Reckless Point by Cora Brent Page B

into the stall, the yellow lighting shone on the handful of bruises on my back.  I grinned wryly, well recalling how they were achieved.  The hot water felt wonderful as all the cramped muscles in places I didn’t even know I had relaxed and luxuriated in the steam.  I even hummed a little.  I was tired and there were parts of my body which felt battered into jelly, but I also felt good.  Really good. 
    Until I left the bathroom and found my father waiting on the other side of the door. 
    I smiled nervously, not liking the grave look in his gray eyes. “Morning Dad.  Sorry, did I hog all the hot water?”
    H e didn’t smile back.  “You sleep well?”
    I combed through my wet hair and avoided his gaze.  “Hmm? Yeah, real good.” 
    My father threw me a look I’d seen before, just never directed at me.  It was the way he used to look at Tony.  The I-Know-You-Are-Full-of-Shit-and-You-Know-You-Are-Full-of-Shit look.  We spent an uncomfortable moment silently appraising one another. 
    But then my mother bounced into the hallway.  She hugged me.  “I’m making your favorite, Angie.”
    I tried to remember what Grace might believe my favorite was.  I sniffed the air.  “Cinnamon toast?”
    “Coming up in five minutes.” She peered at me and pushed a lock of wet hair aside.  “Your stomach all better?” 
    My stomach? 
    “Y eah.  Learned my lesson though.  No more greasy food this weekend.” 
    My father continued to regard me with the most disconcerting glare.  Evidently he didn’t wa nt to speak his mind in his wife’s presence because he shook himself and spoke mildly.  “Grace, I’ll be puttering in the rose garden for a bit and then I’m off to do inventory at the store.”
    My mother waved him away.  “You and your rose garden,” she rolled her eyes.
    I tried to listen to my mother’s bright chatter as I nibbled at bites of cinnamon toast.  But all I thought about was Marco. 
    “Tell me you didn’t love it.” 
    “Angela,” my mother said crossly as I spilled my cup of coffee. 
    “Sorry,” I croaked, mopping it up.  “You know, I guess I’m still pretty tired.  I think I’m going to take a nap.” 
    My mother wrinkled her nose.  “A nap?  It’s eight in the morning.” 
    “Yeah,” I sighed, tossing the soggy paper towels in the trash.  “It is.” 
    After I’d rinsed my plate of in the sink and was heading down the hall my mother called me back. 
    “ Have you seen my buttercup glass?”
    I stopped dead.  “What?”
    There was a sigh and the sound of the kitchen faucet.  “You know, my set of painted flower glasses. Your father’s managed to break two of them so far this year. And now I can’t find the buttercup glass.”   
    I remembered the sound of shattering glass, the splintered bits on a dustpan as they slid into the trash can.  And I remembered what , and who , came after that. 
    I coughed. “No, ma.  I haven’t seen your buttercup glass.” 
    ***
    The house was quiet when I emerged from the hazy funk of my morning nap.  I sat upright in my bed for a few minutes, listening to that peculiar ear-ringing echo which is the sound of deep silence. 
    After leaning over and checking the time on the bedside alarm clock I got heavily to my feet.  My insides felt like tapioca pudding, the aftershocks of too much sex.  I mused about too much sex as I smoothed the quilt back into place, wondering if too much sex was a legitimate medical diagnosis and making a mental note to research it. 
    When I still heard nothing from any other corner of the house I assumed my parents had both gone to the store. 
    So I was a little thrown when I found my father sitting unhappily in the living room.  They had purchased new furniture the year I graduated from college and I missed the odd patriotic-themed pattern of the old set.  Alan Durant glowered at me from a bland beige sofa.   
    “Sit down, Angela.” 
    I sat gingerly on the edge of a reclining