Читать книгу The English Wife - Doreen Roberts - Страница 12

Excited about my newly found confidence, I called Val to tell her. I could hear the excitement in her voice. I half expected her to drop everything and rush right over.

“So you’ve actually put the house up for sale,” she exclaimed. “When are you going to start packing?”

“I was thinking of having the moving people pack for me.”

“Are you nuts? I’d never trust my stuff to those idiots. Besides, it will cost a fortune. I hope you can afford lots of insurance.”

I couldn’t. Now that I came to think of it, I’d probably have to pack everything myself. I let all the air out of my lungs in a long sigh. This independence thing was getting tricky.

“I’ll be happy to help you pack.”

Now Val sounded wary. Probably expecting me to turn down the offer. I was tempted, but I’d seen enough gift horses’ teeth lately. “That would be great. Thanks.”

“Sure. It’ll be fun. We’ll drink wine and play your CDs and party while we’re working. By the way, did I tell you I hired another accountant? She’s working out pretty well. Not you, of course, but at least it will give me time to come over and help you.”

I thanked her and hung up, wondering how much work we’d get done while partying.

My first priority was to pack anything I didn’t want strangers to see. The most obvious place to start was Brandon’s office. I had just about emptied his file cabinet when I found the large envelope stuffed with mortgage documents.

I flipped through the pages, finding pretty much what I’d expected to see. In spite of what I’d considered an exorbitant price for the house, even if it sold for what I asked, by the time the agent’s fees were paid there wouldn’t be much left over.

Tucking the last pages back into the envelope, I saw something small and square fall out and land at my feet. It was a photograph, and in it a young woman squinted into the sun while shading her face with one hand. She wore a limp floral dress that barely skimmed her knees and a cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. It wasn’t so much the woman that caught my attention, though. It was the cottage behind her.

The sun shone on a thatched roof, latticed windows and an abundance of flowers crowded into a fenced yard. It looked quaint, infinitely charming and exuded a peaceful, quiet solitude. Even as I fell in love with it at first sight, I knew I was looking at the cottage. My cottage. Which meant the women standing in front of it had to be her.

I stared at her face, at the smile that I knew was for my husband. He must have had this picture for years. I’d fought long and hard to keep an open mind about Brandon’s relationship with this woman, but now my fears seemed justified.

My carefully constructed wall of denial finally collapsed. I wanted to scream, to yell, to pound my fists against the wall, to batter his image and hers until they’d been erased from my mind. The thought of them together, laughing, confident their secret was safe, was like a knife in my heart. Now that I knew what she looked like, that vision was all too brutally clear to me.

Jamming the picture into my pants pocket, I thanked heaven Val wasn’t there to pummel me with questions and unsolicited advice. I’d have to deal with it sooner or later, but right now I needed to get Brandon’s office cleared out before she had a chance to poke around and find more evidence of my late husband’s indiscretions.

I worked all afternoon, sorting out papers, shredding what I didn’t need, packing away others, while all the time the vision of the cottage smoldered in my mind.

At last I was satisfied I’d taken care of everything. Nothing else incriminating had turned up in Brandon’s files, and it was with relief that I shut the door of his office behind me.

Sitting alone in my living room, I took out the picture once more and studied it. The woman’s face was fuzzy and I was sure I’d never recognize her if I saw her. Especially after so many years had passed. I squinted harder, striving to see something, anything, that would help me understand.

I don’t know how long I sat there, the faded photograph in my hand, while memories crowded my mind. I thought about the day Brandon got his promotion, and how we celebrated over dinner in the Space Needle restaurant.

As the revolving view of the city crawled past our window, we’d raised our glasses of champagne and toasted his success. He’d been more animated that night than I ever remembered, and I was proud of him. He’d worked hard and deserved the success.

I wondered now if he’d called her to tell her about the promotion. I racked my brain trying to remember how soon he’d taken a trip to England after that. Had they celebrated there, in some quiet country inn? I imagined the two of them together, laughing across flickering candles and glasses of wine.

