Restoration: A Novel (Contemporary / Women's Fiction) (11 page)

She laughed and used the footrest wrapped around the
barstool to hoist herself back up.  “I’ll listen to your Mum, too.”

“And who might I be walking home this fine evening?”

“Tess.”

“Tess.”  He smiled and nodded as if he approved of her
name.  “Glad to know you.  I’m Conner.”

She watched Conner go through his routine as he closed
down the bar.  After washing and stacking the glasses, emptying the cash
register and wiping down the bar, he walked out from behind it.  Tess was the
only patron left.

“Nothing like a nice refreshing walk to end the night,” he
said as he escorted her outside.  The chilly fall air nipped at them.  While
they walked, he entertained her with stories of the silly things customers said
and did.  When they reached the steps outside her apartment, he dropped his
head like a shy boy.

“Might I give you a kiss goodnight?”

She doubted he wanted to end the night on a kiss alone. 
Most likely, he expected an invitation into her apartment, but the men she
invited up started out as dates in the beginning of the evening, not as
strangers.  Still, she liked his style.  He had the good manners to attempt a
seduction with a courtly routine and just enough chivalry to make him seem
decent and caring.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and he followed her
lead as he embraced her at the waist.  His mouth warmed hers as their tongues
exchanged caresses.  The chill that crept through her body on the walk home
receded in the wake of his arousing kiss.  He gently pressed his groin against
hers and she responded by standing firm and not backing away.  When their lips
parted, she took his hand and led him through the building’s front door and up
the steps to her apartment. 

She inserted her key into the lock, but before she could
turn it, he cupped her face in his hands, pressed his lips against hers, and
urgently kissed her, attempting to stir her passion and remind her of the kiss
that had brought them to her building.  She interrupted his lobbying by turning
her head and unlocking the door. 

She didn’t need this last kiss to convince her to sleep
with him.  She’d made that decision already.  Their destiny was sealed, at
least for the next hour. 

Tess didn’t bother with the lights; instead, she led
Conner through her darkened apartment, his fingertips hooked on to her.  When
they entered her bedroom, the scent of Ben’s red roses greeted them.

“I see ya have another admirer besides me self.”

“ ’Tis true.”  Tess attempted to imitate his brogue.

“A jealous husband or boyfriend isn’t going to come
through that door, is he now?”  Conner tried concealing his apprehension
beneath a chuckle.

Tess lit a small candle on her dresser.  It gave off just
enough light to make their features discernible.  She pulled off her sweater
and slipped out of her bra.  In the flickering candlelight, she watched his
eyes travel to her breasts. 

“No one comes through that door unless I invite them,” she
said.  “You’re the only one with an invitation tonight.”

Conner grinned and hastily made his way to her.  His hands
cupped her breasts.  As he caressed them, he let out a soft moan, brushed her
hair away with his face, and began kissing and suckling her neck.  While he
caressed her with one hand, his other hand retreated and began the cumbersome
task of unbuttoning his shirt and unfastening his zippered jeans. 

When he finished undressing, he unbuttoned her chinos,
then knelt on one knee to pull them to her ankles.  She stepped out of them and
he tossed them aside.  While his tongue traced a line downward from her navel,
he reached into his pocket and pulled out a condom.

Tess glanced down, stroking the back of his head.  “You
came prepared.”

“A regular Boy Scout I am.  You think it a mite too
presumptuous?”  He grinned and flicked his tongue against her belly.

She wove her fingers through his thick, dark hair and
playfully tugged on it.  “I think it’s time to earn your merit badge.”

“Aye.”  Conner stood and surprised her by picking her up
and carrying her to the bed.  He lowered her onto the mattress and with his
knees pressed into it, he straddled her.  He sat up and hovered over her.  She
heard the condom wrapper tear open and watched while he expertly sheathed himself.

He reached behind himself and slipped one finger between
her legs.  She flinched and a broad smile graced his face.  “Just checking to
see if you came prepared as well.”

