by Carolina Mac
LILY
PREQUEL TO THE REGULATORS
Carolina Mac
Copyright © 2019 by Carolina Mac
LILY -1st ed.
ISBN 978-0-9919838-0-3
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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To: My daughter, JL Madore, who encouraged me to write my first book.
CHAPTER ONE
Will today be the day Matthew kills me?
MY hand trembled as I fumbled in my purse for the key to the side door, my bags of groceries resting on the doorstep. A speck of dirt caught my eye as I bent to retrieve the bags and I made a mental note to remove it before Matthew arrived home from work. How much time did I have—I checked my watch—three forty-five.
While unloading the bags on the kitchen counter, I inhaled and tried to concentrate on dinner. My thoughts kept coming back to Matthew. The past few weeks, everything seemed to set him off. At least everything I did. Marriage had not turned out the way I had pictured it, all hearts and flowers and happily ever after. More and more I wondered if this was as good as it was going to get.
The vacuum hose was neatly coiled and hung in its place, my cleaning caddy tucked out of sight. Spotless. Just the way Matthew demanded it. This morning I even went the extra mile and cleaned up all of his expensive toys in the garage. The windows shone bright, Matthew’s tools hung on the racks in order of size and color. The floor was swept and hosed down. Scanning the main floor, I inhaled deep. The air smelled fresh with a faint hint of pine.
I double checked everything one more time—no chance he could find fault with anything.
Each and every day began the same way. I turned off the alarm at six a.m., took a quick shower, dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen. Once the coffee maker was started, I set the table for breakfast, brought in the morning paper from the front step, placed it on the right hand side of Matthew’s placemat, and waited for my husband to make his appearance.
Matthew was a creature of habit. Monday through Friday he came down dressed for the office in one of his custom made suits, sat down at the end of the table and drank his coffee while he checked his emails on his phone. While he sipped his juice and immersed himself in the financial section of the Globe and Mail, I served his scrambled eggs, toast and sausage.
Last week, I thought I would break the monotony and make him French toast. Big mistake. Matthew rewarded me with a backhand to my right eye. Thank God for quality foundation and concealer. Safer to stick to the routine.
My husband rarely glanced at me in the morning and he seldom spoke. I knew better than to strike up a conversation while he was engrossed in the news of the day. I busied myself with kitchen chores until he was done eating and sent him off. Eating breakfast alone after he was gone was a gift. I read the paper and drank my coffee without the worry of offending Matthew with my ineptitudes.
After cleaning up my dishes, I ran a critical finger over the top edge of the only picture I had been allowed to add to the family portraits on the mantel. Three years ago, today. I realized now that I was more in love with the idea of being married and having a home, than I was enamored with the man himself. Passing a cloth over all the smiling faces of Mathew's life my chest ached.
On my birth registration, my mother was listed as Grace Brownell, a seventeen year old, unwed mother, and my father was listed as ‘unknown’. I'd thought of delving into my past to get a sense of who I was, but Matthew vetoed the idea saying I might not like what I found out. He insisted I drop it, but the curiosity still nagged at me. I might not like the truth, but it was human nature to want to know the details.
Mathew's father was a respected banker and his mother never worked outside the home, devoting herself to spoiling her only child. He wanted me to be just like her. I never met the woman. She passed away the year before we started dating and he inherited the family home - a quaint Victorian on Hawthorne Lane with lots of charm, bursting at the seams with antiques. When Matthew first suggested we make our home in the old place, I couldn’t wait to see what I could do with it. A lot of my redecorating ideas were vetoed, but I was allowed to choose paint colors and freshen up some of the rooms.
It amazed me how deceptive photos could be. The Mathew I saw captured in moments with his parents was not the man I met at the door each night. He was handsome, sophisticated and fifteen years my senior. During our brief courtship he was loving and attentive, showing no outward signs of the person he would become. Had I been a fool to rush into marriage with a person I barely knew, or had I been too young at twenty-two to make a sensible decision? The real question was . . . How am I going to get out of this mess?
Grabbing the five pound bag of seed from the pantry, I headed out to the backyard to refill the feeders. The yard was cloistered by a high board and batten fence dripping with wisteria. Mature maples provided shade and seclusion. Gardening had been my mother-in-law’s passion, and the perennial beds she established were crowded with Hosta, primrose, ferns and bleeding hearts.
Almost hidden in the back corner sat a dilapidated wooden bench where I loved to read in my spare time. The flower bed behind the bench was overgrown with lily of the valley and the delicate fragrance floating from that spot was my aroma therapy. Now that spring had announced her arrival, the garden was my sanctuary.
I checked my watch again—plenty of time. Matthew left work in the city center at five p.m. sharp. He stopped on his way home at ‘Chuck’s Place’, his favorite bar, for two or three vodkas with his co-workers. He used to stop for only one drink, but this past year his drinking had increased markedly. I dared to mention once that drinking and driving was dangerous. Matthew countered with ‘not minding your own business could be dangerous, as well.’
