Anne tried to help, but when she tried to pull up on the rope so she could get a better grip, she almost went out the opening headfirst.
Carrie made it to the ground.
The rope went slack and Anne fell back. Quickly straightening, she looked down, trying to see the two women. She stayed on
her hands and knees for a moment and listened to the soft calls from below.
Then she pulled the rope up. She backed away from the opening. "Three blind mice, three blind mice," she sang. "See how they run, See how they run… "
She stood up, brushed the dirt off her borrowed sweatpants, and walked into the kitchen. "See how they run," she sang. Odd, that that particular melody had popped into her head and wouldn't let go. She and Eric had decided never to have children, yet now she was singing a silly nursery rhyme. Her father used to sing that song to her. How did the rest of it go? Was it, "They all ran after the farmer's wife, she cut off their heads with a carving knife"? Or was it, "They all ran away from the farmer's wife"?
And why couldn't she remember the rest of the song?
"Three blind mice," she sang softly as she knelt down and tried to get the knots out of the sheet. Realizing she could break a
nail, she got up, went to the counter to get the scissors Carrie had brought down, and cut the rope from the table leg.
"Three blind mice." She stood again, paused to take a drink of her lukewarm tea, and then, because she knew that Carrie and Sara were anxiously waiting for her, she walked to the opening in the pantry and dropped the sheets down. They surely couldn't misinterpret what that meant, for she'd tossed away her only lifeline. She heard one of them cry out, thought it must be Sara, for, of the two women, Sara seemed a tad more tenderhearted.
"Three blind mice. My goodness, I can't get that silly tune out of my head," she said as she shut the pantry door. Noticing the messy kitchen, she went to the sink, filled it with soapy, hot water, and did the dishes. When she was finished, she straightened
the table and chairs, put fresh place mats in front of each chair, then blew out the candles and headed for the stairs.
She was feeling so tired and old and haggard. A good long nap would fix that, she thought. But first things first. She simply had to do something about her sorry appearance. She couldn't understand how fashion-minded women with money, like Carrie and Sara, could ever wear sweatpants. Why, even the name was offensive. Ladies shouldn't sweat. They shouldn't even perspire. Only common, coarse women did such disgusting things as sweating and belching and body piercing… or letting others, like doctors, mutilate their bodies for them. Hadn't her loving Eric told her that was how he felt? He adored her body and couldn't stand what the surgeon wanted to do.
Feeling a bit light-headed, Anne gripped the banister as she slowly made her way upstairs. After she took a long, hot shower, she curled her hair with her curling iron, then brushed it and lacquered it in place with hairspray. It seemed to take an hour to decide which of her new St. John knit suits to wear. The mint green with the adorable silver clasps won because she thought it was both elegant and chic. Slipping into her silver pearlized high heels, she picked up her favorite platinum-rimmed diamond earrings and put them on. The diamonds were a gift from Eric on their last anniversary.
She'd walked all the way down the hallway before she remembered she hadn't put on any perfume. Retracing her steps, she squirted a dab on each wrist.
Sighing with contentment, she hurried downstairs but stopped on the bottom step. The rising sun had turned the living room into a golden temple. The color took her breath away. Eric should be here to see this, she thought. Yes, he should.
Anne didn't know how long she stood there. Ten minutes might have passed, or twenty, maybe more. The effects of the second prescription pain pill had finally caught up with her, and she zigzagged across the living room, giggling because she found it so amusing that she couldn't walk in a straight line. Was this what it felt like to be stoned? Was she stoned? Trying to focus, she reached the sofa and plopped down. She fell asleep seconds later.
Although she hadn't realized such a thing was possible, she knew she had wept while she slept because, when she awakened, her face was wet with tears. She struggled to sit up and wiped the dampness away with her fingertips. Noticing the makeup on her hands, she'd decided to go back upstairs to powder her face again when she thought she heard the sound of a car coming up the drive. Still somewhat disoriented, she staggered to her feet, adjusted the lapels of her jacket, and walked into the dining room to look out the window at the circle drive. Her gait was stiff and unsteady.
A silver Cadillac DeVille came screeching around the curve. "Now, who could that be calling at such an early hour?" Anne asked. She checked the time on her Bulgari watch-another gift from her beloved Eric- and was astonished to see that it was after nine in the morning.
Anne stepped back into the shadows as the car came to a rocking stop. The door opened and a woman with the most frightful look on her face leapt out. She slammed the door shut, then opened the back door.
The woman looked vaguely familiar, but Anne couldn't remember where she might have seen her before. Her face was
contorted with rage, and though Anne couldn't hear what she was saying, she knew she was talking because her lips were moving.
Was she Jilly? The stranger did have blond hair, and she was tall and shapely, as Carrie had described, but she certainly wasn't what Anne would consider beautiful by any means. Perhaps, if her expression weren't so hostile and if she were smiling instead, she might be pretty. But not beautiful.
Her complexion was lovely. She'd give her that. From a distance it looked almost flawless, and Anne decided she really must find out what kind of facial cleanser the woman used to get such perfect skin. Or was it heavy makeup? Anne made a mental note to find out.
Her haircut was a little too short and spiky, but the color was wonderful. Highlights, Anne thought, and she wondered if the unpleasant woman would give her the name of her stylist. Why, she'd kill to have highlights like that. Suddenly feeling self-conscious about her own appearance, she patted her hair down, certain she'd gotten it mussed during her little nap.
"My goodness," Anne whispered when she saw what the woman was carrying. She had a red gasoline can in one hand and an ax in the other. "What does she think she's doing?"
The woman's head was down, and she hadn't spotted Anne yet, but as she strode to the steps, Anne remembered where she'd seen her before. She was pictured in one of the clippings she'd found in the chest. Oh, yes, she remembered now. The woman
and her ex were fighting over ownership of this house.
Anne rushed to the foyer and stood in front of the elongated beveled glass panes that framed the door. She could hear what the woman was saying now. She was spewing filth. Anne's hand went to her throat. She was appalled by the vulgarity. The woman must have said the "F" word a good ten times, enraged at a judge for giving her house away.
Ah… now Anne understood. The house had been awarded to the husband. Anne didn't have any sympathy for the crude woman. She obviously hadn't been a good wife. Shouldn't the husband make all the important decisions? He'd paid for the house. He should keep it.
The woman rushed up the porch steps, screaming now. "That son of a bitch thinks he's going to take my house and leave me penniless? Screw the prenup. He thinks I'm bluffing. I told him he'd never live here. Surprise, surprise, bastard. When I'm finished redecorating…" She spotted Anne and came to a dead stop. Then she roared, "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?"