With This Ring. Lee McKenzie
the back of the tub and closed her eyes. The dangling, diamond-studded strands of her earrings grazed her shoulders. She slipped them off and reached for the clasp of the necklace. The jewelry had been a wedding gift from Gerald. She reached over the edge of the tub and tossed them onto the dress.
She slid deeper into the tub, hot water swooshing around her shoulders. She wanted to be furious with Gerald, but she was having trouble mustering any real anger. Loathing. Disgust. Definitely those. As the wedding date had drawn closer, she’d started to feel antsy and unsure of herself. She didn’t believe in premonitions, but maybe her subconscious had been picking up things that she hadn’t wanted—or even been ready—to acknowledge.
Things like what a two-timing, no-good son of a bitch she’d almost married. Luckily she’d found out about his affair before the ceremony and not afterward.
She was even grateful for the bizarre twist of fate that had landed her here. Brent’s timely rescue had bought her some precious time. No one knew where she was, and when she finally did see her family and her good-for-nothing slimeball of an ex-fiancé, it would be on her terms.
By now Gerald would have figured out that she’d seen him with another woman. And not just any woman, but one of her bridesmaids, one of her best friends. Meanwhile he’d be trying to convince everyone that today’s disastrous events had been her fault.
She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to block out the image of the two of them in the back of the coat room at the church.
A big, fat tear rolled down her cheek. You will not cry, she told herself. Gerald Bedford III and Candice Bentley-Ferguson deserved each other. Not only were they cut from the same bolt, they’d each chosen someone who was bound to cheat on them.
Leslie opened her eyes and reached for a bar of soap. The ring on her left hand sparkled.
Damn it.
It was a gorgeous ring. She’d been the envy of everyone she knew, and probably lots she didn’t. When Gerald had given it to her, it had represented everything that was right about their relationship. They were young successful professionals with brilliant futures. They had everything going for them.
Why wasn’t that enough? Better question. Why wasn’t she good enough for him?
In spite of her best efforts to hold the tears at bay, her eyes filled up and the room blurred. Today she was supposed to cross number five off her Life List. She slid the ring off her finger and tossed it into the soap dish. She’d earned the right to a little self-pity, as long as she got herself under control before Brent came home with her hand-me-downs.
BRENT SLAMMED the gear shift into Reverse and backed out of the driveway as fast as a ton of lumber would allow. Leslie probably thought he was a lunatic for tearing out on her like that, but he’d had a hard-on that would stop a train and there had only been two possible outcomes.
Either he’d do something he’d regret, or he’d get the hell out of there before he did something he’d regret.
The feel of her skin, the scent of her damp, sweet-smelling hair and the sight of her lacy white bra were now branded into his brain, and still had his libido on full alert. Which might account for his uncharacteristically bad driving, although it would make a lousy defense if he crashed into someone. He eased off the accelerator and brought the truck to a stop at a red light, chiding himself for being such an idiot.
She’d always made it abundantly and sometimes scathingly clear she didn’t want to have anything to do with him. In the seventh grade, at Candice Bentley’s birthday party, he’d finagled his way into playing seven minutes in heaven with her. That kiss had lasted somewhere in the neighborhood of four seconds.
Leslie had been a little slip of a girl in those days but she’d packed a mighty wallop.
Undaunted, he’d pursued her through high school. It had actually turned into a game, and he’d always been the loser.
He would ask her out. She’d say no.
He’d call her. She’d hang up.
He’d tuck a note into her locker. She’d scrunch it into a ball and toss it in the trash.
A horn honking behind him told him the light had turned green. He was glad to have an excuse to get away from her for a while. Too bad it meant going to his mother’s place though. She would question his sudden need for women’s clothing, and he’d never been any good at flying under her radar.
Maybe she wouldn’t be home, he thought. He could just help himself to whatever he could find and she’d be none the wiser. He pulled up along the curb and spotted her ancient Dodge station wagon in the driveway. No such luck.
He sprinted through the rain to the back door and let himself in. “Mom? You home?”
“In here, dear. What brings you by this morning?”
He followed his nose into the kitchen. She was making chicken stew. “It’s almost lunchtime. And since when do I need a reason to visit the most gorgeous woman in Collingwood Station?”
“Since you’re blocking the street with a truckload of building materials and trying to use that sweet talk on someone who knows better than to fall for it.”
“We were supposed to start a new job on Monday. I have to deliver that load to the site sometime today, so I won’t be here for long.” He crossed the kitchen and planted a kiss on the top of her head.
“What do you mean by ‘supposed to’?” she asked.
“I might be tied up with something else for a few days.” He reached over her shoulder and snagged a piece of raw carrot from the pile on the chopping block.
“Watch it, young man, or you might lose one of those fingers.”
He laughed. “I’ll take my chances. Are you expecting company?” he asked. If the size of the stewpot was anything to go by, she was cooking for a crowd.
“I thought I’d make enough for a meal or two for myself and take the rest to the shelter. They’re a little short on food this weekend.”
At this rate she’d never be able to retire, but talking to her about it was a losing battle. She’d carry the weight of the whole world on her shoulders if anyone asked her to. His mother was younger than most of the mothers of his friends, but she often looked tired and older than she actually was. Today was one of those days.
She’d become a single parent at sixteen and had struggled through a lot of hardship. He remembered her helping him with homework while she studied and worked to put herself through college. Nothing had changed when she became a social worker. In spite of an ample salary, she still lived in the little old house she’d purchased twenty years ago, and somehow she managed to keep her geriatric Dodge running. Every spare penny went to help those who were less fortunate than she was.
She tossed handfuls of diced carrots and celery into the pot and started on the potatoes. “So, you haven’t told me what brings you by.”
He might as well cut to the chase. “I need to borrow a few things.”
“What would you like? And don’t tell me it’s take-out chicken stew. If you want any of that, you’ll have to come back and have dinner with me.”
“Sorry. No can do.”
“Your loss.” She gave him one of her big, warm smiles. “So if it’s not food, what are you after?”
“I need some women’s clothing. Enough for a few days. Size four,” he said. “If you have anything.”
She set her knife on the butcher block and wiped her hands on a towel as she turned to face him.
“That’s an odd request.”
“Not really. A friend of mine is in kind of a jam and she needs a few things. Just temporarily, until…”
His explanation trailed off as his mother’s scrutiny intensified.