Rumpled Between The Sheets (2 page)

She snatched the
key and hurried out. Her room was too near to the office for her liking. The
slide chain lock was the first order of business once on the other side of the
door. She flicked the light switch on before collapsing on the bed for a good cry.
Leaving Beowulf Hollow had been a mistake. Thinking she could actually make it
in New York as an actress without someone trying to use her as a sex object was
her second mistake.

Her tears
stained the pillow. She wanted to go home and forget this nightmare. Paul had
duped her into thinking what they had together had been special. Sexually
naïve, he opened her up to experiences beyond just touching herself. And that
had been his way of pulling the wool over her eyes. How could she be so stupid
in thinking she controlled even a fraction of their relationship.

She gazed at the
phone on the nightstand with blurry eyes. Would her mother forgive her? Would
she let her come home? Sitting up, she rifled through her purse. Her mail fell
to the floor. She ignored it. The motel would eat through her money faster than
anything, especially with no job. She counted the remaining bills, finding
around two hundred dollars and change. Not enough. Terror gripped her heart,
the helplessness of being alone in a city that would suck your soul black. Mary
stood and glanced in the mirror. Her hands roamed her hips and over her stomach.
Her cheeks reddened when she considered dancing for money. Paul had told her
several times, while his hands fondled her breasts, that she had a
rockin
' body. Men would pay her hundreds of dollars a night
to spread her legs and give them a glance at her pussy.

She looked away,
ashamed. Stripping for money would mean that Paul was right all along. She
might as well go back and apologize to him instead of the other way around. If
he always found a way to pay the bills, he could help her.

"What am I
thinking?" She started to undress, pausing as she thought of the pervert
at the front desk. Her eyes perused the room, seeking out anything resembling a
peephole. She desperately wanted to erase any trace of Paul from her skin.

"Fuck
it." Mary stripped and ran to the bathroom. She'd figure out what to do in
the morning. Hot water cascaded over her bare form. The steam cleared her head
and the soap scrubbed her body clean in no time. She wrapped the other towel
around her chest as she stepped out of the shower. The contrast in temperature
caused her skin to prickle.

Rummaging
through her suitcase, she found a pair of baggy pants and a sweatshirt. She
wanted none of her body exposed, still not trusting the owner of this
establishment. Pair after pair of panties poured out of the small pocket as she
tried to find a nice white pair instead of a lacy one. Her fingers brushed
something ridged. Pain lanced the pad and she withdrew, suckling on the throbbing
digit. Pulling it out, she spied a hairline blood mark. A paper cut. Digging in
with her other hand, she pulled out an open envelope with beautiful flowing handwriting
on it. The return address was from Beowulf Hollow, Pennsylvania. She slid out
the letter inside, finding it stained with an oily substance.

"Paul."
Her jaw clenched. He'd opened a letter addressed to her after one of his
masturbation sessions.
Or
“auditions.”

Her lips
trembled as she read the contents. It was from her mother, imploring her to
come home and how sorry she was for her poor choice of words. Mary dug in her
purse for a few dimes and ran outside to the pay phone. The rain didn't bother
her as she splashed in the puddles before reaching the comfort of the booth.
She shoved the dimes in the slot and dialed her mother's number.

Across the
parking lot, the pervert in the office stared through the window pane. Her
finger twirled in the cord as the phone continued to ring. Her eyes darted from
her half-open motel room and the dirty bastard still eyeing her from the
comfort of his office.

"Please
pick up." She froze as the pervert slowly made his way to the door to the
outside. Dropping the receiver, she bolted back to her room. Her heart pounded
in her chest. Mary reached her door as he started up the sidewalk. The door
slammed shut and she put the slide lock back in place. Cowering in the corner,
she flinched as he banged on her door.

"Hey, doll.
You could use the phone in the room or in my office for free if you want."
He banged again.
"You in there?"

She jumped on
the bed and shut off the light before cowering back on the other side. A key
slid in the lock and her door opened, shuddering to a stop thanks to the chain.

