Deadly Dosage

By Cheryl Schultz (Richards)

Summer (Sunny) Alexandria Kramer is a pretty, petite, 28-year-old nursing home bookkeeper at Ageless Grace Nursing Home. The middle daughter of divorced parents, she is searching for love, yet doesn’t know it. Frustrated with her job and life, she dumps her boyfriend of almost three years, Sam Sheridan hoping for nothing better than the freedom from what she feels is a doomed relationship. When she meets Lloyd, she realizes what was missing from her relationship with Sam, yet she is afraid to fall deeply in love and get hurt.

Lloyd Andrew Harper is a 32-year-old, handsome pharmaceutical sales rep, whose outside interests include his stray cat Rufus and his band, Deadly Dosage, where he is the lead vocalist and guitarist. When his father’s roommate at Ageless Grace becomes increasingly sick for no apparent reason, Lloyd agrees to intervene and speak with the pretty, green-eyed, dark-haired, bookkeeper his father is always talking about. What he discovers is the woman of his dreams and a mystery that will bind them together forever, providing her boyfriend Sam stays out of the picture.

Sam Robert Sheridan is 30 years-old, charming, attractive, and interested in more than his job as an electrical engineer. Although his sights are beyond remarkable with a handgun, he constantly misses the mark with his ex-girlfriend, Sunny. After a drunken affair with her roommate Brandi the night of their breakup, he invokes all of his charm and manipulative skills in an attempt to win her back. Pressured but unrelenting, she refuses a reconciliation, but agrees to start over if she can continue seeing her new love interest, Lloyd Harper. Desperately wanting a second chance, while not wanting her to succeed in her new relationship, he agrees on two conditions: one, he can date anyone including her roommate and two, no sex whatsoever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cheryl Schultz (Richards)
• Release date: Sep 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301082711

Cheryl Schultz (Richards)

Cheryl Schultz is an American author of romance and crime, who lives in Valparaiso, Indiana with her husband and two rescued cats. She is a full-time writer who previously worked in the healthcare industry. She writes her Sunny Kramer romance mystery series under her pen name, Cheryl Richards.

Book preview

Prologue

My name is Summer Alexandria Kramer. I grew up in a middle-class subdivision in southeastern Milwaukee County, much like any other in the Midwest. Summers were spent playing bloody murder or kick-the-can after dark with my friends in our large backyard, which proudly displayed more weeds than grass. To those in the neighborhood, it was home to jump rope, badminton, and tetherball.

Friends however, were not allowed inside the house—ever. Not even to pee. Luckily, my friends’ parents felt the same way. I remember my friend Terri; she wasn’t even allowed to open her own refrigerator door when her parents weren’t home. Compared to her, I was spoiled.

Back then, we usually hung out until the street lamps came on, which was precisely at nine. Once, my younger sister Autumn and I stayed out way past this time. Not because we were having too much fun to go home. It was out of fear. Fear of Skippy. You see Skippy was our neighbor’s son who spent most of his time in a hole he dug in his backyard. He stayed in there for hours at a time. We never found out what he did in there, but he scared the hell out of us just the same.

Anyway, we saw him ambling towards us on our way home one night. With some quick thinking, we jumped behind a semi-trailer parked in front of a new construction home and waited holding our collective breath until he passed us. We ran all the way home.

Unfortunately, our dad was waiting with his belt in hand, ready to refresh our curfew-forgotten memories. Fortunately, Skippy spooked him as well, so he let us off with a stern warning.

I’m much older now, but I’ll admit I’m still freaked out about Skippy.

My family and friends call me Sunny, although stormy better describes my life. I trip going up the stairs, I have rotten luck, chaos follows me, and I don’t have a lot of patience. This lack of patience is a big, reoccurring problem in my life.

I discovered early on that I didn’t have the patience needed to achieve my lofty goals. Therefore, when I turned ten, I decided I would be a princess. It required no effort on my part. I already had dark brown hair and fair skin like Snow White. I could marry a handsome prince, live in a castle with turrets, have tons of jewelry like Elizabeth Taylor, and wear fancy gowns. Maybe even have a longhaired, white kitten named Duchess.

