The Wrong Wife

Her pale blue eyes, so different from Annabelle’s dark ones, held the same mad intelligence as the eagle’s.

“Come and kiss me, child, if you can bear to touch this wrinkled old skin.”

Fishing for a compliment. A good day, then. Annabelle kissed her cheek and tasted the French powder that Grandmere wore even to bed with the expensive perfume she still imported. “Nonsense. You’ll never age.”

“Liar.” She grabbed Annabelle’s wrist and pulled her down close to whisper, “That woman is torturing me to death. I have fired her a dozen times, but she refuses to go. You must do it.”

“What kind of torture?”

“She beats me.” Grandmere frowned at the door. “And she steals. She stole the pearls your grandfather gave me for our tenth wedding anniversary.”

“The pearls are in your safe-deposit box at the bank.”

“She’s starving me to death. Look at her, then look at me. She eats her food and my food too. I haven’t had a mouthful all day.” The old voice turned querulous once more.

Annabelle pulled gently away and glanced at the silver tray on the side table. The meal might not be gourmet, but it seemed adequate. She could tell from the European way that her grandmother had laid her knife and fork at angles across the plate when she finished that Mrs. Mayhew had not eaten her grandmother’s dinner. “Would you like me to bring you a sandwich?”

Grandmere sniffed. “A sandwich? What wine does one drink with a sandwich?”

“You can’t have wine, Grandmere.”

The pale eyes flashed. “You’ve drunk it all, haven’t you, you loathsome child?” She began to cry. “The Napoleon brandy that your grandfather bought. The champagne. It’s all gone, isn’t it? You’ve drunk it or sold it, haven’t you? That’s what your mother would do—sell what she couldn’t swig down.”

“No, Grandmere. The wine is there. You have the only key to the wine cellar, remember?”

“You’ve had a duplicate made. Wouldn’t put it past you. You’re in it with her.” Abruptly she turned her face into the pillows. “Leave me alone the way you always do. Everybody always leaves me alone.”

“You’re not alone, Grandmere. Mrs. Mayhew’s here. I’m here now. Jonas is here.”

“Jonas?” The old woman cackled. “Jonas? Oh, that is rich. Jonas!” Suddenly she thrust Annabelle away. “Get out and don’t come back. You’re just like her. Evil! The bad seed! I knew it when I took you in. Get out!”

Annabelle stood. She was well aware they were no longer talking about Mrs. Mayhew but about Annabelle’s mother. Grandmere had despised Chantal on sight and never ceased reminding Annabelle that she had been the only one to see what a scheming hussy the woman was.

Annabelle might as well leave. Grandmere would call her back later, accuse her of running out, but at the moment staying would only provoke another outburst. That was the way it always went. “Good night, Grandmere. Sleep well.” She bent to touch the old lady’s cheek with hers and drew back just in time to avoid the sharp red nails that clawed at her. Just like the eagle.

“I said get out. Whore! Slut! Look at you. Just like her!”

Annabelle backed away. As she reached the door, her grandmother sat up. “How many husbands have you seduced this week? The only thing you’ve ever done right in your miserable life was to kill her!”

Annabelle fled past Mrs. Mayhew, who stood in the doorway with her mouth open. She nearly tripped on the staircase where the brass bar had come loose from under the stair tread on one end. She knelt to push it back into place. She couldn’t afford to have Mrs. Mayhew break her neck.

As she fled out the back door she heard her grandmother calling after her querulously, but she did not stop. By the time she slammed the door of her car and turned on the ignition she was crying. Anger? Pain? Loss?

Tonight had been really bad. She’d heard that some elderly, sick people lost their connection to the present, and kept getting today mixed up with yesterday, but Grandmere’s mind had always been sharp. Too darned sharp.

She took a deep breath. Grandmere had always been so angry at life, and now she had nothing to look forward to except death. It must be hard to see Annabelle with her life ahead of her. At times like this, she wanted to hate the old woman, but as she’d told Marian, Grandmere was all she had. All she had ever had since her father disappeared.

As she drove by the elaborate four-car garage, she saw the lights were still on upstairs. It was only nine o’clock. Surely she could call on Jonas.

But not without phoning first. She used her cell phone, and, when he picked up, told him that she was downstairs and asked for permission to visit.

“Of course, Miss Langley.”