"Come on,
doll. Let me in. I just want to talk."

Tired of all the
lines a man threw her way to get her in bed, Mary's anger bubbled to the
surface. "You better fucking leave or I'll call the cops." She
screamed out.

"Bitch."
The man
muttered before slamming the door shut.

She’d had enough of staying in
this sleazy motel. Picking up the phone, she asked the operator for the number of
a cab company. The letter was the nail in the coffin. She was going home. No
matter what circumstances she’d left Beowulf Hollow under, the one thing she
needed the most right now was the loving embrace of her mother.

Chapter Two

Mary glanced up
to the sky as Father Mallard recited the same eulogy she'd heard at her dad's
funeral. Blue skies splashed with delicate white clouds greeted her upturned
face. Not one angel wept from the heavens for her mother's death. Most of the
town was in attendance, her mother being a fixture there with her work in the dressmaking
shop. How often had she sat in the big bay window and watched her mother tirelessly
measure girls to make their perfect prom dress?

She clutched the
single red rose to her breasts. Her lip quivered, remembering their last
conversation. Terse and very tense, Mary had stormed out of her childhood home
with a suitcase and the keys to her car. Her mother had called her a dreamer
and, in a rare choice of words, told her bluntly to "remove her head from
her wide ass."

All Mary wanted
to do was find her own way in the world. The town of Beowulf Hollow had
unnerved her. When she was only nine years old, her mother dragged her to a
candlelight vigil for some college kids who had been slaughtered at an
abandoned campground up in the mountains. The whispers from the other
townspeople had sent shivers up her spine. No child should have been subjected
to those grisly details, especially when Mary knew one of the victims. Susan
Gretel had been her babysitter before she headed for college. The nightmares
from that day still haunted her.

At the age of
eighteen she'd ran away from her mother's depressing opinion on her direction
in life and the memories of Beowulf Hollow. In one letter, Mary found out the
real reason her mother's demeanor had been so harsh.

Cancer.

The vicious
disease had latched onto her mother's breasts and laid waste to her body. What
chemo didn't strip away, being without any family during her ordeal did. It had
completely demoralized her spirit. By the time Mary returned in a rush from New
York, her mother couldn't even lift the corners of her mouth to form a smile.
One tear had trailed down her cheek before the monitor deadpanned that awful
tone.

Father Mallard
shook her from the past. Mary blinked. The mourners had dispersed, leaving her
with the town's priest and a gaping grave.

"They've
all paid their respects, dear." He rubbed her shoulder.

"Sorry,
Father." She drew a shuddering breath. Tears blurred her vision. She let
them come. Who did she need to be strong for now? Her knees crumbled and hit
the damp grass. The ornate casket gazed up at her from its six-foot deep crypt.
"I'm so, so sorry Mother. I should have been there for you." The rose
fell from her fingertips, tumbling stem over petals to the casket below. She
grasped the metal bar of the harness that had lowered her mother into the
ground. Someone hugged her tight as she wailed endlessly. She'd failed the one
person who understood her. Through all the trials of her youth and even through
the nightmares spurred from that one night at the candlelight vigil, her mother
had lifted her chin when it dropped to her chest. One epic fight had stolen her
chance of doing the same for her mother.

She'd never forgive herself.

****

Susan Gretel's father, Pickford,
sat across from Mary. As one of the few lawyers in the small town, her mother
had drawn up her will through him. The reading was a formality and an endless
stream of papers to sign. Mary’s mother had left everything to her only child.
None of these things would give her back the time she'd withered away by pursuing
a foolish dream.

"Now, as to
your mother's business."
Pickford straightened his papers for
what had to be the thousandth time.

"Business?"
Mary blinked.
Her mother had worked in town with one of the other Suzie Homemakers, yet she
never mentioned in any of the letters that she had her own business. Mary
assumed she'd received a bigger commission on her custom work.

