The housekeeper’s mouth twitched for a moment before she nodded. “Certainly. Is there anything else you need?”
Olivia glanced over to a row of parked cars. Karl stood beside her Aston Martin. “A new brain.” She stalked toward her car as Vivian chuckled.
Karl’s arms stretched out wide as he offered his embrace.
Ignoring the gesture, Olivia snatched the keys from the end of his finger. “Thank you, Karl. Did you put the bags in both cars?”
“Ja.” Karl dropped his arms and followed her as the gravel crunched beneath her quick steps. “Were you vith me this angry too?” he said as she climbed into the car.
She put the key in the ignition and gripped the steering wheel with one hand as she started the car. “Karl,” she said, tugging lightly on the door he held.
“Ja?”
“DeeDee’s waiting.”
He removed his hand from the doorframe and gave her a melancholy smile. “Sie ist nothing to me. No woman iss. Not like you were. Not like you are.”
“What? You’re telling me… Oh, don’t you dare go there, Karl. Don’t you ev—”
“You deserves besser als him.”
“Shut up. Shut the hell up!”
“I love you still, meine kleine Katzchen,” he said, voice low, his head down, staring at the grayish gravel beneath his feet, “und I broke it all. Alles ist kaput und you are kaput as well. Forgive me.”
Incensed at his plea for absolution, and furious she wasn’t wearing underpants, Olivia climbed out of the running car and shoved her ex-husband. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean? I’m broken? I’m not broken. There’s nothing wrong with me! Nothing! It’s you and that…that…that miserable excuse for a man inside the pantry who are broken!” She pushed him again and Karl stumbled back onto the grass.
When he regained his footing, Karl had a wide grin on his rosy face. His blue eyes glinted with glee. Then he began to snort, to shake, a deep sound rumbled from his belly and in half a second he was breathless with laughter.
Olivia wanted to throw up. He was joking. This was a joke. She was a joke to him. It only took two years of marriage, infidelity, a divorce, and falling in love with someone even more disingenuous, but she’d finally given Karl the kind of reaction he’d always wanted.
She backed up, got in the Aston Martin and spun the tires on the gravel, small crushed stones spitting backward as she raced off, the tears finally washing down her red cheeks.
Chapter 23
Self-inflicted wounds were far more vicious than the ones meted out by someone else. Occasionally one could find a sadist like Maxwell to whip you with a sensuous tongue like a cat-o-nine-tales, but nothing flayed you quite as well as the beating you gave yourself. You knew exactly where to deliver the blows to cause the most agony.
Olivia knew she had done this to herself. For the third time in her life, she had misjudged the character of a man. She should have known better, should have let her own history stand as an illustration of not what to do again.
I am lousy at choosing men.
She’d reminded herself of what she’d thought when she felt those first sparks: never again, never again, but why hadn’t she listened?
She had chalked up her first marriage to Adam as a disappointing experience, yet she had been young enough to bounce back and decide what she really wanted in a man, in a relationship. She got involved with Karl because he had been attentive, romantic, and affectionate—everything Adam had not been. Karl wore his sheep’s clothing well, and Olivia had come away from that marriage dulled, a cardboard cut-out of herself. All this time, she’d never lashed out, never exploded in a rage, never shed a single tear over either duplicitous man. She still hadn’t cried over Karl, but, in the few short weeks she had known Emerson Maxwell, he’d burrowed in deeper than the two reprobates she’d married and it cut her deeply. And now she cried.
Olivia drove, and obeyed the road rules and traffic lights as she sobbed and ranted. She ranted out loud—the way characters on soap operas sometimes do, only with much more hophead style animation—and didn’t care who was watching. “You stupid cucumber eye gel using phony son of a bitch! I bet you never really had a zit in your entire pointless life and you probably haven’t ever watched Star Trek either! Aliens? Aliens? You’re the alien, you howler monkey!”
Why did she always go for the ones who had more in their pants than in their hearts? She wound up with dick-thinkers because, obviously, she was a dick-thinker too. Desire, lust, overpowered her rational rules and ground her self-control into the dust until all she thought about was dick.
