And Laurie, poor little Laurie, innocent catalyst of the disaster, sneezing again.
In that sneeze lay the end of our marriage.
Chapter 20: Nocturne
DIANA ESCAPED SATURDAY NIGHT.
She’d waited all day for her chance. She’d awakened late morning to find a total stranger sitting beside her bed, reading a paperback, and that had upset her. She didn’t like strangers in her bedroom. It was her refuge, her place of safety. No matter what her husband thought, she’d never entertained a lover there. She often shared someone else’s bed, but she never permitted anyone access to her own. She’d waited too long, endured too much, to let another human being intrude on her in her bluebell solitude.
And this intruder was no lover, either. As became increasingly clear throughout the day and a shift change of nurses, the intruders were there to make sure she got some rest, change the bandages on her wrist, and keep an eye on her.
“Did my sister put you up to this?” she demanded of the evening nurse, after the woman marched her through a bath with all the delicacy of a drill sergeant.
“I don’t know who called the agency,” said the woman, probably a very fine nurse when her patience wasn’t being tested as far as it could go. Diana knew she was being a bitch, but she was too mad to care. “Come on, let’s get this done, and then back into bed. I think you’re ready for another tranquilizer.”
And me for a drink, the woman’s expression plainly said. Lord, Diana hated nurses. Every nurse she’d ever met had seen her at some nadir – enduring the throes of labor, recovering from a particularly hideous hangover, shaking from withdrawal, or bleeding from an ill-advised swipe at her wrists. And every single nurse reminded her of the one she’d hated most, her blasted mother-in-law.
The thought of Peggy Ashmore stiffened her resolve.
“No.” Diana wrenched her wrist, in the process of rebandaging, away from the nurse and back behind her back. “This is my home,” she said in her most imperious tones. She’d gained something from all those years of Dominic’s coaching; she could play the ice queen figure to the hilt. “You are here without my permission. Get that? Without my permission. Now who the hell authorized this invasion of my privacy?”
The answer, when it came, was worse than she’d imagined. Laura or Lucy were one thing; she could reason with them or at least screen at them without any real consequences. She could overturn their actions because neither had any legal rights concerning her. But the villain turned out to be Mr. Perfect, and he, damn it, had plenty of rights.
Even if he only exercised them when it was most inconvenient.
“Richard!” Diana sat down hard on the bed. “How the hell did he find out about this?”
“I don’t,” said the nurse coldly, “have the faintest idea. Time for your pill.”
She wanted to wipe the smug look right off the woman’s face. Judging from her tone, the feeling was mutual. But then she got a whiff of something… a trace of tobacco clinging to the woman’s uniform, and an idea bloomed.
“Well,” making her tone haughty, “I am rather tired.” Too much docility after all the bitchiness might tip the woman off. She took the pill and pretended to swallow; the pill went immediately under her tongue. She climbed back into bed and switched the light off before the nurse could reach it. In the abrupt darkness, she spat the pill out into her hand before the woman’s eyes could adjust to the sudden change of light. “I’ll deal with all this in the morning.”
“Fine,” said the battle-ax, turning towards the door. “You can let the next shift notify Mr. Ashmore.”
“Sure,” said Diana, sounding more cooperative. And then, after a deliberate pause, “Oh, by the way – do you smoke?”
She saw the hesitation of the woman’s silhouette, already at the top stair, and then the nurse came back into the doorway. “Yes,” she said, “I do. Do you want me to go outside to smoke?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind.” Diana tried to sound helpful. “There’s a balcony off the living room. Just unlock the French doors.”
“Thanks.” And the woman went downstairs.
Now she just had to wait. She calculated that, after their confrontation, the woman would need a smoke tout de suite, and she’d hear the French doors open. A cigarette should last ten minutes, going by what she remembered of Richard’s smoking, time enough to dress.
She was in luck. The nurse turned out to be a chain-smoker. That not only gave her time to throw on shorts and shirt, but also time to fix her hair in her bathroom and transfer some grass to her purse so that she could light up later on. She opened the drawer where she kept her stash, and discovered that Laura had cleaned her out.
