Buried In Buttercream

She was sure there’d be room for two ... if she could convince him that rose-scented bubbles wouldn’t have an adverse effect on his manly naughty bits.
    She smiled, just thinking about him ... until she remembered how badly and how often she’d been snapping at him lately. Her nerves were a tad frazzled around the edges, to be sure, but the past week or so hadn’t exactly been a cakewalk for him either.
    Not to mention the past three months.
    The suds were beginning to fade, and through the few that remained, she could see her body ... all too clearly.
    She had always loved her body. Overly voluptuous though it was—according to the weight/height charts. What were a few pounds here and a few there?
    This body was uniquely, wonderfully hers, and unlike any other person or object on earth, it had been with her every single second of her life. In some ways she considered it to be her oldest, dearest, most faithful friend.
    Who cared if the fashion models on magazine covers were thinner or younger, a different shape and size? She loved her curves, all of them, and the feminine softness and pretty, creamy color of her skin.
    But now ...
    Her skin wasn’t perfect anymore. Far from it, in fact.
    Above her left breast was an ugly, red puckered scar—a miserable reminder of the bullet that had nearly killed her, the slug that had lodged in her lung and nearly caused her to drown in her own blood.
    Below her breast was an even larger, nastier looking one. That one had caused her to lose her spleen.
    On her abdomen, an inch to the right of her navel, was a third scar, and a fourth was high on her thigh.
    Then, there was the one on her wrist that she saw every day, all day long. An ever-present, constant reminder.
    So many souvenirs. Horrid mementos of the day that changed her life and scarred her spirit forever, as well as her body.
    Sometimes it felt as though it had happened years ago, maybe even in another lifetime altogether. Then, other times, it felt as though it had happened yesterday or even today.
    “It hasn’t been that long, Savannah girl,” she whispered to herself in a comforting voice that sounded a lot like her grandmother’s. “It takes time. Healing doesn’t just happen overnight.”
    She took a washcloth, wetted it, and wrung it out, then placed it over her face.
    She knew why. She didn’t want to see the scars. Didn’t want to think about how pretty and perfect her skin had been ... before. Didn’t want to think about how it would never be like that again. Those scars might fade over the years, but they would always be there, a reminder of the violence that had been done to her.
    And what made her the saddest was that Dirk would never see her body the way it was before. This would be all he would know of her.
    Every time they made love, he would see those ugly scars, and she would know he was seeing them, and they would both remember every moment of that terrible night.
    Suddenly ... with a jolt of unwanted self-awareness, she realized she was glad that tonight wasn’t their honeymoon night, after all. In her heart of hearts, she was relieved to have one more night’s reprieve.
    Because, as much as she wanted to be with Dirk and was looking forward to the joys and pleasures their intimacies would bring, she was more afraid than eager.
    That made her sad. It made her angry. And it made her hate the man who had ruined her body ... along with her self-confidence and her sense of security.
    She started to cry, holding the washcloth tightly over her face to muffle the sound. Then her sobs grew and grew, until they wracked her body. She could feel the wounds deep inside that hadn’t healed yet, aching with each breath.
    Would she ever truly heal, or would she be in pain for the rest of her life because of what he had done to her?
    The torrent of tears continued with a ferocity that scared her. She had never cried like this before in her life, and she wasn’t sure how much worse it was going to get.
    It was as though she were another person, observing herself from a distance and saying, “She’s lost it now. The gal’s cheese has done slipped off her cracker. She’s gone completely off the deep end, and she may not be coming back.”
    Then, from far away she heard a voice. A soft, sweet, little voice. And a pounding.
    Someone was knocking on the bathroom door.
    “Auntie Savannah? Auntie Savannah? It’s me, Jillian.”
    With a heroic effort, Savannah sucked in her sobs and forced herself