How To Kill Your Husband (Ch. 4) (Patreon)

[AN: Tarot cards from Rachel will come very soon to accompany this chapter!]Saturday morning, while Jack’s at another meeting, I stand on Rosemary’s porch with a houseplant, a jug of sweet tea, and my most neighborly smile. I feel queasier than a kid on a rollercoaster after too much cotton candy.

The Coopers’ house—Rosemary’s now—looks nicer than I remember. The exterior has been re-painted an eye-catching shade of blue. It shines like a jewel against the backdrop of our neutral beige neighborhood. I feel silly for taking so long to notice the change.

Rosemary’s front door is cherry red, with a brand new welcome mat boasting a black and white ouija board design. That sort of thing will definitely raise some eyebrows when other nosey neighbors come to visit. Stepping onto the mat, I balance the jug of tea and the plant on my hip and ring the bell.

A deep, thunderous bark comes from inside the house. I drop my hand, stepping back in surprise. Rosemary never mentioned any other dogs besides Brutus, but that definitely doesn’t sound like any chihuahua I’ve ever heard.

“Oh, hush,” a low voice says from behind the door. “You’re fine, you old sausage.” Muffled footsteps sound. “I’m coming.”

I brandish my smile like a weapon as Rosemary opens the door, but as soon as I see her, I forget how to breathe. She looks nothing short of stunning in a dress of her own, a daring crimson number that shows off her long, smooth legs and the rich brown skin of her shoulders.

I also notice something new: Rosemary has tattoos. Twin rose and vine tattoos wind up both of her arms, joining beneath her collarbone. The blossoms are a vivid, marvelous red, while the thorny vines are a blue so dark they could be mistaken for black.

“Oh, those are beautiful!”

Rosemary presses her hand to her heart. “Thank you. That’s so sweet. I’ve had them for ages, you know?” 

I offer Rosemary the jug of sweet tea, hoping I haven’t stared too long. “I brought this for you. It’s Saturday, so I thought maybe…” My face burns hotter than July. I’ve never been the envious type, but any red-blooded man would lose himself in those golden-brown eyes. I can’t help but feel a pinch of envy, or maybe awe. “Anyway, I hope I’m not bothering you.”

“Your timing is perfect,” Rosemary says. “Come right on in.” Her soft palm sears my bare shoulder as she ushers me through the threshold, and the heat stays on my skin as her touch falls away. The sweet smell of woodsmoke, like a dying fire in fall, lingers in my nose.

A welcome distraction comes in the form of Brutus, who takes a shaky hop off the living room couch and shuffles over to me. Minding the potted plant in my other arm, I crouch and offer him my hand. “Hi, sweet baby. Remember me?”

Brutus lets out a soft whuff. He sniffs my hand, then licks it several times, his little rat tail wagging in greeting.

“He’s sweet on you,” Rosemary says.

“I’m sweet on him.” I scratch a spot behind Brutus’ ears that has him kicking his hind leg and wobbling on the other three. “Do you have any other dogs? I heard a pretty loud bark out there.”

“No, just him. He gets excited when he hears the doorbell.”

“Well, Brutus, you’ve got an awful big, scary bark for such a sweet little man.” I straighten up and face Rosemary. “You have to love them, even when they’re loud.”

“And stinky,” Rosemary says. “He probably needs a bath.”

“Poor fella.” I begin to relax. Animals are easy—a lot easier than people.

Rosemary carries the jug of sweet tea into the kitchen, which is just off the living room. I follow, slowing down to study her house. The walls are crammed full of mismatched paintings, prints, and other hanging tchotchkes, bunched so tight there’s hardly a gap of wall between them.

A massive stone fireplace sits diagonal from the couch and television, and above the mantel, a cluster of framed photos are crammed practically on top of each other. They’re close-ups of intricate tattoos, from butterflies and flowers to skulls with flaming eyes.

Rosemary stops just inside the kitchen, turning to look at me through the doorway. “Oh, those are some of my clients.”

Taking that as tacit permission, I approach to admire the photos. No two are alike, and each one is a stunning work of art. “Are you a tattoo artist?”

“Guessed it in one.” The smell of Rosemary’s perfume grows stronger as she returns to the living room, without the sweet tea. “Do you have any?” she asks, sidling up to me.

My eyes widen. “Me? Oh, no. Jack would hate it.”

Rosemary arches a brow. “Your husband?”

