Good Little Wives

by Abby Drake

  “Maybe not. But after her mother flew out the door, Chloe made a strange comment. She said she hadn’t seen her mother so angry since she’d walked in on her mother and father doing battle the night before her mother’s rite-of-spring luncheon.”

  “What were they fighting about?”

  “I asked. She said, ‘I think it had something to do with some money my mother gave Vincent.’”

  Dana frowned. “Why would Caroline give Vincent DeLano money?”

  “An investment?”

  Even to Dana, who knew little about the mechanics of investing, it didn’t seem plausible that Caroline was doing business with Vincent DeLano. Wouldn’t Jack—like the other New Falls husbands—be in charge of the Meachams’ portfolio? “Suppose that’s true. How could it be tied to Lee Sato breaking the engagement?”

  Sam shrugged. “Maybe it was a bad investment? Maybe she told Lee and he lost money, too?”

  “Lee is wealthy in his own right.” Dana shook her head. “No, I doubt there’s a connection.”

  Sam seemed disappointed. “You’re probably right. Besides, what would Mrs. Meacham do? Shoot Mr. DeLano, then run home and jump into her hostess clothes for her stupid party?”

  Dana laughed. She looked into the bottom of her mug as if the remnants of tea leaves might hold the answer to the puzzle. Then she had a thought. “Well, if it’s possible that Caroline had a motive, she might have had the means.”

  “Huh?”

  She told Sam about the hit man.

  He blinked. “Was Caroline the one who had the affair with Mr. DeLano?”

  Dana shook her head. “You must keep this a secret. It was Lauren Halliday.”

  Sam slumped down on the stool. “Jesus, Mom. This is New Falls. Murder? Mayhem? Mrs. Halliday? Is all this for real?”

  “It’s for real.” She was tired. She was drained from speculation and from the sudden feeling that they were in over their amateur heads. “And there’s more, Sam. I offered to get—and pay for—a new attorney for Kitty. I don’t know how your father will like it. Not that I even know where to find one.”

  His eyes lit up. “We start on the indispensable Internet,” he said. “Home of every solution to every problem known to man.”

  But Dana shook her head. “I promised Kitty, but now I’m not sure, Sam. When I dropped her off, her daughter was there. She’d stopped by to tell her mother there’s a life insurance policy and that Kitty’s the beneficiary.”

  “Life insurance? Man, that won’t help her case, will it?”

  Sam, of course, was on Kitty’s side because Kitty was the underdog. “The worst part is, it’s a lot. Two million dollars. But Kitty claims she didn’t know.”

  “Two million freaking dollars? Oh, Mom, what are we going to do?”

  Dana set down her mug, closed her eyes, took a breath. Then she said, “We’re going to tell the police. And we’re going to go there right now.”

  “I told you we were getting too big for our pantaloons,” Bridget said when Dana called after leaving the police station where she and Sam told Detective Johnson every single thing they knew, including that Lauren was the one who had been Vincent DeLano’s mistress before Yolanda, and that Caroline and Jack had argued because Caroline had given Vincent some money, though no one knew how much or why. Then Bridget quickly added, “Now hang up and call me on my cell.”

  Dana didn’t question Bridget, why would she? Right now, Bridget seemed to be the only one not connected to Vincent, the only one whose name—if it had been on a website—would not be hyperlinked to the murder.

  “Do you want to have dinner with Sam and me?” Dana asked. “Steven’s in Chicago until tomorrow.”

  “I’d love to, but I can’t. I’m expecting an important call.”

  “Forward it to your cell. Come with us, please. Sam and I are going crazy with all this new information. We need you to help us sort it out.”

  “But Aimée is home.”

  “Oh. Right. I forgot. I don’t expect you’d want your fourteen-year-old to know all the New Falls dirt.”

  Bridget laughed. “No. But if you want to talk, you could go with me tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Go with you? Where?”

  “To chemo. One-thirty. I haven’t told Randall or Aimée, and I could use the company.”

  Dana said she’d pick her up at one o’clock.

  “Who was that?” Aimée asked as she sauntered into the family room and plopped down next to Bridget. “And what are you doing?”

