She remembered her parents stuffing towels under the inside of the doors and windows to cut down on the flooding. Her father would prop a large shovel up under the front doorknob to lend strength against the pressure of the wind. Now it was Alex’s turn, alone, to do these things to protect herself and her home.
Outside, the rain and wind kept up its measured fury, lashing out like an unleashed hound foaming at the mouth and fighting for a bone. Joplin was still in her cage on the pool deck, so Alex brought the frightened rabbit inside.
Sensing something was wrong, Joplin ran in wild circles around the house. Alex swooped down to pick her up. The animal’s heart was pounding. She cuddled the rabbit for a few minutes, then gently placed her on the monogrammed towel in the bathtub, where she seemed to calm down and settle in. The bathroom was the safest room in the house. That’s where Alex and Joplin would spend the night.
“Why aren’t you here to help me, Mark, you lying snake!” she screamed in frustration as she rolled up large bath towels and went down on her hands and knees to place one under each of the open spaces around the house where the water was rising. After she placed her last towel, she returned to the bathroom, lay on the floor, curled up in a fetal position, and cried for a long time, until the rain and tears soaked her once-favorite towel, one with an “A” and an “M” for Alexandra and Mark embroidered onto it.
She realized she wasn’t just crying about the hurricane but the dissolution of her marriage. It felt good to release her feelings, but she couldn’t afford to feel sorry for herself. Not while her life was in danger.
After a while, Alex sat up slowly, her mind numb, her body exhausted. She wondered why Mark hadn’t even tried to call and check on her. The phone lines must be dead or the cell signals blocked due to the large volume of calls into the area. Maybe that’s why the colonel or Vicky hadn’t called back, and why her mother, who was safely away from Ponte Vedra Beach visiting out-of-town relatives, hadn’t called to check on her.
Alex couldn’t understand what had happened to her marriage. It wasn’t ideal, but she didn’t think it warranted Mark cheating on her like he had. Alex had been the one who’d suggested Mark buy a new car. It hadn’t occurred to her he’d go out and buy a sporty red chick magnet.
Maybe she should have let him fiddle with his old car to keep out of trouble—instead of fiddling with his mistress. He fancied himself a carpenter, an electrician, and a plumber. He couldn’t even fix the toilet when it was running. Looking back, she wondered if it might have made a difference if she had fed Mark’s ego and commended him on even the slightest household accomplishment. She hadn’t thought she needed to resort to that game after all their years of marriage.
No doubt Elizabeth knew just what she was doing. Alex could just hear her saying, “Oh, Mark, you’re so handy around the house.” And he would probably puff up his chest like the cock he had become.
Now Alex needed to calm down. She needed to work on something to keep her mind occupied, because at this point her emotions ran from worrying about Mark to wanting to fight for him to wanting to rip his beautiful head off with her bare hands. She needed to harness that restless energy.
Alex was convinced Mark was never coming home. Maybe he was too afraid to face her. But Alex wanted to take both Mark and Elizabeth Diamond on. She was anxious to find out just what that back-stabbing bitch who had taken her husband and insulted her work had to say for herself.
If Elizabeth did have the nerve to come to the Newborns’ house, she’d be coming from the gallery, still wearing the designer black dress she’d worn at the opening. Alex remembered clearly how the witch had smiled while she stood there stripping her husband naked with her eyes, practically devouring him with her collagen-enhanced lips, and teasing him with the biggest breasts money could buy.
Her husband and his mistress had toasted each other across the room, making public displays of themselves while their pictures were mounted all over the gallery walls. Sketches that showed them cavorting and Mark practically mounting Elizabeth right there, in plain view, for everyone she knew to see.
She was an artist. She was supposed to be observant. How could she not have seen it? She had missed the warning signs when they were posted all around her. She had studied every one of Dominick Anselmo’s sketches countless times—without having a clue she was looking at her husband and his mistress.
Nick had tried to warn her, and she hadn’t picked up the signals. And all the while Mark and Elizabeth were laughing behind her back, flirting with disaster and threatening to blow her world apart.
