Читать книгу Christmas 2011 Trio A - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 28

This Christmas card was obviously Burton’s way of reminding Anne of what he’d done to her. Not that she needed reminders … She didn’t know why her ex-husband hated her so much. Perhaps it was because, thanks to Aimee and the divorce, Burton had lost his son. Was he blaming her for that?

Refusing to dwell on the reasons for such unkindness, she tossed the card aside and reached for the rest of her mail. Her hands shook as she struggled to regain her composure. How sad that five years after their divorce, her ex-husband was still trying to upset her. Well, Anne wasn’t going to let him. Then it occurred to her that perhaps it hadn’t been Burton at all, but Aimee. If so, Anne couldn’t begin to figure out why the other woman would want to hurt her.

Although she tried not to let the Christmas card bother her, Anne couldn’t stop thinking about it. The fact that she hadn’t recognized the return address told her Burton and Aimee had moved from the oceanfront home Anne had loved so much. She could just imagine the new house. No expense would have been spared; Burton was all too willing to spend his money on Aimee. It thrilled him to have a beautiful young woman on his arm. A woman dressed in designer clothes, wearing lavish jewelry that spoke of her husband’s success. He’d done exceptionally well over the years. Twice now, she’d heard his name in conjunction with famous Hollywood stars and their very public divorces.

The phone rang. Anne wasn’t in the mood to talk, and decided to let the answering machine pick up. Out of curiosity, she glanced at caller ID. When she saw it was Marta’s New York number, she jerked up the receiver.

Anne had been waiting anxiously ever since their last conversation. The temptation to contact her had been almost overwhelming, but she hadn’t given in. If Marta had sold the angel painting—or wanted to discuss her marriage—she would’ve called.

“Hi, Marta,” Anne said, rushing her words together.

“Merry Christmas, Anne.”

Anne so wanted this to be good news. She needed it after that dreadful Christmas card.

“How are you?” Anne asked.

Marta hesitated. “Okay, I think. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Of course I do.” From the tone of her friend’s voice Anne suspected the call had to do with Marta’s husband and not the painting.

Marta sighed, a despairing sound. “I confronted Jack. I tried to follow your advice and casually mention that I knew about the affair. Unfortunately it didn’t work. I came unglued.”

“What happened?” Anne asked softly.

“You suggested I simply tell Jack I knew what he was doing and that I was protecting myself financially. That seemed so reasonable at the time, and I thought I could do it. I really did. But when the moment came, I burst into tears and called him every foul name in the book. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry. I’ve never been one to say those kinds of things.”

“This is your life and your marriage, and your heart’s breaking.” Anne had struggled with this same vicious anger herself. Her self-esteem had been destroyed; she’d come to the end of her composure, no longer the complacent wife. Her self-recrimination had been as bitter as her resentment and her fury.

“I had no idea I was so furious.”

“I didn’t, either, when it happened to me,” Anne consoled her. She hadn’t turned on Burton, though. Instead, she’d wept until there were no more tears left and all that remained was her anger.

“On the other hand,” Marta said with strained cheerfulness, “I took your advice and had everything planned before I spoke to him.”

“Good!”

“I saw an attorney and had our joint assets frozen right away.”

Anne approved. “That was smart—and practical.”

“My attorney advised me to wait a week until he had everything in place. Then Jack came home smelling of her perfume and I went ballistic.”

This was so unlike Marta that Anne could scarcely picture her friend in that kind of state. “How did he react?”

Marta’s laugh was short. “Of course he denied everything.”

Just like Burton had, accusing Anne of having a filthy mind, of being insecure and ridiculous. In the beginning, she’d felt dreadful for suspecting such terrible things about her husband. Burton had insisted on an apology and in her innocence, Anne had given him one. Her face burned with mortification at the memory.

“Burton denied everything, too.”

“Then I told him about seeing an attorney,” Marta said, her voice quavering, “and … and then I threw him out.”

In every likelihood, Jack had immediately gone to the other woman, but Anne didn’t mention that.

“He … he didn’t want to leave. He kept trying to reason with me but I wouldn’t listen. He said I was imagining things—and this is the crazy part—for a moment I actually believed him. Here he was, hours late, smelling of perfume and denying everything, and because I so badly wanted to believe him, I … I almost did.”

“Of course you wanted to believe him. Jack’s your husband.”

Marta paused. “That first night was so dreadful. Jack called the apartment ten times. I wouldn’t answer the phone and he left messages for me, pleading with me to hear him out.” She released a soft hiccuping sob.

“When was that?”

“Three days ago.”

“How long has it been since you talked to him?”

“Since that night … I just can’t. I thought maybe I’d blown everything out of proportion and, Anne, I’m no longer sure what to believe. I know he’s involved with someone else, but I so desperately want him back that I’ve decided I can’t trust my own feelings. If I talk to him, I’m afraid he’ll manage to convince me that this is all nonsense and I’ll take him back.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Right now, nothing. I’ve hired a private investigator. It sounds so stupid, so clichéd. You’re the only person I’d admit this to, but I’m paying a man outrageous fees to follow my husband around and photograph him with another woman. Is that sick or what?”

