by Jane Preston
A stab of jealousy hit the jogger in his stomach, not for the first time when he thought about his son.
I’ve been really hard on him, the older man acknowledged, while he passed another early-morning jogger and nodded briefly in her direction. Betsy Riley, a real looker. Since meeting her at a neighborhood block party three years ago, he’d had a bit of a crush on the 32-year-old shapely blonde, but, for some reason she had never warmed up to him. A former winner of a local beauty contest, she had taken no time to marry up, leaving her days as an office secretary behind to run the sales department for a highly-successful auto dealership. Her husband, the owner, had promoted her to that position.
Milton Matthews shook his head. Some people have all the luck.
The older man continued his inner morning soliloquy as he jogged down Ash Street. Sterling just doesn’t realize all that has been given to him. Yes, I’ve worked him over more than once. But then my father was never easy on me either, routing me out of bed at the crack of dawn to shovel the snow in the driveway while he lingered over yet another cup of coffee with my mother, who was afraid to confront him about anything.
Milton knew that Sterling had never quite won his approval.
But he was also aware that Sterling needed his help, especially now. He could hear it in his son’s voice whenever he called home.
At least, as his father, the older man thought, I can give him that, and he turned the corner on to Bliss Lane.
***
A dozen perfectly-arranged, blood-red roses arrived by the Fast Flowers delivery boy, who’d practically leaned on the front doorbell of Maureen’s porch at precisely 9:32 a.m. Unaccustomed to having visitors at her main entry – Leslie invariably arrived via the kitchen door – Maureen was startled out of her discouraging thoughts.
The novel just wasn’t coming along, stuck in a rut the writer wasn’t sure how to navigate. Exasperated, Maureen had been ready to embark on a ridiculous conversation with her heroine – yes, writers have been known to resort to desperate measures in order to get the creative juices flowing – when the chimes groaned.
I’ve got to get that fixed, she sighed. It sounds like the doorbell for the Munsters.
The flowers were beautiful, but for some reason, they struck an off-chord in her. For the umpteenth time in the past 24 hours, Maureen felt overwhelmed. She knew who had sent them before reading the attached, hand-written card.
“To a beautiful and gracious lady. Thank you for last night. Sterling.”
Despite any misgivings she had about the evening before, Maureen found her heart doing a school-girl-crush flip. Sterling Matthews was still the most delicious man she’d ever met.
Humming a lilting tune, Maureen happily closed the door and headed to her kitchen to put the flowers in a long, crystal vase. The roses were lovely, their scent filling the kitchen with nature’s heady perfume.
Maureen Beckley’s heart was radiant again.
Now, time to have that little talk with Amber Kane, she told herself, as she glided down the hall to her home office where her trusty laptop awaited her.
***
It was a particularly tough work day. Every word that Maureen wrote had to be practically wrestled onto the blank pages staring back at her from the computer screen; by sheer force of will, she had somehow managed to pen her self-imposed daily requirement of 10 pages.
What’s more, the indomitable Amber Kane had been stubbornly uncommunicative as to exactly why she refused to be romanced by the handsome Jared Holt.
Strongly motivated by her usual work ethic and finally losing patience, Maureen had forged ahead with the story in spite of everything, unhappily resorting to forcing uninspired dialogue into the mouths of her main characters.
Maureen scowled and let out a long, heavy sigh. The novelist wouldn’t be at all surprised if Amber Kane didn’t find some way to avenge herself when she sat down tomorrow to once again take on the daunting task of being an author.
A large glass of red wine was definitely in order. Perhaps some lingering relaxation with one of her favorite classical music CDs would put things in perspective.
Walking into her cozy kitchen and immediately reminded of the glorious roses, standing prettily in water, Maureen was pleased to feel a spot of joy in her heart. After extracting an opened bottle of Merlot from her refrigerator, the romance writer was breathing far more easily as she contemplated a hard-earned, soothing evening ahead of her.
***
However, rest didn’t come easily that night. Maureen’s dreams were disturbing.
Phantom-like, Amber Kane came to her and, taking her by a silvery, ghostly hand, spirited her off to a faraway place. But as the dense fog around them gradually lifted, Maureen saw that they were in the midst of a deserted cemetery. The tombstones were illuminated by a yellow, lowering full moon, hovering just above the darkened horizon, as Amber carefully picked her way along the rows of graves and came to an abrupt stop.
She motioned to Maureen to join her.
Pointing to a headstone inscribed with a woman’s name and a recent date of death, Amber spoke solemnly. “This is why I don’t trust Jared Holt. He murdered her. He’s killed others. And he’ll kill again.”
Amber lifted her head and looked sadly into Maureen’s eyes. “You have to get out, Maureen. Now.”
Just then, in the dimly-lit surroundings of the graveyard, Maureen saw that Jared Holt was walking towards her. Amber had disappeared, nowhere to be seen.
