Thou shall not stuff pictures of thy husband down the
garbage disposal.
I made a mental note to add this to my list of personal
commandments. I'd put it right after "Thou shalt not eat
more than two pints of ice cream in one night" and just
before "Thou shalt never wear the correct size jeans."
Priorities and all.
I opened the cabinet under the sink and stared at the root
of my problem. My newest commandment wasn't a result of
sudden regret at the loss of the photos. Instead it came
from the fact that by stuffing pictures of the two-timing
weasel down the disposal I had caused the sink to clog.
Little Kodak bits of my husband's head floated around the
sink's stainless steel basin. I found an odd sense of
peace seeing Kevin Quinn drowning -- even one-
dimensionally -- but I couldn't risk Riley seeing the
pieces. I fished them out and shoved them in the trash can.
I stared at the stack of prints I'd yet to destroy and
picked up the top one. It had been taken soon after I met
Kevin. I'd been twenty-one and fresh out of college when
Officer Kevin Quinn pulled me over for speeding. Being
somewhat desperate -- since I'd already gotten two tickets
in the previous six months -- I faked being sick. I still
remember with startling clarity the mad dash I'd made
toward the tree line, where I'd given a fair imitation of
that Exorcist girl -- without the head spinning, of course.
Officer Kevin let me off, but later that night showed up
at the off-campus apartment I'd shared with my cousin Ana
with a pot of chicken soup.
Looking back, I should've taken the ticket.
We looked so disgustingly happy in the picture I was
holding.
Kevin, the weasel, hadn't changed much in the last eight
years, at least physically. He was still one sexy piece o'
man. Six foot, three inches. Short, jet-black wavy hair.
Clear green eyes. And a smile that made my knees go all
spongy.
He'd been eight years older than me, a widower with a
seven-year-old son and a boatload of baggage, but when he
looked at me with those vivid green bedroom eyes, smiled
that mischievous smile -- I'd never had a prayer of
escaping, heart intact.
Okay, I admit it. I hadn't wanted to -- until recently.
I looked down at my younger, naΓ―ve self. My mother liked
to think all her kids looked like movie stars. According
to Mom, my younger sister Maria was the spitting image of
Grace Kelly. My older brother Peter? George Clooney. And
amazingly, there was some resemblance in a slightly out-of-
focus way.
Mom, however, never specified who I looked like -- she
just kept telling me I had a face for the movies. Which
left me wondering if I had more in common with that
Exorcist girl than just that incident with Kevin.
But I didn't think so. Or at least I hoped not.
Unlike my sister, I'd never be movie-star gorgeous. She
was French baguette where I leaned toward ...
pumpernickel. But I'd never minded. My heart-shaped face
had its own unique charm I've grown fond of during our
twentynine years of cohabitation.
As I looked at the picture, I realized I hadn't changed
much since I met Kevin either. My shoulder-length brown
hair was still styled in that same nondescript bob. My
lips were still too full, my smile too wide. Though they
could pass for brown most of the time, my eyes remained a
dark muddy green, but nowadays they had tiny lines
creasing their corners.
Kevin had said I was beautiful.
And I'd believed him.
Until two days ago.
Sighing, I split the photo in two. Tucking my half into my
robe pocket, I dunked Kevin's half into the full sink,
enjoying it almost as much as I would dipping a Krispy
Kreme into hot chocolate. As I tried to figure out what to
do about the sink full of water, the phone rang.
I checked the clock. It was early.
"Hello?" I said with an edge to my voice that was sure to
frighten any telemarketers.
"Nina?"
Didn't sound like a telemarketer, and although the female
voice sounded oddly familiar, I couldn't place it.
"Yes." My tone still warned that I was in no mood to buy a
time-share in Costa Rica.
"It's Bridget," she said. "Tim and I got your message and
your card. Thank you."
My mouth dropped open. I'd called and left a message on
her machine the other day, but I hadn't expected her to
call me back. Not for a while, at any rate. Not with all
she had going on.
I wrapped the phone cord around my finger. "I was so sorry
to hear about Joe."
Bridget's father-in-law, Joe Sandowski -- "Farmer Joe," as
I used to affectionately call him -- was found dead in one
of his cornfields early last week. Ordinarily the death of
a man as old as Joe wouldn't raise a plucked eyebrow, but
apparently, according to the local paper, there had been
something (which was never specified, and left inquiring
minds wanting to know) found at the scene that indicated
his death had been anything but natural.
"Thanks," Bridget said. "We're sorry too."
An irrepressible sadness tightened my throat. Although I
hadn't seen Joe Sandowski in years, he'd played a pivotal
role in my life. His love for the outdoors had rubbed off
on me to the point where I'd gone to college for landscape
design.
Soon after graduating I had opened my own run-of-the-mill
landscaping business, which, through a quirky twist of
fate, two years ago had morphed into what it was now:
Taken by Surprise, Garden Designs. TBS was one of a kind
in this area of Ohio, in the country really. We
specialized in surprise garden makeovers ...
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