Читать книгу The Wrong Wife - Carolyn McSparren - Страница 9

WHILE HER TV DINNER microwaved, Annabelle curled into a tight little ball in the yellow club chair beside the empty fireplace. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, and then ran her fingers down her face. When she touched her cheeks she realized they were wet with perspiration and her fingertips were actually shaking.

What had happened with the lace? She could tell herself it was a trick of the light, but she knew better.

Jonas once told her that Governor Huey Long of Louisiana carried around a mock certificate of release from the Louisiana state mental institution as proof that he was sane. She had often wished she had a certificate like that so she could point to it and say to herself, “See. You are not a nutcase.”

In a pinch, she could call on a couple of excellent psychotherapists to certify she wasn’t any crazier than so-called healthy people.

Okay, so she hated cocktail parties and meeting new people and speaking in public.

But hallucinations? Never, not in all her years. Not even when the nightmares had still been coming at least once or twice a week.

And she hadn’t had the nightmares for years.

Until she’d come back to Memphis to work for the wife of the man who had failed to defend her father successfully. But they’d been divorced for years. Hal Jackson had disappeared years ago just as her own father had disappeared when he’d been released from prison.

Her New York roommate, Vickie, had begged her not to leave New York. Annabelle managed to keep paying her half of the rent so that Vickie didn’t have to sublet. She needed her place to come back to when she left Memphis. Together she and Vickie had done a bunch of work decorating the SoHo loft, and they’d never be able to find another one now at anything like a reasonable rate.

But family was family. That was all that mattered, really. Grandmere needed Annabelle because there was no one else.

When Annabelle had had no one else, her grandmother hadn’t hesitated to take her in.

She’d fed and clothed Annabelle, sent her to the best schools, even tried from time to time to act like a regular grandmother. It wasn’t her fault that she’d failed so miserably. She was a dragon by nature, and the disastrous circumstances under which she’d acquired Annabelle had destroyed the way of life she cherished, turned the woman into a bitter recluse.

It didn’t even matter that she’d made Annabelle pay psychologically over the years. Grandmere had done the best she could. Now it was Annabelle’s turn. That was the way families worked.

She couldn’t manage to look after Grandmere from eighteen hundred miles away any longer, to turn over her care to unknown women who came and went almost as often as they changed Grandmere’s antique linen sheets.

Six months wasn’t much to give back for all those years and all those school bills. Dr. Renfro said his best guess was that Grandmere probably had less than six months left.

Annabelle dreaded losing the old woman. They had always had a love-hate relationship, but when Grandmere died, the last tiny root that tethered her to home would be gone. She’d be forever adrift.

Right. The old lady would outlive them all if will was any criterion.

The microwave dinged. Annabelle turned off the CD and flipped on the television. The news was over. Now she at least had the company of human voices and laugh tracks.

She put her dinner on a tray, took it back to the club chair and ate with little attention to the television sitcom.

Her finger, the one that she’d jabbed with the dressmaker’s pin, throbbed. She’d doctored it with antibiotic ointment and covered it with a bandage, but it still hurt. Drat Ben anyway! The thought of him set other nerves throbbing.

She glanced over at the lace, now spread carefully on a sheet of white cardboard on her worktable. At least she didn’t see the thing dripping with blood any longer.

After dinner she had to drive over to check on Grandmere, to be certain the current caregiver hadn’t given up in disgust as so many of the others had, or that Grandmere hadn’t lobbed a silver tray at her head and brained the poor woman.

Amazing how strong Grandmere could be when she was angry. Lying in that big old bed she looked no larger than a kitten.

Annabelle picked up her tray and took it into the kitchen. Then she swung her black sweater over her shoulders. The April nights still got chilly. As she started for the stairs the telephone shrilled.

She yipped. Silly to be so jumpy at sudden sounds. She grabbed the phone and said, “Yes, hello,” and knew she sounded crabby.

“Uh, Annabelle?” A male voice. “It’s Ben, Ben Jackson.”

