The Real Werewives Of Vampire County Part 34

"Thank you," Jon echoed, looking like he might shove the woman out if she didn't leave on her own.

"I can't stay," Erica said, turning toward the exit. "I'm on my way to meet a client. But I didn't want to go without at least saying h.e.l.lo."

"That was very thoughtful. Thanks." I gave her a wave as she hurried out the door.

Jon closed and locked the door behind her. "Okay, now that's enough of the neighbors. I don't give a d.a.m.n if the mayor rings my doorbell to give you the keys to the city. I'm not answering. We're going to our room." He grabbed my hand and took the stairs two at a time. "I'm going to have s.e.x with you if it kills me."

Kills him? I wasn't sure how to respond to that statement.

The truth of the matter was, the moment was over. Between worrying about being interrupted again, and curiosity about the wife Jon hadn't talked about before today, I was more interested in getting back to the discussion we'd started before Erica's entry.

Once we were inside the bedroom, Jon, true to form, went for my neck.

I held him off with outstretched hands. "Hang on, there, Dracula. I want to talk about Mich.e.l.le first. How did she die?"

CHAPTER 2.

"Okay," Jon said, sitting on the bed. What do you want toto know about my first wife?"

Standing next to the door, I said, "Well, how she died, for starters."

Jon nodded. Looking solemn, he patted the bed, inviting me to sit beside him. I did. "Mich.e.l.le had a lot of issues. Emotional problems. Not many people knew. Not her friends. Not her parents. Not even Josh. Only her doctors and me. It started almost immediately after we were married. She seemed happy for a little while, maybe six months or so, but then my crazy work schedule got to her. She became lonely. Depressed. I suggested we start trying to have a child, and her mood picked up again." His smile was wistful, sweet. "I thought we were going to be okay. But when she didn't get pregnant right away, her depression came back. And it was worse. I suggested we give up, think about adopting to take the pressure off. She insisted we keep trying. So we saw a specialist. Had some tests run. Turns out she had some kind of hormonal imbalance. She was given some pills and a few months later, she was pregnant."

He hadn't gotten to the part about her dying, but I was willing to be patient. This was, by far, the most words I'd heard Jon speak consecutively since meeting him. He wasn't the chit-chatty kind.

"After Joshua came home, things were good. Perfect. She was busy. Happy. She poured her energy into taking care of our son. She volunteered at his school. She made cupcakes for his bake sales. She helped him with his homework and hauled him to soccer practice and baseball games. Her world revolved around our boy for ten years. She was a wonderful mother. A wonderful wife. But when he started to become more independent-as is normal for boys that age-she told me she was ready to have another child. And I was glad to try for another, especially if it meant she'd be happy. Unfortunately, it wasn't so easy. She took hormone treatments. But they didn't help. We even tried IVF. Nothing worked. One day, two years ago, I came home from work to find she'd killed herself." Jon blinked. His eyes reddened. He sniffled. "I never thought... ."

"I'm sorry." I set my hand over Jon's. His was trembling. Made me wonder, was he over his wife's death? "Two years isn't a very long time."

"I'm okay. I even went to a counselor for a while." He didn't exactly sound okay. "If you're worried that I'll be comparing you to Mich.e.l.le all the time, please don't be. I told you she was my past, and I meant it. She's gone. I'm ready to move on. I'm looking back now only because you asked me to. From this point forward, we'll be looking to the future. Our future."

"I hope so." I wasn't one hundred percent convinced. "I quit my job for you. I gave up my apartment. I don't have a safety net, if this doesn't work out-"

"You don't need one, Christine. Trust me. Please."

I wanted to trust him. I was almost afraid not to.

Shifting to face me, he took my hands in his. "Look, I told you things won't be perfect. And it won't be easy. My hours are crazy. I'm not home much. Josh will need time to adjust to having another woman in the house. But I will be here for you, just like I was for Mich.e.l.le."

Feeling slightly chilled, I crossed my arms over my chest. "I'm a little scared. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't."

"I understand. I would be, too." He pulled me into a hug. I relaxed in his embrace. He was warm and strong and I wanted to believe he was the man of my dreams. Easing back, he brushed my hair out of my face and gave me a sweet, gentle kiss. "I want you to always feel you can be honest with me."

I nodded. "You too."

"Now, there's one room I haven't had a chance to show you yet. I think now's the time." He stood, offering his hand. I accepted it. Down we went, to the main floor of the house, through the kitchen, and down a second, steeper set of stairs to the finished bas.e.m.e.nt.

