Free Save Me: A dark romantic thriller (Novel) by John Meany Page B

she yawned.
    “We were wondering if you were going to sleep all day,” her mother announced teasingly, putting the fidgety child down on the mattress. “Kimberly, my daughter is becoming lazy. Tell her to get up?” Claire wore an aquamarine V-neck top, a skirt, and she had her platinum hair pulled neatly into a secure bun. Kimberly only had a diaper on. The baby’s clothes were still in the dryer.
    “Okay,” Ashley whispered unfocusedly. “I’ll be up in a minute. Is that coffee or tea I smell?”
    “Coffee. I already made you a cup. It’s on the kitchen counter.”
    “Oh. Awesome. Thanks. Did you put sugar in it?”
    “Yes. And milk.”
    “Great.” Sitting up, Ashley massaged her temples. It took a moment before she realized it was Saturday. Judging by the sunshine streaming in the window, (her mother had yanked the drapes open) Ashley could see that it was a gorgeous day. The authoritative light forced her to look sideways.
    Jeez! How many sleeping pills had Ashley taken? They were powerful, especially mixing them with vodka. For the first time in a long time, as she had hoped, Ashley did not have any bad dreams.
    After slipping into her pink Terrycloth robe, she carried her big mug of Maxwell House out to the deck in the backyard, where her mother sat cozily at the patio table underneath the umbrella.
    The fragrant lawn, which was enclosed by a wooden fence, was superbly green, recently mowed and weed whacked. On the other side of the six-foot high fence, they could hear their neighbor the Murray’s sprinkler.
    “I still can’t get over how you converted the basement into an art studio,” Claire commented, as Ashley casually pulled up a chair.
    Beside them, Kimberly rolled around in her crib, where she spent most of her time. Claire had an electric fan on, which kept the baby cool.
    “Yeah. I suppose I gave it quite a make-over.” Again, Ashley yawned.
    “That’s an understatement. It looks like a completely different room.”
    “That it does. Sorry about the clutter.”
    “Ahh. I don’t mind,” her mother said, nonchalantly flipping through the pages of that month’s People magazine. “The way you have the cellar looking now, reminds me of a movie I saw back in the eighties about this eccentric painter who had a studio in Paris . . . His was way messier than yours. Paintings, canvases, frames, drop cloths, and brushes strewn everywhere.”
    “I’ll straighten it up this week.”
    “No hurry. By the way, Ashley, when are you going to start trying to sell some of your artwork? Your paintings are spectacular. You’re more talented now than ever. You should take your art up to New York. If you did, I don‘t think it would take that long for you to be discovered.”

    Ashley‘s sipped her hot beverage. “I’ve been thinking about doing that. Might have to drive up there one of these days and start visiting different galleries, see if they’ll include something I‘ve done in one of their exhibitions. I guess you’ve noticed my artwork lately is extremely personal.”
    “Yes. I have noticed that.” As Claire spoke, she kept her attention focused on her magazine. A cold can of Diet Coke was perched on a coaster near her hand. “You’re reliving what happened to you. That last piece you did of the dead baby lying near the woods made that obvious.”
    “Do you like that painting?” Ashley asked, not pleased to hear that one of their other neighbor’s the Abrams, had started their lawn mower. “That particular piece only took me about a week to complete.”
    “Yes. The painting is wonderful. It’s so reminiscent of Picasso. I love the cubist approach. However, my only criticism would be that a depiction of a dead baby is a bit disturbing. Though I‘m sure there’s a market for a piece like that. I‘ll tell you what, I‘ll post the painting on the internet. See what kind of feedback I get.”
    “All right. By painting what happened to me,” Ashley explained. “I think I’m