When he opened the door, she hugged him. “What’s with the ‘Miss Langley’ stuff, Jonas?” He stood aside to let her into his cozy living room. A book lay open on the arm of his easy chair under a reading light. The room was furnished in castoffs from the big house and some of the finest rugs. Jonas at least appreciated them.

“You’re all grown-up now. I shouldn’t be calling you Annabelle.”

“Bull. I’ll always be Annabelle to you. You got any cold beer?” She collapsed on the brown velour sofa and laid her head back. The nerve along her right temple throbbed. She massaged the pulse gently and hoped it wouldn’t keep her awake.

“Lite or regular?”

“Oh, Lite, please, if you have it.” The beer should at least help her relax. She patted her hips. “Always Lite. And I’ll take it straight out of the bottle, thanks.”

Jonas handed her a long-necked bottle covered with ice crystals and took his own to the easy chair. “And then you’ll belch loudly?”

Annabelle laughed. “As loudly as possible. Make sure she hears me all the way across the backyard. Times like this I wish I chewed tobacco so I could hawk and spit.”

“Well, I don’t. She get to you tonight? Was it a bad one?”

“Worse than usual. Now she says that Mrs. Mayhew beats her, steals from her and is starving her.”

Jonas snorted. “Nonsense. I watch pretty closely and I’m a fair judge of people. Beulah Mayhew’s the best you’ve had. Let’s hope she stays. When you going back to New York?”

“I can’t, Jonas, not right this minute.”

“You should get out of this town as quick as you can. Put her in a nursing home. I know you don’t want to, but I’ve been checking them out. They’re expensive, but there are a few good ones.”

Annabelle shook her head. “I can’t abandon her. As much as I hate to admit it, she didn’t abandon me, and she could have.”

“No, she saw to it that you paid for her generosity every day of your young life.” His face clouded. “There are times I could kill her myself.”

Annabelle finished her beer, went over and set the bottle on the drainboard by the sink. “Well, don’t. You’d get caught and then where would I be? You’re my only friend in the world. Thanks, Jonas. By the way, what I could see of the yard looks lovely as always.”

“I try. Hard to get decent help these days.”

“At least money is not a problem. Not for her, at any rate.”

“For you?”

“Not at the moment.” She brushed her lips across his cheek.

“If you do need money, let me know. I have some put by.”

“I’m fine, Jonas, really. Elizabeth pays me better than I deserve, and I get the apartment rent free.”

“Just remember, I’m here if you need me.”

“I always need you. I’d never have gotten this far without you. And if you ever call me Miss Langley again, I’ll deck you.” She trotted down the steps and waved over her shoulder. She could see Jonas standing in the open door of his apartment in her rearview mirror until she turned out of the driveway.

Before she went to bed, Annabelle carefully rolled the clean, dry lace between sheets of acid-free tissue. The blood had come out completely, thank God. The lace was from an early-twentieth-century wedding dress. With luck it would become another bride’s treasured memory. With luck, yards of fine Swiss batiste, some supervision from Mrs. Jackson’s chef d’atelier, and the fine mending and sewing talents of Marian and the other seamstresses.

Annabelle stripped and pulled on the oversize silk pajama top that served as night wear. As she looked at herself in the mirror and picked up her toothbrush, she murmured, “Elizabeth needs a chef d’atelier the way I need a third leg.” She knew she was only a glorified seamstress and purchasing agent. Marian and the Vietnamese women who sewed for Elizabeth needed precious little supervision.

Still, she was grateful to Elizabeth for making a place for her, giving her a fancy title and even providing living quarters rent free.

“Your being here frees me to go to lace auctions and hunt garage sales for old lace dresses and things, and allows Marian to get on with the sewing and mending,” Elizabeth told her. “Of course I need you.”

Kind woman. They were all kind. And she was grateful. Only sometimes she got so tired of having to be grateful.

CHAPTER FOUR

“WHY DID I AGREE to this?” Annabelle said to her reflection. Maybe she’d simply tell Ben she’d changed her mind about going to Elizabeth’s dinner party. Elizabeth obviously had no idea Ben planned to bring her, otherwise she would have mentioned it. She probably thought he was bringing the tall blonde he’d been looking at dress designs with.

She bundled her masses of hair into a semblance of a French roll and sprayed it long and hard with a hair spray that was guaranteed to hold like superglue, but tendrils still escaped around her face and at the nape of her neck. The heck with them.