For a moment, she saw red. Damn that interfering –! Or maybe Laura wanted it for herself. Hmmm, now there was a thought. Maybe Miss Goody Two-Shoes didn’t mind an occasional joint herself.
Except that even a joint-smoking Laura was unlikely to have helped herself to the bag of cocaine she’d hidden in a pair of shoes. Diana’s mouth dropped open as she searched through her hiding places and found them empty of the drugs she had assembled painstakingly – and expensively! Did Laura have any idea what this stuff cost! – so that she could hold reality at bay whenever it got a little too insistent.
Well, that settled the question of where she was going when she broke out. She had a major bone to pick with her interfering little sister. Hell! Laura was an even bigger pest than Lucy.
While she fumed, the nurse had come back inside. She heard the French doors close, and she switched off her bathroom light and dove under the covers seconds before the woman looked in on her from the doorway. She made her breathing even and shallow.
It was another full hour before the French doors opened again. This time she wasted no time. She stole down the stairs, handbag and sandals in hand, and peered around into the living room from the foot of the stairs. Now to hope that Laura had left the Mercedes keys somewhere accessible – yes! Over there on her desk. She crept across the room, praying that the woman kept looking out over the Atlantic as she puffed away, back turned to the shadow stealing over to the desk.
The keys lay on top of a manila folder on the blotter. Diana’s hand reached out for the keys, touched the largest key, and carefully lifted up the key chain. She dangled the keys in the air, pulling them towards herself soundlessly until her hand clutched them against her blouse. She slid them down her body and into her pocket.
One mission accomplished.
Her recorder lay there on the desk. She hadn’t recorded anything in a couple of days, and she was keyed up and mad enough at Mr. Perfect to do some reminiscing tonight. This might be a good time to vent some spleen about Francie. She picked up the recorder and—
Damn! She must have made some noise. The woman stirred out there on the balcony. Diana melted back into the shadows under the stairwell and prayed that the woman didn’t come back in. If she did – well, the game was up. There was no way she could miss her.
She saw the nurse’s uniform in the glass through the French door panels, and her heart started pounding in her chest. Just when she thought she was getting away! But then the tip of another cigarette glowed in the dark. So Nurse Ratchet was still craving nicotine – really, the weakness of some addicts. Maybe she’d stay out there long enough to finish….
After a few seconds, the woman decided that all was well. The uniform vanished out of Diana’s line of sight, and the cigarette tip waved back and forth amid the smoke.
She didn’t waste any more time. She dropped the recorder into her bag, slipped her sandals on, and unlocked and ran out the front door as if the hounds of hell were biting at her ankles. Down the steps, into the parking lot… damn, where had Laura screeched the Mercedes to a halt? (The brakes are probably shot, thanks again, little sister, leave to drive, why don’t you?) She fumbled for the keys and clicked the remote, and the lights of her car flashed on.
Ten seconds, and she was turning the key in the ignition, just as the nu
rse came running out onto her front doorstep. Diana didn’t spare her a glance as she roared out of the parking lot.
Another minute, and the Mercedes blended smoothly into the highway traffic. Diana glanced in the rear-view mirror, but there was no one following her. No one! She was free. She heard herself laughing in delight, an unfamiliar, long-lost sound.
Delight. She hadn’t felt that in a long, long time.
She headed up towards the interstate. By now, the woman was probably phoning the agency, and the agency would burn up the lines notifying Richard that his errant wife had slipped the leash. And, bloody hell, how had he found out, anyway? She had specifically told Laura that she didn’t want him to know.
So she had another bone to pick with her younger sister. Diana settled back against the leather seat. Too bad if Laura had already gone to bed. It was high time she paid Miss Cat Courtney a visit.
And maybe she’d get her stash back.
~•~
Except Laura wasn’t at Edwards Lake.
Her car was there. Her cat, peering out the window, was there. But, Diana discovered after a half hour of ringing her number, breaking in through the gates, circling the house, and throwing pebbles at the upper windows, Laura herself was not there.
