Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle by Pauline Jones (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

him or I’d have some explaining to do. Reality began to inject cold sobriety into all the places Kel had so nicely warmed. I tucked my hands behind my disarranged hair. Though he was advancing my knowledge of anatomy and human response, and hopefully making romance writing possible for me, he was doing some serious damage to my principles.

Not only had I unbuttoned his shirt, but I’d also started on his belt. If that telephone hadn’t rang right then, would I have let him take my theoretical knowledge into an actual experience field test? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer to any of these questions. I was already way behind in my repenting. I got my Gumby limbs coordinated long enough to crawl up on the couch.

Kel came back and told me he had to go. He looked sorry. I felt relief. He didn’t kiss me. We both knew what happens when you put a match to dry tinder. With the object of my passion gone, my arm started to hurt again. Rosemary called me down to supper. I went reluctantly. My stomach felt queasy and my legs weren’t steady. Downstairs both my former dates were digging into my mother’s lasagna with revolting enthusiasm. Had this really been my favorite dish? I must have been out of my mind.

“Here’s your plate,” my mother said, her eyes on Steve.

The room was airless and pain beat in my arm like ocean surf against a rocky beach. My collar felt tight and hot. My hands shook when I served myself. I almost dropped the plate when I sank into a chair, staring down at lasagna revolving in a slow circle.

“Isabel?” My mother’s body wavered in front of me. I rubbed my forehead, my hand slipping wetly across clammy skin. She frowned. “Why are you smearing tomato sauce on your face?”

I tried to focus. “What?”

“That’s not tomato sauce.” Mike sounded grim and at least an ocean away. Darkness narrowed my view in a rush. My head, strangely weighted, fell forward. I saw the pasta coming at me and managed to turn my head to one side just in time.

The pop of my ear filling with pasta exactly coincided with the total dark.

19

Sunday morning I lay alone in my relatively virginal bed, staring at the ceiling and reflecting on life’s little ironies. How was it that I, wounded and smeared with lasagna, bandaged by a veterinarian who preferred my sister, assisted by the veteran who preferred my mother—how was it that I was the one in the dog house?

Okay, I should have mentioned to my mother about getting shot. Was that grounds for ostracism? Rebellion raged in my soul as I dressed for church, moving as stiffly as an old woman. Had I recently felt young? Oh hubris!

Grimly I collected my purse, eased on a coat, and flying the flags of defiance, I let myself out through the garage so no one could see me in time to ignore me. Perhaps Reverend Hilliard would be inspired to speak on repentance or compassion. The guilt needed to be spread around this house a little.

My car was parked at the curb, where I’d left it yesterday in my hurry to contact the CIA. I inserted my key, then pulled open the door. As I stepped off the curb and bent to get in, the front door opened.

“Stan!”

What, was someone actually speaking to me? “I have choir practice, Rose. I’m almost late.”

“You’re wanted on the phone.”

I hesitated, then tossed my purse on the seat, closed the door and started to backtrack. “Do you know who it is?”

“I’m not sure. I think it’s—”

What she thought was lost when the world exploded behind me. Heat licked at my back. The sidewalk curled up, then slammed me in the face.

Dry, brown stalks wavered in front of my face. There was the acrid smell of something burning. Were we barbecuing? I heard sirens wail, a long way away. And someone was screaming. Why was I spinning into dark—

Light opened above me, gray sky with the pale, fuzzy circle of sun replaced my faces floating over me. I heard voices, too, but they were so far away—

“Stan? Stan, can you hear me? Is she going to be all right?”

“Can you step back a little and let me find out?”

“I’m her mother. She needs her mother. Isabel? You're going to be fine, dear.”

Oh, right. Now she's speaking to me. Then all the faces broke up, like those kaleidoscope things. When it came back together again, I could see my mother's face and she was crying.

“I’m sorry.” I tried to tell her but she didn't seem to hear. The light began to fade, sending me spiraling downward into deep, unending black…

I was rushing forward now, bright lights, brisk voices coming at me in hollow waves and pain, lots of pain. I tried to sink back into oblivion but the sounds and lights called me back.

This guy in green thrust a hand in my face and asked, “Can you see my hand?”

Was he for real? I touched his hand, saying dreamily, “This little piggie went to market—”

“…irrational…”

Then clear and sharp I heard Rosemary say, “I hate to tell you this, doctor, but that's normal for Stan.”

I smiled. “Rosemary—” Her face wavered into focus. “Mother always liked you best.”

“Get over it.” Were those tears on her face?

I opened my eyes to semi-darkness, the silence broken by a steady beep-beep somewhere off to my right. I felt a little fuzzy around the edges, but not so much that I couldn’t deduce I was in a hospital and someone was rubbing my hand. I turned towards the touch.

“Bel?” The dark figure moved closer and became Kel. Without waiting for instructions from my scrambled brain, my lips curved up.

“We’ve got…to stop…meeting like this.” The smile that brightened his face was almost too much for my weakened condition. “What happened?”

“Someone planted a bomb in your car. Delayed timer. Opening the door