The Widow's Circle

By K.C. Riggs

A chance meeting at a college reunion brings three old friends back together after 20 years. As they catch up on each other’s lives, they realize that they want to help change the world for the better; in a way that only they can.
Marjorie, the Senator’s widow is well off and well respected. Sarah, the detective and wife of a dirty cop is protecting her children the best she can. Rikki, the man-hating psychologist uses her agility dog to work with the autistic. This unlikely trio creates a wildly successful business and with the proceeds forms a non-profit—The Widow’s Circle.
Their motto:
“The Widow’s Circle, working for the benefit of deserving widows, current and future.”
But don’t expect these high-powered, take-charge, get-it-done women to just wait for deserving widows to show up...

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.C. Riggs
• Release date: Jul 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311950413

Book preview

The Widow’s Circle

Karen Riggs

the Smashwords Edition of

a novel from

Karen Riggs

To give the reader more of a sample, the front matter appears at the end.

Full Contents

Chapter 1: The Birthday

September 1, 2008

The strip mall squatted on the south side of Speedway, between the three-story Truly Nolen pest-exterminator building to the west and a brand new chain super-drugstore to the east. Giant scorpions and centipedes were painted on Truly Nolen’s walls and a fleet of bright yellow VW Beetles painted like toothy mice, with attached ears and tails filled its parking lot.

The drugstore boasted a tall tan stucco façade with brilliant neon signs the height of two men, proclaiming 24-hour drive-through pharmacy. The skeleton of a sign stood between the two entrances to the strip mall, its covering flesh of individual store signs long gone. Plywood covered most of the mall’s windows and doors. Dirt, plastic bags and the occasional empty soda can swirled on the deserted parking lot.

At the far east end a blue neon Open sign was barely visible in a grimy window. There were no other indications of what exactly was open.

A ten year old Toyota sedan pulled up in front of the door, running up onto the sidewalk slightly before bouncing back to a stop on the pavement.

The driver beamed. "Here we are! You are just going to love Jimmy!" She threw her keys and cell phone into a cavernous hot-pink leather bag and jumped from the car.

The passenger still clenched the handle of a small brown canvas purse. Ella, this is sweet of you, but I really should be working and—

Ella leaned down and stared through her open car door. Laura, just stop it right now and get out of that car! It’s your birthday and I’ve been planning this surprise for ages. If that slug of a husband of yours won’t do something for you, your best friend sure will. Now hurry. Jimmy is a busy man.

Laura wondered how busy Jimmy could be when the parking lot was empty, but she opened the car door and slowly got out.

Ella had bounded ahead and held the shop door open. She raised one carefully penciled eyebrow. C’mon, move it girl. You have an appointment with destiny!

Laura obediently stepped inside. Destiny turned out to be a beauty salon that had survived the ‘60s intact.

Jimmy looked anything but lovable. He looked like a bouncer from a biker bar or Santa Claus’ younger, bad-ass brother. He towered in the back of the store, scowling, looking like he might singlehandedly lift engines out of Peterbuilts. Laura wondered what he was doing in a hair salon.

Without a word, he pointed her into a neon-green styling chair, the splits in its plastic upholstery held together with many layers of clear packing tape. He and Ella peered over her shoulders into the large mirror she was facing. They looked like one body with three heads: Jimmy, with a FuManchu mustache, a thin, unlit cigar clamped in his teeth, and his thick black hair with shots of grey pulled back into a long ponytail; Laura, whose hair, skin and clothes all seemed to be the same faded brown as the canvas purse she still was clutching in her lap; and Ella, whose head of shiny copper curls fell to her shoulders, framing her big brown Liza Minelli eyes and that ever-present smile.

Jimmy boomed in Laura’s ear. So, you’re here for a makeover.

She jumped and dropped her purse.

Ella grabbed it and put in on a chair nearby, leaving Laura nothing to hold onto.

She grabbed the arms of the chair instead. Oh, no. Maybe just a trim or—

Definitely a makeover, Ella insisted, a hand firmly on Laura’s shoulder, holding her in the chair. Jimmy, you figure out her hair. I’ll be back.

You’re leaving? Laura gasped. But I’ve got to get back to wo—

"You don’t have to get anywhere. You belong to me and Jimmy today. I’m off to buy ingredients." She shot Jimmy a conspiratorial smile and wink.

The door swung shut behind Ella with a tinkling of the tiny brass bells that were looped over the handle.