Then my mom had to go and ruin everything. She told me either I had to be born into royalty, which I wasn’t, or I would have to marry a foreign prince and live in a different country. She took me to the library and showed me pictures of real life princesses. Not exactly Disney beautiful. Liars! So much for my easy, luxurious future.

Years later, my parents split. With my fairytale life forsaken, I turned my depression into a new career goal, songwriter. I wrote lots of sorrowful lyrics that weren’t all that good. In fact, they didn’t even rhyme. Oh, well, there was always college. Right?

College. Not only was it a waste of time, it tried my patience. Big time! Ignorant admissions people, freaking professors with thick accents, unbelievable amounts of reading were all frustrating as hell. Not to mention dealing with the obnoxious, pretentious students, especially those who kept insisting my deep green eyes were not natural, but the result of colored contact lenses. I swear to this day only my family members and boyfriend believe they are not color enhanced!

To deal with my impatience I did many things including swearing, consuming alcoholic beverages, and sleeping on my books, hoping osmosis would work. It didn’t. It took me around six years to finish college. I must say though I put a lot of effort into that final year.

So, there you have it. That’s the reason I’m sitting at a desk at 6:55 a.m. this February morning, drinking lousy, lukewarm coffee, freezing my butt off at Ageless Grace Nursing Home. Suddenly being an ugly princess is very appealing.

Chapter 1

Friday, February 10th

This is my first job as a bookkeeper and I have already been here three years too long. Let me tell you, on the inside, it’s no picnic. The only grace in this place is the Admissions Director, Donna Dombrowski. She keeps me sane and focused. Granted it is a tough assignment. Both of us are single, and not always loving it. Donna is a young thirty and I’m an old twenty-eight. Some days I feel like fifty.

We have a lottery going to see who weds first. That would be kind of cool, except everyone else in the office wanted in on it. Odds on favorite is Donna. Okay, so she is blonde, has much bigger breasts, and is three inches taller than my five foot, two. Fact is, she has only been with her auto mechanic boyfriend, Chuck Nolan, for three months. In two months’ time, Sam Sheridan and I will have been together for three years! Exactly why we are still together puzzles me. I’m thinking it might have something to do with the fact he looks like an Abercrombie model and can be pretty amazing in bed. Other than that, he drives me crazy, and not in a good way. Our relationship is much like a faulty shower with surging water—very hot and very cold. If we could compromise on a pleasing temperature, everything would be great but I’m not even sure if that’s possible. So, not being a particularly optimistic woman, I placed my bet on Donna to win.

I started mornings manning the reception desk. I hated this more than cabbage rollups, and they make me want to vomit. The front door opened and trouble walked up to the window separating the reception desk from the lobby.

Is Summer Kramer in? a tall, gaunt woman in her sixties rudely inquired. She looked like she reached the point of death and kept on going.

I’m Summer, I said with my usual Friday morning cheer.

She cleared her throat and shoved an envelope at me. I don’t agree with this bill.

I opened the envelope and pulled out last month’s statement. The current statement went out two weeks earlier. I looked up at her expecting her to continue but she did not. The phone rang. I let it ring out to the floor. I ignore the phones before 7:00, if I can get away with it. I think the inventor of the multi-phone line should be drawn and quartered. Two more lines rang simultaneously and I waited until the green lights turned red before responding.

What don’t you agree with? I asked as politely as I could for this ungodly hour.

The amount, she stated matter-of-factly.

This is last month’s statement. You should have received this month’s statement a week ago.

Oh, because I already paid this amount, she said tapping on the paper I was holding.

Uh-huh. Now you owe, I took a moment and called up the account on the computer, Ah, $5,689.

She opened her purse and took out her checkbook. It took her fifteen minutes to write the check and then she shoved it in my face. I took the check and read it. She made it out for $568.90. I wanted to slap her silly.

You wrote down the wrong amount, I told her, trying not to sound bitchy.