As the impossibly handsome young man approached her, Maureen noticed that he was carrying a scythe. There was a strange, unreadable grin playing about his lips.
Unexpectedly, Jared’s face morphed into a face she knew all-too-well: Sterling Matthews’ face.
Maureen Beckley shot up instantly in bed, her heart hammering like a runaway 18-wheeler truck against her chest.
Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, the writer vowed aloud to never, ever drink wine just before going to sleep again.
Especially not Merlot.
CHAPTER NINE
Having risen with the sun, a cup of steaming hot black tea perched carelessly on her hunter-green dresser bureau, Leslie was rushing to get ready for a much-needed substitute teacher job when the thought forcefully struck her: Sterling Matthews. I know I’ve seen that name before. But where?
Not until she stepped out of her brisk shower did Leslie seize on the exact moment: That name was on a business card. It had fallen out of Chase’s shirt pocket when he’d reached into it to get a pen. She remembered bending to pick up the elegantly-embossed card from her living room floor and asking him who Sterling Matthews was.
Chase had easily fielded her question, shrugging. He said Sterling was simply a man he’d met at the recent gathering of The Amateur Proud Poet Society. Chuckling, he’d casually slid the card back into his pocket. The two love-birds then promptly left for a delicious, leisurely lunch at one of their favorite restaurants.
The incident had completely slipped her mind. Until now.
Still in the throes of the painful heart-break caused by his startling break up with her, Leslie instinctively sensed it was time to visit Chase Clifford's house again. It disturbed her that he was not at home when she’d impulsively stopped by to see him on numerous occasions, the way new lovers do, excitedly caught up in their mutual passion.
Chase Clifford is a mystery, she thought, not for the first time. And, now, his supposedly new acquaintance, Sterling Matthews, is dating my best friend.
I think I’ll pay the former Mr. Wonderful a surprise visit today after school hours.
With that firmly resolved, the beautiful young woman felt strangely confident, and padded across the room in her comfy light blue house shoes to pick out the clothes from her closet for what promised to be a very interesting day.
***
Teaching a roomful of lively second graders today had been a piece of cake. Leslie loved children, and their natural curiosity, and fervently hoped to have two of h
er own someday. When I meet Mr. Right, she reassured herself, as she drove her Toyota Camry in the direction of Chase Clifford's neighborhood.
Funny, she thought now, sitting in the quiet of her car as houses whisked by, with Chase's obvious refinement and good taste, she’d always pictured him in a chic house ensconced in a very expensive neighborhood of well-bred residents. Instead, he lived in a middle-class, obviously dated, split-level home made of faded brick.
Well, I have a bit of natural curiosity myself, the 20-something woman reasoned, and I want to know why a freelance writer who supposedly works out of his home office is never there. She’d lost count of the times she’d dropped by to say hello, practically knocking his door down to no answer. Once, Chase had told her he had a dog, a feisty little Bichon named Bill, but she'd never heard one single bark.
Yes, it was all too funny.
There’s the house, she thought, her breathing quickening as her car slowed down on the modest residential street. What if he is at home this one time? she asked herself, certain she was not prepared for any scenes. He’d already given her the heave-ho, making himself perfectly clear. Chase Clifford didn’t want to see her anymore.
The devastating memory was like a stab in her still-raw heart.
Am I really sure I want to go through with this? She pressed herself again, biting her lip.
Leslie knew she had the answer when, following a strong urge, she pulled up in front of the house, switched off the ignition and boldly got out of the car. As she marched up the short, cracked walkway and rang the doorbell, the way she’d done so many times before, she told herself she could spin around on her heel right now, go home and be done with Chase Clifford. Forever.
But before she could turn away, a tall, lanky, awkward-looking man with a flash of light auburn hair answered the door. He had a friendly smile.
“Yes?” he asked. Leslie guessed him to be in his early thirties.
”Oh, I’m looking for Chase Clifford. Is he home?” Again, she bit her lip, anxious about the prospect of coming face-to-face with her nemesis. What would she say?
“Who?” The man standing before her was perplexed, his slight brow wrinkling.
“I’m sure I have the correct address. This is 214 Emerson Street, right?”
“Yes, that’s right. But there’s no Chase-what's-his-name here.”
“You mean, he stepped out for the evening? Well, I'll come back at another –“
The kindly-looking man, flustered, shook his head. “No, no, I mean, no one with that name lives here. This is my home and has been for three years. I’m Tim Keller.” He flashed a warm grin as he briefly introduced himself.
“Tim K-keller? And, y-you don’t know…?” Her voice trailed off.
“No I’ve never had the pleasure. But, if you don’t mind me asking, who are you?”
The young woman shrugged, as if her own identity didn’t matter. “My name is Leslie. Leslie Grant.” She glanced away, preoccupied.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Leslie Grant.” Again, the man smiled kindly.
