Save Me: A dark romantic thriller (Novel) (26 page)

“Honey, no! I‘m not going to do that.”

“Huh? And would you mind explaining to me why not?”

Blake informed his spouse that he had already told the new tenant she could move in. “And don’t worry. She paid me in cash.”

“I don’t care what she paid you with.”

“Dear,” Blake tried to negotiate a compromise. “Give her a chance. You’d like this kid.”

Lavern grumbled. In the past twenty-years of their fifty-year marriage, she’d been the dominant one.

“Where does this new tenant work?” she asked.

“Don‘t know. Maybe she makes a living selling her art.”

“That’s another thing I’m worried about. She’ll wind up staying, and then come the end of the month; she’ll say she doesn’t have the rest of the rent money.” Lavern Cromwell shook her head and then shooed away one of the loud birds, which had nearly landed on her head. “I don’t know of too many painters who earn a respectable living. The only time they’re usually worth anything is when they’re dead.”

Amused by his wife’s cynicism, Blake was forced to give up the rest of the breadcrumbs.

The ravenous gulls had become too hostile.

There must have been at least fifty of them. One bird had even managed to snatch the bread bag from Blake’s hand.

“That filthy bastard!” he snapped. “Did you see what that scavenger did? Plum near bit my finger off.”

His wife busted into laughter. “That’s probably because we’re starting to look so old the sea gulls think were scarecrows . . . So you really think I’ll like our new tenant?”

“Yes. She seems friendly.”

“Hmn.”

“You will. Trust me.”

Suddenly Lavern tipped her eyes up toward the sunny blue sky, and then uttered, “1853 I think he was born. He was Dutch.”

“Who‘s that?”

“Vincent Van Gogh. I once read a biography about him. That man had impressive credentials, particularly when you take into account that he never had any formal education. And I don’t think he really learned how to paint until he was around twenty-seven. Talk about a late bloomer.”

From his shirt pocket, Blake withdrew a box of menthol-flavored Vick‘s cough drops. He had a cold. “Wasn’t Van Gogh that guy who chopped off his ear?”

“That was him, yes. He was a masterful painter though. So were Mary Cassatt and Leonardo da Vinci. I also liked-” Lavern ran off a substantial list of other legendary artists, all of whom Blake had either never heard of, or whom he’d heard of, but wasn’t familiar with anything they may have painted.

Unlike her husband, Lavern Cromwell had a strong knowledge of culture. She read enormously. Biographies, novels, short stories, poetry, philosophical volumes.

Blake on the other hand was a man’s man.

He was handy with tools. Hardly ever read, except an occasional article in the sport’s section. He was the type of person, who, despite his advanced age, could not stay cooped up in the house for more than a day at a time. He had to be outdoors. As Lavern had once remarked, it was as if her husband was allergic to the furniture.

“See?” Blake articulated. “You and our new tenant would get along famously. The two of you could sit around discussing art mumbo jumbo.”

“I might get along with her,” Lavern finally owned up. “The question is, dear; would our new tenant be able to tolerate an old geezer like me?”

“Ah, you’re not that old,” Blake tried to soothe. “We tease each other about our ages. But the one thing we have going is we’re still young at heart. I say over the weekend sometime, you go over there and introduce yourself.”

“Okay. Maybe I will.”

All at once, by the time Ashley had reached the kitchen, she was so out of it on the morphine and the chardonnay; she could not remember her mother’s telephone number.

She had made several bumbling attempts at dialing it, but kept getting the wrong residence. This was the same number Ashley had had since she was thirteen. Therefore, for her to forget it was akin to her forgetting her name.

“What number are you trying to reach?” someone asked. It was a female voice.

“I’m looking for Claire Whittaker,” Ashley garbled into the mouthpiece. “Isn’t this-” She recited what she thought were the accurate digits.

“No. I’m sorry,” the person replied. “No one by the name Claire Whittaker lives here. Perhaps you dialed the wrong area code.”

“Yeah . . . Could be.” Rather than hang up and try again, Ashley clicked the phone off. She realized if she could not remember the number, then obviously she must not be in any condition to talk.

She figured her mother was likely with her meddlesome friend Rachel Gilbert, who, just for the record, Ashley had begun to despise. Over the summer, Rachel had disapproved of her drinking to the point where Ashley could no longer tolerate it.