Which brought up the interesting question of where Laura, minus cat and car, was spending her Saturday night. So she had a gentleman friend, did she? But she’d have to come home sooner or later to feed that stupid cat.
Diana settled down on a chaise lounge by the pool, stretched out under the starlight, and prepared to wait.
And while she was waiting, she might as well revisit that time when Mr. Perfect had not been so perfect. She fumbled in her bag for her recorder and flask, leaned back and looked out into the night sky, and pressed Record.
“Was I, the wife, the last to know?”
~•~
“We need to be at Monticello early,” Richard said. “The tourists won’t be out until late morning.”
Laura sat on the side of the sleigh bed and watched him unpack his duffel bag, laying out a shirt for the next day. She kicked off her shoes and luxuriated in the feeling of free toes. After all the walking they’d done that day, it was sheer bliss to enjoy cool air on bare feet. “We don’t qualify as tourists?”
He gave her a quick grin. “Not me. I’m a son of the Old Dominion. Now you, on the other hand – Irish immigrant or Texas matron or whatever you are – you’re a tourist. You can gawk and take all the pictures you want.” He put the duffel bag down on the floor beside an elaborately carved desk. “Do you want the bathroom first? I need to check messages and call Julie.”
She fell back on the bed and stretched out her arms against the chenille spread. “I’d love a bath.”
“Go ahead. I’ll shower down the hall.”
By the time she had soaked in an old-fashioned tub with gorgeous brass claw feet, deliberated between the short peach silk slip packed at the last moment (too obvious?) and the long cotton T-shirt she usually wore (too boring?), and examined her face in the mirror to make sure that the redness around her eyes had subsided, Richard had finished his phone calls. She tried on the peach slip and then changed her mind and donned the T-shirt when he called out, “Have you drowned in there?”
“Coming right out.” Off went the T-shirt. On went the silk slip again. She drew in a deep breath and reached for the bathroom light.
Most women her age, she thought, were more experienced, that is, if they hadn’t spent their sexual lives to date with a husband married very young. Marriage, even a marriage that worked superficially, offered a comforting familiarity. The routines of intimacy were established, the awkwardness of learning another’s patterns over and done with. Sharing a bed was taken for granted. Coordinating baths and showers was second nature. A wife didn’t have to worry about making the first move or learning a new rhythm of desire.
Without Cam, she would have had at least one love affair by now; she would have gone away with a man for the weekend before this. A shared room for the night in a charming B&B would not be a new setting for her. She wouldn’t hesitate, wondering if she should just turn out the light and get into bed and take her nightgown off in unspoken acknowledgment of the night ahead. Or get into bed and wait for him to take her clothes off. Or walk right out there and take his clothes off—
Good heavens! That was what she got for marrying too young. She had no idea how to act with a man who wasn’t a comfortable old shoe husband.
And the sad thing was, the world expected that Cat Courtney was exactly the sort of woman to walk out self-confidently, in eager anticipation of the night. She’d played Jane Eyre for months, and even Jane would run joyfully to Rochester’s arms. Jane would never cower in the bathroom like the limp reality who lived behind Cat Courtney.
“Laura?” An edge to Richard’s voice. “Are you all right?”
“Coming.” She snapped off the light.
But then, Cat might have missed the heart-stopping sight of her lover sitting against the headboard, hair still damp from his shower, jeans unbelted, blue shirt hanging open, bare feet reaching almost to the end of the double bed.
Cat might not feel struck by a sudden, delightful feeling of pure lust down to her very fingertips.
He looked relaxed and younger than his years, and very masculine as he cycled through the channels with the remote. For the moment, he hadn’t a care in the world. She forgot her trepidation and laughed as she climbed onto the bed beside him. “What is it with guys and remotes? Is it encoded on the Y chromosome?”
“You bet,” said Richard, and settled on CNN. “We can’t control the universe, but, by heaven, we will control our TV sets. And our women.” He clicked the remote at her. “Come over here. You’re too far away.”