“Oh, Marta. Of course it isn’t. A detective might be the only means you have of learning the truth.” Early on, before the breakup of her own marriage, Anne had considered the same thing. In retrospect she wished she’d done it. Photographic evidence might have opened her eyes to what Burton was doing.

“All I want is for this to go away. I think now I should’ve waited until after Christmas, but, Anne, I couldn’t. I couldn’t endure this for another second. I couldn’t pretend and look the other way anymore.”

“I’m so sorry, Marta,” Anne told her friend. “I wouldn’t have wished this on you for anything.”

“Oh, Anne, I don’t know what to do. Christmas is only a week away. I can’t deal with this and the holidays, too. What am I going to tell our friends? How can I possibly face everyone?” The questions came between deep sobs.

“Oh, Marta, I’m so sorry,” she said again.

“Why is this happening to me?”

Anne had asked herself the same question hundreds of times. “Would you like to fly out to Seattle? Stay with me and take a few days to collect your thoughts. Let your attorney know you’re coming and just get on a plane.”

“I can’t believe you’d do that for me,” Marta said, and continued to sob.

“I’ve walked in your shoes. I know how hard this is. What do you want to do?”

“Would you mind terribly coming to New York? I’d pay for your ticket. I just need someone with me—someone who understands.”

“Of course I wouldn’t mind! I’ll check on flights the minute we get off the phone.” Roy wouldn’t care; Anne was sure of that. Her son would be just as happy to spend Christmas Day at Julie’s. With Anne in New York, he’d be free to do so.

“Thank you. Oh, thank you, Anne. I’d fly out and join you, but I don’t want to leave. There’s no telling what Jack would do if I were to vacate the house.”

Naturally her friend was right. “That’s fine, Marta. I’ll come to New York for Christmas and be your moral support.”

“Thank you,” her friend whispered again. “I don’t know how I’d cope if it wasn’t for you.”

“We’ll have a wonderful Christmas,” Anne tried to assure her, although she knew what Marta was experiencing. The pain and shock …

“Oh, Anne, I’m just shocked that Jack would be so stupid.”

“He might come to his senses yet.”

“I’m not counting on it,” Marta said. “He seemed so sincere, so horrified. He kept insisting I was wrong. I never knew he was capable of such lies.”

It hurt just to listen to her friend’s agony. Anne didn’t have the heart to tell her that the pain, even when dulled by time, had a way of resurfacing when you least expected it. Anne had felt its sting only moments earlier when she’d opened her mail.

Marta grew quiet, as if she was composing herself. She took a deep, audible breath. “I’ve been so caught up in my own troubles I forgot to mention what’s been going on with your painting.”

Although she was dying to know, Anne was prepared to put it off. “That’s not important now.”

“But it is.”

“Did Mrs. Gould decide against it?” Anne asked. She’d never been comfortable with letting the buyer assume she had no intention of selling her angel.

“No, she’s more interested than ever, but now there’s another prospective buyer.”

“That’s wonderful,” Anne said excitedly.

“This one claims she’ll match or beat anything Mrs. Gould offers.”

“Are you saying that two customers have gotten into a bidding war?” Anne was almost afraid to guess what this could mean financially.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“How … how much?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes!” she cried. “Tell me.”

“Well, first of all,” Marta teased, “I’m not positive the artist’s willing to sell it.”

“Oh, Marta.” Anne couldn’t help it; she giggled.

“It’s an incredible painting, and everyone who sees it is drawn to it. Your angel has become the most talked-about piece in our gallery. She’s aroused more interest than anything else on display, and of course, the fact that it’s December is a plus. You couldn’t have painted her at a more appropriate time.”

Anne’s heart swelled with pride. “Oh, you’re making me feel so good!”

“That’s what the painting does, you know. People look at your angel and they feel better about life.”

“Has she helped you?” Anne asked.

“Oh, yes,” Marta replied. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s a soothing quality about your angel. It’s … almost as if I were standing close to God.”

Anne regretted having given the angel up so quickly. Even now, she didn’t know if she’d imagined the vision or it had actually happened. She chose to believe the angel had been real, but who was to know?

“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.”

“I … I’m not sure,” Anne admitted.

“Well, let me know before I make a deal.”

While Anne loved the angel, ten thousand dollars or more for one of her pieces would go a long way toward establishing her credibility in the art world—and paying her mortgage.

“I’ve been offered twenty-five thousand for it,” Marta announced.

Anne felt faint. “How much?”

“You heard me right.”

“I—I can’t believe it! You’ve got to be making this up.”

“No, and the bid is climbing.”

“Marta, I have no idea what to say.”

“Just call and tell me when your flight’s coming in and I’ll be there to pick you up, check in hand. We do want to sell this painting, don’t we?”

Because she knew it was the right thing, Anne said, “Yes, we do.” Burton would probably never hear about her success, but that didn’t matter. Anne Fletcher was an artist and an unusual one at that. She could support herself with what she made on her paintings.