Save Me: A dark romantic thriller (Novel) (2 page)

It was roughly three months ago, when Ashley had told her husband the exciting news about her being pregnant.

Peter Ferguson, a commercial window washer, had just returned home from work.

“Me a daddy?” In his hat and stained coveralls, Peter had gone over to the kitchen sink to get a glass of water. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I went to see Dr. Colbert this afternoon. It turns out the home pregnancy test is right.”

To pay tribute to the joyful event, Ashley had cooked her husband’s favorite meal, southern deep-fried chicken, steamed broccoli and cauliflower, with mashed potatoes and gravy. The delectable aroma of the hot dinner rivaled that of any esteemed restaurant.

“A baby. Do you realize how much this is going to change our lives?”

“I do. And hopefully for the better.”

“Come here you.”

They hugged and kissed.

The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned. Although Ashley and Peter hadn’t been against the idea either. Deeply in love since high school, there didn’t seem to be a more logical way to strengthen their bond than by starting a family.

“I love you honey. I love you so much.”

“And I love you,” Peter uttered sweetly, with his arms wrapped around Ashley’s tiny hourglass waist.

She beamed, went in for another kiss. “So what are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”

“It doesn’t matter. Either would be fine.”

“That’s how I feel. Oh, Peter. I’m so happy.”

“Me too.”

“I can’t believe this is happening. I feel like I‘m dreaming. But can we afford a child? That’s the only thing that worries me.”

“Well, it won’t be easy,” he admitted, strolling over to the stove to have a look at dinner. With the aid of an oven mitt, Peter removed the stainless steel lid from the pot of steaming gravy. “We can manage though. I can ask Norm to give me some overtime. If I tell him that you‘re pregnant, I’m sure he’d give me the extra hours. Plus, if it became necessary, I could always sell my Chevy.”

“No dear! That car is a classic. I wouldn’t want you to have to do that.”

“Why, what difference would it make? Norm picks me up in morning. And every time we go somewhere, we usually use your car.”

From the cupboard, Ashley took out a couple of plates. They clinked and clanked.

“I still wouldn’t want you to have to get rid of it.”

With his short, copper-brown hair, and tall, broad-shouldered build, Peter was not only handsome; he was also responsible. Each paycheck he earned, he put toward their expenses. He never surrendered to temptation. Whenever a desire to spend his money on other things arose, he would promptly head to the bank and deposit his income. Peter’s window washer job paid a decent salary, $15.00 an hour. The problem was he and Ashley had made a few bad financial investments and had gotten deep into credit card debt, which had been taking them seemingly forever to pay off.

“And before the baby is born,” he added, “we’re going to have to find another place to live. This one bedroom house won’t be big enough.”

They sat down at the table. Using a long wooden spoon, Ashley began to divvy out the potatoes.

“We could always move in with my mother,” she suggested, smiling. “At least for a while until we get ahead.” Claire Whittaker lived a half mile away at the same residence where Ashley grew up.

“No!” Peter objected, reaching for the boat of gravy. “I couldn’t handle that.”

“Why? My mom already said she’d love to have us.” At times, for Ashley, being raised without a father had been tough, especially when her peers would boast about how wonderful their dads were. When she was eight, she had lost her father Walter, a notorious hard drinker, to cirrhosis of the liver. However, Ashley, who did not have any siblings, had not been deprived. Her mother had done her best to give her a happy childhood.

Any pet Ashley had wanted like her Jack Russell terrier Brady; her many cats, parakeets, without arguing, her mother had always allowed her to have them. Throughout her youth, Ashley also had an abundance of art supplies, so that she could paint whenever she pleased. The strong emotional connection, a child requires from a caretaker had been there for her as well.

“Ash, I know you mean well,” Peter said, now biting into a crispy drumstick. “But the reason why I left home at eighteen was because I didn’t want to live by other people’s rules.”

“Peter, my mom isn’t like your mother. She wouldn’t drive us crazy with constant nagging . . . Besides; she could help out with the kid.”

“Doing what?”