Perhaps if I would have written or called…

"Yes. Right
after your father died, she and Vivian Tucker bought the dress shop on Main
Street." He pushed a paper toward her. "I brokered the deal for
her."

Flabbergasted, Mary
picked the thin piece of paper up. Her mother had bought the shop she’d worked
in for so many years. She now held the deed to the shop, free and clear of debt.
If Vivian had been a partner, she'd left her name right off the whole affair.
What could she possibly do with a business? Sure, she'd watched her mother help
countless clients get their big city flair for the formals at City Hall, but ownership?
She knew next to nothing about sewing beyond the courses in high school every
young lady had to endure. She wanted to be on Broadway or the big screen, not
stuck behind a Singer.

"So Mrs.
Tucker has no interest in the shop?" She placed the deed on the desk.

He shook his
head. "She's signed away any rights. Your mother was always the principle
owner however Vivian helped her with her town influence." He winked.
"A woman starting her own business is a little shocking to this
town."

"Well, they
need to get out of the—" She stopped herself, memories of her argument
with her mother starting out in the same context. "I'm sorry. This is all
too much to handle."

"Understandable.
Here." He laid a set of keys on the counter. "These are the only set
for the shop. I encourage you to see it for yourself before you make any
emotional decisions." He smiled broadly. "If I haven't said it, it's
good to see you back in Beowulf Hollow."

Her knuckles
whitened as she picked up the keys. "Thank you." Politeness would get
her far less poking about by the people of this town. No matter how much she yearned
to say Beowulf Hollow was the last place she wanted to be, too much animosity
would brew if she spoke her peace. Her mother wasn't the only furious person
when she’d headed out of town with a suitcase and her dreams.

She left his
office, promising to come back at a later date to finish up the estate.
Overwhelmed didn't begin to explain her emotional state.

On the street, she
glanced at the large statue in the middle of the town. The first settler to
reach the area, Faustino
Profetini
, glorified in cast
bronze. In his arms, he held the native Indian he took as his wife to solidify
the union between the two cultures. Every student of Hollow High got the
history. Each October, a parade danced around the statue.

She thought
about returning to her mother's house even though going through all the
possessions seemed an onerous task with her heart so heavy. The keys tinkled
like wind chimes as they swayed from her middle finger. If any place would give
her the soul-boost she needed, the dress shop was it. She crossed the street
briskly. So much in the town had stayed the same, including the B H Diner with
Janis Flannigan and her sour puss waiting the tables. Her mug looked much as
the same as the others walking along Main Street.
Stares of
betrayal to Mary.
Heaven forbid any person escape the confines of a town
who shunned outsiders.

She turned the
corner, the wind rustling the leaves in the alleyway. The fine hairs on her
arms prickled as she walked through the debris. The plain white door marking
the back of the shop beckoned to her. A conversation filtered in from the
street, coming closer. Mary shoved the key in the knob and shouldered the door.
It opened without much effort. Closed and locked, the door blocked out the
voices.

Flicking on the
light, dust filtered in the man-made rays. The back stockroom hadn't changed
much. Several bolts of fabric were shoved in bins and various patterns were in
plastic storage containers. Her fingers traced the shoulders of the dress form.
Tape lines were crisscrossed on the midriff area marking a work in progress. A
rare smile stretched her lips. This was her favorite part about watching her
mother work, the freedom she expressed in making her own designs. Patterns were
more like guidelines.

"Shall we
dance?" She placed her hands on the shoulders of the form, dusting it off,
and skipped to a beat in her head. The wheels on the dress form creaked as it
moved to her whims. She laughed briefly before her heel stuck in a pit on the
floor. She stumbled a bit, the form racing across to the other side of the room
as she tumbled back into the racking. Bracing for the impact, she squeezed her eyes
shut only to gasp when the racking swung back. Her bottom smacked on the
concrete. She winced, glancing down at her classic black shoes. The heel of the
offending right one had snapped clean off. They were her favorite pair, went
with everything, and cost her a small fortune.
Or half her
meager wages at the diner in New York.

