The Garden of Grace

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This tale is a little different from my other LW offerings. For one it's told in the third person where I've previously favoured first person. Secondly, it's somewhat darker and more macabre than my previous tales so please consider yourself warned.

My next planned story is a Reconciliation one, so if this isn't your cup of tea keep an eye out for Greatest Gift Of All.

The Garden of Grace was inspired, in part, by a movie and further by a news article. The story is not a depiction intended to mirror a real-life scenario. It's fiction. I've taken artistic licence. So, may I suggest the reader practice a little suspension of disbelief and enjoy the story for the entertainment it is intended to be?

There are flashbacks throughout the story and rather than take you, the reader, out of the story by signposting them I have chosen to write them in italics.

As per my previous stories, I've done my own editing which probably means there's little mistakes I've missed because I'm too familiar with my own words. My best friend, lover, and partner, Vandemonium1, has proofread so if any mistakes remain we can blame him... hahaha, just kidding, sweetheart, I take full responsibility. Oh, and thanks for the lend of the pick axe handle. Sorry I broke it...

Thanks, and happy reading.

A PERSON WHO would kill your love when your love was all you had was not much of a person in Jacob Morissey's estimation.

Even worse if that person was your wife; the person who was meant to love you above all others. The person who knew you better than anyone else. The person who saw you at your most vulnerable moments. The person who had found a way into your heart, your bones, your blood, your soul. Funny how much all-consuming love has in common with cancer.

Jacob came to the conclusion that some loves, like cancer, were benign. Others; malignant. His wife fell into the malignant variety and like it, she had to be cut out and destroyed.

And Jacob knew just how to do it.

It was so perfect he was certain even she would appreciate the method of her destruction. And such a glorious finale.

Jacob looked beyond his workbench, out of the window, to the garden beyond. It was alive with colour. Her English cottage garden. The one she'd spent so much time building and planting. The one she loved so much. Her pride and joy. Yet, she'd abandoned it too.

It would be like coming home for her. Yes, Jacob decided, it was poetic.

******

JACOB STARED AT the blank canvas, brush in hand, for a long time, waiting. Waiting for 'it.'

'It' was difficult to describe. 'It' was an urge, a drive, a tingle in his fingertips, a flutter in his belly, a striving in his soul, and a need in his gut. 'It' was a clear vision in his mind that directed his hand. Without 'it' there was no art.

Jacob did a slow three-sixty, his gaze taking in the four walls of his studio, each of which was lined with blank canvases. They leaned casually, like patrons lounging with wine glasses in hand at one of his opening nights. But unlike blasé art collectors, preparatory sketches were pinned to them, each one accusing him, nagging him to begin.

"What?" he screamed at them. "I'm waiting for 'it,' same as you. You want to have a go at someone, have a go at 'it.'"

Jacob scowled and threw down his brush. It skidded across the floor, stopped only by one of the recriminating canvases. His anger not satisfied he threw his palette to the floor. It landed with a crash face down. Still not satisfied, he kicked it, glorying in the colourful smear it left on the wooden floor. It was the most creative thing he'd achieved in months. Jacob then did what he'd done every day since 'it' had abandoned him. He went for a walk.

He walked the long, familiar, tree-lined driveway. The maples were green with new spring growth. Beneath them, as far as the gate off in the distance, a river of yellow, white, and green. Daffodils.

Jacob's feet were in the present and continued their journey, his mind lagged behind in the past.

"Oh please, Jake. Let's do it. Daffodils are such happy flowers. It will make the house perfect."

Jake hid his smile; 'perfect' was Grace's favourite word.

"But the driveway is so long, it will take thousands."

"True, but they will multiply and every year it will look better and better. They will multiply along with our happiness."

Of course, he said yes. He always said yes to her.

Jacob scowled at the profusion of daffodils. She'd lied. She'd said they were happy flowers. Well, he wasn't happy.

******

DINNER CONSISTED OF a can of cold baked beans eaten while sitting on his studio floor. Dessert was a handful of dried apple, made tough from age and exposure to air. Their leathery consistency gave Jacob's jaw a good workout. He thought longingly of one of Grace's tender, succulent roasts. Jacob tilted his head back and sniffed deeply, fancying he could smell his favourite meat roasting away in the huge double oven; pork with homemade applesauce.