By the time she’d driven all the way along Sheridan Road to the north side Chicago City limits, she’d stopped raving and the tears she cried over Maxwell had dried. Her face stung and felt sticky. To make things more uncomfortable, her lack of panties made crotch sweat bleed into the back of her dress, and she knew what she’d done to Maxwell was ghastly and unquestionably, utterly malicious.
She was not a vindictive person. If she had been, she would have hired a private detective to track down Adam and taken a sledgehammer to the motorcycle he prized more than life. She would have dragged Karl into court and taken him for all he was worth. She would have come up with something far more public, humiliating, and nosier to punish Maxwell for his malicious cruelty instead of locking him the pantry. Her first ever foray into revenge was so out of character, so wrong, it left her feeling mutilated inside.
And it should have. She’d played on a human being’s primal fear.
Revulsion, self-loathing, and guilt moved into the raw area of her gut, seeping in like acid etchings to highlight her careless, torturous actions.
Yes, all Maxwell had to do was feel around for the keys hanging on the hook inside the pantry and find the one that fit the lock, but had he found the spare key alongside the other household skeleton keys? If he hadn’t, it would have taken three minutes for Vivian to get to the kitchen from the driveway. By now, he’d be out. Wouldn’t he?
And what she’d done to Maxwell aside, something else still burned in the trench of her stomach. The other horrible thing she’d done was leave her best friend’s wedding without offering an explanation, without finishing the job she had set out to do—without seeing it through to the end, without telling Ella where she was going. The Wrath of Olivia had taken over, turned her into an automaton of fury—until remorse turned her into a bag of shame.
Throughout her weeping and ranting she’d driven on autopilot and at last had reached her destination. She stopped in front of her sandy six-flat and stared up at the third floor and the curved bay window of the apartment she called home.
Six months in the pretty place and she still felt like a house sitter. There was no way this apartment would ever feel homey now. She couldn’t bring herself to go upstairs to give it another chance. Instead, she sat in her Aston Martin and argued with herself about what she should do or where she could go.
Option A had her checking into a hotel.
Option B meant driving back to Lake Forest and Hutton House to apologize like hell.
Options C and D pointed to her sister and brother. She immediately ruled out those two choices because Julia would want to know why her little sister showed up at her Glencoe home on Ella’s wedding day, while stern, fatherly Hector would shout at her for acting so silly. And rightly so.
After she exhausted the list of alternatives to going upstairs, guilt finally gave way to self-pity and Olivia did the only thing that felt right. She sat in her car in front of her un-homey house and cried again. Over the course of ninety minutes, a cycle developed. She’d stop crying then seethe with anger, only to have guilt kick that away until she bickered with herself and dissolved back into tears.
“Time travel? Meet me at eight-thirty? Well it’s eight-thirty now, and oh yeah, I’d love to travel back in time—just to let you pass out in the elevator, you claustrophobic prick! Oh, that would be fun. That would be a joy to see. I’d go back, and back
, and back just to watch you keel over. Just between the two of us? It’s nobody’s business? I liked my job you fake bastard!” She sagged over the steering wheel. “Olivia, you’re stupid, stupid, stupid.”
With the engine off, the interior of the Aston Martin quickly became a muggy little space that smelled like leather, perfume, and perspiration. She had a headache from crying so much, but she’d finally come up with a new course of action.
Sweaty from sitting inside the car, her face tearstained, her nose a bright red that rivaled Rudolph’s, she trudged inside, shoving open the inside security door, toeing off the painful three inch stilettos and leaving them in the foyer before plodding miserably upstairs.
