At The Stroke Of Madness. Alex KavaЧитать онлайн книгу.
might be too late,” Joan said in place of a greeting, then laughed, regretting the words because Dr. P. would try to read between the lines. But then wasn’t that what she was paying her the big bucks for? “Hey, Dr. P., yes, it’s me again. Sorry to be such a pain in the ass. But you were right. I’m doing it again. So no, I guess I haven’t learned my lesson, because here I am in the middle of the night, sitting in my dark car and waiting for … yeah, you guessed it, a man. Actually Sonny is different. Remember I told you about him in my e-mail? We’ve been getting together to talk, just talk. At least so far. He really does seem like a nice guy. Definitely not my type, right? Not like I’m a good judge of character when it comes to men. For all I know he could be an ax murderer, huh?” Another forced laugh. “Look, I was just hoping. I don’t know. Maybe I was hoping you would talk me out of this. Save me from … oh, you know … Save me from myself, like you always do. Who knows, maybe he won’t even show up. Anyway, I’ll see you Monday morning for our usual rendezvous. You can yell at me then. Okay?”
She hung up before the string of prerecorded options, one of which would have allowed her to review her message, revise it or even delete it. She didn’t want to be faced with any more choices, not tonight. She was sick and tired of making decisions. That’s all she had done the last few days: The Serenity Package or the Deluxe-in-case-you’refeeling-guilty Premium Package? White roses or white lilies? The walnut casket with brass trim or the mahogany with silk lining?
Good heavens! Who would have thought there were so many stupid decisions involved in burying someone?
Joan tossed the phone into her bag. She drew her fingers through her thick blond hair, batted impatiently at damp strands to push them off her forehead. She glanced in the rearview mirror, turning on the overhead light to get a look at her dark roots. She needed to take care of those soon. Being a blonde sure took a lot of work.
“You’ve become high maintenance, girlfriend,” she told the eyes in the mirror. Eyes she hardly recognized some days with new ravens cutting into what were once cute little laugh lines. Would that be her next project? A part of the new image she was creating for herself? God! She had even visited a plastic surgeon. What was she thinking? That she could re-create herself like one of her sculptures? Mold a new Joan Begley out of clay, dip it in brass, then solder on a couple of new attitudes while she was at it?
Maybe it was hopeless. Yet she did seem to be gaining control over the yo-yo dieting. Okay, control might not be the right word, because she wasn’t totally convinced she did have control, but she had to admit that her new body felt good. Really good. It allowed her to do things she could never do before. She had more energy. Without the extra weight she could get back to maneuvering around her metal sculptures and didn’t get winded every five minutes, waiting like her blow torch for more fuel to pump through before she could get going again.
Yes, this new slender self had an impact on her work, too. It made her feel like she had a whole new lease on work, on life. So why in the back of her mind was she unable to stifle that damn annoying little voice, that constant nag that kept asking, “How long will it last this time?”
The truth was, no matter how wonderful things were, she didn’t trust this new person she was becoming. She didn’t trust it like she didn’t trust sugarless chocolate or fat-free potato chips. There had to be a catch, like a bad aftertaste or chronic diarrhea. No, what it came down to was that she didn’t trust herself. That was it. That was the real problem. She didn’t trust herself and that was what got her into trouble. That was what had brought her to the top of this ridge in the middle of the fricking night, waiting for some guy to make her feel good, to make her feel—Jesus, she hated to admit it—waiting for some guy to make her feel complete.
Dr. P. said it was because she didn’t think she deserved to be happy. That she didn’t feel worthy, or some psychobabble crap. She had told Joan over and over again that it didn’t matter that there was a new improved exterior as long as the old interior didn’t change.
God! She hated when her shrink was right.
She wondered if she should try calling her again. No, that was ridiculous. She glanced at the rearview mirror. He probably wouldn’t show up, anyway.
Suddenly Joan realized she was disappointed. How silly was that? Maybe she really did think this guy was different. He was different from her regular fare—quiet and shy and interested. Yes, actually interested in listening to her. She hadn’t imagined that part. Sonny did seem interested, maybe even concerned about her. Especially when she gave him that load of bull about her weight problem being caused by a hormone deficiency, like it was something out of her control that made her overeat. But instead of treating it like the gutless excuse it was, Sonny believed her. He believed her.
Why kid herself. That’s why she was up here in the middle of nowhere, waiting in the dark. When was the last time a man had taken an interest in her? A real interest in her and not just in her new slender exterior with the artificial blond hair?
She shut off the overhead light and stared out at the city lights below. It was quite beautiful. And if she would relax, she might be able to see that it was quite romantic, despite that annoying rumble of thunder. Was that a raindrop on the windshield? Great! Wonderful! Just what she needed.
She tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel again and went back to her vigil, checking the side mirrors, then the rearview mirror.
Why was he so late? Had he changed his mind? Why would he change his mind?
She grabbed her handbag and searched inside, digging to the bottom until she heard the crinkle. She pulled out and ripped open the bag of M&M’s, poured a handful and began popping them, one after another, into her mouth, as if they were Zoloft tablets, expecting the chocolate to calm her. It usually worked.
“Yes, of course, he’ll come,” she finally announced out loud with a mouthful, as if the sound of her voice was necessary for confirmation. “Something came up. Something he had to take care of. He’s a very busy guy.”
After all he had done for her in the last week…. Well, surely she could wait for him. She had been kidding herself to think that losing Granny hadn’t had a tremendous impact on her. Granny had been the only person who truly understood and supported her. She was the only one who had stood up for her and defended her, insisting Joan’s predicament of still being single and alone at forty was due to her independent nature instead of just being pathetic.
And now Granny, her protector, her confidant, her advocate, was gone. She had lived a long and wonderful life, but none of that could fill the void Joan was feeling. Sonny had been able to see that loss in her, that void. He had gotten her through the last week, allowing and encouraging her to grieve, even encouraging her to “rant and rave” a little.
She smiled at the memory of him, that serious look creasing his forehead. He always looked so serious, so in control. It was strength and a sense of authority that she needed in her life right now.
Just then a pair of headlights magically appeared as if they were her reward. She watched the car weave through the trees. It rounded the twists and curves with a smooth, steady ease, finding its way to this hideaway far above the city as if the driver knew the dark road. As if the driver came here often.
She felt an unexpected flutter in her stomach. Excitement. Anxiety. Nervous energy. Whatever it was, she chastised herself. Such emotions befitted an immature schoolgirl and not a woman her age.
She watched his car drive up behind her, feeling on the back of her neck the startling, powerful glare of his headlights as though they were his strong hands, hands that sometimes had just the slightest scent of vanilla. He said the vanilla removed the other pungent odors he worked with on a regular basis. He had said it as if embarrassed by it. She didn’t mind. She had come to like that scent. There was something comforting about it.
The thunder rumbled overhead now and the droplets grew in number and size, splatting on the car’s windows and blurring her vision. She watched his shadow, a hat-brimmed, black silhouette, get out of the vehicle. He had cut the engine but left on the headlights, making it difficult for her to see him against the glare and through the