  She was young and bright and oh so trés grown up. But Dana had been right: Aimée should not be exposed to the New Falls dirt. “That was Dana Fulton, and I am moving buttons.” Since the lavender blazer, she’d moved the buttons on half a dozen other jackets, two dresses, and three cardigans. “Your maman is getting fat.” She lifted her eyes and scrutinized her daughter. “And you are getting so pretty.” Aimée had spent the day with Krissie, her longtime childhood friend. Unlike Aimée, Krissie was homely.

  “Daddy always says I’m beautiful.”

  “Your papa spoils you.” Bridget smiled. How could she help but smile? Her daughter really was a beauty, with softer angles that promised sweetness in a body, not like the severe angles of Elise DeLano, who, until Aimée, had been the best-looking girl New Falls had generated.

  “What did you do all day, Maman?” Aimée asked. “Practice being a seamstress, a couturier?”

  “Working with your hands creates a rich soul.” She couldn’t say she’d been waiting for Luc’s call that still hadn’t come.

  “Shall I work with my hands when I’m grown up? I was rather thinking about becoming a physician. A pediatrician, maybe.”

  This was the first Bridget had heard her daughter wanted to be a doctor. “Whatever suits you best,” she said. “Just don’t count on a man to support you. Every woman needs her own career.” She smiled again. “Even a spoiled woman such as yourself.”

  “Or you, Maman.” Aimée laughed.

  “Or me.”

  Aimée seemed to think about that for a moment. Then she asked, “Are you sorry I’m an only child?”

  Bridget stuck her finger with the needle, muttered, “Oh, shit,” excused herself in French, then said, “Such a child you are. Another could hold a dozen candles, but it would not be you.” Her heart hurt as she said it, as if the needle pierced the place where Alain lingered. Once she’d planned to tell Aimée about him; hell, she’d always planned to tell Randall. But time and life had always gotten in the way, and now an admission would seem strangely belated. Besides, if Randall and Aimée thought Luc was merely an old family friend, it was better, it was better, she’d told herself over and over.

  “I guess that means you love me.”

  Bridget set down the needle. “Mon dieu, quelle question! Now tell me, what did you and Krissie do today?”

  “Went to Bloomingdale’s. Hung out. You know.”

  “Did you spend your papa’s money?”

  “Oui. Un peu.”

  Bridget smiled again. She loved to hear her daughter speak French. It made it easy to picture her in Ste. Marie de la Mer, the sea breeze lifting her luscious hair, the warm sun tanning her perfect face. She wondered what Alain would have looked like at fourteen, if he would have become as wonderful as Aimée.

  “Maman,” Aimée said, lowering her voice, “there’s something I must tell you, but I don’t want to upset you.”

  The first thing Bridget thought was that Aimée had a boyfriend, then worse, mon dieu, that she was pregnant. Squeezing the needle tightly, Bridget forced a look-at-me-I-am-calm kind of smile. “You can tell me anything, ma petite chérie, you know that.”

  Aimée closed her eyes. “I don’t want to go back to school in France, Maman. Please, don’t make me go back.”

  Being pregnant would not have been the worst thing after all.

  Lorraine grilled lamb chops for dinner. It was a good thing it was Monday and she was there, or the Haynes family would not have been fed.
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  Bridget took her place at the Zimbabwean teak, unfolded the linen napkin, and spread it casually across her lap, as if the last thing on her mind was screaming her head off.

  She couldn’t let this happen. She couldn’t let Aimée drop out of school because then she wouldn’t have a reason to go home. She wouldn’t be able to place wildflowers on the stones in the churchyard that marked where her mother and father and Alain were at rest. And she would never see Luc again.

  She passed the peas.

  “Papa, I spent some of your money today,” Aimée said as she scooped the vegetables onto her plate.

  “Well, good,” Randall said with a chuckle. “I count on my girls to keep my credit revolving.”

  In all the years they’d been together, even when Randall was angry with her for not wanting another child, he had not deprived Bridget of anything she’d wanted, not a dress, not a spa weekend with her friends, not a Mercedes, though her current one was smaller than his and was alabaster, not silver.

