Linny's Sweet Dream List Read Free

heading out to the ocean, roaring with laughter at a joke made by one of his merry men, and hooking the big one that got away last time.
    Barefooted, she walked out with him and breathed in the earthy scent of the warm August morning. Leaning against the side of the Caddy, Linny half smiled as she watched him finish loading the SUV that served as his work and weekend truck.
    As he closed the cargo door, he’d pulled her into an extravagant hug, and lifted her feet off the ground. He nuzzled her neck and kissed her, hard. “Be good, baby,” he said, his gaze holding hers. “I’ll be home before you know it, and I’m going to do better. I’ll change, I promise.” Stepping into the car, he switched on the ignition. She heard a Jimmy Buffett song. Buck’s radio stayed tuned to Radio Margaritaville.
    Linny shook her head as she waved. Her husband was a pirate, Puck, and King of the Good Ole Boys Who’d Done Well. He was a rascal, but he practically shimmered with his delight in life. When he kissed her like that, she felt every cell in her body respond, believed every word he told her, and remembered why she’d married him.
    Back in the kitchen she sipped her cooling coffee and thought as she scrubbed stuck-on egg out of the cast iron skillet. She’d best curb her optimism. Marriage with Buck could have as many highs, lows and whipsaw turns as one of those adrenaline rides at the State Fair. He could give her an exhilarating top-of-the-world high, but the free fall drops that sometimes came afterward could break her heart.

CHAPTER 2
    Wild Turkeys
    F our days later, the freshly widowed Linny had worn a black linen dress and her grandmother’s pearls as she gritted her teeth and listened to mourners carry on about what a prince Buck had been. Today, she was back home in Raleigh, at the dump wrestling recycling containers from the trunk of the Volvo. Warm dregs from the not quite empty booze bottles dribbled down her leg and into her sneaker. Gross. She swiped at the drip with her hand, and grimaced as she rubbed it on her grubby shorts.
    At the open steel doors of the glass section, she tossed in the first of many empty bottles, trying not to breathe in the eau de stale alcohol as she silently cursed the skanky former tenants of her new home-sweet-home. The crash of the bottle breaking was so satisfying that she threw the next one harder. Bottle throwing probably worked better than therapy. It was cheaper, too, which was good, given the uncertain state of her finances.
    From the corner of her eye, Linny saw a red truck pull up. Did she hear opera music? Nah. Couldn’t be. Those were the wrong tunes for the dump. The man, who was wearing jeans and work boots, lifted recycling bins from the truck bed. He looked like a Blake Shelton fan, not an opera buff. Glancing around, she saw that they were the only two souls in the recycling area. He looked wholesome, but so did axe murderers. She’d watch him from the corner of her eye.
    Linny wound up pitcher-style for the next toss. She was tired to her bones and running on fumes, but still, launching bottles with a vengeance felt good. Buck said the fishing tournament was “to strengthen business contacts and build teamwork.” So that’s what they called it these days. The swashbuckler with the killer smile on the dark rum label looked a little like Buck. Shaking her head in disgust, she slung the bottle into the dumpster.
    This was the second time she’d been widowed, and she wasn’t even forty. No one her age should be so familiar with the process of burying husbands. All she wanted was a normal life. Nothing fancy, just the basics—a nice husband to eat supper with each night and sleep beside, a child or two, a little house, a secure future. Was that too much to ask? The vodka bottle with the dancing Cossack on it glittered like diamonds when it shattered.
    Linny drove under the speed limit, studied