SUSAN LUTE

February 7

The worst thing that could happen to a woman who’d been in love for the better part of thirty-five years was to end up alone.

Well, not totally alone.

But alone as only a fifty-five year old woman could be when she’s lost the very thing that made her life worthwhile.

Damn it, Jon!

Stella Carmichael eased the door of her Mount Tabor home closed and leaned against the hard wood, her head back, her eyes closed in a weariness she almost couldn’t bear.

Almost.

When she opened her eyes, it was to an eerily unlit house, flooded with the gray of encroaching twilight. It smelled empty, if empty had a smell. Kind of a lingering echo of the earthy cologne Jon loved, but not really that either.

Her ears rang with the angry pulse of her blood.

Forcing herself to take one breath, then the next, she didn’t notice when her purse dropped with a dull thud to the floor. Kicking off the shoes pinching her toes, she shrugged off her coat, dragged herself to the closet, looking for an empty hanger. But her limbs were too heavy to carry out the task of hanging up her coat.

And she would bet all that Jon had eagerly left behind - a sometimes contrary wife, his beautiful grown-up girls, the wayward granddaughter who was so much like him, the vintage home he’d helped restore, the job he coveted, their sometimes rocky, but for the most part, successful marriage - the feeling was never going to return to her arms and legs that felt like all the life had been sucked out of them.

Unable to bring herself to hang her coat next to the one he’d left behind, in a rare display of temper, she threw the offending garment in, slamming the door on the flying lump of black wool.

What were you thinking? her heavy heart railed. At him. At herself for not taking better care of what she’d had.

The phone rang once and the answering machine clicked on in the other room. “Stella, this is Dana Murphy.” The doctor’s voice echoed in the somber stillness. “I’m calling to see how you’re doing. If you need anything at all, give me a call.”

Dana had a women’s clinic next door to Stella’s office. They referred patients to each other and had been friends on a professional level for a long time.

What she needed, the doctor couldn’t give her. Without bothering to turn on the lights, she made her way to the liquor cabinet her husband had meticulously made to fit into the pantry just off the kitchen.

She should sell the house and move on with her life, but thinking about it hurt too damn much.

It hurt that she couldn’t sit folded in his strong arms tonight, her back pressed close to his heartbeat as they watched their favorite romantic comedy on the big screen television he’d brought home on their last anniversary.

It hurt that she wouldn’t wake up next to Jon tomorrow morning, his soft snoring brushing across her ear.

And it hurt that she couldn’t smack him upside the head for the stunt he’d pulled, leaving her to watch the life they’d made together slip beyond her grasp.

For those reasons and those alone, she grabbed a full bottle of his favorite bourbon. Snatching a tumbler from the shelf above, she found her way by habit to the library that doubled as her office when she worked from home.

Stopping in the middle of the dark room, the bourbon in one shaking hand and tumbler in the other, clawing indignation mixed with her suffocating anguish. In the stillness where only overwhelming emotions had any life, the phone rang again. She didn’t move to answer the annoying summons.

“Mom. I haven’t heard from you in a few days. Call me as soon as you get this message.”

When the demanding voice of her oldest daughter faded, the stifling silence engulfed Stella once more. Marching to her desk, she put the glass in the crook of her arm, opened the top drawer and searched the contents until she found the bottle of sleeping pills Dana had ordered for her.

Gripping the container until her knuckles turned painfully white, she caught her reflection in the mirror on the opposite side of the room. The woman who stared back had an arrogant tilt to her head as if she had the answer to every problem. She looked controlled. Clever. Like a woman who had plans for her life and was right on track.

Stella sneered. Foolish, foolish woman.

Streaked blonde hair, not a strand out of place, curled serenely around her face, turning under at her shoulders. Intelligent, light brown eyes regarded her with pragmatic disinterest.

The woman didn’t look like she’d been robbed of thirty-five years of a nearly perfect life.

Okay, so maybe they hadn’t all been so perfect.

But, that didn’t give Jon the right to casually throw away everything they’d built. On a whim. On a moment of stupid, illogic-

The silly twit staring at her had no clue she’d received a mortal blow; that her heart was breaking into bitter pieces, the gates of her usually controlled emotions about to break open and flood the entire room.

At least Stella didn’t think she did until one lonely tear fell helplessly down her cheek.

Balancing the bourbon and pills close to her chest, she took a step toward the woman, struggling to pull the too heavy wedding set off her finger. In the silence of her ballooning misery, she wanted to throw the rings, but the best she could manage was to toss them against the mirror. They made a sharp ping when they hit and her voice cracked as if she hadn’t used it in a very long time.

“Hi. My name is Stella. And I’m about to consume a shit-load of alcohol. Want to join me?”