“D-day,” Jane mumbled to herself when the light from the window hit her face. “And I’m going to look like hell. The bride from the crypt.” She sat up so she could see herself in the vanity mirror. “Oh God!” There were dark circles under her eyes, her new hairdo was a mess, and her mouth seemed to have disappeared. She flopped down on her pillow, sat up abruptly and punched the pillow into a new shape, and then set her head down again.
She had tossed and turned all night, involved in a debate about the rest of her life. The romantic sentiments, William Andrews’s professed love for her, and the sheer momentum of the wedding plans that she had set in motion argued for going through with the ceremony. You love him and he loves you, she had assured herself over and over. The honeymoon was planned, the clothes bought, and the bags packed. The decorators were ready to move in the instant the newlyweds departed, to transform Kay’s boudoir into a real husband-and-wife bedroom. It was a promising launch into a life that she could never have dreamed of or even imagined. Besides, what woman wouldn’t kill for the chance to be married to the dashing prince of the media world? Of course she would go through with the wedding.
But cold logic argued the other side of the debate. First, she knew almost nothing about the man she would be committing to spend the rest of her life with. Sure, she had read all the press flak and official biographies that painted him as a business genius and philanthropist. He was on every list of the world’s ten most desirable bachelors. But he was also a workaholic already married to his global business affairs. True, he had committed to a weeklong honeymoon on a sailboat when they would be out of contact with the world. But she was already hearing such phrases as “keep me informed” and “in an emergency” and was already imagining an endless line of seaplanes setting down in the water next to them. Maybe he was the ideal mate for a woman who wanted wealth and stature but didn’t particularly care for men. But Jane had already gotten tired of living alone in his huge apartment. Satellite phone calls from places she had never heard of were no substitute for the touch of a husband.
He was damaged goods. The shotgun blast that had destroyed his wife had also ripped through his soul, leaving him crippled in matters of the heart. He seemed to feel no intimacy even when they were in bed together, no real joy even when he was smiling. He was always on the move, as if terrified of ever coming to rest. All people, she knew, had episodes when past agonies rose up to torment them. But Bill seemed a prisoner of his past agonies.
He was secretive, perhaps even deceiving. His account of Kay’s murder was incomplete and implausible. Once the notion of a mysterious intruder was dismissed, it seemed certain that he must know who the killer was. How could he live with that knowledge? More to the point, how could she? Even more damning, he had never even mentioned the name of Selina Royce. The prenuptial agreement, which she gladly signed, outlined his assets and liabilities in great detail. Nowhere was there a hint of any obligation to a woman in Paris who was receiving more than she would get in the event that she and William divorced.
And Selina Royce was real. Roscoe’s Paris agent had described her as late thirties/early forties, attractive, and very fashionable. It was all the information Jane needed to hate her. But the report had added that she seemed to be very private, with few friends and basically no social life. She took long walks and spent a lot of time sitting in cafés, always in a hat and sunglasses. “A bit weird for a Parisian courtesan,” the man added, and Roscoe had assured her that his friend knew about such things. Had Andrews visited her? Jane asked. “Not while my guy was following her,” Roscoe had answered. “Do you want me to keep on this to see if he shows up?” Jane had decided that she didn’t want to catch Bill in the act. Sooner or later, she hoped, “he’ll tell me all about her.”
Finally, there were the bodyguards—the loyal retainers who kept watch over all the Andrews secrets. She couldn’t forget the look on Robert Leavitt’s face when she had suddenly asked him, “Who is Selina Royce?” She remembered his coughing spell when she asked the same question at the restaurant.
There were other gatekeepers. His secretary claimed never to know how to reach him. Yet Bill had commented on the dozens of calls he received from his office when he was overseas. His top executives were never available. Her invitations to them had been funneled through Ann Packard. Jane had little hope of knocking down the barriers and having a running dialogue with the man she was going to marry.
She had been in turmoil all week and had been awake all night, but still she hadn’t made a decision. She would probably go ahead with the wedding. It was too late to call it off, wasn’t it? But she couldn’t decide whether it was the right thing to do. She didn’t know a great deal about William Andrews, and some of what she did know was frightening. But then again, how well did most brides know the man they were marrying? Didn’t the true persona present itself after the wedding? Sometimes for better, as when she learned how much Art enjoyed painting her toenails. And sometimes for worse, as when he had turned out to be permanently unemployed and incapable of keeping track of his own socks.
She stepped into her bathroom and began repairing the damage of a sleepless night. First a shower, cold as she could stand it. Then some foundation to bring a bit of healthy color to her face. Then makeup to brighten her eyes and reestablish her lost mouth. She decided to leave her hair for the stylist, who was due to arrive with the photographers.
Jane slipped on a robe and wandered down to the breakfast room, where Mrs. McCarty offered her a full menu of breakfast choices. “Just coffee,” Jane said. She hunched over the cup, scarcely cheered by the morning light playing on the contours of Central Park. Only when she had sipped a bit did she begin to take in the view.
Cassie appeared, her hairdo wrapped in tissue paper. She reached the table and then pulled up short. “What happened to your hair?”
