Kill the Competition (19 page)

"I'll buy you lunch."

She took a deep breath. "Look, Perry, I'm not interested in us being more than neighbors and... friends."

He thought for a few seconds. "How good a friend?"

"Platonic."

He frowned. "Does that have anything to do with sex?"

"Yes. It means having none. Good-bye, Perry." She turned and started walking.

"A lot of women think I'm hot, you know!"

She closed the door behind her, heaved a sigh of relief, and carried the paper to the kitchen, where she poured a second cup of coffee.
 

"Downey," she called. "Do you want to eat?"

Nothing.

She poured a scoop of dry cat food in the double-sided bowl for when the cat's stomach got the best of her pride. A yawn overtook Belinda. She covered her mouth with her hand and stretched high on her toes to send energy to her extremities. Last night she'd tossed and turned on her one pillow, plagued alternately by thoughts of her titillating encounter with Julian Hardeman and her unsettling encounter with Wade Alexander. The men evoked such opposite responses in her—just picturing Julian's face made her smile, and Wade's face... didn't.

His pain was too fresh, too familiar. She owed it to herself to spend time with a man who made her feel carefree. Sexy. Desirable.

On the kitchen table, Vince's envelope sat benignly, still propped against the yellow fruit bowl. She ignored it in favor of the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
Some local names and places were starting to become familiar. A good sign, but she still didn't feel connected to this big, sprawling city.

The best news came in the weather forecast: rain all weekend meant she might be able to pick up reception on her temperamental television and watch
The Single Files
tomorrow night. It was a petty thought, but she released it into the universe anyway.

She closed the paper and sipped her coffee. Vince's envelope taunted her, his precise cursive written, no doubt, with his favorite Mont Blanc pen. Return address: 137 Monarch Circle. It was to have been their address, their redbrick ranch with a sloping driveway, their front door with stained-glass inset. Instead, he lived there, and she lived—she glanced from corner to corner of her generic, rented townhouse—here.

Unbidden, tears pricked her eyes. She had wanted stainless steel appliances in the kitchen but had relented to his preference for white. She had coveted built-in bookshelves in the living room but had surrendered the space to a mammoth entertainment system. Had Vince been having reservations about their relationship even then? Had he planned all along to move into the house alone?

The phone rang, and Downey appeared from thin air.

"I think you're a shape-shifter," she accused the cat. "If you are, be a chocolate cake, would you?" She picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi, dear, it's Mother."

She winced—she'd been so preoccupied when she'd gotten home last night, she'd forgotten to call. "Hi, Mom, how are you?"

Long sigh. "Worried about you. Were you asleep?"

"No, I've been up for a while."

"You're not sleeping well?"

"I got up early to clean. A friend is coming over."

"Oh?"

"A girlfriend."

"Oh."

"Guess what? I found my address book."

"Oh, good. The package is sitting right here in front of me."

She didn't doubt it. Belinda pulled up Suzanne's address and read it from the small screen of her organizer.

Her mother clucked. "I hope it isn't too late for Suzanne to return the candlesticks."

"If it is, she'll probably use them herself."

"Yes, her mother told me she and her husband have the most lovely home in Lexington." The envy in her mother's voice was palpable.

"Um, I bought a couch."

"You did? Oh, that's wonderful! What kind?"

"It's a sofa bed. Red."

"Did you say red?"

"Leather."

"Red leather?"

"It was on sale."

"Oh. Well, maybe you can cover it with a throw."

Sigh.
"Are you and Dad ready for your trip?"

"Yes. Your father is out checking the tire pressure on the car. We're planning to leave first thing in the morning—your dad says the traffic will be light on Sunday."

"You'll have the best time."

"Of course we will. I'll call you often to check in." Then her mother cleared her throat. "Speaking of checking in, Belinda, have you heard from Vince?"

Her gaze bounced to the envelope on the table. "No. Why?"

"No reason. No reason at all, I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't."

"Well, I'd better go, dear. Mr. Finn will be here any minute to pick up this package."

"Okay, Mom. Give Dad my love." She hung up the phone and pursed her mouth. Her poor mother. Subjected to all the stress of a wedding, but cheated out of the aftermath of boasting to her friends how well her daughter and her new husband were getting along in their new home. Instead, Barbara Hennessey had been left with her penciled-in eyebrows raised in disbelief and no satisfactory explanation for the revoked wedding to pass on to shocked members of her Garden Club.

But she couldn't very well have told her mother that Vince might have changed his mind because she'd slept with him the night before the wedding and it had fallen short of earth shattering. (Okay, it had been a disaster.) Besides, he hadn't actually said that was the reason. Or said there was a reason at all.

She walked back to the table and sipped her coffee—now lukewarm—and squinted at the envelope. She could steam it open, and if the contents were innocuous, seal the flap and return to sender or toss the thing in the trash. And if the contents were completely objectionable, she could contaminate it with some hideous bacteria from the cheese in her refrigerator before sealing the flap and returning to sender.

Or she could rip it open and regardless of the contents, stomp on them, cut them up, and set them on fire. Or use the clippings to fashion a papier-mâché voodoo doll. Or to line Downey's litter box. Perhaps Martha Stewart should consider an episode on creative revenge.
Retribution—it's a good thing.

On the counter sat the crumpled brown bag containing the embroidered pillow. Overcome by the urge to undo something, she pulled the pillow out of the bag and retrieved a pair of scissors. "Sorry, Aunt Edie," she murmured, then used the sharp end of the scissors to cut through the little stitches that formed the loving message. When she finished, frayed ends covered the pale blue surface, making her resent Vince all over again for the little injustices his behavior had foisted onto her family.