“Babysitting. That way I wouldn’t have to quit my job at the pharmacy. The last time I checked, pampers, clothing, stuff like that, hasn’t gotten any cheaper.”

He frowned. “Nothing gets cheaper. We’ve already agreed on that.”

“Would you at least think about it?”

“Okay. Though I‘m not making any promises.”

***

After she had become tired of using her fork to push her food around her plate, Ashley stood up and announced, “Guess what I have for dessert?”

“Dessert? Ash, how can you be thinking of dessert when you haven’t even finished the main course?”

“I know. I’m not hungry.” She wasn’t lying. All day, Ashley had been too wound up to think about anything other than being pregnant.

“Then what’d you make so much food for?”

“I didn’t know what else to do with myself.” She opened the fridge and withdrew the chocolate cake, which she had baked earlier.

“Oh no! What’s that?” Peter asked, grinning. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes, my love.”

“Wow! You really went all out.”

“It was the least I could do. And this isn’t store bought either. Here’s my proof.” She showed Peter the empty Betty Crocker box. Then, as soon as Ashley had found a spatula, she carried the cake over to the table. On it, written with vanilla frosting, it read, TO MY LOVING HUSBAND, WE’RE GOING TO NEED A CRIB.

“Cut me a big piece,” Peter said, salivating.

“All right. Wait though. Before I do, I want to go get my camera.” She went into the other room, and from her dresser drawer, located the Digital Nikon.

Ashley had dozens of photo albums. She was the type of person that wanted to capture every special moment in life. Although she scarcely remembered her dad (Walter Whittaker used to own a local diner), Ashley was thankful her mother had supplied her with many pictures.

Ashley also had a large portrait of her father, done in impressionistic style, which she had painted. It hung above the sofa in the living room, and showed her father in his customary diner outfit, a white t-shirt, apron and cap. The portrait, set in a nice wood frame, was an exceptional piece of art, particularly when one took into consideration that Ashley had created the painting at such a young age, about six or seven.

She had never had lessons. Like a gifted child who could learn how to play an instrument skillfully, without knowing how to read music, Ashley could bring her dreamlike visions to life in an extraordinary way that no art class could ever teach. Peter hoped that someday her paintings would be on display in respected galleries around the country. Where onlookers could both appreciate and be in awe of his wife’s undeniable genius.

“All right,” Ashley said to Peter when she returned. “Say cheese!”

He did. Above his lip, he had smeared chocolate icing, in the shape of a mustache.

“Yuck!” Ashley teased. “What’d you do that for?”

“Because I want to look like one of the Three Musketeers. From now on, Ash, that’s what you, the baby, and me are going to be. The Three Musketeers. ‘All for one and one for all.’”

Ashley blushed. From the bedroom, she had also fetched one of her albums. Most of the snap shots in it were of she and Peter’s wedding, as well as their honeymoon in the Bahamas.

“What’d you bring that in here for?”

“I wanted to show you this section here.” She indicated the end of the thick volume where the sheets were still blank. “These remaining pages will be reserved for all of our baby pictures. That way we’ll have our wedding recorded, our honeymoon, and everything related to the child’s birth. It’ll make this the perfect photo album. Something we’ll cherish forever.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Women,” he joked, while indulging in the tasty dessert. “I must have married the most sentimental gal in Jersey.”

“Hey, are you picking on me?”

“Yes gorgeous. But in a good way.”

“Ha ha!”

“Hey, maybe you can also do some paintings of the baby.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I considered that.”

“You have to hun. You’re such a talented artist. I know the paintings would be awesome.”

***

About an hour passed when the phone rang. Ashley, who sat on the living room sofa, watching TV, let Peter answer it.

“Hi. What’s up?”

“Who is it?” She could not think of anyone, at this time, who might want to converse with her husband.

“My folks.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry. This shouldn’t take long.”

Eventually, when he clicked off, Ashley asked, “Who told your parents I was pregnant?”

“My brother.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No.”

A board-certified orthopedic surgeon, Brad Ferguson Jr. resided in Cape May with his wife Eve, and their young son Jeffery. With nearly a thirteen-year age gap between them, Peter and his sibling weren’t close. They had what Ashley had once regarded as a relationship of indifference.