She had to get those obscene thoughts of Mark and Elizabeth out of her mind. But first she was going to get Mark out of her life. A man that disloyal had no business being a husband. She didn’t want him to come home. If he didn’t have the sense to see the difference between his wife and Elizabeth, he didn’t deserve her.
Like light and shadow on a painting, she and Elizabeth were full of contrasts. Elizabeth was deliberate, ambitious, her every move calculated for maximum effect, for preservation, for security. Elizabeth was interested in the fame and fortune that work would bring.
On the other hand, Alex was a hot-tempered and turbulent brunette, messy and impulsive, more at home with her paints and brushes than with people. Alex was driven, but she derived her satisfaction from the work itself, from her innate talent, not from the notoriety she could receive from it. Compromising her values by forcing Elizabeth to give her a show was eating her alive. None of it meant anything, because she hadn’t earned it.
The two women were locked in an unspoken but inevitable battle over Alex’s husband—a battle Elizabeth had apparently won. So be it. Alex didn’t want anyone’s leftovers. She and her children were a package. A woman like Elizabeth probably didn’t want children, and she was never going to let that homewrecker near her girls.
Alex needed to vent. And when she was angry she found solace in her artwork. But representing an abstract concept on canvas was difficult to achieve. She knew how to paint forgiveness and gratitude. But anger and betrayal were unexplored territory for Alex. Thanks to Elizabeth and Mark, those were emotions she was forced to face. This wasn’t the time for paint on canvas. There was only one thing that would provide the release she needed, short of murder. She was distressed, so she’d take her aggression out by distressing a kitchen table for a client.
Alex startled at the sound of glass shattering in her living room. Something had slammed through the window—a tree downed by the storm, or perhaps Mark breaking in. He couldn’t stay at Elizabeth’s. They would have evacuated the beaches by now.
If Mark were here right now, or worse, if he dared to bring his lover here, she would kill him. She would kill them both.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Medieval Instrument of Torture
In a fit of frustration and rage, Alex grabbed the ice pick from the laundry room shelf, raised the tool in her hand, and plunged the sharpened point down with brutal force. The thrilling sensation tingled in every part of her body. Picking up a heavy chain, she felt the movement as she wielded the weapon like an angry Viking, delivering blow after blow, swinging it back and forth to cause maximum damage and deep, wide dents.
Take that, Mark Newborn. You’re such a coward.
Wiping her brow with a hand towel, and biting her lip until it bled, she pulled her homemade creation from the shelf. It looked like some sort of medieval instrument of torture, a brutal block of wood worthy of the Inquisition, with an army of nasty-looking nails, all lined up waiting for instruction, eager for bloodletting.
Are you ready for me, Elizabeth? You owe me an explanation. All the time you knew those pictures were of you and my husband and you displayed them anyway, humiliating me in front of the whole world.
Shaking with a hunger for revenge that demanded slaking, Alex picked up a pair of scissors and gouged. She paused to choose a medium-sized, unevenly shaped rock and beat with it. The rock chipped when it connected. She could hardl
y believe what she was doing. All that release of pressure felt so satisfying, she giggled with delight and cackled like a witch.
This should probably be illegal.
Next, she scattered a handful of rice—stored in a jar leftover from her wedding celebration—onto the table’s surface and hammered it until it was full of wormholes, just like her worm of a husband, pounding on each seed until she was breathless, savoring each tiny ding.
This triggered an unbidden, instant flash to herself and Mark making love on their own kitchen table—and fleeting memories of Mark rushing to clear off her work table—a large door on sawhorses—and taking her right in the garage. Their sex life had started out being anything but dull. Like dogs in heat, they had christened every surface in their house.
True, they hadn’t made love in months, but that wasn’t a reason to cheat on her. She promised herself she wouldn’t go there again. She’d wasted enough tears over Mark Newborn. They’d been married nineteen years, which translated to 133 in dog years and who knew how many rabbit years. Damn, she’d completely forgotten about Joplin. Soon she’d need to feed the rabbit and fill her water bowl.