She moaned, anticipating the moment she’d feel him inside
of her.  Conner reached for the flowers on the nightstand and drew one rose
from the vase.  Ben’s rose.

“What are you doing?”  Her panicked words hurried out of
her mouth.

Conner pulled the petals from the stem and sprinkled them
over her chest and in her hair.  “I thought you lassies liked these romantic
gestures.”

After the last petal floated onto her breasts, he stroked
her cheek.  His fingers smelled of her and of Ben’s roses.  She closed her
eyes.  What in God’s name was she doing in bed, swimming in Ben’s roses, about
to be screwed by a stranger? 

Conner lowered his body on top of her.  She wanted to tell
him this was all a mistake, but before her words could form a barrier between
them, the tip of his penis, guided by his hand, already was prodding into her. 
After a few thrusts, he pushed deep inside of her, groaning and pumping his
hips.

She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, hoping he’d
climax quickly and leave.  But as the night wore on, he demonstrated his
virility by sheathing himself two more times and entering her.

 Each time she submitted to him, the scent of roses
blossomed stronger.  The bile in her stomach collected in her throat,
threatening to spill out of her mouth.

When Conner stirred in the early morning, Tess feigned
sleep.  She felt him hovering over her, checking for signs of wakefulness. 
After a few moments gazing down at her, he kissed her forehead, dressed and
left her bedroom.  When she heard the front door shut, she hurried from bed,
collected every rose petal littering her sheets and stripped the bedding. 

She stuffed her soiled sheets into a laundry basket in the
closet and hurried to the bathroom, where she turned on the shower.  When a
steamy mist coated the mirror, Tess stepped under the hot spray and stood still
while the water pelted her without melting away the discomfort she felt wearing
her own skin.  After a few minutes, she reached for a bar of soap and lathered
up her body. 

Even after the soap swirled down the drain, she still felt
the residue of sex in the soreness between her legs.  She shouldn’t have
allowed him to enter her as many times as he had.  Hell, she shouldn’t have let
him in at all. 

Tess slapped off the faucet and the steam evaporated.  She
stared down at the drain as the last swirl of water disappeared into it,
wishing she could slip down the drain as well and wondering if this is what
shame felt like.  She’d never before regretted the ease with which she’d
slipped into sex, only that some lovers left her unfulfilled.

The bathroom fan unclouded the air as she dried herself
off.  As the mirror defogged, she avoided her reflection and quickly slipped
into her robe and into her bedroom.  Ben’s roses seemed to mock her from the
nightstand.  Last night, she’d kept her head turned sideways on her pillow so she
wouldn’t have to see them each time Conner climbed on top of her and urged her
legs apart with his knees.

Still, it was impossible to block Ben out of her mind
while the rose petal perfume filled her senses.

Clutching her robe, she stormed out of her bedroom and
slammed the door behind her.  She didn’t owe Ben anything.  Having sex on his
rose petals was at most tacky and in poor taste but certainly not a betrayal. 
Why was she feeling like she’d been unfaithful to him?

Cinching the belt, she suddenly reversed her actions and
hurried out of the white terry cloth robe, balled it up and threw it in the
corner.  She turned on the water again and this time drew a bath.  She searched
the cabinet under the sink for her bath beads.  She grabbed the box.  Jasmine. 
Another floral scent.  Too reminiscent of roses, too close to what she wanted
to drown. 

Tess dropped the box and slammed the cabinet door shut
before plunging into the colorless, odorless water.  She soaked in the tub
until the skin on her hands and feet puckered like dried fruit.  After she
dressed in her robe again, she went into the kitchen and started a pot of
coffee. 

She had two hours to kill before getting ready for work. 
She was glad Francesca had reviewed chemistry with her yesterday when her mind
was clearer.  By lunchtime, she knew she’d be dragging.

While the coffeemaker trickled a stream of dark brew into
the pot, Tess dragged the box with her corrupted artwork from behind the sofa
to the coffee table.  She cinched the belt on her robe again, sat down on the
sofa, opened the box and began emptying it.  Piles of envelopes crowded the
table before she came to the bottom of the box and a small stack of
newspapers. 