“Yes, Ben, I recognized your voice.” Her body had recognized his voice. She wasn’t about to tell him that.

“Look, I wanted to say again how sorry I am…”

“No need. I understand perfectly.” She started to put the receiver down. His voice stopped her.

“The thing is, I’d like to make it up to you if you’d let me.”

“Not necessary. Ben, I’m kind of in a hurry right now.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’ll make this fast. Let me take you to dinner Thursday night.”

“No thank you.”

“It’s not a real date, only Mother’s Thursday-night thing.”

“No way.”

“It’s right across the yard, Annabelle. You’ve got to eat.”

“I work with your mother—no, make that for your mother—five days a week. The last thing she wants is to see my shining face at dinner with all those bigwigs she always has.”

“It’s a really small group. Probably people who remember you.”

“Wow! Talk about your really great enticement.”

“Look. You’re the one who came back to town. You can’t hide yourself upstairs in the garage forever. You’ve got to come out sometime. You play hermit in New York as well?”

“In New York I am plain old Annabelle Langley. Here I’m—well, you know what I am.”

“It’s ancient history, and you didn’t have anything to do with it. Come with me, please. If only to make me feel less of a jerk.”

“Ben…”

“Next step is I blackmail you.”

“What?”

“I mean, I’ll make Mom put pressure on you.”

“That is dirty pool.”

“Don’t I know it. Save me. Come with me Thursday.”

She dropped her forehead against her hand. “Okay, Ben. I’ll come. But I don’t have any dress-up clothes.”

“Whatever you wear will be great.” He suddenly sounded immensely cheerful. “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

“Pick me up?” She laughed. “Ben, I live in your mother’s backyard. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then shall we say I will call for you, Mademoiselle Langley?”

“Whatever. Now I really do have to go see about Grandmere.”

“Sure. Sorry. Bye.” As he hung up, she was certain she heard a shouted “Yes!” down the line.

“YES!” Ben said as he clicked his cell phone shut. He considered doing a victory dance, but suspected that the anteroom of the men’s room at the club wasn’t the place to do it. As it was, one of the late golfers raised his eyebrows. Ben grinned at him, and went back outside to find Brittany.

What on earth was he going to do about Brittany? She wasn’t responsible for his attack of insanity, but he could not, absolutely, positively and totally could not take her home and to bed. Not tonight, not ever again.

But he couldn’t actually say to her, “So, Brittany, sorry about this, but I’ve fallen madly in love with my mother’s new chef d’atelier.” That ought to go over big. He’d read somewhere that when a woman asked a man into her bed, it was only gentlemanly to accept. Not as if it would be the first time. Or even the twentieth, come to that.

Was that part of the reason he’d gone crazy? Was the first careless rapture with Brittany dying down?

Actually, there had never been much careless rapture with Brittany. Just workmanlike, satisfying, athletic and inventive sex. She had a great body and one hell of a lot of expertise. Going to bed with her wasn’t something any red-blooded male would turn down lightly.

So how come he couldn’t just accept the implicit offer? Who would he hurt? Not Annabelle, who didn’t know the way he felt, didn’t know he existed, probably. Not Brittany, who wouldn’t be doing anything she hadn’t done with him before. Not himself…

Himself. Taking a woman to bed just to be accommodating was the sort of thing his father did. Over and over again. Casually wounding his family, and ultimately the women he seduced. Ben had sworn he’d never be that sort of man. He wasn’t about to start now.

“Ready, darling?” Brittany looked up from her cappuccino and reached for his hand. He took it and helped her up. “Ben, sweetie, are you okay?” she asked. “You look kind of green.”

“Sorry, I think I had too many crab cakes,” he said as he followed her to the front door. “Would you mind if I went home to bed?”

For a moment her eyes grew hostile, then she smiled and touched his cheek. “You want me to come over and tuck you in?”

He managed what he hoped was a suitably wan smile. “No, I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep and some antacid. I’ll follow you home and make sure you get inside okay.”

