The Wrong Wife. Carolyn McSparren

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      CHAPTER THREE

      WHILE HER TV DINNER microwaved, Annabelle curled into a tight little ball in the yellow club chair beside the empty fireplace. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, and then ran her fingers down her face. When she touched her cheeks she realized they were wet with perspiration and her fingertips were actually shaking.

      What had happened with the lace? She could tell herself it was a trick of the light, but she knew better.

      Jonas once told her that Governor Huey Long of Louisiana carried around a mock certificate of release from the Louisiana state mental institution as proof that he was sane. She had often wished she had a certificate like that so she could point to it and say to herself, “See. You are not a nutcase.”

      In a pinch, she could call on a couple of excellent psychotherapists to certify she wasn’t any crazier than so-called healthy people.

      Okay, so she hated cocktail parties and meeting new people and speaking in public.

      But hallucinations? Never, not in all her years. Not even when the nightmares had still been coming at least once or twice a week.

      And she hadn’t had the nightmares for years.

      Until she’d come back to Memphis to work for the wife of the man who had failed to defend her father successfully. But they’d been divorced for years. Hal Jackson had disappeared years ago just as her own father had disappeared when he’d been released from prison.

      Her New York roommate, Vickie, had begged her not to leave New York. Annabelle managed to keep paying her half of the rent so that Vickie didn’t have to sublet. She needed her place to come back to when she left Memphis. Together she and Vickie had done a bunch of work decorating the SoHo loft, and they’d never be able to find another one now at anything like a reasonable rate.

      But family was family. That was all that mattered, really. Grandmere needed Annabelle because there was no one else.

      When Annabelle had had no one else, her grandmother hadn’t hesitated to take her in.

      She’d fed and clothed Annabelle, sent her to the best schools, even tried from time to time to act like a regular grandmother. It wasn’t her fault that she’d failed so miserably. She was a dragon by nature, and the disastrous circumstances under which she’d acquired Annabelle had destroyed the way of life she cherished, turned the woman into a bitter recluse.

      It didn’t even matter that she’d made Annabelle pay psychologically over the years. Grandmere had done the best she could. Now it was Annabelle’s turn. That was the way families worked.

      She couldn’t manage to look after Grandmere from eighteen hundred miles away any longer, to turn over her care to unknown women who came and went almost as often as they changed Grandmere’s antique linen sheets.

      Six months wasn’t much to give back for all those years and all those school bills. Dr. Renfro said his best guess was that Grandmere probably had less than six months left.

      Annabelle dreaded losing the old woman. They had always had a love-hate relationship, but when Grandmere died, the last tiny root that tethered her to home would be gone. She’d be forever adrift.

      Right. The old lady would outlive them all if will was any criterion.

      The microwave dinged. Annabelle turned off the CD and flipped on the television. The news was over. Now she at least had the company of human voices and laugh tracks.

      She put her dinner on a tray, took it back to the club chair and ate with little attention to the television sitcom.

      Her finger, the one that she’d jabbed with the dressmaker’s pin, throbbed. She’d doctored it with antibiotic ointment and covered it with a bandage, but it still hurt. Drat Ben anyway! The thought of him set other nerves throbbing.

      She glanced over at the lace, now spread carefully on a sheet of white cardboard on her worktable. At least she didn’t see the thing dripping with blood any longer.

      After dinner she had to drive over to check on Grandmere, to be certain the current caregiver hadn’t given up in disgust as so many of the others had, or that Grandmere hadn’t lobbed a silver tray at her head and brained the poor woman.

      Amazing how strong Grandmere could be when she was angry. Lying in that big old bed she looked no larger than a kitten.

      Annabelle picked up her tray and took it into the kitchen. Then she swung her black sweater over her shoulders. The April nights still got chilly. As she started for the stairs the telephone shrilled.

      She yipped. Silly to be so jumpy at sudden sounds. She grabbed the phone and said, “Yes, hello,” and knew she sounded crabby.

      “Uh, Annabelle?” A male voice. “It’s Ben, Ben Jackson.”

      “Yes, Ben, I recognized your voice.” Her body had recognized his voice. She wasn’t about to tell him that.

      “Look, I wanted to say again how sorry I am…”

      “No need. I understand perfectly.” She started to put the receiver down. His voice stopped her.

      “The thing is, I’d like to make it up to you if you’d let me.”

      “Not necessary. Ben, I’m kind of in a hurry right now.”

      “Oh. Sorry. I’ll make this fast. Let me take you to dinner Thursday night.”

      “No thank you.”

      “It’s not a real date, only Mother’s Thursday-night thing.”

      “No СКАЧАТЬ