Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough

Table of Contents

Title Page

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

A+ Author Insights, Extras, & More…

About the Author

By Isabel Sharpe

Credits

Copyright Notice

About the Publisher

Women
on the Edge

of a

Nervous
Breakthrough

One Sarah turned on the TV in her and Ben's beautifully… 1

Two

Sarah walked along Main Street, taking long,

confident strides, enjoying… 11

Three Lorelei Taylor, used to be Vivian Harcourt

and now Vivian… 27

Four

"Amber, honey?" Sarah sugarcoated her voice,

her body tensing the… 41

Five

Vivian yanked up the last corner of the baby-blue shag… 55

Six

Joe was late. 69

Seven

If there was a sound more irritating than crows cawing… 83

Eight

Sarah drove her 2001 Ford Windstar up their long, paved… 101

Nine

Vivian rolled her trash toward the curb. She'd been about… 115

Ten

Erin adjusted her head on her pillow and turned to… 139

Twelve Vivian cracked two eggs into a porcelain

bowl and whipped… 167

Thirteen "Hey." A finger nudged Erin's cheek, then

the familiar rasp… 183

Fourteen "Dinner." Sarah carried the hollowed

pumpkin—one of her Harvest Moons—to… 195

Fifteen Vivian paced back and forth in her newly bare living… 215

Sixteen

Vivian opened the middle drawer of her old-lady

antique dresser… 235

Seventeen

Sarah pushed the vacuum in short, jerky strokes over the… 247

Eighteen

Erin ran up the steps to the front door of… 269

Nineteen

Vivian pulled the last strip of masking tape off the… 285

Twenty

Erin secured the last white plastic skull from the pile… 307

Twenty-one

"Okay. Done." 325

Twenty-three Vivian quickly stepped in front of Erin. 365

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Other Books by Isabel Sharpe

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One

VERDICT!

JURY REACHES VERDICT

IN ED BRANSON MURDER TODAY—

THE WORLD WAITS FOR TOMORROW

NEW YORK CITY (CNS). It's a cliffhanger in what has been America's most sensational trial since O. J. Simpson's in 1995. After three days of deliberation, the jury reached a verdict in the trial of Lorelei Taylor, which has mesmerized the nation for the last six months. Tomorrow at noon (EST), the fate of Ms. Taylor, accused of murdering her long -time lover, publishing magnate Ed Branson, will be announced.

  Comparisons to the Simpson trial have been numerous and inevitable. Now that the nation must wait until tomorrow for the verdict to be read, speculation is rising. Will Lorelei repeat O. J.'s stunning escape from a guilty verdict? Or will the jury this time side with the prosecution?

  Ted Branson, son of the deceased, has no doubts. "She'll get what's coming to her. After what she did to my father, what she's done to me, my mother, to my wife and my children . . . The good ladies and gentlemen of the jury will not let that murdering [expletive deleted] walk free." Lawyers for both sides refused to comment on the possible outcome.

  Over the past six months, the nation has been held captive by the testimony, scandal, and lurid details of the trial, but not so captivated as they have been by the woman on trial herself. Though she is dubbed "The Sublime Ms. L" by her admirers, her detractors cite the German legend of Lorelei, a beautiful woman who sat on the banks of the Rhine, combing her hair and singing of her lost love, luring smitten sailors to gruesome deaths on the rocks below.

  In less than twenty -four hours, both detractors and admirers will know what the jury of seven men and five women have decided lies in store for Ms. Taylor.

Sarah Gilchrist Kettle, Wisconsin

Sarah turned on the TV in her and Ben's beautifully redecorated living room. What an improvement over the way her mother had it while Sarah was growing up here. She sat on the cream -colored couch accented with burgundy, teal, and gold pillows, and patted the cushion next to her, allowing her smile to dim only slightly when her husband chose the big leather chair closer to the set. Of course he'd rather be closer, with his vision getting worse. Bifocals soon, Dr. Bradley had said. Honestly, Sarah had told him a million times he needed to take more breaks from his writing or he'd ruin his eyes staring at that little monitor.

