4

Two Months Earlier

Ted had left around seven, just after the darkness of six in the morning had gone and the early fog was burned off by a steadily warming sun. Amy had woken with the digital alarm clock at around five forty-five, had turned her head for the ritualistic good morning peck-on-the-cheek, then hovered about comfortably in that place between sleep and awake, half-listening to Ted as he sang 'The Honeymoon Song' in the shower and shoving the covers over her head to drown out his blow-dryer. Amy pulled them back down later to smack her lips against Ted's as he said 'see you later', and dozed a bit more, feeling the tiny tremors the automatic garage door made as it closed, buzzing pleasantly through her skin.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and though Amy would much rather have blundered on through life oblivious, something began to nag at her.

Ted had been singing 'The Honeymoon Song'.

Mort had hummed that the morning they'd woken up together for the firt time, sleepy, calm, and satisfied.

Amy had been pillowed on Mort's golden, naked chest, listening to his heart beat, the muscles in her arm tightening as a hand trailed a finger with a touch that was there and not there up and down her arm.

Then Mort began to thrum, and Amy had lifted her head from his breast to look at him oddly.

"Why 'The Honeymoon Song'?"

Mort just grinned and slipped a hand behind her neck to bring her in for a kiss. Amy had struggled, giggling and dodging his mouth, squealing about morning breath, but Mort had captured her and pinned her to the mattress and proceeded to kiss her until she couldn't care less about the way his mouth tasted. When he'd finally pulled away, thickening against her thigh, Amy had laughed.

"At least you woke up with 'The Honeymoon Song' in your head and not something like 'The Anvil Chorus'."

Mort had snickered and began to kiss down her body, and then there was warmth and wet and Mort and sunlight and Mort and Mort inside and around her, and Amy had spread her legs and arched her back, and rocked against the lapping presence between her thighs, seeing stars even though they had disappeared into the sky hours before.

Amy had awoken back in Ted's house as if from a dream, and realized with a half-annoyed, half-aroused moan that her legs had drawn themselves up of their own accord, and a warm slickness dampened the apex of her thighs. She'd had half a mind to relieve the pleasurable ache herself, but as her hand slid down beneath the sheets and fingered the band of her Victoria's Secret panties, she'd instantaneously felt nauseous.

This was wrong.

There was no possible legitimate excuse for feeling what she did at that moment. There was no way in Hell that she should still be so turned on when thinking of Mort; they were in the Middle of a divorce (D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Dee-vorce), and Ted! She loved Ted! She wanted Ted, not Mort!

But again the small voice had protested by saying then why do you care? Why do you feel some surge of happiness when Mort answers the phone, even if he's in a foul mood? Why do you worry about him constantly? And I know that you know that we both know you still have a soft spot for him.

Amy denied this, denied herself.

Then she had picked up the portable resting on the end-table, had dialed the Tashmore Lake number, and waited for Mort to answer the phone, not knowing that Morton Rainey would soon depart this world, and that John Shooter would run it.