Oh. Well, I don’t like to waste checks, so I’ll pay the difference next month.

She turned and swiftly left the building before I could dispute her reasoning. Great, I would have to answer for that in next month’s meeting. I saw Donna waltz through the front door. She was wearing two different colored pumps, a blue one, and a black one. The colors may have been overlooked, however one was a closed-toe pump, and the other was a peek toe version.

Hey, what’s with the shoes, I cajoled.

She looked down and her mouth dropped open. Oh crap! I have a family coming in, in ten minutes to sign an admission packet. I had a late night. Chuck stayed over and I dressed in the dark. She opened her office door and disappeared inside.

The front door ding-donged obnoxiously, as it does anytime anyone nears the entrance. This is a precaution, installed to warn staff that a resident is trying to escape from this hellhole. I looked up and saw a sober looking man of forty approaching my window. He was wearing a tight knit cap, holding in greasy, peppered-colored hair. I cringed involuntarily. Last month his mother had lice and I was reasonably sure she had gotten it from him. Her hair was now six inches shorter and free of nits but my head still itches just thinking about it.

May I help you? I asked, sliding my chair backwards.

Which room is my mother in? Mrs. Maples.

I looked up on my cheat sheet on the wall, which was never completely accurate. Nurses weren’t great on communicating room changes; therefore, I always did a quick bed check, at least in the Medicare wing, after I worked the phones.

Looks like she was moved to room 110A, I said, sliding back even further, hitting the copy machine sitting directly behind me. He nodded and walked down the east corridor and I breathed a sigh of relief. I pulled my sleeves down further over my hands and went back to work on the computer, rapidly typing in numbers on the keyboard, increasing my risk for carpal-tunnel syndrome with every stroke.

At 7:30 a.m., I packed up and was ready to leave the desk for my closet-sized office. Shantel, the receptionist, was late and the phones were maddening. Shantel’s life made mine look fantastic. She left home at fifteen to move in with her twenty-year-old boyfriend Leroy, had her first baby, a boy, at sixteen, and at seventeen, gave birth to a girl. Leroy went out one night for some smokes, and decided they weren’t quite enough. He held up the 7-Eleven with a stolen gun. With Leroy serving time in the Milwaukee County Jail for armed robbery, Shantel convinced her mother to take her back in, along with her two small children, Randy and Sharese. That was ten years ago, and rumor has it that Leroy will be out soon and Shantel is worried he’ll come around.

Five phone lines lit up at once. I punched the button on line 2. Some doctor wanted me to page someone. God help me but I couldn’t understand a word he said. I put him on hold and prayed for Shantel. Line 3 was for me and I put it on hold. Line 4 was for me and I told the person I wasn’t in yet. Line 7 was an irate family member, which I passed off to the administrator, who wasn’t in. Line 10 was for me and I hung up on them. Just as line 2 was ringing impatiently with the foreign doctor, Shantel strolled through the doors. I got up and left the mess for her, telling her I had to take the call on line 3. A narrow escape indeed.

The day went by quickly and before I knew it, it was time to clock out. I straightened my messy desk, tossed my three empty cans of diet soda in the overflowing garbage, and pushed in my chair. I grabbed my hooded, wool coat and put it on as I walked to the time clock. The clock never read the same as my watch. I think they set it backwards in the middle of the day so the employees have to work longer. I tapped my foot until the clock read 3:30 p.m. and I slid my card in.

I couldn’t wait to leave. Snow was approaching. I could tell because my knee ached (old roller skating accident) and it was already quite dark outside. I pulled my hood over my head, my scarf over my mouth and rushed out the door. In doing so, I collided with a man on the sidewalk near the entrance. He automatically reached out to grab me as I slid on the ice.

Whoa! he said joyfully, what’s the hurry?

Hot date, I lied.

He smiled wide, showing off perfect, white teeth; a smile that reached his warm chestnut brown eyes and turned my legs to noodles.

You aren’t Summer Kramer, are you? he asked, still holding my arm.