  They'd both hit forty this year, which made them offi cially middle-aged, though it didn't seem possible. But of course, Ben went ahead and did what he wanted, which was part of his charm. Far be it from Sarah to interfere. Their teenage daughter, Amber, had inherited that particular trait from her father, though at age sixteen,
charming
wasn't always the word that sprang to Sarah's mind to describe it.

  "Cookie?" She jumped to her feet and offered him the plate—almond crescents, his favorite, made with real butter, and don't get her started on women who baked with that awful vegetable shortening. Those cookies might look good, but they tasted like absolutely nothing, so what was the point? Sarah loved to bake, but she rarely ate what she made, wanting to keep her fi gure slim.

  "Thanks." Ben groped for one, eyes glued to the set. He'd watched nearly every minute of the Lorelei Taylor trial coverage when he wasn't working. Of course the trial had been fascinating, not that Sarah had followed the proceedings that closely. And not that Ben shared a lot of the details with her. But all the ins and outs, the infidelity, the abuse, well, she'd almost feel sorry for the Lorelei woman, except murder was never the right way out of a situation. That and the fact that Lorelei was the flashy, tarty, in -your-face kind of person Sarah's mother would have called common. In this case, as much as Sarah tried to remain open -minded, Sarah would have to agree.

  Plus, the dreaful way Lorelei killed her lover, drugging, then electrocuting the poor man in his own bathtub. They couldn't even say which actually caused his heart attack, the drugs, the electrocution, or the fear. He didn't deserve that, not that Sarah commended him for his alleged treatment of Lorelei, if it was true. But she could see how Lorelei would provoke abuse. The woman was all T&A—trouble and attitude.

  The part of Sarah that believed in justice, that believed people were punished for their sins, knew this jury would find the woman guilty. That lent a certain balance and peaceful security to the day, and she looked forward to it. Homemade cookies, a beautiful fall day with a husband she adored, and a guilty verdict. All would be right with the rest of the world, as it was always right in Kettle, Wisconsin.

  "Another cookie, honey?"

  "Shhh." Her husband pointed to the set with one of his long, beautiful fingers, which she'd fallen in love with the fi rst day she set eyes on him their freshman year at Cornell. Those hands and those deep brown, scholarly eyes.

  "Members of the jury, on the charge of murder in the fi rst degree, how do you fi nd the defendant?"

  Sarah leaned forward, practically aquiver to see justice done. The camera cut from the juror to Lorelei's face, for once not cocky and brash, but pale and emotionless. Beautiful and lifeless, like a mannequin.

  "We fi nd the defendant . . . not guilty, Your Honor."

  Sarah blinked. What had they said?
Not
guilty?

  Her husband gave a shout of laughter and pounded the arm of his chair. "By God! Not guilty. What a country we live in!"

  Sarah set down the plate of hand -formed cookies, each rolled straight out of the oven in a perfectly even coating of powdered sugar. Her husband hated it when she cried, but unfortunately that's what she was going to do.

She bent her head and stifled the sobs as best she could.

Erin Hall Kettle, Wisconsin

  
Not guilty.
Erin let out a strangled shout, then darted nervous glances around her living room, even though Joe was at work. She couldn't ever be sure no one could hear. Sometimes she felt as if someone was watching her when she knew she was alone, but she hadn't figured out if it felt more like a guardian angel or one of Satan's clan.

  The camera fixed on Lorelei's face, so pale before, now flushed and flashing triumph. Lorelei was magnifi cent. Beautiful. She'd weathered this trial with so much power. Stood so proud when all the shameful stories came out. Teenage prostitution, exotic dancing,
Playboy
. Told all those people what her big -shot boyfriend was doing to her. Erin couldn't even begin to fathom having that kind of courage. To tell someone what was happening. To trust they'd make it right. Or not even to care if they did or not. Just tell the truth, nothing but the truth, and so help her God.

  Lorelei killed Ed Branson, Erin was sure. She could picture the scene as if she'd stood next to her while she did it. Could feel everything she felt—initial rage that descended into surreal calm. She'd drugged him first, got him into his bath, thrown in the CD player while it was on. She got lucky when he had a heart attack. The reasonable doubt she needed.