Impatient with myself, I tucked the picture away in a drawer and promised myself I wouldn’t look at it again. But like a smoker drawn to another pack, I kept going back for one more peek, one more moment of self-torment.

The next few weeks slipped by while I did my best to keep the house “sparkling” clean, as Linda had suggested, for the steady stream of prospective buyers.

Late at night, when the house was dark and quiet and all mine, I thought about the cottage and wrestled with the tug-of-war going on in my mind. There were times when I wanted to go over there and tear out the woman’s hair in a screaming, bitching catfight. Luckily my horror of making a spectacle of myself in public prevented that option.

I kept telling myself I should put the cottage up for sale, but deep down I knew that once the cottage was sold and the woman who occupied it disappeared, I’d never have the answers I needed so badly. Part of me argued that I didn’t want to know. It was the part that did want to know that kept me from calling James.

As the summer died and the first showers of Seattle’s rainy season sprinkled the thirsty lawns, I faced the inevitable. Val was right. I would never have true peace of mind until I knew the truth about Brandon’s relationship with this woman. Only then could I put the whole mess behind me and get on with my life.

When the house finally sold, I was unprepared. After watching a young couple trailing behind my fast-talking agent, I was sure they hated everything they saw. Linda called a half hour after they left to tell me they’d made an offer.

“It’s a good offer,” she assured me. “Very close to what I expected. It’s up to you, however. You can try a counteroffer, of course, but I think they’re pretty firm.”

I tried to digest the news, though my brain seemed incapable of working. This was it. I say yes now, and it’s all over. “Yes,” I said, before I could talk myself out of it. “I’ll take it.”

At first I felt an overwhelming relief that I didn’t have to find another mortgage payment. My application for a job with the school district had been put on hold until “something suitable had come up,” I’d been informed. I hadn’t looked for anything else.

Then reality set in. I called Val. Much as I hated to admit it, I hadn’t even begun to pack. I was going to need her help after all.

Val’s confident tone reassured me. “I’ll come over in a little while. We’ll work out a plan of action. While you’re waiting for me, mark down apartments in the want ads that appeal to you.”

Apartments. Now that I was actually faced with looking for one, all I could think about were the cramped, cold, dark rooms I’d shared with my mother.

I could still hear the music rebounding off the skimpy walls from next door. My mother pounding on the ceiling when heavy, stumbling footsteps threatened to break through. People coming and going, doors slamming, voices shouting—all of it echoed in my head in a waking nightmare of memories.

How would I adjust after living for so long in a house with all this space around me and the quiet solitude I treasured so much?

The cold, sick feeling of dread almost overwhelmed me. I was convinced I’d made a terrible mistake. I should have hung on to the house, managed the mortgage somehow. I could have cut corners, given up the little extras, anything rather than leave the safe haven of my home.

I thought about calling Linda in the hope that it wasn’t too late to back out of the deal. I never made the call, of course. Instead I did something I’d never done before. I opened Brandon’s cocktail cabinet and took out a half-filled bottle of brandy. I’m no seasoned drinker. By the time Val arrived, my head was buzzing and my tongue had trouble getting out words.

Val took one look at me and plugged in the coffee machine.

My memory of that afternoon is vague, but I remember very clearly the days that followed. The endless packing, sorting and deciding what to keep, what to sell and what to give away. Val insisted we have a garage sale, and I must admit, it gave me a certain satisfaction to see some of Brandon’s prized possessions go for a song. He would not have appreciated that.

Looking for a place to live was something else. After working out a budget, it was clear that even with a reasonably good salary, any house I felt suitable to rent was out of my range. At least until the cottage sold.

Val insisted on taking me to look at apartments, some of which, I had to admit, were half-decent. They were, however, still apartments, and I felt sick every time I imagined myself sharing walls with noisy strangers.

At the end of one long, fruitless afternoon, Val sat me down in my barren living room. “You have two weeks,” she said, “before you have to move out. You should have put the cottage on the market months ago, when you put this one up for sale. You’d have had the money by now and had your pick of where to live. You could even have bought a smaller house.”