She pulled on an ankle-length black skirt and slipped her feet into a pair of chunky black shoes. God, she looked as though she’d been working in the salt mines of Transylvania!

She flipped the shoes off and into a corner of the closet, then ripped off the skirt and threw it onto the floor after them. Once, just once, she wished she were six foot four and weighed ninety-six pounds like the models in New York. Instead, she resembled her roommate Vickie’s two rescued alley cats, Dumpy and Frumpy.

She pulled a pair of black slacks off a skirt hanger and climbed into them, then a flame-orange turtle-neck sweater, and over that a wildly patterned Tibetan quilted tabard.

Lord, she’d burn up at a dinner party in April!

Off came the tabard and sweater. Off came the slacks. Onto the floor.

Okay. Something simple but elegant. She reached into the back of the closet and pulled out the black Chinese silk cheongsam Vickie had made her for Christmas. She’d never had the nerve to wear it. It fit perfectly, but the style was more suited to the tiny Chinese ladies from the Lower East Side and Mott Street. When she glanced at her watch, she nearly whimpered. Ben would be on time, of course. And that gave her five minutes.

She yanked the silk dress over her head, pulled on a pair of high-heeled black strappy sandals she’d bought in a moment of madness because they were on sale, grabbed her small black purse—the closest thing she had to an evening bag—and did up the fancy gold frogs along the neck of the dress.

She hadn’t even looked at the mirror when the bell at the foot of the stairs sounded, and a moment later she heard Ben’s voice. “It’s open. Okay if I come up?”

“No! I mean yes!” She shoved the closet door closed on the disaster inside. He might take one look at her and offer to take her to McDonald’s instead of his mother’s house.

She heard his footsteps at the top of the stairs and turned to face him.

“Suffering succotash,” he whispered.

She caught her breath. “I’m sorry, Ben. I told you I didn’t have anything to wear.”

He shook his head. “Couldn’t prove it by me. You look gorgeous.”

“I do? I mean, I don’t. I feel like a sausage.”

“You don’t look like any kind of sausage I’ve ever eaten. Come on. You know how Mom is when people are late.”

“Ben, are you sure you want to do this?” she said, but his hand was already warm on the small of her back as he herded her toward the staircase.

“Yes, ma’am, I do. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

They walked out into the fragile April night, into fairy lights that glimmered in the trees in the Jackson garden, and deputized for the wan sliver of moon that rode above their heads. She could smell the azaleas and the early roses.

She looked up at Ben as he tucked her hand under his arm. “Watch your step, Princess Turandot, the paving’s uneven.”

“Wasn’t she that opera bitch who beheaded all her suitors?”

“Ah, but in the end she was vanquished by love.”

As I hope you will be, Ben thought. He heaved a sigh of relief. At least he hadn’t been totally daffy when he’d fallen for Annabelle. With her hair up and those little curls around her face, and that incredible Chinese dress, she was the most luscious woman he’d ever seen. Wildly sexy. Next to her all the blond beauties looked as though they’d come out of the oven too soon and been stored in the refrigerator too long. Annabelle radiated heat.

He had heard all the stories about her mother, the hot-blooded Cajun from Lafayette, who’d refused to wear stockings and white cotton gloves in the summertime and went barefoot in the Langley garden.

And had inspired such desperate passion in her husband that he had killed her. At least he’d gone to prison for it. He knew the gossip as well, of course. That he’d lied to protect his child, the real killer.

Looking down at Annabelle, he refused to believe this beautiful girl could do anything that heinous even by accident.

He couldn’t change his life’s direction. He still wanted to be district attorney, and then maybe governor…senator.

So, if he intended to do all the things he planned with Annabelle by his side, there was only one solution.

He’d have to change Annabelle. At least in public. In private he hoped he read the signs right—that she was every bit as sensual as she looked.

“I can’t do this,” Annabelle said when they were three steps from the back door.

“Sure you can.” His hand on her back grew a little more urgent.

“Who’s going to be there?”

“No idea. Probably some politicos, a college professor or two. Nobody special.”

She stopped dead. “Who would you consider special? Prince Charles and the Dalai Lama?”

“Come on, Annabelle. I’m right here. I made Mother promise to seat us together…”

“She knows you’re bringing me?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I tell her?”

