Maisy Morganfield advanced closer to the pearly gray casket and peered down. Yup, no doubt about it, it was really her ex-husband stretched out on all that creamy pristine satin. And he was really dead. Well after all, that's what the obituary in the Chicago Tribune said—Prominent Schaumburg, Illinois real estate broker, John Morganfield, age 40, dies of heart attack—but she had to come to the funeral home and see it with her own eyes.
There he was, rigid and supine and still flaunting that damned arrogant smile. An unwelcome shudder rippled through her body. How in the hell the mortician managed to affix that smile intrigued Maisy enough to want to poke John in the ribs, just to be sure. Judiciously, she overcame the urge. A quick glance to either side ensured no one else was close.
"You robbed me, you sonuvabitch," Maisy accused under her breath. "You had to die and cheat me out of my moment of glory, my sweet revenge, and I'll never forgive you for that, you bastard."
Standing over the bloodless corpse that had once been the man she loved, she tried to feel some emotion, any emotion other than bitterness, anger and loathing. Nothing. It just wasn't there any more. Not after he'd broken her heart, methodically stomping on it until it became a tattered clump of raw meat.
Success had always been important to him, to the exclusion of most anything else in life. And John Morganfield had scored a palpable victory when he succeeded in obliterating every last ounce of love or compassion Maisy felt for him long ago.
It wasn't that Maisy was happy to see John dead—well, actually, she had wished him dead more times than she cared to remember. In fact, she'd often fantasized about plotting the perfect murder, killing the bastard off and reveling in a naked dance of joy on his grave. Cringing at the morbid recollection, Maisy bit back the trickle of guilt threatening to surface.
It's just that, if John had to go and die, couldn't he have had the decency to wait a little while longer—just long enough for her to exact a teensy bit of well-deserved revenge? Selfish in life, selfish in death, that was John. What a great epitaph. The thought teased Maisy's lips with a smile, which she immediately expunged, reminding herself that nice ex-wives shouldn't revel in such nasty thoughts about their dead ex-husbands.
Especially when the ex-wife was standing over her not-so-dearly departed ex's casket.
The mood in the room wasn't exactly one of bereavement, which helped to ease Maisy's less-than-sorrowful mind-set. There were no inconsolable family members. The only blood relation Maisy spotted was Harry Morganfield, John's oily buffoon of a cousin. The best man at their wedding, he'd done his best to stick his tongue down Maisy's throat after the ceremony, while pinching her ass at the same time. Clearly seeing John's wake as a stellar networking opportunity, he was glibly passing out business cards and schmoozing with John's smiling coworkers.
There were no grief-stricken friends in attendance, either. John had never bothered cultivating friendships. It was unproductive. He viewed people as potential clients or competitors. The only reason he ever turned on the charm was to reel in prospective customers, or, at least in Maisy's case, prospective wives.
Expelling a great sigh, Maisy gave John's pasty remains one last, narrow-eyed, glimpse before turning to leave and finding herself face to face with Sharon Fitch.
Fitch the Bitch —the anorexic-looking redhead who was once John's mistress and now his grieving widow.
Maisy took in Sharon's overstated mourning garb with a knowing smile. The tight black dress stopped at mid thigh, where it was met by sheer black hose and black stiletto heels. A profusely veiled, wide-brimmed black hat, fashionably slanted over her long, brazenly out-of-the-bottle red locks completed the ensemble.
If there were a Widow's Weeds magazine, the widow Morganfield could easily be voted playwidow of the month. And if there were a Tramps R Us magazine, Sharon Fitch Morganfield would be the sleazy publication's all-time favorite cover girl.
Fighting the urge to give in to an emerging head to toe shudder, Maisy hiked back her shoulders, elevated her chin and looked the widow Morganfield right in her heavily mascaraed eyes. Her lashes looked so chunky it was a miracle she could keep her eyelids from drooping shut.
It was clear Sharon didn't recognize Maisy. And why should she? Eighteen months had passed and more than a hundred pounds of fat had been painstakingly shed from Maisy's frame since she last saw Sharon, or John for that matter. Compared to her mortifying high of just over three hundred pounds, Maisy was positively svelte now.
That wasn't all that had changed in the last year and a half. Gone was the limp, drab-brown hair and in its place glistened bouncy blonde curls, the color of sunlit honey. Okay, granted, Maisy's golden locks were also straight out of the bottle, but at least they looked as though they could have been God-given, unlike Sharon's clownish red-orange hue.
Now when Maisy looked in the mirror, instead of chubby chipmunk-cheeks, she saw an elegantly sculpted face, with blessed little hollows under newly visible cheekbones.
The chalky pallor resulting from the no makeup, natural-look she'd dutifully adopted according to John's wishes during their ten-year marriage had been trashed. Instead, Maisy's attractive features were flawlessly accented with makeup. In fact, the only original telltale visages left were her large blue eyes and full, generous lips.
Today, doing her best to exude the allure of a Vogue model, she wore a superbly tailored black wool suit—just slightly snug. So proud of the fact that it came from an upscale department store's misses section rather than a plus-size store, Maisy had been half-temped to wear it inside out so everyone could see the garment tag.
A wicked bit of scarlet lace from her camisole peeked out at the v-neck closure. A slash of crimson lipstick, garnet earrings and a red silk carnation on her lapel completed Maisy's carefully chosen farewell-you-bastard outfit. The beautiful, ultra-chic woman who stood before the widow Morganfield was a deliberate, painstakingly designed creation.
So what if that creation's heart was playing a frenzied game of ping pong inside her chest? As long as Maisy played her cards right, no one, especially Sharon, would ever suspect that Maisy felt like a frightened, intimidated, overwhelmed little girl inside. Or that she was on the verge of crying, breaking out in hives and throwing up. All at the same time.
Clearly clueless as to Maisy's identity, Sharon Fitch Morganfield rendered a bland, obligatory hello as she extended a limp hand. "Thank you for coming," she said, giving Maisy the same compulsory little welcome speech she'd no doubt given everyone else who strode by John's casket that morning. No, there was still no seed of recognition apparent. The widow Morganfield's kohl-rimmed eyes were glazed over with disinterest as she rattled off her apathetic little spiel.
Disregarding the handshake overture, Maisy relished the moment, squelching the burgeoning urge to smoosh her hand into the woman's face hard enough to send Sharon careening backwards, ultimately landing her on top of her dearly departed husband.
"Hello, Sharon," Maisy hissed, hoping she'd managed to keep the nervous quavering in her voice to a minimum. It was only after hearing Maisy speak that Sharon's detached gaze crystallized, widening in shocked disbelief.
"You!" Sharon furrowed her eyebrows and stiffened. "What the fuck are you doing here?" The once-over she gave Maisy was so caustic it could have cut through hardened enamel.
Fortifying herself with a deep breath, Maisy resolutely maintained her poise as she mustered the courage to converse with the woman she despised above all others. She had waited a year and a half for this opportunity, ingesting little more than salad, steamed veggies and skinned chicken. And now, Maisy was terrified she'd get cold feet and the words she'd rehearsed so carefully would stick in her throat like peanut butter.
