PROLOGUE
I woke as crashes of thunder shook the house, to track the strobe effect of rapid flashes of lightning against my bedroom wall. My husband slept as if it was a lullaby and not a storm of storms.
I’d been dreaming about such a night in a place I didn’t recognize. In my dream I’d awakened to thunderstrikes accompanied by the sounds of snarling. Not at me. At something outside my window.
Even in my dream I recognized that it was odd to have a pair of wolves in my bedroom, but my sense was that they were a comfort and not a danger. When I rose to open the shutters, the creatures parted to make room for me but didn’t back away. If anything, their protests became more aggressive when the subject of their alarm became visible.
A woman with long, dark hair was standing statue still in my front yard just inside the white fencing. She was being drenched by torrents of rain but seemed not to care. She was familiar. And threatening enough for me to feel a cold panic course through my blood, even in my sleep. The wolves’ intent to break through the window seemed to escalate in direct proportion to my rising fear. As if they knew what I was feeling.
As is so often the case, the dream vanished into smoke and was forgotten when I woke.
In time it would be recalled, but not until years had come and gone.
CHAPTER ONE Journey
My name is Rita Hayworth. If that makes you laugh, it tells me that you have a few gray hairs underneath that fabulous color you’re sporting. My paternal grandmother was a super fan. She told me that she gave my granddad a chance solely because his last name was Hayworth. My father would’ve been the moniker victim, but he escaped on the grounds that Rita isn’t a boy name in any generation.
Never one to give up, my grandmother talked Mom into making me the lucky recipient of her devotion to “Put the Blame on Mame”. It’s hard for daughters-in-law to say, “Not in a hundred years,” when their mission is to maintain family peace and tranquility. Knowing how persuasive my grandmother can be, I’m choosing to give Mom a pass.
If you’re not an old movie aficionado, here’s the skinny. Rita Hayworth was a forties movie star in the days when a sex symbol could be sexy and mostly clothed. She was the consummate vamp. Not vamp as in vampire. Vamp as in a pretty woman with a sultry air, stripper hair, and bright red lipstick who uses charisma, charm, flirtation and a strangely pointy bra to manipulate men.
This is so not me. First, I wouldn’t be caught dead in red lipstick unless my daughter hands it to the funeral director between my passing and my disposal. She’s just mischievous enough to do it. She might put me in a leopard bikini while she’s at it. Thank the gods I will’ve vacated this body before it becomes the ample butt of a joke. And, second, I have no charisma, no charm, and even less interest in manipulating anyone. I might’ve known something about flirtation between pubescence and marriage, but those skills are so long forgotten they’ve rusted all the way through.
As I said, Rita wasn’t a popular boy name, but it wasn’t a popular girl name either. At least not for my generation. In fact, I’ve never met another. Maybe that’s not an upside. Maybe it just puts punctuation on the weirdness. But none of that has anything to do with this story.
What is relevant is the reason why I’ve just landed at Heathrow Airport, London. First time out of the U.S. A few weeks ago I couldn’t have imagined this. But life is strange. Way stranger than you think.
The day after my forty-third birthday, my husband announced he was trading me in. His words, not mine. What he said precisely was, “I’m trading you in on two twenty-two-year-olds,” and then laughed. When he realized we weren’t sharing the joke, he added, “Seriously. I need to free up because this isn’t working for me and I’ve found somebody who really gets me.”
I could only guess that really ‘gets’ him meant that she was into watching him look at his phone during dinner out, was good at pretending to like football, and could field snipes about her appearance without resentment. More likely, these details are discoveries yet to be revealed. And endured. Good luck, sweetie.
The news that I was transitioning to single was unwelcome at the time, but honestly? I needed a good goosing to get up and find my way to the exit, just like love had a couple of decades ago. Why did I stay? It will have to remain one of the great psychological mysteries of the ages because I don’t know. Maybe laziness. Maybe the benefits of combined income. None of the answers I come up with paint a flattering picture.
If not for the financial component, I might have been embarrassingly elated. But living in a state not friendly to discarded wives, I was also relieved of the financial 'security' I'd spent a lifetime accruing. Did I mention that Cole wasn’t the sort of guy who was into sharing when he saw no benefit to himself?
I’d be reduced to my sixty-eight-thousand-dollar-a-year job as a claims adjuster for National Farm & Neighbor. I wouldn’t starve, but I wouldn’t be going on vacation to Las Brisas either. Sigh. Nope. The ‘trade-in’ would be enjoying a pink jeep, a private pool overlooking Acapulco Bay, and salads with flowers in them. Sigh.
So. Starting over? I didn't plan on it. Didn't see it coming. But pulling a sheet over my head and waiting for the end didn't seem like my style. Granted, I wasn't sure what my style was because I hadn't thought about freedom of expression since I was twenty.
Yeah. I’m over the hill. I’m over that and a world of other annoyances I kept quiet about when I was younger. But what’s the point of packing on a few years and a few pounds if you can’t speak up when the spirit moves you? Or gooses you in the ass.
Okay. Full disclosure. (Translation: Partial disclosure.) To the consternation of both my parents, who’d hoped for demure, I never was what you’d call closed mouthed. But I did manage a modicum of restraint until the recent, surprise announcement that I was about to undergo a ‘status’ change. In my present state of being disyoked from an overly-opinionated husband, I feel personal anarchy blossoming to life.
I checked to make sure the little stash I’d squirreled away was safe and secure at the Peoples’ Prosperity Bank. There was enough for meager living quarters for a few months until I could figure things out.
I set aside everything that didn’t fit into two rolling bags for storage and made my way to the corporate residence, which was what we used to call a studio apartment. I left the bags standing in the living room, looking as lost as I felt, and let myself fall onto the tweedy sofa without thinking too hard about whether I needed to view the fabric through a black-light filter.
My boss was reservedly polite when I called to say I’d be taking a couple of weeks of personal time. I knew it was short notice, but I had time accrued. If sick time was counted, I had a lot of time on the books because I’d been fortunate to be healthy. And with no hobbies, and one child who was extraordinarily self-sufficient, I could work or watch Telemundo. I chose work.
I was sitting there, trying to summon the energy to go to the grocery for provisions to stock the galley kitchen when there was a knock on the door.
I looked through the peephole before opening. It was the cheerful kid from the desk.