“I saw you out there in your car.” Mr. Peck blocked the landing with his little body. He took off his black-rimmed glasses, letting them hang on the chain around his neck, and looked her up and down, lingering on the bit of thigh the slit in the dress exposed. “Welcome to the building,” he said in a gravelly voice, his moustache twitching. “I’m Daniel Peck, no relation to Gregory. I live right below you. You’re Olivia Regen. The mailman told me. You’re very quiet and I like that. You’re lovely, just like my daughter Rosalie was. Now quit your crying. It will be better in the morning. It always is. You go inside and clean yourself up. No man is worth crying over. I know it’s a man you were crying over because no one can make a woman bawl like that except a man. Trust me. I’m a man. I’m a father and I’ve been a husband. I know what I’m talking about. Men, we’re all idiots.”
She sniffled, finding the moment utterly surreal. “N-nice to meet you, Mr. Peck.”
“Go on, sweetheart. Go and change. I’ll bring you a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee?” Olivia swabbed at her nose gracelessly, using her wrist.
“Yes, coffee. The Limeys think they’re right about tea being good for whatever ails you, but they’re wrong. Coffee gives you clarity. Go on in. I’ll be there in a minute.” Mr. Peck moved aside to let her pass, and when she didn’t go he put a knobby hand on her arm and gave her a gentle little push. “Just leave the door unlocked. I won’t let anyone bother you.”
Once inside the confines of her apartment, Olivia yanked off her bridesmaid dress, washed her face and put on a pair of underpants. After she’d yanked on a summer shift dress, she came out of the bedroom to find a steaming cup of coffee on the end table beside the telephone. Mr. Peck had also left her a little plate with four homemade chocolate chip cookies. They were still warm.
Olivia sank onto the sofa and reached for the aromatic brew. She ate all four cookies in rapid succession, but took her time drinking the coffee.
Queer little Mr. Peck had been right; the coffee cleared away the heavy fog of pain and reset her focus—although that could have been the result of the sugar jolt from cookies too. Still, her tears dissipated and a modicum of sense moved back into place.
She went downstairs, left the clean cup and plate outside Mr. Peck’s door, and walked outside to her car. She pulled the phone from the glove box and called Vivian at Hutton House.
The cheerful housekeeper didn’t ask questions. She simply followed instructions and took the phone down to the boathouse, keeping a running commentary on her progress until the phone was in Ella’s hand.
There was a low buzz in the connection and occasional static, but Ella’s agitated Atlanta lilt was clear. “Olivia, where the hell ah you? Where did you and Emerson go? Ah can’t believe you left mah wedding!”
Coughing, Olivia cleared her throat, trying to get rid of the constriction as she spoke. “I left him…I left… Ella, I’ve been a terrible friend. You entrusted me with this important event. This was your day, your day and I took off. You needed my support and I couldn’t give it to you. I didn’t…I wasn’t there for you and you’ve always been there for me in every way, especially with Karl—”
“Karl?”
“Oh, how could you miss him and the blonde with the big tits he had hanging all over him. This…this just happened. I didn’t think. I really didn’t think about anything or the consequences. Oh fuck, I abandoned you over a man, and you’re worth so much more. You’re far more precious.” Emotional tears spouted again, rushing down her cheeks to merge with her snotty nose until she sobbed, “I’m sorry. I was only thinking of myself and I should have been thinking of you. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Ella swore. “That son of a bitch! No, wait! Wait.” she said. “I don’t mean that. I’m just…just so shocked. Oh, Craig! Craig!” Ella inhaled and the connection crackled for a moment, then the sound was muffled, as if she’d put a hand over the phone while she told Craig about her horrible, now former best friend. The cadence of her voice blended into a dulled mumble, but Olivia heard Craig’s expletive of shock.
“Olivia!” Ella said, her voice thick with tears. “Olivia, I am so, so sorry. We want you to know how…how I just want you to be happy, happy like I am with Craig. Happy like you wanted me to be and if you think this is what you have to do to be happy I’ll…support you… If this is what you had to do, if this is what you want, what you feel is right, then do it. I love you no matter what.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sugar. You’re my best friend in the whole wide world. I was a tremendous pain in the ass and you gave me a beautiful wedding despite that.”
