Amy Worth climbed out of her father’s Town Car and opened the back door to retrieve her wedding dress and veil.
“I wish you’d think about staying with Silvie and me a few more days, honey. There’s no shame in taking some time off to recover from such a major—upset in life,” her father said. “I hope you know Evan’s a jerk for leaving you. You were the best thing that ever happened to him.”
Amy shook her head. “I know, Daddy. And thanks for the offer, but I have to face this house and my life, such as it is. I appreciate your hospitality.” One night of listening to Silvie’s I-told-you-so’s was more than enough. She knew what she needed was time to think and regroup–alone. “I love you. I’ll call in a couple days.”
Dan Worth pursed his lips as he’d always done when he was worried as far back as Amy could remember. “All right, honey. I love you too.”
She watched the car disappear into the red November sunset, then turned toward her house. The two-story Tudor had been her dream home. She’d talked Evan into it. As a handyman special, the price had been within their reach. But the work it needed would have taken years to complete on their tight budget. Would it ever get done now? She couldn’t even bring herself to care. Evan was gone and life as she knew it was over.
Shuffling toward the front door, a sense of dread gripped her. Although she’d been staying there alone since they’d closed on it a month ago, the reality that she was going to live there as a single woman hit her like a freight train. She stopped at the threshold and stared at the rotting beam, the peeling paint. Slipping her key in the lock she prayed the old wooden door would hold up for a while longer. Its hinges were rusted and they creaked as she pushed it open.
The foyer was empty but for her suitcase and garment bag. Two plane tickets lay on top, for yesterday’s flight to Bermuda. At least she knew Evan hadn’t used them to take Candee with two e’s at the end of her name on the honeymoon he’d promised to Amy. She sucked in a breath and strode into the living room. She carefully set her tear-stained white gown across the plastic-draped couch and surveyed the area. A couple of empty boxes flanked the wall. The smell of fresh paint filled the air. Masking tape framed both windows. The dingy yellow walls were partially covered by clean cream-colored paint. Dark wood beams ran the length of the ceiling.
She headed into the kitchen, her favorite room in the house and the only one that needed no repairs. The same heavy beams crossed the ceiling as in the living room. The two windows on the back wall were the only original ones in the house. Thick, leaded glass, diamond-shaped panes distorted the view just enough to give privacy but still allow lovely prisms of light to enter. A built-in table and bench were done in dark walnut, as were the cabinets. Sturdy chains held the medieval-looking chandelier over the dining table. Boxes were still scattered on the counters and floor, waiting to be unpacked. This room was made for people to fill it and celebrate in it, not to sit alone and wallow in grief and loss.
A green light flashed on the answering machine on the counter. She hit the button.
“This is Ken Epstein from Mazel Tov Catering. We didn’t receive final payment for your event Saturday. Please give me a call. We accept credit cards. Thanks.” Beep.
Her head started pounding. She rubbed her temples and took a deep breath, trying to rid her brain of thoughts of her ill-fated wedding.
She lifted the phone off its cradle and tried to think of whom she could call. What friend would listen to her woes? Carla and Emily were Evan’s friends’ wives. She wasn’t comfortable spilling out her heart to either of them. She thought of Sharon and Julie, friends from beauty school she hadn’t spoken to since things had grown serious between her and Evan. Why hadn’t she stayed in touch with Natalie, a high school buddy she’d run around with until a year or so ago? Even Maryann, her old next-door neighbor hadn’t called for ages. But she couldn’t blame Maryann or any of the others. It wasn’t their fault. The fault lay on Amy’s shoulders. Had she been so wrapped up in Evan’s world that she’d completely lost her own? She’d yet to meet a single neighbor since she’d moved in. The fortyish woman next door constantly tended her beautiful garden. Amy wished now she’d introduced herself to the woman. Or to the young mother across the street.
