Read Online Grimm: The Chopping Block by John Passarella - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Passarella
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high school together, followed by a two-year encore as BFFs at Mount Hood Community College before going their separate ways. For Lisa, that had meant a business degree, a husband and two children—a boy and a girl, naturally; for Sheila, the intervening years featured a real estate license and an ill-advised marriage, followed by a why-the-hell-did-she-wait-so-long divorce.
Although Sheila had no issues with Kim—their interactions were pleasant and polite rather than chummy—she felt she was really there to catch up with Lisa rather than celebrate the upcoming nuptials. But, as host of the party, Lisa had little time to spare for Sheila, and before long, Sheila felt she had become conspicuous by her outsider status. The others sent her furtive glances, then she overheard whispered questions, all amounting to the same thing: “Who is she again?” “Oh, right, the sister’s friend.”
When Lisa informed Sheila it was a little black dress party, where only the bride wore another color—Kim chose an electric fuchsia—Sheila had thought she might blend in, another face in the crowd. But she had little in common with the other women, coworkers or long-time friends with shared jobs and clubs and routines, with their own private little verbal shorthand, honed over the years. On another night, without commitments hanging over her head, Sheila might have made the effort to crack the code, but she chose the path of least resistance instead.
With the legitimate excuse of a budding headache and an early morning appointment, she tapped Lisa on the shoulder and whispered her intention to leave. Lisa flashed her a sympathetic face, but the gesture was fleeting, almost perfunctory, and the offer to walk her out of the restaurant vanished without a trace as another moment of head-pounding hilarity erupted around the table. So Sheila slipped out, depressingly certain that no one would miss her.
She picked up her linen jacket on the way out, crossed the street and tried to remember where she’d parked her five-year-old silver Camry. Parking had been at a premium when she arrived and she’d managed to find a spot on a side street a few blocks away from
La Porte Bleue
. As she walked on her two-inch heels along the uneven asphalt, she felt a little wobbly.
Should’ve had more fondue
, she thought,
and less wine
.
Lightheadedness on top of the building headache lent the streets around her a surreal quality, as if she’d stepped out of one world into another. A shroud of mist caused surrounding streetlights to glow eerily. A chill in the air made her shudder. Then she wondered if the chill had been responsible, or her sudden isolation. Reaching into her clutch purse, she pulled out her keys.
Down a narrow side street, she spotted her Camry in front of a white Ford Econoline van with a T HOMAS E LECTRIC sign on the side, the lower case L taking the form of a stylized lightning bolt. As she passed the van, she glanced through the driver’s side window, a quick peek, not wanting to attract a stranger’s attention when she felt a little tipsy and vulnerable. Not when the world seemed to have skipped off its track. But nobody sat in the van.
She exhaled suddenly, unaware until that moment that she’d been holding her breath as she approached the van.
With the tension gone, she mentally kicked herself for not switching on her business persona at the party. She should have passed out her Forrester Cade Realty business cards, asking for referrals, mentioning available properties. But even as she entertained the idea, envisioning that alternate reality where she shamelessly promoted the business—which had seen better days—she rejected the notion. She couldn’t be that person, making the event all about her, grabbing the bride’s spotlight and shining it on herself. Of course, that kind of behavior would ensure she’d never receive invitations to any social gatherings ever again.
So there’s a positive
, she thought,
Although Sheila had no issues with Kim—their interactions were pleasant and polite rather than chummy—she felt she was really there to catch up with Lisa rather than celebrate the upcoming nuptials. But, as host of the party, Lisa had little time to spare for Sheila, and before long, Sheila felt she had become conspicuous by her outsider status. The others sent her furtive glances, then she overheard whispered questions, all amounting to the same thing: “Who is she again?” “Oh, right, the sister’s friend.”
When Lisa informed Sheila it was a little black dress party, where only the bride wore another color—Kim chose an electric fuchsia—Sheila had thought she might blend in, another face in the crowd. But she had little in common with the other women, coworkers or long-time friends with shared jobs and clubs and routines, with their own private little verbal shorthand, honed over the years. On another night, without commitments hanging over her head, Sheila might have made the effort to crack the code, but she chose the path of least resistance instead.
With the legitimate excuse of a budding headache and an early morning appointment, she tapped Lisa on the shoulder and whispered her intention to leave. Lisa flashed her a sympathetic face, but the gesture was fleeting, almost perfunctory, and the offer to walk her out of the restaurant vanished without a trace as another moment of head-pounding hilarity erupted around the table. So Sheila slipped out, depressingly certain that no one would miss her.
She picked up her linen jacket on the way out, crossed the street and tried to remember where she’d parked her five-year-old silver Camry. Parking had been at a premium when she arrived and she’d managed to find a spot on a side street a few blocks away from
La Porte Bleue
. As she walked on her two-inch heels along the uneven asphalt, she felt a little wobbly.
Should’ve had more fondue
, she thought,
and less wine
.
Lightheadedness on top of the building headache lent the streets around her a surreal quality, as if she’d stepped out of one world into another. A shroud of mist caused surrounding streetlights to glow eerily. A chill in the air made her shudder. Then she wondered if the chill had been responsible, or her sudden isolation. Reaching into her clutch purse, she pulled out her keys.
Down a narrow side street, she spotted her Camry in front of a white Ford Econoline van with a T HOMAS E LECTRIC sign on the side, the lower case L taking the form of a stylized lightning bolt. As she passed the van, she glanced through the driver’s side window, a quick peek, not wanting to attract a stranger’s attention when she felt a little tipsy and vulnerable. Not when the world seemed to have skipped off its track. But nobody sat in the van.
She exhaled suddenly, unaware until that moment that she’d been holding her breath as she approached the van.
With the tension gone, she mentally kicked herself for not switching on her business persona at the party. She should have passed out her Forrester Cade Realty business cards, asking for referrals, mentioning available properties. But even as she entertained the idea, envisioning that alternate reality where she shamelessly promoted the business—which had seen better days—she rejected the notion. She couldn’t be that person, making the event all about her, grabbing the bride’s spotlight and shining it on herself. Of course, that kind of behavior would ensure she’d never receive invitations to any social gatherings ever again.
So there’s a positive
, she thought,
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