“Don’t be silly, sweetie. I’m five blocks away and you know what a bear my doorman is. Just go on home, snuggle down, and think of what you’re missing.” She arched an eyebrow.

He opened her car door and handed her in. As she swung her incredible legs behind the steering wheel he thought for a fleeting instant that he probably ought to be institutionalized for sheer idiocy. “Nevertheless, I will follow you. No argument. I know what can happen to a beautiful woman in five blocks.”

“You are a dear,” she said, and blew him an air kiss. “Call me tomorrow?”

He nodded and turned toward his own car. So much for honor. He’d have to work out some way to let her down gently without wounding her pride. He suspected she wouldn’t go quietly.

“SHH!” The deep voice hissed from the top of the stairs. “The old—Mrs. Langley is asleep already.”

Annabelle climbed the broad walnut staircase, turned the corner at the half landing and ran lightly up the rest of the stairs to the gallery that overhung the staircase. With each step the Oriental runner threw up a fine cloud of dust. Have to get somebody in here soon, she thought, before the place becomes haunted by brown recluse spiders and mice. She stifled a cough and whispered back, “Any trouble?”

The woman weighed twice as much as Annabelle. Her pale arms were the size of bolsters and looked about as solid. She rolled her eyes and sighed deeply. “Better’n last night. Didn’t throw anything at me.”

Annabelle fought to remember the woman’s name. There had been so many in the past two months since Grandmere’s last attack, and although she knew most of them only through communication with the employment agency, she’d met three just since she came to town. That made one a week. “Thanks, Mrs.…” she hesitated. “Mrs. Mayhew.” That was it. Beulah Mayhew. She’d come three days ago.

“She don’t bother me none,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “I’ve had a whole lot worse. At least she don’t outweigh me.” She laughed silently and the rolls under her arms jiggled. “Want a glass of sweet tea? I got some made in the icebox.”

Annabelle smiled. None of the others had ever asked her to join them for so much as a roasted peanut. “No, thanks. But give me a rain check, please. Do you think I can look in on her without waking her?”

“Annabelle!” A querulous and surprisingly strong voice called from the doorway at the end of the hall. “Is that you?”

Annabelle’s shoulders sagged. “Yes, Grandmere.”

Mrs. Mayhew rolled her eyes and whispered, “Go say hello. I’ll come lay down the law in a little while.”

Annabelle’s feet dragged over the exquisite Kirman runner that Grandmere had cut down for the hall. The dealer who had sold it to her had been horrified, but she’d told him it was her rug and she’d do as she liked with it.

Annabelle pasted a suitable smile on her face, squared her shoulders and walked across the threshold into that room she’d hated for twenty-three years.

The room was the same size as the living room, and beyond it the summer sleeping porch over the solarium downstairs had been glassed in to create a conservatory. The plants had long since died of neglect, but the room still held the faint odor of decaying mulch overlaid with the acrid tinge of medicine.

Here there were Oriental rugs on top of Oriental rugs. They had always been Grandmere’s grand passion. At first Annabelle had felt her grandmother’s joy in antique Orientals must signal a kinship between them. Her grandmother must truly appreciate the rich colors and beautiful patterns of the rugs. Then she discovered Grandmere saw them only as visible signs of her wealth. She possessed them as she tried to possess everything and everyone around her.

That was why she liked the ornate pre–Civil War furniture. The high-relief walnut eagle still perched on top of the seven-foot-tall headboard, caught in that moment before it stoops to impale its prey on three-inch talons. Annabelle had nightmares about those talons for years. She still shuddered at the sight of them.

Grandmere lay in the center of the bed, propped on soft, linen pillows edged with fine handmade lace.

The same hawk nose and piercing eyes as the eagle. With age and illness the likeness had become really scary. But she’d lost much of her heavy pale hair, and now pink scalp showed through the fine white hairs that were still beautifully cut and dressed once a week when her beautician visited to do her hair, nails and feet.

Her pale blue eyes, so different from Annabelle’s dark ones, held the same mad intelligence as the eagle’s.

