Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough Read Online Free PDF Page A

Starbucks. Shit.
      She turned left on Spring, where the white church stood on the corner, steeple soaring up, lofty and self -righteous.
      Her elation sank into uncertainty. Was she really going to live here? Trading one prison for another? But what the hell choice did she have? The press and paparazzi were all over her; she couldn't stay in New York. In the days she'd been there since the verdict, she'd been recognized, screamed at, insulted, jostled. Of course, in New York, that was pretty much your average day.
      But where else could she go? Stan Combover's legal bills had nearly bankrupted her. She'd depended on Ed to take care of her; he was twenty years older, not in great health, and he'd promised to. But after fourteen years together, the bastard had left her next to nothing. Enough to get by here until the storm blew over, but in New York, gone in a heartbeat. His stinking family must have worked on him not to change his will. Or maybe he was just a rat bastard. God knew she had a talent for fi nding them.
      From Spring Street she turned onto Maple Avenue—did they not have one original street name in this town?—and squinted at the neat rows of houses, looking for signs of a familar one. God oh God, it was all so damn precious -looking.
      There. White with dark green shutters, looking like home sweet-home for Donna Reed. The house her paternal great great-grandmother had built when she moved here from Chicago with her husband, who gave up city life to be a country doctor.
      She pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine.
      Deathly silence. How did people stand it? She needed a drink after ten seconds.
      She opened her door and shoved it way out, stepped onto the cement, pockmarked like bad skin. Her stomach churned, head swirled, the buzzing, bleary -eyed wooziness of too many hours on the road. A glance around, shoving her sunglasses on top of her head. Perfect, orderly houses with perfect, orderly lawns. Nobody around, nothing, zip, nada. She was going to go nuts here.
      Wait. A curtain moving across the street. And one next door, to the north.
      Jesus.
      She narrowed her eyes, then a slow smile spread over her lips. O -kay. If Kettle wanted to see the arrival of Lorelei Taylor, Kettle would.
      She took her sunglasses off her head, stuck the end of one temple into her mouth, and took a trip to the end of the driveway in her best do -me saunter. Better if she'd been wearing her Rene Caovilla leopard -print stiletto sandals and a bright yellow miniskirt, but no way would she drive two days in that outfi t.
      Skintight, low -riding Miss Sixty jeans and an equally tight cropped, scoop -necked top would have to do. She stuck her tits out and made sure her top rode high enough to show off her firm stomach. Pushing forty, maybe, but she damn well didn't look it.
      At the end of the driveway, she looked up the street, then down, as if her pimp was due any second and what could be keeping him? Then tossed her hair, made a big show of stretching, arms up, undulating her hips, then bent at the waist to touch her toes, flipping her hair over her head and rolling slowly up.
      Across the street, another curtain twitched. She guessed phone calls were being made. She's here, she's making a spectacle of herself in the street, hurry, before you miss it.
      Grand finale: She drew her hands up her thighs, then straight up over her stomach, cupped her breasts briefl y on the way to her shoulders, then raised her hair and let it fall.
      There.
      If there was anyone on this street who didn't think they knew what she was about, they thought they did now.
      She turned back, still sauntering, twirling her sunglasses oh-so-nonchalantly. A movement on the porch of the house south of hers nearly made her fall off her stride. A man, a young man—early thirties, maybe—watching the show unapologetically, one hand on his hip, the other holding a beer, legs apart in a strong