Sighing, she
shook off the ruined pair. The rack moved as she tried to grab a hold to get
off the floor. When had that ever been mobile? Her eyes focused on the archway
the unhinged rack had uncovered. A large object sat in the back of the room obscured
by the dimness within. Brushing off her skirt, Mary got to her feet and fumbled
along the wall for a light switch. With a flick, the world behind the rack
illuminated. Soft music played from a radio along the wall. The station was
nothing that Mary recalled ever hearing last she lived here. Her hands flew to
her mouth as she gazed at the large once-shadowed object. Something out of the
Dark Ages, a loom big enough to make her own magic carpet stood proudly,
without a speck of dust on it.

She stepped
closer and managed to stifle a squeak when she spied a glittering pile on the
floor. She scooped up some of the scrapes and marveled at the yellow nuggets.
"This can't be gold." She giggled briefly.
It's the grief
, she thought.
Or
I'm going crazy.

"Mary?"

She gasped and
dropped the nugget on the floor. She had locked the door, right? In a rush, she
exited the room and yanked the rack back in place. The last thing she needed,
if the
crazyville
train hadn't picked her up for the
insane asylum, was anyone knowing about that room.

"No rush,
dear.
This has got to be very overwhelming."

"Yes.
Coming."
She jogged to the front of the shop and
stuttered to a stop when she spied Vivian. "Mr. Gretel had said you'd left
town." Mary waved her hand and shook her head. "I'm sorry, that was
rude."

"No, he's
right. I just came back to pay my respects to your mother and realized I still
had a key. Picky said you might stop by so I figured I'd gamble with a stop
here first." She extended the key to Mary.

"Thank
you." Mary tucked the extra key into her suit jacket. "I never
knew." She chuckled, leaning on the front counter.

"Your
mother was a very private woman, to a fault." Vivian played with her
perfectly manicured nails. "I silently cheered when you left this town."

"Really?"

"Yes, of
course." She flared her fingers to the surroundings. "As lovely as
this town is, the quirks get to you after a while. How was New York?"

Dread filled
Mary. Could she be honest with Vivian about her runaway train of hell in New
York or focus on the few things she treasured about the experience? She shifted
on her bare feet. "I wasn't in the center of it all because I couldn't
afford it but my roommate and I walked Times Square almost every weekend. Driving
there is crazy. I always used public transportation." She decided not to
mention she'd sold her car to make rent within the first six months of living
there.

"Tim has
taken me several times.
Nothing quite like it."
Vivian took Mary's hand in hers. "If you need anything, dear, I'm in town
for the rest of the week. Just ask the busybody at the desk of the hotel for
the red-headed hell-witch and they'll send a broomstick for me."

Mary rolled her
eyes. "Are they still spreading those rumors?"

"Honey, if
half the witches they claim roamed the streets of this town, we wouldn’t have
half the problems." She winked. "See you around town." With
that, Vivian left.

The town thought
Mary was a witch. The moniker always got thrown at anyone that left town for
anything beyond vacation or college.
Once a Beowulf Hollow
resident, always one.
With another glance around, Mary felt at peace.
This shop, out of everyone in this messed up town, grounded her. She missed the
dream she’d left behind. No way would she go back to Paul. From under the
counter, she grabbed a pencil and notepad. In order to get the shop up to
snuff, she needed to make a list of essential cleaning supplies. If she wanted
to make amends for abandoning her mother, this place was a good start.

Mary gnawed on
her lip, remembering her discovery in the back. After first checking the front
door to make sure it was locked, she headed back to the stockroom. She picked up
the dress form, setting it upright.

"Sorry,
dancing buddy." She shifted it to a more secured spot before regarding the
rolling rack. With a heave, she tried to move it out of the way. It wouldn't
budge. Her eyebrows knitted. Pushing the near-finished dress aside, her hands
patted the wall where the archway was. To her surprise, she met bare wall.