“She didn’t mention it.”

Ben shrugged. He removed his hand. “It’s just not a big deal to her.”

“More likely she hoped one of us would come to our senses. That would be me.” Annabelle started back toward her apartment.

“Oh no you don’t,” Ben said, and reached for her arm. “Just remember the old saw about visualizing everybody naked.”

“Are you crazy? Besides, what if they’re thinking about me the same way?”

I certainly will be, Ben thought, but he suspected to say so would have been really, really counterproductive. He gulped instead.

“Do you intend to stand out there all night?”

Both of them jumped.

Elizabeth said from the darkness just inside the back door, “You’re the last to arrive. You’ve missed cocktails. We’re almost ready to sit down to dinner.”

“Elizabeth,” Annabelle began.

“And don’t even dream of chickening out at this point, Annabelle.” Her voice softened. “Come on. It’s going to be fun once you plunge in.” She opened the screen door and held it back. “It’s a tiny group.”

Annabelle sighed. So did Ben, but his sigh was of relief.

Annabelle moved toward the door as though it were the route to the gallows. As she reached the lights over the steps, Elizabeth said, “My dear, where did you get that dress? It’s marvelous. Perfect for you.”

“My roommate. She’s a designer for a small house. She made it for me as a Christmas present.”

“Well, if she ever needs a job, tell her to look me up.”

“I don’t think Vickie would leave New York even to become head designer for Chanel.”

Elizabeth followed Annabelle down the short hall to the green baize door into the front of the house. “With computers, she could work on the third moon of Jupiter, assuming there is one.” Elizabeth pushed open the door and stepped through. “Everyone. Here is my errant son, finally, and for those of you who don’t know or don’t remember her, this is Annabelle Langley, who’s running Elizabeth Lace for me.”

Annabelle stood blinking in the light. She was the youngest person in the room. For a moment the faces swam in front of her eyes and she wished she’d brought her glasses. Then a tall, gray-haired and very distinguished man stepped into her field of vision with a broad smile on his face and his hand extended.

“Welcome, Annabelle. I, for one, am delighted that you came back to rescue Elizabeth. She’s been working entirely too many hours to suit me.”

She took the proffered hand and shook it.

“I’m Ben’s boss, Phil Mainwaring.”

She gulped. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“God help me, when beautiful women start to call you sir, life is over!” Mainwaring laughed.

Annabelle glanced at Ben. Didn’t he know who Mainwaring was? Well, obviously he knew since he worked for the man. Didn’t he know who Mainwaring had been? Did it really matter so little to everyone after all these years?

She felt her shoulders begin to relax. Maybe she’d been kidding herself. The murder was over twenty-five years old and had passed into Memphis legend by this time. Maybe people regarded her as just another one of Ben’s girlfriends.

“Come along, all, let’s sit down or the salmon mousse will ooze,” Elizabeth said, taking Phil Mainwaring’s arm and leading him toward the big dining room across the hall from the room that served as a showroom during the day and a living room at night.

An hour later Annabelle realized that she was actually enjoying herself. The conversation was intelligent and funny. Not, thank God, about fashion.

Ben didn’t seem to be watching her as though she were a time bomb. The group was small—only eight. Annabelle worked very hard to remember names.

Elizabeth Jackson and Phil Mainwaring were apparently an item. Across from Annabelle sat a grizzled and shabby professor of religious studies from the university with his equally grizzled wife who looked as though her skin covered knotted ropes. They were both Ph.Ds, apparently. May and Gene Dressler or Ressler, or something like that.

The other couple, if indeed they were a couple, were charming, suave amateur actors who worked at the local community theater every chance they got and made pots of money doing something financial together during the day. She had no idea whether they lived together or not, but they certainly seemed to act very much like an old married couple. For the moment, she couldn’t for the life of her remember their names, and it was a bit late in the evening for her to ask again. She’d have to find out from Ben.

The meal was excellent and served by a caterer, so Elizabeth didn’t have to leave the table. The mousse was followed by a lemon sorbet, a salad and then by duck a` l’orange and vegetables.

After the salad plates were cleared, the doors to the kitchen opened and the caterer and his assistant rolled in a flaming chocolate bombe covered in meringue and whipped cream. The flames came not from brandy that had been set on fire, but from a little garden of birthday candles on top.