“I know,” I said, aware that this time she was right. “It’s too late now.”

“Yes, it is.” Val looked at me, her eyes clouded with concern. “So what are you going to do?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Well, you can always come live with me until you decide what you want to do.”

That was the wake-up call, the moment I realized I was out of options. I thanked her anyway, and promised myself I’d make a firm decision by the following morning.

After she left I fished out the photograph once more. As always, the charm and beauty of the tiny cottage stirred a deep-seated longing I didn’t fully understand. Half an acre, James had told me. That was a spacious lot. I couldn’t see what was on either side of the cottage, but judging from the background, there was nothing behind it but fields and trees.

How wonderful it would be to live somewhere like that, secluded and peaceful in your own private corner of the world. How lucky she was to have lived there so long.

Staring at the face of the woman who had caused me so much agonizing, I began to feel ashamed of my stalling. She deserved to know Brandon had died. Whether or not she’d been romantically involved with my husband, she was about to lose her home. I knew how that felt. For once I could afford a tinge of sympathy for her. It would be difficult for her to leave such a paradise.

The next instant I hardened my heart. For all I knew, this woman had stolen my husband’s affections and carried on an illicit relationship all these years. Why should my life be shattered and not hers? I called James. It was time to put the cottage on the market.

In his usual brusque way he offered to call the real estate agent in England for me and set things in motion. “Edward Perkins is the man who’ll be handling the sale. Would you like him to appoint a lawyer or do you want to go over there and settle things yourself?”

Seconds ticked by while I fought with indecision. Part of me wanted to let someone else deal with the cottage and then try to put it out of my mind. A much bigger part of me knew that would be impossible while there were still so many unanswered questions.

Besides, after all I’d been through, surely I deserved a vacation? Val was right. I had the insurance money, and what better way to spend part of it than on a trip to England. Once the cottage was sold, I’d have plenty of money to tide me over until I landed a job. Before I could change my mind again I said firmly, “You can tell…Mr. Perkins was it? Yes, you can tell him I’ll be there in a week or so.”

James sounded surprised when he asked, “Have you informed Ms. Robbins you’re selling the cottage?”

Guilt slapped me square in the chest. “No, I haven’t. I thought the estate agent could do that.”

James hesitated so long I wondered if he’d heard me. I was about to repeat what I’d said, when he spoke again. “Ah, that’s a bit abrupt, don’t you think? I mean, it might be better to give the woman a few days’ warning before the sales signs go up. Give her a chance to get things squared away.”

I fought back the resentment. As far as I was concerned, she deserved no consideration. She certainly hadn’t considered me when she’d entertained my husband in that free home he’d so generously given her. “That’s fine with me. Just tell the agent to wait a week or two before putting up the signs.”

James cleared his throat, a sure signal he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear. “You know it might be difficult to sell a house that’s renter occupied. You might want to talk to Ms. Robbins and find out if she has any plans to move. After all, a new owner will certainly expect her to pay rent, and since she…ah…has lived there rent-free until now, she might not be willing to pay for it now, in which case she’ll need time to find something more suitable.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that there might be renter’s rights to deal with, and that it might be impossible to get her out of the cottage. Then again, why should I care what she did once the cottage was sold?

Irritable with James for taking her side, I got belligerent. “Have you met this woman?”

His surprise sounded genuine. “Met her? Of course not.”

“But you knew about her.”

“I knew your husband owned the cottage with a tenant in it. That was all.”

“Did you know he kept it a secret from me?”

“I did not. Even if I had, it was not my business to interfere. I advised Brandon on legal matters, that was all.”

“Was it legal for him to keep valuable property a secret from his wife?”

“That was a personal decision on his part. Since he ended up leaving you the property in his will, I really don’t see the problem.”

In other words, his tone implied, I was overreacting. Maybe he was right. There was only one way to find out. I ended the conversation and hung up. I was going to England, and I was going to get the answers to my questions.