Laura felt abandoned in a foreign country where she didn’t speak the language and wasn’t sure the natives were friendly.

Jimmy walked toward the back of the shop. Whaddaya take in your coffee?

A little sugar, she managed in a weak voice.

He returned with two large mugs, turned her chair away from the mirror and sat facing her in an adjacent styling chair. She wondered how he fit in it. He dwarfed everything in the shop.

The large mug disappeared in his massive hands, and his pointy-toed cowboy boots looked larger than anything she’d ever seen, like small skis. But she had the feeling there wasn’t any fat under that black leather vest.

Sumatran. He nodded toward her cup. Only thing worth drinking.

She obediently took a sip. It was hot, sweet and smelled wonderful. She took a deep breath and felt some of the tightness in her shoulders dissipate.

When Ella drove back into the lot, she parked several spaces from the door and approached from the side. She peered in through the farthest window.

Jimmy was wearing a zebra-striped smock the size of a small tent to protect his black leather vest. Piles of Laura’s dull brown hair were littering the floor, and her head was covered in foil strips. They were drinking coffee and laughing.

Ella burst through the door. The thrift shop queen returns triumphant!

They could hardly see her for the bags and boxes she was carrying.

Don’t worry, she said as alarm registered on Laura’s face. Most of this is for me, silly. You know I can’t resist a bargain. She waved one used paper grocery bag dramatically. But I did find you a little something. She pulled out a pair of black boots, black jeans, a deep-rust colored sweater and a gold chain belt.

You found those at a thrift shop? They look brand new!

"A thrift shop? A thrift shop? Ella said in mock horror. Honey, I had to make the circuit of the top ten to put this haul together. I’ve been gone hours you know."

Laura looked around and finally spotted a large orange plastic clock with purple numbers and hands, effectively camouflaged by the paisley wallpaper. Almost one o’clock. I’ve been here over three hours!

And, Ella continued, digging through bags and finally straightening up with one in each hand. Lunch! She shook a large bag from a deli down the street. And makeup! She shook the smaller bag.

Jimmy dug some paper plates out of a drawer. We can eat while her hair finishes. He retrieved some bottled water from a small refrigerator under a counter.

See? I told you you’d love Jimmy. Ella swallowed a bite of pastrami sandwich. You guys were having the best time when I came back.

Laura stopped chewing, feeling a little guilty. Jimmy was easy to talk to. She couldn’t even remember what all they had talked about, but she had the feeling she might have said more than she meant to about Hank, her husband. The sandwich felt a little dry and she took an extra sip of water to help wash it down.

When her hair was finally combed out, Jimmy and Ella made her walk down the center of the shop like it was a catwalk in her new clothes, makeup and hair. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. The smiling face that looked back seemed like someone else. Her shoulders slumped a little.

Jimmy commanded, Back straight, shoulders down, chin up. Smile! He jumped up to demonstrate.

Ella and Laura howled at his six foot five, 280-pound version of the runway walk, complete with a hip pop and a disdainful pout before a flouncing turn to strut to the back of the shop. Remember, baby, you are a force to be reckoned with.

The two women almost disappeared in Jimmy’s hug as they gathered their bags to go.

Jimmy said, Remember Laura, you’re back in four weeks. I’ve got you down in the book. We’ll need to reshape your hair and I really need to work on those eyebrows some more. And you, and he pointed to Ella. Tuesday, as usual.

The ladies took their leave, but Laura looked back at the storefront before she ducked inside the car. She could just make out Jimmy’s shape behind the open sign, coffee mug raised in a salute.

In the car, she looked at Ella and sighed. That was the best birthday I can remember. Do you really go every Tuesday?

Ella laughed. Once a week, just like church. Actually, I clean every other week and that almost pays for the whole month. I bet you could trade accounting too. Jimmy’s always saying how he hates doing the books. And anyway....

Laura didn’t hear the rest. A knot was forming in her gut as she thought about the cost of going back, and the time it would take. And what Hank would say.

* * *

Where the hell have you been all day? Hank barked from the couch as she opened the front door. He never looked up from the ball game on TV. "And where’s my dinner? You know it’s my poker night and that new home builder’s gonna be there. It’s important. The books need to be ready on Monday. I’ve got a business to run here. You can’t just be off playing all the time, you know."

Ella took me out for my birthday, remember?

That damn Ella is a pain in the ass. You don’t need to spend so much time with her. You’ve got work to do. I can’t do everything around here.

