Carolyn McSparren - The Wrong Wife

“Well, you just understand that whatever you have to do to make your life come out all right, you do it. I mean that, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Annabelle saluted. “Now, where did you put that piece of lace I bled all over? I’ve got to soak it in some ice water before the stain sets.”

Marian indicated the side table with a nod of her head. “Over there. Not much blood. Only a drop or two.”

“I’ll run it across to my place and put it in the kitchen sink. Then I can flatten it out when I go back after work.”

“After work is now.” Marian set down her needle and embroidery hoop. “I should have this piece mended in an hour or so tomorrow.”

Annabelle leaned over her. “You do incredible work, Maid Marian. Nobody would ever know how much damage this piece endured before Elizabeth rescued it.”

Marian laughed. “And now it will have a new life in the Countess So-and-So’s gown for the opening of the Paris Opera, or Mrs. Texas Oil for her daughter’s wedding.” She laid the piece down with satisfaction. “I am good, aren’t I? You know, nobody ever called me Maid Marian but Ben, when he was a little boy. I used to read him the stories about Robin Hood. Even then he had a drive to right all the wrongs in the world.”

“It fits you.”

“True, unfortunately.” She carefully spread the piece of ecru lace on the worktable in front of her. The table was covered in fine green felt, so the lace-work showed clearly. “There. The actual mending is finished—the tatting, I mean. Now I just have to catch the edges so nothing ravels.” She pushed herself to her feet, removed her half glasses, stowed them in a navy leather case on the table, reached into her pocket for a red case, and slipped her bifocals on in their place. “Ah, now I can see you.” She peered at Annabelle. “And you look like hell. Go home, watch television, read a book. Go to a movie. Call an old school friend. Get out and do something.”

“Nope.” Annabelle carefully folded the delicate white lace, slipped it into a piece of tissue paper and followed Marian to the door. “Don’t fuss. I’m fine. This is what I enjoy. I’ll put on some Mozart or some Stones, fix myself a quick meal, put this lace in water and run over to check on Grandmere. I don’t have time for much else.”

She clicked off the lights in the workroom and followed Marian down the back stairs. As she passed the swinging door to the front of the house, she wondered whether Ben and his current tootsie were still there with Mrs. Jackson.

He was still the best-looking, most charismatic man she’d ever met. And if anything, even farther out of her reach and her orbit than he was when he was a senior and she was a freshman. “A cat can look at a king,” she whispered, and opened the baize door a tiny crack.

What she saw was not Ben, but Brittany, now relaxed on the sofa with her long, lovely brown arms stretched along its back, her slim ankles crossed, her streaked blond hair falling as precisely to her shoulders as though her hairdresser had cut it with a laser level. Maybe he had.

Annabelle let the door close softly.

Totally out of her league. Like comparing Claudia Schiffer to Ma Kettle.

And that was just looks. Add in social grace, acceptability, education, and it was like comparing Claudia Schiffer to a female Cro-Magnon.

She walked across the backyard and opened the door to the stairs that led to the apartment that Elizabeth Jackson had turned into guest quarters.

The stairs were narrow and precipitous, but were covered with a creamy plush carpet. The walls were painted the palest yellow, and charming old French flower prints stair-stepped up the wall beside them.

Annabelle kicked off the backless clogs she wore while she was working, remembered the paillettes in the pocket of her shirt, pulled them out and carefully dropped them into a cut-crystal ashtray.

Since she didn’t smoke and wouldn’t dream of allowing smoke anywhere near the fragile fabrics she worked on, the ashtray was clean. She carefully unwrapped the white lace from its tissue and laid it on the drainboard of the sink in the galley kitchen while she filled a bowl with ice cubes.

She filled the sink, dropped in the ice cubes and swished them around before she began to inspect the lace.

The piece was good-sized—several yards. She fingered it to find the spots of smeared blood so that she could immerse only that area and as little of the rest as possible. No sense wetting the whole thing. It would weigh a ton and possibly damage the fragile stitches.

Aha. She found the first spot. Amazing that such a little thing as a pinprick could make such a mess. “Who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him?” she said idly, realizing as she said it that one of her starving-actor friends said quoting from Macbeth was bad luck.

She snapped on the light over the sink and glanced down at the lace across her hands.

She froze. A sound she couldn’t begin to recognize rose in her throat.

She hadn’t bled that much.

The lace in her hands was drenched, dripping with gore, and her hands were covered in bright fresh blood, so thick she felt as though she could dye the water scarlet.

“No!” She dropped the lace, turned, shoulders hunched, head bowed.

She felt her gorge rise and fought the urge to vomit. “No.” She nearly yelled the word. She felt the world spin, her vision blur.

After what seemed a lifetime, but was probably no more than a few seconds, she managed to force herself under control. She took a deep breath and turned back to the drainboard.

She was nearly afraid to look at her hands.

Her hands were dry and clean. She picked up the lace. Maybe eight or nine dots of brownish dried blood stained it. She stared at it, frowning, puzzled.

Then she shook her head. “Trick of the light, obviously. Sunset through the window.”

She realized she was speaking aloud. The sound of her own voice in the silent room was momentarily comforting. “Stupid. Ought to get my eyes examined.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose where her half glasses sat during the day. “It’s Ben’s fault. He’s the one that fell out of the tree, and here I am with the concussion and hallucinations.”

She slipped the bloodstained portion of the lace into the ice water, sluiced it around gently for a minute, then left it immersed. As she dried her hands, she almost expected to see blood on the towel. Ridiculous.

She walked over to the armoire in the corner that held the stereo and television. She didn’t want to listen to the news. It was always bad. She’d had enough mayhem for a lifetime.

She flipped through the meager stack of CDs. Vivaldi? Mozart? Too orderly. Too optimistic. She needed angst. She found an old version of the Kindertotenlieder. Peachy. Enough angst there for a whole hundred years’ worth of the Black Plague.

But triumphant at the end.

That didn’t happen in real life. In real life you muddled along and hoped to survive with your brain and your body intact and without causing too much damage.

In her case, it was a little late for that already.

WHILE HER TV DINNER microwaved, Annabelle curled into a tight little ball in the yellow club chair beside the empty fireplace. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, and then ran her fingers down her face. When she touched her cheeks she realized they were wet with perspiration and her fingertips were actually shaking.

What had happened with the lace? She could tell herself it was a trick of the light, but she knew better.

Jonas once told her that Governor Huey Long of Louisiana carried around a mock certificate of release from the Louisiana state mental institution as proof that he was sane. She had often wished she had a certificate like that so she could point to it and say to herself, “See. You are not a nutcase.”