Sweet Little Lies

Introduction

Short Stories

PRODIGAL
ME

WHERE’D YOU
GET THAT RED DRESS

THE
STORM

DREAM
WEAVER

DRIVE IT
LIKE IT’S STOLEN

DELAY

X

HAVE YOU
SEEN ME?

MADONNA IN
THE GRASS

CHIMERA

BITS AND
PIECES

KILLING
CAROL ANN

Novel Excerpts

ALL THE
PRETTY GIRLS

14

JUDAS
KISS

THE COLD
ROOM

THE
IMMORTALS

Acknowledgments

About JT
Ellison

Introduction

I’ve always looked at short stories as a way
to have a bit of fun with my writing. In my day job, I write a
series of thriller novels with a female homicide lieutenant as my
protagonist. There isn’t a lot of room for interpretation in police
procedurals. I’d written three novels before I ever tried my hand
at short fiction. But when I did, I discovered an entirely new
world.

I spent a great deal of time telling my peers
I couldn’t write short stories. They kept pushing me, and pushing
me, until I finally gave it a shot. That story was PRODIGAL ME. I
submitted it to Writer’s Digest, and promptly forgot about it. You
can imagine my surprise when I received an email from Chuck
Sambuchino saying I’d won an honorable mention in their annual
short fiction contest.

Perhaps I could write shorts after all.

Soon after, I attended my first writer’s
conference, where I met a fabulous writer named Duane Swierczynski.
I asked Duane about some short fiction markets, and he suggested I
send a story to his friend Bryon Quertermous, who ran an ezine
called Demolition. I quickly wrote another story and submitted it.
Bryon loved everything but the title, which we agreed to change to
X. It was my first published piece.

My love of the short form grew from there.
Flash Fiction, the art of writing a full story in less than 1,000
words, became my playground. It was a way to stretch my skills, to
delve into new genres. A fabulous website called Flashing in the
Gutters often published my flash pieces. I placed a long form story
in Spinetingler, KILLING CAROL ANN, and BJ Bourg at Mouth Full of
Bullets was kind enough to solicit a few stories. Eventually,
several of these stories were anthologized.

The worlds you are about to enter are little
slices, vignettes. Crimes of the heart, the mind and the soul. As
it says on the cover, short (short) stories. The bits and pieces
that fell from my mind while I was writing long form novels, the
ideas that didn’t have a place in my current work. Sweet little
lies. I do hope you’ll enjoy them.

—JT Ellison, December 2010

Short Stories

PRODIGAL ME

Killer Year: Stories to Die For, edited by
Lee Child, St. Martin’s Minotaur, January 2008

He’s not speaking to me again.

It’s happened before. I think the longest
we’ve ever gone without some sort of verbal communication is two
weeks. But that was back when he thought I’d tricked him and let
myself get pregnant. I hadn’t, but he didn’t want to hear that from
me. I remember it was two weeks because when I started to bleed, he
started talking. Apologies, for the most part. The black eye had
faded away by then too.

So I don’t usually become alarmed when he
quits conversing. I’m just not sure why I’m getting the silent
treatment. I wonder how long it’s going to last? It can actually be
quite nice, not having to make conversation. We can sit at the
kitchen table, each sipping from our respective coffee cups. I have
many cups. I decide which to use based on my mood each morning.
Today I have one of my favorites, decorated in loops and swirls of
color, abstract, joyful. That’s how I woke this morning, content,
but feeling a bit out of place. This was the perfect chalice to
represent my feelings. Yesterday it was the bone white with the
geometric triangular handle. All sharp edges and uncomfortable to
hold. No elegance there, befitting the dark nastiness that I’d felt
when I got up. But today was different. Better. Happy. Even without
speech.

I watched him from under my lashes, tasting
the bitter brew. He’d made the coffee before I arose. He’d been
doing that lately, and it was unusual. Normally I was the first to
the kitchen, the coffee was my responsibility. I certainly made a
better pot. I wondered if that was why he’d designated the coffee
to me in the first place, because his was lousy.

He was snapping the pages of the paper,
passing through them so quickly that I knew he wasn’t really
reading anything. He knew I was watching him, and he heaved a sigh
and laid the paper flat on the wood. He looked at me then, finally.
His eyes were bloodshot. Not attractive at all. When we’d first
met, he had the most beautiful blue eyes, a shade that matched the
sky on a crisp fall day. Today, they were muddy, a hint of brown in
the azure depths. He didn’t meet my eye, just stared at my
shoulder. I slid my silk dressing gown down just a bit, enough for
the smooth white skin above my collarbone to show. He dragged in a
breath, swept up his cup and threw it at the kitchen sink. It
shattered, and I rolled my eyes. Typical for him, communicating
through violence. For a smart man, he was so very stupid.

I glanced at the clock on the stove; it was
well past time for him to leave for work. I sat back in my chair,
ignoring him. The sooner he was out of here, the sooner I could
clean up his mess and start my own day.