His philosophy was ‘drink as much as you want, drive slow and you won’t have an accident’. I doubted the wisdom in that but learned the hard way not to argue. He habitually arrived on our doorstep precisely at six-forty-five expecting his dinner to be ready the moment he entered the house, and I did my level best to comply.
THE hum of the Mercedes’ diesel engine filtered into the kitchen just as the oven timer beeped for the crème Brule. The side door slammed, and Matthew blazed in, color rising in his face.
“What the hell were you thinking, you idiot? You left the garage door open."
I inhaled sharply. My hands trembled as I raced through my memory of the day. How could I have forgotten?
“Anybody could have taken my golf clubs, or my tools. I told you never to leave it open. Why can’t you do what I tell you? Are you stupid, bitch?”
“I’m sorry, Matthew. I must have forgotten. I was carrying in bags of groce
ries. It won’t happen again.”
“You’re damn right it won’t.” Matthew's briefcase swung at my head. I reeled backwards, screaming, as white pain exploded behind my eyes. Warm blood gushed into my eye and ran down my cheek. Tears mixed with the blood as I clasped my face and stumbled to the powder room.
With the door locked behind me, I sat down on the toilet lid with a guest towel pressed against my bleeding temple. I hung my head between my knees waiting for the dizziness and nausea to pass.
What now? Please, God. Lay a plan on me.
Bang! Bang!
Mathew's fist pounded the solid wood door. I jumped and felt a shockwave race from my neck to my waist.
“Come out of there, you good for nothing slut. You’ll be sorry if I have to break this door down. I’ll give you three seconds to get out here.”
“I’m not coming out, Matthew. Not until you promise you won’t hurt me,” I sobbed, my head throbbing.
When his footsteps faded, I took a deep breath but remained wary. It must have been over an hour before my trembling stopped and I inched towards the door. I listened and heard nothing but the television. Silently I turned the lock, opened the door a crack and peeked out.
Matthew was sprawled on the Queen Anne sofa in the living room, one leg dangling onto the hardwood floor. He was breathing heavily through his mouth, an empty glass tipped on the carpet. The hockey game was blaring on the flat screen.
Please let him be passed out.
I crept into the hallway and tip-toed up the stairs to the bedroom. Locking the door of the ensuite I drew a hot bath. While the water was running, I rummaged under the vanity for the first aid kit. After sponging the encrusted blood off my face, I taped a bandage over the gash above my right eye. The wound was deep and stinging, and probably needing stitches, but I made do—avoiding yet another trip to the Emergency room.
I sucked in my breath when I looked in the mirror. My long dark hair had been cut short at Matthew’s insistence and without a trace of makeup, I looked haggard and Goth.
Where were the bright colors I used to love? Matthew thought I looked more attractive in darker clothes, but I silently disagreed. The woman looking back at me wasn’t beautiful. She was thin and pale and could easily be ten years older.
I’m not even a person anymore. I’m just Matthew’s wife.
I faulted myself in part for this. For the last few months, Matthew had been drinking more and his temper had been flaring. He phoned me three and four times a day from work to make sure I was at home. Several times he mentioned selling my Jeep when he was in one of his rages—to keep me at home where I belonged. Hoping he was just going through a bad time, I waited for things to calm down. Matthew was always extra nice after he'd been cross with me. Usually he bought me a gift or the odd time, took me out for dinner. That was just the way it was, and I’d grown afraid to criticize him in case it set him off again.
After a long bath, I crawled gratefully into bed and fell into a restless sleep. Matthew came upstairs and slipped into bed beside me just before midnight. Holding my breath, I lay perfectly still and pretended to be asleep until the breathy chuff of his snoring began.
Happy Anniversary.
CHAPTER TWO
STICKING to the normal routine, I made Matthew’s breakfast as if nothing had happened. No words were exchanged, and no mention was made of the violence from the previous evening. He just ate and went off to work. The least I had expected was an apology or the hint of one, but nothing—not a word. Laundry and cleaning filled my day.
When I heard the car pull into the garage at six forty-five, a shiver ran up the back of my neck. My hands shook and silverware hit the kitchen tile with a clatter. As I bent to retrieve the cutlery a weight pressed in on my chest like a tightening vice. My breath came in short gasps.
What’s the matter with me?
I cringed when Matthew breezed into the kitchen and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. I couldn’t believe the change in his mood.
“Get ready, honey. We’re going out.”
“I made dinner, Matthew. It’s all ready.”
“Come on, Portia. You’ll have fun. This is my boss’s retirement party. Everyone from work is going. And it’s an open bar.” He grinned at me.
That should make for a night of fun and frolic.