  "Not guilty." Erin clutched a couch pillow to her stomach. "Not guilty. Not guilty."

  If she said the words over and over, they'd stay real, and no one could take them away from her.

  Lorelei had killed her boyfriend who was hurting her, even a powerful, important man like that. Reached a point where she said,
Enough. You can't do this to me anymore. I will fi ght back.

  So she had. She killed him, naked in his bathtub.

  And got away with it.

Lorelei Taylor, née Vivian Harcourt New York, New York

  Emerging from the courthouse should have been a moment of epic proportions. Freedom! God, it had barely begun to sink in. She was free. Not headed for the rest of her life in jail.

  Free.

  She should have been able to stand in front of the noble columns representing New York City justice, to take a deep breath of glorious carbon -monoxide-laced air and fl ing her arms wide to embrace this freedom. Then gracefully and with great deliberateness, extend the middle finger of each hand toward everyone who doubted her. Most particularly, Ed's vicious, lying relatives, who'd hated her from the fi rst moment they saw her. Enjoy this moment now and forever, assholes! Lorelei Taylor lives in freedom.

  All that and more should have been hers. She'd damn well earned it. But the press, the crowd on the steps, on the sidewalks, overflowing into the street, had other ideas.

  Overwhelming noise. Microphones jammed into her face, questions shouted. And behind it, the roaring chant of hundreds. "Guil -ty. Guil -ty."

  She held herself tall, waved; Miss America at the pageant, laughing at the sickness of it all, and the futility. They'd see the laugh and the wave and know they'd been right all along. That the Taylor woman had no soul, no emotions, the ordeal hadn't touched her. And if that wasn't the sign of a she devil . . . oh, they couldn't cross themselves enough times to ward off the evil that was Lorelei.

  And if she emerged from the courtroom looking grief stricken, weary, and humble? See? There you go, they'd been right all along. Proof of a burdened conscience. The beginning of a lifelong hell her subconscious would make sure she lived, and wasn't that justice all its own? She couldn't escape what she'd done completely, no no no.

  Any way she played it—further proof of her guilt.

  Yeah, she was guilty. Guilty of a lot of things. If you could put someone on trial for a lifetime of fucked -up choices, Lorelei Taylor would do plenty of time. But, ironically, she was not guilty of murdering Ed Branson. And she could shout that from the rooftops every day for the rest of her life, but it wouldn't change one goddamn person's mind about what they were all so sure she'd done.

  The crowd surged forward, police sprang into action to hold them back. Lorelei waved again and blew kisses.

  In the meantime, she could do a valuable service for her fellow Americans. Provide a convenient focal point for all the hatred and frustration in their small and useless lives.

  So happy to help.

  Her lawyers read a brief statement, pleased with the verdict, justice done, yada, yada. One pudgy blond in a cheap beige suit, too short and too tight, managed to shove a microphone in Lorelei's face.

  "There are a lot of people who seem to think you've gotten away with murder. How do you feel about the not -guilty verdict?"

  Lorelei opened her mouth to say,
As good as you'd feel if you took the bug out of your butt,
but her lawyer intervened, squeezing her arm hard to shut down the remark he knew was cooking. Stan was an ass, but he'd saved hers, so she'd do anything for him. Even choke back the impulsive behavior that was always getting her in trouble.

  "Oh gosh, how do I feel? I guess extra super-duper happy!"

  Even over the crowd noise she heard Stan groan behind her.

  The woman narrowed her eyes. Pulled the mike back to her thin mouth that even smudged lipstick and heavy liner wouldn't make look sultry.

  "What will you do now?"

  Lorelei's sugary, wide smile was sucked off her face and back down into her body so hard, she had to work to paste back some semblance of not caring.

  What the hell would she do now?

  "Oh, well, the possibilities are limitless, aren't they! I be

lieve I'll begin by running for president. Or maybe Harvard needs a new faculty member, could you check on that for me, sweetie?"

  Stan the Man pushed her to move down the rest of the steps toward the car. "Ms. Taylor has no more comments."

  Right. No more comments. No more money. No more condo. No more friends. No more life.

  And goddamn his cheating, abusive, careless, beloved soul . . . no more Ed.