Pulling open the pantry, the bottle of vodka on the upper shelf called to her. It was Evan’s favorite–a pricey Scandinavian brand he mixed with orange juice. She stood on her tiptoes and grabbed it. Taking a juice glass from the cabinet, she sat at the table and poured a small amount of the clear liquid, then downed it in two gulps, wincing at the strong taste. The burning in her stomach only lasted a moment. The second shot went down easier. Fifteen minutes later she’d consumed four drinks and decided to stop, lest she get sick later. Swaying a bit when she stood, she replaced the bottle on the top shelf, pushing it as far back from the edge as she could. The liquor-induced fog didn’t eradicate thoughts of Evan or her ruined future.
She opened the door off the kitchen and stumbled three steps down into the one room they’d redone almost to completion–Evan’s office. A can of dark green paint sat beside a box overflowing with books and magazines. A framed photo of Amy and Evan and a pencil cup filled with his collection of vintage letter openers poked over the top of the carton. Picking up the picture, she felt the familiar stab of pain before she shoved it deep into the box with the rest of their yesterdays. She scanned the formal wallpaper, a burgundy and green paisley. Not very masculine, she’d told him. But he had liked it.
A white chair rail separated the top of the wall from the bottom, the under portion painted dark green. What would she do with this room now? She hated the colors, loathed the darkness. Anger and frustration bubbled in her gut. Grabbing one of the antique letter openers, she flung it toward the wall, its point landing squarely in the middle of a paisley swirl. It felt good to destroy something Evan loved. She took another dagger, aimed it at his precious college diploma and let it fly. Glass exploded everywhere. But she needed to destroy more of him. Rummaging through the box, she dug out a thick black marker and drew a huge face on the wallpaper, complete with a double chin. She barraged the paisley portrait with knife-like letter openers, leaving it looking like a dagger-covered pincushion. Then, as the piece de resistance, she pried open the paint can with the last letter opener and flung the remnants of green paint at the wall. It seemed to move in slow motion, sliming a green track as it went. Heavy drips landed on Amy’s jeans. She tossed the can toward the door, spattering the last few dark droplets across the pristine white door and the beige Berber carpet he’d picked out.
When the buzz in her head finally died down, she heard knocking. She spun around, trying to discover the source of the sound. She bounded up the steps and back into the kitchen. A woman stood at the backdoor, banging on the glass.
* * * *
Falon O’Malley stopped pulling weeds from around her daffodils when she heard the racket next door. Things banging and glass breaking. She hoped everything was all right. She’d only seen her new neighbor a few times, taking out the trash and moving in boxes. But the sounds coming from the house weren’t normal move-in noises. Getting to her feet, she marched to the back door and knocked hard on the wood part, peering through the leaded glass. After a few moments, something moved into the light. The door inched open.
The woman she’d seen there peeked out at her. Disheveled brown curls flew in every direction. “Yes?” the woman said, opening the door all the way. Her face was red and her chest rose and fell like she’d been breathing hard.
“Everything okay in here?” Falon asked. Her gaze traveled down the woman’s body. Large green stains on her pant legs dripped onto the floor. “What happened to your jeans?”
'“Oh, God.” She ran to the sink, grabbed a wad of paper towels and wiped the drips from the floor. “I had a little accident with paint,” she said. She ripped off more towels and patted her jeans.
Falon took a step inside. “I’m Falon. I live next door.” She pointed toward her house. “Sounded like the Marx Brothers were painting. I was working in my garden.” She pointed toward her house again. “It’s right next to your window. I heard noises so I peeked in. Sorry.”
Amy smiled. “This is really embarrassing. I spilled some paint on myself. I’m such a klutz. I’d shake your hand if mine weren’t both covered in paint. My name’s Amy.” Her face grew rosier. “I…I was angry with my ex-fiancé. I guess I was executing him in effigy.”
Falon snorted. “Sounds like some of my exes.” She brushed her bangs off her face.
Amy blotted the paint from her jeans then washed her hands. “You want a glass of wine or something?”
Falon nodded. “Sure. Let me go lock up my place and I’ll be right back.”