“Yeah.” I brush a lock of hair away from my forehead. “We were college sweethearts.”

“Were?”

“Are. I guess we’re adult sweethearts now.”

“That’s adorable. Lucky you.”

“Very lucky.” I show Rosemary the plant I’ve been hauling around. “Uh, this is also for you. It’s aloe. I didn’t know what you liked, so I thought maybe you’d like something useful and easy to care for.”

Rosemary smiles and takes the plant, holding it up to admire it. “This is perfect! Most people just bring flowers as a gift, but it’s so sad watching them die.” She sets it gently on the mantel above the fireplace, in a perfectly sized nook that looks like it’s been waiting for just this purpose.

“Really? That’s what I think, although bouquets can be meaningful too. I love helping people find the right flowers to say what’s in their hearts.”

“Oh?” Rosemary tilts her head. “Are you a florist?”

“Oh, no. I just work in a flower shop. Maisie, my boss, is the florist.”

“But you know about flowers. What are they supposed to say?”

I give a soft laugh. It’s easier to talk to Rosemary about something I’m interested in. “Sometimes, they say ‘I’m sorry’. We get a lot of regretful husbands wanting to apologize to their wives for, you know, whatever. They say ‘Congratulations,’ too. We do flowers for birthdays, graduations, weddings…the whole shebang.”

“Hopefully all those brides aren’t too fussy.” Rosemary pushes some of her braids over her shoulder and the swaying movement leaves me staring for a long, open-mouthed moment. Her hair is just so pretty and eye-catching. 

“Not at all.” I swallow and clear my throat to banish the tremor from my voice. “Most of them are total sweethearts. Weddings are one of my favorite parts of the job, aside from caring for the flowers, of course.”

“What’s your favorite flower?”

“Some might say it’s cliche, but I love roses.” My eyes dip toward Rosemary’s tattoos. The artwork is just stunning—it’s hard not to look. “I’m guessing we have something in common. Did you do those yourself?”

Rosemary’s fingertips glide over the thorny vines that intertwine beneath her collarbone. “The sleeves, yes. The part on my chest, I got a friend to help with. I designed them, though.” Her smile became a playful smirk, and she looked me up and down with hooded eyes. “What would you get, if you could?”

I glance at my shoes, licking my dry lips. My mouth tastes metallic, maybe from nerves. “I’ve never thought about it. Probably something involving flowers, too.”

“Please don’t think I’m pressuring you,” Rosemary says. “It’s just, most people have something in mind, even if they never intend to get a tattoo. It’s a sort of game. ‘What would you get?’”

“Do you have others?” I ask.

“Of course. I’m sure you’ll see them eventually.”

My heart somersaults at the suggestion. Surely Rosemary doesn’t mean anything by it… but the thought of her naked hits me smack in the face. I’ve never been one to imagine naked women before. Could the way I feel mean something more than just jealousy, or wanting to make a new, cool friend?

I shake it off. No, definitely not. I’d know if I was like that, wouldn’t I? There would have been signs before now. Other women I felt drawn to. This must be what some people call a straight girl crush. Totally harmless.

I pull my focus back to the reason I’m here: Jack. It feels strangely wrong to think about anyone else as attractive, even though I’m planning to poison him. I know he has to go, that we can’t go on like we were anymore, but I still feel loyal to the Jack that was.

“So, are you up for some baking?” Rosemary asks, drawing me from my thoughts. “I promised you peanut butter cookies.”

I smile. It’s like she’s read my mind. “My stomach would love that, even if my bathroom scale won’t.”

Rosemary bumps her shoulder playfully against mine. “Oh, don’t say that. You’re gorgeous, and you’d be gorgeous twenty pounds heavier too. Just to forewarn you, I’m using real butter.”

I blush fiercely. “Then I’m definitely going to love these cookies.”

We chat about this and that as Rosemary makes the cookie dough, sipping on sweet tea. Brutus sniffs the kitchen floor, hoping we’ll drop something. “He’s my little vacuum cleaner,” Rosemary says, cracking an egg into the bowl. “You can give him a lick of peanut butter if you want. It’s xylitol-free.”

I take a butter knife from the silverware drawer and scoop a glob of peanut butter on it. Brutus whuffs and wags his tail when I offer him the knife, wiggling his entire backside as he licks it clean.

“You’re a lucky boy, Brutus,” Rosemary says.

I scratch his head, then put the knife in the sink. “Tell me about it.”

