Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

Tony Olsen gave her cheek a peck and smiled warmly before he moved into the crowd with the kind of ease Rosemary admired but could never muster.

An anchor, that’s what I am, a dead weight .

But she’d been a good wife to Christopher, encouraging, willing to take a backseat, allowing him to shine, to be the star. She’d always known that was what he wanted.

She stared at the crowd; at least half the art lovers had their backs to the Pollock masterpiece.

“My God, you look awful.” Peter Heusen eyed his sister over the rim of his champagne glass. “You’re as white as a ghost. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Was it something that oily billionaire Olsen just said?”

“No, of course not.” Rosemary tracked Tony Olsen, watched him expertly chatting up half a dozen people at once.

“You know he made his first million in munitions.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Your naïveté is a continual source of amazement.” Peter sniffed. “Well, I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like anyone who has more money than you.”

“That makes everyone, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, please, Peter, we have the same trust, so I know exactly what sort of income you have, and it’s plenty. You should be grateful.”

“My dear sister, you play grateful so much better than I.”

“Let’s not get into this, not here.” Rosemary sighed.

“Into… what ? You mean the loan I asked you for-the one you refused?”

Rosemary tried to whisper, but it came out a hiss. “We get the same monthly money, Peter. I just don’t spend mine the way you do.”

“That’s obvious.” Peter gave his sister the once-over, top to bottom. “Aren’t you expected to dress for these events?”

“Very funny.” Rosemary smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her plain beige dress.

“Not funny at all.” Peter angled his chin toward the center of the room. “Look at your husband all decked out in his designer tux. Clearly he has no problem spending your money. Why aren’t you on his arm?”

“He’s got a lot of people to juggle.”

“Yes, Christopher’s specialty is juggling , isn’t it? He should have been in the circus.”

“ Not now , Peter.”

“My God, Rosemary, you play the martyr even better than grateful, defending that lout while he makes a fool of you.”

“Keep your voice down, Peter.” Rosemary scanned the nearby crowd to see if anyone was listening, but they were all too wrapped up in themselves to notice.

“Why? Everyone knows. He’s not exactly hiding his affairs.”

Rosemary’s legs felt weak, her face on fire, but she said nothing.

“Well, if you’re just going to stand on the sidelines and pout, I’m off.”

“That’s a good idea,” she said, her voice going strident. She took a few steps back. She wanted to turn and run, but she was frozen, her mind like an old record stuck on repeat.

Is there someone else, Christopher?

That’s not the issue .

It is. For me .

It’s not about you .

I’m entitled to know .

It’s my business, not yours .

I won’t let you humiliate me like this. I won’t!

And what will you do?

She saw his face again as he’d said that, the cold sneer twisting his lip, the arrogance.

Rosemary felt cold, then hot, the spotlights blinding, the room suffocating. I have to get out of here .

A manicured hand on hers, nails ticking her flesh.

“You’re Chris’s wife, aren’t you?”

The young woman who said this reminded Rosemary of a ferret, sleek and mean looking, shadowed eyes narrowed, a tight, insincere smile.

“Yes.” Rosemary nodded.

“You don’t know me. Haile Patchett, I used to work at the Natural History Museum in Los Angeles?” She flipped her long red hair to the side.

Rosemary took in the skintight dress, six-inch heels, a dozen silver and gold bracelets at her wrist, the kind of woman she could never compete with; the kind of woman she never met back in Shaker Heights, who seemed to be standard-issue in New York or L.A. or San Francisco; the kind of woman that Christopher always fell for.

Rosemary just stared at her, had to control herself from lashing out. “Oh, but I do know you, and not from anything you do at the museum.” She sucked in a deep breath. “How dare you come here?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Haile held on to her smile.

“I think you should leave.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Haile arched one perfectly penciled brow and peered past Rosemary into the crowd-a crowd that was ripe for the picking, she thought, but not tonight. She was looking for someone specific. She looked Rosemary up and down, barked a laugh, then turned away.

Rosemary’s face burned as she watched Haile Patchett wiggle through the crowd like a snake. Then she caught sight of Christopher, at the center of the throng, expertly juggling six or seven people at once, his pretty associate, Justine Olegard, standing beside him dutifully.

He was sleeping with Justine too, she knew it.

My God, is there any woman here he hasn’t…

Rosemary watched Christopher laughing, brushing the blond hair away from his forehead, still playing the golden boy, and felt an ache in her chest that caused her to gasp. And then that redhead, Haile Patchett, joined the group, her hand on Christopher’s arm.

Rosemary wished she could disappear, become invisible. But isn’t that what she’d always been?

It’s my time, Rosemary, and I don’t need any baggage .

Was that what she was, baggage?

I’ve done plenty for you, Rosemary, but it’s over .

Done for me? What have you done for me?

The room was thrumming, the noise, the lights, the small Jackson Pollock studies-wild splashes of brush and ink-pulsating on the white walls.

Then it all seemed to stop, the clamor reduced to the slightest hum, the crowd disappearing, and it was just the three of them: Christopher and that horrid redhead spotlighted in front of the Pollock-two figures performing against a backdrop of shimmering paint-and Rosemary, watching. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but read their body language, the woman pitched forward, hip thrust out, Christopher whispering in her ear, her hand gripping his arm.

But when the woman reached up to touch Christopher’s hair-here, in the museum, with Rosemary watching, with everyone watching-that was it.

The room was spinning around her like those Jackson Pollock drips. Rosemary knew she was moving, could hear herself mutter, “Excuse me, excuse me,” as she cut through the crowd, the sound of her own breath loud in her ears, heart pounding as Christopher and that woman grew larger and clearer, the individual strands of Christopher’s blond hair and the woman’s black-red nail polish standing out in high relief while everything around them blurred.

Christopher Thomas beamedat the small coterie of fans gathered around him, then looked past them, and there she was: his wife, hovering at the periphery of the crowd like a pathetic waif.

He took in the light brown hair hanging limply to her shoulders, her shapeless beige dress. He’d long ago stopped seeing the pretty woman behind the plain packaging. He tried to locate his feelings for her but could not.

“Hey, juggler.” Peter Heusen slapped his brother-in-law on the back.

“What?”

“Juggler, you know.” Peter mimed the act.

Christopher Thomas regarded him with disdain. Peter, the blowhard. Peter, the freeloader. Peter, who had his uses . Christopher patted his brother-in-law on the back and turned away.