The First Wife

by Diana Diamond

  “They’re beautiful,” she said over and over again. While arranging them, she asked how he had found time to buy flowers. William reddened a bit and explained that his firm had an account with a chain of florists. He hadn’t actually picked them out himself.

  They went to the living room, and she placed the vase on her coffee table. Then she remembered he had asked about a drink. “I don’t think I have your favorite,” Jane apologized, thinking of his fondness for single malts. She remembered the jug she had shared with Art and added, “I’m sure I don’t have a wine that you would like.”

  “Any kind of scotch,” he said, and she went scurrying off to her liquor cabinet to see what “any kind” would be. She filled two glasses with ice and poured in the bargain blend, just a touch for herself and a double for him. She set the glasses on a tray, added cocktail napkins, and carried the drinks back to the living room. William was standing over her computer, studying the screen.

  “You’re not using my browser,” he said in mock horror, pointing to the icon of a competing service.

  “I’ll have to change right away,” she began. Jane started to laugh, but her voice caught in her throat. Right beside the computer, in full view, was the printout from her research into the murder of Kay Parker.

  She pushed the tray under his nose and led him away to the sofa. He sat next to her, toasted “To us!” and took a healthy swallow. “Not bad,” he decided. “What kind is it?”

  “It’s well aged,” she answered. “I think I’ve had that bottle for over a year.”

  Andrews smiled, tasted again, and then gave her the rundown on his trip. He’d signed on another buyer for one of his services and found a new source for Eastern European programming. A brief stop at his Paris office …

  She listened, nodded, and even managed a few smiles. But her mind was on the papers lying next to her screen. What was showing? A headline blaring his wife’s name? How could he miss it? Or worse, one of Kay’s society photographs that had run with a story?

  His attitude hadn’t changed. He was still pleasant, casual, and chatty. If he had seen Kay’s picture, wouldn’t he have been stunned? Or if he had seen one of the old headlines, wouldn’t he at least be curious? So maybe he hadn’t noticed the printout from her research. Maybe the top page was just the second or third column of a story, with no subheads or photos to attract his interest.

  “… as soon as we were out of Paris, I had them take me up to Amsterdam,” he was saying. “That was the important part of my trip.”

  If he knew, how could he keep rambling on about his business trip? It would be entirely fair of him to ask why she was digging into his first wife’s murder. Or he could have taken a page with him to the sofa to continue reading the piece. He must not have noticed what was there. Thank God it was the offensive icon that had caught his attention. Unless he was as good at pretending to talk as she was at pretending to listen. Maybe he was babbling details of his trip while his mind was wondering what she was up to. It could be that he was trying to decide whether he should confront her or let the issue pass. If he did confront her, what would she say?

  “… traffic in Amsterdam is a mess. Cars, buses, and bicycles all fighting for space. And pedestrians stepping off the curb, hoping that the next car will screech to a stop.” He shook his head in dismay and took another sip.

  She would have to tell him the truth. Maybe she could say, “It’s so important to understanding you, a defining moment in your life. I had to know about it.” Or was it better to lie? “Just things that came up while I was researching your story. Of course, I left them out.”

  “The Diamond District is just a few blocks, but you have to park outside and walk in because the diamond merchants do all their bargaining out in the street. But for what I wanted, that’s where I had to go. And this wasn’t something that anyone could do for me.”

  He took a small box of polished leather out of his jacket pocket. “This was something that I had to pick out myself.” He opened the box and held it out to her. It was the biggest diamond she had ever seen.

  “I know you’re going to say that we hardly know each other. And my answer is that I already know enough to want to know more. Much more.”

  Jane was speechless. Her hand was shaking as she reached out for the box, but he took her hand, set the box down, and then removed the ring. “I’m fatally stricken by you, J. J. Warren, and I’m begging you to marry me.” He slipped the ring onto her finger. The fit was perfect. The stone blazed an icy white even in the poor light of her apartment. Her mind raced through all the answers she had considered, and her lips began to move with well-rehearsed words.

  “Yes” was all that she could get out.

  “Yes, meaning that you’ll marry me?”

  Her mind was beginning to recover. “Yes, if you’re very sure that this is right for you. If you’ve thought of all the … consequences….”

  “You never know all the consequences,” he said. “The people who try to think through everything miss all the important deals. I think I just know when something is right, and I know this will be right for both of us. Assuming you’re not planning any more articles about my shady business practices.”

  Jane laughed out loud and leaned into his arms. They melted into a long kiss. When they parted, she teased, “Is that your real motive? Are you marrying me just to quiet the voice of a free press?”

  “It was that, or hire a hit man,” he said. “I couldn’t put up with the criticism.” He pulled her in for another embrace.

  “Let’s eat,” he said just as she was beginning to think that they were never going to leave the apartment. “What this moment needs is a good French champagne.” He stacked their glasses on the tray. “And maybe a long romantic night. How long would it take you to throw together an overnight bag?”

  He was looking directly at her. It wasn’t a gag line. He was asking her to spend the night with him.

  “I’m already packed,” Jane lied.

  He seemed to relax with her answer. “God, you’re wonderful.”

  “Give me a minute,” she said, and went off into her bedroom.