Downey had been studying her intently, and she realized the cat was captivated by the shiny sateen fabric. Belinda tossed the dainty pillow on the floor, and Downey pounced, then dragged it toward her food bowl.

"Go for it," Belinda muttered.

She sighed, thinking she should probably channel her anger toward straightening the town house before Libby arrived. She drained her cup and put it in the dishwasher, along with the few items that had accumulated over the week. She wiped counters and dusted, then ran the vacuum cleaner, which sent Downey into hiding. In the living room, Belinda maneuvered around the moving boxes that she had yet to confront.

But they weren't going anywhere.

She barely had time to finish, take a quick shower and dress before her doorbell rang. When she opened the door, a blue Volvo sedan was backing out of the driveway, and Libby stood on the stoop, her mouth tight and quivery.

"Everything okay?" Belinda asked, stepping aside to allow her entry.

Libby gritted her teeth. "Glen said I was going to have to get a part-time job to pay off my credit cards." She sniffed and bustled in, carrying a pink overnight case. She was dressed in cropped white pants that hugged her generous hips and showed off her tiny ankles. Her blouse was big and flowing, her hair poufy. She raised her hand, witness style. "I swear sometimes that man makes me so damn mad, a red haze just comes over me, and I think how nice it would be to just shut him up once and for all!"

The woman was shaking and her voice was so hysterical that Belinda had a vision of a news video showing a Bloomingdale's-dressed woman in handcuffs, with a reporter in the foreground saying, "The police are calling this murder a crime of passion."

Belinda spoke carefully. "Both of you are stressed, things will settle down."

"I told him about our book, and he
laughed
at me! He had a big old belly laugh at the idea of Libby Janes being an author!"

Belinda pressed her lips together. "Well, Libby, you have to admit the odds of getting the manuscript published are rather slim."

"This book is going to be great!" Libby insisted, her eyes bulging. "I've been working on it at night. It's going to be more than just DOs and DON'Ts. I bought a book on getting published, and I tell you, the four of us could be like Margaret Mitchell."

Belinda lifted her eyebrow but kept her thoughts—that the idea of four carpooling office workers reaching the authorial status of Margaret Mitchell was indeed laughable—to herself. On the other hand, considering the amount of time they spent in traffic, the odds of them suffering a vehicular death like Margaret were pretty darn good. Instead she said, "Would you like something to drink?"

"Coke?"

"I have Diet Pepsi."

Libby sighed, then nodded, her anger spent. "Oh, I'm just in a mood. Keep your fingers crossed that I get that raise." Then she conjured up a big smile. "So, this is your place." She circled in the foyer, then followed Belinda into the kitchen. "It's really... bare."

"I haven't had time to do much decorating. I didn't have a lot of furniture, and my plants didn't survive the move."

"Still, it has potential," Libby said, tapping her finger against her chin. "Your couch will look great next to that bay window. And I've got enough stuff in my upstairs hall closet to decorate this whole place. You like dried flowers, don't you?"

"Well—"

"Oh, and you need a wallpaper border—I put a magnolia border in my foyer, and I have tons left over. It's removable, so your landlord won't have a conniption."

"Okay." Belinda opened the refrigerator and withdrew a can of soda.

Libby passed on a glass, cracked open the can, and chugged half of it on the spot. "Not bad," she said. "Although the way my nerves are acting up this morning, I don't need the caffeine."

No, she didn't, considering she would soon be brandishing shears. Belinda tapped her watch. "Carole and Rosemary will be here soon, so maybe we should get started."

"Okay, where do you want me to set up?"

"The bathroom upstairs is bigger than the one down here."

"Sounds good to me."

When they turned the corner, Downey sat on the bottom step like a sentry with a blue satin guard pillow by her side. The pillow looked worse for cat wear, already torn and stained.

Libby cooed. "I didn't know you had a kitty." She set down the overnight case and the soda, then scooped Downey into her arms.

"Careful, she's not very friend—"

Downey licked Libby's chin.

"—ly." Belinda frowned at the hairy little traitoress. Maybe she liked the taste of Aqua Net.

"What an adorable little fuzzy-wuzzy," Libby sang, pressing her nose against Downey's.

"She bites," Belinda offered.

"No, she's a pretty little kitty-witty. Yes, you are." Downey purred and rubbed her ear against Libby's cheek. "Too bad Glen is allergic," she said, setting down the satisfied feline. "Otherwise, I'd have a houseful. Have you had her long?"

Belinda climbed the stairs. "About a year. Vince adopted her from a humane society drive. I inherited her... afterward."

At the top of the stairs, Libby pointed to the room on the right. "Spare bedroom?"

Belinda nodded. "I was thinking I'd turn it into an office."

Libby made a face. "Forget that, you'll be working all the time."

Belinda smiled, walked across the landing, and pointed left. "My bedroom."

Libby stuck her head inside. "I wouldn't have thought you for leopard-print bed linens. Nice." Then she frowned. "Did you and your ex split up the pillows, too?"

"Hm? Oh, long story."

"I've got time." Libby said cheerfully. "I love to talk while I'm cutting hair."

Belinda arched an eyebrow—surprise, surprise. From her bedroom, she led Libby into the connected bathroom that was also accessible from the hall.

"It'll take me just a minute to set up," Libby said, humming with approval at the chair Belinda had placed in front of the vanity.

"Shall I get a towel?"

"No, I brought a poncho, just sit yourself down."

Belinda took a deep breath and did as she was told. In the wide mirror hanging over the vanity, the differences in their reflections were sobering. Libby, in her bright clothes and shiny makeup, was a neon sign, and she, with her J. Crew gear and scrubbed face, was a signpost. Maybe she
could
use a new look to go with her new outlook.