Save Me: A dark romantic thriller (Novel) (21 page)

“All right. I will.”

He turned to go.

“Oh,” Claire suddenly called to him. “Before you leave, Troy, I’ve been meaning to ask, would you like to come over for Thanks giving? I realize it’s still more than a month away, but I’d like to know ahead of time so I know how big a turkey I’ll need to buy. It would be just you, the baby, Ashley, and me. And maybe my friend Rachel and her husband Mark. I‘m not sure yet. I‘ll have to see what they have planned.”

Again, Troy looked down; felt hollow inside.

“You wouldn’t have to bring anything,” she promptly added. “So don’t worry about that. I’m like Martha Stewart. I make everything myself.”

How was Troy supposed to accept Miss Whittaker’s Thanks giving invitation, when her daughter had just told him that she never wanted to see him again?

“Yeah. I guess I’ll come over,” he said. “That is, if it’s okay with Ashley.”

“Why wouldn’t it be okay?” Claire took off her glasses. While she cleaned them with her shirt, she studied Troy’s body language. “If I don’t invite you my daughter will be giving me the fifth degree.”

He pretended to be amused. “Right, right. She probably will. Just tell her I stopped by.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay and wait for her?”

“No. I really can’t, Miss Whittaker. I wish I could. I have to be somewhere.”

From behind Claire, the puppy Albert appeared. The Collie walked out onto the porch and sniffed Troy’s leg.

“Hey there boy.”

“Do you see how big Albert’s getting?”

“Yes. He‘s growing like a weed,” Troy remarked, bending over to pet the panting puppy.

“Did you know he can roll over now?” Claire impishly nudged the dog’s furry tail with her foot.

“No. It doesn’t surprise me though. Intelligence runs in your family.”

“Whoa!” She blushed. “Thank you.” Claire also stepped onto the porch. The screen door banged shut behind her. “Troy, be honest with me. Does my daughter feed Albert when I’m not here?”

“Miss Whittaker, please!”

“The reason why I’m asking is because the vet says the dog seems to be putting on more weight than he should. And every time I check our supply of biscuits, we seem to be low.”

Troy did not want to get involved. He did not need any more trouble. “I don’t know what Ashley does. You’ll have to ask her.” On that note, he hurried down the driveway to his car. As he drove away politely waving, Troy couldn’t help but wonder if that would be the last time he would ever stop by the Whittaker residence. This panicky thought left a painful lump in his throat.

Thankfully, it turned out to be a false alarm. Whomever the cop was chasing, it wasn’t Ashley.

The patrol car had driven past her so swiftly; she had felt her Toyota rock aggressively from side to side. The officer, Ashley estimated, must have been going close to sixty miles an hour.

Before merging back onto the highway, Ashley needed time to compose herself. Her heart thumped mightily and her palms were sticky with perspiration.

“Unbelievable,” she whispered to herself, while firmly clutching the steering wheel, “you got lucky there. I’m surprised he didn’t see me toss the cup out the window.” To play it safe, she resolved to take the back roads the rest of the way home.

As Ashley pulled into the driveway behind her mother’s minivan, her mobile phone voiced its insistent squeal.

Oh no! It was Troy
.

“What the hell!” she growled sulkily. “Do I have to change my number?”

“Ashley,” he said, his voice filled with unease. “At least hear me out.”

“No!” There’s nothing more to discuss. You had your chance, Troy, and you blew it. You blew it miserably.”

“But you didn’t give me a chance to defend myself. Think about it, if I didn’t want to be in a relationship with you, would I be calling you now?”

“Leave me alone! I don’t want to hear anymore of your lies. You’ve already hurt me enough.”

“Please!” he begged. “Don’t be like this. All I’m trying to do is set things right.”

“Well, you can’t. And I can’t believe I slept with you. That’s the worst thing of all. So please, don’t call me anymore.” After getting out of her car, Ashley warily snuck around to the backyard, with the bottle of Seagram’s vodka stuffed in her pocketbook. She hoped she could get down to her art studio before her mother noticed her car. Ashley was convinced she reeked of booze.

Now, as she stood in the dark kitchen, Albert came scampering into the room, and began to tug on her pant leg.

