Free Plain Jane by Fern Michaels

these days the house would look as she’d envisioned it when she bought it. The first thing she would do when it was all finished would be to buy a dozen Boston ferns and hang them on long white chains from the porch rafters. Then she’d buy three or four Charleston rockers and white wicker tables to set tall, frosty glasses of lemonade on, and little pots of English ivy. She would spend every Sunday afternoon on her veranda, rocking, sipping her drink, and reading Fred and Trixie’s books. The only sound would be that of the oscillating fans whirring softly overhead.
    Olive started barking as soon as Jane started up the steps. It wasn’t a typical glad-you’re-home bark; it was an agitated bark. Warned that something was wrong, Jane glanced around. Then she saw it. A snake had coiled up next to the banister to sun itself on the warm wooden veranda. “It’s okay, Ollie. It’s just a king snake, and we both know it won’t hurt us. They kill all the rodents you miss.” She stepped back nevertheless and contemplated what to do about the snake. Nothing, she decided after considering her options, all of which required her doing something to make it move. “Don’t bother me,” she said to the snake. “You go ahead and stay right where you are. I’ll just go around to the back door.”
    Thirty minutes later, a coffee mug in hand, Jane slipped into the fragrant steaming bathwater. She rested her neck against a folded towel, closed her eyes, and did her best to shift into what she called her neutral zone. By definition it meant to give herself up to the pleasures of the moment. It usually worked. But not today.
    She hated the way she’d been feeling these last few weeks. It was all because of Brian Ramsey and her inability to get a handle on him. What made things even worse was that she’d felt the need to bring in outside help.
    Not for the first time she wondered what she was doing and thought maybe she didn’t belong in psychiatry. She’d always known she’d gone into it for the wrong reason—because of Connie Bryan. She’d convinced herself that helping someone else would make up for not being able to help Connie.
    Her thoughts went back to that night. Her first mistake had been to let Connie bind her to a promise of silence. She should have realized that Connie wasn’t herself, that she was in no mental condition to make intelligent decisions. A true friend would have seen to it that Connie went for help or that help was brought to her. Her second mistake was in keeping her promise even after Connie committed suicide. No, it wouldn’t have helped Connie, but it might have helped those who loved her understand why she did what she did.
    Beached whale.
    Miss Piggy.
    Fat tub of lard.
    Was it her own humiliation that had kept her quiet?
    Jane squeezed her eyes shut. She had always been afraid to answer that question. “And I’m not going to answer it now,” she said to Olive, who was spread out like a frog on the floor next to the tub. Olive opened one eye to look at Jane. “Go back to sleep. I’m just talking to myself again.”
    Years after Connie’s death, Jane had wondered what kind of person Todd Prentice was that he would call off his engagement to Connie because she’d been raped. After meeting Todd at an alumni fund-raiser, she understood Connie’s reasoning a little better. Todd had been there with his wife, his “trophy” wife was the way Jane had come to think of her. Jane remembered her dress—backless, strapless, and halfway up her ass. A scant quarter yard of material at best. What was her name? Melody? Melanie? Melanie. Melanie Petitjean of Petitjean Pharmaceuticals, according to the listing for the Alumni Association’s Board of Directors, of which Todd was a member. Jane knew the company well, even owned some stock in it.
    She scooted farther down into the hot water. It had been two or three years since the fund-raiser, and she still didn’t know what to make of Todd coming up to