floor to pry up.
Some other time.
She'd been working all day, driven by demons anxious to waylay her the second she relaxed. She'd started in as soon as Sarah left—and what was with that woman? My God, Vivian had never met anyone who needed to get laid more thoroughly. That husband of hers must not be getting the job done.
That kind of woman set off evil in Vivian. She'd met too many, mostly at parties with Ed. Inevitably, when the appeal of Vivian's humble origins—and her youth —began to fade, Ed had started sneaking around, with twenty -something Abby, whose Mayfl ower ancestors probably hired Vivian's to shovel their stables.
Women like Abby and Sarah took such pleasure looking down their nose jobs at Lorelei Taylor. She couldn't help wanting to push at that perfect exterior and see if there was anything real inside—guts and organs and pulsing blood. Or whether they were completely hollow, implanted with chips programmed by House and Garden TV and the Home Shopping Network.
With the shit Vivian had just been through, and the bad assed mood she woke up in, the simple fact of Sarah's existence had provoked her to the sleaze outfit and the drinking -fi rst thing-in-the-morning show. The rest of that beer had gone down the sink the minute Sarah left. But life was too damn short to waste prissing around pretending a husband and child, a wagon full of chrysanthemums, and perfect carrot cake defi ned happiness.
So Vivian needled her and had been rewarded with the beginnings of a flareout Sarah couldn't quite block. Vivian would absolutely love to see her lose her shit.
After Sarah left, Vivian had gone to what passed for a supermarket here. There had to be a strip with bigger stores somewhere—Stenkel's General Store? Jesus. Campbell's soup and SpaghettiOs, raincoats and fi shing rods—everything a girl could want.
Then she'd come back here with cans of tomato and cream of chicken soup and boxes of macaroni and cheese, put them away in the duck -decorated cupboards, and arranged the rest of her stuff in the old -lady house. She'd cleared out too-precious knickknacks and girly frilly crap, and opened windows to try to air out the musty smell of aging. Then the carpet; there was no way she could stand that another day. And yes, thank goodness, there was gorgeous hardwood underneath.
Now at barely six -thirty, she was exhausted. She needed a drink. But if she stayed here and drank by herself, she was going to fall apart. Cry over everything that had ever been fucked up about her life, which was practically everything.
She had to do something to block the grief that was rumbling at her like the huge stone ball in the fi rst Indiana Jones movie. Anything to stop the anticlimax release of stress from the trial. Anything to squirm out of facing that the man she loved had been stupid enough to fry his sorry ass in his bathtub, she hadn't been there to prevent it, and now she was stuck without him. In bumfuck, Wisconsin.
A sob tried to come up into her throat—unbearable tightness. She sprang to her feet, breathing hard. Coming here had been a mistake. She should have taken off for Vegas, somewhere she could immerse herself in bright lights, big city, exhaust herself with men and booze and partying and sex, and not feel.
In Kettle, there was nothing stopping her from feeling. Every last goddamn painful neurotic aspect. Not even shredding baby -blue shag carpet could keep her safe. Finding Ed, losing Ed, which had been more screwed up? Fourteen years of her life; she gave all but the last few happily. And even then, when his cruelty worsened, his rejections became more frequent, his supposedly secret visits to Abby multiplied, she hadn't stopped loving him. Which made her a masochistic idiot.
She needed a drink, but not alone. This town must have a bar; it had to have a bar. No way could anyone survive Kettle sober, even if he thought he loved it here. She was going
Some other time.
She'd been working all day, driven by demons anxious to waylay her the second she relaxed. She'd started in as soon as Sarah left—and what was with that woman? My God, Vivian had never met anyone who needed to get laid more thoroughly. That husband of hers must not be getting the job done.
That kind of woman set off evil in Vivian. She'd met too many, mostly at parties with Ed. Inevitably, when the appeal of Vivian's humble origins—and her youth —began to fade, Ed had started sneaking around, with twenty -something Abby, whose Mayfl ower ancestors probably hired Vivian's to shovel their stables.
Women like Abby and Sarah took such pleasure looking down their nose jobs at Lorelei Taylor. She couldn't help wanting to push at that perfect exterior and see if there was anything real inside—guts and organs and pulsing blood. Or whether they were completely hollow, implanted with chips programmed by House and Garden TV and the Home Shopping Network.
With the shit Vivian had just been through, and the bad assed mood she woke up in, the simple fact of Sarah's existence had provoked her to the sleaze outfit and the drinking -fi rst thing-in-the-morning show. The rest of that beer had gone down the sink the minute Sarah left. But life was too damn short to waste prissing around pretending a husband and child, a wagon full of chrysanthemums, and perfect carrot cake defi ned happiness.
So Vivian needled her and had been rewarded with the beginnings of a flareout Sarah couldn't quite block. Vivian would absolutely love to see her lose her shit.
After Sarah left, Vivian had gone to what passed for a supermarket here. There had to be a strip with bigger stores somewhere—Stenkel's General Store? Jesus. Campbell's soup and SpaghettiOs, raincoats and fi shing rods—everything a girl could want.
Then she'd come back here with cans of tomato and cream of chicken soup and boxes of macaroni and cheese, put them away in the duck -decorated cupboards, and arranged the rest of her stuff in the old -lady house. She'd cleared out too-precious knickknacks and girly frilly crap, and opened windows to try to air out the musty smell of aging. Then the carpet; there was no way she could stand that another day. And yes, thank goodness, there was gorgeous hardwood underneath.
Now at barely six -thirty, she was exhausted. She needed a drink. But if she stayed here and drank by herself, she was going to fall apart. Cry over everything that had ever been fucked up about her life, which was practically everything.
She had to do something to block the grief that was rumbling at her like the huge stone ball in the fi rst Indiana Jones movie. Anything to stop the anticlimax release of stress from the trial. Anything to squirm out of facing that the man she loved had been stupid enough to fry his sorry ass in his bathtub, she hadn't been there to prevent it, and now she was stuck without him. In bumfuck, Wisconsin.
A sob tried to come up into her throat—unbearable tightness. She sprang to her feet, breathing hard. Coming here had been a mistake. She should have taken off for Vegas, somewhere she could immerse herself in bright lights, big city, exhaust herself with men and booze and partying and sex, and not feel.
In Kettle, there was nothing stopping her from feeling. Every last goddamn painful neurotic aspect. Not even shredding baby -blue shag carpet could keep her safe. Finding Ed, losing Ed, which had been more screwed up? Fourteen years of her life; she gave all but the last few happily. And even then, when his cruelty worsened, his rejections became more frequent, his supposedly secret visits to Abby multiplied, she hadn't stopped loving him. Which made her a masochistic idiot.
She needed a drink, but not alone. This town must have a bar; it had to have a bar. No way could anyone survive Kettle sober, even if he thought he loved it here. She was going
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