Free Blown Away by Shane Gericke Page A

when Jack told her about the “surprise” he’d had constructed as his wedding gift to her—a high-end custom log home overlooking the Riverwalk. “It’s authentic Early American, honey,” he’d said. “Down to the milk paint and puffball curtains.” He’d been so excited that she couldn’t bring herself to say she preferred more contemporary architecture, airy, colorful, carefree. At times like this, though, she wished they’d met halfway.
    Too many dead animals today! she told herself. That’s your problem! She flipped on the shower, stripping her clothes as cold water turned steamy. She opened the shower door and hopped in quick lest all that delicious steam escape.
    â€œYeah, baby,” she moaned, staccato Newsradio updates fading to background burble. She’d gotten a chill at the Vermont, and this was melting it out of her bones, off her skin, down the drain. She crick-cracked her neck to ease the stiffness, her mind drifting to a long-ago morning in this very bedroom suite, where she and Jack had Done It so much, she thought she’d never stand again. Delightfully sleepless as dawn spilled in, she’d wobbled into the shower for a pick-me-up. Moments later Jack did, too. Then Branch’s wife called, alarmed because her pal always got to his desk precisely at 7 A.M ., and he was two hours overdue. Emily cracked up watching Jack drip all over the floor, stammering out an appropriate fib.
    She closed her eyes, trembling from the unusually vivid memory. Jack’s sweet face faded to the penetrating eyes of Martin Benedetti.
    â€œNo!” Emily squeaked. She hopped out and toweled till the heat left. Then dried her hair. She wore a News ‘Do, the hairstyle of practically every female TV news anchor on the planet. Short in front, off the ears and plunging to the shoulders in back, the News ‘Do had just enough sweep and under-curl to say, “Professional and perky.” She chose it because the police academy required short hair, or at least pinnable under a cap. At the time her hair hung to her waist. When she test-pinned it, her head looked like a twist of chocolate soft-serve. So she hacked off the tresses the night before reporting to the academy, naked as a jaybird and singing with Sting as she piled the bathroom sink high. She truly hated to part with her hair. Every strand was a cherished memory of Mama, who’d loved combing, teasing, primping, and untangling the chestnut mess after her daughter’s bath, occasionally Dippety-do-ing it into something so wacky—flower, surfboard, teeter-totter—they’d collapse in giggles. But rules were rules, chardonnay made the snipping easier, and she’d donated the mound to a charity that turned hair into wigs for cancer kids.
    Finally dry, she hung the damp brown towel over the bar, lining up the embroidered gold eagles, glancing at the mirror from the corner of her eye. “Is our belly sagging?” the reflection asked. Emily pressed her pale abs. False alarm. Still a washboard. Whew. Better safe than sorry, though. Do a hundred more sit-ups before bed, swallow one less spoon of ice cream at breakfast. More sweat, less sugar, yeah, that’s the ticket.
    She examined the rest while she was at it and found herself with the usual mixed feelings. She had a good behind—high, round, well-defined, no sag or dimples. It topped a pair of strong legs, the lower half of which pleased her no end. Her thighs…well, they were a preoccupation, if not exactly a problem, the former because of her daily intake of French vanilla ice cream and the latter because she ran six miles a day to make up for it. Her arms were well-defined from push-ups, which camouflaged the fact they were unusually long for her height. Her face was classically oval, with a sturdy jaw and wisdom lines around the large emerald eyes. “Or maybe they’re crow’s-feet,” she murmured.