Undressing Mercy. Deanna Lee

like it before I got to the final message. The moment Jane started speaking, I smiled.

      “You’d better have lots of juicy and nasty things to tell me. My lesbian lover–gay friend thing didn’t pan out. I went to the Peach Tree with Susanne, but it freaked me out when women hit on me. Susanne told them that I was her bitch.”

      “How prisonlike.” I glanced toward the machine as Jane continued.

      “Yeah, I know what you are thinking. But if I were in prison, I’d definitely want a lover like Susanne.” Jane snorted. “Oh, I scuffed my brand-new shoes, and you know how I feel about that.”

      I did, indeed. Jane worshipped shoes much the same way I did purses. She reminded me of a meeting I had scheduled first thing in the morning, and then was cut off, probably by my machine. Deleting her message, I considered the hang-ups. It seemed that it was time to change my phone number again.

      Uncomfortable with my line of thought, I walked toward the bedroom while sipping my wine. I went to my desk, sat down at my computer. Sitting back in my chair, I watched the e-mail pour into my inbox. There was an e-mail from Martin. I suppose he’d written to see if I’d gotten the wedding invitation. I hadn’t e-mailed him or received e-mail from him in more than six months. It had been difficult to contact him after I’d finally realized how much I’d hurt him by leaving New York.

      I opened the e-mail reluctantly and sighed. Since there was no way I could go to New York to attend his wedding, I wished that I could simply ignore the e-mail and the invitation. But I couldn’t do that: the man had been the center of my world after I’d been raped. He’d taken care of everything, and it was difficult even now to imagine how I could’ve survived without him. No one had ever understood my pain and horror the way he’d seemed to.

      I closed the e-mail message and marked it for reading later. If I ignored it completely, he would call. Then I would have to tell him that I couldn’t bring myself to come to New York. In fact, I hadn’t gone back since I’d left. My parents had come to me on holidays and birthdays, though they made it clear they found Christmas in Boston less than desirable.

      My mother had sent me two chain letters, a joke, and the newsletter for her garden club. I’d never understood why she belonged to a garden club, as she lived in an apartment. Apparently, she thought her window garden counted. I browsed through the newsletter; I knew she wouldn’t have sent it if there hadn’t been something about her. I found it near the bottom. Julia Witherspoon-Rothell was there, in all of her glory, with a shiny shovel in hand. The article stated that she had broken ground on a community garden in Brooklyn.

      Since community gardens had been my mother’s passion for more than ten years, it wasn’t much of a surprise. But it was nice and somewhat amusing to see her standing there in designer overalls and tidy white athletic shoes. I glanced toward the clock and frowned. It was entirely too late to call her. She went to bed with the sun, and always had. I finished off the wine and went to take another shower.

      With lust firmly on the back burner, I was left mildly irritated that I’d responded so strongly to Shame. To be honest with myself, I’ve never been one to deny myself something. If I wanted it, I usually got it. Being forced to deal with my own needs was a slight blow to my pride, especially needs that had been stoked by a man.

      Tomorrow would be a new day, a day that would end with me in front of Shamus Montgomery, naked.