  Dana had said Vincent might have been broke. If he’d kept his “credit revolving,” would he still be alive? And why was Bridget thinking about Vincent now? God knew she’d hear plenty tomorrow: Dana seemed obsessed to find his killer. Dana was a good friend—to her, to Kitty, to everyone. Maybe Bridget should tell her about Luc. About Alain. And the other lies. But could Bridget purge her past as easily as chemo would surely purge her cancer?

  “Isn’t that right, Maman?” Aimée was asking.

  “What? I’m sorry, I was thinking.”

  “I told Papa I think you’ve decided to stop shopping and become a couturier. That things change sometimes. Like how we work or don’t work, and where we live and where we go to school. Isn’t that right, Maman?”

  It was apparent Aimée wanted her mother to tell Randall her request about school. If Bridget refused, she might lose Luc anyway and her daughter, too. Bridget sighed. “Randall…” she began.

  “Papa,” Aimée interjected, “I don’t want to go back to France. I want to be near my friends. Like Krissie. And the others.”

  “You don’t like the school? But are you sure?” He acted surprised, but his toupee stayed in place. Perhaps he’d been praying for this every day at St. Bernadette’s.

  She said she was absolutely, positively sure, then Papa and petite chérie began to biopsy the alternatives.

  “As long as it’s a good school,” Randall said excitedly. “Where did the Halliday kids go?”

  “Or Chloe Meacham? Didn’t she go somewhere in Massachusetts?”

  “Deerfield, I think. Or somewhere near there.”

  “As long as it’s not that place in Springfield, Papa. There is nothing to do in Springfield.”

  “How about Loomis-Chaffee? That’s in Connecticut. You could come home every weekend. That would make you happy, no?”

  Blah blah blah, Bridget thought. Blah blah, blah blah blah. She stabbed her lamb chop as if it were her broken heart.

  “We can ask someone to pack your things in France,” she then heard Randall say. “Perhaps Monsieur LaBrecque and his wife.”

  “What?” Bridget interrupted, a little too loudly.

  “Monsieur LaBrecque,” Randall repeated. “He and his wife might agree to pack Aimée’s things. Save us a trip.”

  “Oh no,” Bridget said. “That would be an imposition. I’ll go in a few weeks.” She couldn’t say she’d wait until her chemotherapy was over. Why had she been so stupeeed to have scheduled it now? Was it too late to cancel?

  “I won’t need help, Maman,” Aimée said. “I packed everything before I left. All Monsieur LaBrecque would have to do is arrange for the shipping.”

  Again Bridget had been thwarted. Was destiny telling her to leave things alone? “Well,” she said, “I suppose I could ask him. If he ever calls. Did he give you any idea when he might?”

  “Non,” Aimée said. “But he’s staying at the Pierre. You know, that big hotel near Central Park.”

  Sometimes Bridget hated that her lovely daughter was fourteen and was too wrapped up in self to communicate like the adult she pretended she was. “I thought you said you didn’t know where he was staying?”

  “I said he didn’t give me the number.” She shrugged. “But he did say he would call. You can ask him when he does.”

  “He’s at the Pierre?” Bridget repeated.

  “Your Maman must have put her peas in her ears,” Randall said and Aimée laughed, and again Bridget wanted to scream.

  Nineteen

  “What do you mean you’ll pick me up at midnight? And why on earth are you whispering?” Dana had finally had a chance to languish in her bath, and now she was stretched out on the chaise in the bedroom, wearing a soft terry robe, her legs wrapped in an afghan her mother had made when Dana was twelve and had contracted the Hong Kong flu.

  She’d been reading Sam’s textbook titled The Criminal Mind when Bridget called.

  “Just be ready. Please.”

  “It’s after eleven, Bridget. Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine. But I need you to go somewhere with me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Dana said with a laugh.

  “Please, Dana. Don’t make me beg. Or worse, don’t make me call Lauren. Or Caroline.”

  “Now that’s a threat.”

  “It’s only because there’s somewhere I must go, and it’s not a good idea for me to go alone.”

  “Where?”

  “Into the city.”

  “New York City?”

  “Well. Of course.”

  “Bridget…”

  “Please, Dana. I know Steven’s not home.”