She carefully retrieved the newspapers, then flipped
through the pages while scanning the series of articles she hadn’t seen in
years.  There were four articles that had run on consecutive days.  These
articles also were to blame for changing her life.  A lesser evil than Randall
Wright, but an evil just the same.  They’d given the citizens of St.
Petersburg, Florida an intimate peek into the other lives ruined by the vicious
serial killer and had earned the reporter who wrote them a Pulitzer Prize.

Her father had tried shielding her from the stories, but
she knew of their existence from the rack cards inserted into the promotional
slot in front of every newspaper box in the Tampa Bay area.  It wasn’t
difficult getting her hands on the widely distributed newspaper.

Love Story? 
The two-inch-tall headline introducing
the four-part series challenged readers with its question mark.  The first
story in the series,
The Groom
, was a mini-biography on Wright.  It
covered his upbringing in a household headed up by an abusive father,
recollections from teachers and classmates, his removal from his home by the
state of Louisiana, permanent placement in the foster care system there and his
early brushes with the law.  It continued with what appeared to be his redemption
following his first marriage and his career in construction. 

The story highlighted Wright’s charisma.  Those who knew
him during various periods of his life spoke about him glowingly: affable,
likeable, charming, courteous, good-natured and easygoing.  Tess wondered how
his victims would’ve described him after he’d lured them into his van with his
charm: evil, sadistic and merciless.

For years, the site of construction vans on the interstate
made her shudder as she imagined the horrible scenes that had played out in the
back of Wright’s van.  He’d picked up victims in one state, killed them in the
next and dumped them in another.  He had a career and a compulsion all rolled
into one.  The detectives on the case had described his van as a killing vehicle. 

The article affirmed Wright’s evil nature.  He wasn’t a
crazed maniac flailing about and talking to himself or someone whose outward
behavior warned others to stay away.  Instead, he hijacked social convention,
disguised himself as someone a mother wanted her daughter to bring home: a
polite young man, good-looking and charming.

It was this transformation from demonic to debonair that
Tess found most frightening.  There was no warning, no outward sign to signal
danger to those who wandered too close. 

Her mother’s reaction to the article was the opposite of
hers.  It affirmed for Alish Wright that the man she’d traded in her life for
couldn’t have committed the crimes he was accused of.  The overwhelming
physical and circumstantial evidence never interfered with her belief in her
husband’s innocence.

Tess’s fingertips brushed over the color picture of the
woman she recognized but didn’t really know anymore.  Standing in her wedding
gown, her mother beamed into the camera after having taken her vows in the
visitor’s lounge near death row. 

Alish’s happy smile introduced the second story in the
series,
The Bride
.  The article used the same mini-biography formula: an
only child, a happy childhood, parents who overindulged her, her marriage to
Tess’s father, life as the wife of a prominent physician, and interviews with
friends past and present.  The article portrayed Alish as complex and flawed,
someone whose emotional maturity had short-circuited at an early age. 

The words used to describe her after she’d met Wright
painted a picture of two seemingly different people: needy, cultured, insecure,
elegant, vulnerable, generous, immature, polished and whimsical.  Tess conceded
it was possible her mother was all these things.

The third article,
The Honeymoon
, addressed their
lives after the wedding, focusing on Wright’s regimented existence on death row
and Alish’s life centering on weekend pilgrimages to the state prison and her
crusade to overturn his convictions.

Tess flipped through the final article,
The Stepfamily—The
Other Victims
, and grimaced at her eighth-grade class picture.  Next to it
was one of her drawings, a horse grazing in a meadow.  Cassie and Brice’s
portraits also looked out from the article that went on to describe in detail
the lives of Alish’s children before and after she married Wright.  It was rich
in intimate details about each of them. 

None of their friends or family ever admitted to
cooperating with the reporter, but there was too much personal information in
the article to excuse it as anything else but a betrayal of trust from some or
all of them.  Even Brice’s bed-wetting that surfaced during his parents’
divorce was there for the entire population of the Tampa Bay area to read.