“I slept on it.”
“You’re not supposed to do that. It’s all messed up.” She seemed annoyed that Jane had desecrated her coiffure.
“I’ll work on it,” Jane promised.
Craig sauntered in, still in the jeans and T-shirt he had worn to bed. “You look crazy,” he said to his sister. “Why is your head wrapped in toilet paper?”
Cassie bristled. Jane giggled bubbles into her coffee.
“Is that what you’re going to wear to the wedding?” Cassie demanded.
“There ain’t going to be no wedding,” Craig pronounced, sliding into the table.
Jane’s head shot up. Cassie gasped. Craig grabbed a slice of toast and began to butter it.
“What do you mean, no wedding?” Cassie demanded. Jane turned to Craig for his answer.
“Can’t have a wedding without the groom, and Dad left on business early this morning.”
Cassie’s face fell. Jane reached over and took Craig’s hand to interrupt his buttering. “Your father left this morning? What time?”
The boy pulled his hand free. “Couple of hours ago.” Then he stuffed the toast into his mouth.
No wedding, Jane thought, and was surprised to find that she felt relieved. She would have her postponement without having to ask. But what was she going to do with the judge and the thirty privileged guests from Andrews Global Network? She thought of disabling the elevator. When they couldn’t get up, they would eventually go home. But she knew nothing about the mechanics of elevators. And besides, Bill’s loyal retainers would climb up the side of the building rather than risk being a no-show
Maybe coffee in the dining room! Let the guests arrive, have someone explain that he had been called away on an emergency, apologize for the inconvenience, and send them on their way.
“So what are you going to do?” Cassie demanded.
“You’ll have to greet our guests and tell them that your father has been detained,” Jane tried.
“Me? No way! I’m not going to look like a fool!”
Jane smiled. “Think how much more foolish I’ll feel making the announcement. I’m the bride who
’s been left at the altar.”
Cassie’s face hardened. “You know, this wasn’t such a great idea to begin with. I’m not going to bail you out.” She stormed off, tearing the tissue paper from her head as she raced up the stairs.
Jane turned to Craig. “Did he say where he was going?”
Craig shook his head. “He didn’t say anything. Mr. Leavitt came, and they left together. Like they always do.” She was thoughtful for a moment until she suddenly remembered the caterer.
“Oh my God, the caterers!”
“What about them?” Craig asked.
“They’re probably already in their trucks circling the block.”
“So what?”
“So how would you like a hundred chicken livers wrapped in bacon for your lunch?”
She carried her coffee up to her room. Even though she was relieved at what would probably be a lengthy postponement, Jane was hurt and angry. What could Bill have possibly found more important than their wedding? What was so urgent that he would humiliate her in front of his children and friends? Why would he leave without even telling her where he was going? Had he even thought of her on their wedding day?
Her phone extension rang. Bill, she thought, and rushed to pick up. But the voice was Mrs. McCarty’s. “The caterers are here. Perhaps you ought to come down and meet them.”
“I’m dressing,” she lied. “Would you get them started?”
“Started where? The living room or the roof garden?”
“The roof garden,” Jane decided. If things kept going the way they were, she would probably want to jump off.
The phone rang and again she was disappointed to hear Mrs. McCarty’s voice. “The hairdresser is here.”
Jane couldn’t force the truth through her lips. “Send him up,” she said cheerily. Immediately she heard footsteps on the stairs, cracked her door, and called, “In here!”
The man wore an open shirt, showing the chains and medallions that hung around his neck. He stopped abruptly in the doorway, snapped off his sunglasses, gasped, and asked, “What did you do to it?”
“I slept on it,” she answered.
He backed up a step. “You did what?” His shocked expression gave way to rage.
“Look, I’ve been through this already. Can you fix it?”
“It’s … totaled …”
“Do what you can,” she said.
“What I should do is tow it to the junkyard,” he said, but he stepped into the room and began looking through his carrying case. “You’d be better off if I were a magician instead of a stylist.” He sat Jane at the vanity and stood behind her, examining the mussed hairdo in the mirror. “Oh well, into the breach!” He started combing it out.
When her phone rang again, Jane decided to ignore it. The stylist might resent being interrupted and she was at his mercy, even if all she had to dress for was to tell her guests that the party had been canceled.
Watching him work, she decided that the man was a magician. Her hair took on a contour and seemed to fall naturally along the sides of her face. He tied selected strands into ridiculous curls, but when he combed them out, they added body. He took her head in his fingertips, moved it one way or another, sighed, and then plunged back into action.
First came the cleanser, which he used to remove the base she had painted on in the morning. Then a new liquid that he mixed in a petri dish and kept comparing with her cheekbones. And then brushes and colors that he mixed on a palette. In less than an hour he changed her from a scullery maid to a princess. “Cinderella!” she announced.
“You’re not planning on taking a nap?” he asked suspiciously. “At least not before the photographers get here.”