Somewhere deep inside me lurked a tiny flicker of hope that this had all been a huge misunderstanding. Until I knew for sure, I would forever torment myself with doubts and unfounded suspicions.

This wasn’t something that could be resolved in a letter or a phone call. It would be too easy for the woman to cut me off without a word. I had to deal with her face to face, if I was to get what I needed.

Just to make sure my lack of conviction wouldn’t allow me to back out, I called the airlines and booked a flight to London. Then I called Val. “I’m going to England,” I told her. “I’m going over there to sell the cottage and settle things myself.”

She was so excited I thought for a moment she was going to suggest coming with me. I was relieved when she said, “I wish I could come, too. I’d love to see the bitch’s face when you turn up on her doorstep. I’ll worry about you all alone over there, but right now I can’t leave the club.”

“I’ll have people to help me over there,” I told her. “I’ll be just fine.” I actually believed it as I hung up, serenely unaware that my long-delayed decision would set off a chain of events that would change my life in ways I could never imagine.

Two weeks later I sat in the window seat of a crowded jumbo jet, trying to convince myself I wasn’t in the middle of one of my muddled dreams. The past few days had been a whirlwind of activity and wrenching misgivings as I’d closed the door on my home for the last time.

Red and bronze leaves floated down from the spreading arms of the maple tree in the front yard as I’d driven away, and my heart ached as I’d caught a last glimpse of it just before I’d turned the corner. Right then, all I could remember were the good times. We’d had our share of good times, Brandon and I, even if they had been few and far apart.

Val had helped me put into storage the few things I’d kept, and I’d spent the last two nights in her spacious condo. That alone had been enough to confirm my reservations about living with her for any length of time.

I made up my mind that as soon as I returned, I would use the money from the sale of the cottage to buy myself the first small house I could find.

Val had driven me to the airport, and the last I’d seen of her she was bobbing up and down behind the security gate, waving frantically and yelling last-minute instructions.

I’d never enjoyed air travel. Not that I’d flown that much, anyway. This was the first time, however, that I’d traveled by air on my own. Now that we were actually taxiing down the runway, my insides were clenched as tight as the bolts on the fuselage, and I was quite prepared to hold my breath all the way to London.

Once in the air, I bought two of the little bottles of wine from the flight attendant. By the time I started on the second one, I had begun to float in a pleasant haze of well-being.

The man seated next to me appeared to be about Brandon’s age. He seemed harmless enough. Businessman, I suspected, judging from the neat gray suit and silver-blue tie.

He must have noticed my inspection, since he smiled and asked, “Your first trip to Europe?”

“Yes,” I admitted, sounding a little breathless—a direct result, no doubt, of having held my breath for so long on takeoff. “I’m on my way to Devon, in England.”

“Ah.” The man settled back in his chair and lifted what appeared to be a glass of Scotch. “Very nice part of the country.”

“You’ve been there?” Eager to know more about the area, I turned to him.

“Indeed I have.”

We spent the next half hour in very pleasant conversation while I learned a great deal about southern England and “the great city of London.”

His name was Wes Carter, I found out later, and he was CEO of a big corporation, took frequent business trips to Europe, and lived in San Diego.

I wasn’t nearly as forthcoming, telling him only that I was traveling to England to settle a business matter. The mention of it reminded me of the daunting prospect that lay ahead of me. I tried to imagine how I would feel if the wife of my longtime lover suddenly appeared on my doorstep with the news that he was dead and my home was being sold.

No matter how delicately I handled the situation, it was bound to be devastating for both of us. I wished I’d listened to my instincts and stayed buried in my web of denial. Even as I wished it, I knew I’d come too far to back out now. I was committed to see this through to the bitter end.

Later, as we flew over London and I got my first view of Buckingham Palace and the famous River Thames twisting its way through the ancient city, I wondered what Brandon would have thought if he could see me right then. I hoped that somewhere out there in that vast abyss on the other side, he was watching, filled with remorse for his selfish indiscretions. Racked with guilt and apprehension, I hoped, and aware that I was about to uncover whatever secrets he’d worked so hard to hide.