A Smile as Sweet as Poison

by Helena Maeve

  Hazel toed off her flats and folded one bare ankle over her knee. It stung that he would use something she had confessed to him in a moment of weakness to mock her. It was no less than what she expected of Malcolm.

  “I suppose it’s not much better to know you’re slumming it in California,” Malcolm went on, “but at least your life isn’t boring. Tell me about those men of yours. Two at a time—you must have learned a thing or two since college.”

  I had to learn to trust again, yeah. You took that from me.

  She couldn’t beat Malcolm at his game. She had tried, over the years, to make him see how much he’d hurt her. She had even pleaded with him to take down the videos, when they first surfaced.

  He’d claimed his laptop had been stolen, and all the home movies they’d made vanished with it. He told Hazel it wasn’t his fault.

  “What’s it to you? You have Penelope. You’re happily married… My love life has nothing to do with yours anymore.”

  “You’ll always be one of my girls. Penelope understands that.”

  Penelope would gladly chop me up and feed me to the birds. Hazel flexed her hands against the armrests of her seat. “Do you love her?”

  “With all my heart.”

  “And did you ever love me?”

  Malcolm seemed surprised at the question.

  Hazel went on before he could answer, “Because if you did, you’ll leave me alone from now on. Whatever we had, good and bad and everything in between—that’s over. Let me suffer the consequences of my choices in LA.” Alone. Without you. Without the reminder of every wrong choice I made. She was wary of begging. Malcolm could be so volatile that he’d as soon accept her pleas, magnanimous to the last, as accuse her of making him out to be some kind of monster.

  He was silent for a long moment, tearing a slice of supple, juicy roast to pieces with his fingertips. When he spoke at last, the cadence of his voice was almost melodious. “You really do think the worst of me, don’t you? But if that’s what you want—if you think you’re better off in California, with people who don’t know how to appreciate you…” He shot her a smile. “You have my promise that I’ll stay out of the way.”

  Hazel thought of snake charmers, her gaze not once leaving his. “Thank you,” she said, as if she meant it. She didn’t believe a single word.

  * * * *

  Somewhere, an alarm was ringing. Hazel pulled the pillow over her head in an attempt to drown out the sound. It didn’t work. The din slithered under the gaps between cotton case and top sheet to wage violent, bloody war against her eardrums.

  Defeated, Hazel shoved the pillow aside.

  Through narrowed eyes, she noticed her smart phone buzzing on the bedside table. It took a few fumbling tries before she could snatch it up successfully.

  “Hello?” she muttered, holding the handset flat against her cheek.

  “Rise and shine,” Ward sing-songed on the other end. “It’s almost seven!”

  Hazel peeked at her Disney-branded alarm clock. The big hand read five to. “G’bye, Ward.”

  “Wait, no. Don’t hang up! We’re at Penman.”

  Nothing he was saying made any sense. Hazel frowned with eyes closed. “That supposed to mean something to me?”

  “Give me the phone,” Dylan said on the other end, his voice slightly muffled. “Hazel, hi. Did we wake you?”

  Hazel disregarded the question. “What’s Ward talking about?” And why is he so cheerful at seven in the morning? She regularly took comfort in his morning blues—they made hers seem so much less pathetic.

  “I was going to call you when we made it to a hotel… We’re in Missouri.”

  “Tell her about the plane,” Ward urged in the background.

  Hazel jolted upright. “What do you mean… We said Friday.” And we said St. Louis. Or she’d said it and they had agreed. It was almost the same thing. She dragged a hand over her face, brushing back tangled curls. “You’re serious.”

  “Like a heart attack,” Dylan confirmed. At least he wasn’t gloating. “We’re close to Dunby, we wanted to come pick you up, for Friday… Do you know the Penman? It’s a small airstrip—”

  “Yeah.” The puzzle pieces clicked into place, revealing a whole at once vague and electrifying. They were here. They were maybe twenty minutes out of town. “What did Ward do,” she wondered, already kicking off the covers, “hijack the flight to St. Louis?”

  “Ah, no. He flew us down.”