She had been planning to wear something very simple when she met her guests with the bad news. But with her newfound beauty, she decided on something more elaborate—maybe even the coffee-colored flared sheath she had bought as her bridal dress. But then she would need still another dress if they rescheduled the wedding with the same guests. “The hell with it,” she announced as she took the dress off its hanger.
Jane checked the clock. It was after one P.M. She still had an hour before the guests would arrive for the three o’clock ceremony. She decided to visit the roof garden to see what they would all be missing.
She was stunned. The casual garden that surrounded the pool had been as completely transformed as she had. A chain of flowers hanging from antique streetlamps marked off the area, and stands of fall flowers were planted at the corners. The seating was down both sides of the pool, which was dotted with floating flowers. A Gothic arch of flowers marked the place where the judge would preside, lending just a hint of religious significance.
The strings had already taken their places in the band shell: a violinist in formal wear, a harpist and cellist both in full-length gowns. They continued their tuning and practicing after favoring Jane with a smile. And there, on one of the several white-cloth tables, was an enormous silver ice bucket, bristling with the necks of champagne bottles. The caterer, dressed in tails, rushed to greet her.
“I hope you’re pleased, Mrs. Andrews,” he said.
“Not yet,” Jane answered, and then saw from his horrified expression that she should clarify. “I’m not yet Mrs. Andrews, but more than pleased with what you’ve done. It’s … glorious.”
He bowed as if accepting applause. “And you will be Mrs. Andrews before you know it,” he promised.
Oh God, she thought, should I tell him now and get it over with? Instead, she asked if she might have a glass of champagne. He snapped to like a soldier on a parade ground, pulled a bottle out of the ice, and opened it expertly. He gave Jane a flute and poured it half full. She thanked him, then as an afterthought reached out and took the bottle.
Two glasses later, she saw that it was time to go down to the foyer and face her guests. She wobbled a bit as she stood. Champagne wasn’t her normal lunch, and she thought she could feel the bubbles in her brain. She set down her glass, smiled at the caterer, who was hovering to receive her next command, and then made a determined effort to walk a straight line to the stairs. She squinted at a figure rising before her, focused, and was amazed to see William Andrews, in white tie, coming toward her.
“Bill?”
“You look lovely,” he answered. “Is it bad luck for me to be seeing you before the wedding?”
He was smiling. The bastard was smiling as if he were enjoying a private joke. “I’ll show you some bad luck,” Jane snarled. She lunged forward and aimed a roundhouse right fist at his smile. But the champagne had dulled her coordination and she missed badly, stumbling into his arms. “You insensitive gorilla. Do you know how worried I’ve been? Left standing at the altar so you could run off and make another million!”
“Didn’t Bob call you?”
“No, he didn’t. And even if he had, I’m not supposed to be marrying Robert Leavitt. Why didn’t you call?” Her anger had given way to confusion, and there were hints that she might be about to cry.
“I did! Right before I got on the helicopter. I rang your room, but you didn’t answer.”
She vaguely remembered the phone call she had ignored while the stylist was working miracles on her appearance. “That was you?”
“It must have been,” Andrews agreed. “And Bob promised to call you again after I took off.”
“Took off from where?”
“From the farm. There were a few things that needed to be taken care of before I disappear for a week.”
Her anger flared again. “You had to be with your horses on our wedding day?”
He laughed and drew her close. “Not my horses—a few legal matters. I was just clearing the decks for our honeymoon.”
Relief flooded through her, and Jane suddenly felt like laughing. She hadn’t been abandoned at the altar, and she didn’t have to go down and face the wedding guests. Her misgivings about William Andrews vanished as he rescued her from disgrace, and she suddenly found herself holding on to
him for dear life.
“Are you laughing or crying?” he asked.
She wasn’t sure, but she knew that she was going to catch hell from the stylist if her mascara ran.
William took her down to her room and ordered up a cup of coffee. He went to his children’s rooms and ordered them into their wedding garments. Then he dashed down to the foyer as his first guest, the judge, arrived with his feathered and bejeweled wife.
Mrs. McCarty brought up the coffee, apologizing that she had been delayed several times en route. “Some of these people would forget their heads,” she complained, and then hoped that the coffee was still hot. Jane downed the cup and felt the caffeine snap her like a whip. She heard more guests arrive, bellowing congratulations to William. Then the party moved up to the roof garden, where the strings began playing. Seconds later the caterer arrived at her door and announced that they were ready for her entrance. He led her up the stairs and posed her at the foot of a white runner that circled the guests on the bride’s side and ended up at the flowered arch, where Bill and the judge were waiting.
A bow tapped on violin strings and after a pause, the opening strains of Pachelbel’s Canon whispered over the rooftop. Cassie took her place in front of the bride. Jane noted with sadistic pleasure that one side of the girl’s hairdo had fallen. Craig raced forward to join his father, fanning furiously at the cigarette smoke he was still exhaling. Cassie began to proceed down the aisle in measured steps, smiling wherever cameras were raised. Jane stepped out and began her march toward a fate unknown. The dark suits in front of the Gothic arch sparked the thought that she might be on her way to a trial before the Inquisition.
The First Wife Page 20