“Not now, Albert!” Ashley whispered. “Go on boy, scoot!”

“Who’s out there?” her mother suddenly called from the family room. “Is that you, Ashley?”

“Ahhh . . .” she dithered. “Yes.”

“Why’d you come in the back?”

“Because.” Think of something. C’mon! Anything. Quick! “The front door was locked. And I didn’t have my key with me.”

“That’s strange; I could have sworn I left the door open.” Claire must have been absorbed in whatever she was searching on the internet. It did not appear as if she planned to get up. “So where were you, Ash? What happened, did Stella make you work overtime?”

“Actually, she did. We were swamped today; so she had me stay late to clean up . . . Did you feed the baby?”

“Uh huh. A little while ago. But one of us is going to have to pick up more pampers. We only have a few left.”

“I’ll do it,” Ashley offered. “I’ll get them tomorrow. Where is Kimberly now, upstairs?”

“No. She’s in here with me.”

Ashley peeked into the other room. The cheery infant was crawling around in her new playpen.

“So Ash, how are you coming along with your paintings?”

“Good. Why?”

“I talked to Eve today.”

“And?”

“She said a curator in Trenton wants to look at some of your latest pieces.”

“That’s awesome,” Ashley replied, checking inside the fridge. She decided she’d eat the small container of coleslaw that was in the cold cut drawer. “I didn’t think there were any galleries in Trenton that specialized in anything other than the Revolutionary war.”

“Well, apparently they do,” her mother elevated her voice over the murmur of the TV. “Eve informed me that this particular gallery is primarily interested in abstract art. She took my advice and told the curator that you were a cross between Picasso, Monet, and Van Gogh.”

Closing the icebox, Ashley asked, “Is this a big gallery?”

“Nah. Eve said it’s relatively small. Elegant though. Very classy.”

“What’s it called?”

“Earthquake Gallery.”

“Never heard of it,” Ashley confessed, grabbing a spoon from the silverware drawer. “How long’s it been around?”

“Since 2000, I think. You have nothing to lose, Ash. I’m sure this guy will like your work.”

“Maybe. You never know.”

“Brad and Eve are good friends with him. If you don’t feel like traveling, the curator said he‘d come to the house and critique your paintings here.

“Sounds promising. I‘m psyched.”

“Oh. And I almost forgot Troy stopped by.”

“He did?” Ashley frowned. “When?”

“About a half hour ago. I invited him to Thanks giving. He told me he’d love to come as long as it was okay with you . . . Why do you suppose he’d say that? Did you guys get into an argument?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Ashley fibbed. “Do me a favor.”

“What‘s that?”

“If he comes over again, tell him I don’t want to be disturbed. If I’m going to impress this curator, I’ll need to get caught up. And I won‘t be able to paint with Troy looking over my shoulder.”

“All right. Except, I don‘t think he‘s coming back, he said he has to be somewhere.” Naturally, Claire wanted to give her daughter privacy. She believed that one day Ashley would be a highly respected artist. Possibly even a rich and famous one as well.

Relieved, Ashley went down to her studio and turned the light on. Before picking up a brush, she changed out of her bakery uniform and threw on a pair of denim coveralls.

Then, after putting on some music and mixing a potent drink, she lumbered over to her easel, where, on a huge canvas was her latest masterpiece, a compelling surreal representation of the Empire State Building. In the painting’s background, a commercial jet flew toward the New York City landmark, hinting at how life in America, since the bombing of the World Trade Center, had been changed forever.

Despite being under the influence, Ashley was determined to add more detail to her Empire State Building painting.

By nine o’clock, however, her focus had gone off target. The thought of Troy had her mind ensnared in a complicated web of discontent.

But you didn’t give me a chance to defend myself. And think about it, if I didn’t want to be in a relationship with you, would I be calling you now?

Ashley did not know what she could possibly do to stop thinking about him.

Since she no longer felt inspired, she laid her pallet and paint brush down, and then, probably because her brain was saturated with liquor, she found herself dialing Kitty Woo’s phone number.

“Who’s this?” Plainly, Kitty had not been anticipating a call from the art studio on Blueberry Street.