  “Ward flew a plane.”

  Dylan hummed in acquiescence.

  “He has a jet,” Hazel clarified, finding the need to spell it out before she could digest the news. “How… Why am I surprised? Of course he does.” CEO, a pedantic little voice whispered at the back of her mind. Ritchie Rich.

  In an attempt to play it off, Dylan said, “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s only a Cessna.”

  “Hey!”

  Ward’s protest triggered a soft laugh from Dylan. “I know it’s not what we talked about,” he told Hazel, “but we thought we might as well make a holiday out of it.”

  “The way business has been going,” Ward groused in the background.

  Dylan ignored him. “Are you very angry?”

  Standing barefoot in front of her wardrobe, Hazel almost missed the question. “Hmm, what? No…” It was a knee-jerk reply, a feature of her adoration, but she was surprised to find it was also true. “Wait, if I say I am, will you make it up to me?”

  “Any way you want,” Dylan promised.

  “Give me half an hour.”

  “For what?”

  Hazel seized a pair of jeans and a tank top and tossed them onto the unmade bed. “What kind of hostess would I be if I let you two fend for yourselves?” She could be ready in ten minutes.

  She hadn’t allowed herself to think of how much she’d missed Dylan and Ward until this very moment. The need to see them, to hold them close erased all other thought.

  It was a race to get ready once she’d hung up the phone. She showered hastily, shivering beneath the bracingly icy spray because she couldn’t wait for the hot water boiler in the basement to kick in. A cursory tug of the brush through her hair and she was pulling her clothes on, then hastily slipping sneakers onto her feet. There would be time to tidy up later.

  “Where are you going?” a voice stopped her when she was halfway down the stairs. Her mother.

  Hazel trooped down the final few steps at a more sedate pace, pulse still thumping wildly in her ears. “Out.”

  She had forgotten that her parents were early risers. Her father drank his first and only coffee of the day before dawn. Her mother was an adept of big breakfasts, to be enjoyed leisurely before school or work.

  Seeing her parents at the dining table now brought back memories of trudging down in the mornings as a kid and being told not to slouch, not to neglect chewing her food. She remembered being given the same jam-filled buns as her brother for a while, allowed the same delicious spreads. Then middle school had rolled around and their mother had decided Hazel’s eating habits required correction. Raw apples had replaced cinnamon toast. Skim-free milk had replaced the creamy hot cocoa she used to drink.

  “Actually,” Hazel said, blinking away the lingering hurt, “can I have the car?”

  “Which one?” her father wanted to know.

  “Why?” asked Mrs. Whitley.

  Neither of them thought to grant her the keys without prior interrogation. Trust was costly in this house and Hazel had little credit left with either one of her folks.

  “Never mind, I’ll run to Buddy’s and borrow the truck.” If there was one thing Dunby residents had in abundance, it was gas-guzzling cars. With virtually no other way to escape small town isolation, they built large garages and spent their Sundays scrubbing hoods and windshields.

  Hazel had less-than-fond memories of doing such chores growing up, always with the hope that she would be allowed to drive around as a reward. It had rarely worked out that way.

  �
��Wait,” her father grunted, when she made to turn for the door. “Keys to the Durango.” He held them out by the loop of the keychain.

  Half-expecting him to snatch them back once she’d approached, Hazel accepted the offer.

  “Thanks.”

  “Fill her up before you come back.” Mr. Whitley went back to his breakfast—mind bogglingly, what looked like a plate of steamed vegetables and breaded tofu.

  From the corner of her eye, Hazel saw her mother’s gaze linger on her. But there was no addendum, no you can take the car if. Hazel turned on her heel and stalked out of the dining room before these pod people were replaced by the parents she had grown up with.

  * * * *

  The airstrip came into view long before Hazel got close enough to the airfield to look for a parking spot. There were plenty among the weeds and brambles. Fields bordered the ribbon of the road on either side, some left to turn fallow, others bursting with leafy greens. Hazel maneuvered the Dodge as best she could, only vaguely aware of the proportions of the car around her.

