Prologue
Hell
The television was on and I heard him. Like his voice was a magnet, even though I wanted to avoid that room, would do anything to avoid it unless ordered otherwise, my body floated from the kitchen to the living room.
Cooter was in his easy chair watching it and, automatically, my body stopped nowhere near his chair.
And my eyes were riveted to the television screen, watching the gorgeous man with his white smile and intelligent eyes talking to the sports commentators.
They were probably talking about football, something I had absolutely no interest in whatsoever. But I knew a lot about it. This was because Cooter lived and breathed football during football season. He was quarterback at our high school, popular, hot, God, I’d wanted him. So young, so fit, so talented, so cool, so beautiful.
And, dream of dreams, when I was a junior and he was a senior, he’d picked me.
I was in heaven.
Three years later, that heaven turned to hell.
I heard a yapping but ignored it. This was Cooter’s dog, Memphis saying hello to me.
When Cooter got Memphis everyone in town was shocked. Cooter was definitely a pit bull or Rottweiler type of guy and not because both those types of dogs were really cute but for other reasons. So when he came home with a brown and white King Charles spaniel; I was stunned. When he proceeded to dote on that dog like it was his child, I was freaked. I didn’t think Cooter had an ounce of affection in him available to give to anyone, no human and certainly no dog.
But there you go. He did. He adored Memphis. Completely.
He’d named her Memphis with the declaration, “Fuck the redcoats,” like the English were still our enemies and him naming a spaniel after an American city would offend them in some way that would cause nationwide distress.
Then again, Cooter had a full supply of animosity for a lot of people, places and things and he kept it stocked up.
Not to mention, Cooter was the quarterback of a winning team in a small town that lived football and therefore he hadn’t had to worry too much about books and, not knowing this then, but definitely knowing it now, he was scary lazy so if he didn’t have to do it, he didn’t.
So he didn’t. I wasn’t certain he cracked open a book throughout high school. But I was certain he didn’t do it in his very short tenure in college.
Therefore, Cooter was not the brightest bulb in the box.
“And there he is, folks, Sampson Cooper, thanks for stoppin’ in, Coop,” the commentator said and I watched Sampson Cooper smile.
My heart fluttered.
Sampson Cooper. Very tall. Very dark. Very beautiful.
I adored him. When Cooter was out of the house, I internet stalked him. I knew everything about him.
Everything.
Well, everything you could learn on the internet.
I knew his stats when he played college ball. I knew his stats when he played pro ball. I knew the exact day he requested to be released from his contract playing for the Indianapolis Colts so he could join the Army. I knew he did this in memory of his brother, who had died in Iraq and he’d died a hero. I knew this upset Sampson Cooper greatly. I knew, not long after he joined the Army, he’d disappeared “off the grid” for four years. I also knew when he came back. And lastly I, and everyone probably in the world, knew what he did when he was “off the grid” considering a tell-all (but anonymous) book was written about it and a big investigation was launched when it was. Therefore, I knew what he did was dangerous in a way people like me couldn’t comprehend the level of danger. I knew it was also heroic. And lastly I knew that he tried to keep a low profile but when he found this impossible, he’d come out into the limelight and stayed there but I guessed he did this because, at least, if it was his choice, he had some slim chance of controlling it.
“Anytime, Frank,” Sampson Cooper replied, his voice deep and weirdly rough, not rough like sandpaper, rough like velvet.
My stomach melted.
“Babe!” Cooter snapped, I jumped and my eyes shot to him.
Oh no.
He was getting out of his chair and now, ten years later, he was no longer fit (in fact, he had a serious beer belly which was only partly due to his copious consumption of beer, the other part was food and the last part was being seriously lazy). I’d discovered he was not talented at all. He was definitely not cool. And he was anything but beautiful.
At the look on his face, my mind became consumed with what my next move would be. I knew one thing; I had a fifty-fifty shot at success. I could take a step back and piss him off more (for whatever reason he was pissed off) which would make it worse but conversely it could serve as a deterrent, snapping him out of whatever mood had hold of him, or I could stand my ground which also led to both options.
Like often happened, I chose wrongly and my choice was to take a step back.
He advanced quickly and no matter how much of a beer belly he had, my husband could move.
I didn’t have a prayer to avoid it, I’d learned that but, still, I tried.
As usual, I wasn’t fast enough.
He got close and backhanded me hard. With some experience, it was at the upper end of the scale of how hard he could hit me. I knew this because it hurt like a bitch and also because I flew to the side and landed hard on a hand and hip, I lost focus on the pain in my cheek when the pain radiating up my arm from my wrist took precedence.