Ben started singing “Happy Birthday” and everyone else joined in except Elizabeth, who sat at the head of the table laughing and clapping her hands.

A birthday party? Ben had landed her at a birthday party without bothering to tell her that’s what it was? Annabelle felt her face turn purple with chagrin. What would she do if the dessert was followed by the opening of presents? She hadn’t brought a single thing. She gave Ben a look that would curdle milk, but he only grinned back as though he hadn’t a clue why she was upset.

“Oh, what fun! It won’t explode, will it?” Elizabeth stood, sucked in a deep breath and blew out all the candles while everyone laughed and applauded. “Whew! Thank the Lord you didn’t put the whole number of my age on top. We’d have set the house on fire.”

Annabelle noticed that when Elizabeth sat down Phil Mainwaring covered her hand with his, and they smiled at each other.

“Speech!” shouted Gene what’s-his-name, who had drunk, and was still drinking, quantities of the excellent red wine. Annabelle thought he was more than a little tight. From the dark look his wife threw him, she wasn’t the only person who thought so.

“No speeches. I am merely glad to be a year older and surrounded by friends and family.” She grinned at Ben. “The only thing that would make things perfect is for Ben to make me a grandmother before I am in my dotage.”

“Hear, hear!” Mainwaring raised his glass.

At that moment a clock somewhere chimed a single note for the quarter hour, and Professor Gene knocked over his full wineglass on the white lace tablecloth.

“Gene, you idiot!” his wife snapped.

Annabelle watched the dark red river flow across the table straight toward her.

The room seemed to go dark. The wine became thick, bright blood reaching out to stain her hands.

If it reached her she’d drown.

Vaguely she registered activity—the caterer rushing in from the kitchen, noise, people trying to apologize and act calm and smooth out the awkward social situation. She couldn’t take her eyes off the blood that rolled toward her like a sea.

“No!” She stood so fast her chair toppled onto the floor. She backed away with her hands in front of her to stop that terrible tide. She had to get away from it, had to run, had to hide where it couldn’t reach her, couldn’t drown her.

She had no memory of reaching the backyard or flying across it. Her sandaled feet clattering on the stairway to her apartment brought her to her senses.

Annabelle opened the door and nearly fell into the living room.

She pulled off her sandals with hands that were still shaking, then kicked the shoes all the way into the corner. Suddenly she felt terribly cold.

That’s when she heard the thud of footsteps up the stairs and Ben’s voice calling her. “Annabelle!” Then louder, “Damnation, Annabelle, answer me!” He shoved the door open so hard it bounced off the wall with a thwack that made her jump.

She stood, hunched, her back to him.

He took her by her arms and turned her to face him. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

“What was that all about? Are you all right?”

“I warned you, Ben, I really did.” Her belly began to flutter as she fought to keep from crying. “I’m so sorry.” She gazed up into his face. “Don’t look at me like that. I really am sorry.”

In an instant he looked merely stunned and confused. “It’s okay. Come on back.”

“No!” She wrenched away from him and hugged her body as though she was shivering.

She glanced up to see Ben’s face over her shoulder as he squared his shoulders and set his jaw. She had a terrible desire to giggle. She’d seen him with that kind of look in high school, when the football team was down twenty points and it was up to Ben Jackson to save the day.

“Annabelle,” he said in a tone he must use to redress recalcitrant witnesses. “You’ve seen plenty of drunks before, and everybody spills the occasional glass of wine. It’s no big deal. Gene is devastated. He keeps staring around and asking what he said to upset you.”

“Oh, poor Gene. It’s not his fault.”

He held out his hand. “Please come back with me and tell him that. You’d relieve his mind.”

“No! I couldn’t.”

“Listen,” he said reasonably, as though he were trying to persuade a frightened puppy out from under a chair, “these people are my friends. They want to be your friends. Come back, and I promise you nobody will make an issue of it. Say you got a cramp in your leg, or the salmon mousse disagreed with you. They’ll be all over you with sympathy.”

“But it wasn’t that, Ben.”

“Then what was it?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said in a very small voice. “Nobody would.”

“Try me.”

She shook her head.

“For Pete’s sake, Annabelle.”

That was too much. “I have just embarrassed the heck out of myself in front of a bunch of people I barely know, plus my employer, and I’m not going to go back and make another fool of myself.”

