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All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design: Renee Rocco

The Birthday Gift © 2008 Giselle Renarde

eXcessica publishing

All rights reserved

The Birthday Gift

By Giselle Renarde

Shaking her head, Meredith untied her apron as she hurried along the tree-lined path.  This wasn’t the first time she'd forgotten to take it off, making a quick dash to the grocery store. Head in the clouds! At least she'd remembered to put on shoes this time.  Blushing, she envisioned the snide grins other customers cast down on her last week, when she got all the way to the checkout before realizing she still had fuzzy bedroom slippers on her feet.  Were those supermarket acquaintances sympathetic to her absentmindedness? Hard to say. There was a time, not long ago, when Meredith knew just about everyone in Sheridan, but the times, they were a’ changing.

“All these newcomers infiltrating our town…” her parents grumbled, bowing their heads gravely. Like a timid child, Meredith could never disagree with her stern father and critical mother. With her parents, there was to be no argument. But was there not an exotic appeal to the new families moving into her quiet neighborhood? They came to Sheridan from all corners of the earth and brought with them vibrant clothing and zesty foods. There was a whole big world out there, and more and more of its inhabitants were coming to Sheridan.

Slipping her favorite apron—the one with pale pink roses and mint green leaves—over her head, Meredith folded the garment in half and wrapped it around her arm again and again. June Cleaver would never have made a blunder like this! The TV character was a figure of aspiration. “They don’t make ‘em like June Cleaver anymore,” her father used to say when they watched the black and white re-runs. How proud she felt when her husband Jeff argued there were still rare specimens of that breed in production, citing Meredith herself as an example.

Jeff was a darling. He deserved a wonderful birthday gift, if only she could dream one up. Simple was always best. It was the simple pleasures that kept the impending boredom of life at bay: gardening, reading to Thomas and Jane, baking a cake. In fact, this very Saturday morning, Meredith was heading to the store to purchase the makings of a strawberry shortcake for Jeff’s birthday. She had the flour at home, but needed fresh strawberries, butter, whipping cream… Oh, why hadn’t she written a shopping list?

Because Jeff had rushed her out the door that morning, without even giving her time to throw a shawl over her shoulders. What good fortune the morning sun shone warm as cashmere. Thank goodness she’d chosen to walk through Granite Park rather than down Sheridan’s suffocating main streets. It seemed like there were twice as many cars on the road as there had been even five years earlier, and the exhaust fumes were overwhelming on the hotter days of summer.

As Meredith strolled along, the cotton skirt of her sensible blue dress flapping in the breeze, a sudden chill ran down her spine. Something wasn’t right. A twig snapped behind her. Somebody was watching her every move, she was sure of it. Breath held hostage, she worked up the courage to take a look around. There wasn’t a soul in all of Granite Park, from what she could see. It must have been a squirrel, or a sparrow, or perhaps a hare. Silly girl, so jumpy. Of course there was nothing to be afraid of, but she quickened her pace nonetheless.

Not five seconds later, heavy footsteps fell against the path. How could that be? There was nobody there a moment ago. Heart racing, Meredith stole a quick peek over her shoulder without slowing her gait. The imposing figure’s face was obscured by dirty brown hair. Where could he have come from? And was there something familiar about the lanky man in grubby clothing? It was hard to say from such a brief glance. Without the intervention of her rational mind, Meredith’s body took over at the helm and she was off like a shot towards the path’s end.

There was only one house nearby, and Meredith darted for it. It was a large Victorian crawling with ivy, probably a summer home for business folk from the city when it was originally built. Innumerable anxious taps at the front door generated no response. What could she do? She had to get in. Someone was after her. There wasn’t a moment to spare. Good thing most of Sheridan’s residents didn’t lock their doors; she slid unobtrusively into the dark home, bolting the door behind her.

Nobody appeared to be home. What a relief! How embarrassing it would have been to intrude upon a breakfasting family. Through the leaden glass of the bay window, Meredith looked out into the street. There was no sign of the man who’d been following her. Perhaps she’d only perceived him as a threat. Really, what evidence was there that he meant to hurt her? Just because a man was walking through the park and wearing dirty clothing didn’t mean he intended any harm. How silly of her. That poor guy must have felt terribly affronted by her fearful response. It was clearly an overreaction.

“Meredith?” a woman’s low-pitched voice inquired.

Meredith’s heart jumped into her throat as she leapt away from the window. After a few involuntary steps toward the front door, she turned to see who’d spoken her name. There, at the entrance to the foyer, stood a woman of perhaps sixty-five years. Tall and austere, she wore a long velvet dress despite the warm weather. Her hair, dark grey streaked with white and pulled back into a loose bun, gave her a witch-like appearance. How suiting, in that dark house full of dark wood and dark furniture.

“How do you know my name?”

The air was stagnant. Why were there were no lights on? Holding tight to the belt of her cotton dress, Meredith wrapped the thin fabric around her wrist again and again. She flinched when the woman touched her arm.

“It’s Joyce. You don’t remember me, do you dear? I was the evening foreman at the factory. We met once or twice when your husband was staying late around tax time and you brought him his dinner. We all razzed Jeff about that, but it was real nice of you. I always did like your husband. ‘Course, he’s the one who did the payroll, so anybody who liked getting paid liked Jeff.”

Yes, this woman did look familiar after all. She obviously knew Jeff, and any friend of her husband’s was a friend of Meredith’s.