Charlaine Harris - Many Bloody Returns

“And you didn’t tell Katherine that Eric hired Jack the Ripper?”

“How could I? He’s my husband.”

And you, Margaret, are my best friend. Or rather, you were. Margaret had also had her eyes done by Jack. Did she get the full package, too?

I waited until my faithless friends shut the restroom door. I rocked back and forth on the toilet in stunned misery. It was one thing to suspect your husband was playing around. It was another to learn of his betrayal—and your best friend’s. I was a joke, a laughingstock. I had even less time than I thought.

I pulled my clothes together, pasted on a smile, and found my table. A waitress set my salad in front of me. I studied the woman. She was about my age, with a weary face, limp brown hair, and thick, sensible shoes. This time next year, would I be serving salads to the ladies who lunched?

Only if I were lucky. I didn’t even have the skills to be a waitress. I picked at my salad but couldn’t eat a bite. No one noticed. Well-bred women didn’t have appetites.

A polite clink of silverware on glasses signaled that the headmaster was at the podium. He was a lean man with a good suit and a sycophantic smile.

“You’ve heard that Drexal has one of the finest academic records…” he began. My thoughts soon drifted away.

Menopause had killed my marriage, but it had been dying for a long time. I knew exactly when it had received the fatal wound: the day my husband asked to cut on me.

I was thirty-five, but looked ten years younger. Eric was itching to get out his scalpel and work on my face.

“Just let me do your eyes,” he said, “and take a few tucks. If you start early, you’ll look younger longer.”

“I look fine,” I said.

“You don’t trust me,” he said.

“Of course I do,” I said. “You’re the most successful plastic surgeon in Broward County.”

But not the most skilled. Eric was right. I didn’t trust him. He’d never killed anyone, unlike some Florida face sculptors. But I saw his work everywhere. I could recognize his patients: Caucasian women of a certain age with the telltale Chinese eyes and stretched skin.

Eric gave them face-lifts when no other doctor would. He’d give them as many as seven or eight, until their skin was so tight they could bikini wax their upper lip.

I pleaded fear of anesthesia. I invented an aunt who died from minor surgery when I was a child. But Eric knew the truth: I was afraid to let him touch me. I was his in every way, except one. I would not surrender to his knife.

For ten years, he never stopped trying. He nagged me for a full face-lift at forty. At forty-five, I knew I could probably use one, but still I wouldn’t submit.

“Nothing can make me twenty-five again,” I said. “I’ll take my chances with wrinkles.”

It was the worst rejection a plastic surgeon could have. I made him look bad. Everyone could see my lines and wrinkles. These normal signs of aging became an accusation. They said every woman but his wife believed Eric was a fine surgeon.

When I turned fifty, Eric quit asking. That’s when our hot nights together cooled. I suspected there were other women, but knew the affairs weren’t serious. Now things had changed. Eric was going to marry a twenty-five-year-old blonde. In another five years, she’d submit to his knife.

Suddenly, I was back in the hotel ballroom. The headmaster’s speech had reached its crescendo. “We have almost everything we need to make the Drexal School the finest educational institution in Broward County. Only one thing is missing. After today, we’ll have it all. I’m pleased to announce the creation of the Drexal Panthers—our own football team. Your donations have made it possible.”

The lunching mothers cheered wildly.

I looked down at my plate and realized I’d eaten an entire slice of chocolate cheesecake with raspberry sauce.

Worse, I hadn’t tasted one bite.

No wonder I was fat.

On the way home, I picked up some college catalogues. I made myself a stiff drink and settled into my favorite chair in the great room to study the glossy catalogues. I looked at careers for legal aides, dental assistants, and licensed practical nurses. One choice seemed more depressing than the other.

What had I wanted to be before I met Eric?

An English teacher. Back then, I saw myself teaching poetry to eager young minds, watching them open like flowers with the beauty of the written word. Now, I knew I couldn’t cope with the young ruffians at the public schools. Would the Drexal School hire an Angel down on her luck? Would the headmaster remember how often I’d lunched to make his dream team possible?

If I went back to college, how many years would I need to complete my degree? Would my life experience count for anything? What had I done in fifty-five years?

I fell asleep on the pile of catalogues. I woke up at midnight when I heard Eric unlock the door. I hid the catalogues with my arms, but he never noticed them. Or me. He went straight to bed without even saying good night.

I woke up at three. I couldn’t sleep through the night anymore. I kept vampire hours now. I drifted into the living room and watched the condo across the way. There was another party tonight. This time, the music seemed livelier, the guests more keyed up, more dramatically dressed, as if they were at some special ceremony.

Our condo walls seemed to close in on me. I slipped on my jeans and a cotton shirt. I was going for a walk along the water, even if it killed me. I’d rather risk death than suffocate inside.

The night air was delicious, cool but not cold. I was drawn to the lights of the Dark Harbor party, and picked my way along the docks until I was almost underneath its windows. I couldn’t see anything, but I could feel the contained excitement inside. The walls seemed to pulse with life.

“Wish you were here?”

I jumped at the voice—very rich, very male.

The man who came out of the shadows wore evening dress. His skin looked luminous in the moonlight. His hair was black with a slight curl. There was strength in his face, and a hint of cruelty. I couldn’t tell his age. He seemed beyond such ordinary measures.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trespass,” I said.

“You aren’t trespassing, Katherine,” he said. “You spend a lot of time watching us, don’t you?”

“Am I that obvious?” I said.

“No,” he said. “But I feel your yearning. It makes you very beautiful—and very vulnerable.”

Inside the condo, there was a shriek of triumph, followed by polite tennis-match applause.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I must return to my guests. My name is Michael, by the way.”

“Will I see you again?” I said.

“If you want to,” he said.

He was gone. Only then did I wonder how he knew my name.

I floated back to my condo wrapped in soft, warm clouds of fantasy. How long had it been since any man had called me beautiful?

I was beautiful. Michael made me feel that way. I crawled into bed beside my husband and dreamed of another man.

In the morning, I woke up smiling and refreshed. For the first time in months, I didn’t check my mirror for more ravages. I didn’t need to. I was beautiful. Michael had said so. I was dreamy as a lovesick teenager, until the phone shattered the sweet silence at eleven a.m.

“Katherine, it’s Patricia.” Of course it was. She’d slept with my husband and confessed it in a public restroom. I’d know her honking voice anywhere. Except today it had a different note. She sounded subdued, even frightened. “Have you heard about Jack?”

“Jack who?” I said.

“Margaret’s Jack. They found his body in the parking lot of his law office early this morning.”

“What happened?” I said. “Was he mugged?”