Olivia bawled helplessly. She needed to know someone loved her and clearly Ella did, just as she always had. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I have to hang up now.” She switched off her phone and looked out the window to her apartment. It took five seconds for her to decide to go to a place she always loved, a place that felt homey and comfortable. There was no need to pack. Her bags were still in the car.
She took a deep breath, counting to four, exhaling for the same length of time. Two minutes later, with a clear head, she started the car’s engine. The tires squealed as she pulled away from the curb.
Emerson did a shitty job parking Pete’s Jeep. He launched himself from the Wrangler, and headed for the building, his anger as liquid as running lava. He had not stopped sweating since he’d been locked in the damn pantry. When Vivian found him in there, perspiring in his boxers, he’d estimated he’d sweated out the equivalent of three pounds of water weight.
While he’d been trapped inside, he hadn’t passed out the way he nearly did in the elevator, but he did have a few moments where he wigged out, and the result was a cross between a panic attack and tantrum. The shelves of linens and condiments had borne the brunt of his exasperation, terror and confusion.
Emerson discovered you most definitely could not unlock a door with a rolled up napkin, bag of dry roasted peanuts or a bottle of maple syrup. Candlesticks were pretty useless too and eating saltine crackers did nothing to quell the persistent nausea in his stomach the way his ex-wife mentioned it did for her morning sickness, but he tried it anyway, winding up queasier with salty crumbs in his matted, sweaty chest hair.
He’d hollered and yelled and pounded on the pantry door and walls, having fantasies the end of the world would come before anyone heard him. He’d lolled on the floor in front of the door, his lips close to the crack of light, and he sucked in huge gulps of air, worried the carbon dioxide level inside the pantry would turn his brain mushier than the claustrophobia.
When he heard the sound of heels on tiles he’d thought Olivia had finally returned and he swore, believing it had been her warped attempt to cure him of his phobia. His anger swelled into his anxiety again and when the door knob rattled, he got to his feet and slicked his damp hair back out of his eyes, wiping his nose, ready to pull her inside, lock her in and shout until she understood how it felt to be so vulnerable.
Vivian had opened the door and looked amused about his undressed state and the mess he’d made in the pantry, but she was very kind. She stood in the open door and didn’t ask for an explanation. But Emerson did explain—or rather, he raved about not understanding how the woman he’d fallen in love with could lock him inside a very tiny space with no
windows or oxygen.
And then, with a grim or amused expression, Emerson was still too upset to discern between the two, Vivian had given him a glass of water, which he drank greedily, and she mentioned Olivia had left.
With Karl.
“That fuckwhistle douchestick” had sprung from his cracked, dry lips, and Emerson grabbed his discarded clothes from the floor of the pantry. He tore out of the kitchen, dressing as he ran up the back steps. He threw open the door to Olivia’s room to discover she’d cleared out her things, and it felt like he’d been kicked in the chest by a three inch spiked heel.
It was impossible and he didn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe she’d gone anywhere with Karl.
Christ, he’d never driven so fast in his life and he’d never been to Olivia’s house before. He wasn’t even sure which apartment was hers, but he knew her building’s address. He leaned on a door buzzer, the only one without a name in the foyer of the six-flat. He pressed all the bells until someone responded.
“Who is it?” a creaky voice emanated from the small intercom.
“It’s me,” he said. The internal security door buzzer released the lock and he yanked the door open and bolted up the stairs, darting by the small elderly man who stood in his open doorway on the second floor.
“Who are you?” the older man demanded, a startled expression on his wrinkled bespectacled face as he moved onto the landing to watch Emerson rushing up the next flight of steps. “Hey, ‘it’s me’, who are you?” he called out, climbing the treads.
Emerson heaved an intolerant sigh and paused, his fist ready to hammer on Olivia’s door. “Maxwell,” he said.
“Uh-huh. And what do you think you’re doing, Mister Maxwell?”
“Visiting my…” What was he doing? Who was he visiting? Who was Olivia anyhow? Was she simply the woman whose lavender-scented neck he wanted to wring or was she his girlfriend?
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