Yeah, have we met before? I said through my scarf. It was a mystery to me. For all I knew, he could be one of my neighbors considering how infrequently I saw any of them.

Not exactly. My dad, Eugene Harper, is always talking about a pretty, dark-haired bookkeeper with green cat eyes.

Great, I had no problem attracting a seventy-year-old man with incontinence. I was ready to go home and shoot myself when he said, I can see why.

Hold on Sunny; let’s not get too excited I told myself. He’s probably married with eight, creepy children. I grinned like an idiot under my scarf and felt my nose start to run from the cold. Well, gotta run, it’s freezing out here. I held my scarf closer to my face to prevent nose leakage.

Wait, I needed to speak with you, he said before I ran off. Will you be here tomorrow morning?

No, I said. Absolutely not. Wild horses carrying Prince Charming couldn’t drag me into work on Saturday. And based on his looks and mannerisms, he might be Prince Charming at that. I’ll be in on Monday.

Well, it’ll have to be then. He nodded and continued his walk to the front entrance. I glanced over my shoulder just as he was walking inside, and I could have sworn he saw me watching him.

Chapter 2

I live in one of the newer apartment complexes that are popping up all over the city. Named Deer Creek for its proximity to the creek of the same name, it offers an enormous clubhouse, which I never utilize, pool, and affordable, adequate-sized apartments. I can’t throw parties on my salary, and even if I could, I have no one to invite.

My sister Autumn and I shared my current two-bed, one-bath apartment until she moved in with her boyfriend, Alan Leif, a Milwaukee county police investigator, homicide division. When introduced to him, I actually laughed out loud. I mean, seriously? If they got married, her name would read Autumn Leif. She did not appreciate the humor. He seemed used to it.

Autumn and I are like two peas in a pod. Now I share the apartment with a slob named Brandi and I really, really, miss my little sister. I admit I was desperate for the rent money at the time. Brandi is twenty-eight with the maturity level of a girl seventeen. She enjoys all fads, some of her own creation.

Last month she bought a bunny to match her rabbit fur coat. When I came home one evening to find bunny poop scattered like Cocoa Puffs throughout the apartment I told her she was welcome to keep Mr. Fluffy if she moved out immediately. She managed to pawn it off on a college kid living one floor down. Actually, I love all animals. I just don’t appreciate living like one.

I opened the apartment door and enjoyed the rush of warm air as I stepped onto the tan plush carpeting. I did most of the decorating and it was in comfortable earth tones with a few splashes of bright colors reminding me of autumn leaves.

Hi, Sun, Brandi called from the kitchen. I hated to be called Sun and I narrowed my eyes at her wishing she could read my mind or vaporize into thin air. Something smelled disgusting and I swear I saw smoke in the room.

What in the world are you cooking, I asked, knowing I had no intention of eating it. I turned the fan on over the stove.

Pot roast. It’s almost done. She opened the oven door to show me and I gagged on the fumes. The carrots got a little burned.

A little burned? They looked as black as the pan. The phone rang and I grabbed it. Oh. Hi, Sam. Okay, see you in a bit. I hung up and turned my attention back to Brandi. Gee, Brandi, Sam made reservations at the Mariners Club tonight. I’d stay home but you know how hard it is to get in there. Sam and I were going to eat a Wal-Mart rotisserie chicken he picked up on his way home from work.

That’s okay; I’ll save some for you. She turned off the oven and opened a can of peas. These she ate cold out of the can.

She seemed happy as a puppy with a milk bone, so I went to change my clothes. I wore corporate casual to work and casual, casual on dates. Jeans, turtleneck, bulky sweater, and wooly socks were the outfit of choice for tonight until I remembered my lie to Brandi. The Mariners Club had a strict dress code. Shit! I swore softly. I stuffed my comfy clothes in a tote bag, and slipped on my little black dress and spiked heels. Sam was going to think I was either nuts, or wanted sex.

Hot mamma, Brandi said when I returned to the living room.