“When did you speak to Brad?”

“A few minutes ago. I called his office while I was straightening the garage. So before I get into what my mom and dad said, the encouraging news is my brother, despite what a jerk he can be, told me he’s happy for us.”

“Really? That‘s somewhat surprising.”

“Yes. And next weekend, Eve invited us to dinner. They’re serving prime rib.”

“Whoa! I‘ll have to find something nice to wear.”

“Now to the bad news.”

“Bad news?” Ashley cringed and then used the remote control to turn the TV down. “What’s that?”

“My parents think you should get an abortion.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. They think, at this early stage of our marriage, if we bring a baby into the world, it would be a huge error in judgment.”

That brought tears to Ashley’s eyes. The last thing she wanted to do was breakdown, yet she couldn’t help it. Get an abortion! How could Peter’s folks say something so mean? Why couldn’t they accept that their son wasn’t going to leave her for some rich girl, no matter what? And that it wasn’t about what they wanted, it was about what he wanted? Just because she and Peter were young, didn’t mean what they felt couldn’t be real.

“Ash,” Peter put his arm around her. “Please don’t cry. C’mon! I know it hurts hearing that. It hurts me too. But please-”

“Don’t those stupid people realize they’re talking about a human life?” She indicated her stomach. “This Peter, what is growing inside of me, our baby, is already alive.”

He sighed. “First of all, hun, I understand that. And second of all, they’re still my parents, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bad mouth them.”

“That’s just swell. Now you’re defending them, huh? Your parents who refer to me as ’that Ashley.’ Like I’m some kind of loser. Why would you even listen to them? Your mom and dad live in Florida. They‘re barely a part of our lives. Don’t you get it, they‘re using this as an excuse to try to break us up? They never liked me and they never will.”

“Look,” said Peter. “I’m not defending anyone. You heard me, they said they think we should either do that or put the baby up for adoption.”

“Yeah whatever.” Appalled, Ashley pushed his arm away. “Isn’t your rich conceited mother lovely to suggest, as another alternative, we put the child up for adoption? I will admit it’s a step up from having the kid sucked out of my stomach with a vacuum cleaner.”

Was Peter having second thoughts? Was he suddenly not thrilled at the prospect of becoming a daddy? Oh Lord, Ashley hoped not. If he was having doubts, she didn’t know what she would do.

Peter’s parents had a home in Fort Lauderdale, and were part owners of an exclusive country club. While growing up, when his family had lived in New Jersey, they had a share in another golf course, not far from Wichita.

Nowadays, because he had chosen to be with Ashley, Peter was cut off from his family’s resources. They didn’t like Ashley. Someone from a middleclass background was not what the Ferguson’s had wanted for their son. Rather than become a blue-collar worker, they had wished Peter would have gone to college to become a lawyer or a doctor like his older brother.

“You know. I’ll never leave you, Ash. I don’t care what my parents think. I know I made the right decision.”

“And I’ll never leave you either,” she declared, caressing Peter’s hand. “But why are you telling me that? You suddenly saying ‘you’ll never leave me makes me scared.”

“Because some guys, especially guys my age, once they have a kid, start to feel trapped.”

“Oh my God! You feel trapped?”

“No! That’s not what I’m getting at. What I’m trying to say, is I don’t view what we have as a starter-kit marriage. I also want you to know Ashley; you’ll always be my number one girl. And I promise I’m going to work even harder than I already do, to give this child whatever he or she is going to need.”

***

However, just one month later, those optimistic plans for the future would be altered forever.

In August, Peter’s window washer company had been cleaning a building in Atlantic City near the Trump Plaza, when one of the fiercest thunderstorms of the summer had rolled into southern New Jersey.

Peter was not wearing his safety harness. He had just taken it off. Therefore, when the gust of wind, estimated to be upwards of seventy-five miles per hour, had hit that part of the tall structure, there was nothing to prevent him from falling.

When Ashley had learned of her husband‘s tragic death, she was shaken to the core, and had cried hysterically for days.

Emotionally, those tears had yet to dry.