He didn’t leave right away. He’d walked out
of the kitchen right after his temper tantrum, but went into his
study instead of heading out the front door. He generally preferred
that I stay out of his study. Even our maid, Marie-Cecile, was only
allowed in twice a week to vacuum and dust, but she was never
allowed to touch the desk proper. Those were his rules, and
Marie-Cecile stuck by them faithfully, even while she muttered
Haitian curses under her breath. It always gave me joy to see her
in there, hexing him for his transgressions.

It struck me that I hadn’t noticed
Marie-Cecile’s car in the drive. She came every day at 9:00
A.M.
like clockwork, with Sundays off.
With a house this size, you have to have someone to help with the
work. Besides, all of our friends had someone come in. Personally,
Marie-Cecile was the best of the lot, but perhaps I’m bragging.

Today was Thursday, and it was already 9:30
A.M.
Normally, I’d be at the club; my
Tuesday/Thursday golf group would be teeing off between seven and
nine. I’d slept later than usual, and I wasn’t in the mood to play
this morning. I’d join them for lunch instead.

I set about making the kitchen right,
wondering where Marie-Cecile was. Not like her to be tardy, not to
miss a day without letting me know in advance she wouldn’t be here.
She’d only done that about three times in the three years she’d
been cleaning for us. Very reliable, was Marie-Cecile. No matter. I
was certainly capable of straightening up. The cup had been made of
heavy fired clay, and though it had broken into about fourteen
pieces, they weren’t shards and slivers, but well formed chunks
which made it a cinch to gather. That done, I wandered back to our
bedroom.

Sunlight spilled through the windowpane,
enhancing the patina on the buttery walls. I’d designed this room
myself. The decorator had commandeered the house, overloading the
rooms with her personal touches, but I wanted one small place that
I knew was mine, and mine alone. Guests didn’t get to venture into
this part of the house anyway. It was my own little refuge, even
more so now that he was sleeping in his study. Eight bedrooms, and
he chooses a hobnailed leather sofa. To each his own.

The bed wasn’t made, which was odd. I knew
I’d put it together before I made my way downstairs this morning. I
always do. It’s the first thing that happens when I wake up. I
slide out the right edge, pull the covers up and make the bed.
Maybe he had come back into the room after I went downstairs,
pulled the covers back to tick me off. Typical.

I made up the bed, humming to myself. That’s
when I found the hair. It was his, there was no question about it.
I must have had too much to drink last night. He’d slept in the bed
with me, and I didn’t even remember. Perhaps that was the cause of
his silence. Things hadn’t gone as well as he hoped?

It’s hard to explain, but he does come to
me, in the night. I let him, mostly because it’s my duty to
perform, but also in remembrance of a time when I welcomed him
without thought, joyful that he’d chosen to be with me. It wasn’t
that long ago, after all.

Bed made, I showered and dressed in khaki
slacks and a long sleeved Polo shirt. I threw a button down over my
shoulders in case it was still cool out. Layers for my comfort,
layers for their perception of how I should look when I walked into
the club. The official dress code was undiluted preppy.

He was gone when I passed the study on my
way to the front foyer.

It was not meant to be my morning. My Jag
wouldn’t start. And Marie-Cecile was nowhere to be found, so I
didn’t have a ride. We lived on the golf course though, so I
detoured through the fourteenth fairway and wandered up the cart
path on the eighteenth. We’re not supposed to do that, but I timed
it well—after the ladies group had finished and before the senior’s
group made the first turn.

I arrived at the front doors a little
breathless, more from the chill than the exercise. I’m in good
shape. As his wife, I have to be. It’s expected. Not much of a
challenge for me, I’m naturally tall and willowy, but I still work
with a trainer three times a week. Like I said, it’s expected.

My friends and I have a standing luncheon on
Tuesdays and Thursdays. After our round, we gather in the
grillroom, settle our bets, eat some salad, and gossip. Some of the
older ladies play bridge. I’ve always wanted to learn, I just
haven’t gotten around to it. There is something so lonely about
them, sitting in their Lilly Pulitzer capris, their visors still
pulled low, shading their eyes from the glare of the multitudes of
60 watt bulbs. Sad.

My usual foursome was sitting along the back
wall today. Bunny (that’s actually her name, I’ve seen the birth
certificate) had the farthest spot, the place of honor. Back to the
wall, viewable by the whole room. My spot. She lounged against the
arm of the chair, her feet propped on the empty chair facing the
window. My punishment for missing the round this morning, I
suppose. Bunny glistened with the faint flush of exertion. She
always looked like she’d just rolled out of bed, freshly plucked
and glowing. No wonder there, she was sleeping with half the
married men in the club, as well as most of the tennis and golf
pros. Probably a couple of the high school caddies and college kids
too.

Tally and Kim rounded out the threesome,
both looking a little peaked. Tally was short and brunette, a
striking contrast to Bunny’s wholesome blondness. Kim was blonde, a
little dishwater, but since she’d moved to Bunny’s hairdresser,
she’d been getting some subtle highlights that worked for her
complexion. Kim was fiddling with her scorecard, probably erasing a
couple of shots. We all knew she cheated. We let her.