A couple of tears slid down my cheeks as I put the food into containers and stowed them in the refrigerator. “Can you give me a few minutes to change my clothes?’
“Sure. I’ll have a drink while I’m waiting for you. You should have one too, honey, it will put you in a party mood.”
From halfway up the stairs, I called down, “I’ll have one when I get to the party.”
I had just slipped off my blue jeans and I was rifling through the closet without much enthusiasm, when Matthew barged into the bedroom and pushed me towards the bed.
“I think we have time for a quickie before we go.”
“I thought you wanted me to hurry up and get ready.”
“This won’t take long.”
I’m sure it won’t.
Matthew took off his suit pants and jacket and yanked off my underwear. He pushed me backwards with force onto the bed and shoved his hand between my thighs. The booze on his breath repelled me as he leaned down and stuck his tongue in my mouth.
“You’re being rough, Matthew. You’re hurting me.” I turned my head away, my cheek still hurting from last night.
“Then lay still and stop annoying me.”
I tried to wriggle out from under him. When his hand rose above my head, I closed my eyes. “Ow! Don't!” Blood trickled slowly down my temple, the gash over my eye opened up.
He laughed. “Don't? You’re bought and paid for, bitch. You'd do well to remember that.”
“Let me up,” I yelled. “I don’t want to have sex with you like this. Get off me.” I shoved him hard, and his body didn’t budge and inch. He outweighed me by seventy-five pounds.
Matthew laughed and pinned my arms down on the bed over my head. I squirmed and struggled but I couldn’t make him let go. My wrists were burning from the twisting. He thrust his erection inside of me and grinned. Hate surged through my body filling me with a fire I’d never known. He would pay for this.
When he was finished with me he stumbled into the bathroom.
I lay on the bed with my eyes closed, shutting out the last twenty minutes. Tears flowed as I pulled the duvet over my head. Hurt and revulsion mingled in equal parts. I wanted to vomit.
Please, God, let me die.
Matthew blasted out of the bathroom and noticed I hadn’t moved off the bed. “Why aren’t you getting ready?”
“I’m not going.”
“Oh, yes you are.” He grabbed my arm above the elbow, dragged me off the bed and bounced me onto the floor like a rag doll. “Get dressed.”
It was like watching a black and white movie and I was cast as the helpless victim. My head ached and my eyes were out of focus. Black and purple bruises were appearing on my arm and hurling would be next on the agenda. I staggered to the shower and turned the hot water on full blast.
“Hurry up. I want to leave in five minutes.”
Fuck you, asshole.
Even the scalding water of the shower couldn’t wash his filth off me. I toweled my hair dry, all the while trying to envision what I should do next. I threw a black cocktail dress over my head, covered my face with concealer and blush. There was nothing to be done about my arm, so I grabbed a shawl and ventured downstairs.
Matthew was waiting for me in the living room nursing another drink. “It’s about time. I don’t know why I bother with you, Portia. Let’s go.”
I said nothing. I followed Matthew out to the car and eased my battered body into the passenger seat. I could not bring myself to speak to him. Not now. Not ever. My mind was focused on one thing and one thing only.
How to end this nightmare.
MATTHEW hadn’t told me where the party was, but I recognize
d the house as we pulled into the driveway. Bob Winterstein lived at this address with his wife, Marcy. We had gone out a few times as a foursome and I liked her. They had relocated to a new neighborhood at the west end of the city where the properties were large and the home designs unique. Their house was a Federal reproduction complete with portico, shutters and all the trimmings. Very charming.
At the door we were greeted by Marcy, smiling, and Bob with drink in hand.
“You guys are late.” Bob said, slurring his words. He exhibited the perpetual red face and bulbous nose of an alcoholic. His massive neck hung out over his shirt collar and his eyes bugged out like he was being strangled. Shaggy hair, graying at the temples stood up in a cowlick completing his unkempt carefree look. “Come on in. You'll have to catch up to the rest of us.”
Matthew displayed his million dollar smile and led me through the door.
“The girls are hanging out in the kitchen,” Marcy said. “Can I take your wrap?”
I tightened my grip and tried to muster a smile. “No thanks, I’ll keep it.”
Marcy nodded and headed for the kitchen and I followed along behind her. She looked like a little firecracker in her hot pink dress topped with her head of spiky blonde hair.
“We’re drinking margaritas.” Marcy handed me a frosty glass filled with lime green liquid, and politely pretended not to notice my UFC survivor look.
I did my best to smile a thank you and found a seat on one of the kitchen bar stools. The granite island was loaded with pretzels, nuts, fruit and vegetable trays, gourmet dips and hot hors d’oeuvres. Marcy knew how to throw a party.
From where I was sitting, I could see my reflection in a large beveled mirror on the other side of the room. The gash over my eye was puffed out like an Easter egg wearing Cover Girl. My eyes were circles of red and my arm was wrapped in a shawl like a bag lady.