I ignored her and went to the window to check if Sam was out front. My apartment had a private entrance, so waiting in a warm lobby when it was nineteen degrees outside was not an option. Minutes later I saw his red Silverado 4x4 pull up. He made no attempt to leave the vehicle, one of the reasons I wasn’t too fond of him. I waved to Brandi and left the apartment.

I live on the third floor, which is a pain in the behind when bringing groceries home and even worse when the stairs are icy as they are tonight.

Carefully, I walked down the stairs and just when I thought I had it licked, I slid down the last three steps and landed on my ass, busting the heel off one pump. Sam finally got out of the car to retrieve me. He wore a tan, Mohair overcoat, plaid cashmere scarf, and sensible shoes.

Why are you wearing those heels? Are you nuts? he said without concern for my well-being, hands on hips looking down at me.

Don’t bother to ask if I’m all right, I quipped back, already knowing I should turn around, go back upstairs to my apartment, and call it a night. Problem was, the pot roast would be waiting for me, and my stomach soured at the mere thought of it. I crawled onto my knees and pushed myself up.

Since you’re not crying and you’re standing, I can deduce that you’re fine, he answered back, brushing a wayward strand of dark brown hair from his forehead.

Not the point, I thought. He tried to escort me to the truck’s passenger door but I shook off his arm. I’m fine, remember? I couldn’t resist. Of course now I had to open the door and try to hop up into the truck in my tight dress. I cursed Brandi, Sam and the world under my breath.

Sam can be rather selfish. I discovered this a few months into our relationship. If Sam was comfortable, that’s all that mattered. Right now, I was wet from falling and freezing and he made no attempt to turn up the heat in the truck. I gave him ten minutes to recognize the obvious. Finally, I had to say something. Do you think you could warm it up in here, I remarked with a bit of attitude.

What are you, on the rag tonight? he asked with impatience.

That’s it! I shouted. Turn this flipping car around.

It’s a truck, not a car. He rolled his eyes and he adjusted his seat belt.

Fine, whatever. I crossed my arms over my chest. Just take me back home.

Just settle down, he said in a condescending tone. Then he smiled. I know what will get the crabby out of you. He winked and patted my knee.

I looked at his possessive hand on my knee and the words just blurted out. It’s over between us, Sam. We’ve had some fun, but for the most part, you’re a selfish, arrogant, asshole. There, I said it. I felt relieved but a bit sad and more than a tad guilty. Maybe it was close to my time of the month, however I wasn’t about to admit to it.

He looked at me stunned. Have a bad day at work?

God he was intolerable. Every day at work is bad. You never listen to me. I try to talk and you put your damn ear buds in and listen to your iPod.

Maybe you just need to eat, he reached over and pushed in a CD that he burned on his computer. Current pop songs gushed forth from the speakers.

He really had no clue. Now I realized why our relationship wasn’t going anywhere. Poor communication skills. He talked; I listened. I talked; he zoned out or talked over me. It seemed to be a reoccurring theme. I wondered if his problem stemmed from being an only child. However, I didn’t feel like playing psychologist and my patience had run out.

I reached over and turned off the nauseating music. I’m cold, I’m frustrated, I’m angry, and I want to go home. I am not hungry!! I shouted.

Rotisserie chicken, he said in a tempting voice, as if he were really offering lobster thermidor with a side of caviar served with Cristal Champagne.

I rolled my eyes in contempt. Let me out now. I’ll walk home. I made an attempt to open my door and the door alarm dinged.

Christ! he yelled. Fine, I’ll take you home, Bummer.

He always called me Bummer when he was peeved. Just another thing that annoyed the hell out of me.

He turned the truck at the next intersection and raced back. He hit the brakes hard when we got to my apartment lot and my head almost hit the windshield. For a moment he said nothing, he just studied me with dark, angry eyes.

Sometimes I don’t get you. He turned his gaze from me. I’ll call tomorrow.

