The Sassy Belles. Beth Albright
You were in a threesome?”
“Oh, my good God, no, honey. I meant—you know…a sex toy. I named him Deputy Dick.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake…I thought you were fixin’ to really shock me. I know you and Lewis can be a bit on the kinky side, no big deal.”
“I just don’t want the police to discover him. It. I will just die of embarrassment. But I have no idea where he got to. I was in such a panic when I ran for help.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure you aren’t the only woman in the world to play with toys in the bedroom. I’m sure he will turn up.” I tried to get my thoughts together as we drove, and wondered if Vivi had any other interesting details she needed to divulge.
Though we rode in silence, I never let go of her hand. The emotions were stuck in our mouths. Vivi and I have never really needed words. In moments we had crossed the bridge over the Warrior River to the Fountain Mist motel. We drove in and parked as Harry made his way over to us. He opened Vivi’s door and helped her out.
The Fountain Mist was one of those old, side-of–the-highway kinds of motels. The kind that could charge by the hour. It had a red neon sign out front and a lighted fountain, like one of those old silver Christmas trees from the sixties that had the colored lights spinning underneath. The fountain changed colors and definitely helped to cheapen the motel’s appearance. Inside the lobby, the green carpet was threadbare and fading. The entire place needed painting. And sanitization.
Harry had his legal pad in hand and was standing with the police and the paramedics outside room 106. Everyone was in a panic, and Harry looked like he’d gone into shock.
“Where’s the body?” a paramedic yelled out at us as we approached. “There’s no body here!” Vivi and I walked over to the door at a clip. The dust from the gravel parking lot swirled in the air.
A frenetic chaos filled the room. The motel manager was standing on the dusty carpet, answering questions while a police officer took notes. I couldn’t see for the glare as the sun bounced from the mirror of the cheap dresser. Two officers and two paramedics had turned the room upside down. The frustrated sounds came again from the first paramedic. “Where the hell’s the body? We got a call from someone saying that her boyfriend had stopped breathing.”
“I left him right there, dead on the bed, buck naked and blue as blue blazes,” Vivi said with fear and panic in her eyes. I looked at Harry and he looked at Vivi.
“Vivi!” Harry said. “Where the hell is Lewis?”
In a split second, a breathless silence fell over the room and Vivi fell over backward right onto me. I caught her just as she slumped sideways, and a paramedic rushed to her while a policeman radioed the station.
No body, I thought. Is Lewis possibly alive? Or is someone hiding evidence? I held Vivi up till the paramedics got hold of her.
I looked at my stoic Harry. I knew he was thinking of his public image and trying not to show any emotion. At the same time, I knew he was trying to process and manage this unbelievable situation. But this was typical Harry. Sometimes so closed off he became his own worst enemy. He locked everyone out to make sure his image was so perfect it was almost not even human. It was robotic, with all the right responses, always so prepared with just the right answers. Sometimes he was just exasperating. Feel, I thought. Let me see you. Though he would say that I feel too much. I overfeel, he had said once. Too happy, too sad, too angry.
What was happening to us was much like the story of Scarlett and Rhett. You don’t show me any emotion, so I won’t show you any. Both of us would be independent, spirited people, strong and stubborn, who just didn’t need anyone but ourselves.
And so it had gone for about six years now. Lots of work, lots of career building and even lots of sex. But not much lovemaking.
I wanted him to really see me again. But he was not about to let me see him. In that moment I just felt sad for both of us.
We were still all crowded inside room 106 with the bright sun streaming in like a laser beam through the open door. It made it difficult to see anyone except in silhouette. But the next image I saw coming through that door was a shape that I knew well. At six foot three, he looked ominous in the shadows, even with his slender frame. Shadows or not—I knew that body all too well. I’d know that man anywhere.
Sonny Bartholomew had been all mine at one time. From my first year of high school to my first year of college, Sonny was my on-again, off-again love. Over those years we went from harmless exploration to seriously discussing forever. And now, on the rare occasion that Harry and I had a heated conversation, Harry would say, “Why don’t you just go look up your cop? I’m sure you should have just married him anyway.”
This was my cop. My detective, actually.
Sonny Bartholomew. Homicide Investigations.
I fell in love with him back when he was the yearbook photographer during our freshman year of high school. Back then, he was sort of a misfit like me. Sonny had the cutest smile I had ever seen. He would cock his head to one side as he grinned at me. That’s all it took. His smile turned up at both corners of his mouth. He was precious, with his sandy hair and oversize feet and it all came together to make him even cuter. And he sure grew into those feet.
At fifteen we were just the right age for the beginning of the end of our innocence. But we never did go all the way. I was the good girl—at least in that respect. Though, somehow, I have always wished I hadn’t been so good back then. He should have been my first.
It felt really good—and really odd—to see him standing there in the doorway of the motel room. It had been a long time since I had run into him last, at a Bama game a few years back. It was a fall football Saturday, with bright blue skies and a bite in the air. We were in line for a beer at one of the bars along the strip. I’d asked him about his life and prodded him for information about his wife, a wallflower of a girl, Laura Logan. She’d gone to Catholic school with me and Vivi. She was so quiet and certainly was never involved in any of our infamous pranks. Laura was so shy and good that we believed she might actually become a nun.
Obviously, she did not.
Sonny had seemed uncomfortable during our chance encounter in the beer line. I told him I was married.
“I know,” he said. “I saw it in the paper.”
At that moment, standing in line on that football Saturday, I suddenly couldn’t imagine a life without Sonny. We should be friends, I’d thought. At least friends.
I had loved him for as long as I could remember and so I’d grabbed his hand in mine and said, “Look, we’re both married now. Can’t we all get together sometime, all four of us? For a cookout? I know Laura, for heaven’s sake. She was at my birthday parties growin’ up. We made our first communion together. Whatdaya say? I really miss you, Sonny.”
Sonny still had a face full of freckles and the darkest brown eyes. They could always see right through me. And I could still see that fifteen-year-old in him. As he paid for his beer, he looked at me with that smile and his famous one eyebrow up, cocked his head and said, “Blake, we run in different circles now. You’re all elite with your law school buddies and your near-blue-blood husband. My friends are good ol’ boys, rednecks, ya know? On the weekends we got longnecks in one hand and a remote in the other. And I always said, Blake, if I can’t have you in every way, I can’t bear seeing you, knowing somebody else is lovin’ you.”
I had been lost in his words and that curled-up smile when the beer lady’s shrill voice had shattered the moment. “Honey, you want yer change ’er what? C’mon now.”
Sonny tipped his baseball cap to her and shoved his change into his too-tight jeans. He’d looked back at me, leaned in and kissed my cheek. “It was good to see ya, Blake. Hi to Harry.”
With that I had felt a sudden chill in the October air. I’d watched him walk away for only a second, then I turned to the lady with the shrill voice. “I’ll have one of those