Chapter One
Hester Prynne did the nasty with Rev. Dimmesdale because her husband was old, fat and
ugly. She forgot to take her birth control pills, so she got preggers and had a little girl. She
named the baby Pearl because she liked to knit.
“Lord, help me,” Quinn O’Connor grumbled and tossed the essay onto her desk. She
set her grading pen next to an open can of diet root beer and massaged her temples. “Jeez, it’s
already five,” she moaned, looking at the clock on the opposite wall.
As she turned to look outside the classroom, sunlight pierced the window and flashed
in her face. Blinded, she jerked in the opposite direction knocking over the can of soda. The
dark liquid splashed across the desk and onto the tan canvas briefcase beside her chair. She
snatched the last wad of tissue from the box next to the stapler and sopped up as much soda as
she could.
“Just one more mess in my lousy day.”
She stared at a stack of half-finished Romeo and Juliet quizzes atop the small filing
cabinet beside her desk. “You’d think the administration could give us a heads-up when they’re
planning a fire drill in the middle of class. Now, I’ll have to write a whole new quiz.” She
pursed her lips and groaned. “And that over-sized dimwit, Billy Marshall, throwing a paper
airplane at Mary Elizabeth—what was he thinking? I’m glad I sent him to the principal. Maybe
he’ll think twice before he pulls a stunt like that again.” She leaned back in her chair and
sighed. “Thank goodness it’s Friday because I need a break from this place.”
Disregarding the “preggers” drivel, she grabbed the student essays piled next to the
quizzes on the filing cabinet and bent down to put them into her soggy briefcase.
Thud. Her head hit the edge of the desk; pain shot across her forehead.
“Ouch!” She kicked the desk, added a few curse words, and stuffed the essays into her
open case.
She hustled out of the classroom and headed for the teachers’ parking lot of John F.
Kennedy High School. A warm April breeze brushed her cheeks as she walked. The only
vehicle left in the lot was her silver Chevy Tahoe parked at the far end.
“Yep, buying this monster was a good idea, even if it does cost a mint to run,” she
said, admiring the vehicle as she approached. Smiling, she opened the door of the SUV and
pitched her briefcase onto the passenger seat. Thirty essays tumbled into disarray as the
unzipped case bounced off the seat and fell onto the floorboard. “Crap!”
She hoisted herself onto the driver’s seat and closed the door. Leaning sideways over
the center console she reached for the papers, but her arms were too short. Twisting, she
sprawled her upper body across the console and pulled her knees onto the driver’s seat.
“Just see if you can get away from me now.” Using her feet against the door for
leverage, she pushed her torso over the console plummeting her head and shoulders into the
space between the dashboard and the passenger seat.
Jeez! I think I’m stuck, she told herself.
Teetering upside down with her skirt scrunched around her waist and her panties
showing she muttered, “Crap, I hope some student doesn’t see me like this.”
She crammed the papers into her briefcase and closed the zipper. Wiggling free from
the passenger seat abyss she eased herself upright and stuck the key in the ignition.
A hot flash exploded drenching her head and neck with perspiration.
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“Crap!” She slammed the palms of her hands against the steering wheel and took two
deep breaths. “Five minutes, this will be over in five minutes if I don’t move too much.” She
started the Tahoe, opened the windows and pulled out of the parking lot.
How much longer am I going to have to feel like dunking my head in a bucket of ice
water every time a flash hits? she asked herself. I’ve suffered with this for two years. Jeez, I’m
almost fifty—isn’t it time for this to be over.
She tried to concentrate on the weekend and having lunch with her best friend, Eddy
Baldwin, on Saturday.
I’ll call her when I get home and see if she wants to meet at that cute little bistro in
Laguna Beach. We can check out the shops afterward. A few blocks ahead she spied the road
leading to the mall. Maybe I should I stop and buy more peppermint candles. No, I think I
have enough to last through next week. She chuckled and ran the fingers of her left hand
through her hair to see if it had dried from the flash. Poor Patrick, he’s complained about my
peppermint candles ever since I read the article in Woman’s Day that said peppermint was
calming for menopausal women. If I run out, he’ll be happy.
Patrick, her husband, had left for Santa Barbara on Wednesday to negotiate the details
of a merger and she did not expect him back until Sunday evening.
Gosh, it seems like he’s gone on business more and more lately. I miss his funny laugh
and the smell of his pipe.