"Baby, you have to stop for the day. Dinner's on the table," Grace whispered in his ear.

Jacob jerked, swivelling his head to look behind. No one was there. Certainly not Grace. She'd left months ago. Shelby was now the recipient of Grace's to-die-for roasts.

"Shelby? What the hell kind of guy has a name like Shelby?" Jacob asked the empty room. "A poncy, effeminate, born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-his-mouth, wannabe art collector with more money than sense, that's who."

Jacob snorted at his own description of the girly-man who'd seduced his wife away from him. The man of fast cars and even faster women. The clichéd, bored, jaded millionaire.

The irony was she'd met Shelby at Jake's last solo show. The fucker had even bought one of Jake's canvases to impress her. Must have wanted into her knickers real bad—he forked out 45K for the privilege. Jacob hoped 'Graceful Dance', a semi-abstract piece depicting a woman reminiscent of Grace—hence the play on words of the title—twirling in a bed of daffodils, curdled Shelby's spunk every time he dumped a load in her traitorous snatch.

Jake stood rooted to the spot. He couldn't believe what his eyes were telling him.

'No,' his mind silently screamed.

She was as her name foretold; grace in motion. All sinuous undulations as she rode the man beneath her. Her back arched sensuously, her breasts jutting forward, nipples hard and upturned. Her hands on his thighs and her head tossed back, throat exposed. Her hair reached his thighs and swished back and forth. Jake knew how that felt.

Even in silhouette Jake knew the truth of what his mind tried to deny; it was Grace. His Grace.

Had it been a porno film he was watching, he'd have found it erotic. But it was no softcore porn. It was his wife and it was obscene.

Jake stood frozen for a long time, his hands pressed against his belly, witnessing his betrayal. Witnessing his death. He tore his gaze away from the horror film playing out before his eyes and looked down at his hands...

... Jacob lifted his hands to eye level. He shook his head; for a moment he was certain he'd seen blood.

His hand, of its own volition, grasped the neck of the half full bottle of Jack Daniels. It knew what he needed. His lips obeyed and opened obediently to accept and close around the damp opening. His throat protested, but his stomach welcomed the fire water.

Jacob carefully placed the open bottle on the floor, gently shoving it a small distance away before lowering himself to lay down. He rolled to his side, foetal position.

The studio floor was as good a place as any to sleep.

******

THE SOUND OF a chainsaw starting up close by reverberated in Jacob's head. He groaned as much for the actual noise as for the knowledge it was someone calling him on his cell phone. Why had he chosen it as his ringtone? He wanted to go back to sleep, back to wonderful senseless oblivion. He most certainly didn't want to talk to anyone. Not today. Not ever.

The sound went on and on, escalating. Jacob growled and rolled on to his back, reaching into his work trousers. A glance at the screen told him it was two in the afternoon. What the hell? Where had the day gone?

"Hello," he barked into the phone.

"Jesus Christ, Jake, is that any way to answer your phone? I could have been a potential buyer," said his agent.

Jacob bristled at his scolding tone.

"My name is Jacob, Bart. What do you want? I'm busy."

"Yeah, okay, whatever. I hope you being busy means you're going to tell me you're on track for your show this summer."

Jacob sat up, eyeing the blank canvases admonishing him from the opposite wall.

"Yeah, peachy. Everything is peachy keen and on track. My best work ever."

"Excellent. Let me know when I can come out with the photographer to start cataloguing them in prep for the show."

"Yeah. Sure thing."

Jacob rang off. He looked at the bottle of JD and contemplated returning to oblivion.

Just as he reached for the bottle the chainsaw started up again. He glanced at the screen; Grace. His mind decided to decline the call, but his finger hit accept. Old habits were hard to break.

"Jake?"

The soft hesitancy of her voice just made Jacob angrier. It was a lie. It was all a lie. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"What do you want, Grace?"

"I-I-Shit."

Jacob heard her inhale noisily.

"Are you okay? Are you taking care of yourself? Your voice sounds funny. You're not drinking too much are you?"

"What the hell do you care?"

"I do care, Jake. I care a lot. I-I, I, well, I just had a funny feeling that you needed me and that I should call."

Jacob wasn't fooled. Her concern was an act.