Please don’t. It’s over. I opened the door and hopped out with my tote bag in hand. I managed not to fall down, and I carefully limped up the stairs due to my broken heel. I heard Sam squeal out and added immature to my mental list of what was wrong with him. Then I cried. I don’t know if it was relief or sadness, but which ever it was, it was honest. I wiped my face on my coat sleeve before I went inside my apartment.

The big stink-a-roo hit me square in the face. Brandi sat at my pine, dinette set. A steal for $50 at an overstock discount store; minor assembly was required. Notice I said my table. When Autumn left, I let her take the best of the furniture with her. I replaced what was needed with nice but economy priced stuff. Brandi brought only her clothes when she moved in. Not only does she abuse my furniture, she raids my closet as well.

Hey, Brandi said, Didn’t want to pass up my roast, huh?

That’s it, I said with a tight smile. I tossed my coat on my worn, brown, plush couch and pulled out a chair. Brandi got up and fixed me a plate. You had to appreciate her enthusiasm if nothing else. "Do you have any more of that wine?

Sure, she said. She placed a plate of poorly sawed meat with the burnt carrots in front of me and returned to the refrigerator. She grabbed a bottle from inside the door, closed the door with her hip, and grabbed a mug off the mug-tree with her little finger.

I took the mug and wine from her, and poured until the golden liquid reached the rim of the cup. If I got drunk, maybe I could down her food. The wine didn’t taste much better than the food looked. I wasn’t sure what I would be throwing up first tonight, still I knew deep down it would happen. I didn’t care much for Sam at the moment, but breakups are never easy and the combination with this dinner, were more than I could bear.

Dinner ended at five and by nine, I was riding the porcelain bus. Brandi thought I couldn’t hold my liquor. She gave me some aspirin and I crawled back into bed with puke breath.

Chapter 3

Saturday, February 11th

I slept like the dead until ten in the morning when the smell of bacon woke me up. Here she goes again I thought. I pulled the pillow over my head but the bacon smell was intoxicating. Something strange was happening. Could Brandi be learning how to cook?

I rose from bed in my usual kitty-printed, nightshirt and slid into my slippers. Warmth triumphs over style in my world of fashion, however I do have a bit of lingerie for those special occasions.

Slowly I walked into the kitchen, summoned by the smell of hazelnut coffee and pork bellies. I wear clear contacts for my near-sightedness, so my vision is not the best in the morning without them. I knew someone was near the stove. It sure wasn’t Brandi. I stepped closer, but I still did not recognize the person, who I knew now to be a man in a robe.

What’s going on? I asked, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. Isn’t that Brandi’s robe? Shocking purple with pink skulls did not do him justice. He stood around Sam’s height and looked to be around the same weight.

He turned around. Sonofabitch if it wasn’t Sam. I repeat, what the hell’s going on here? I was stymied.

Well, I’m cooking bacon, he said as if he did it every morning and I was the queen dunce.

I know you’re cooking bacon. Why are you here and why in heaven’s name are you in Brandi’s robe? He winked at me and I wanted to hit him in the head with the frying pan.

Jealous?

Huh? Did I miss something? I checked my mental list on Sam and I didn’t remember putting cross-dresser on it.

"I came here at nine this morning but you were still sleeping off your drunk. Brandi told me all about it. I spilled coffee on my shirt and Brandi took it with her to the laundromat. I got cold so I grabbed this; it was lying on the couch.

Why are you here? We broke up last night.

You broke up. I didn’t. He reached for me and I drew away. You can’t stay mad at me, Sunny. You never do.

My stomach was making those ‘feed me now’ sounds. The bacon looked crisp, just the way I like it and he started to fry some eggs. I knew I shouldn’t, but I poured a mug of coffee and took it to the table where I added creamer and a packet of sweetener. Certainly eating breakfast with him did not constitute reconciliation. My mouth watered in anticipation.

Oh hell. It’s amazing how food can trigger emotions. I walked back into the kitchen and hugged him from behind.

You win, Sam, I said holding him tight.

He turned in my arms, smiled, and kissed me. Back on then?

I returned his smile and nodded.

He gave me a little squeeze and continued cooking.

