiercely glaring at each other. Sharon sputtered, obviously at a loss for words. With an outstretched finger she frantically gestured towards Maisy, but still no words came forth. Finally, expelling a loud, exasperated grumble, she threw her hands into the air, spun on her stiletto heel and marched off.
The impressive specimen of man turned to watch Sharon marching determinedly towards the coffee room and Maisy seized the opportunity to scan his backside. "Well," he scratched his head and shrugged, "it appears that Sharon is somewhat, uh . . . distraught. Understandably, of course." He motioned towards the casket and shook his head.
"Oh yeah, of course." Huffing, Maisy rolled her eyes and sneered. "The poor grieving widow and all that." Flicking her hand through the air, she tossed off an acerbic laugh. When the handsome stranger slanted her a questioning look, Maisy realized that her response may have smacked of a bit too much contempt. Embarrassed, she cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. I, uh, I guess we all handle grief in different ways," she shrugged with an apologetic smile. "I'm not real good at these things," she said, motioning towards John's casket.
"Sure, I understand," he said softly, offering a compassionate smile.
It was precisely at that moment that Maisy noticed that he had the most beautiful brown eyes she'd ever seen--like two big, glistening Tollhouse chocolate chips. God, he smelled good--like fresh soap and spring mountain air. His thick thatch of deep, cocoa-brown hair, with its errant lock lingering just above his eye, begged to be ruffled. Mmm, what an absolutely delicious looking confection he was. Well, tall, gorgeous and great smelling or not, there was absolutely no way Maisy had any interest in getting to know any of Sharon Chaney Morganfield's, uh . . . friends--even if the grieving widow's paramours were impossibly handsome and forty steps up the evolutional ladder from John. Of course, there was always the slight possibility that he was one of John's acquaintances and not Sharon's. Maisy decided she owed it to herself to find out.
"So, you and Sharon know each other?" Maisy asked with a trickle of hope.
"Know each other?" A chortle caught in his throat. "That's an understatement. I guess it looks like we'll have to take care of the introductions ourselves," he said, extending his hand. "The name's Keller. Sharon and I are . . ."
Eeew, eeew, eeew. This is definitely not something I want to hear. Expelling a sigh of regret, Maisy interrupted, "Look, I'm really sorry, Mr. Keller." She pumped his large hand once before releasing it, surprised at the spark of current that seemed to pass between them. "I don't mean to be rude, but I really need to get some air--now." Flashing a half smile as she brushed by him, she ignored the saucy little tingles teasing up her spine and hurried to retrieve her coat and scarf from the back of the viewing room.
Sprinting after Maisy as she entered the main room of the funeral parlor, the hunky Mr. Keller asked, "Are you all right? Can I give you a lift or anything?"
"I'm fine--just fine," she said, turning to walk backwards. I just need to get the smell of death and the odor of that bitch, Sharon out of my nostrils, she wanted to say, but thought better of it. "Thanks for the offer, though." Probably an afternoon of tooling around in a car sitting next to a gorgeous hunk of man would do her a world of good--but--there's no way in hell Maisy wanted anything to do with any of Sharon's leftovers. Shuddering at the thought, she waved and turned forward, quickening her pace. She couldn't get out of that place fast enough. Being surrounded by other people grieving for their loved ones laid out in the various visitation rooms at the funeral home made her feel uneasy--and even worse--guilty. She tried, she really did try to remember the good times with John and treasure those memories--but those moments were few and far between, almost as if they had happened to another woman--and in essence, they had. Good Lord, Maisy thought as she headed for the great double doors, I'm in serious need of a mega-chocolate fix.
Exhaling the dead, stale air of the mortuary, Maisy filled her lungs with the sunlit, crackling-cold February air. "Yeah, yeah, I know chocolate won't heal the hurt." Flicking her hand through the air, as if to banish the intruding thoughts, Maisy audibly argued with the flourishing inner voice of her chastising conscience. "But it'll be a helluva temporary Band-Aid." She laughed and shook her head of golden curls, as though she was trying to vibrate her scrambled thoughts back into place as she walked to her car. "Just when I thought I was becoming a real tough cookie, I let my egg-shell-plated ego get deflated by a few crass remarks from that detestable witch. Well, I simply refuse to let that skinny, venomous
crone succeed in shattering my ego." With a broad smile, she nodded her head with resolve. "Take a deep breath, Mazel Lynn . . . everything's going to be okay."
Once in the car, Maisy dabbed at the nervous perspiration that had formed above her upper lip. The February breeze was cool and brisk, so it certainly wasn't from the heat. She was immensely glad that she switched days off at the travel agency so she could have the rest of the day to herself. She needed time to get her jumbled thoughts together. What the hell would she use for motivation to lose those last sticky fifteen pounds now that John was dead? She had it all planned--it would have been so ultra perfect. As soon as she got to a sleek, just-this-side-of-emaciated, hundred and thirty pounds, Maisy would arrange an accidental meeting with John, and show up swathed in something dangerously provocative. Of course, John having been a breast-man, she'd have her already ample bosom flared up and out to its absolute, maximum potential by one of those amazingly engineered bras. When John got a load of how sensationally sexy, ultra-sophisticated, and knitting needle-slender she was, that sucker would be down on his knees, tripping over his tongue, begging to have her back. And then, as the smarmy bastard knelt, simpering, without an ounce of pride at her skinny feet, she'd laugh in his face, tell him that she found him pitifully revolting, push him to the ground with her five-inch stiletto heel, and stroll off to link arms with the incredibly gorgeous, muscle-bound hunk, hungrily panting for her just a few steps away from John. The only glitch was that Maisy didn't have any gorgeous hunks panting in the wings--hungrily, or otherwise. Her only viable options were to contact some rent-a-hunk agency and pay through the nose, or, talk her boss, Norman, into setting her up with one of his splendidly put together body-builder friends from the gym. The fact that most of Norman's buff-buddies were gay was simply a minor technicality as far as Maisy was concerned. As long as the guy looked like a Greek god and put on a good enough act to convince John that Maisy was his she-god, that would do the trick.
Shipping Sharon Page 1