Chapter 2 - The Cost of a Clean Slate
“Do I regret it?” I looked Robert straight in the eyes as the club nurse pulled the athletic tape snugly across my swollen wrist. “Robert, my only regret is that I didn't ruin her shoes while I was at it.”
Robert let out a half-groan, half-chuckle, rubbing his temples. He was sixty-two, twenty years younger than me, and had served on the Oakridge Valley Country Club board for nearly a decade. He knew what kind of hornet’s nest had just been kicked. “Eleanor, she’s Julian Hayes’s new wife. Julian practically owns half the local zoning board. Her father bankrolled the new pool pavilion. You tore her Carolina Herrera dress straight down the spine and dumped her into three tiers of passionfruit mousse.”
“She shoved a seventy-five-year-old woman onto the turf because my cardigan brushed her champagne flute,” I said evenly. “If Julian Hayes has a problem with how his trophy wife was redecorated, he can address me directly.”
The heavy mahogany door of the security suite flew open with a violent thud.
Julian Hayes himself strode in, his face purple, his tailored tuxedo strained against his broad chest. Behind him hovered Kristin, wrapped in an oversized white club towel that did little to hide the yellow streaks of custard clinging to her neck and hair. Her face was mascara-streaked, but beneath the theatrical tears, her eyes blazed with pure venom.
“I want her arrested,” Julian barked, pointing a thick, diamond-ringed finger at me. “Assault. Destruction of property. She’s an unstable, decrepit lunatic! Chief Evans, why isn't she in handcuffs?”
Chief Evans, the head of private security who had known me for thirty-five years, shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Mr. Hayes, we’re reviewing the patio surveillance footage right now. Both parties were involved in a physical altercation.”
“Both parties?” Kristin shrieked, clutching Julian’s arm. Her voice reached that shrill frequency reserved for women who had never once heard the word ‘no.’ “She attacked me! I stumbled—I accidentally bumped her—and she clawed me like an animal! Look at me, Julian! I am humiliated! Everyone was filming!”
I didn’t flinch. I sat calmly on the leather examination bench, smoothed the wrinkles from my linen skirt, and met her hysterical glare.
“You shoved me with two hands, Kristin,” I said softly, the quiet authority in my voice cutting right through her screeching. “You laughed. You told your friends to watch the old lady drop. And then you discovered that age does not make a person defenseless.”
“You’re finished in this town, Eleanor,” Julian spat, leaning down into my personal space until I could smell the stale scotch on his breath. “I don’t care how long your dead husband’s name has been on the brass plaques in the foyer. By midnight tomorrow, the board will strip your membership. By next week, your house on the fairway will be tied up in litigation so thick you’ll die before you see a judge. You chose the wrong family to cross.”
May you like
I smiled. It was the slow, chilling smile my late husband, Thomas, used to call my ‘boardroom executioner’ grin.
“Julian,” I whispered, “you talk an awful lot for a man whose grandfather used to pump my father’s gas. Run along and buy your wife a shower. You’re going to need all the composure you can muster by Monday morning.”