Once the cookies are in the oven, we return to the living room with glasses of sweet tea. Aside from the wall of tattoos, Rosemary has an odd but appealing sense of decoration—kind of like Halloween threw a party and forgot to clean up.

What could be a real stuffed raven stands guard atop the bookshelf, and a glowing skull lamp sits next to several interesting titles: The Complete Book of Witchcraft, The Secret Doctrine, and Occult America among them.

“So, you’re into… witchcraft?” I gesture vaguely at the bookshelf, trying not to stumble over my words.

“I do the occasional tarot reading,” Rosemary says in an even, measured tone. “It’s a hobby of mine.”

“Oh. I mean, it doesn’t bother me or anything! To each their own, right? It’s just uncommon here.”

“In the South? In Suburbia?”

“Both, I suppose.” As if to prove it doesn’t bother me, I walk over to the bookshelf and select one of the volumes. A book called Demons and other Supernatural Forces catches my eye. I’d dismissed the idea of supernatural forces bringing Jack back from the dead, but what if…?

No. That’s just plain silly. I can’t let my fear and paranoia get the best of me. I’ve never believed in spooks or haunts like Maisie does. Why should this be any different?

Nevertheless, I feel drawn to the book. I take it from the shelf, studying the red pentagram on the front cover like it should mean something important.

“Feel free to browse my collection,” Rosemary says, taking a sip of her sweet tea.

I almost drop the book. “I’m so sorry! I should have asked first…” I hurry to put it back on the shelf.

“Don’t worry, angel. Books are meant to be read, aren’t they?”

My knees wobble at the unexpected nickname. It’s embarrassing to admit, even to myself, but I kind of like it. 

“So, um.” I grope for a response that won’t show how out of sorts I am. “Would you do a reading for me?”

“A tarot reading? Sure. Sounds fun.” Rosemary sits on the couch and motions me over. I join her, keeping some distance between us.

“Are you sure you want one?” A hint of playfulness shines in Rosemary’s amber eyes. “You seem a little spooked.”

“No,” I say, too breathy and quick. “I’m a Christmas and Easter churchgoer myself, not all that religious. I promise it doesn’t bother me. Please do the reading? Only if you want to, of course.”

“I do. What better way to start a new friendship?” Rosemary opens a small wooden box in the center of the coffee table. Inside is a velvet purple back, and from inside that, she withdraws a deck of cards. “We’ll do a simple three card reading: past, present, and future.”

“Okay.” I run my fingers through my hair, pushing it away from my face. Even though I am, as confessed, a lapsed churchgoer, my Southern family and community have always shunned the occult. My parents didn’t even like me looking up my horoscope in high school. Years later, I still feel squirmy inside, like I’m disobeying them.

Rosemary gives me an encouraging smile as she shuffles the deck. She doesn’t say anything about my nerves, even though it must be obvious on my face and in my body language. “Draw three,” she says, fanning the cards on the coffee table.

My hand hovers over the cards, unsure which ones to choose. Finally, I pull one from the middle, and one close to either end of the spread. I offer them to Rosemary, but she holds up her hand. “Line them up in front of you, and no peeking.” She winks.

I chew the corner of my lip. If a man winked at me like that, I’d think he was flirting. Surely Rosemary doesn’t mean it that way. I put my cards face-down on the coffee table. “Do I flip them, or…”

Rosemary taps the card on my left with her cherry red nail. “This card represents your past. Turn it over.”

I flip the card. A naked, blonde-haired woman offers an equally naked man an apple, standing beneath a golden tree—only it’s upside down. Beneath, in looping calligraphy, are the words ‘The Lovers’.

I start to turn the card right side up.

“Wait a minute,” Rosemary says. “Whether or not the card is upside down is part of the reading.”

My face flushes. “Is upside down bad?”

“Not necessarily,” Rosemary says. “Keep going. The next card is for your present.”

I flip the middle card. A woman with long, flowing hair sits upon a throne, sword and shield in hand. The sun rises behind her, illuminating her golden crown.  Like the first card, it’s upside down.

Rosemary raises her brows. “Hmm. Interesting.”

I chew the corner of my lip. “What’s interesting?”

“Two trump cards,” Rosemary says. “There are twenty-two major arcana cards in a deck. The other forty-eight are the minor arcana—suit cards. Two trump cards in a row means you’re going through some big life changes.”

If only you knew.