I stopped at the bottom of the steps, clapped my hands over my mouth. "What is this?" I said through my fingers, my eyes sweeping over the bright, cheery s.p.a.ce. I saw three long counters, dotted with various sewing machines. Three dress forms stood along one wall, in front of floor-to-ceiling shelves. And sitting on a stand was a very special machine.

"It's your sewing studio," Jon said.

"You're kidding." I made a beeline for the commercial grade embroidery machine. That one alone cost anywhere from ten to fifteen thousand dollars. I'd been dreaming of getting one for ages. Gaping, I glanced around the room again. "I can't believe this."

"I wanted you to have everything you'd need to make your dream come true. I couldn't expect you to launch your clothing line with that rusty old Singer of yours."

"Are you for real?" I asked, throwing my arms around his neck. I kissed him all over his face. "OhmyG.o.d, thank you."

"You're welcome." His eyes twinkled. How I adored those twinkles. I adored a lot more than his twinkles. Just tell me this man is everything he seems to be. "Now that you've seen your surprise, how about we get that truck unpacked?"

I could care less about all the c.r.a.p I'd hauled here now. Outside of my clothes and a few personal items, none of it was worth anything. None of it would fit in this glorious house. But I had to return the truck to U-Haul in the morning. "Okay."

Jon gave my b.u.t.t a little tap as he led me toward the garage. "And maybe when we're done, you'd like to take a nice, long bath... ." A bath? My apartment had only had a tiny shower stall. I couldn't remember the last time I'd taken a bath. "... together."

A hot man. A gorgeous house. A dream studio. Could my life get any better than this?

"And tomorrow, you can go shopping for material," he added.

Shopping?

I wasn't in Stepford. I was in heaven.

The next morning, I was sorting through my sewing pattern collection when the doorbell rang. Jon was upstairs sleeping. So was Joshua. That meant it was up to me to answer. Looking glorious (not) in a ratty pair of sweats, a T-shirt that said, NY L OVES ME, and a ponytail, no makeup, I checked the clock as I padded barefoot to the front door.

The bell rang two more times before I finally answered.

What a surprise (not). It was Samantha, Lindsay, and Erica. Samantha was holding a plate covered in foil. Lindsay had a steaming carafe of something that smelled incredible, and Erica was holding a white bakery box.

"Good morning." I stepped aside to invite them in. "What a surprise. At nine o'clock in the morning. On Labor Day weekend."

Lindsay, donning a semi-scowl, gave me a quick up-and-down inspection. "We didn't wake you, I hope." She lifted the carafe. "I brought caffeine."

"No, you didn't wake me, and thanks." I had to admit, n.o.body had ever gone to such lengths to make me feel welcome before. In the city, it was a big deal if my neighbors gave me a little nod in the stairwell. I wasn't sure how I felt about this. Was it a suburbia thing?

"I made m.u.f.fins this morning. They just came out of the oven," Samantha said as she click-clacked past me.

"I brought bagels." Erica, following on Samantha's heels, lifted the box. "I hope you like Einstein's Everything bagels."

I motioned them all into the kitchen. "I do, thanks." After four tries, I found the cupboard with the cups. I grabbed four and set them on the island-slash-breakfast bar. Then I went in search of plates.

"I just love Everything bagels," Lindsay said, pulling out a stool and sitting.

"Me too. The saltier and garlickier the better," Erica said, sitting beside Lindsay.

"I prefer plain," Samantha said, taking the third stool.

Standing on the opposite side of the bar, I placed a plate in front of each of them.

Meanwhile, Lindsay poured a steaming cup of coffee and handed it to me. I took a whiff. My mouth watered. "What kind of coffee is this?" I sipped. Delicious. But hot. I set down the cup to look for knives.

"My own blend. I may not bake." Lindsay put a bagel on her plate. "And I'm not much of a cook. But when it comes to coffee, I know a thing or two. Erica, tell me you didn't forget cream cheese?"

"Of course not." Erica spread a handful of little packets on the counter.

We all settled in, nibbling on the world's best m.u.f.fins and munching on bagels for a few minutes.

It was Lindsay who eventually broke the silence. "We thought we owed you an apology for yesterday," she explained.

"Oh? Why's that?" I asked around a mouthful of m.u.f.fin.

"Because we all just met you, and right off the bat we were talking about Mich.e.l.le," Erica said. "Talk about insensitive."

"It's okay. I understand." I spread some more cream cheese on my bagel. "Jon told me you were close friends."

"Yes, we were. For ten years. Since the day they moved in." Lindsay gave me a charming smile. "But that doesn't mean we can't be friends with you, too."

