Our Husband

by Stephanie Bond

  Natalie sat perfectly still, entertaining the thought that if the two women were allowed to fight to the death, her situation would improve by fifty percent. And despite Ruby's youth and energy, she'd put five dollars on Beatrix.

  "Calm down, Beatrix," Gilliam advised in a soothing tone while Billy Wayne cajoled Ruby back into her chair, now moved safely out of striking distance.

  "Don't even think about coming to the memorial service," Beatrix warned, shaking a finger at both of them, smoothing her hair with her other hand. "I'll have you both hauled away."

  Natalie shook her head, surprisingly calm although her heart jerked frantically at the woman's words. "You can't deny me—us—the opportunity to say good-bye to Raymond."

  "Watch me."

  Ruby lunged again, but Masterson and Gilliam were ready this time, finally situating their chairs between the two women.

  "Remember, we still have a lot of issues to work through," Gilliam murmured close to Beatrix's ear. "Let's get back to the agreement, shall we?"

  Natalie squared her shoulders. "I won't sign anything unless I'm allowed to attend the memorial service."

  "Yeah," Ruby seconded.

  Beatrix's mouth tightened, but her eyes seemed to soften as their gazes locked. "Why would you even want to come?"

  Why indeed? Natalie wet her lips, but her voice failed her. Because I loved him, she finally mouthed. For a split second, she experienced a connection with Beatrix, and she suspected that the woman wasn't nearly as crusty as she let on.

  Billy Wayne, apparently a slow reader, flicked his finger against the two-paragraph agreement. "This ain't gonna fly."

  "And why is that?" Gilliam asked, a model of patience.

  "'Cause," Billy Wayne said with a tight smile. "Raymond's first wife ain't his only heir."

  Beatrix's face drained of color. "What are you saying?"

  Ruby grinned and touched her flat, exposed midriff. "I'm pregnant with Ray's baby."

  Natalie nearly swallowed her tongue. And this time Beatrix did the lunging, her manicured hands aiming for Ruby's throat.

  Chapter 6

  Natalie considered shopping for a new black dress just to pass the unbearable hours until the memorial service Beatrix had begrudgingly agreed to hold the next day in Paducah, on neutral soil. But, she decided, staring blankly into her tidy closet, the crepe suit she'd bought for Rose Marie's wake would suffice, with the addition of an Hermes scarf Raymond had given her. She fingered the scrap of colorful silk, trying to recall the occasion for the gift. She couldn't, and now questioned how many of the extravagant presents he'd brought home were by-products of guilt.

  Slowly, she opened the other side of the closet. Raymond's impeccable suits, slacks, and shirts hung benignly under dry-cleaner's plastic, waiting for his return. Natalie knelt to straighten one of his shoes, wondering if he'd kept full closets at Beatrix's and Ruby's.

  She sat down hard on the floor, then pulled her knees up to her chin. Of course he had. A man who thought nothing of maintaining three wives would've certainly thought nothing of maintaining three wardrobes.

  "Oh, Raymond," she moaned, lowering her head on her crossed arms. "Why?"

  She sat for the longest time, breathing through the musky fibers of her thin wool sweater sleeve. She would never be warm again. Two other women... a baby.

  A baby. She squeezed her eyes shut, eking out a lone tear. She'd never pined to be a mother—she suspected her maternal instincts had gone undeveloped because her own mother had been no model of parental warmth. Raymond had said he was relieved she didn't want children because he opposed bringing children into such a corrupt world, but had it been his own corrupt conscience speaking?

  The man she'd immersed herself and her life into was a stranger. She had nothing now. Even the good memories were sullied. And worst of all, how pathetic was she that she hadn't suspected a thing?

  Not true, her mind whispered. She'd suspected—she'd simply underestimated the depth of his betrayal.

  A distant ringing penetrated the fog of her misery. The doorbell, she realized finally, and pushed herself up when the visitor became persistent. Neighbors and acquaintances had dropped off containers of food all afternoon—Sara had effectively spread the word of Raymond's death, and apparently salads were the official comfort food of the small town. As much as she didn't want to see or talk to anyone, she wanted to sit on the floor and talk to herself even less. Besides, most of the visitors had scurried off rather quickly once they got a look at her puffy eyes and peeling nose.