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off and stepped close to him. “And another thing. Didn’t it occur to you to mention to me in passing that this was a birthday party for your mother?”

“Huh?”

“Well, didn’t it?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal. Not like we were giving presents. It’s just another Thursday.”

“It is not. It is a birthday party, and there I am singing ‘Happy Birthday’ with a stupid grin on my face and trying to act as though I knew all along, and then that drunken buffoon spilled all that red wine, and…” At the memory of the wine on the lace tablecloth, her eyes closed, and she swayed.

“Annabelle?” She felt Ben’s hands pulling her against his chest, his strong arms encircling her, holding her close against him. “Belle?”

She could feel the dry heaves as she gulped convulsively. No tears. There were never any tears, just this gulping and hiccuping while her throat and eyes burned. Other people cried. What was so wrong with her that she couldn’t? Was that another symptom that she was a monster?

He put his fingers under her chin and tilted her face up. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to quell the shivers in her stomach.

“God, you are so beautiful,” he whispered.

She felt his lips against hers, gentle, warm, moving back and forth across her lips, his tongue barely touching, teasing, tasting. She wanted to resist, to tell him this wasn’t the time or place, but the cascade of warmth within her wouldn’t allow her to do that. Instead, her own lips parted and her tongue darted out to meet his, to intermingle, to taste the remains of sorbet, the hint of sweetness on his lips.

His hands slid down her back and below her waist, holding her against him. His whole body felt rock-solid, so wonderfully, comfortingly male. Yet his erection wasn’t comforting at all, but disturbing, because she felt the heat in her own loins answering as she moved against him in a slow rhythm that she couldn’t seem to control.

No. It was up to her to control it, not to fall over backward at his touch, or to let herself feel all the conflicting emotions he evoked. She sucked in her breath and pulled back from him, her eyes wide. “Go away, Ben, please, right now.”

He pulled her into his arms again. “I don’t want to,” he whispered into her hair.

“You’ve got to go back to your party.” She slapped his hand away. “Stop that. You go tell them I succumbed to the vapors or something.”

“Come with me.”

“Ben!” This time she used enough force to overbalance him so that he had to step back a couple of paces. “Read my lips. I cannot, I will not go back over to that house tonight. I’ll write everybody notes tomorrow, including the caterers if that’s what you want…”

He sat on the sofa and took her hands. “It’s not what I want. It’s what you need. If you don’t come back now, the next time it’ll be harder to crawl out of that shell. How can you ever hope to feel at ease in social situations…”

“Who said I have to?”

“I do, dammit.”

She started to smart off back at him, then stopped, tilted her head and looked at him quizzically. “What do you have to do with it?”

Amazingly, he blushed and stammered, “Because I—I want what’s best for you.”

“And the reason for that would be…?”

“That wasn’t exactly a friendly kiss we just exchanged. My ears are ringing.”

“Even in the South you no longer have to marry me because you kissed me, Ben.”

“What if I want to?”

This time she laughed. “Right. Like I’d be the perfect district attorney’s wife.” She walked to the corner and picked up her shoes. “Look, Ben, I’m tired, and I’m feeling like a nitwit. I’m not up to facing those people tonight. Please just make my apologies to your mother and her guests.”

“You won’t change your mind? Or even tell me what went on?”

“Nope.”

His shoulders sagged. “Fine. I can’t pick you up and carry you over there. Well, I could, but you’d probably kick and scream or something equally unattractive.”

“You got that right.”

He straightened. “However, Miss Annabelle, this is far from over. I intend to find out what’s causing this. And when I do, you and I are going to fix it.”

He turned on his heel and made what he probably considered a dignified exit.

As he reached the top step, she applauded slowly.

He paused, then rocketed down and slammed the door at the foot of the stairs behind him.

Annabelle held her pose until she heard him running across the backyard, then she sank into the club chair.

Two hallucinations in one day. Some kind of record. She probably ought to get a CAT scan or an EEG or something. She might have an aneurysm about to pop or a brain tumor.

Maybe Ben was at the bottom of it. She’d been in Memphis for almost a month now without anything worse than bad dreams. Then suddenly Ben Jackson drops out of a tree, and the craziness starts. Was it her hormones?

Was her body finally betraying her for all the years of militant asexuality?

She didn’t know what was going on, but something was definitely out of whack.