Diane Chamberlain - The Shadow Wife

After a moment, a woman drew open the massive door. She wore a lavender dress, her gray hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck, and she smiled at Joelle, her eyes crinkling behind narrow, stylish wire-rimmed glasses.

Joelle held out her hand. “Dr Shire?” she asked.

“No, dear,” the woman said, but she squeezed her hand with a smile. “I’m the housekeeper, Mrs. McGowan. And you must be Shanti.” There was a touch of Irish in her voice.

“Oh,” Joelle said. “Yes. I have an appointment with Dr.

Shire.”

“Come in, love.” The woman stepped back to let her in, then guided her through a beautiful foyer with a terra-cotta-tiled floor into a living room dominated by a fireplace so enormous, Joelle felt as though she’d stepped into the mansion in Citizen Kane. At one end of the room, huge arched windows and a set of French doors looked out onto a terrace, and beyond that, framed by windswept cypress, lay the blue Pacific.

“This is breathtaking,” Joelle said, her feet sinking into a rich, red oriental carpet.

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