  Every part of her ached as she moved in slow motion down the stairs. Since that horrid night in the hospital—had it been only two nights ago?—she'd slept on the blue velvet loveseat in the library. The loveseat itself wasn't so uncomfortable, but the fall she'd taken during a nightmare had left her with bruises down her right side.

  "Mrs. Ratchet," she murmured when she opened the heavy door. Her heart picked up a couple of beats because the sweet little old woman, in addition to being her incredibly nosy next-door neighbor, was the feature writer for the Smiley Tribune, a weekly paper that could easily pass for a newsletter, and consisted mostly of church news.

  Eileen Ratchet wore a sorrowful expression on her birdlike face and carried an orange plastic bowl covered with aluminum foil. "Mrs. Carmichael, I'm so sorry to hear about your husband."

  "Thank you."

  The bony woman looked past her into the house, hinting for an invitation inside. Receiving none, she extended the bowl. "Pea salad."

  Natalie pasted on a smile as she accepted the offering. "How kind of you to come by to check on me."

  Mrs. Ratchet rocked forward and whispered, "I heard he was killed instantly in a car crash."

  She blinked. "Um, no, Raymond suffered a heart attack after the accident."

  "Oh." Her thin shoulders sagged at having missed out on a headline. "Well, if you want, my dear, I'll write the obituary myself for the Tribune."

  "I would like that, Mrs. Ratchet."

  Her neighbor shot another glimpse inside the house. "Do you have a photo you'd like for me to use?"

  "No, not really."

  Her neighbor whipped out a little pocket-size notebook and Natalie expected her to lick the end of her pencil. She did. "I called around the local funeral homes, but none of them knew anything about the funeral."

  "My hus... Raymond will be buried out of state."

  "Where?"

  She swallowed. "His family hasn't yet decided. Please keep the obituary simple—Raymond was forty-two, he worked in medical sales, he died of a heart attack."

  "How long were the two of you married?"

  A lump the size of Raymond's ego lodged in her esophagus. Never.

  "Mrs. Carmichael?"

  Natalie's throat convulsed. "Six... years. But you don't need to print that."

  The woman's pencil stopped. "Whyever not?"

  "Because... I think Raymond's obituary should be about his life, not his... relationship to... me." Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  "Er, as you wish. What—"

  "Mrs. Ratchet, I really must go."

  "But can I do something to help, dear? Weed your flower garden, perhaps? I noticed it was looking a bit wild."

  "I appreciate the offer, but no." She started to close the door. "And thank you for the potato salad."

  "Pea salad."

  "Yes. Lovely." Natalie retreated, nodding and smiling as she shut the door. Inside, she leaned her head against the worn slab of mahogany, wondering if anyone would miss her if she never left the house again. Maybe she'd just turn the deadbolt and founder herself on pea salad, potato salad, Waldorf salad, macaroni salad, Jell-O salad, three-bean salad, pasta salad, fruit salad, and the more puzzling "Watergate" salad. She trudged to the kitchen—now a veritable Tupperware Rubik's Cube—and began to rearrange shelves of containers to make room for Mrs. Ratchet's contribution.

  Looking for items to remove, her hand fell upon a half-empty jar of anchovies—Raymond's favori
te midnight snack. Despite her disgust of the nasty little things, she'd faithfully stocked the premium brand he preferred. Natalie blinked back a fresh wave of tears and replaced the tall jar that wasn't taking up so much room after all.

  The doorbell rang again—Mrs. Ratchet had probably thought of some ingenious angle to extract more details. As she retraced her steps, Natalie pushed her hair back from her face and sighed, reminding herself to be grateful that someone cared.

  She tried on a patient smile as she opened the door, but sobered at the sight of Brian Butler standing on her stoop. Natalie sucked in a sharp breath. "How dare you come to my home—"

  "I came to offer my condolences, Dr. Carmichael," he rushed to say. His dark eyes were hooded, and he didn't seem to know what to do with his big hands. "I just heard about Raymond."

  "Thank you. Now leave."