Then he kicked me in the back. I bit back my cry at this new pain focus and thanked God he was only wearing a sock. When he kicked me, he did it no matter what footwear he was wearing and since his job meant he had to wear steel-toed boots, I’d learned a sock was far, far better.
“I said,” he snarled and I sucked in breath and stared at the carpet, “get me a fuckin’ beer.”
A beer.
I’d been watching Sampson Cooper, mesmerized by a beautiful man, a good man, a strong man, a loyal man, a loving man and I’d missed my husband, who was none of those things, asking for a beer.
And he hit and kicked me because I hadn’t jumped at his command.
God, God, I hated my fucking husband.
I stayed prone and kept my eyes from him. Again, it was a crapshoot how he would react to this.
Luckily, his presence retreated.
When it did, the beautiful Sampson Cooper was the last thing on my mind.
Getting my husband a beer was the only thing on it.
So I carefully but swiftly pulled myself to my feet and got Cooter a beer.
* * * * *
Two months, three days, four hours and thirteen minutes later…
The doorbell rang.
Memphis yapped at it.
I moved toward it.
Then Memphis yapped at my heels.
I sighed.
I loved dogs. I loved all animals, actually. Save snakes, they freaked me out. And lizards, they freaked me out too. And I wasn’t really big on rodents of any kind. No, that wasn’t true, hamsters were kind of cute.
But I could not pull up any affection for a dog Cooter loved. It wasn’t that she wasn’t cute, cuddly and sweet, even to me.
It was just that, anytime Memphis showed me any affection, it pissed Cooter off.
So I guessed that was it.
I did what I could not to piss Cooter off, including holding myself distant from our dog, even when he was not around.
Memphis, of course, had no idea what her being sweet to me meant. Memphis only knew Cooter’s devotion and did not get why she didn’t get the same from me. I had to give it to the dog, she never gave up. No matter how much I ignored her, she just got cuter, cuddlier and sweeter.
I admired her for that.
I’d given up years ago.
I looked through the peephole and blinked.
Then my heart started racing.
Then, in the expanse of about three seconds, my mind flew in a million different directions finally settling on one.
It was after six o’clock.
Cooter was usually home by five fifteen.
That said, if he wanted to have a beer with the guys or whatever he did, when he didn’t come home, he did it and didn’t bother to phone, text or pop home to let me know. Lately, this happened more often than not. And the lately that included most recently, Cooter didn’t come home until almost nine o’clock.
I wanted to enjoy these moments of reprieve but I couldn’t. Mostly because the time he was away and I was home I spent worrying about what mood he’d be in when he got home. He could be drunk and pissed, which did not bode well or he could be sober and pissed, which also did not bode well, or he could be either and horny, which was worst of all. Lately, he came back smelling of beer but not drunk and always horny but in a way that made my skin crawl even more than it normally did at the thought of him touching me and that was saying something. Nothing had really changed with our sex life except he got more into it (which also was not fun for me) and he lasted longer (again with the no fun part) and it seemed he was getting off on it more, was more excited and I did nothing (not one thing) differently to cause that.
But right then, Ozzie was standing outside my door.
Barney “Ozzie” Oswald had been Sheriff for as long as I could remember. He had to be older than dirt but he still looked fit, spritely and alert. He always looked fit, spritely and alert.
And now, with him on my doorstep, he looked all those things but something else too.
I opened the door, smiled and whispered, “Hey, Ozzie.”
At my whisper, which was pretty much my normal tone, I was cautious with everything including the volume of my voice, Ozzie did a mini-flinch.
I had known Ozzie as Sheriff for years and Ozzie knew everyone in that town for years too, including me and he knew me pretty well considering he was a hunting buddy of my Dad’s. He’d known me since I was a little girl. He knew, ten years ago, I didn’t whisper. And I suspected he knew why I did it now.
“Kia, darlin’, can I come in?” he asked, his tone was also quiet, though not a whisper. And it was gentle. Then again, it was always a form of gentle. That was Ozzie. He was Sheriff but he was a gentle man.
I loved Ozzie. The whole town did.
“Sure,” I replied, pushing out the screen door and Memphis moved instantly, yapping and jumping around Ozzie’s ankles in a tizzy of excitement but, unless she was sleeping or snuggling, she was usually always in a tizzy of excitement.
This was because Memphis’s world was golden. She loved her Daddy. Her Daddy got her the best food money could buy. Her Daddy gave her table scraps. Her Daddy showered her with affection. Her Daddy bought her new toys and chews all the time. Her Daddy liberally gave her treats. Her Daddy let her sleep in our bed, right in the middle, stretched sideways so I was nearly falling off my side. Her Daddy let her poo anywhere in the yard, knowing I’d clean it up. Her Daddy often had his buds over and let them shower her with affection.
