The Wrong Wife. Carolyn McSparren

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      The room was the same size as the living room, and beyond it the summer sleeping porch over the solarium downstairs had been glassed in to create a conservatory. The plants had long since died of neglect, but the room still held the faint odor of decaying mulch overlaid with the acrid tinge of medicine.

      Here there were Oriental rugs on top of Oriental rugs. They had always been Grandmere’s grand passion. At first Annabelle had felt her grandmother’s joy in antique Orientals must signal a kinship between them. Her grandmother must truly appreciate the rich colors and beautiful patterns of the rugs. Then she discovered Grandmere saw them only as visible signs of her wealth. She possessed them as she tried to possess everything and everyone around her.

      That was why she liked the ornate pre–Civil War furniture. The high-relief walnut eagle still perched on top of the seven-foot-tall headboard, caught in that moment before it stoops to impale its prey on three-inch talons. Annabelle had nightmares about those talons for years. She still shuddered at the sight of them.

      Grandmere lay in the center of the bed, propped on soft, linen pillows edged with fine handmade lace.

      The same hawk nose and piercing eyes as the eagle. With age and illness the likeness had become really scary. But she’d lost much of her heavy pale hair, and now pink scalp showed through the fine white hairs that were still beautifully cut and dressed once a week when her beautician visited to do her hair, nails and feet.

      Her pale blue eyes, so different from Annabelle’s dark ones, held the same mad intelligence as the eagle’s.

      “Come and kiss me, child, if you can bear to touch this wrinkled old skin.”

      Fishing for a compliment. A good day, then. Annabelle kissed her cheek and tasted the French powder that Grandmere wore even to bed with the expensive perfume she still imported. “Nonsense. You’ll never age.”

      “Liar.” She grabbed Annabelle’s wrist and pulled her down close to whisper, “That woman is torturing me to death. I have fired her a dozen times, but she refuses to go. You must do it.”

      “What kind of torture?”

      “She beats me.” Grandmere frowned at the door. “And she steals. She stole the pearls your grandfather gave me for our tenth wedding anniversary.”

      “The pearls are in your safe-deposit box at the bank.”

      “She’s starving me to death. Look at her, then look at me. She eats her food and my food too. I haven’t had a mouthful all day.” The old voice turned querulous once more.

      Annabelle pulled gently away and glanced at the silver tray on the side table. The meal might not be gourmet, but it seemed adequate. She could tell from the European way that her grandmother had laid her knife and fork at angles across the plate when she finished that Mrs. Mayhew had not eaten her grandmother’s dinner. “Would you like me to bring you a sandwich?”

      Grandmere sniffed. “A sandwich? What wine does one drink with a sandwich?”

      “You can’t have wine, Grandmere.”

      The pale eyes flashed. “You’ve drunk it all, haven’t you, you loathsome child?” She began to cry. “The Napoleon brandy that your grandfather bought. The champagne. It’s all gone, isn’t it? You’ve drunk it or sold it, haven’t you? That’s what your mother would do—sell what she couldn’t swig down.”

      “No, Grandmere. The wine is there. You have the only key to the wine cellar, remember?”

      “You’ve had a duplicate made. Wouldn’t put it past you. You’re in it with her.” Abruptly she turned her face into the pillows. “Leave me alone the way you always do. Everybody always leaves me alone.”

      “You’re not alone, Grandmere. Mrs. Mayhew’s here. I’m here now. Jonas is here.”

      “Jonas?” The old woman cackled. “Jonas? Oh, that is rich. Jonas!” Suddenly she thrust Annabelle away. “Get out and don’t come back. You’re just like her. Evil! The bad seed! I knew it when I took you in. Get out!”

      Annabelle stood. She was well aware they were no longer talking about Mrs. Mayhew but about Annabelle’s mother. Grandmere had despised Chantal on sight and never ceased reminding Annabelle that she had been the only one to see what a scheming hussy the woman was.

      Annabelle might as well leave. Grandmere would call her back later, accuse her of running out, but at the moment staying would only provoke another outburst. That was the way it always went. “Good night, Grandmere. Sleep well.” She bent to touch the old lady’s cheek with hers and drew back just in time to avoid the sharp red nails that clawed at her. Just like the eagle.

      “I said get out. Whore! Slut! Look at you. Just like her!”

      Annabelle backed away. As she reached the door, her grandmother sat up. “How many husbands have you seduced this week? The only thing you’ve ever done right in your miserable life was to kill her!”

      Annabelle fled past Mrs. Mayhew, who stood in the doorway with her mouth open. She nearly tripped on the staircase where the brass bar had come loose from under the stair tread on one end. She knelt to push it back into place. She couldn’t afford to have Mrs. Mayhew break her neck.

      As she fled out the back door she heard her grandmother calling after her querulously, but she did not stop. By the time she slammed the door of her car and turned on the ignition she was crying. Anger? Pain? Loss?

      Tonight had been really bad. She’d heard that some elderly, sick people lost their connection to the present, and kept getting today mixed up with yesterday, but Grandmere’s mind had always been sharp. Too darned sharp.

      She took a deep breath. Grandmere had always been so angry at life, and now she had nothing to look forward to except death. It must be hard to see Annabelle with her life ahead of her. At times like this, she wanted to hate the old woman, but as she’d told Marian, Grandmere was all she had. All she had ever had since her father disappeared.

      As she drove by the elaborate four-car garage, she saw the lights were still on upstairs. It was only nine o’clock. Surely she could call on Jonas.

      But not without phoning first. She used her cell phone, and, when he picked up, told him that she was downstairs and asked for permission to visit.

      “Of course, Miss Langley.”

      When he opened the door, she hugged him. “What’s with the ‘Miss Langley’ stuff, Jonas?” He stood aside to let her into his cozy living room. A book lay open on the arm of his easy chair under a reading light. The room was furnished in castoffs from the big house and some of the finest rugs. Jonas at least appreciated them.

      “You’re all grown-up now. I shouldn’t be calling you Annabelle.”

      “Bull. I’ll always be Annabelle to you. You got any cold beer?” She collapsed on the brown velour sofa and laid her head back. The nerve along her right temple throbbed. She massaged the pulse gently and hoped it wouldn’t keep her awake.

      “Lite or regular?”

      “Oh, Lite, please, if you have it.” The beer should at least help her relax. She patted her hips. “Always Lite. And I’ll take it straight out of the bottle, thanks.”

      Jonas СКАЧАТЬ