"Well, aren't you just the Mother Theresa of unfaithful wives, caring about how the poor dipshit you screwed over is feeling."

"Jake, you have to stop attacking me verbally. You have to get past what happened. We were over at least a year before I met Shelby."

"Really? And you didn't think to tell me? Funny how you were willing to keep living off me, sharing my bed, and having sex while we were, how did you so eloquently put it? Over?"

"I just didn't know how to tell you."

"Well, I must commend you on your novel way of broaching the subject. Catching you fucking that pansy certainly told me in no uncertain terms what our relationship status was."

Jake didn't know why he was back at the apartment. Perhaps, he hoped the visions of the previous night had all been a bad dream.

No such luck.

There she was kneeling on the bed in their Sydney apartment, her face down, arse up. Her hair moved back and forth in time with her swaying tits. This coupling looked less erotic than the previous one he'd witnessed. More animalistic. With each thrust of her lover's penis Grace moaned and a bit more of Jake died.

The swaying stopped. She wriggled her arse.

"What do you want, Grace?"

"You."

"What do you want, Grace?" the man's voice repeated, more firmly this time.

"You! Your big cock in my hungry pussy!"

"That's what I thought, Better give my slut what she wants then," the man growled, slamming his hips to her raised buttocks.

Grace grunted as her face was pushed into the mattress with the force of his thrust.

"Jake? Are you still there?"

Jacob shook his head, clearing his throat, "Yes, bitch, I'm still here."

"Please stop. Please stop being mean to me. I still care about you. I rang because I'm concerned."

Jacob ignored her plea, knowing it was an act.

"So how is Shelby?"

"He's not here at the moment. He's away on business."

"Ooh, you better be careful, Grace. Maybe he's hunting down some fresh married pussy to seduce. Maybe he's bored with you already. Or is it you? Are you bored? Need me come over and fuck your adulterous cunt? Though, technically it wouldn't be adultery, us being still married and all."

"Jake, stop! I know you're just trying to hurt me."

"Too damned right I am, you bitch. You deserve every ugly word and more."

Jacob was breathing hard as if he'd run the length of the driveway and back.

"I know you. I know you still care for me, Jake."

Jacob remained silent.

"How about I come over and cook you a nice dinner and we can talk about the divorce?"

Jacob laughed loudly and cynically.

"What are you going to do, Grace? Poison me so you take the effing lot? Haven't you taken enough, you traitorous bitch? Ripping out a man's heart not enough for you? And Grace, I don't love you; I loathe you."

He heard her sharp intake of breath and a tiny, stubborn part of him ached to apologise and comfort her, like he had when their pup got run over by a truck because he accidentally hadn't closed the gate properly and she'd been heartbroken.

The feeling lasted but a moment; his memories of her parting words, so cruel and scathing, as she lugged her suitcase out to her car ended it.

Clueless wimp, only married you because I knew you'd become famous, loser, need a man who can actually fuck me, not one who thinks I'm Dresden fucking china, fool, only wanted you to paint a famous portrait of me...

Without saying another word, he hung up on her, cutting off the echoes from the past.

He shuffled to the messy kitchen, pushing dirty cups and plates to the side to make room on the bench. From the freezer he took out a frozen loaf of bread, and with a bit of effort, extracted two slices. He popped them in the toaster and while he waited for them to cook he moved to the walk-in pantry and found the peanut butter.

The toaster popped, and at the smell of the toasted bread his stomach gave another growl in anticipation. Jacob roughly smeared the paste onto the bread—no butter; he'd run out of that over three weeks prior. He took a bite and with toast in hand went back to the doorway of the pantry. It was at the point where it made Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard look plentiful. Jacob scowled, annoyed. He wouldn't be able to avoid a trip into town much longer.

******

JACOB'S UTE SEEMED to chew up the road to town and spit it out the back. In the past he'd enjoyed its power. No longer. He no longer enjoyed anything. Well, anything other than dreamless, JD induced oblivion.

One by one, he made his stops; the post office, the hardware store, the supermarket. He stocked up on everything.

Everyone gave him pitying looks. Everyone except the checkout chick. She flirted. Jacob ignored them all.

