The Big Bang (5 page)

Gingers were always a little tweaked. Eva shook her head. “Sick.”

“My dad says he’s cool,” one of the Goth kids added. “For a minister.”

“So cool, he forces my mom and me to start working on that stupid Easter egg hunt like two months in advance.”

“I knew this was about your dad,” Tyler said.

Eva’s nose burned with impending tears. “You don’t get it.”

Hannah Hunt stepped forward. “If Mistress Eva wants to try a spell, why don’t we just go for it and see what happens?”

Around the room, headpieces jangled with nods of assent.

Tyler glanced nervously at the two new initiates.

At least the rest of them were with her.

“All I want to do is make sure Easter isn’t such a total pain in the ass.

“Don’t you think it’s a little weird mixing the Christian thing with Witchcraft?”

“Depends on how you look at it.” Eva lifted her Athame skyward. “It’s all about faith.”

***

Everyone loved the soon-to-be reality of two new playgrounds.

Loved him.

Frank held his cheeks together to restrain a sudden urge to pass gas.

Hope Jordan had a right to her opinion and, really, her signature didn’t make any difference…

A queasy feeling rolled through his gut.

Must have been something he ate.

He belched silently, stood, and smiled. “Do I have a motion in favor of the playground?”

“I motion that we approve the costs for both construction and playground equipment at rates and sites outlined by our president,” Jane Hunt said.

Beads of sweat broke out across his brow.

“Second.”

“All in favor?”

The room began to spin.

As hands sailed into the air, a wave of nausea crashed on the shores of his esophagus. Before the foul taste of bile could roar up his throat and spill into his mouth, he tried but couldn’t manage to utter the two final words, “All opposed?”

A
fter a sleepless night of rapid-cycling through the further research he could have done, the signatures he should have collected, and the points he might have made, no matter how pointless, in light of Griffin’s dazzling land grab, Will felt sick himself. Frank’s sudden illness made it impossible to ask for a delayed vote or make any further inquiries whatsoever without looking like a total ass. “I feel like I’m between a rock and a hard place.”

Meg spooned against him and nuzzled his neck. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“I’m serious.” He shifted positions to block his wife’s hand from its imminent path toward his clammy, flaccid dick. He’d clearly been out-orated and out-strategized. Griffin had to know his three-for-one land deal would be a slam-dunk, so why had he gone to the trouble of putting together that diorama? Revenge? Ego? “I spent half the night coming up with excuses for why we have to pack up and move out to Saddle Rock like we should have done in the first place.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No more ridiculous than Griffin imposing his will on everyone.”

“Honey, you need to accept you’re the only one who’s feeling that way.”

“Ouch.”

“Welcome to my world.” She twisted one of the hairs circling his belly button. “I vote today on a construction bill that will either limit my constituents’ ability to sue culpable homebuilders or end upscale, affordable living as we know it.”

He sighed. “What are you going to do?”

“I want to vote against it, but I have to go with the polls.” She rested her fingers just beneath the waistband of his boxers. “And try to get my mind off any possible ramifications with a little stress relief.”

“I don’t know if I can focus enough to…”

She took his hand and placed it on her right breast. “I’m confident you can.”

Her nipple hardened beneath the silk-screened countenance of some forgotten candidate on her oversized T-shirt. At least there was something willing to be swayed toward his cause.

As he reached under Meg’s shirt with his other hand, he glanced over her at the digital clock on his nightstand. “It’s almost seven. I should get the kids up or they’ll miss the bus.”

“Drive them.” She reached into his boxers.

He drove them most mornings, anyway. After rousing Tyler from his teenage death-sleep and hustling him out the door, there were the twins to contend with. It was almost impossible to coax them into clothes, stuff cereal into their mouths, and rush them down the street before the bus huffed up the hill. The dog, cat, and guinea pig simply had to wait for breakfast until he got home.

Meg ran her tongue from his jaw toward his mouth. “Give the people what they want.”

