Within ten minutes Georgeanne had changed her clothes, brushed her teeth and hair, and had thrown everything into the suitcases. Keep the mother happy … Georgeanne felt sick when she thought about how happy he’d made her last night. Sleeping with her had gone above the call of duty.
After another five minutes she had the car loaded. “Come on, Lexie,” she called out as she walked back into the house. She wanted to be gone by the time John returned. She didn’t want a confrontation. She didn’t trust herself. She’d been nice. She’d tried to be fair, but no more. Her anger fueled her like a gas line to a blowtorch. She let it burn uncontrolled through her veins. It was better to feel the rage than the humiliation and soul-numbing hurt.
Lexie walked out of the kitchen, still wearing her purple pajamas. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Home.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s time to go.”
“Is John coming, too?”
“No.”
“I don’t want to go yet.”
Georgeanne opened the front door. “That’s too dang bad.”
Lexie frowned and stomped out of the house. “It’s not Saturday yet,” she pouted as they headed down the sidewalk. “You said we were staying till Saturday.”
“There’s been a change of plans. We’re going home early.” She belted her into the passenger seat, then laid a shirt, shorts, and hairbrush in her lap. “Once we’re on the highway, you can change your clothes,” she explained as she got behind the wheel. She stared the car and put it in reverse.
“I forgot my Skipper in the bathtub.”
Georgeanne stepped on the brakes and looked over at a sullen Lexie. She knew if she didn’t go back in and get the Skipper, Lexie would worry and fret and talk about it all the way back to Seattle. “Which one?”
“The one Mae gave me for my birthday.”
“Which bathtub?”
“The one by the kitchen.”
Georgeanne shoved the car back into park and got out. “The engine is on, so don’t touch anything.”
Lexie’s shrug was noncommittal.
For the first time since childhood, Georgeanne ran. She ran back into the house and into the bathroom. The Skipper doll sat in the soap dish stuck to the tiled wall, and she grabbed it by the legs. She turned around and almost collided with John. He stood in the doorway with his hands planted on the wooden frame.
“What’s going on, Georgeanne?”
Her heart twisted in her chest. She hated him. She hated herself. For the second time in her life, she’d let him use her. For the second time, he’d caused her such pain she could barely breathe. “Get out of my way, John.”
“Where’s Lexie?”
“In the car. We’re not staying.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because of you.” She placed her hands on his chest and shoved.
He moved, but she didn’t get very far before he grabbed her arm and stopped her from opening the front door. “Do you act this way with the other guys you sleep with, or did I just luck out?”
Georgeanne whirled around and lashed out at him with her only weapon. She whacked him on the shoulder with the wet Skipper doll. The doll’s head popped off and flew into the living room. Her rage boiled beneath the surface, and she felt as if her head were about to pop off just like poor Skipper.
John looked from the headless doll in her hand to her face. His brows were raised. “What’s your problem?”
Inbred southern grace, Miss Virdie’s charm lessons, and years of her grandmother’s polite and proper influence turned to ashes within the inferno of her anger. “Get your slimy hand off of me, you immoral son of a bitch!”