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Clint just had never “got” her. Didn’t understand.
Never would.
Thirty-two years was a helluva age difference. For God’s sake, she was avoiding her twentieth high school reunion and he was collecting social security! A thought that hadn’t occurred to her fifteen years ago when she’d been swayed by his money and Clint, at fifty-five, had still been dashing, trim, and worldly and . . . and it had all been a load of crap.
So here she was, waiting for a lover who didn’t care any more for her than her husband did.
Disgusted with herself, she heard the steady drip, drip, drip of a pipe that hadn’t quite been turned off, and she walked into the hallway again, remembering wearing uniforms and running out to the play yard, where there had been a covered area, a tetherball pole, four-square courts, and a few pieces of aging and probably unsafe equipment. Now, as she peered through a locked door, she saw only rubble in the open area where she’d once screamed and laughed.
Her first eight years of school, well, nine, counting kindergarten, before she’d been enrolled in public school. Edgewater High.
Twenty years past.
She probably should have gone to Lila’s reunion meeting, but the truth was she couldn’t stand the woman. Nor had she felt any different twenty years ago when Lila had been jealous of her and her father’s money. And for her part, Annessa, studious, hadn’t liked the flinty blonde who had flitted from one boyfriend to the next, always looking for someone a little more popular or wealthy or cool or whatever. Lila had flirted with just about any boy, or man, for that matter, as she’d always gone for someone older.
In that regard, Annessa had been surprised when Lila had settled on Luke Hollander. He wasn’t wealthy and he was only a couple of years older and no longer a football star. Yet, Lila had set her sights on Rachel Gaston’s brother and become Rachel’s best friend.
For a while.
Anyone with any brains could see that she was only using Rachel to get close to Luke. Probably Rachel had known it, too, because their friendship had seemed to fade with time.
Annessa smiled at that. Well, who could blame Rachel? Lila had become her damned stepmother-in-law.
Sick.
Using her key, she unlocked a door to the school yard and stepped outside. It was twilight, the gloom settling in.
The area was completely enclosed, two sides blocked by the wings of the old school. The third boundary, directly across from where she stood, was the old chapel, now crumbling under a sloping roof, its tall spire and silent bell tower knifing into the dusky sky. The final wall of the school yard was a high wooden fence with a locked gate leading to the parking lot of the hospital.
She remembered third grade when she’d fallen from the monkey bars and sprained her ankle. Sister Mary Rosarius, the meanest nun in the school, had hustled her through the gate and along a covered portico to the hospital, all the while muttering that Annessa would be fine, that she shouldn’t be a baby and should stop crying. “Oh, now, don’t blubber. Say a prayer with me,” she’d ordered, walking fast, the skirt of her habit swishing with her strides. “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus . . .”
Annessa hadn’t prayed and she hadn’t stopped sobbing.
Now she stepped into the yard, where a few insects buzzed in the coming night and a lone security lamp offered dim, uneven light over the tufted dirt where once there had been grass. Shards of broken glass glinted in the bald pa
tch of earth.
She’d spent many hours here, laughing and playing and scheming with her friends. She remembered the bells in that spire tolling for mass, or to signify the end of the school day. Father Timothy had been the principal, and though there were a few nuns employed at that time, most of the staff were laypeople.
She recalled . . .
Scraaape.
What was that?
She froze.
Was it a shoe scuffing the earth behind her?
Whipping around, Annessa expected to see him crossing the patchy yard, a devilish smile slashed across his jaw, his mischievous eyes sparkling.
But the space beneath the porch was empty. Devoid of life. Quiet and still. Grimy windows dark.
Jesus.
Her nerves tightened. She licked her lips. Eyed the entire yard, with its misshapen pieces of broken equipment and shadowy areas where blackberries and weeds had taken root. Her throat was as dry as dust.
They’d gone too far this time. These clandestine meetings always had an edge to them, a little bit of danger that made the sex all the more potent. Cheating on their spouses wasn’t enough; they each liked a little more adrenaline in their bloodstream.
