by Jean Stone
“No,” she lied. “I never really thought about that.”
“Well, it’s probably just as well. We were going nowhere, Maddie. You liked being in my bed, but not enough to integrate me into your life. You never let me meet your mother … or your boys …”
“Cody, I …”
“Never mind. What’s done is done.” He stopped moving and flopped down on the sofa. “It does hurt me though, Maddie. It hurts me a lot.”
She fidgeted with the buttons on her coat, the coat that Parker had bought, wondering how she’d expected Cody to react. Part of her, she knew, had hoped he’d be happy that she was going back to Our World, that her life was going to be the way she’d dreamed for so long. And wished for so hard.
“So when’s the wedding?” he asked abruptly.
She laughed nervously. “There’s no date for a wedding.”
“Then it doesn’t sound to me as though your ex-husband has ‘come back’ to you. It sounds more like he’s just offered you a job.”
His comment cut more deeply than she cared to admit. Maddie pushed out a whoosh of embarrassed breath. “It’s a beginning.”
Cody folded his arms. “He has another wife, Maddie. Has he said anything about divorcing her?”
“Well,” Maddie choked, “not yet. Not specifically …”
“And you trust this guy? Christ, I thought when people got older they got smarter.”
Maddie’s head pounded now. This wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair that her wish was about to come true and Cody—an insignificant boy toy—was trying to sabotage her success, to undermine her euphoria.
“He needs me, Cody. He asked me to work out a photo spread on Abigail’s estate. He wants to start incorporating the grand palaces of America.”
“I thought Our World was about people.”
“Well, yes. It was. It is.” She was not about to tell him that Parker had decided to expand the scope of its content, that he’d said the “people” idea had run its course and was being copied by too many competitors, that Our World needed a fresh approach. Geared, of course, to the upper crust.
Cody snorted. “Sounds to me like it’s about dead people. And your friend Abigail’s body hasn’t even been found …”
The dizziness overcame Maddie once again. She leaned against a chair. “I can’t listen to this anymore, Cody. I only stopped by because I wanted to give you an explanation. I felt I owed you that, but …”
She spun around to escape from his apartment. As she did, the room swam. Maddie gripped the wall. Her vision blurred; an odd taste rose in her mouth. She twisted her head toward Cody, who watched in alarm. Then Maddie slumped to the floor in slow motion. A muted vision of Cody rising from the sofa and reaching toward her was the last thing she was able to see.
Larry was dead. Larry was dead and Sondra had walked away from her job, had her baby and was living back at Windsor-on-Hudson with Edmund until the estate was settled and the property could be turned over to the Historical Society.
Abigail tried to assimilate all that Louisa was telling her, then tried to remind herself it had nothing to do with her.
“I suppose this is all my fault,” she said into the phone in her tiny, square room. She looked out the small-paned window at another gray day that pervaded the island. She realized she’d never felt so empty in her life—not when her mother and father had died, not when Betty Ann had died, not even when Kris had told her the news that Abigail never wished to think of again.
“Do you want to go home?”
The voice on the other end was so gentle, so understanding. Abigail realized once again how lucky she was to have Louisa. How lucky she was to have one person in the world who truly loved her, who truly wanted the best for her, no matter at what cost to herself. If it weren’t for the frequent contact with Louisa, Abigail would feel totally, irrevocably lost. She took a deep breath and spoke into the phone.
“I have no home, Louisa. I cannot go back.”
Through the cloudy glass she watched a fishing boat troll through the sound and wondered, for the thousandth time, what she was doing here. Here, where no houses were familiar, no street signs seemed real; where faces belonged to no one but strangers.
“You could come to Phoenix. I told you that in the beginning.”
Abigail shook her head. “It’s too risky. I can’t involve you any more than I already have.” She remembered the night she had told Louisa of her plan. She remembered how the woman had silently wept, then offered to drive her “getaway” car, thereby setting Abigail free.
“I can send you money.”
“Absolutely not. That’s your money, Louisa. I wanted you to have it and I still do. No. I’ll figure something out, It’s just that with no documents …”
“What about at that place you’re staying? Can you work for them?”
Abigail laughed. “I’m afraid the only person they could use is a handyman, which I’m definitely not. It’s a shame, too. It’s a gorgeous old home and it has a lot of possibilities.” She played with the phone cord. “Well, I’ll think of something. I’ll call you next week. Thank you, Louisa. I love you so much.” Abigail hung up and wondered if she’d ever done that before—if she’d ever told the only mother-figure she’d ever known that she loved her.
• • •• • •
A needle of light invaded her eyeball. “How long have you been having these seizures?” the doctor asked Maddie, his after-lunch breath attacking her nostrils.
“They’re not seizures. I fainted. That’s all. Just give me some estrogen and I’ll be on my way.”
The doctor stood up and flicked on the overhead light. Maddie blinked.
“From your friend’s information, this was more like a seizure than a mere fainting spell.”
Maddie shrugged. “My friend is young. He knows nothing about menopause.”
The doctor laughed. “Show me a man who does, and I’ll show you a modern-day miracle.”