Memphis loved company as much as she generally loved life. So now Memphis was in throes of delight.
I thought this as my heart kept racing, faster and faster. Soon, my body would need to move, sprint through town to keep up or it’d fly out of my chest.
“Is everything okay?” I asked Ozzie and he studied me.
“Maybe we should go sit down in your living room,” he suggested and it was my turn to study him but my heart only raced faster.
Then I nodded and moved, leading the way to the living room. I threw out an arm to the furniture there and Memphis did a little twirl, waiting for one of us to be seated so she could jump on one of our laps and be adorable.
“Please, Kia, sit,” Ozzie muttered, I studied him again, took in a deep breath and sat on the edge of the couch.
Ozzie sat in an armchair facing me, also on the edge.
Memphis jumped into his lap.
Ozzie started petting the dog but he did this distractedly, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Ozzie,” I whispered, my heart beating so fast I could feel it in my throat.
“You know Milo Cloverfield, darlin’?” he asked.
Oh God.
Oh God.
I knew where this was headed because I not only knew Milo Cloverfield (because everyone knew Milo), I knew who he was married to.
“Yes,” I answered and it was less than a whisper. It was a breath.
Ozzie held my eyes. Then he closed his tight. Then he turned his head away and my eyes dropped at a movement I caught. I saw that he was petting Memphis with one hand; the other one had formed a fist.
My gaze shot back to his when I sensed his head turning again and I held my breath.
“Honey, I hate to tell you all this but I’ll go fast, get it done, all right?”
I nodded, let out my breath then sucked it in again.
Memphis yapped, finally feeling the vibe slice into her cotton candy world.
Ozzie ignored the dog and got down to it.
“I’m sorry to say, darlin’, that Coot was seein’ Vanessa Cloverfield on the sly.”
I knew it.
I knew it.
My husband was a sick bastard but now I knew just how sick. No wonder he got off on sex these days like he did. He was screwing Vanessa then coming home and screwing me.
The big man.
The head cheese.
He hadn’t been that in years and he was loving it.
God, what a dick!
I let my breath out, clenched my teeth and wondered when I would be able to walk out of high school.
Jeez, Cooter was an asshole, he was washed up, he was out-of-shape and still, stupid, silly, jealous, grasping Vanessa Lockhart Cloverfield clearly stopped at nothing to get him.
Well, she could have him.
I just needed to figure out how to give him to her. I’d tried leaving six times. I’d failed. And the way I failed, Cooter finally taught me not to try again.
But fuck this shit.
“Kia,” Ozzie called and I focused on him.
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Honey, Milo found out.”
Uh-oh.
Milo was a hothead, everyone knew that.
“And?” I whispered.
“And, he went to the Heartmeadow Motel with his shotgun and, Kia, honey,” he paused, pulled in breath and finished, “he used it.”
My body froze, every inch of it including my eyes which were wide open.
“Coot’s dead, darlin’,” Ozzie whispered and that was when I started hyperventilating.
Then I breathed, “What?”
“Coot’s dead. Milo shot him, clocked Vanessa with the butt of his gun and then called it in himself.”
That was…
It was…
“That’s crazy,” I said softly. “Why would Milo do that?”
“’Cause he’s got a short fuse, he loves his wife, he couldn’t bear the idea of her steppin’ out on him and he lost it. He also ain’t too smart but he’s smart enough to know he ain’t so he didn’t bother runnin’ ‘cause he knows he’ll be caught.”
I had no reply to this. Any of it.
I couldn’t think.
I could barely breathe.
Ozzie stared at me.
Then he called, “Kia?”
I blinked and my body started.
Then it hit me what he said.
Milo Cloverfield, who was normally a pretty fun-loving guy, good to have around, good for a laugh but definitely he could lose it, had shot my husband dead with a shotgun.
“Where?” I suddenly blurted.
“Pardon?” Ozzie asked.
“Where did Milo shoot him?” I asked and Ozzie’s stare got more intense.
“At the motel,” Ozzie answered and I shook my head.
“No, I mean, where on his body?”
That’s when his face closed down and he said quietly, “Honey, not sure –”
“Where, Ozzie?”
Ozzie held my eyes. Then he sighed. Then he said, still talking quietly, “Got him one side of the head.”
Closed casket then.
“Kia, you all right?” Ozzie asked.
Was I all right?
I thought about it.