  "And I want to apologize."

  She closed her eyes briefly. "I'm listening."

  He pulled at the drooping knot in his tie—another hard day of shaking down innocent women, obviously. "I realize how much of a shock I gave you last week. In hindsight, I could've handled the situation differently."

  "Yes, you could have."

  "Uncle Brian!"

  Natalie glanced in the direction of the shout. A gray van with BUTLER FAMILY PAWN and the phone number painted on the side in garish colors sat in her driveway. A little girl with sagging blond pigtails practically hung out of the driver side window.

  "Jeanie hit me!"

  A dark head appeared. "Ally hit me first!"

  His sigh was weary. "Nobody hit anybody, okay? Sit down and don't touch each other." The man looked back at her. "Sorry."

  Natalie frowned, momentarily off-kilter.

  "Anyway—" he began.

  "Uncle Brian! Jeanie keeps playing with the radio!"

  "Ally won't be quiet so I can hear the music!"

  "Both of you—quiet! And sit on your hands." He turned back with a little smile. "Sorry again."

  His brown eyes were bloodshot, the scar on his forehead stood out in relief, and his five o'clock shadow had a bad sense of timing—the man was exhausted.

  "Anyway, I brought you something." He handed her a wrinkled brown shopping bag.

  "Let me guess—salad?"

  He looked confused. "Hmm?"

  But the bag was too light for foodstuff. She removed a small jeweler's box and opened it, her breath catching at the sight of her aunt's diamond stud earrings. She lifted a questioning gaze because her voice had fled.

  His wide shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I couldn't live with myself knowing they meant so much to you."

  She inclined her head in thanks, blinking rapidly.

  "I'm sorry for your loss. I didn't know Raymond very well, but he seemed like a nice fellow."

  She hadn't known him very well either, and as it turned out, he wasn't so nice.

  "Uncle Brian, I'm hungry!"

  "Me, too!"

  He gave her a tight smile. "Don't worry about the loan right now—we'll work out something."

  When he turned and walked away, Natalie clutched the earrings to her chest, thankful for the man's latent conscience.

  "Dr. Carmichael?"

  He stood at the end of her sidewalk, leaning toward her as if he were reluctant to leave. His hair lifted and fell in the cool breeze.

  "It doesn't feel like it now, but believe me, time does heal all wounds."

  Simple, trite words she'd heard at least a dozen times today alone. Yet something in his expression touched her—was he speaking from experience of losing a spouse?

  "Uncle Brian!"

  "Coming." He climbed into the van, then yanked on a pigtail and tweaked a cheek before starting the engine and driving off.

  Believe me, time does heal all wounds.

  Natalie wanted to believe the man, but she couldn't imagine a day when she would ever feel happy again, or even normal.

  The one shining spot was the knowledge that her life couldn't possibly get any more confusing.

  As she turned to retreat into the house, a streak of yellow by the street caught her attention. She watched as a cab came to a halt and a man alighted carrying an athletic bag. The taxi pulled away, leaving the man at the curb. Natalie frowned because something about his tall frame seemed familiar...

  "Natalie!" The man waved, striding toward her through the yard.

  She froze—she hadn't recognized her brother without the government-issue orange jumpsuit.

  "Hey, sis!" Tony's grin was magnanimous. "Hope I didn't arrive at a bad time."

  Chapter 7

  "The Monarch is our top-of-the-line model."

  Mr. Rueben of Rueben's Memorial Chapel spoke in a soothing, too-practiced voice that grated on Beatrix's nerves. The stiff, suited man swept his arm over the casket as if it were a goddamned radar range.

  "Twenty-gauge steel, with two-point brushed copper blended bronze finish."

  She squinted. Was he wearing lipstick?

  He opened the lid with a flourish. "The interior is royal purple velvet, hand-quilted and hand-smocked. The hardware is—"

  "How much?" The place stank of formaldehyde—or maybe it was Mr. Rueben.

  The man cleared his throat. "Fifteen thousand."

  "Dollars?"

  He nodded. "I'm sure you want a casket representative of the devotion between you and your dearly departed husband."