Furious, she continued working on her project and beat around the bottom of the table legs, using a knife to carve off the uneven edges. Alex looked around the room, her body sagging, her energy spent.
“Oh, Mark, why didn’t you love me more?” she whispered. The knife slipped, accidentally cutting her and drawing blood, blood that dripped into pools of dark blood-red alazarin crimson hue. Blood that splattered everywhere. She’d better hang up her tools and clean up the sink before someone discovered the huge mess she’d created. She felt a need to hide the evidence of her disorderly life, but she was too tired. Let it sit. Mark rarely came into the laundry room/her studio anyway except to exercise. He had no interest in that part of the house, no interest in anything that interested her, and in the end, no interest in her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A One-Way Ticket Out of Town
When the morning light seeped under the bathroom door, Nick moved the tires away and walked outside. He deeply inhaled the tang of the ocean. He was met with a scene of terrible devastation, but the worst of the storm had passed. The warm salt air was almost balmy, and the elements had resigned themselves to a steady rain and an errant gust that tried its best to knock him to the ground. He was stiff and starving. He was always in a constant state of hunger. He walked down desolate Beach Boulevard toward the food kitchen, which was still closed.
Then he tried the back door of the clothing donation center on the next block. It was also closed. He made his way to the entrance where the homeless were allowed to line up and pick out discarded clothing that no one else cared to buy.
He waited in resignation, with his back against the wall and away from the wind, hungry and tired. His thoughts turned to Alexandra. He wasn’t sure he should even tell her he saw Mark swallowed up by the sea. Should he tell the police he had seen a threatened Elizabeth stab Mark with an edger, which may have weakened him to the point where he couldn’t fight off the massive out-of-control waves and all-powerful tide? He could be accused of witnessing a murder and not stopping it. Maybe he hadn’t tried hard enough to save Mark from the ocean’s wrath. No one would ever believe the story of a homeless man.
Nick allowed himself a few bitter tears for the first time since he had unburdened himself to Alexandra in her backyard. His salty tears mixed with the salt water still drenching his suit pants. He sat there until the guard at the end of his evening shift came to check on the damage to the building and saw Nick slumped against the wall. Recognizing Nick as one of the homeless men who frequented the store, he unlocked the door so the homeless drifter could pick out some dry clothing.
“You hungry?” the guard asked.
Nick nodded. He was ravenous. He hadn’t eaten anything since the hors d’oevres at the opening last night, and the guard could probably hear his stomach grumbling.
The guard dug into his pocket and handed Nick a candy bar and a twenty-dollar bill he probably couldn’t afford to part with.
“Thanks,” Nick said, tearing off the wrapper and wolfing down the sweet treat.
“Your hands are cut up pretty bad. What happened?”
“The storm. I hurt them in the storm.”
“You’d better get them looked at. I’m off my shift now, but they’re opening up. I’ll let you in. Why don’t you wash up in the restroom and see about getting some new clothes?”
“I appreciate it.” The guard must have a million questions. Here he was at a second-hand store, dressed up in a fancy suit, bleeding all over the place. But then again, working there, the man had probably seen it all.
Nick followed the guard into the shop and headed for the restroom. As Nick shed his jacket, he felt a wad of wet money and some loose change in the top inside pocket. Mark must have left it there. And a wet receipt from a jewelry store, for a diamond bracelet. Mark Newborn was buying diamonds, and Nick didn’t even know where his next meal was coming from.
Ordinarily, Nick would never take another man’s money, but he was desperate. And living on the streets had taught him it was every man for himself if he wanted to survive. It would be enough money to buy some new clothes and a ticket on the next Greyhound bus out of town and away from Alex.
He couldn’t stop and tell Mr. Reed he was leaving town, and he felt bad about that. His boss would ask too many questions. Mr. Reed had taken a chance on him when nobody else would. He owed the man a lot.