He'd no sooner climbed back in the ute after his last errand when the chainsaw sound started in his pocket. Lifting his arse from the seat and straightening his legs allowed Jacob enough wriggle room to extract his cell from his trouser pocket. He checked the screen. It was Grace. Jacob groaned, dropping his head to the steering wheel, banging it a few times while he decided whether or not to answer. In the end he took the call.

"What do you want now, Grace?"

"Hi, Jake. How are you?"

"Fan-fucking-tastic."

"Aren't you going to ask how I am?"

"No."

"I wish you would. I-I'm missing you."

Jacob shook his head. Did she really think he believed her shit? Did she think he'd forgotten her cruel jibes?

"Where's lover-boy?"

"He has meetings all day today."

"Shucks is little Gracie not getting enough attention? Doesn't lover-boy drop whatever he's doing to cater to your every need like the last schmuck you hooked up with? You know, the one that married you and who gave you everything."

"That's neither fair nor true."

Jacob remained silent, knowing she wouldn't be able to resist trying to explain and justify herself yet again.

"For the last two years you weren't there."

"I was there every damn day, Grace. I worked from home if you recall."

"You might have been there physically, but mentally and emotionally you weren't. Your head was full of art. There was no room for me. I was lonely. I needed someone."

"Now you're the one not being fair. It was about three years ago that I finally started commanding a decent price for my paintings. Instead of only being able to sell a canvas for two to five grand, I started getting twenty-five grand plus. And I didn't hear you complaining when that success enabled us to buy the house, you know; the one you described as perfect, and keep an apartment in the city as well. No, you liked that part of my success just fine. And for someone who was so damn lonely you did a good job of concealing it."

"I'm going to come. Your slut's going to come all over your fat cock," Grace moaned, rocking back and forth on her lover's dick. "Oh god, harder, baby, harder. Keep fucking me. Don't stop. I'm going to come, oh god, I'm going to come so hard."

Every word was another twist of the knife embedded in Jake's heart. When was the last time she'd been so wanton with him?

"Jake? Are you still there? Did you hear a word I said?"

"No, and what's more I don't want to."

Jacob heard her voice warning him to not hang up on her as he moved the phone away from his ear and ended the call.

******

THE AROMA OF the supermarket bought lasagne smelled good to Jacob. He checked the time, willing it pass faster so he could eat the first proper meal he'd had in ages.

With ten minutes to go his cell rang, the revving chainsaw jarring the silence. He knew without looking at the screen who it would be. Did she have to spoil everything?

"Hey, Jake. It's me again."

"Yeah. I figured that out. What do you want now?"

"I want to talk to you, baby."

Jacob snarled like a cornered beast. Her continued efforts to manipulate him infuriated him. "Don't call me 'baby'. I'm not your effing 'baby'. I'm Jacob, the guy you screwed over."

"You wouldn't get so upset with me, Jake, if you didn't still love me," Grace snapped, her mask slipping. "You're just jealous because there's another man sharing my bed these days and you wish it was still you."

Lush hinterland forest gave way to increasingly denser city suburbs through the window of the train, but Jake was blind to it all. In truth, he avoided looking out the window because instead of seeing the passing scenery, all he saw was images of Grace making love—and it was lovemaking—with another man.

He didn't know why, and the pain of it was almost beyond bearing, but he felt compelled to do it anyway. He followed Grace. He kept hoping he'd witness her ending her affair, that he'd hear her say to her lover that she loved her husband too much to continue.

This time she'd said she was going for the weekend to the city.

He'd decided to take the train and hire a car rather than risk having Grace recognise his ute. He parked across the narrow street from Shelby Holborn's mini mansion in the trendy inner-city suburb of Paddington and waited.

He knew Grace would have easily beaten him to the city, the train being so much slower than her sporty little Lexus. He'd already been to their apartment in Bondi and ascertained neither she nor her car was there. Jake took that to mean she intended staying the night at her lover's house.

He watched as Holborn's neighbours arrived home, walked their dogs, left to go to destinations unknown, and generally went about their lives, and, as he waited, his mind nagged at her choice of lover. Her choice was an insult in itself. The guy was a spoiled pretty boy. A playboy. Inherited wealth. Walked into a top position in the family firm straight out of school. Had had everything handed to him on a platter. What did Grace see in him? Did she honestly believe he'd change his ways for her? That he wouldn't get bored with her the way he had with every other female he'd pursued?