In Your Dreams (Blue Heron #4)(76)

Pru was leaning against his truck when he came out. “Hey, Useless, our wine isn’t good enough for you anymore?” she said, grabbing the bag from his hand and looking inside. “Ooh! Moët & Chandon White Star! Are you in trouble?”

“No, Prudence. I’m the best husband in the world.”

“Gack. You’re still a jerk in my eyes, little brother.”

“I appreciate that. Give me back my champagne.”

“Fine. I was going to invite you and Scarlett O’Hara to dinner, but I see you have other plans.” She smacked him on the shoulder and tromped off.

It was snowing pretty hard, and Jack felt about as happy as a man could get. Whistled on his way home. Nothing like being snowed in with a beautiful woman. He drove up the ridge to his house, the snow pleasantly muffling the sound of his tires, and turned off the engine.

There was Hadley’s yellow VW Bug, covered with snow... Oliver must’ve sent her home early. And there was another car, too. One of her friends’, maybe? He’d been telling her to invite the book club to their house so he could meet the famous nonreaders. Whoever it was, she’d have to leave soon, the way it was coming down now.

He gathered the bags and flowers in his arms and got out of his truck. For some reason, Jack stopped and brushed off the back of the strange car. It was a Mercedes.

Oliver had a Mercedes, if Jack remembered correctly. They must be talking about the redecoration.

Not that Dandelion Hill really needed a redesign. It was pretty spectacular...and newly renovated. Very sleek and modern and sophisticated.

Not something he could really see Hadley improving with throw pillows.

Funny how Jack had never thought of that before.

His stomach felt cold all of a sudden. But no, no, that was stupid. Oliver was her boss, and twelve or fifteen years older than she was. He was a good guy, and Hadley was happily married. Things had never been better. Pretty sexist of Jack, imagining something illicit going on. Nah. They’d be sitting at the kitchen table with fabric swatches or whatever.

He heard a little croak. It was Lazarus, waiting by the door.

His cat hated snow. He’d go out in rain and lightning and wind. Didn’t mind the bitter cold or the muggy heat, but he hated snow. He held up his crooked front leg, shook his paw and made his little squeak of distress once more.

“Hey, pal,” Jack said, setting down the grocery bags. The cat leaped into his arms. First time that had happened. He rubbed the cat’s paws, wincing as he felt how cold and hard the little pads were. Lazarus had been outside for quite a while, it seemed. And the thing was, the cat would head-butt the door, scratch the glass and send up ungodly screeches if he didn’t get let in the instant he wanted to.

And if Laz had given up, then he’d been at it awhile.

Jack opened the door and let the cat in, then picked up the groceries and flowers and followed.

The house was quiet.

Maybe they weren’t there. Maybe they’d gone down to Blue Heron to...to...look at the tasting room or something. Maybe Oliver had wanted to talk to Honor about some business.

It didn’t explain why he felt sick.

He went into the kitchen. There was Hadley’s black wool coat, lying on the floor.

And her red-soled shoes that cost so goddamn much, carelessly kicked off.

His chest felt like it was in a vise. A cold, metal vice.

His mind was oddly empty as he walked down the hall that led to the study, the half bath, the laundry room.

He could hear them now. There was moaning. Sighing. There was Hadley’s voice. “Oh, my God, yes, yes, oh, God, yes!”

So much for taking the Lord’s name in vain.

The door to their bedroom was open a crack. Jack pushed it open more, and yep. Hadley stood in the middle of their bedroom in a black push-up bra and thong. A buck-naked Oliver, complete with paunch, knelt in front of her, his fingers gripping her ass, making out with her belly button.

What was the protocol for this? Should he announce his presence? Yell? Leave? Beat the shit out of Oliver?

Hadley ran her fingers through Oliver’s sparse hair. “Oh, Ollie! Oh, my!”

And then, sort of mercifully, Oliver opened his eyes and saw Jack there and reacted by hurling himself away from Hadley. He crawled around to the side of the bed—Jack’s side—and grappled for his pants.

“Jack!” Hadley gasped, grabbing one of the throw pillows and holding it in front of her. “You’re home early!”

* * *

HE DID DRAG OLIVER outside and toss him in the snow. Naked. Threw his clothes after him. Hadley, wrapped in her bathrobe (her red silk bathrobe, one of her credit card splurges), followed Jack, hysterical, sobbing, accusing, excusing and begging all in the same breath. Then Jack went back in the bedroom and grabbed all the sheets and covers and asinine throw pillows and carried them outside, as well.

Oliver was gone by then. Hadley’s hysteria didn’t seem to be fading, though she’d had the presence of mind to clutch Princess Anastasia to her chest. The cat was writhing to get free, and Jack distantly hoped that the cat would get away and be devoured by a coyote, but then again, hey, it was an innocent animal, sort of. Mean as a snake, but he didn’t really want it to die, of course not, but if it did, he wouldn’t be shedding any tears.

Jack went into the cellar and found some lighter fluid and came back up. Hang on. He needed kindling. He went into the kitchen, ripped the “Happily Ever After Starts Here” sign off the wall. Grabbed “Keep Calm and Have Southern Charm,” as well. And who could forget “Life isn’t about waiting for the storms to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain”? He tossed them on the sheets and pillows, then doused the whole mess, the whole unfaithful, cheating, disgusting mess, and lit it on fire, the heat making his face tighten.