  “But Sam is.”

  “So, leave him a note.”

  “If this has something to do with Vincent’s murder, he’ll want to go.”

  “It doesn’t. It’s all about me.”

  Dana paused. She rubbed the back of her neck that had stopped aching but now threatened to start up again.

  “I’ll drive Randall’s new Mercedes,” Bridget said.

  “You’ll stand out like a beacon.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll feel safer.”

  “You’re insane,” Dana said.

  “I know. But I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll tell you a secret too juicy for you to believe.”

  “Oh, Bridget.”

  “Oh, Dana.”

  “Oh, for godssake, all right.”

  Lauren didn’t know why Bob always fell asleep so quickly, why his snores kicked in with the first refrain of the white noise machine that he kept by the bed.

  It must be so he wouldn’t have to think about having sex. Or about not having sex, as was more the case.

  She lay on the warm sheets—“Audrey only bought eight-hundred count,” Bob announced shortly after their marriage, so, for eighteen years, Lauren had done the same. It hadn’t mattered that she preferred cool cotton percale, the kind that reminded her of Nantucket nights, when salty breezes blew and buoy bells rang in the foggy distance and life had been simple and safe, well, relatively safe, if one discounted Uncle Raymond.

  Lauren hated that things had changed, that time had raced by too quickly while Bob’s kids were growing up, while he was growing old, while Lauren was trying so hard to please. In the end she pleased Vincent but only for a short time.

  Sliding out of bed, she slipped on her white satin robe and matching mules. She padded from the room, into the hall, and down the wide marble staircase. Unlike for Bob, sleep rarely came easily for Lauren. And now, with Chloe’s engagement crisis added to the New Falls mix, how could she think about sleeping when Caroline was so upset? When next week—of all weeks—was the grand hospital gala! Now, more than ever, Caroline needed her friends. Too bad Lauren was the only one who seemed to care.

  She moved into the den with its semicircular wall and its bank of wraparound windows that gave a perfect view of the town. It was Bob’s favorite spot in the massive ho
use, the place from which—if Caroline had allowed it—he could practically steer the New Falls ship.

  He’s a control freak, his daughter Dory had said. Didn’t you ever want to just leave him?

  Guided by the moonlight, Lauren made her way to the bar. She removed the crystal stopper from the Courvoisier decanter and poured a snifter more than half full. She supposed that in order to be such a successful banker, any man would have to be a control freak. Or any woman, if she wanted to work.

  For a brief period, in between marriages, Lauren had considered having a career. She’d envied her cousin Gracie, who was riding the wave of women’s lib, the feminine tsunami set in motion by Friedan, Steinem, and Bella Abzug in her hats. Gracie had gone to law school—law school!—then clawed her way up from the cesspool of poor relations. Lauren suspected that when she and Bob were on Nantucket and the opportunity arose, Gracie still stole small, inconsequential things from her—a bottle of suntan lotion, a notepad from Lauren’s purse, a simple gold earring. It might have been from habit, or a need to feel in control.

  Like Bob, had Gracie ended up with a negligent sex life?

  Meandering to the window, looking down on the quiet neighborhood, Lauren swirled the brandy in her glass. She wondered if Dory would stay married to Jeffrey and if sweet little Liam would have a happy home. Then she wondered why neither Bridget nor Dana would have lunch with Caroline:

  “I have to go into New York,” Bridget had said.

  “I’m sorry, I must bring my son to an appointment,” Dana had said, had lied, more than likely, when Lauren had called her that afternoon. Dana had been so distant since she’d told her about Vincent, about their affair. Friends, Lauren thought, could be such a disappointment.

  She tasted the slow burn of the brandy, then stopped halfway into her swallow. At the bottom of the hill, where the front lawn met the road, Lauren saw headlights. They swept this way and that as the vehicle maneuvered the winding road, traveling with purpose, going too fast for this late at night.

  She kept her eyes on the vehicle. Who on earth could it be? From her bird’s-eye position, she recognized the style—a big Mercedes, not unlike so many in New Falls. But where other big ones were black, this one was silver. Silver, the same color Mercedes that Randall Haynes drove.