That’s when Izzy came to the rescue. There was a cottage behind his house that he’d had built a few years ago for his mother, Sylvie. At the age of eighty-something, Sylvie’s health had taken a turn and Izzy didn’t want her living alone. But she was none too keen on living with her son as long as Dom was around. While Sylvie is well aware of Izzy’s lifestyle, she isn’t particularly happy about it. The mere sight of Dom always makes her clutch at her chest and let forth with a melodramatic “Oy!” Living with Dom would probably trigger a rapid battery of oys that would either kill Sylvie or make Izzy want to.
So Izzy compromised by building the cottage and hiring home nurses. After a year there, Sylvie’s health improved and she moved into a retirement village where she’s still oying strong. I’m sure she’ll die “unexpectedly” at the age of a hundred and something.
Sylvie’s defection meant the cottage was empty, furnished, and available. Given my circumstances, it would have been foolish of me to refuse Izzy’s offer to let me stay there. Of course, the tiny detail that the cottage is a mere stone’s throw from my own house is something I chose to ignore. Besides, it isn’t as if I’m right next door. We live in a swanky neighborhood where most of the houses sell for half a mil or more and the wooded lots are big enough to erect a good-sized parking lot. All I can see of my house from the cottage is a small section of the roof.
The cottage was meant to be a temporary way station, though so far, “temporary” had lasted a little over two months: sixty-seven days of hiding away and wallowing on my pity pot. And despite what Izzy thinks, I have a very good reason for hiding. Small towns aren’t particularly conducive to privacy. Fart with your windows open and the news will likely make it across town faster than the wind can carry the smell. Sorenson is no exception, and given that several people witnessed my hysterical flight from the OR with David chasing after me as he struggled to do up his pants, I have little doubt that most of the townsfolk know every sordid detail.
I finally surfaced from my self-imposed exile a few days ago, and that was because I had to. I’m broke. The pitiful severance pay I had the hospital mail to Izzy’s address—four weeks of accrued vacation time that I used as notice so I wouldn’t have to show my face at work again—is almost gone. I’ve spent the bulk of it on essential food items like chocolate and cheesecake, though a few bucks (as Izzy well knows) have gone toward counseling from my two favorite therapists: Ben & Jerry. And another month of rent is due soon—not that Izzy would toss me out if I didn’t pay—hell, he’s willing to let me stay in the cottage indefinitely for free. But pride is about the only thing I have left at this point and, warped as it is, setting up house in a Frigidaire box seems preferable to taking a handout.
I’m just as determined to avoid asking David for help. Our checking account is a joint one and the checkbook is in David’s desk at home. All of the credit cards are in his name, too, and while I don’t think David is mean enough to freeze all the accounts, I can’t be certain. And I sure as hell don’t want to risk further humiliation by going to the bank to find out. Besides, trying to sneak a few measly bucks here and there isn’t my style. I want to earn my money fair and square and with my pride intact—by nailing David’s ass to the wall in a highly messy divorce proceeding.
Once again it was Izzy who saved the day, this time by offering me the job as his assistant. While the actual work it entailed did give me pause, I knew I couldn’t afford to be picky. When I tried to think about nonmedical jobs I had enough training for, the only thing I came up with was prostitution. And then I realized that, in one way, the clientele at this new job were perfect: they were probably the only people in town who didn’t know the sordid saga of David and me.
So thanks to Izzy I have a new job and a new home. I have a chance to start over and leave a painful past behind. And as I sit here looking out the window at the distant flash of headlights from a car pulling into David’s driveway, I tell myself I don’t really give a rat’s ass who might be visiting.
But I do. It’s perverse and stupid and destined to cause me pain, but I have to know.
Which means there is at least one other job I qualify for: that of the village idiot.
Chapter 3
I’m not sure what haute couture dictates for night spying, but it really doesn’t matter since my choices are severely limited. In my hasty flight from the house two months ago, I shoved what I could into a couple of suitcases. Several times I’ve thought about going back to retrieve more stuff—I still have my key, so it would be simple enough to get in, assuming David hasn’t done something drastic like change the locks. But I’m afraid. Not of David, but of myself and the strength of my convictions. Loneliness is a powerful motivator.
Fortunately, the meager clothing I do have includes a pair of black slacks and a black turtleneck. Worried that my blond hair will shine like a beacon in the night, I’m delighted I also have a brown scarf among my absconded treasures. I dress, tie the scarf around my head, and then give myself a quick perusal in the mirror. I look like the bastard love child of Mrs. Peele and Zorro but it will have to do.
It’s early October and the night air has a bracing bite to it. Halfway through the woods my nose starts to run and I swipe at it with my sleeve, leaving a shimmering slug trail that glistens in the light of the full moon. Soon I am standing behind a tree at the edge of Izzy’s property, gazing across a wide expanse of yard at a lit window in what used to be my home. The blinds are drawn, but unless David or his new hussy has seen fit to replace them, I know there is a small gap on one side. David may be good at fixing people, but when it comes to household projects he is sadly inept. When he installed the brackets for the blinds—a project he insisted on doing himself so he wouldn’t have to pay someone else—he got one of the brackets half an inch higher than the other. As a result, the blinds hang at an angle, leaving a narrow gap on one side of the windowsill.
I glance over at the driveway and see a gray BMW parked next to David’s Porsche; Karen Owenby drives a gray BMW.
I make my way across the yard knowing the house is set far enough back from the road that no one driving by can see me. When I reach the window, the bottom of it looms tauntingly a foot above my head, and after trying a couple of jumps I realize I’ll never get high enough long enough to see anything. Frustrated but determined, I skirt around the house and find a wheelbarrow in the backyard with a small pile of pine bark mulch in it. I steer it around front, park it beneath the window, climb atop the mulch, and peer through the glass.
David is sprawled on the couch in front of the gas fire-place, his legs extended in front of him, the amber light from the sterile flame dancing across his face and making his blond hair shimmer. I can tell he is restless; one foot keeps time to some imaginary beat and his face bears an expression of tired impatience. A shadow falls over him as a dark-haired figure steps up to the couch: Karen Owenby.
She doesn’t look very happy—in fact, it looks as if she and David are having one hell of a row—and I try to find some solace in that even as I feel the last tenuous threads of my heart give way. Karen is pacing back and forth in front of the couch, pausing occasionally to wag a finger in David’s direction. The house is too well built for me to hear what she is saying, but the shrill tone of her words is unmistakable.
She pauses a moment, hands on her hips, torso bent forward, her jaw flapping a mile a minute. And I see David’s expression change; his brow draws down in anger, his eyes narrow to an icy glint. He pushes off the couch suddenly, making Karen backpedal so fast she nearly falls. David grabs her by the shoulders, and at first I think he is trying to keep her from toppling over. Then I realize he isn’t steadying her, he’s shaking her.
Karen’s hand whips up and slaps his cheek so hard I can hear the thwack of skin against skin