She scooted over and settled in against him. The headboard and pillows at their backs, two pairs of long legs reaching to the end of the bed. It would be a tight fit tonight, two tall people in this small, old-fashioned bed. They’d have to sleep very close together—
She breathed in deeply and leaned her head against his shoulder. The denim of his jeans lay warmly against her thigh; she felt the seams through the silk. “Did you reach Julie?”
“Yes.” Richard sounded less than happy. “I sure did. And I forgot about her going to music camp next weekend. She was very understanding about it—”
Not too difficult to imagine Julie’s sweet, wistful, deliberate thrust into his heart.
“— And she was planning to get new clothes for camp this weekend, and I forgot to leave her a credit card. So we’ll have to get her kitted out this week.” Oh, Julie was playing his heartstrings and wallet like a pro. “I should have remembered, put this weekend off until she leaves, but—” He gave her a sidelong glance and put his arm around her shoulders. “I’m glad we came. I’m enjoying this.”
“So am I.” Even though he’d ruthlessly marched her through two enormous convention halls of antiques till her feet ached, they’d had a good time. There had been no sexual tension, no thought of the tangled lives left behind them in the Tidewater. They’d companionably held hands, looked at old silver and Victorian fabrics and rare pocket watches, argued over the authenticity of a Tiffany lamp, disagreed vociferously about the attraction of a folk art cistern (she loved it, he thought it was a piece of junk), and relaxed over surf ’n’ turf after their flight into Charlottesville. Both of them had turned off their cell phones. “So how many calls were Lucy?”
“Five,” said Richard. His fingers rubbed absently along her shoulder. “Julie must have let something slip about my being away last night. Miss Infernal Busybody wants to know where I am and what I’m doing and, of course, she really wants to know who I’m with.” He stretched out his legs. “She should be grateful I don’t call her back and tell her.”
Lucy. Laura tried to ignore the slight uneasiness that drew a finger along her spine. Thinking about Lucy led to inevitable thoughts of her other sister, who had no doubt awakened from he
r drugged sleep this morning to discover the ransacking of her cocaine stash. Diana, who’d said, Richard and I are mated for life. She couldn’t bear to think of Diana, not now while she curled up next to Richard in bed.
She hesitated and then laid her arm across his chest, and was rewarded by his sudden stillness. “Lucy warned me off you.”
“Did she now?” Richard clicked the TV off. “When was this?”
“Right after I got back from Texas this last week.” His fingers moved on her shoulder, exploring the tie that held up the gown. Laura’s heart started to beat faster. “We argued over it.”
He turned to her, and now he wasn’t the companionable man who had bought her the Art Deco pin she liked even though he thought it was a fake, or the laughing man who had dared her to order a large steak and then finished it off for her. She saw a purposeful look in his eyes, the look of a man who saw something he wanted and intended to go after it without wasting any more time. “Did you tell her what she could do with her meddling?”
“She thinks we’re dangerous for each other.” That didn’t come out the way she intended, probably because her voice caught as she tilted her head to allow him access to her throat.
“She’s right there.” His voice dropped, and she felt his tongue trace the edge of her nightgown. “Hard to think of two people more dangerous for each other – I like this on you, very pretty, like the wrapping on a present – no, keep your hand there, I like you touching me—”
The lamp shedding a gentle glow on the room came within her reach as he guided her down across the bed. “Should I turn this off?”
“No.” Richard put her hand above her head, away from the switch. “No, I want to see you.” He brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. “Does the light bother you?”
She shook her head. Nothing bothered her right now, except the hand that was slowly, slowly untying the bow at her shoulder and drawing the silk down to uncover her breasts. He had closed out the rest of the world to her, his body leaning over hers to block out all other realities. His eyes were in shadow, lashes covering his thoughts, as his hand traveled down from her hair to the soft mound of her breast. She felt the tip harden as his fingers brushed over it, and desire shot through her all the way to her toes.
All Who Are Lost (Ashmore's Folly Book 1) Page 48