“Come and kiss me, child, if you can bear to touch this wrinkled old skin.”

Fishing for a compliment. A good day, then. Annabelle kissed her cheek and tasted the French powder that Grandmere wore even to bed with the expensive perfume she still imported. “Nonsense. You’ll never age.”

“Liar.” She grabbed Annabelle’s wrist and pulled her down close to whisper, “That woman is torturing me to death. I have fired her a dozen times, but she refuses to go. You must do it.”

“What kind of torture?”

“She beats me.” Grandmere frowned at the door. “And she steals. She stole the pearls your grandfather gave me for our tenth wedding anniversary.”

“The pearls are in your safe-deposit box at the bank.”

“She’s starving me to death. Look at her, then look at me. She eats her food and my food too. I haven’t had a mouthful all day.” The old voice turned querulous once more.

Annabelle pulled gently away and glanced at the silver tray on the side table. The meal might not be gourmet, but it seemed adequate. She could tell from the European way that her grandmother had laid her knife and fork at angles across the plate when she finished that Mrs. Mayhew had not eaten her grandmother’s dinner. “Would you like me to bring you a sandwich?”

Grandmere sniffed. “A sandwich? What wine does one drink with a sandwich?”

“You can’t have wine, Grandmere.”

The pale eyes flashed. “You’ve drunk it all, haven’t you, you loathsome child?” She began to cry. “The Napoleon brandy that your grandfather bought. The champagne. It’s all gone, isn’t it? You’ve drunk it or sold it, haven’t you? That’s what your mother would do—sell what she couldn’t swig down.”

“No, Grandmere. The wine is there. You have the only key to the wine cellar, remember?”

“You’ve had a duplicate made. Wouldn’t put it past you. You’re in it with her.” Abruptly she turned her face into the pillows. “Leave me alone the way you always do. Everybody always leaves me alone.”

“You’re not alone, Grandmere. Mrs. Mayhew’s here. I’m here now. Jonas is here.”

“Jonas?” The old woman cackled. “Jonas? Oh, that is rich. Jonas!” Suddenly she thrust Annabelle away. “Get out and don’t come back. You’re just like her. Evil! The bad seed! I knew it when I took you in. Get out!”

Annabelle stood. She was well aware they were no longer talking about Mrs. Mayhew but about Annabelle’s mother. Grandmere had despised Chantal on sight and never ceased reminding Annabelle that she had been the only one to see what a scheming hussy the woman was.

Annabelle might as well leave. Grandmere would call her back later, accuse her of running out, but at the moment staying would only provoke another outburst. That was the way it always went. “Good night, Grandmere. Sleep well.” She bent to touch the old lady’s cheek with hers and drew back just in time to avoid the sharp red nails that clawed at her. Just like the eagle.

“I said get out. Whore! Slut! Look at you. Just like her!”

Annabelle backed away. As she reached the door, her grandmother sat up. “How many husbands have you seduced this week? The only thing you’ve ever done right in your miserable life was to kill her!”

Annabelle fled past Mrs. Mayhew, who stood in the doorway with her mouth open. She nearly tripped on the staircase where the brass bar had come loose from under the stair tread on one end. She knelt to push it back into place. She couldn’t afford to have Mrs. Mayhew break her neck.

As she fled out the back door she heard her grandmother calling after her querulously, but she did not stop. By the time she slammed the door of her car and turned on the ignition she was crying. Anger? Pain? Loss?

Tonight had been really bad. She’d heard that some elderly, sick people lost their connection to the present, and kept getting today mixed up with yesterday, but Grandmere’s mind had always been sharp. Too darned sharp.

She took a deep breath. Grandmere had always been so angry at life, and now she had nothing to look forward to except death. It must be hard to see Annabelle with her life ahead of her. At times like this, she wanted to hate the old woman, but as she’d told Marian, Grandmere was all she had. All she had ever had since her father disappeared.

As she drove by the elaborate four-car garage, she saw the lights were still on upstairs. It was only nine o’clock. Surely she could call on Jonas.

