from the truck, took a deep breath, and padded in through the sun porch, past dust-covered furniture and plants turning to brittle crepe. He wondered if she was consciously letting all the plants die; slowly, they were shriveling, inch by inch, going brown to gray to dust. She’d given the plants a do-not-resuscitate order. No extra measures. Practicing for the decision she had to make about her daddy.
He entered the remodeled living room that had looked so elegant in the photograph for Southern Living . Now it was heaped with stacks of paper, plastic shopping bags tossed haphazardly on the Oriental carpet. Her cast-off clothes littered the couch. A pile of unfolded towels occupied a chair.
Distracted, Ellie had let the cleaning lady go.
Mitch was a fastidious man; he ironed his own shirts and shined his own shoes. Coming through the dining room, he spied a stack of magazines and books teetering on the table in an inverted pyramid. It drove him insane, the way she piled little items on the bottom, bigger things on the top.
He had heard of the “Twinkie defense.” He wondered if there was a “clutter defense.”
A metallic grinding came from the kitchen, sounding like a dentist’s drill, but it was just Ellie whipping up one of her damn veggie drinks in the Osterizer.
He walked into the kitchen and stared at his wife of seven years.
Ellender Jane Kirby, Corinth’s premier charity-czarina, leaned against the kitchen counter between stacks of unwashed dishes, dripping copper-freckled sweat. She wore road-blasted Nikes, red running shorts, and a purple halter. Her somewhat long face had the unnerving quality of looking really attractive only when you were groveling and looking up at her. Most people would say, diplomatically, that Ellie was a striking redhead. She was certainly excessively fit and gaunt now from the constant running.
Her blue Kirby eyes, patrician nose, and full lips were underslung by half an inch too much jaw. This piranha-like set to her features enabled her, Mitch suspected, to detect one part of Marcy Leets in a million parts of air. And at such times, Ellie’s jaw muscles bunched and she looked like she could bite through a steel bar.
“Hi honey, I’m home,” Mitch said, coming through the door, watching a trickle of sweat ooze down the defined muscles of her tight stomach and disappear into the waistband of her shorts. He imagined the tart sweat pooling down between her salmon-colored thighs. Seven years he’d labored after roses in that super-uptight briar patch.
Just trying to figure a way to get her to…unclench.
Might as well just forget the sex and stuff a lump of coal up there. See if she could bear down and piss diamonds.
After they buried Robert with full military honors in the family plot out at Kirby Creek, Ellie had cut her coppery hair short and started living in the gym like a crazed aerobic nun. After her dad had the stroke, the one that cut off the oxygen to his brain, she took to the roads.
“Where you been?” he asked softly. “I called from the station.”
She drowned out his question with a flick of the juicer switch and gave him the dentist drill again. Then she removed the glass beaker from the stainless steel contraption and poured the frothy orange mess into a tumbler.
“Running,” she said, raising the glass and taking a drink.
Mitch showed his teeth in a faint grimace. “At night? Where?”
She shrugged. “Out old 45, north of town.”
“Jesus, Ellie, that stretch is full of drunks at night.” He took a step forward. “I wish you’d cut back on the running. And eat more…”
She smiled tightly, held the glass aloft.
“Eat some real food, you’re too thin,” he said, thinking he should take the extra two steps and kiss her on the forehead. But he couldn’t bear the thought of ever touching her again. So he stood there as she placed the glass on the counter and turned to him and said, “I’ve employed LaSalle Ector to work full-time
He entered the remodeled living room that had looked so elegant in the photograph for Southern Living . Now it was heaped with stacks of paper, plastic shopping bags tossed haphazardly on the Oriental carpet. Her cast-off clothes littered the couch. A pile of unfolded towels occupied a chair.
Distracted, Ellie had let the cleaning lady go.
Mitch was a fastidious man; he ironed his own shirts and shined his own shoes. Coming through the dining room, he spied a stack of magazines and books teetering on the table in an inverted pyramid. It drove him insane, the way she piled little items on the bottom, bigger things on the top.
He had heard of the “Twinkie defense.” He wondered if there was a “clutter defense.”
A metallic grinding came from the kitchen, sounding like a dentist’s drill, but it was just Ellie whipping up one of her damn veggie drinks in the Osterizer.
He walked into the kitchen and stared at his wife of seven years.
Ellender Jane Kirby, Corinth’s premier charity-czarina, leaned against the kitchen counter between stacks of unwashed dishes, dripping copper-freckled sweat. She wore road-blasted Nikes, red running shorts, and a purple halter. Her somewhat long face had the unnerving quality of looking really attractive only when you were groveling and looking up at her. Most people would say, diplomatically, that Ellie was a striking redhead. She was certainly excessively fit and gaunt now from the constant running.
Her blue Kirby eyes, patrician nose, and full lips were underslung by half an inch too much jaw. This piranha-like set to her features enabled her, Mitch suspected, to detect one part of Marcy Leets in a million parts of air. And at such times, Ellie’s jaw muscles bunched and she looked like she could bite through a steel bar.
“Hi honey, I’m home,” Mitch said, coming through the door, watching a trickle of sweat ooze down the defined muscles of her tight stomach and disappear into the waistband of her shorts. He imagined the tart sweat pooling down between her salmon-colored thighs. Seven years he’d labored after roses in that super-uptight briar patch.
Just trying to figure a way to get her to…unclench.
Might as well just forget the sex and stuff a lump of coal up there. See if she could bear down and piss diamonds.
After they buried Robert with full military honors in the family plot out at Kirby Creek, Ellie had cut her coppery hair short and started living in the gym like a crazed aerobic nun. After her dad had the stroke, the one that cut off the oxygen to his brain, she took to the roads.
“Where you been?” he asked softly. “I called from the station.”
She drowned out his question with a flick of the juicer switch and gave him the dentist drill again. Then she removed the glass beaker from the stainless steel contraption and poured the frothy orange mess into a tumbler.
“Running,” she said, raising the glass and taking a drink.
Mitch showed his teeth in a faint grimace. “At night? Where?”
She shrugged. “Out old 45, north of town.”
“Jesus, Ellie, that stretch is full of drunks at night.” He took a step forward. “I wish you’d cut back on the running. And eat more…”
She smiled tightly, held the glass aloft.
“Eat some real food, you’re too thin,” he said, thinking he should take the extra two steps and kiss her on the forehead. But he couldn’t bear the thought of ever touching her again. So he stood there as she placed the glass on the counter and turned to him and said, “I’ve employed LaSalle Ector to work full-time
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