  She found her overnight bag in the back of the closet and coughed at the dust she stirred when she dragged it out. Has it been that long? she thought. It had been. Her last romantic rendezvous had been with Art, before they were married. She tossed in her toiletries, her mascara, and her lipstick. She found her diaphragm but put it back under the sink. She was still faithful to the Pill, which she had started taking when she met Art.

  My God, did she still own a nightgown? It had been pajamas during the last two years of her marriage, and a T-shirt ever since. Did she own anything that would provoke a middle-aged man? Jane went through her dresser drawers and found a nearly invisible set of black briefs and a thigh-length dressing gown that had patch pockets to provide a hint of modesty for her breasts. She remembered that she had bought it when Art had complained that she was no longer sensual. He had fallen asleep while she was cutting the price tags off her backside.

  A change of clothes for tomorrow? Jane started back to the closet but pulled up abruptly. She wasn’t packing a steamer trunk. This was a romantic escapade. She was supposed to be naked, not packed for four seasons. She zipped up the overnight bag, checked her lipstick in the bathroom mirror, and stepped out into the living room.

  Andrews appeared from the kitchen. “Glasses are done and everything is in the dishwasher,” he announced. “Unfortunately, I don’t know how to turn the damn thing on.”

  He turned his back and stepped toward the door. Jane used the moment to steal a glance at her desk. The article on top of the pile next to her computer carried the headline STATE POLICE UNCERTAIN ABOUT PARKER INTRUDER. He had to have seen it!

  15

  The car was an expensive sedan that blinked its lights and opened its door locks when Andrews touched his key at the top of the steps. “No driver?” Jane asked.

  “Just me,” William said. “I was amaz
ed that I remembered how to drive.” He tossed her bag into the trunk, ran around to hold open her door, and then raced around again to take his place behind the wheel. They drove to the Merritt Parkway and then headed west through Westport and Stamford. He took the last Greenwich exit, drove through winding streets, and made abrupt turns at dark intersections. Finally, they headed up a tree-lined path to an inn near the New York border and parked in the empty lot. Andrews lifted her overnighter and his own attaché case out of the trunk.

  “Is this place open?” Jane wondered.

  “It is for us. I’ve reserved the entire inn. I thought that on such an important night you might like to be alone.”

  The innkeeper was waiting at the top of the steps to relieve Andrews of the bags. “They’ll be sent up,” he said in a tone that assured him they really would be. “The dining room is this way. Your table is ready.”

  They were alone in the dining room at a table in front of the fireplace. The captain seated them, and there were two waiters standing by.

  “You’ve been here before,” Jane commented with a wry smile.

  “Actually, I haven’t. But I selected it myself and I made all the arrangements. It’s the perfect place to consummate an engagement. I even took the liberty of ordering for you. Oysters and clams, a duck in cherry sauce, and a few cheeses for dessert. A blanc with the appetizers, a Chablis with the main course, and maybe a port at the end. And, of course, coffee whenever.”

  “They kept the kitchen open just for us?” Jane wondered.

  “Just for you,” William answered. “All night and into the morning, just in case you want anything.”

  They were both in a sexual mood even before the oysters arrived. He was leaning in toward her, ignoring the wine steward, who was being obsequious about opening the French white. She was reaching out to touch his fingertips under the table.

  “Would the gentleman care to examine the cork?” the steward asked.

  “Sure! But in the meantime, pour the wine,” Andrews responded.

  They leaned in over the center of the table while they fed each other clams and oysters. Jane swallowed them whole, tasting them at the back of her throat. He smiled as each one went down. She dipped a clam in the cocktail sauce and held it out to him. Andrews contorted to get under the morsel and sucked it down like a pelican. Then he lifted an oyster, still in its shell, and tipped it over her lower lip. Jane was already feeling aroused when the duck made its entrance.

  They stared at each other while the captain went through the rituals of flaming the duck, cutting it from the bone, and heaping on the cherries. When he put their plates in front of them, neither lifted a fork. An instant later, when he brought the Chablis, William waved away the ceremony of tasting. He simply lifted his glass and held it out to Jane.

  The ducks survived, scarcely damaged by the two diners, who couldn’t take their eyes from each other long enough to break the meat from the bone. “Delicious,” Jane said after tasting the flimsiest morsel.

  “Marvelous,” he added, even though his portion was untouched.

  They decided to do without dessert. “Maybe just coffee,” he suggested, his eyes wild at the thought of taking her into his bed.

  “Coffee to go,” Jane emended his order. They could have it in their room.

  The room tried to mimic an inn along the Colonial stagecoach route. The ceiling was low and supported by hand-hewn beams. The walls were rough, whitewashed unevenly, and stenciled with patterns of birds. The wide-board floor was fastened with pegs and polished to a near-blinding luster. Taking up most of the space was an enormous four-poster with a mattress that was nearly chest-high. It was made up with lace-trimmed pillows and a feathery quilt. The other furnishings were sparse: a straight wooden rocking chair; a washstand with a basin, pitcher, and shaving mirror; a monk’s table with an elaborate oil lamp that had been fitted out with an electric bulb; and a giant armoire that cleverly disguised a closet, dresser drawers, and a television set.