I sat in my living room with furniture Cooter picked and carpeting Cooter picked in a house Cooter picked in a subdivision Cooter picked with Ozzie sitting in an armchair petting a strangely quiet but watchful (and her eyes were on me) dog that Cooter picked, none of which I liked, (except the dog but only secretly) and I thought about this.
I thought that Cooter was never going to come home again.
I thought that I was never going to have to pretend I enjoyed sex with Cooter again and I never had to fake another orgasm again, which, by the way, was exhausting but, fortunately, not difficult to achieve believability considering Cooter still (or did, not anymore) thought his shit didn’t stink.
I thought that I’d never get backhanded, slapped, pushed, kicked or my arm twisted by Cooter again.
I thought that every morning, noon and night I could eat what I wanted and not have to make exactly what Cooter wanted. I could go to bed when I wanted. I could wear what I wanted. I could watch on TV what I wanted. I could talk on the phone as long as I wanted.
And I could finally be nice to my own, damn dog.
Then I thought, Fuck yes, I’m all right.
I did not say that.
I said, “I’m in shock,” which wasn’t a lie.
Ozzie didn’t miss much and he wasn’t missing much now and this must have been why he said super softly and very cautiously, his eyes never leaving mine, his body leaning in slightly, his hand stilling on Memphis, “You loved him once, darlin’, and, him passin’, there’ll come a time when you’ll remember that and it’ll hit you.”
I was not surprised Ozzie knew I didn’t love Cooter now. Like I said, Ozzie didn’t miss much.
But I wasn’t thinking about that.
I was thinking about loving Cooter.
And it wasn’t the first time I thought on this over the years.
And I already knew I never loved Cooter. Not in the beginning, not now. I loved the idea of him, the golden light that shone from his local fame, the promise he squandered, I was in love with that. I was young, I was stupid and I was blinded by false glory.
But I’d never loved my husband. Marrying Cooter had been the worst mistake I’d made in my life.
And I knew I did not at that moment nor would I anytime in the future mourn his passing. And I also knew somewhere deep inside me that I would not go to hell for that.
Because I’d been in hell for the seven years I spent married to Cooter Clementine.
So I’d done my time.
* * * * *
Two weeks, one day and sixteen hours later…
The phone rang.
How I heard it over the music, I did not know but I did.
Cooter hated my music. He never let me play it. But he played his and loud.
I turned down The Guess Who’s live version, kickass, thirteen plus minutes of “American Woman” and strode to the phone.
Memphis yapped.
“Quiet, baby,” I murmured.
Memphis wagged her tail.
I grinned at my dog.
She wagged her tail harder.
I grinned bigger.
Then I picked up the phone, beeped it on, put it to my ear and greeted, “Hello?”
“Hello, may I please speak to a Mrs. Kia Clementine?”
My grin became a smile.
I was keeping Cooter’s last name. His last name was awesome. It was the best thing he ever gave to me. Hell, it was the only decent thing he’d ever given me.
So I was keeping it.
“This is she,” I replied.
“Hello, this is Stacy from Biller General Insurance.”
My head cocked to the side in confusion and I said, “Hello.”
“This is just a courtesy call to inform you we’ve received the information from his employer that your husband has passed, we’ve sent the forms to you to complete and you should receive them in the mail within the next week. As soon as you complete and return them, we’ll process them as quickly as we can and you’ll receive your check in four to six weeks.”
I blinked at Memphis.
Memphis blinked back.
Then I asked, “What?”
“We’re very sorry for your loss and we understand this is a difficult time for you. It’s never easy handling paperwork in these times but the forms aren’t difficult to complete and the sooner they’re done, the sooner we can pay Mr. Clementine’s life insurance and you’ll have the financial security he clearly wished you to have. In preparation for that, while you’re waiting for the forms to arrive, you’ll need to see to getting a notarized copy of his death certificate.”
Say what?
Cooter wanted me to have financial security?
Heck, Cooter wanted me to have any security?
“I’m sorry, I’m not certain what you’re referring to,” I told her.
There was a moment of silence then, “Why, Mr. Clementine’s five million dollar life insurance policy. Eight months ago, he took one out on himself and you.”
I froze again, exactly like I did when I heard word Cooter was dead, head-to-toe, eyes huge.
Then I whispered, “Sorry?”
“Mr. Clementine’s five million dollar life insurance policy,” she answered.
I blinked at Memphis.
Memphis sat on her rump and blinked back.
Cooter didn’t let me handle anything, not the household bills, not the bank accounts, nothing. He even took my paycheck and gave me an allowance. He wasn’t just an asshole; he was a dominating, control-freak asshole.
