Runaway Mistress. Robyn Carr

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СКАЧАТЬ rose slowly to her feet but still hung her head dejectedly as she went to Jennifer.

      “Oh, brother,” Jennifer said to her. “What a drama queen. Come on, let’s go. Enough self-pity.”

      It took Alice at least a block to get in the mood, after which she had a rather nice, though brief, twirl around the park. People who obviously knew Louise and Alice greeted them. “Louise gone off to London, has she?” said a man who was walking a terrier. He gave Alice a pat. “I’m Pat from the grocery. Holler if you need anything.”

      “Thanks,” she said. “Doris. From the diner.”

      “Welcome aboard.”

      There were three others she passed by—each said hello to Alice, to her, and each one seemed to realize that if someone else was walking the dog, Louise must be gone for the summer.

      Just a little exercise and fresh air seemed to do wonders for Alice’s mood, but Jennifer was chomping at the bit to get home, home, to get settled. And when they did get back, Alice’s tail was wagging again and she helped herself to some of her food.

      “See? I knew you could adopt a positive attitude if you tried.”

      The living room embraced Jennifer. The hardwood floor, red brick fireplace, deep sofa and overstuffed chairs with ottomans, worn in just the right places. And books. The wall upon which the hearth stood had built-in shelves on each side, filled with books. She went to the shelf to look at the titles and only then did she notice that the dust on the shelf was thick. She ran her fingertips along the shelf and then examined them.

      Louise’s house was cozy, if a little old-fashioned. And though she had been there a couple of times last week to learn the computer, she hadn’t really looked around. The floral sofa and rose-colored chairs were sporting a good bit of dog hair, and now that she thought about it, it was a little on the musty side.

      Well, it stood to reason—Louise was eighty. Not only would her eyesight probably be a bit challenged, but she was simply too arthritic for heavy cleaning. Jennifer dug under the kitchen sink and came up with cleaning supplies—dusting rags, scouring powder, glass cleaner. She got busy at once, starting in the living room. There was an old radio on the bookshelf, and as she dusted around it, she turned it on. Frank Sinatra was singing, so she turned the dial—but Frank just kept at it. Apparently the dial was broken, and if she was going to listen to that radio, she was going to hear that kind of music.

      She’d rather it was winter, with some cold weather, so she could light the fire and the lamp, grab a book and a soda and never leave. This place felt like a nest for the restless bird. Instead, she opened some windows to clear out the musty smell. She found the vacuum cleaner in the second bedroom closet, and fortunately there were new bags on the shelf.

      From just inside the front door, the dining room was to the left, living room to the right, the screened-in porch through the french doors straight ahead. Louise had had the kitchen remodeled, making it the most modern room in the house. And it was used very little, so it wasn’t dirty, but Alice’s coat seemed to line the floor. The granite countertops needed a good scouring, the cupboard had glass doors that she happily polished, and she brought a high sheen to the stainless-steel appliances. She moved the kitchen table to give the floor a serious scrubbing, and before long she noticed that while she’d been cleaning her heart out, the day had grown long and the sun was beginning to lower in the sky. With the windows open, it was getting cold, and she shivered as she went to close them.

      But she was so happy! It felt so wonderful to put a house right—a house she was going to occupy for up to six months. And she didn’t have to think about what she could do or wear or say to make a man happy; she only had to think about what would satisfy her.

      There was a note on the counter beside the phone with all the numbers she would need and instructions to “take the master bedroom, please.” This was all typed; Louise’s hands were not agile enough to write legibly with a pen.

      She grabbed her backpack and went to the bedroom, where she found a basket on the bed with a note on it. “Pamper yourself,” it read. In the basket was shampoo, cream rinse, lotion, soap, shower gel, bubble bath, a new brush and comb, toothbrush and paste, disposable razors and a manicure set. She lifted the shampoo and gave a huff of laughter. She sat down on the bed and saw her face in the dresser mirror. It was the face of Jenny at the age of fourteen—no makeup, lips deflated by the absence of collagen, a dark cap of hair covering her scalp and eyebrows grown out and shapeless from lack of tweezing. With her hair a mere buzz cut, her brown eyes looked large and dark.

      Who would have believed the most perfect disguise would be her natural self?

      There was one change she’d made since adolescence that she intended to take to the grave—the veneers on her teeth. If she were really going to go underground, she could probably pop off those veneers and go back to the old mouth.

      But no. Enough was enough.

      She felt the ache creep into her throat. She had spent so much energy on self-beautification, seeing it as necessary to her lifestyle, and her lifestyle necessary to survival. Yet here she was in her manly pants and shirts, so comfortable but so unattractive. Jennifer, she felt, was gone. As she looked at this new face, even though she remembered it from her youth, she wasn’t entirely sure who she was.

      Don’t cry. You don’t have to stay exactly like this. This is only temporary. Until you figure out what to do.

      All that was left of her former self, the self she’d worked so hard to create, was the jewelry and money in her backpack. She could have sold the two rings and tennis bracelet, but if Nick was determined to find her, they could be traced, so she simply tucked them into the backpack for safekeeping—for emergencies. She still had some money left, two jobs and very modest needs.

      It had been weeks since she’d walked out of the hotel suite. A couple of phone calls from phones with blocked lines revealed that Barbara Noble was said to be living in the Nobles’ Caribbean estate. Apparently no one was suspicious of any crime. There had only been that one sighting of an MGM limo—with no evidence it bore Nick or his thugs. Could it be they’d all gone back to Florida and just assumed Jennifer would never dare tell a thing?

      Possible, she decided. Only time would tell. And that time she would spend in Louise’s comfy house. A very nice place to hide.

      She gave the bathroom a quick, efficient scrubbing, then kicked off her shoes, let her khaki pants drop to the floor and stripped off the baggy shirt. While the tub filled with hot, soapy water, she looked at herself in the mirror. Wouldn’t people be surprised to know that under the baggy pants and men’s shirts was a body like this—high breasts, flat tummy, round butt, long, lean, shapely legs. She preened a bit, one arm over her head, the other stretched behind her back. Then she reversed her pirouette. Something else was growing in—pubic hair. She had endured years of waxing in what was called a Brazilian—total hair removal. Nick had no idea about her natural hair color.

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