Carolyn McSparren - The Wrong Wife

Off came the tabard and sweater. Off came the slacks. Onto the floor.

Okay. Something simple but elegant. She reached into the back of the closet and pulled out the black Chinese silk cheongsam Vickie had made her for Christmas. She’d never had the nerve to wear it. It fit perfectly, but the style was more suited to the tiny Chinese ladies from the Lower East Side and Mott Street. When she glanced at her watch, she nearly whimpered. Ben would be on time, of course. And that gave her five minutes.

She yanked the silk dress over her head, pulled on a pair of high-heeled black strappy sandals she’d bought in a moment of madness because they were on sale, grabbed her small black purse—the closest thing she had to an evening bag—and did up the fancy gold frogs along the neck of the dress.

She hadn’t even looked at the mirror when the bell at the foot of the stairs sounded, and a moment later she heard Ben’s voice. “It’s open. Okay if I come up?”

“No! I mean yes!” She shoved the closet door closed on the disaster inside. He might take one look at her and offer to take her to McDonald’s instead of his mother’s house.

She heard his footsteps at the top of the stairs and turned to face him.

“Suffering succotash,” he whispered.

She caught her breath. “I’m sorry, Ben. I told you I didn’t have anything to wear.”

He shook his head. “Couldn’t prove it by me. You look gorgeous.”

“I do? I mean, I don’t. I feel like a sausage.”

“You don’t look like any kind of sausage I’ve ever eaten. Come on. You know how Mom is when people are late.”

“Ben, are you sure you want to do this?” she said, but his hand was already warm on the small of her back as he herded her toward the staircase.

“Yes, ma’am, I do. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

They walked out into the fragile April night, into fairy lights that glimmered in the trees in the Jackson garden, and deputized for the wan sliver of moon that rode above their heads. She could smell the azaleas and the early roses.

She looked up at Ben as he tucked her hand under his arm. “Watch your step, Princess Turandot, the paving’s uneven.”

“Wasn’t she that opera bitch who beheaded all her suitors?”

“Ah, but in the end she was vanquished by love.”

As I hope you will be, Ben thought. He heaved a sigh of relief. At least he hadn’t been totally daffy when he’d fallen for Annabelle. With her hair up and those little curls around her face, and that incredible Chinese dress, she was the most luscious woman he’d ever seen. Wildly sexy. Next to her all the blond beauties looked as though they’d come out of the oven too soon and been stored in the refrigerator too long. Annabelle radiated heat.

He had heard all the stories about her mother, the hot-blooded Cajun from Lafayette, who’d refused to wear stockings and white cotton gloves in the summertime and went barefoot in the Langley garden.

And had inspired such desperate passion in her husband that he had killed her. At least he’d gone to prison for it. He knew the gossip as well, of course. That he’d lied to protect his child, the real killer.

Looking down at Annabelle, he refused to believe this beautiful girl could do anything that heinous even by accident.

He couldn’t change his life’s direction. He still wanted to be district attorney, and then maybe governor…senator.

So, if he intended to do all the things he planned with Annabelle by his side, there was only one solution.

He’d have to change Annabelle. At least in public. In private he hoped he read the signs right—that she was every bit as sensual as she looked.

“I can’t do this,” Annabelle said when they were three steps from the back door.

“Sure you can.” His hand on her back grew a little more urgent.

“Who’s going to be there?”

“No idea. Probably some politicos, a college professor or two. Nobody special.”

She stopped dead. “Who would you consider special? Prince Charles and the Dalai Lama?”

“Come on, Annabelle. I’m right here. I made Mother promise to seat us together…”

“She knows you’re bringing me?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I tell her?”

“She didn’t mention it.”

Ben shrugged. He removed his hand. “It’s just not a big deal to her.”

“More likely she hoped one of us would come to our senses. That would be me.” Annabelle started back toward her apartment.

“Oh no you don’t,” Ben said, and reached for her arm. “Just remember the old saw about visualizing everybody naked.”

“Are you crazy? Besides, what if they’re thinking about me the same way?”

I certainly will be, Ben thought, but he suspected to say so would have been really, really counterproductive. He gulped instead.

“Do you intend to stand out there all night?”

Both of them jumped.

Elizabeth said from the darkness just inside the back door, “You’re the last to arrive. You’ve missed cocktails. We’re almost ready to sit down to dinner.”

“Elizabeth,” Annabelle began.

“And don’t even dream of chickening out at this point, Annabelle.” Her voice softened. “Come on. It’s going to be fun once you plunge in.” She opened the screen door and held it back. “It’s a tiny group.”

Annabelle sighed. So did Ben, but his sigh was of relief.

Annabelle moved toward the door as though it were the route to the gallows. As she reached the lights over the steps, Elizabeth said, “My dear, where did you get that dress? It’s marvelous. Perfect for you.”

“My roommate. She’s a designer for a small house. She made it for me as a Christmas present.”

“Well, if she ever needs a job, tell her to look me up.”

“I don’t think Vickie would leave New York even to become head designer for Chanel.”

Elizabeth followed Annabelle down the short hall to the green baize door into the front of the house. “With computers, she could work on the third moon of Jupiter, assuming there is one.” Elizabeth pushed open the door and stepped through. “Everyone. Here is my errant son, finally, and for those of you who don’t know or don’t remember her, this is Annabelle Langley, who’s running Elizabeth Lace for me.”

Annabelle stood blinking in the light. She was the youngest person in the room. For a moment the faces swam in front of her eyes and she wished she’d brought her glasses. Then a tall, gray-haired and very distinguished man stepped into her field of vision with a broad smile on his face and his hand extended.

“Welcome, Annabelle. I, for one, am delighted that you came back to rescue Elizabeth. She’s been working entirely too many hours to suit me.”

She took the proffered hand and shook it.

“I’m Ben’s boss, Phil Mainwaring.”

She gulped. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“God help me, when beautiful women start to call you sir, life is over!” Mainwaring laughed.

Annabelle glanced at Ben. Didn’t he know who Mainwaring was? Well, obviously he knew since he worked for the man. Didn’t he know who Mainwaring had been? Did it really matter so little to everyone after all these years?

She felt her shoulders begin to relax. Maybe she’d been kidding herself. The murder was over twenty-five years old and had passed into Memphis legend by this time. Maybe people regarded her as just another one of Ben’s girlfriends.

“Come along, all, let’s sit down or the salmon mousse will ooze,” Elizabeth said, taking Phil Mainwaring’s arm and leading him toward the big dining room across the hall from the room that served as a showroom during the day and a living room at night.

An hour later Annabelle realized that she was actually enjoying herself. The conversation was intelligent and funny. Not, thank God, about fashion.