I watched him as he placed four strips of bacon on one of my Corning ware plates. He added three perfectly fried eggs and a couple of buttered, slices of rye toast. He pulled open a drawer and grabbed a fork.

I took a plate and fork and followed him. He placed the plate on the table and pulled out a chair. I sat down with my plate and fork. He looked at me strangely and sat down. Before I could reach for the toast, he slid the plate over, and began crunching on a slice of toast.

Where’s mine? I inquired.

Where’s your what? he asked between chews.

Was he serious? Food, I said with much exasperation. You’re sharing, right?

No. If you’re hungry, make something, he said and shoveled a gob of eggs into his mouth.

I jumped to my feet. Out! I shouted. Right now!

He looked at me crossly. Now what?

I’m so stupid. You’ll never change. It’s all about you. Leave, Sam.

I’m not done, he said. Besides, I don’t have my shirt. Sit down and relax. He lifted the fork and I knocked it out of his hand.

Get out, Sam. I stood firmly and pointed to the door. Put on your jacket and leave. I grabbed it and threw it at him. "I changed my mind. We are through! Over. Finito!"

He pulled his jacket on over his bare chest. His anger was apparent. You’re psychotic, Sunny. Christ, don’t bother trying to call me until you get your head on straight. Until then, we’re through!

Finally, you get it! I pushed him out the door and slammed the deadbolt in place. I went back to the table, grabbed the plate of food, and wolfed it down without stopping.

Bastard, I cried under my breath.

Chapter 4

It was past noon when my sister Spring called from our dad’s house. They were heading out to a movie and wanted to know if I cared to join them. Spring spent sixty percent of her time traveling for her sales job, so it would be nice to see her again so I agreed. Ten minutes later, I was dressed in my favorite gray jeans and bulky navy sweater. I maneuvered into my black ski coat with the fake fur collar. It had been a rare gift from Sam. My gloves were in the pockets, so I grabbed my no name, black leather handbag, and left, being sure to lock up behind me.

A dusting of snow covered my brand spanking new, black Kia Forte Koup. At 1.9% financing, I could not pass it up and I splurged on the navigation package. I’m a lousy map-reader and Autumn told me I deserved it. Usually when I buy stuff, it’s due to Autumn’s insistence. I’m not a tightwad by any means; I just don’t like spending money on myself. My only regret is that it didn’t have four-wheel drive, since I’m not the best driver in winter, which seems to encompass half the year in Wisconsin.

As I drew closer, I noticed a glimmer of silver running across the top of the door on the driver’s side. Shit! I screamed into the winter wind, running my gloved finger across the car’s first blemish. Someone had scraped the finish off with a key. The voices in my head told me Sam did it. Okay, I said softly, trying to get my rage in check. Revenge is best when served up cold. His day would come, when he least expected it. I jumped in and slammed the door shut. I cursed once more and drove off.

When the car began heating up, I hit the play button on the CD player and sang along to Dreamer by Supertramp. It only took a little over fifteen minutes to get to my dad’s house, yet the car heater worked great and I was nice and toasty, almost hot by the time I arrived. However, four seconds after I opened my car door upon arrival, I was freezing again. I ran around Spring’s company car parked in the middle of the drive, pulled the front door opened and quickly stepped inside the house.

My parents divorced when I was a feisty fourteen. Spring just turned seventeen at the time and became quite melodramatic and Autumn, going on twelve, became withdrawn. I took it in stride outwardly. Internally, I cried. Things are never quite the same after a divorce no matter how hard you try; you can’t bring back the past. Long story short, they told us they just grew apart, still friends but with no romance. I think that’s why Spring, Autumn and I are all a little afraid of commitment.

My parents’ house hadn’t changed since the divorce; traditional late sixties style, white brick with burgundy trim with yews out front and a huge silver Maple tree by my old bedroom window. Mom didn’t want the upkeep of a house, so she moved into a chic downtown condo in a renovated brewery close to the travel agency where she was employed, and had been there for the last twenty years.

