chignon that looked like it had been spun from sugar at the county fair. “Go right on in.”
Chapter Six
Tuesday, exact time and place unknown
It didn’t add up. Anyone could see it. How could she rebuff him? Deny him? Deny herself ? He thought about those things as he tried to fit the tiny pieces of his life together. She had been all he’d ever wanted. She had been the one who made him whole. She was all he dreamed about. When he was eating a meal, it was she he was consuming. Sweet. Tender. Juicy. When he was masturbating, it was her soft hand stroking his penis. Faster, slower, down his hard shaft. Only she knew how to touch him. When the wind blew softly over his ears, it was her voice whispering for him to try harder. She loved him. He alone understood her. As she alone understood him .
The memory faded. His face grew hot. He could feel his disappointment, then anger and rage well up in his throat. It tightened and burned. He wanted to scream at her for ruining everything by choosing the wrong man. And what a stupid choice. She could never be to the other man what she could be to him. He alone could love her. He could cherish every goddamn inch of her body.
Stupid bitch, he thought as he tore up one of the copies of the letters that he’d saved. It had once been so precious. But no more. Shards of paper fell like confetti, all over the floor. He looked down at the mess. It seemed so perfect in its destruction. She’d cost him everything.
He started to weep and it made him hate her more. Even then, after all that he’d done for her, after she’d unceremoniously dumped him when he told her how he felt, his feelings were conflicted. Mixed. A jumble.
Chapter Seven
One week before the tornado, 2:45 P.M., Des Moines, Iowa
Miranda Collins parked her Silver BMW sedan in front of her expansive redbrick home. The house overlooked the pale green waters of Des Moines’s lazy Raccoon River. That quiet Sunday, when the chill of winter had been decidedly chased away with the promise of an early spring, she doubted there was a prettier place in the world. The sun’s rays wove their way through the leafy overhang of the only elms in all of Iowa to survive the Dutch Elm disaster of the 1930s. It was among the most desirable neighborhoods in the city. Droplets of light fell over the lawn and cobblestone walkway to the ten-foot leaded-glass doors that led inside the turn-of-the-century Tudor-style home that Miranda shared with her husband, Karl, and their son, Aaron. She threw her Coach bag over her shoulder and hooked her fingers into the loops of plastic grocery bags holding the ingredients for tonight’s dinner—chicken, button mushrooms, shallots, and a decent bottle of Bordeaux. She knew better than to buy the cheap stuff.
“Cooking wine should never be anything less than what you’d imbibe from a Baccarat glass,” Karl had said a time or two. He was only half-kidding, and Miranda had learned not to repeat the remark because it made him seem like such a snob. And a snob he could be.
He’s a proctologist, for goodness sake , she thought. He’s a success, of course, but bottom line he’s no neurosurgeon. What he knows of wine he’s learned from the pages of Wine Spectator or what I’ve told him.
An attractive woman with symmetrical features and dark brown hair that had been artfully streaked gray by nature, Miranda balanced the sacks of groceries on her hip as she reached with her key for the doorknob. Her charm bracelet with its collection of miniatures revealing a happy life dangled from her wrist. A baby carriage. A typewriter. Books. Miniature maps of Washington and California. A tiny Space Needle replica had been placed next to the Eiffel Tower and the St. Louis Arch. She considered each memento a keystone in her life.
The measly pressure of her inserting the key made the door move inward. It wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even shut. It only alarmed her for a second that DJ, the cocker spaniel that had
Chapter Six
Tuesday, exact time and place unknown
It didn’t add up. Anyone could see it. How could she rebuff him? Deny him? Deny herself ? He thought about those things as he tried to fit the tiny pieces of his life together. She had been all he’d ever wanted. She had been the one who made him whole. She was all he dreamed about. When he was eating a meal, it was she he was consuming. Sweet. Tender. Juicy. When he was masturbating, it was her soft hand stroking his penis. Faster, slower, down his hard shaft. Only she knew how to touch him. When the wind blew softly over his ears, it was her voice whispering for him to try harder. She loved him. He alone understood her. As she alone understood him .
The memory faded. His face grew hot. He could feel his disappointment, then anger and rage well up in his throat. It tightened and burned. He wanted to scream at her for ruining everything by choosing the wrong man. And what a stupid choice. She could never be to the other man what she could be to him. He alone could love her. He could cherish every goddamn inch of her body.
Stupid bitch, he thought as he tore up one of the copies of the letters that he’d saved. It had once been so precious. But no more. Shards of paper fell like confetti, all over the floor. He looked down at the mess. It seemed so perfect in its destruction. She’d cost him everything.
He started to weep and it made him hate her more. Even then, after all that he’d done for her, after she’d unceremoniously dumped him when he told her how he felt, his feelings were conflicted. Mixed. A jumble.
Chapter Seven
One week before the tornado, 2:45 P.M., Des Moines, Iowa
Miranda Collins parked her Silver BMW sedan in front of her expansive redbrick home. The house overlooked the pale green waters of Des Moines’s lazy Raccoon River. That quiet Sunday, when the chill of winter had been decidedly chased away with the promise of an early spring, she doubted there was a prettier place in the world. The sun’s rays wove their way through the leafy overhang of the only elms in all of Iowa to survive the Dutch Elm disaster of the 1930s. It was among the most desirable neighborhoods in the city. Droplets of light fell over the lawn and cobblestone walkway to the ten-foot leaded-glass doors that led inside the turn-of-the-century Tudor-style home that Miranda shared with her husband, Karl, and their son, Aaron. She threw her Coach bag over her shoulder and hooked her fingers into the loops of plastic grocery bags holding the ingredients for tonight’s dinner—chicken, button mushrooms, shallots, and a decent bottle of Bordeaux. She knew better than to buy the cheap stuff.
“Cooking wine should never be anything less than what you’d imbibe from a Baccarat glass,” Karl had said a time or two. He was only half-kidding, and Miranda had learned not to repeat the remark because it made him seem like such a snob. And a snob he could be.
He’s a proctologist, for goodness sake , she thought. He’s a success, of course, but bottom line he’s no neurosurgeon. What he knows of wine he’s learned from the pages of Wine Spectator or what I’ve told him.
An attractive woman with symmetrical features and dark brown hair that had been artfully streaked gray by nature, Miranda balanced the sacks of groceries on her hip as she reached with her key for the doorknob. Her charm bracelet with its collection of miniatures revealing a happy life dangled from her wrist. A baby carriage. A typewriter. Books. Miniature maps of Washington and California. A tiny Space Needle replica had been placed next to the Eiffel Tower and the St. Louis Arch. She considered each memento a keystone in her life.
The measly pressure of her inserting the key made the door move inward. It wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even shut. It only alarmed her for a second that DJ, the cocker spaniel that had
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