sheath as she went. She felt sticky from the heat, and as she stripped down to her underwear she welcomed the feel of the air-conditioning on her bare skin.
I wish I could turn back time.
That was the useless thought that curled through her mind as she dropped her pearls (fake; the government had taken the real ones, along with the rest of her jewelry except, ironically, the wedding ring she no longer wore or wanted) on the nightstand, put her dress away, then walked into the small connecting bathroom to turn on the taps in the tub, opting for a bath over a shower because she didnât want to get her hair wet. With one bathroom shared between the three of them at Margaretâs house, waiting to use it was a given, especially since one of their number was a teen who could spend hours locked in there doing God knows what.
As the water ran she returned to the bedroom, pulled her small suitcase out of the bottom of the closet, and quickly packed enough clothes to last for a few more days. After that, she would reevaluate.
Here, it was possible to pretend that the worst hadnât happened. Her apartment didnât reek of Jeff: heâd visited, but heâd never lived in it. Never even spent the night.
If Iâd gotten to Oakwood faster . . .
Impatient with herself, Riley pushed away the useless thoughtand focused on the task at hand. Conservative suits for the car dealership, sexy dresses for the club. Her work wardrobe reminded her of a mullet: business during the day, party at night.
Packing done, she stripped down to her skin and walked into the bathroom, which was tiny and windowless and strictly utilitarian. The bath was ready: she turned off the taps, twisted her hair up, secured the coil by the simple expedient of shoving the business end of a rattail comb through it, and stepped into the tub.
The water was blissfully hot. As she sank down into it, Riley felt her tense muscles begin to relax for the first time since she had walked into Oakwood that terrible night. Sheâd needed this, she realized: a little bit of time to herself.
As Mrs. Jeff Cowan, sheâd become used to the ultimate in lavish living: gorgeous clothes; six-hundred-dollar-a-pair shoes; thousand-thread-count linens; the finest restaurants; the best clubs; private jets; high-end cars. Most of the materialism hadnât made much of an impression on her. But the one thing sheâd come to love was luxurious toiletries.
Now as she lathered her skin with silky white bubbles, the sight and smell of the pink, flower-shaped, rose-scented bar that was one of her few remaining extravagances provided her with a familiar glimmer of pleasure. At least, until all the associations that came with the divine-smelling suds slammed her. Before sheâd married Jeff, soap had been soap. Nothing special. Got the job done. The cheapest bar was usually the one she went for.
Their marriage hadnât worked. They hadnât been soul mates, or even compatible life partners. But he had changed her life. He had introduced her to expensive soap .
Ah, Jeff .
She closed her eyes, remembering. The first thing sheâd noticed about him had been his blond hair gleaming under the light as heâd sat down at the very end of the bar where she was mixing drinks. The second thing, about an hour later, was his smile, rueful and charming, when after running a tab for four old fashioneds heâd discovered that heâd forgotten his wallet. Per bar policy, sheâd been on the hook for his tab. She hadnât been happy, and sheâd been even less happy when heâd pulled out car keys and informed her that he was going to drive to his apartment, retrieve his wallet, and be right back. Judging him unfit to drive, she called him a cab, and paid for that, too. She hadnât ever expected to see him again. But heâd shown up the next night, reimbursed her, and asked her out to dinner. Heâd been sweet and kind and sober
I wish I could turn back time.
That was the useless thought that curled through her mind as she dropped her pearls (fake; the government had taken the real ones, along with the rest of her jewelry except, ironically, the wedding ring she no longer wore or wanted) on the nightstand, put her dress away, then walked into the small connecting bathroom to turn on the taps in the tub, opting for a bath over a shower because she didnât want to get her hair wet. With one bathroom shared between the three of them at Margaretâs house, waiting to use it was a given, especially since one of their number was a teen who could spend hours locked in there doing God knows what.
As the water ran she returned to the bedroom, pulled her small suitcase out of the bottom of the closet, and quickly packed enough clothes to last for a few more days. After that, she would reevaluate.
Here, it was possible to pretend that the worst hadnât happened. Her apartment didnât reek of Jeff: heâd visited, but heâd never lived in it. Never even spent the night.
If Iâd gotten to Oakwood faster . . .
Impatient with herself, Riley pushed away the useless thoughtand focused on the task at hand. Conservative suits for the car dealership, sexy dresses for the club. Her work wardrobe reminded her of a mullet: business during the day, party at night.
Packing done, she stripped down to her skin and walked into the bathroom, which was tiny and windowless and strictly utilitarian. The bath was ready: she turned off the taps, twisted her hair up, secured the coil by the simple expedient of shoving the business end of a rattail comb through it, and stepped into the tub.
The water was blissfully hot. As she sank down into it, Riley felt her tense muscles begin to relax for the first time since she had walked into Oakwood that terrible night. Sheâd needed this, she realized: a little bit of time to herself.
As Mrs. Jeff Cowan, sheâd become used to the ultimate in lavish living: gorgeous clothes; six-hundred-dollar-a-pair shoes; thousand-thread-count linens; the finest restaurants; the best clubs; private jets; high-end cars. Most of the materialism hadnât made much of an impression on her. But the one thing sheâd come to love was luxurious toiletries.
Now as she lathered her skin with silky white bubbles, the sight and smell of the pink, flower-shaped, rose-scented bar that was one of her few remaining extravagances provided her with a familiar glimmer of pleasure. At least, until all the associations that came with the divine-smelling suds slammed her. Before sheâd married Jeff, soap had been soap. Nothing special. Got the job done. The cheapest bar was usually the one she went for.
Their marriage hadnât worked. They hadnât been soul mates, or even compatible life partners. But he had changed her life. He had introduced her to expensive soap .
Ah, Jeff .
She closed her eyes, remembering. The first thing sheâd noticed about him had been his blond hair gleaming under the light as heâd sat down at the very end of the bar where she was mixing drinks. The second thing, about an hour later, was his smile, rueful and charming, when after running a tab for four old fashioneds heâd discovered that heâd forgotten his wallet. Per bar policy, sheâd been on the hook for his tab. She hadnât been happy, and sheâd been even less happy when heâd pulled out car keys and informed her that he was going to drive to his apartment, retrieve his wallet, and be right back. Judging him unfit to drive, she called him a cab, and paid for that, too. She hadnât ever expected to see him again. But heâd shown up the next night, reimbursed her, and asked her out to dinner. Heâd been sweet and kind and sober
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