I flip the final card. A skeleton rides a white horse, surrounded by rolling clouds of fog. In his hand, he carries a black flag. A chill rolls down my spine. The word beneath reads: Death. “Um.” I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “At least it’s right side up this time?”

Rosemary laughs, a low and rich sound that eases some of the tension in my shoulders. “Don’t freak out. The death card doesn’t mean literal death. It just means the end of something. A phase of your life, a relationship, a business venture. The thing that’s ending might be something that’s supposed to end, to make room for something new.”

I look down at the cards. I’ve never believed in the occult, but it sure is a strange coincidence, drawing the Death card when I’m trying to get rid of my husband. Maybe there’s something to this stuff after all.

“But I’m getting ahead of myself,” Rosemary says. “Let’s start at the beginning. This card—” She taps The Lovers. “—represents your past. In reverse, it usually means an important relationship ended, or there was some disconnect.” She tilts her head, looking at me with bright, curious eyes.

“I’ve only had one relationship,” I tell her. “Jack, my husband. We met in college.”

“And?” Rosemary leans closer to me on the couch. The smell of her perfume grows stronger. “Was there a disconnect?”

Stupid as it is, I want to open up to her. “Well, he’s struggled with alcohol addiction at various points in our relationship. He’s going to meetings now, though.”

“Mmhmm.” Rosemary gives me a knowing look, but there doesn’t seem to be any judgment on her face. I know that expression all too well, people looking down their noses at me for staying. I’ve lost more than a few so-called friends that way. Even Maisie gives me frustrated sighs and thin-lipped smiles when the subject of Jack comes up. Rosemary, though. Her brows are knitted with empathy, her full lips parted slightly as though encouraging me to continue.

“It hasn’t always been easy. Jack doesn’t, I mean—he’s never once hit me or anything like that. But when he’s drunk, he turns into this mean person I don’t recognize. We all have our bad sides, and his likes to come out when he’s had a few. But please don’t think he’s a bad husband. Things are great when he’s sober. He treats me like a queen.”

“I’m glad he’s going to meetings,” Rosemary says. “That’s a tough situation, especially if you’ve been together since college. What are you now, thirty?”

“Thirty three.”

Rosemary smiles. “Me too. Sorry, it was rude to ask.”

“I don’t mind,” I say, a little too quickly. “We’re getting to know each other.”

“And I’m glad we are.” Rosemary touches the second card. “This is The Empress. She represents strength, power, and self-assurance. She also has a nurturing side.”

“But she’s in reverse. Does that mean the opposite?”

“It isn’t so black and white,” Rosemary says. “Combined with the other cards, I’d say you’re the type to give too much of yourself. You like to take care of others—an admirable trait. The thing about strength is that we only have so much of it, and the thing about self-assurance is that, especially for women, you can shape your identity around helping others. Does any of that ring true?”

Even if tarot isn’t real, Rosemary is exceptionally good at reading people. We’ve only spent an hour together and she already has me pegged. “I’ll admit, I give more than I should occasionally. I love helping people and animals, but sometimes you need to take a step back.”

“Do you want me to offer some advice?” Rosemary asks.

I nod. “I’d like that.”

Rosemary turns The Empress upright. “The Empress means you’re strong, and you have a strong sense of self. Maybe you should take some time to do you? Do the things you like, that bring you happiness, that rejuvenate your soul. You said Jack is going to meetings?”

“Yes, but—”

“That’s good. It means he has a place full of people who understand him. But addicts have a hard time getting and staying sober. Don’t lose yourself in his problems. That’s his dragon to slay. Just keep being you. If he’s worth it, that will give him something to fight for.”

I bristle a bit at ‘if he’s worth it’, but considering that Jack’s at the top of my shit list, I don’t know why I’m offended. Old habits, I guess. I’m used to defending him.

I swallow my protests, pausing to collect my thoughts by drinking some tea. “Thanks. Doing me sounds good right now. So…” My eyes dart toward Death. “You said Death means the end of something. Do you think it’s my relationship?”

Rosemary pauses to sip her tea as well. “We might not know what part of your life is coming to an end yet. It could be your job, a harmful pattern of thought, or even an activity you used to do. Or maybe it does mean your marriage. What I do know is, don’t resist it. Sometimes endings are good. They leave room for new beginnings.”

“Oh, I’d never quit my job! I don’t know what Maisie would do without me, or what I’d do without her. And I want to see the lemon tree saplings finish growing.”