“Look,” she said, suddenly inspired by an idea. “Do you happen to know of a guy named Sterling Matthews?”
Do I? he inwardly exclaimed, but didn’t say what he really thought. Clearing his throat, he chose his words carefully. “Well, yes. He’s a member at my racquetball club. Why?”
“I wonder, could you, I mean, would you describe him for me?” She looked instantly shy, embarrassed. “I know I’m not making any sense right now. But it’s important. It’s for a, you know, a friend of mine.” She smiled uneasily, but sincerely.
“Well,” said Tim Keller, clearing his voice again. “Sterling is an extremely good-looking man. He’s about 6-foot-2, has light brown hair, hazel eyes and classic features. He could grace the pages of Gentleman’s Quarterly. You wouldn’t forget him if you saw him.” He paused for a moment, not knowing what else to tell this obviously confused young woman in front of him. “Is that what you needed to hear?” He wanted to be helpful.
But the woman on his doorstep didn’t answer immediately. Visibly wavering, she looked as if she might topple over. Then mumbled words followed. “It’s the same guy. He’s been lying to me. All along.” The words were stated almost matter-of-factly, but quietly.
“Look, would you like to come in, Miss Grant? I can get you a glass of water. Or maybe some juice.” The earnest words hung in the air while the woman looked down at her shoes, obviously in shock, touchingly disoriented.
At last, she responded. “What? Oh, no. Really, I must be on my way.” She broke off for a moment and then looked him directly in the eyes. “But, thank you, Tim. I really mean that. I appreciate everything you told me today.”
With that, the young woman fairly sprinted back to her car. She was relieved to be on her way home. To the place she used to share with Chase Clifford, who she now knew was Sterling Matthews.
Just wait till I tell Maureen.
It was Leslie’s only thought, as she pealed out of the driveway.
***
The water was deliciously silky and refreshing tonight. Maureen usually poked a cautious toe into the uninhabited community pool before plunging in. But, this evening, throwing all cares aside, she dived in with gusto. As she explored the profound silence of the seemingly bottomless pool, she was grateful to feel the water sensuously caress every part of her; Maureen felt buoyant, happy to be alive.
She loved to swim alone, here under the twinkling, starlit sky where she could dream while her body moved smoothly through the satiny turquoise depths.
Her life was good. She had work she adored. To say nothing of the focused affections of a man unlike any other she’d ever met – or had ever hoped to meet.
Sterling Matthews. Just the very thought of his name sent a series of pleasant shivers up her spine in a way that made her smile. Life is good.
Propelling herself upwards with the aid of her strong, slender arms and legs, Maureen broke the surface and breathed in the exuberant air. Every breath was pure ecstasy.
Diving down into the water again, she spun around until she was facing the shallow end. It was a large pool, filled during the day with the active bodies of youngsters, splashing each other in high spirits, giddy with high-pitched giggling.
But now, in the deafening stillness of the night, she could barely make out a vague shape coming towards her. Slightly alarmed she surfaced again, catching her breath.
It was Sterling. He was swimming her way with deliberate, graceful, practiced strokes.
Completely dumbstruck (how did he know I was here? her mind reeled), Maureen could find no words.
He didn’t seem to care. Smiling seductively, he agilely approached her, gliding through the water like an expert. His exquisite face close now, the two swimmers were just about to kiss.
Then Maureen woke up, shooting up in bed, her hand at her throat.
My God, she thought wildly. Sterling. The dream almost gave me a heart attack.
It was a full hour before Maureen could calm her nerves enough to plump up her pillows, turn out the light on the night table, and return to the mystery of sleep.
CHAPTER TEN
The next morning, Sterling Matthews couldn’t get Maureen off his mind. She’d looked particularly lovely the night she came to his home for dinner; he recalled how her emerald green knit dress had hugged her remarkable curves. She was too modest to reveal any cleavage but he’d already seen her in that scarlet swim suit more than once when she thought no one was looking.
Maureen Beckley is gorgeous. A true beauty. But she doesn’t know it.
The best kind, he thought, as he pulled on one of his favorite sweat shirts for his hour-long workout in his well-equipped gym downstairs.
Although thoughts of Maureen nearly always brought a smile, he was hardly in a good mood this bright, early dawn. He felt a wrench in his stomach every time he thought of how badly that evening had gone. Obviously, Maureen Beckley was not going to be easy to win
.
Which, unfortunately, made her all the more appealing.
He was even dreaming about her. Last night, he woke up just as the two of them were swimming towards each other in her community pool, getting close enough for their lips to touch. He’d bolted up in his deluxe, king-sized bed, running nervous hands over his face, uncharacteristically thoughtful, especially at that hour of the night.
The relatively few times they’d kissed in real life, he had experienced an unusual thrill pulsating through his body. Accustomed to electrifying the women, not the other way around, Sterling was not sure how to feel about the effect the so-far-unattainable Maureen Beckley had on him.