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DOESN’T SHE LOOK NATURAL?
Angela Elwell Hunt
Tyndale House Publishers
Fiction
ISBN-10: 1414311699
ISBN-13: 9781414311692
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Chapter One
A grieving woman, I’ve decided, is like a crème brûlée: she begins in a liquid state, endures a period of searing heat, and eventually develops a scab-like crust.
By the time we sell the house I am pretty much crusted over, so I’m honestly surprised when the real estate agent slides a check toward me and tears blur my vision.
Ms. Nichols doesn’t seem to notice my streaming eyes. “That’s a tidy little profit, even if it is only half the proceeds,” she says, eyeing the bank draft as if she can’t bear to let it slip away. “If you’re in the market for another property --- ”
“I’m sure we’ll be renting for a while.” I lower my gaze lest she read the rest of the story in my tight expression: This money is all we have.
Apparently oblivious to the rough edges in my voice, the realtor babbles on. “Our agents also handle rental properties. If you’re interested, I have a nice listing inside the Beltway --- ”
“Anything I could afford near the District wouldn’t be big enough for me and my boys.”
Ms. Nichols frowns, probably wondering how a woman who’s just been handed forty thousand dollars could be so miserly; then she shrugs. “I’m in the yellow pages if you want to take a look. I’m here to serve.”
She stands and thrusts her hand into the space above the desk. “A pleasure to work with you, Mrs. Graham.”
I stifle a grimace. Do I still have the right to be called Mrs.? The title fits about as well as my wedding band, now two sizes too big and consigned to a box at the bottom of my underwear drawer. Stress has whittled flesh from my fingers and added years to my face. My boys haven’t noticed, but my mother certainly has. Before we turn out the lights tonight, I can count on a lecture ranging from “Why You Shouldn’t Have Married that Louse” to “What Will Become of My Poor Grandsons Without a Father to Play Ball With Them?”
I can’t deny the truth any longer. I am now not only divorced, but homeless as well.
Good thing I’ve developed that crust.
I stand and accept the real estate agent’s outstretched hand. “If the new owners have any questions, they can reach me at my mother’s house. We’ll be there until we find a place to rent.”
Ms. Nichols laughs. “Oh, we don’t encourage interaction with buyers after the sale. If one of their pipes bursts next week, you don’t want to be around. Walk away and don’t look back, that’s the best thing for everyone.”
Easier said than done. I give the woman a stiff smile and leave the office. I’d love to stride into the future without looking back, but it’s not easy to ride away from sixteen years of marriage without at least glancing in the rear view mirror.
I reach the van and catch my reflection in the driver’s window. At this point some women might be tempted to throw themselves a pity party, but I’m not in the mood for pity or parties. I’m ticked at my husband for forcing us to sell our house and I’m tired of living at my mother’s.
To be completely honest, I’m feeling a little irritated with God. Why did he endow perfectly nice men with hormones that create an insatiable yearning for sports cars and nymphets about the time they spy their first gray hair?
I meet my mirrored gaze and order up a lecture in the same no-nonsense vein I’d use with one of my boys: “Look forward, not back. You’ll find someplace to live; you’ll find another job. Thomas will get through this mid-life crisis and come back to his senses. Until he does, you can depend on your mother.”
Oh yeah, I’ve come a long way, baby --- from chief of staff for a respected U.S. Senator to a woman who goes around talking to her reflection.
I lift my chin, unlock the van, and toss the check for forty thousand into my aging minivan.
Excerpted from DOESN’T SHE LOOK NATURAL? © Copyright 2008 by Angela Elwell Hunt. Reprinted with permission by Tyndale House Publishers. All rights reserved.
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