  There was no one barrier at the airstrip and no one to stop her driving right onto the tarmac. A few small planes lay parked in the single hangar, tarp canopies fluttering in the early morning breeze.

  Hazel drove as close to the one on the tarmac as she dared and killed the engine.

  “Dylan!” she shouted, all but launching herself through the driver’s side door.

  The nearby hangar echoed with her cry. Dylan’s answering oomph as he caught her in his arms was comparatively polite.

  “And he says he has no luck with the ladies!” Ward groused from where he was leaning against the side of the plane in a charcoal shirt with the sleeves rucked up to the elbows. His suit jacket drooped, folded, from one shoulder. He looked as if he’d just left the office.

  The jet behind him was nothing to scoff at. While low on the ground, its wingspan was impressive. Hazel counted three windows on the side facing her. She hadn’t known Ward collected toys that could literally kill him. She should’ve expected it. He was the ‘live fast, die young’ type. She told herself that wasn’t why she liked him.

  Hazel rocked back on the balls of her feet, a retort tangling in her throat as Dylan kissed her.

  He kissed her softly, like he did in the mornings, when she was too groggy to respond, or after a scene, when Hazel was so greedy for tenderness.

  “Hey,” he murmured, pulling back.

  “Hey…”

  Dylan grinned, his cheeks dimpling. “Nice car.”

  “You think you’re the only ones who can shock a girl?”

  “Oh, this girl is very shocked,” Ward said, feigning a gasp and a fluttering of lashes as he pressed a hand to his cheek in mock astonishment.

  Hazel tipped her head against Dylan’s shoulder. “Someone had their Wheaties this morning.”

  “Try a protein bar and more Red Bull than I’ve ever seen a man drink in an hour.”

  Dylan’s report was met with an eye roll as Ward pushed off the white-painted hull of the jet. “The other option was falling asleep at the wheel, so to speak. Then who’d you be kissing?” he asked Hazel. “Don’t answer that.”

  He claimed her mouth hard, something greedy and punishing in the flick of his tongue against her teeth. Hazel didn’t even think to deny him access. She had missed their hands on her, their body heat cocooning her on both sides. But this wasn’t the place she wanted to make up for the lacking. She turned her head slowly, giving Ward plenty of warning before she pulled away.

  “How about we get you some breakfast? I know a place not far from here…”

  “Portageville?” Dylan guessed, anchoring a warm hand at the small of her back.

  “Oh. Yeah, I suppose there’s gotta be a diner in Portageville, too.” She knew there was—all those school nights she’d been granted the keys to one of the family cars, she always drove out of Dunby. Her idea of freedom back then had been the next small town over.

  Anything to feel like a rebel, cause or no cause.

  “You were thinking of something else,” Ward noted, brushing his nose against her cheek. He smelled of cologne and soda—not altogether an unpleasant combination.

  It didn’t occur to Hazel to deny it.

  Once arrangements were made for the refueling and storage of the Cessna, they packed into the Durango with the suitcases, Ward in the back, Dylan in the passenger seat on Hazel’s right, and drove off.

  The sun had come up over the Midwest in the time it had taken Hazel to go from bed to airstrip. It bathed fields and clumps of dogwood in its hot glare, leaving the countryside faintly sheened in morning dew.

  Hazel kept to the back roads where few cars roamed, her hand warm between the gearshift and Dylan’s palm. No one spoke. The rumbling of the car engine was a low drone, muffled by the slowly lifting fog and the cotton wool that seemed to have enveloped Hazel’s senses.

  Last night she’d been consumed with walking a fine line before talking to Malcolm like a decent, well-adjusted human being, and stabbing him in the neck with a dessert fork. That show of acrobatic skill couldn’t have been further from her thoughts in the cool light of morning.

  Dylan stroked her knuckles with his thumb as he gazed out of the window. When she raised her gaze to the rear view, she saw Ward with his eyes closed, dozing upright on the backseat.

  If last night had been a balancing act, then this was reaching the other end of the rope. A small, self-indulgent part of her almost wished they could keep driving on until they ran out of road.

