Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 21802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 73(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 73(@300wpm)
I’d covered the top with moss, which had been difficult to recreate. For years I’d mixed media, often using live flora, but this piece I wanted to capture entirely in a lasting, permanent form. I’d opted for metal, wood, and clay. I’d also chosen to paint the moss a sickly yellow-green, like it was a disease feeding from the garbage.
Out of the moss rose up a slender green stem, and vibrant yellow petals branched out, blooming into an orchid. The flower of new beginnings. Only now my new beginning was fractured in three large pieces.
“Can you repair it?”
Rafferty’s deep voice jolted me, and I swung my gaze from my sculpture to meet him. He was angry, but it appeared to be at the situation and not directed at me. I wouldn’t think about what he was cradling in his hands.
With the right materials, I was certain I could repair the broken petal and attach it where no one would see the cracks.
“Possibly.” I swallowed a breath. “I need to know what you have planned for it first.”
He acted offended. “That’s none of your business.”
“All right.” My voice was steady. “Do you have duct tape?”
“From what I understand, you don’t have a sense of humor.” His expression set. “Or did you develop one in prison?”
-3-
THEN
My marriage was a business transaction, and when I left the art gallery, I drove home to what I considered the office.
The house was in the wealthy part of La Grange, a south suburb of Chicago. It was more like a mansion, with its sprawling and manicured lawn, complete with mature evergreens. It was far too much house for just my husband and me, but when he’d bought it years ago, he’d hoped to fill it with children.
Instead, I filled it with disappointment.
I pulled the car into the four-car garage and sighed when I saw his car was parked in his spot. I’d booked a showing downtown, so at least I could throw that in his face. I was twenty-seven now, yet hadn’t outgrown the pettiness of my teenage years, and probably never would.
“Sidor?” I called out as I came into the house. It was dark in the kitchen, which I found odd. I’d stayed late at the gallery, and the sun had gone down more than hour ago. The entire first floor was black and deadly silent. Had he not been feeling well and gone to bed early?
I hoped so. It meant I wouldn’t have to sleep with him tonight. He was twenty years older than me, and it took him forever to get an erection. If he couldn’t, I was blamed, and I didn’t want to go through any of that. Closing the deal on the showing had made my day perfect, and tonight was shaping up to be that way as well.
“Sidor?” I called again as I climbed the stairs. I asked in Russian, “Are you up here?”
I pushed open the door to his bedroom, which was also dark. He wasn’t home.
There were no messages from him on my phone, but that wasn’t atypical. Perhaps his brother Sergey and his driver had picked Sidor up and they’d gone together to a meeting, which happened occasionally, but a strange sensation crept along my spine and prickled my senses.
The house felt colder and more somber than usual.
I went back downstairs and poured myself a glass of congratulatory wine, but it was also a preemptive strike. If Sidor was out and “working,” he would demand sex when he returned.
The doorbell sounded, startling me, and I spilled wine on the counter. The dark merlot ran rivulets down the cabinets. I grabbed a kitchen towel and haphazardly mopped it up while peering at the front-door camera feed from the screen of my phone.
I didn’t recognize the pretty blonde girl standing on the front porch, and I wondered if she was some girl he’d taken up with on the side. Perhaps I would get lucky and she was pregnant with his child. If that were the case, he’d let me go. I could be free from all this.
I tapped the screen and spoke loudly into my phone. “What do you want?”
Her expression was grim, announcing she didn’t want to be here. Behind her, I saw a fancy car in the circle drive. “Sergey Petrov sent me,” she said. She peered into the camera. “It’s about your husband.”
Once again, I had the strange prickling sensation, alerting me that something was wrong. I went to the door, pulled it open, and ushered her into the foyer.
She looked young, perhaps nineteen, and a little familiar. I’d seen her before but couldn’t place where, and the faint lilt to her voice hinted we probably could hold this conversation in Russian. Her English was good though. Perhaps she was like me and had been raised watching American television.