What a pain in the butt Rachel could be! And what gave her the right to pass judgment anyway?

When she was young, Rachel Gilbert had been a pot-smoking hippie. The same could be said about her husband.

***

There had been one day back in July when Rachel, as far as Ashley was concerned, had definitely crossed the line.

That afternoon Ashley was on the porch, sitting in the swing-seat.

With the hot sun blazing down from the turquoise sky, she’d been hanging out with the baby on her lap. At her side, on the table, Ashley had a cold glass of lemonade, which she’d secretly spiked with gin.

Prior to stepping outside, Rachel had been in the house chatting with Claire. On this occasion she wore, what Ashley thought was the most hideous summer dress she’d ever seen; so gaudy it made her eyes cringe. What is more, Rachel stunk of tacky perfume.

“Enjoying your lemonade?” she asked, smirking.

Inside Ashley’s mother had the vacuum cleaner on. Therefore, there was no way Claire could hear what was being said.

“Actually I’m enjoying my lemonade quite a bit,” Ashley had replied, reaching for her tall beaded glass.

“You might be fooling your mother,” Rachel declared callously. “However, you’re not leaving me in a smokescreen.” She had shaken her head pitifully. “I’m on to you, Ashley. I know what you’re up to. We’ve all been drinking the same lemonade today, yet it doesn’t seem to affect your mother or me the way it affects you . . . Hmn. I wonder why?”

“Please don’t piss me off!” Ashley had snapped. “Okay Rachel? Just go back in the house.” The two, for a while, had had not been on the best of speaking terms. “You’re opinion means nothing to me.”

“Of course it doesn‘t. Years ago your father didn’t want to hear what anyone had to say either. And look where that got him.”

Ashley did not appreciate the comment. Who was Rachel Gilbert to bring up her father, who had been deceased for most of her life?

“Do you know what killed him?”

“Yes,” Ashley answered, becoming more aggravated. “He had a bad liver.”

“And do you know what caused him to have a bad liver?”

Silence.

“He couldn’t get off the sauce, that’s why he had a bad liver. His physician had warned him years in advance, when the cirrhosis was in its early stages, that if he didn’t cut back on the whiskey, it would eventually kill him.”

This heartbreaking commentary was not something Ashley liked to remember.

“You have his blood in you. And you know what they say about that in relation to alcoholism. It‘s hereditary.”

Ashley sighed. “Rachel, where do you get off telling me this?”

“All I’m trying to get through to you is that getting sloshed isn’t the answer. When you get drunk, it upsets your mother. And when she’s upset, I’m upset.”

“Hidey ho hum,” Ashley ignored her. “I’m not listening anymore. Talk to the hand.”

“Oh. That’s real mature. Tune me out by telling me to talk to your hand. What are you in eighth grade?”

“Just leave me alone, Rachel. I came out here to relax. Not to listen to you preach. If I wanted to listen to someone preach, I’d go to church. Just because my father had a serious drinking problem, that doesn’t have any bearing on me. We’re two totally different people. Furthermore, since he isn’t here to defend himself, I would prefer that you don‘t discuss him.”

Evidently, feeling trounced by that last remark, Rachel had gone back inside.

Ashley did not hate her mother‘s friend. Rachel was, in many respect, like the Aunt she had never had. The problem was, sometimes Rachel did not know when to stay out of other people‘s affairs.

It was during those frustrating times when Ashley would become sour toward her.

***

Now, while still standing in the kitchen of her beachside cottage, Ashley found herself confronted with yet another difficult situation; she had locked the doors in hope of avoiding Blake Cromwell, but had not taken into account that the kids she had met earlier, would be the ones who would pay her an unexpected visit.

Ashley peeked through the window (the one above the sink) and saw Caitlyn and Brent standing in front of her easel. The oil painting of the pirate ship was still wet. Ashley crossed her fingers that they wouldn’t touch it.

“I bet you a million dollars,” Caitlyn said to her younger brother, “that you could never paint something like this.”

“I could too,” Brent bragged, kicking sand on his sister‘s ankles. “I draw pictures in school. Lots of them. Sharks. Whales. Drawings of superheroes. They’re good too. Mrs. Beckett even has some of them hanging on the bulletin board.”

