Dear Emily. Fern Michaels

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СКАЧАТЬ folded on the bottom of the pile. Some stranger Ian hired had seen and touched her underwear. She felt ashamed, embarrassed that she didn’t have sexy, beribboned undies, the kind you bought from Victoria’s Secret. She didn’t have time to shop for such things, and goddamn it, she liked cotton underwear. Size eight. She shuddered as she slammed the drawers shut.

      The yellow room had its own bathroom. It wasn’t as large as Ian’s and didn’t have a bidet and only one vanity. She fingered the apple-green towels that were larger than beach towels and twice as thick. They were called bath sheets in the Sears Roebuck catalog.

      There was a hollow feeling in her stomach when Emily made her way downstairs to the kitchen. She passed the thermostat on the way and turned it up to 80.

      It was a beautiful, modern kitchen complete with dishwasher, trash compactor, and garbage disposal. There was a center island with cabinets underneath, lots and lots of gorgeous oak cabinets, all of them full of new dishes and copper-bottomed pots and pans. A string of garlic hung from one of the beams, which had a little note attached to the bottom that said, “Good luck in your new house.” “Up yours,” Emily muttered.

      Everything was where it should be, just the way she would have positioned things if she’d decorated the kitchen herself. She made coffee, and while it perked, her mind raced. Down the hall and around the corner of the steps was a home office for Ian, completely outfitted. Suddenly it was important for her to see that office, to see what was in it.

      It was manly, professional-looking. An Ian office if there was such a thing. Wainscoting, deep leather chairs, chocolate-colored carpeting, a mahogany desk that was so shiny she could see her reflection in the top. Everything shrieked newness. It even had a fireplace, a neatly laid stack of wood waiting for a match to ignite it. Medical books lined the walls in what Emily knew were custom-made bookshelves.

      In their entire married life she’d never, ever gone through Ian’s things. Even at the clinics she’d never opened any of his drawers, never touched anything. She yanked at first one drawer and then another. Files, folders. Records. In the middle drawer where people had a tendency to toss bits and pieces because of convenience she saw a lone folder labeled Park Avenue Clinic. She read through it, stunned at what she was reading. When she was finished, she replaced it exactly the way she’d found it, closed the drawer, got up, gave the seat of the leather chair a hard smack to erase the indentation, pushed it back, and left the room.

      Emily’s eyes were wild when she poured coffee into a gaily colored mug. There seemed to be a set of cups, each with a flower painted on the side. The one she was holding was a pansy pattern with beautiful shades of purple. At first she thought it was a decal. On closer examination she saw it was hand-painted. It took both hands to hold the mug, to bring it to her lips. Until she tasted the scalding coffee she wasn’t aware that she’d forgotten to add sugar and cream.

      The Park Avenue Clinic was going to be an abortion clinic. Over her dead body. She had something to say about that. Ian knew she was going to object and that’s why everything was so secret. Which just went to prove this new house, last night, was nothing more than window dressing until he got down to what he was setting her up for.

      Was she supposed to go to the clinics today? She couldn’t remember. Obviously it didn’t make a difference or someone would have called by now to find out where she was or at least to ask if maybe she was coming in late.

      Are you thinking of a confrontation, Emily? her other self asked quietly. At Ian’s place of business? Think again, Emily. You really don’t have any say in how the businesses are run. You refused to become an officer of the corporation. You gave up those rights and Ian will throw that at you with the speed of lightning. His attorney will back it up. You are a paid employee whose salary remains in the business. You are given an allowance by your husband; he takes care of everything. He’s currently working on the list you provided, to give you everything you ever wanted in life.

      The pansy cup fell from her hands and shattered on the terra-cotta floor. One down, five to go, she thought as her gaze raked the colorful cups hanging on a coffee cup tree that was too cute for words. Her arm swept out, sending the metal stand and the five cups crashing to the floor. Now she was going to have to clean it up and even from here she could see the nicks in the new floor. It was a stupid floor. Terra-cotta belonged outside, on a patio or a deck.

      Maybe this was what wasn’t sitting well with her. Ian’s blind rush to start giving her things without asking her dislikes and likes. Why couldn’t she be allowed to decorate her own home? Was her taste so terrible? The house was attractively furnished, but it wasn’t her taste, and as far as she could tell, it wasn’t Ian’s taste either. It was probably some damn. twenty-five-year-old decorator Ian had flirted with.

      Cry, Emily. That’s what you always do when things don’t go right. Instead of taking a stand, making your views known, you cry and give in. Like that time you ironed those forty shirts. Ian smiles at you, and you all but kiss his feet.

      Emily walked into the living room. She needed to take a shower and get dressed. Then she’d go into the clinic and talk to Ian.

      Her shower completed, she tried to dry herself with one of the large towels. The terry cloth refused to absorb the water because the towels were new and hadn’t been washed. She picked up her sweatshirt, turned it inside out, and dried herself.

      Naked, she charged into the yellow bedroom, where she rummaged for her clothes. How should she dress to visit the Park Avenue Clinic?

      The Park Avenue Clinic, two blocks down from Maple Avenue, ran the entire length and breadth of the four-story building. It was going to be huge, bigger than the other three clinics. It was a perfect location. Rent was going to be very high. She walked down the nine steps to the basement, whose windows were above ground level. The workmen didn’t pay any attention to her. She thought she recognized two of the men who worked on the Watchung Clinic. They nodded to her.

      At least six thousand square feet. Really high rent. She was checking on the patient bathroom when she heard two men conversing on the other side of the wall. They were amused about something, she could hear it in their voices, but the words weren’t distinguishable. She backed out of the bathroom and meandered closer to the wall. Now she could hear perfectly.

      “I wouldn’t lie about something like that, Walt. Doc Thorn told me himself just last week. This whole side of the building is for a sperm bank. It’s gonna be a whole separate operation. Ten bucks if you don’t believe me. Ask Dwight, he’s the architect.”

      Emily’s eyes rolled back in her head, but she didn’t move. “Big money in sperm banks, the Doc said. They charge for the donation then they charge rent for keeping the donation. This isn’t just going to be an abortion clinic. Some other doctor is going to be doing vasectomies. Now that’s something I’d never even think of doing. What about you, Walt?”

      “When I don’t want any more kids, I might think about it. You can get it reversed later on if it turns out to be something you can’t live with. My wife cut out an article for me to read. I’d consider it. One of the guys up front said the doc was thinking of converting the other clinics he has to this kind. Must be a lot of money in this. Doc Thorn wouldn’t be considering revamping his clinics if he wasn’t going to be making some mega bucks. My wife is pro-choice, what’s yours?”

      “Pro-life. Guess we’re a wash if it comes to a vote.”

      “Yeah, guess so. Guess the Thorns are pro-choice.”

      Emily swayed dizzily before she felt well enough to leave the work area.

      Sperm banks, abortion clinics. The family clinics СКАЧАТЬ