Dad stayed in the suburbs where he fit in and did his best to finish raising us while working for Bucyrus-Erie as a mechanical engineer. Mom took us on trips each year; free travel benefits extended to immediate family. We stayed close, and saw her most weekends, however none of us wanted to live downtown and the city schools weren’t the greatest, still aren’t.

Usually when I entered my childhood home, my dad would be cooking something. Today was no different. I inhaled the distinct aroma of chop suey as I entered the kitchen. Yum, I said lifting the pot cover.

Have some, said my dad.

Do we have time?

Spring looked at the wall clock. Go ahead; we have forty-five minutes to kill before the movie.

I dished out heaping spoonfuls into a bowl, crumbed some crunchy noodles on top, and drowned it in soy sauce. I sat at the table and chowed down. Delicious, I managed to squeak out between mouthfuls.

Don’t you eat at home? my dad asked with concern.

Tapeworm, I said. He laughed and slopped some more into my bowl.

I hope you get fat, Spring said somewhat seriously. Spring tended to pack on the pounds easily. She complained she practically lived on the road and had to eat what was available. I told her to make healthier choices. Willpower isn’t her strong suit, yet she never seemed more than ten pounds overweight. At the present time, she looked great.

Unlike Autumn and I, Spring always looks professional. At 5’6", she towers over us, which at times is intimidating. She wears her hair short and stylish and the color changes with her moods. It’s currently auburn with caramel highlights; not flattering in the least.

New hair color I see. I took my bowl to the sink and rinsed it. I figured that if I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact, I wouldn’t have to offer my opinion.

Nino hates it, she seethed. Nino Paragopolous is her on again, off again boyfriend of four years. He’s a thirty-five year old Greek restaurant owner, who came over from Greece with his immediate family when he was a teenager. He seems to be related to everyone, is handsome in a stuffy sort-of way, and can be irksome. Nino prefers platinum blonde, the color she had when he met her at his brother Leo’s sports bar.

Makes you look like a hooker, my dad exclaimed.

Jeez, thanks, Dad. Spring shot him a look that could wilt fresh-cut roses.

So, what are we seeing? I needed to change the subject quickly and defuse an upcoming argument. I know them all too well.

She grabbed the paper and pointed to the schedule. It’s either this romantic comedy with Matt dreamy…

He’s a crappy actor, my dad interjected.

Spring and I smiled at each other. Dad was very opinionated. Over the years, we found it easier to agree with him than to debate him. It took a lot of passion on a subject to convince my dad he might not be entirely right. He absolutely loved Nino, who agreed with him on all fronts.

Yeah, okay, Dad, Spring finished, or this cop thriller with Clint Eastwood. They’re both at the same time.

Let’s go with the cop thriller, I said. Maybe I could learn some revenge tips.

Good girl, my dad stated giving me a pat on the shoulder. At least I knew how to make him happy.

Chapter 5

After the movie, we dined at a family restaurant owned equally by Nino and his cousin, Agapios Voullo. Aggy, as he liked to be called, has been trying to date me for years. I’m one hundred percent positive I’ll never be desperate enough to say yes. Call me picky but I like a guy who’s taller than me, without coarse, pubic hair curls on his head and chest. Aggy’s multilayered chin ended where his chest began. If it were not for the numerous gold chains he wore about his thick neck, it would be lost forever in layers of fat. Sadly, he’s worth a cool million.

I chose my usual sliced turkey with mashed potatoes, lots of gravy and cranberries. You can’t go wrong with a Thanksgiving type meal at a Greek restaurant; trust me on this. Aggy is always there supervising, so he swung by to say hi to Spring and my dad, and then asked me out. For the umpteenth time I turned down his offer. He was a persistent one.

You should go out with him, he’s rich, my dad stated when Aggy left the table. My dad had absolutely no taste in possible gentleman callers. Even if I put a brown bag over Aggy’s head, and turned off all the lights, he would still gross me out. I consider myself darn lucky I wasn’t born in the olden days when the father chose the husband for his daughter.

Someday you could own this restaurant, he said with emphasis.

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