He feathered his fingers through his wife’s short take-me-seriously haircut. Once Meg finally made governor, maybe she’d grow it again. With the thought of her silky chestnut mane spread across the gubernatorial pillowcases, a rush of blood finally surged southward.

A stray thought of Hope Jordan in sheer black lace made him rock hard.

He burrowed his lips into the warm crook of Meg’s neck, lifted her shirt, and quickly removed her lavender Jockey for Her panties.

“It’s been so long,” Meg moaned.

Only a month.

He entered her.

And a week.

As he began to move inside her, forgetting, if only momentarily, everything but the amazing warmth of her, the house felt like it began to tremble beneath them.

Will peered over Meg’s head and out the window.

A truck passed the Jordans’ house and stopped at the end of the cul-de-sac. Workers with surveying equipment piled out the back of the flatbed. The foreman tipped his thermos and seemed to smile toward Will’s bay window.

“Damn it.” He pulled the covers up over himself and Meg. “How can they be—?”

“Ignore it,” Meg pressed against him.

A hiss of hydraulic brakes echoed through the neighborhood, followed by the rattle of a rear door unrolling.

“How can I ignore them?”

Meg grabbed his ass.

A tidal wave of rage swept through him as backhoes, excavators, and assorted Earth-moving equipment rolled off the back of the truck. “The vote just passed last night.”

“You did what you could, Will.”

“They can’t start construction before seven o’clock
A.M.
It’s against the covenants.”

Meg’s clock radio blared with the nonsense of the morning shock team.

Seven exactly.

Will slammed his hand on the snooze.

“I’m calling him right…” His words were muffled by the
meep-meep-meep
of a truck backing into their driveway.

“Let it go, Will.”

***

Maryellen Griffin had been extra good yesterday: half a grapefruit for breakfast, romaine with tomatoes and balsamic for lunch, chicken breast for dinner. She’d had her eight glasses of water, three pieces of sugarless gum, and killed the urge to splurge with two dried apricots and a peppermint, which she’d spit out just before the little holes began to form.

The diorama to-do, followed by Frank’s bout of whatever having made him so ill he could barely whimper his approval at the playground trucks rolling into the neighborhood, kept any hunger pangs at bay.

Frank groaned.

Yesterday had been a good day for her, anyway.

She looked at the reflection of her vanity mirror from the mirror behind the scale. With no honey-do list, today looked equally promising.

She stepped on the scale.

The phone rang as the digital red blur whirled beneath feet. She managed a quick glance at the flashing scale readout.

99.5.

With no time to savor her triumphant return to the double digits, she flew across the bathroom and picked up the cordless before it rolled into voice mail.

“Hello?” She reached into the sleeve of her robe with her free hand.

“Will Pierce-Cohn here.”

Her stomach flip-flopped as she put her other arm into her other sleeve. The poor man had worked so hard on his petition, having no idea Frank had the deal already wrapped up. “Hi, Will.”

“Frank available?”

Maryellen glanced out the window. The playground site was as spongy as Will claimed, but Frank said it wouldn’t make any difference once the concrete went in. A win-win for Henderson Homes, the church, everyone—everyone but Will, that was. “Frank was up all night and he’s finally resting.”

“Sorry to hear that.” His conviction sounded dubious.

“Who is it?” Frank asked weakly from the other room.

“Be right there,” she said, and then lowered her voice. “He really is sick.”

“And I really am sorry to impose,” he said. “It’s just I couldn’t help but notice the trucks stopped at the end of the cul-de-sac.”

She wanted to tell him she agreed the playground should have been located elsewhere, that she hated seeing all those innocent bunnies displaced, that Frank had steamrolled him, even if it was for the good of the community.

From the next room, Frank coughed.

Not that Will had a chance in the first place. Long before Frank put up his first yard sign advertising the new congregation or began to conduct Sunday services at the high school, he had plans drawn up for the Melody Mountain Community Church. Just like the pronouncement he’d made halfway through their first date—they’d be married in a year and have their one and only daughter the following, Frank always got what he wanted. No one else’s opinions really seemed to factor in. Not hers, anyway. “He planned ahead.”