* * * *
Amy took advantage of the opportunity to change her pants. Returning to the kitchen, she met Falon at the back door. “Come on in. I have a bottle of very expensive Shiraz Evan brought back from Australia. Let’s crack it open, hmm? I’m on a quest to polish off all his prized spirits.” He wanted to save it for a special occasion, he’d told her. This was special. He’d gone and left her for a bimbo named Candee with two e’s.
Amy pulled the bottle from her countertop wine rack and rummaged through a drawer for the corkscrew.
Falon extended her hand. “Allow me. I work in a bar.”
Amy gave her the bottle and corkscrew. It was probably a good thing since Amy still swayed as she tried to stand still. She watched the woman work out the cork like a pro. Her shoulders were broad but her waist thin and she looked to be about forty. Her slim build seemed contradictory to her huge chest. Implants, Amy decided.
“I’ll assume Evan is the ex?” Falon asked sliding her lanky frame onto the bench seat and depositing the bottle between them on the table.
Amy nodded. “We were supposed to get married yesterday. He left me at the altar looking like a fool.”
“Wow. I thought that shit only happened in the movies.”
Amy raised an eyebrow as she poured wine into two Waterford glasses. At least some of her wedding gifts were being put to good use. Most she’d have to return. “Unfortunately not.” She handed Falon one glass and tapped hers against it. “Cheers.”
“To getting even,” Falon said. She downed half the glass in one gulp. “So what did the jerk have to say for himself?”
Amy sipped her wine, savoring its fruity flavor. It soured on her tongue when thoughts of Evan’s betrayal crept into her mind. “He left me a note. Didn’t even have the balls to tell me in person. My dad went to his apartment when he didn’t show up at the synagogue and found it taped to his door.” The wine’s warmth started spreading to her extremities. Some of the tension eased. Telling a stranger about her problems was better than holding them inside or dealing with her family’s pity. Between her sister Nancy’s sympathetic headshakes and Silvie’s annoying clucking, Amy was over being with them for a while.
“What an asshole. What’s your game plan?”
Amy stared at her, not comprehending. “My game plan?”
Falon jumped off the bench and threw her hands in the air. The bottom of her T-shirt lifted above her bellybutton. A silver bar pierced the skin. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of what you could do to him. Twist his weenie with a pair of vice grips, pull out his fingernails, screw up his credit. Do anything, but don’t let the scumbag get away with it.”
Amy’s eyes opened wide. She hoped Falon was kidding about the torture. “I can’t really do anything. He took off with someone named Candee to parts unknown.”
Falon sank her fists into her hips. Could her shorts be any shorter or tighter? “Oh, honey. There are loads of things you can do. When I lived in Vegas, this orthodontist I was living with dumped me for a showgirl. So I cancelled all his credit cards, had the power and water turned off at his house and office and I gave his Social Security number and all his passwords to some guy named Rico who paid me twenty bucks for them. I heard through the grapevine it took him months to undo the damage Rico did.” She crossed her arms, obviously impressed with herself.
Amy tittered nervously, trying to remember where her Social Security card was. This was not a woman she ever wanted to piss off. “I could never do anything like that. Anyway, I have no idea where he went.”
Falon waved her hand in the air. “That should be easy to figure out. Where does he work?”
“He works from home. He’s a headhunter.” She pointed to the room off the kitchen she’d just destroyed. “That was going to be his home office.” Heat surged to her face. “I’ve made a bit of a mess of it.”
Falon started toward the room.
“No, get away from there,” Amy said as she stood. Bad enough she’d had the tantrum, but for anyone to see the evidence was mortifying.
It was too late. Falon descended the steps and started laughing. “Like hell you could never do anything like that. You definitely have a little anger in you, Lovie.”
Amy followed her inside and stared at her handy work with shame. “I guess I lost it.” She shrugged. “I feel so helpless. He’s off with Candee and I’m all alone. And to make matters worse, this damned house is falling apart.”
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