Laura walked into the bedroom, took off her new sweater and jeans and hung them up in the back of the closet. She put on some baggy khaki pants and a sweatshirt and put her shiny new cocoa brown hair up in a bun. Then she walked into the kitchen and turned on the computer and the oven. At least he’ll be gone soon.

Full Contents

Chapter 2: Hank

September 2, 2008

Hank couldn’t breathe very well and he couldn’t figure out why. As consciousness seeped in, he recognized that his face was on something hard.

Why am I sleeping on something hard?

He wanted to move away from that hard thing. It was pressing down on his nose and he couldn’t breathe through it. But he couldn’t move.

I need to move. Have to get away from whatever’s pushing me into the hard thing.

Panic was starting to course through his veins.

Movement finally came, but only in jerky spasms.

Something’s holding down my hands!

He tried to yell for help, but there was nothing.

He strained and pushed to force out a yell.

Finally he heard a wavering, low moan.

Then, as if a switch had been thrown, he snapped fully awake.

His eyelids flew open and he saw black and white swirls right in front of him. Realization began to wash over him in waves.

He was face down on a marble floor.

His own head was pushing his nose into the hard marble.

His hands were underneath him and felt prickly.

Maybe if I roll over….

He tried to roll left but met solid resistance, so he rolled to the right.

His first attempt rocked him slightly, but he thumped right back onto his nose.

Damn! Enough!

He tugged and squirmed and managed to get his left hand free, then pushed himself over onto his back.

He sucked in as much air as he could and it felt so good—for about thirty seconds.

Then a wave inside him began swirling violently, a vortex that threatened to throw him against the wall. He couldn’t figure out where to put his hands to steady himself.

He struggled to his hands and knees, wavered for a few seconds, then vomited and collapsed, mostly missing the puddle.

Finally he managed to half-crawl, half-drag himself far enough away from the fouled corner to avoid some of the stench.

After a few minutes of alternating deep breaths and willfully suppressing the urge to retch, he felt strong enough to sit up.

Trembling, he unbuttoned and removed his shirt, then looked around. Where the hell am I? And what happened?

It looked like a commercial kitchen, with walk-in coolers, industrial-sized stainless-steel sinks and counters.

He staggered up to one of the sinks, turned on the water and plunged as much of the upper half of his body under the forceful spray as he could.

Then he dripped across the cavernous kitchen, jerking open drawers and doors until he found a supply of towels. He used one after another until he was reasonably dry, dropping each on the floor as it became saturated.

And he remembered.

He was in the new builder’s gigantic home where they had played poker last night.

Poker… drinking… smoking cigars… Oh, and the girls who showed up from who knows where. He grinned and his chest swelled a little at that memory. In my fifties, and I can still make ‘em squeal. It would never occur to him that those squeals of delight were bought and paid for ahead of time.

Sometime after one of those pleasant episodes his memory failed him altogether, but Hank was never one to worry about small details like that. With a characteristic disregard for all things non-Hank, he strode out of the kitchen, leaving the water running in the sink, his soiled shirt and a puddle of vomit on the floor in the corner, and most of the dish towels in a sodden, stinky heap on the floor near the open cupboards.

He hadn’t heard any movement in the house, and the courtyard where they had all parked last night was empty save for his work truck. He never drove anything else. He loved his four-door pickup. He got a new one every year and moved last year’s model into the fleet.

He loved the shiny paint with his custom I’ve Been Framed sign painted down the sides. He loved the shiny new toolboxes and tools and racks in the back. He was very proud of the lucrative business he had built all by himself.

He was especially proud of how much money he skimmed every year out from under the nose of good ol’ Uncle Sam. And Laura for that matter.

He grinned as he crossed the courtyard and slipped in behind the steering wheel of the truck. Well, I’m the one who worked for it, ain’t I? He started the pickup and backed out of the courtyard, knocking over a ceramic urn holding a large bougainvillea. I’ll do what I damn well please with it.

He pulled out into the street and drove toward home, still fuming over his money. If Uncle Sam got it, he’d just waste it on stupid things. And if Laura got any more of it she’d just spend it on those two brats. Music lessons and instruments and sports uniforms and special tutoring.

And for what? So they could get into some fancy damn university to study medicine or law or environmental science like the youngest was threatening? How pussy was that?

Neither one of the boys would work for him after they turned sixteen