times.
She avoided the empty nursery and the flood of mixed emotions that always followed when she entered the room alone. Life was good to her, if not always fair. She had what she needed, more so than what she wanted . And although at times she missed her career, she held fond memories of her friends and the life she knew before marriage.
A product of foster care, she had worked hard to find her place in the world. Now, at almost forty, she finally had a permanent home, a husband, and food on the table. She had found the American dream. Or so she convinced herself.
She stowed her cleaning supplies in the butler pantry organized more methodically than a surgical suite. She aligned the canned goods an inch apart and six inches from the front of the shelf, the way Alan liked it. Cereal, oatmeal, and breakfast bars faced out from the middle rack above the paper products. Toiletries and other sundry items were segregated in colored bins on the bottom racks.
When she heard the garage door open, she pressed her hands along her dress to flatten wrinkles. She washed up in the powder room sink and primped her hair.
"You're home." She greeted her husband with a peck on the cheek. She could smell the cheap perfume on his collar.
Sheriff Blanchart hung his hat in the closet the same way he did every time he came home, except on the special nights when he brought home flowers or a box of Jamie's favorite candy.
Tonight wasn't one of those nights.
"Did you make the appointment?" Blanchart asked bluntly. He unfastened his duty belt and hung it on the closet hook beside his hat.
Jamie touched the butterfly tattoo etched between the dermal layers of skin on her upper back. A spring break memento from a college road trip to Daytona Beach, the tattoo served as a constant reminder about the consequences of her actions, and how at times, even the best intentions could have a negative affect. "I called the doctor's office this morning," she said. "I have an appointment for next week."
Blanchart stooped to kiss her. Nearly ten inches taller than his life partner, he cupped Jamie's chin in his hand the way a forensic pathologist might examine a human skull.
Jamie looked down. "I have to check on dinner." She reached for an oven mitt in the sliding drawer by the stove. There were no indecisions with Alan. His mood was hot or cold; content or irate; happy or sad. Sometimes he came home himself, and sometimes he came home a stranger in his own skin. On the good days, he kept to himself. On the bad days, he made her the center of attention.
Jamie opened the oven to check the meat thermometer. A blast of hot air greeted her face. "How was work?"
Blanchart ran his hand along the countertop to check for dust. "Not great."
"I cooked beef tonight," said Jamie. "Your favorite."
Blanchart shook his head. "Not tonight."
Jamie closed the oven. "I can save it for tomorrow."
Blanchart took a beer from the fridge. "This isn't cold enough."
Jamie stiffened. "I just got home from the store."
"Which one?"
"The same one I always go to. I saved the receipt."
Blanchart twisted off the cap and moved to the sliding glass doors facing the screened porch outside. "The pool looks dirty."
"The guy didn't come today. I called this afternoon and left a message."
Blanchart nudged a crooked wedding picture on the wall near the kitchen. He drank his beer in solitude, his thoughts distracted by recent events. "Did the mail come?" he asked rhetorically.
"I put it in the basket."
"Did anyone call?"
"Not that I know of."
Blanchart downed his beer. "I lost a deputy today."
"Oh my God..." Jamie pulled the roast from the oven and set it on the stove to cool. "What happened?"
"Simon Carter died in the line of duty."
Jamie recognized the name. "His wife just had a baby."
Blanchart picked at the beer bottle label with his thumbnail and hovered close to his wife. He touched her shoulder with his other hand. "I need to schedule his service. We should send his
She avoided the empty nursery and the flood of mixed emotions that always followed when she entered the room alone. Life was good to her, if not always fair. She had what she needed, more so than what she wanted . And although at times she missed her career, she held fond memories of her friends and the life she knew before marriage.
A product of foster care, she had worked hard to find her place in the world. Now, at almost forty, she finally had a permanent home, a husband, and food on the table. She had found the American dream. Or so she convinced herself.
She stowed her cleaning supplies in the butler pantry organized more methodically than a surgical suite. She aligned the canned goods an inch apart and six inches from the front of the shelf, the way Alan liked it. Cereal, oatmeal, and breakfast bars faced out from the middle rack above the paper products. Toiletries and other sundry items were segregated in colored bins on the bottom racks.
When she heard the garage door open, she pressed her hands along her dress to flatten wrinkles. She washed up in the powder room sink and primped her hair.
"You're home." She greeted her husband with a peck on the cheek. She could smell the cheap perfume on his collar.
Sheriff Blanchart hung his hat in the closet the same way he did every time he came home, except on the special nights when he brought home flowers or a box of Jamie's favorite candy.
Tonight wasn't one of those nights.
"Did you make the appointment?" Blanchart asked bluntly. He unfastened his duty belt and hung it on the closet hook beside his hat.
Jamie touched the butterfly tattoo etched between the dermal layers of skin on her upper back. A spring break memento from a college road trip to Daytona Beach, the tattoo served as a constant reminder about the consequences of her actions, and how at times, even the best intentions could have a negative affect. "I called the doctor's office this morning," she said. "I have an appointment for next week."
Blanchart stooped to kiss her. Nearly ten inches taller than his life partner, he cupped Jamie's chin in his hand the way a forensic pathologist might examine a human skull.
Jamie looked down. "I have to check on dinner." She reached for an oven mitt in the sliding drawer by the stove. There were no indecisions with Alan. His mood was hot or cold; content or irate; happy or sad. Sometimes he came home himself, and sometimes he came home a stranger in his own skin. On the good days, he kept to himself. On the bad days, he made her the center of attention.
Jamie opened the oven to check the meat thermometer. A blast of hot air greeted her face. "How was work?"
Blanchart ran his hand along the countertop to check for dust. "Not great."
"I cooked beef tonight," said Jamie. "Your favorite."
Blanchart shook his head. "Not tonight."
Jamie closed the oven. "I can save it for tomorrow."
Blanchart took a beer from the fridge. "This isn't cold enough."
Jamie stiffened. "I just got home from the store."
"Which one?"
"The same one I always go to. I saved the receipt."
Blanchart twisted off the cap and moved to the sliding glass doors facing the screened porch outside. "The pool looks dirty."
"The guy didn't come today. I called this afternoon and left a message."
Blanchart nudged a crooked wedding picture on the wall near the kitchen. He drank his beer in solitude, his thoughts distracted by recent events. "Did the mail come?" he asked rhetorically.
"I put it in the basket."
"Did anyone call?"
"Not that I know of."
Blanchart downed his beer. "I lost a deputy today."
"Oh my God..." Jamie pulled the roast from the oven and set it on the stove to cool. "What happened?"
"Simon Carter died in the line of duty."
Jamie recognized the name. "His wife just had a baby."
Blanchart picked at the beer bottle label with his thumbnail and hovered close to his wife. He touched her shoulder with his other hand. "I need to schedule his service. We should send his
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