The Arrangement. Suzanne Forster

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СКАЧАТЬ in his hand, he let his mind roll along with it. Yes, his mother could count on him to be here. The opportunities Alison’s visit presented were just too good to pass up.

      “Alison, the car is here. Are you ready?”

      Andrew’s voice came to her from the foyer down the hall. She was standing in front of her dressing room mirror in her underwear—a white lace camisole and panties that seemed strangely alien on her lean, boyish body.

      She studied her reflection, trying to imagine how her family would receive her when it was such an ordeal for her to look at herself. The surgeons had performed a miracle. All the scars were cleverly hidden, and her features looked remarkably natural, even though some areas of her face were still numb and dead to the touch. Her smile wasn’t quite right, but she so rarely smiled.

      She ran a finger down the bridge of her nose and over her glistening lips, trying to make a connection to the image she saw. It was uncanny how much she looked like the woman in the snapshots Andrew had given the surgeons. Except it was an illusion. She’d been stitched together from so many disparate parts, she didn’t feel like a whole person.

      The world might see loveliness, but the net effect for her was Frankensteinesque. Often, in the dark of the night, she felt vaguely monstrous, and at times her husband looked at her as if that’s exactly what she was.

      “Alison?” he called again. “Can I send the driver up for the bags?”

      She wasn’t dressed and her bags were lying open on the floor, empty. She’d given up on packing an hour ago, thinking that if she took a break to get herself dressed and ready, she might be able to finish. Everything about this trip was overwhelming. She wasn’t even sure what clothes to take.

      The driver was coming down the hall, and she couldn’t seem to move. She touched the charm bracelet, the penny ring. Get some clothes on. Cover yourself with something.

      Her walk-in closet had racks of beautiful clothes, but they were all baggy on her reed-thin frame. Even the shoes didn’t fit. She tried to concentrate on the vast array of clothing. It was coordinated by color, type and season, but her mind wouldn’t focus. The dressing room seemed to be growing darker, though she knew it was her eyes. She was shutting down, not the lights.

      “This is too much for you, isn’t it?”

      She looked up, surprised to see Andrew behind her. He was a shadow in the mirror, more spectral than human. What struck her was his tone. She’d picked up an unexpected hint of concern. She had to admit that he’d done everything he could to make this trip easier for her, including arrange for a private charter so they didn’t have to deal with airport lines and security.

      Still, she avoided his direct gaze, not knowing what she might see there. She couldn’t bear disdain, and pity would be worse. They’d never had a perfect marriage, and had been on the brink of a divorce when the accident happened. People might assume this was a new start for them, but nothing could be further from the truth. It was an arrangement, and a fairly cold-blooded one.

      “I don’t…I can’t seem to pack.” She almost laughed, it was such a ridiculous understatement. She couldn’t seem to breathe, either.

      “I’ll help,” he said. “Can you finish dressing?”

      “Yes, of course.”

      “Good. You do that, and I’ll get your bags packed.”

      “You know what I need to take?”

      Irony darkened his smile. “I have a pretty good idea. It’s the middle of summer in Mirage Bay, too.”

      When she didn’t move, he laid his hands on her shoulders and squeezed, apparently intending to reassure her. But she was too exposed, and he so rarely touched her that a chill settled in the pit of her stomach. Fear. It was an emotion she’d learned to heed the way an animal heeds a dangerous scent. But she wasn’t going to let it—or him—control her.

      She looked up at him. “Cheating death was hard. This is harder.”

      “Family reunions? You’ll be fine.”

      “I don’t know what they’re expecting.” Frustration rang in her voice. He was patronizing her again, managing her like one of his clients. He’d coached her so thoroughly that she’d memorized his pep talks. You have transient amnesia and can’t be expected to remember anything but bits and pieces of the past. There won’t be spotlights and interrogations, so don’t make it hard on yourself. I’ve already told your mother how difficult this is for you.

      He bent to pick up her white silk kimono, which was lying on the floor where she’d dropped it. “You’re not the same person,” he said. “How could you be? They’ll see that immediately.”

      She took the robe from him before he could help her with it. Once she had it on, she turned away and tied the belt. He didn’t care about her, not really. He was fixated on finding out who’d tried to frame him for murder. That was the reason he’d given her for returning to Mirage Bay, but she had a gut feeling there was more to it. He wasn’t telling her everything.

      His voice came to her, low and restrained. “We need to behave like we’re married, Alison.”

      She glanced up at his reflection. He used the mirror to make eye contact with her, and she found it hard to look away. There wasn’t a hint of revulsion or pity in his eyes. He was razor-focused, curious and very aware of her, much like any man interested in a woman. But it was all part of the illusion, the arrangement.

      “And in love,” he said. “People will expect that much.”

      She knew it was true. Everyone would be insatiably curious, her family most of all. But she didn’t know how they were going to do it, or whether anyone would be convinced. It would require acting skills beyond either of their ability. Would anyone believe they were the same passionate, overheated couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other?

      Tears rolled down Julia Driscoll Fairmont’s cheeks as she plucked the downy hairs from above her upper lip. One by one, she extracted the barely visible offenders, leaving an occasional spot of blood. But the sharpest sting came from the errant nose hairs that dared to protrude from her aristocratic nostrils.

      Her esthetician would have been happy to do the honors, with much greater speed and far less pain. But that would have defeated the purpose. It wouldn’t have calmed Julia’s nerves the way plucking did.

      For the last half hour, she’d been sitting at her vanity, balancing a hand mirror and her surgical tweezers—and wincing with every extraction. She was probably adding a wrinkle for every hair. She had heard physical pain caused the brain to produce endorphins that could become addictive, but that wasn’t her problem. She wasn’t a pain junkie. If anything, her obsession with plucking was in large part thanks to her dear departed mother.

      Eleanor Driscoll had been named for Eleanor Roosevelt, and she took that responsibility very much to heart. From her teens, Eleanor Dee, as everyone called her, had been an activist. She’d thought of herself as a modern-day crusader, which included defending society’s downtrodden wherever she found them.

      Eleanor Dee believed in volunteerism and self-sacrifice. She was against self-indulgence in all its forms, including drinking, smoking and, of course, indiscriminate sexual behavior. Sadly, her daughter and only child, Julia, СКАЧАТЬ