  The bathroom brought modern convenience to an eighteenth-century setting. The tub was copper, set into an oak base. But there were subtle whirlpool jets and a hook arrangement for hanging the shower hose. The sink was a freestanding basin with a pump handle for a faucet, and the toilet had an overhead water tank operated by a pull chain. It would be easy to believe that George Washington had slept here.

  But Jane and Bill couldn’t have cared less. As soon as they closed the heavy wooden door, they were in each other’s arms. Within seconds they had undressed each other, scattering their clothes in a straight line from the door to the bed. He pulled back the comforter so that she could climb in, and then he joined her in a frantic, tumbling embrace. They ended with him on top, supporting his weight on his elbows, while she locked her legs around the small of his back.

  She was fully receptive, but her delight wasn’t yet physical. She was enjoying his obvious pleasure, his nearly violent thrusting, his set jaw, the rush of his labored breathing. There he was, one of the most important men in the world, and he was as powerless as a hound filled with the scent of a bitch in heat. William Andrews, enjoying her so much that he was nearly crying out for joy.

  When he settled next to her, she rolled on top, sat astride him, and leaned forward so that her breasts were in his face. Then she felt her own swelling of pleasure, and suddenly it was she who had to muffle her gasps.

  Then they were side by side and face-to-face, their lips brushing.

  “My God, but you’re wonderful,” he managed between breaths.

  “Shh …” Jane held her fingertips to his lips. She was enjoying the touch of his body, well-muscled through the shoulders, firm buns, and rock-hard legs. He felt as if he should be an important person, an Olympic athlete or maybe a warrier king, and she had thrilled him to the point of paralysis. Like Judith, she could have his head without his uttering a word of protest. In a few minutes he was sound asleep in her arms.

  They made love again in the morning, this time more slowly and patiently. But when the sun began to rise in the small glass panels of the Colonial windows, the economic titan returned. He was up and into the bathroom, showering in the copper tub. Seconds later he was dressed, sitting in the rocker with papers across his lap and a cell phone to his ear. He smiled at her when she climbed down from the bed wrapped in a sheet, picked up her unopened overnight bag, and disappeared into the bath.

  “I have a car waiting to take you back to your apartment,” he said when she came into the bedroom. “I have to get to the airport for a Chicago flight.” He was stuffing his papers back into his briefcase. She stepped into her black dress and checked what was left of her makeup in the shaving mirror. “I’ll call you tonight. There’s a lot that we have to discuss. Like wedding plans, where we’re going to live and—”

  She closed his mouth with a kiss. “Last night was the best night of my life,” she said. “I’m looking forward to many more just like it.”

  He seemed taken back by the change of subject. Then he smiled. “What the hell is the matter with me?” he asked.

  “Nothing I can’t fix,” she answered. She kissed him again.

  PART TWO

  The Wedding

  16

  Art was standing near her door when the limo dropped her off. She decided to ignore him and walk right past, but he cut her off and held out a paper bag. “Coffee,” he said. “Black and still hot.”

  She considered his proposition. “Okay, but just coffee. Don’t say anything! Not one damn word!”

  He carried his treasure into the kitchen while she went to the phone. “Margaret,” she said to Roscoe’s secretary. “It’s Jane. Will you tell Roscoe that I might not make it in today. Either I caught the flu or I’ve been poisoned. But after getting up and getting completely dressed, I’ve decided to go back to bed.” A long pause, and then she continued, “Sure, he can call me if anything comes up. And if I’m feeling better, I might even come in this afternoon.” There was a quick exchange of sympathy and
regret, and then Jane hung up. When she looked up, Art was standing next to her, holding a cup of coffee.

  “Big night?” he asked.

  She took the cup and sat down by the coffee table. “The biggest.”

  “Is that a ring?” he demanded, sitting across from her. “Or are you wearing diamond-studded brass knuckles?”

  Jane examined the ring and then held out her hand so that Art could see the stone in all its grandeur. “Bill asked me to marry him,” she explained unnecessarily.

  “The man knows how to ask! Which monarch in Europe is missing the diamond at the top of the crown?”

  “I told him that I would … marry him.”

  “I’ll bet you did. He wouldn’t have given you this for saying no.” He whistled softly and shook his head. “William Andrews and Plain Jane! It’s hard to believe. Did you kiss a frog, or something?”

  “You know, when I was getting dressed last night I kept rehearsing polite ways of saying no. I really didn’t think I wanted to be married again. I liked my life the way it is—predictable … manageable …”

  “Boring,” he suggested.

  “Yes, even boring at times. But when he asked me, I forgot all my reasons and all my rehearsed speeches. I was amazed to hear myself saying that I would marry him.”

  “Did you see the ring first?”

  “No, I didn’t,” she snapped. But then she admitted, “Well, maybe I did. They all came together. The ring … the proposal…”

  Art nodded. Then he asked, “I don’t suppose you had a chance to see if he was interested in theater?”

  “Oh sure, right after we finished our discussion on cubism. Are you crazy? It was the first night of our engagement.”

  “Well, now that you’re engaged, it might be something you could talk about.”