But not without phoning first. She used her cell phone, and, when he picked up, told him that she was downstairs and asked for permission to visit.

“Of course, Miss Langley.”

When he opened the door, she hugged him. “What’s with the ‘Miss Langley’ stuff, Jonas?” He stood aside to let her into his cozy living room. A book lay open on the arm of his easy chair under a reading light. The room was furnished in castoffs from the big house and some of the finest rugs. Jonas at least appreciated them.

“You’re all grown-up now. I shouldn’t be calling you Annabelle.”

“Bull. I’ll always be Annabelle to you. You got any cold beer?” She collapsed on the brown velour sofa and laid her head back. The nerve along her right temple throbbed. She massaged the pulse gently and hoped it wouldn’t keep her awake.

“Lite or regular?”

“Oh, Lite, please, if you have it.” The beer should at least help her relax. She patted her hips. “Always Lite. And I’ll take it straight out of the bottle, thanks.”

Jonas handed her a long-necked bottle covered with ice crystals and took his own to the easy chair. “And then you’ll belch loudly?”

Annabelle laughed. “As loudly as possible. Make sure she hears me all the way across the backyard. Times like this I wish I chewed tobacco so I could hawk and spit.”

“Well, I don’t. She get to you tonight? Was it a bad one?”

“Worse than usual. Now she says that Mrs. Mayhew beats her, steals from her and is starving her.”

Jonas snorted. “Nonsense. I watch pretty closely and I’m a fair judge of people. Beulah Mayhew’s the best you’ve had. Let’s hope she stays. When you going back to New York?”

“I can’t, Jonas, not right this minute.”

“You should get out of this town as quick as you can. Put her in a nursing home. I know you don’t want to, but I’ve been checking them out. They’re expensive, but there are a few good ones.”

Annabelle shook her head. “I can’t abandon her. As much as I hate to admit it, she didn’t abandon me, and she could have.”

“No, she saw to it that you paid for her generosity every day of your young life.” His face clouded. “There are times I could kill her myself.”

Annabelle finished her beer, went over and set the bottle on the drainboard by the sink. “Well, don’t. You’d get caught and then where would I be? You’re my only friend in the world. Thanks, Jonas. By the way, what I could see of the yard looks lovely as always.”

“I try. Hard to get decent help these days.”

“At least money is not a problem. Not for her, at any rate.”

“For you?”

“Not at the moment.” She brushed her lips across his cheek.

“If you do need money, let me know. I have some put by.”

“I’m fine, Jonas, really. Elizabeth pays me better than I deserve, and I get the apartment rent free.”

“Just remember, I’m here if you need me.”

“I always need you. I’d never have gotten this far without you. And if you ever call me Miss Langley again, I’ll deck you.” She trotted down the steps and waved over her shoulder. She could see Jonas standing in the open door of his apartment in her rearview mirror until she turned out of the driveway.

Before she went to bed, Annabelle carefully rolled the clean, dry lace between sheets of acid-free tissue. The blood had come out completely, thank God. The lace was from an early-twentieth-century wedding dress. With luck it would become another bride’s treasured memory. With luck, yards of fine Swiss batiste, some supervision from Mrs. Jackson’s chef d’atelier, and the fine mending and sewing talents of Marian and the other seamstresses.

Annabelle stripped and pulled on the oversize silk pajama top that served as night wear. As she looked at herself in the mirror and picked up her toothbrush, she murmured, “Elizabeth needs a chef d’atelier the way I need a third leg.” She knew she was only a glorified seamstress and purchasing agent. Marian and the Vietnamese women who sewed for Elizabeth needed precious little supervision.

Still, she was grateful to Elizabeth for making a place for her, giving her a fancy title and even providing living quarters rent free.

“Your being here frees me to go to lace auctions and hunt garage sales for old lace dresses and things, and allows Marian to get on with the sewing and mending,” Elizabeth told her. “Of course I need you.”

Kind woman. They were all kind. And she was grateful. Only sometimes she got so tired of having to be grateful.