His first priority was Alexandra. She deserved an explanation, and he wouldn’t be around to provide it. Nick took two paper towels from the men’s room at the store, found a pencil on one of the counters inside, and began to draw feverishly.
He drew a picture of the rain soaking Mark’s tux and fancy shoes, capturing Mark in death as he had been in life. This time the cheater hadn’t cheated death. Nick had been too late to save Mark from being swept to sea. He scribbled “I’m sorry” on the blood-stained paper.
He drew another sketch of Elizabeth, hair flying in the wind and rain, fierce and protective, his edger raised to deflect Mark’s knife. He showed her naked, with her rounded belly protruding.
With the drawings in hand, Nick wandered out of the store and back to the soup kitchen. It was still boarded up tight, battened down against last night’s storm. Nick leaned against the wall under the overhang. He should have gone to Alexandra’s house to help, despite his misgivings about the propriety of the situation.
There was nothing left to do but walk down to the beach, hoping he didn’t run into Elizabeth.
Just as Nick had suspected, hurricane-force winds had torn up the beach, seriously eroding the shore. The rough seas and shifting storm winds had blown Mark’s body back onto the beach almost directly in front of Elizabeth’s backyard. Nick noticed jagged cuts all over Mark’s body, like he’d been sliced into little pieces, and there was a wicked gash on his head where the flying deck chair had rendered him unconscious. Mercifully, the sharks hadn’t gotten him. But the sun would soon rot his bloated body.
In a matter of minutes, onlookers would be out in force, checking out the damage, trolling the sand for shells and other treasures the sea had surrendered. Nick knew it was just a matter of time before the serious shell- and curiosity-seekers would find more had washed ashore than a treasured conch or handful of sharks’ teeth.
They’d spot the body and report it to the police, who would surely be patrolling. They’d find Mark’s red sports car parked in Elizabeth’s driveway, and she would definitely be questioned. He had to get away before he was discovered.
The police would trace the edger that was used to bludgeon Mark and find out it belonged to Reed’s and link it back to him. Nick didn’t want to be around when they did. There was nothing holding him in this town. Nothing but Alexandra, and she’d be better off without him.
Nick walked over to Reed’s Landscaping, took an extra key from under the floor mat,
and drove the company truck over to Alex’s house with the drawings.
When he arrived at her house, he was tempted to knock on her door, to see her one more time, but he had already caused enough trouble for her. It was best to disappear and blend into the background like a discarded brown paper bag blowing in the wind.
Nick placed the drawings on the front porch of Alex’s house and anchored them under a large rock so they wouldn’t blow away. He could have picked up a pretty shell from the beach, but this garden rock would have to do. The sketches weren’t his best work, but they might help to tie up the loose ends. And it was the right thing to do. Then he left, slipping out before the sun rose full in the sky.
He didn’t return again to the scene of the crime. By now, it would be swarming with police. Instead, he returned the truck to Reed’s, caught a city bus to the Greyhound station, and bought a one-way ticket on the next bus going south. That bus was headed for Sarasota, where he would start a new life and become a nuisance to other people in another city where no one cared whether he lived or died.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Pounding on the Door
Mark still hadn’t come home, and the sun was creeping in under the shades. Alex was losing the morning light along with her mind. What day was it? She had long since lost track of time. She thought she’d heard the rumble of the Reed’s Yard Service truck. It couldn’t be Wednesday already. She ran to the window, hoping to see Nick, but she realized it was Sunday, the day after the opening. Reed’s was closed on Sundays.
Her tears had dried. She and Joplin had spent most of the night in the windowless hall bathroom, hunkered down in the bathtub. In the morning, stiff and groggy, she’d stumbled back into her own bed after settling Joplin in the laundry room.
She rolled over and reached for Mark. He wasn’t there. She looked into the bathroom. Everything was dark. The TV wasn’t blaring. There were no blinding lights. No lights at all. The water wasn’t running. The girls were gone. Then she remembered. The power had been knocked out by the storm, leaving the house unusually silent.
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