The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror Read Online Free

eminently satisfied customers who would sooner trade in their children than trade in their sedans.
    Bullshit, Elizabeth Egan thought.
    The car was the color of chocolate, inside and out, and it showed every spot of dust, every nick from a thrown stone, every tiny dent and scratch from every parking lot she’d been in since picking the thing up. It also had the personality of one of Piper Cleary’s hounds—it ran when it felt like it, and if she was in a hurry, it took a vacation without leaving word at the office.
    Like now, as she stood helplessly at the front fender, hood up, staring in at the warren of wires and hoses, trying desperately not to scream her frustration. Today! Today of all days it had to conk out. And it knew, it damned well knew she had to be home by five to feed herself and the kids, then shower and dress in time for Clark Davermain to pick her up. Today, when she was sure he’d propose, and was just as sure she didn’t know what she’d say—because she didn’t want to say yes and didn’t have the courage to say no.
    Goddamnit, it knew, and it was mocking her.
    Liz, she thought sternly, get hold of yourself.
    She immediately grabbed an elbow in a palm, looked down and started giggling.
    Get hold, Lizzy, get hold.
    She grabbed the other elbow, wrapped one foot around an ankle and stood there on the shoulder of a two-lane country road less than two miles from home, and giggled until she’d calmed down. She was sure more than one passing motorist thought she was drunk; she was just as sure she didn’t give a damn.
    She laughed.
    This was insane, and it would get worse if she didn’t get home soon and find solace with her children. At least their problems weren’t defined by the Constitution or a medieval judge who believed in an eye for an eye and thirty days, no bail; at least with Keith and Heather there was hope for the world.
    A glance down dampened her mood again.
    Her cream satin blouse was stained with perspiration; her rust skirt was wrinkled, her matching shoes dusty. She could feel the dust settling in her blond hair curled under below the nape, coating her narrow tanned face and accentuating her pugged nose. Making her ugly. Gathering under wide hazel eyes in pouches to deepen her cheeks’ hollows and make her chin like a dagger. At thirty-four, others still called her pert, but with a layer of Jersey roaddust she could easily pass as Gretel’s stepmother.
    Oh hell, Liz, stop feeling sorry for yourself.
    Yet even the view didn’t brighten her mood.
    The woodland was beautiful, rich with tall maples and caged birch, with a smattering of evergreen darker than the rest. No houses for miles, not even a gas station until Deerford, and as far as she knew, if she died right now she wouldn’t be found until August.
    And it was quiet.
    The engine had stopped its cooling ticking; there was no breeze. When she kicked at a pebble, it bounced across the road without making a sound.
    She decided then she was being punished for her treatment of Clark, taking him too much for granted when she knew, if she were honest with herself, that she wouldn’t be taking anything else if she could help it. Punished for being blind to how truly serious he was—about her, and the future. They had crossed briefs almost a year ago, at the county courthouse in Newton, bitterly, loudly, and she had come out the winner. That same afternoon he had called her office and suggested a drink, perhaps a meal, that same evening.
    Much to her own astonishment, she had accepted.
    They saw each other frequently after that, and the attention pleased her so much she had not noticed his gaze, or felt the way he held her when they danced, or caught any of the hints he had cast timidly in her direction. But today, hearing his voice on the phone, she knew, and for a long time she sat alone, staring out the window, seeing nothing, afraid that if she took the chance and gave her kids a father, Doug Muir would suddenly come around and