Caitlyn giggled. “Get out! I’ve seen your drawings. They stink.”

“They do not.”

“They do to.”

“Do not.”

Eventually, when they stopped harassing one another, Ashley watched in horror as Brent sauntered over to the red picnic table where she had left her wine goblet.

“The lady forgot her apple juice,” the boy announced, about to sample some of the chardonnay.

Suddenly Ashley was extremely angry at herself for not bringing the glass inside. Yet she was also infuriated at these children for invading her space.

“Yuck! This stuff smells gross. Like vinegar.”

“Put that glass down!” Caitlyn scolded, slapping her brother’s hand.

Fortunately, for Ashley, Brent obeyed.

Then to her dismay, the children knocked on the door. Quietly, Ashley stood with her ear pressed against the wood, waiting for them to leave.

“I guess she can‘t hear us,” Brent said, surveying his sister‘s bewildered expression. “Let’s go around to the front.”

“All right.”

Oh no! Why did they have to be so persistent?

As it turned out, Ashley did not know whether she had a doorbell or not. When Blake was here, she did not think to ask.

While she gradually made her way into the sitting room, Ashley heard, through the screen, the kids talking.

“Did you push it?” Brent asked.

“Yeah. Twice. Did you hear it ring?”

“Nah. I didn‘t hear anything.”

There was a momentary pause, then, “What about now?”

“Nope. I didn’t hear it ring that time either.”

“Forget it,” said Caitlyn, shaking her head. “I guess the doorbell doesn’t work. We might as well come back some other day.”

Disappointed, brother and sister returned to the beach. From the kitchen window, Ashley watched them walk back toward the sand dunes.

With them now gone, she hurried out to the picnic table and retrieved her wine glass. Then, not knowing how else to occupy her time, Ashley tried to write in her journal, but it did not go so well.

She could barely form a coherent sentence. TROY. KIMBERLY. HER MOTHER. RACHEL. STELLA. THAT BITCH SARAH KLINE. BLAKE CROMWELL. THE TWO KIDS AT THE DOOR. Ashley could not deal with all of these thoughts simultaneously.

She feared she might be having a nervous breakdown.

***

Twenty minutes later, as reality grew darker, Ashley, in the sitting room, abruptly passed out and dropped to the floor.

Ka Clump!

Near her outstretched hand lay her black French hat, the spilled wine goblet, and the tiny bottle of morphine. Where her head had collided with the edge of the coffee table, a puddle of blood had begun to form.

“C’mon Claire,” Rachel said, after putting her teacup and saucer in the dishwasher. “You sitting by the phone isn’t going to make Ashley call you any sooner. Let’s go somewhere and have an early supper. My treat. If she does call, maybe she’ll leave a message.”

“No. You go ahead without me,” Claire urged. “I don’t have much of an appetite.” Aside from that, she was afraid that if Ashley did call, and got the answering machine, she might hang up.

“I’m not talking about Burger King or KFC,” Rachel added, while jingling her car keys. “I’ll treat you to someplace nice, like Rudy’s. You can order prime rib, and a big fat baked potato. You probably haven‘t had that in a while.”

Given the circumstances, Claire found the invitation ludicrous. “This coming from a woman who recently maxed out her Visa buying a three-hundred-dollar dress. No! I think I’ll take a rain check.”

In a tizzy, Rachel placed her hands on her hips and then forcefully sighed.

“For your information, I wasn’t intending to use a credit card.”

“I still don’t want to go,” Claire said. At the moment she was busy changing Kimberly‘s diaper. The odor of talcum powder masked the stench of urine. “Why don’t you take Mark out?”

In jest, Rachel averted her eyes toward the living room ceiling. “I think not! After making me take that dress back, my lovable husband can cook his own dinner tonight.”

“He’ll like that.”

“Anyway, I’ll give you an hour to change your mind. If you do decide you want to go out, I‘ll come back and pick you up.”

“Rach, really, I’m not going to change my mind. You go ahead without me.”

“Okay. Can’t say that I didn’t try.” Rachel left, shutting the door behind her.

***

By midnight, Ashley still had yet to phone.