She suspected he was trying to make a joke. It did not work.
Maddie looked down at her knees. She folded her hands in her lap. The manicure was still new, without a chip in her Mostly Mauve polish. Her hands no longer looked the way Kris’s had yesterday. She was a success now; her life was coming back together.
She wished to hell Cody had left her alone; had not carried her to his car, then into the emergency room.
“However,” the doctor continued, with a new note of gravity in his voice, “this kind of episode—fainting spell or not—is not a menopausal symptom. I’d like to run a test.”
“What kind of test?”
“An MRI. It will tell us a lot.”
She sat forward on the gurney. “Can you do it right now?”
“Sorry,” he said. “But I’ll have to schedule it for the morning. I’d like you to stay here the night.”
Maddie laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with me, doctor. And I can’t stay the night. I have an important assignment to take care of. Maybe we could make it next week.”
He scowled. “I don’t want to alarm you, Ms. Daniels, but this should be checked out immediately.”
A vision of Parker came into her mind. “No, doctor,” she said. “I am perfectly fine. I’ll be here next week. Just let me know what day and what time.” She did, after all, have a new job to start. A new life to get on with. No matter how badly her hormones were trying to stop her.
Though it was long past dark, Abigail bundled herself in a waterproof parka and went to the backyard of the guest house, armed with a bottle of wine and a pack of cigarettes, her second of the day.
After the call to Louisa she had been too restless to retire to her room; instead, she caught the ferry into Seattle, walked aimlessly in the cold and damp, then picked up a newspaper and a Dungeness crab salad at Elliott’s on the waterfront for the ferry ride back.
After three bites she’d tossed it. Not because it wasn’t delectable, not because its presentation wasn’t acceptable. She simply could not get
the food down her throat; the ache in her heart rose too high.
Larry was dead.
Sondra’s baby had been born prematurely.
And Edmund was being questioned for a murder that no one had committed.
She sat on the wet bench of a charming gazebo in great need of paint, took a long swig from the bottle, and thought about how much chaos her birthday wish had created. How her selfish, self-centered need to put herself first—to always put herself first—had caused so much upset. She wondered if anyone had guessed that she’d been so selfish because she’d been so scared—scared that her world would crumble and that she’d be left alone, an orphan again.
The newspaper account of Larry’s suicide said he had hit the ground clutching an Emmy. No one had to tell Abigail which Emmy it was: the one he’d been so angry about, the first Emmy, where she’d omitted his name from the entry, where he’d received no recognition for all his hard work.
That had been a mistake. Another selfish, self-centered mistake. She wondered if she could ever forgive herself. Or if even God would. Abigail Hardy had been so hell-bent on being the Abigail Hardy that she’d never considered the feelings of others. Now it was too late for Larry. Even his underhanded stab at revenge did not warrant his death.
Lighting another cigarette, she thought about Sondra and wondered what the new mother would do now. Unemployed, without a husband, unskilled, un-everything except unprotected. Edmund would take care of them, the way he always had.
Only, of course, if he wasn’t in jail.
She clutched the bottle and cried softly into the night.
There was, she knew, only one thing she could do now, Only one thing to rectify her sins.
She had no way of knowing if it was possible for Edmund to be tried for her murder. If no body surfaced, could he be arrested? She did not know. And she certainly could not consult a lawyer. But Abigail knew that if it came to that, she would have to return. She simply could not let that happen; she already had caused too much pain.
As she lit another cigarette, footsteps approached, squish-squishing in the damp earth.
“Sarah?” The voice was Grace McKenna’s, Joel’s mother.
Quickly Abigail tried to wipe her eyes.
“Land sakes, what are you doing out here in the cold?”
Abigail wanted to answer her, but she took another swig instead.
The overweight, overwrinkled woman climbed onto the gazebo and studied her guest. Then she reached toward the bottle. “Care to share a taste of that?”
With a half-hearted smile Abigail handed her the wine. She did not have the strength to ask her to please leave her alone.
“This is my favorite place to dump all my troubles,” Grace said. “Of course, I try to wait until spring, so I don’t freeze my ass off.”
In spite of herself, Abigail laughed. “You are a wise woman, Grace.”
The woman took a deep drink then returned the bottle. “Wise enough to see when someone’s got troubles. I don’t expect you want to share them, but I just wanted you to know somebody’s here if you do.” She nodded and began to leave.
“Grace …” Abigail heard herself call out. “Wait.”
The woman stopped.
Abigail spoke slowly, careful not to say too much. “Have you ever done things you regretted, but it was too late to change?”
“Lord, honey, we all have,” she said, and took a step back toward Abigail. “Ask God to forgive you. He will, if you let Him. Then you’ve got to forgive yourself. Then you just have to let it all go.”
“I tried to let go. But things are still happening.” She stared into the dark night. “And it’s my fault.”
Grace was silent a moment, the sounds of the rain on the roof of the gazebo softening the night. “Honey,” she said in a whisper, “what are you doing here, anyway?”
“In the gazebo?”
She moved closer. “No. Here in Seattle.”
Abigail felt her defenses resurface.