“Apparently so.”

Luckily, she didn’t have to lie about that. Will was such a nice man and a good father, never seeming to mind the role of younger, stay-at-home husband to his ambitious wife. He reminded her of a tousled, dark-haired Hugh Grant as he hurried his girls off to the bus or beamed from the audience at one of his stepson Tyler’s plays. To protect his feelings she added, “With all the various site possibilities, he wanted to make sure there wouldn’t be any delays that would keep the kids from enjoying the equipment as soon as possible.”

“I see,” he said.

“The crew’s been lined up for a while,” she added. “On whatever land got the go-ahead.”

During the awkward pause that followed, she pinched herself for the white lie. “Should I have Frank call you back when he can?”

“No.” He paused. “I guess I’ll just catch up with him later this week or something.”

“Okay. Thanks for calling.”

She replaced the phone on the wall stand.

“Maryellen?” Frank’s croak seeped into the room under the bathroom door. “Mel?”

She cinched up her robe and started back toward their room. “Coming.”

“That wasn’t Hope Jordan by any chance, was it?”

***

“Black fixtures are nearly impossible to keep clean,” Theresa Trautman said.

“I see what you mean,” Tim said, watching a white blob of shaving cream slide down the side of the ebony colored sink. He spread the rest of the shaving cream across his cheeks. “But considering the new mortgage payment, I’m sure you can find something that works.”

“It’s not about getting it clean.” Her hand looked toddler-sized as she rubbed the vast expanse of her growing belly. “It’s a matter of keeping it clean.”

Tim ran the razor down his face. “The old house had white fixtures and all you wanted was a new house.”

“Needed,” she said.

“Have to admit, I do like the new neighborhood, though.”

“The homeowner’s association certainly seems dynamic,” she said.

“Sure does,” he said.

“Laney told me she put in a good word for you with Frank Griffin.”

“Hopefully it’ll pay off.” Tim nodded.

“I was thinking we should check out his church this Sunday,” she added.

“I was thinking the same,” he said, delighted to discover that by looking in the mirror and through the reflection of the open blinds, he could see into Hope Jordan’s master bath behind them. Too bad the shades weren’t up. “Quickest way to get to know our new neighbors.”

***

Jim never whispered how beautiful she was, or how right a couple they were like he used to when they made love or happened to pass a mirror together. He hadn’t acknowledged last month’s black lace much beyond tearing the panties as he pushed the seam aside. Really, he hadn’t given any more than an appreciative nod to the parade of teddies and see-thru tank tops that now overflowed Hope’s lingerie drawer and had taken up residence in her sock drawer. Only when she’d worn his silk boxers and nothing else had his response resulted in the virile baby-making romp she’d hoped for.

Of course, that was during the first month.

Ten months later, could she blame him for his waning enthusiasm?

With a dismissive snip of her nail scissors, Hope clipped the tags on this month’s ovulation day peach lace bra and g-string combo. As she fastened the bra hook, the phone rang.

Before she could make it down the hall to her office where she’d left the handset, the message machine picked up.

“You’ve reached the Jordans and Hope for Your Home Design. Please leave a—”

“Hope, it’s Jim…”

His message was partially blurred by the noise of a passing truck, but his last sentence was all she needed to hear.

“Be there in ten.”

She was being paranoid. Jim was on his way home. If not eager to make passionate love for the umpteenth time every other day in a row, he was certainly a willing participant in their shared goal. Before she got back into bed in preparation, she grabbed a few roses from the peach bouquet she’d picked up to match her lingerie and plucked the petals.

Halfway down the curved staircase, she stopped and closed her eyes. Mid her monthly visualization of the onslaught of robust candidates all vying for her big, healthy, ripe egg, a chill came over her like she was being watched. Half-expecting to catch Will Pierce-Cohn gazing at her through her front door accent windows, she opened her eyes.

No one was there, of course.

Yet another example of paranoia.

The Clomid was doing its job.