"I'm glad." At least, I thought I was glad. A part of me was unsure about this whole thing. These three women, The Pack, seemed a little too eager to be my friends. It was odd.

"Jon told us you were living in New York," Erica said. "I imagine you think we're strange."

"Oh no, of course I don't." I felt my face warming.

Erica laughed. She tucked her hair behind her ear, revealing a simple, but pretty, diamond earring. "Liar. I lived in New York for two years before I married Adam." She glanced down at the enormous diamond ring on her finger. "This has got to be a culture shock for you."

"Okay, maybe it's a little strange," I admitted.

The three friends exchanged nods.

Samantha, looking as perfect and perky as ever, smiled. "We're not as desperate for friendship as you probably think."

"I don't think you're desperate-"

"We're just trying to be friendly." Samantha leaned closer. "You see, you don't know it yet, but you're going to need all the friends you can get."

Now, that was a weird thing to say.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because that man upstairs-the one you're about to marry-he's not exactly what he appears to be."

"We think he killed his wife," Lindsay whispered.

Holy s.h.i.t.

"She committed suicide," I said, wondering why they would think such a thing.

I don't know these women. They could be lying to make me leave. Maybe they're all in love with Jon.

"Suicide? That's what he told you?" Giving me a pitying look, Erica shook her head. "That's a lie. If you don't believe us-and really, why would you?-check it out for yourself." She motioned for a pen with her hand. I found one in a drawer, along with a little spiral notebook. She pulled a sheet out and wrote a website on it, folded it, and handed it to me. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Jonathan Stewart was investigated for murder. He hasn't been brought up on charges ... yet. They couldn't find enough evidence. But the case is still open. Here's the write-up in our local paper."

Lindsay reached for my hand. "Be careful."

I was dumbfounded. Speechless. What the h.e.l.l was this? "Jon said she was depressed," I stuttered. "She couldn't get pregnant."

"Depressed?" Samantha pulled a cell phone out of her pocket, hit some b.u.t.tons, and handed it to me. "Depressed people isolate themselves from friends, from family. They don't go to parties. They don't laugh with friends. This picture was taken the day before Mich.e.l.le died. At our neighborhood block party. Does she look like she was isolating herself?"

I looked.

First, Mich.e.l.le could pa.s.s for my doppelganger. That was freaky enough. But second, she looked like she was having a great time at the party. And when I say great, that might be a slight understatement.

A shiver swept up my spine.

"There are more pictures," Samantha said. "Hit the b.u.t.ton."

"I don't need to see more." I handed Samantha the phone and glanced down at my plate. My appet.i.te was gone. Had I made the mistake of a lifetime? Had I left my job, my life, to move in with a murderer? "The pictures don't prove anything."

"You're right. They don't," Erica said. "But we're hoping the police will find some solid proof soon. You could help."

"You want me to dig for clues while I'm living with a man you believe killed his wife?" This was crazy. Insane. Unbelievable.

I needed to find out more. About Jon, yes. But also about these women. I was having some doubts about Jon. Any girl would. After all, I'd learned a long time ago that something-or someone-who seemed too good to be true generally was. But I was also having some suspicions about my three neighbors. What were their stories? Why were they so h.e.l.l-bent on convincing me Jon killed his wife?

"You don't trust us. I can appreciate that," Erica said. "At this point, all you have is what we've told you. But once you do a little digging, you'll realize who has been telling you the truth and who has been lying." She stood, motioning to the other two. "Ladies, I think we've taken up enough of Christine's time." She gave me a smile that seemed genuine. "Our offers still stand. If you need anything, from any of us, we're here for you." She was the first to head for the door. Samantha was second. Lindsay was the last.

At the door, Lindsay leaned over and whispered, "I really like you already. Please be careful."

CHAPTER 3.

I couldn't push the freaking b.u.t.ton. I was too afraid of what I'd see.

After The Pack cleared out, I returned to my girl-cave and tried to get back to work. As I moved things from one place to another, I kept telling myself they'd been lying to me. Jon's wife had killed herself just like he told me. When I could no longer believe that, I switched to the theory that they weren't lying-they really believed Jon might be a killer-but the police were wrong. Jon was innocent.

Eventually, after several hours, I hadn't completely convinced myself of that explanation, either. So I'd done what any normal girl would do. I powered up my laptop, jumped a few hoops to get it connected to the house's Wi-Fi, and typed in the URL Erica had written out for me.

It was there now, on my browser's search line. But I couldn't hit the b.u.t.ton, calling up the page.

Hit the b.u.t.ton, dammit. You need to know the truth.