  * * * *

  “Hazel? My God, it is you!” The elderly waitress took her by the shoulders. “Why, you’re nearly as tall as your daddy!”

  “Almost, ma’am,” Hazel agreed with a forced smile. She hadn’t given much thought to people recognizing her in Dunby. The two days she’d spent with Rhonda had spared her the need to interact with the locals but there was no escaping it at Maud’s.

  “You’ve grown a full head since I last saw you,” the woman crooned. “And put on a few pounds, too, I see. Big and beautiful, am I right?” She was equally portly, with a generous cleavage she showed off even at the ripe age of sixty-eight. For as long as Hazel had known her, she’d been an adept of too much make-up, too much product in her hair—too much perfume.

  Everything Mrs. Whitley abhorred was on display here. Hazel bit the inside of her cheek as she thought of karmic justice.

  Heedless of the customers waiting for her to refill their cups, Maud turned to Ward and Dylan with a critical eye. “And which one of you good lookin’ men is the boyfriend?”

  “Well, uh…” Dylan glanced at Ward, who looked back, lips twitching.

  “Can we get a table?” Hazel interjected, before he could say something damning. “I’m starving.”

  “Oh, sure thing, darlin’. Come right this way…” Maud bustled them through to a booth a little ways from the kitchen with an unimpeded view of the parking lot outside. “You want your usual? Grits and taters?”

  Hazel winced. “That’ll be great. And coffee?”

  “Comin’ right up.” Maud patted Ward on the shoulder. “You take your time with that menu, sweetness.”

  He craned his neck to stare after her as she sauntered away.

  “Huh. I think he’s blushing,” Dylan teased in a stage whisper.

  “No shit.” Ward turned back to the table with a grin. “Better step up your game, Hazel. You’ve got competition.”

  Hazel returned his smile despite the knot of nervousness in her belly. “Should I let her know you have a private plane? Seal the deal for you? I have it on good authority she can cook up a storm and her children are all grown up, so…”

  Ward touched his foot to hers under the table. “That your way of saying you want to make a baby with me?”

  A rush of heat gained Hazel’s face. She laughed, but it came out a little strained.

  “Well,” Dylan drawled. “That escalated rapidly, didn’t it? Let’s you and me keep quiet until we get
some coffee, at least?” he suggested, nudging Ward’s elbow with his.

  “Sure… Meanwhile, Hazel can tell us what she’s been up to.”

  Three coffee mugs materialized before Hazel’s reluctant storytelling had made it past the drive down from St. Louis. They paused so Ward could order the same thing as Hazel, plus scrambled eggs and sausages.

  Dylan, for his part, opted for blueberry pancakes. “Sweet tooth,” he added apologetically, as if Hazel needed an excuse.

  “Hey, I’m the one having fried corn and fried potato for breakfast,” she pointed out. One of these days, she would not feel embarrassed about her eating habits.

  One of these days, she wouldn’t feel herself going on the defensive when someone mentioned her weight. Not that Dylan had ever brought it up. He seemed surprised by the comment even now. Hazel waved a hand. “Anyway, what was I saying?”

  “Your niece. You got to meet her and she’s perfect,” Ward supplied, swirling sugar into his coffee. “Or something.”

  “Right.” She told them about Rhonda doing well and Bea looking happy and healthy, everyone fawning over her as if they’d never seen a baby. “You should see her,” Hazel gushed, no different from the rest of her family, “she’s so tiny and pink. Quiet, too—”

  “We could,” Ward said, tucking into his still-sizzling sausage.

  “What?”

  “See her.” He flicked up his knife and fork. “I’m just saying. We’re in town. If that’s what you want.”

  Beside him, Dylan had gone slightly pale. “Only if you want. We’re fine either way. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  “Okay.”

  He frowned. Ward hitched up his eyebrows.

  Under their scrutiny, Hazel took a scalding swig from her mug. “Oh, by the way. My family knows. About you two.” As they well should. Dylan and Ward were not a dirty secret Hazel meant to keep tucked away with all the rest.

  She sipped her coffee, smug, as she waited for the boys to make sense of this latest bombshell.