Quinn turned into her upscale Orange County neighborhood and spied a police car
parked in front of her house.
I wonder what kind of mischief the juvenile delinquent next door has gotten himself
into this time.
Two officers walked up to meet her as she pulled into the driveway. “Are you Mrs.
Patrick O’Connor?” asked the taller one.
“Yes.”
“I’m Officer Collins and this is my partner, Officer Trujillo. Can we step inside to talk
for a minute?” His tone was somber.
“Ah … of course,” she stammered caught off guard. This doesn’t sound like it has
anything to do with a neighborhood prank. Sweat formed in the palms of her hands as she got
out of her car. “Follow me,” she said and headed for the front door. She unlocked the house
and walked into the living room.
The officers looked a bit uneasy.
“Have a seat,” she offered.
They ignored her invitation.
“I’m afraid we have some bad news, Mrs. O’Connor. Your husband has been in an
accident,” Officer Collins said.
An icy shiver ran down her spine. “Is … is he okay?”
The officer’s brows furrowed. “Unfortunately, he didn’t survive.”
“Oh, my God!” She gasped for air. “It can’t be. I just spoke with him last night. Are
you sure it’s him?” Beads of moisture exploded on her forehead.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. His identification was in the vehicle.”
Quinn’s knees buckled and she slumped into Patrick’s favorite overstuffed chair.
Officer Collins took out a copy of the accident report. “Your husband’s car went over
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the edge of a grade on Highway 101 just north of Thousand Oaks early this morning. The
time of the accident is estimated at 4:00 AM.” He looked up from the report. “It seems no one
saw the accident, so it wasn’t reported for several hours.” His eyes skimmed down the report
searching for the place where he left off. “Apparently, Mr. O’Connor lost control of the
vehicle. It rolled over several times before landing at the bottom of a ravine. Your husband
and the passenger were pronounced dead at the scene. We regret we couldn’t notify you
earlier, ma’am.”
“Passenger?” Quinn did not move but her mind was spinning. Didn’t he say he was
going alone? Why wasn’t he in Santa Barbara where he was supposed to be? Her throat
tightened and her voice quivered as she asked, “Wasn’t he by himself?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Who … who was with him?”
“The report says the passenger was a Miss Kathy Sullivan.”
The color drained from Quinn’s face as she pictured the long legs and big boobs of the
stunning young attorney. “Kathy was with him?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Collins looked down at her. “Are you all right, Mrs. O’Connor? Can I
get you some water? Would you like us to call someone?”
“No,” she murmured. “I’m okay.”
“Someone from the Ventura County Medical Examiner’s office will call you later
concerning your plans for the remains,” Officer Trujillo said.
“What?”
The officer repeated the information and explained, “It’s not necessary for you to go to
Ventura County to identify your husband. A funeral home can arrange to transfer the body
down here and you can view the remains then.” He placed a business card on the small table
next to her. “Call this number if you need any additional information.”
“Are you sure you don’t want us to contact someone—a family member or friend?”
Officer Collins offered again.
“No, I can manage,” she said as if in a trance.
The officers left in silence.
Quinn was numb. Her hands began to shake and she dug her fingernails into the arms
of the chair.
Patrick is dead.
Kathy was with him.
She drew in a ragged breath and shuddered. That conniving slut set her eyes on my
Patrick the moment she walked into his law firm—strutting around the office in her tight
skirts and four-inch heels, pretending to be a lady.
“I saw right through you, bitch!”
There’s only one reason Patrick wasn’t in Santa Barbaraone reason he was with
her at four in the morning. Lurching out of the chair she turned and gave it two violent kicks.
“That’s one for each of you, bastards!”
The twenty-six year old wedding portrait on the mantel zoomed into focus. Quinn’s
facial muscles tightened. She clenched her teeth. Hot tears stung as she marched to the
fireplace, picked up the picture, and stared at her husband’s face.
“How could you do this to me?” she screamed.
Staggering backward she hurled the wedding portrait against the stone hearth. Her
body convulsed in sobs and she sank to the floor amid shards of glass.
This material is copyrighted by Gloria O’Shields. Any re-transcription or reproduction is illegal
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“What am I going to tell the children?”
This material is copyrighted by Gloria O’Shields. Any re-transcription or reproduction is illegal
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This material is copyrighted by Gloria O’Shields. Any re-transcription or reproduction is illegal
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