“He took a policy out on me?” I asked my new best friend Stacy.
“Yes, at the same time he took his.”
“Was mine for five million dollars?” I asked.
Another moment of hesitation then, “No, yours is for ten.”
I blinked yet again at Memphis.
Memphis got up on all her paws and yapped.
That bastard.
That bastard!
Gossip had run rampant since Milo blew half of Cooter’s head off and it was so rampant, it was impossible to keep myself shielded from it.
Not that I cared, I just was trying to move on. Cooter was in the ground. Milo was in jail. Vanessa had sequestered herself behind closed curtains. And I was making plans for the future.
My house was already on the market. My salary didn’t cover the mortgage but, upon Cooter’s death (or, not long after, his boss didn’t mess around because his boss was a good guy), his pension was released to me and even though the government took their whack, Cooter’s pension was still a whack. I was good until the house sold and we’d been living there for seven years. The market wasn’t great but his folks and my folks had given us a decent down payment. My friend Paula was my real estate agent and she said I had equity in it and would make a tidy profit in order to downsize to a condo or something more within my budget.
I was already planning my yard sale. Everything must go. I was going to buy all new. I just hoped that the house sold relatively quickly before my living expenses bit into Cooter’s pension too much because I wanted nice stuff, I also wanted a fabulous vacation (something Cooter never took me on) and further, I wanted an entire new wardrobe that I picked.
These were my plans and I spent a goodly amount of time thinking on them. But I still heard the talk.
And with what I heard, I knew that Cooter had started his thing with Vanessa nine months ago.
Nine months.
One month shy of when Cooter took out a huge, crazy, probably insanely expensive life insurance policy on me for no good reason.
Holy crap, they were planning on offing me!
“Mrs. Clementine? Are you there?” Stacy called and my back straightened.
Then I clipped into the phone, “Yes, I’m here. I’m alive, breathing and very, very here.”
“Uh…” she mumbled, “good. So, um… the forms –”
“You bet your bippy that I’ll be all over completing those puppies. Never fear, Stacy, we’ll get the business of filling out forms out of the way so I can continue mourning the passing of my beloved, freaking husband.”
This outburst bought me a moment of silence then, “Uh…” she mumbled again. “Right. Okay.”
“Okay,” I replied. “Thanks for your call. I’m certain this part of your job description is no fun.”
“No, actually, you’re right. It’s, um… not real fun.”
“Well, tick me off your to-do list, sweetie, and go to some fancy coffee cart and get yourself a nice coffee. Spoil yourself. Life’s short.”
“Yes, right, Mrs. Clementine.”
“Ms.,” I corrected her.
“Pardon?”
“Ms.,” I repeated. “I’m Ms. Clementine now.”
Silence then a whispered, “Right.”
“Have a good day,” I urged.
“Right, uh… you, um… too.”
“Will do,” I assured her then beeped the phone off.
Then I walked straight to the phonebook and looked up the number to the Sheriff Department. Then I called it. Then I asked to speak to Ozzie. Then they transferred me to Ozzie. Then I told him about my boon and the timing. Then he was silent a long time.
Then he whistled.
Then he expressed his gratitude and got off the phone.
I looked at Memphis and stated, “First, we’re searching every inch of this house to look for evidence those two creeps wanted to knock me off to collect the insurance and then we’re turning on the computer and then we’re calling up a map of the world and then we’re pointing at it, or I am, since you can’t, and then we’re planning my vacation to wherever my finger lands.”
Memphis yapped her agreement to this plan.
“Unless I don’t hit somewhere in The States,” I warned. “If I pick Okinawa, you’ll probably have to go stay with Mom and Dad while I go off and enjoy Cooter’s wife-killing money.”
Memphis yapped again and her cute, little, brown and white body shook with her tail wags.
She loved my Mom.
Then again, she loved everyone.
So much, it didn’t even seem like she noticed Cooter was gone. No staring at doors. No little doggie melancholy.
But I had taken over the affection, treats, feedings and the like so she wasn’t missing out.
“You with me?” I asked even though I knew. Memphis wasn’t one for solitude. She’d be with me every step of the way.
She yapped anyway just so I knew she had my back.
I nodded.
Then I searched.
Then I found the e-mails.
My husband was so fucking dumb.
His girlfriend wasn’t much smarter.
I called Ozzie again.
He came over.
* * * * *
The next day, Vanessa came out of seclusion mostly because she had no choice and she did it in handcuffs.
While this was happening (though I didn’t know it), I was on the phone with my friend Teri who was a travel agent, booking my flights to Paris.