“It’s Ashley.”

“Who?”

“Ashley Ferguson.”

“Well! What a surprise. How long’s it been, Ashley, a month and a half since we last spoke?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“So what do I owe the honor?” Kitty inquired. “I thought you were in therapy?”

“I am. I go once a week.”

“Where, to a psychiatrist?”

“No. I rejoined my rape survivor group.”

“And what does that entail? Refresh my memory.”

“Me, the therapist, and about twenty-five other people, sit in a circle and talk. Some of the members in the group were raped when they were children, while others, like me, had had it happen to them more recently.”

“So why are you calling?” Kitty wanted to know. “Especially at nine o’clock at night?”

“I want to make a purchase.”

“Are you for real, why would you want to make a purchase if you’re back in therapy? The last time we spoke, you told me that you weren’t going to ask me for anymore pills. Remember, you said that your boyfriend helped you to see the light?”

What Ashley did not need right now was a confrontation.

“I know I said all that, Kitty. Except now I dropped out of therapy again. And Troy and I are no longer a couple. I ended the relationship. It turns out he wasn‘t a good fit for me.” It took ten minutes for Ashley to convince her old dealer to help her.

“Okay,” Kitty said, sighing. “What is it that you need?”

“Morphine.” Ashley explained the exact dosage. “If I could steal more of this stuff from my brother-in-law I would. But it‘s just not possible. He and his wife would never trust me near their medicine cabinet again. Even though they could never prove that I was the one who had taken it.”

“Fine. I can get that.”

“Fantastic! You’re the best, Kitty. Can you score it for tomorrow, I already have the money?”

“Sure. That shouldn‘t be a problem.”

“I’ll be at work until four-thirty or five, depending on how busy it is. Do you want to meet me there?”

“Yeah,” Kitty told her. “I’ll stop by the bakery on my lunch break. At about twelve. I’ll call first.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much, Kitty. You don‘t know how much this mean to me.”

***

Shortly after midnight, Ashley, who had been asleep in her room, snoring softly, suddenly awoke.

Not sure what had roused her from her slumber; Ashley took another gulp of vodka and Coke from the glass that was on her nightstand. Then she went across the hallway to check on Kimberly.

“How’s my darling girl?” she whispered affectionately, lifting the baby from her crib. “Did you miss your mamma? I’m sorry, I didn’t tuck you in tonight, sweetheart. Your mommy fell asleep.” As she lovingly rocked the child in her arms, Ashley started to sing her daughter a lullaby.

“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.”

“Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.”

“And if that mockingbird won’t sing.”

“Papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.”

That’s when her mother, in her pink robe and slippers, appeared in the doorway. By the drained expression on her face, it was obvious that Claire had just dragged herself out of bed.

“Ash, what are you doing?” she asked, shaking her head.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m singing Kimberly a lullaby.”

“What song is that supposed to be?”

“It‘s ‘Hush Little Baby.’ ”

“Well, whatever you‘re singing, would you mind keeping it down? It’s quarter after twelve. You sound like a wounded hyena.”

Ashley frowned. “Sorry to wake you.”

“That’s okay.” Claire massaged her lethargic eyes. Then she yawned

“Anyway, mom, you said earlier we’re almost out of pampers. What about baby food? How many jars do we have left?”

“A lot. I don’t know why you’re even asking me. Out of the hundred or so jars that Troy brought over, there must still be at least half left . . . Just buy the pampers. I’m going back to bed. I’m pooped. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

The baby food
.

Ashley had almost forgotten about that. How one day, Troy had come over with a grocery bag filled with jars of Gerber’s. It was moments like that made it even more difficult for her to accept how he had made it seem as though he really cared, when all along his kind actions had been under false pretenses.

“Yes Kimberly,” Ashley whispered sadly. “I had really thought one day Troy might become your new daddy. And it just breaks my heart knowing I may have gotten your hopes up. I know how much you like him. I’m so sorry honey. He’s not going to be coming around anymore. He doesn’t really love us the way I thought he did.”

In the morning, when Ashley had showed up at the kitchen table, not yet showered and on the warpath, she verbally assaulted her mother.