Rosemary puts a light hand on my shoulder. Her touch sends an unexpected wave of relaxation through my stiff muscles. “If you love your job, there’s no reason to quit. Tarot isn’t a prescription to fix your life. It’s just a fun way to encourage some introspection. Besides, so few people in this world truly love their jobs.”

I turn to look at her, staring into those unusually beautiful amber eyes. “You do, too. I could tell from the warmth in your voice when you talked about it.”

“I do,” Rosemary says. Her thumb makes a circle on the edge of my shoulder. “Designing a unique tattoo for each client is a blessing. You get to know them, work with them, and create something beautiful together.” She withdraws her hand, and I feel its loss deeply, somewhere in the middle of my chest.

“I had no idea it was that collaborative,” I say.

“I bet flower orders are too.” Rosemary nudges my shoulder gently with hers. I’m all too aware of how close our legs are, close enough for me to feel the warmth of her skin. “You personalize them for each customer, right?”

“Absolutely,” I say.

“And if I wanted some flowers to add to the ambiance of my studio, where would I go to buy them?” The teasing lilt to her voice brings a smile to my face.

“Oh, I work at Petals’… Petal Paradice. It’s just off Archer—I know, traffic. Try to come in the middle of the day, if you can. You’ll never get there during the evening rush. I bet Maisie would love you. She owns the place.”

“I think I will,” Rosemary says. “It sounds like you’ve put a lot of yourself into the place, too.”

“Yeah, I have.”

I continue looking into Rosemary’s eyes. They’re so open and kind, I can’t help but feel like I’ve made a new friend, even in such a short time. Something about her puts me at ease. Makes me feel like I can be myself.

The sound of the oven beeping startles me. I sigh, clasping my elbows. “God, that gave me a start. I forgot all about the cookies.”

Rosemary stands up, offering me her hand. It’s warm and soft in mine, reassuring. “Now’s the hard part… waiting for them to cool off before we eat them.”

My stomach rumbles at the thought. “Aren’t warm cookies fresh out of the oven the best, though? We can always make a second batch if we get carried away.”

“That,” Rosemary says, “sounds like an excellent idea.”

***

I return home with the salty-sweet taste of peanut butter cookies in my mouth and a foil-wrapped dish in my hands. Rosemary tried to get me to take them all, but I talked her down to half. Before I left, she put her number in my phone so we could hang out again.

‘Hang out.’ It really does feel like I’m a shy, awkward teenager being invited to sit at the cool lunch table. I never imagined I could feel that way in my thirties—that fluttery feeling when you think you might have made a new friend.

Yeti greets me at the door. I scratch his ears, set the cookies down, and put his mouse blanket in the dryer. He follows me, stretching out his stiff legs while I get him some catnip from the pet cabinet.

“Should I invite her to do something next time? Or is that too much? I don’t want to just show up at her house again…”

Yeti sits on his haunches and blinks at me, the tip of his tail lashing impatiently. I scatter the catnip on the floor and put the warm blanket in his favorite bed, leaving him to what I’m sure will be a nap worthy of Rip Van Winkle.

Back to business. My fledgling friendship with Rosemary will have to wait. I need to hide the cookies and Jack’s epi-pen.

I put one cookie in a plastic bag and sneak outside to toss the others in a neighbor’s trash can several houses down. I feel a pinch of guilt, throwing away the cookies Rosemary and I baked together, but it’s too risky to keep the extras.

Next, the epi-pen in the bathroom medicine cabinet. I consider throwing it away too, but that could also seem suspicious. I try to think of a place where Jack would feasibly put it, but wouldn’t think to look. Eventually, I tuck it behind my makeup bag in my bathroom drawer. If Jack has the usual reaction, I’ll probably be the one ‘looking’ for it anyway.

Once it’s done, I take a deep breath and steel myself. I have to do this tomorrow. If I don’t do it soon, I’ll lose my courage. Jack’s been doing everything right since I stabbed him—apologizing, going to meetings, the works. It’s sucked me back in before, every single time. I can’t let that happen again. Not after he returned from the dead like it didn’t even shake him.

Time will cloud my memories. I’ll come up with excuses and edit that night until it aligns with the happily ever after I always wanted. But I know better. I can’t forget what happened just because it's easier and more comfortable to resumeto my old life.

Maybe Rosemary’s reading was right. Maybe it is time for death to clear out space for the beginning of something better.