“I told you. I’m writing a novel.”
“Well, I don’t know much about writing books,” she said. “But it seems to me that for that people use computers. Or at least paper and pencils.”
Grace, of course, cleaned Abigail’s room. She wondered if Grace had also noticed that all her clothes were new, and all had labels from shops in Seattle.
“Look, honey,” Grace continued, “I’m not going to pry. I want you to know that. And I also want you to know that you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”
That said, she moved off into the darkness, back toward the house.
Abigail took another drag on her cigarette and watched the puff of smoke dissolve into the mist.
Two days later she awoke shivering. When Grace brought in her breakfast tray, Abigail was still in bed.
“No breakfast this morning,” Abigail said. “I … I’m not feeling very well.”
Grace set down the tray on the clumsy old bureau and went to the bed. With a rough, callused hand, she touched Abigail’s forehead.
“Land sakes, honey, you’re burning up.”
“It’s just a cold,” Abigail said.
“No. And I’m calling the doctor, like it or not.”
The doctor diagnosed the flu. The a-lot-of-it-going-around, garden-variety flu.
For three days Abigail huddled under the thick covers of the deep feather bed, her eyes glazed, her body wracked, existing on fruit juice and chicken soup that Grace supplied on an hourly basis.
On the fourth day Grace brought her a hot toddy.
“Guaranteed to break the fever, once and for all,” the woman proclaimed.
Later that night Abigail awoke in a sweat. Her flannel nightgown was soaked, the bedsheets were drenched, and she felt better than she’d felt in days.
After changing herself she tiptoed across the uneven floor, went into the hall, and removed clean sheets from the McKennas’ linen closet. Back in her room, she was halfway finished making the bed when she realized what she was doing: Abigail Hardy, for the first time in her life, was making a bed. No one was doing it for her. She was amazed that she even knew how.
Crawling back under the covers, Abigail smiled. It felt good, she realized. It felt good to do something for herself for a change. To take some responsibility for her own person; to make her own damn bed by herself. For once in her life, before she turned fifty.
Maybe, she thought as she drifted off to sleep, maybe there’s hope for me after all.
In the morning Abigail awoke with her answer. She showered and dressed, all the while smiling. Then she went downstairs and tracked down Joel and Grace. They were in the kitchen preparing breakfast.
“You look wonderful,” Grace said.
“I feel wonderful. Thank you for taking care of me.”
Grace nodded but returned to her work. It looked like hollandaise sauce for eggs Benedict. Another specialty that Abigail knew she could make much more tasty.
“You have such a wonderful dining room,” she said as her eyes shifted to Joel, who was busy stacking plates on the long, stainless-steel counter. “It’s a shame you only use it for breakfast. Have you ever thought of expanding?”
Joel looked at his mother, then back to Abigail.
“We have enough business to get through the winter, Sarah,” he said. “It’s enough for us.”
“Is it?” Abigail asked. “Really?”
He laughed. “Well, we sure don’t have any extra money to go doing anything else to the place.”
“How much would it cost? To really get this place into shape? It’s such a wonderful location. You could turn it into a gourmet restaurant as well as an inn. You could have tourists come here from all over.”
Grace stopped stirring the sauce. She wiped her hands on her apron and removed the pan from the stove.
“You have highfalutin ideas for a lady who spends most of her days sitting in her room,” Joel said.
She smiled. “I thought no one around here cared a
bout anyone else’s business?”
“Well, you seem to be caring about mine.”
She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “How much would it cost, Joel? I don’t have a lot of money, but I could lend you enough to get started.”
“Get us started at what?”
“To turn McKenna Guest House into a viable tourist place. An up-and-coming inn and restaurant that all of Seattle and beyond would clamor to come to—year round.”
Grace said nothing.
Joel scowled. “And what would be in it for you?”
“A job,” Abigail said. “I’d want a job once things got rolling.”
He stared at her, then broke into a grin.
Kris had decided to return to Khartoum and resume her research for the next Lexi Marks escapade. It seemed as good a place as any. After all, the last thing she wanted was a man. For that, Khartoum was safe. This time, however, she booked a room at the Hilton to be sure she’d have a view of the Nile. And this time she remembered to telephone Devon before she left.
He had not been pleased. The Texas book tour that he’d put off last fall was rescheduled for March. “How long do you plan to be gone?” he asked, an edge to his voice.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back in time.”
And Kris knew she’d return. She knew that all she needed was a few weeks of concentrated, day-and-night work to get her mind back to where it needed to be. To get her mind off Abigail. And off Edmund.
It was too hot to work during the day, so she sat at her laptop now, long after dark, and savored the dry breeze that drifted in through her open window. She chewed on the tip of her red pen, studying the computer screen in front of her. The plot had taken a new twist: Lexi Marks had discovered that the art thief was missing-and-presumed-dead. Missing-and-presumed-dead—a concept very much on Kris’s mind these days. She would rely on Lexi Marks to purge her of that.
But in this latest thriller the thief Lexi pursued was black, of Sudanese descent. She suspected he would fence his latest acquisitions in a place he knew well: the underground world of Khartoum.