  Beatrix glanced around the morbid showroom. "Where are your pine boxes?"

  "Pardon me?"

  She sighed, then ran her hand over the purple velvet. The bastard didn't deserve to rest in comfort for eternity, but she did feel obligated to uphold a certain image. A few regulars from the Northbend Country Club would make the drive to Paducah out of idle curiosity alone. Her challenge would be to play the grieving widow while keeping wives number two and three out of sight. She'd agreed they could attend the service as long as they came alone and kept their mouths shut. Natalie would behave herself, but that other one drove her batty. Too bad Gaylord hadn't let her strangle the knocked-up tart this morning—they'd all be better off, including the baby, from the looks of the girl.

  The fact that Raymond had fathered a child still stunned her. She was the one who'd pined for children; Raymond had simply humored her. They'd tried for years before giving up. Even then, she'd been more than willing to adopt, but he wouldn't hear of it. He'd been obsessed with the notion of ending up with a child who had a mental disorder. She shook her head—if that wasn't the pot calling the kettle black.

  "Mrs. Carmichael?"

  "Hmm?"

  He licked his red lips. "Would you like to see something else?"

  The bottom of a bottle of vodka. "No. This model will do."

  "A thoughtful choice, madam."

  The injustice of being denied a child topped with his seemingly casual impregnation of that slut was akin to having her acrylic nails pulled off one at a time. Was she so undeserving of a bit of happiness?

  Mr. Rueben led her toward a rolltop desk studded with brochures and stationery samples. "Now, there's the matter of the service itself, the eulogy programs, the thank-you notes, the complimentary cards and envelopes in case visitors want to send you condolences—"

  "No music, no minister, no priest. Use this style of program, I have my own thank-you notes, and if anyone wants to send me a card of condolence, they can damn well trot their ass down to Hallmark."

  "Er, yes, ma'am." He scribbled on an order form.

  "What else?"

  "We invite the family to come early tomorrow, to have private time with the deceased before the public viewing."

  The deceased. Funeral director vernacular. "I'm the only family Raymond has." According to Gaylord's research, Raymond had been truthful in that respect, thank goodness.

  "Perhaps you'd like to bring a close friend?"

  The names and faces of dozens of acquaintances revolved in her head, not one of them intimate enough to be considered family. And except for a few dis
tant cousins, she'd outlived her own family members. "I'll be alone." She preferred her own company to most anyway.

  He nodded. "I'll need to provide the name of the final resting place to the hearse driver."

  "Oak Gardens Cemetery in Northbend, Tennessee."

  His eyes widened. "That's a two-hour drive."

  "And?"

  "And... no problem, Mrs. Carmichael."

  "Is there anything else, or may I leave this dreadful place?"

  "Sign here," he said, handing her a pen. "Then you may leave this dr—then you may leave, ma'am."

  After signing, Beatrix stalked out, gulping fresh air on the open street. A wave of nausea overcame her but she made it to her Mercedes without humiliating herself. She opened the door and started to lower herself into the leather seat when a building caught her attention. Trying to ignore the pull, she swung into her seat, but was compelled to look up again before she started the engine. Beatrix swallowed, then sighed in resignation. "Might as well get it over with."

  She estimated the distance to the building to be about two blocks. Comparing the inviting weather with the stagnant interior of her car, she opted to walk.

  Yellow pennants heralding "Welcome to Paducah" waved atop old-fashioned lampposts. Lacy white-blossomed trees—dogwoods, maybe—lined the streets, their falling blooms carpeting the sidewalks and the grubby curbs. Not an unpleasant town, this Paducah, as good as any for a memorial service. And in truth, having the funeral away from Northbend afforded her emotional distance from the sordid details of Raymond's life, and his death. As she walked, she fingered the cross of solid gold she always wore next to her skin. Damn hypocritical, she knew, but old habits died hard.

  Nearly two blocks later, her footsteps slowed. She leaned her head back to take in the ancient bell tower and the virtual wall of stained-glass windows above the soaring curved wood doors. Apprehension gripped her, twisting her intestines. Breathing deeply, Beatrix removed a silk scarf from her purse, then placed it loosely over her hair before entering the cathedral.