Carolyn McSparren - The Wrong Wife

In a pinch, she could call on a couple of excellent psychotherapists to certify she wasn’t any crazier than so-called healthy people.

Okay, so she hated cocktail parties and meeting new people and speaking in public.

But hallucinations? Never, not in all her years. Not even when the nightmares had still been coming at least once or twice a week.

And she hadn’t had the nightmares for years.

Until she’d come back to Memphis to work for the wife of the man who had failed to defend her father successfully. But they’d been divorced for years. Hal Jackson had disappeared years ago just as her own father had disappeared when he’d been released from prison.

Her New York roommate, Vickie, had begged her not to leave New York. Annabelle managed to keep paying her half of the rent so that Vickie didn’t have to sublet. She needed her place to come back to when she left Memphis. Together she and Vickie had done a bunch of work decorating the SoHo loft, and they’d never be able to find another one now at anything like a reasonable rate.

But family was family. That was all that mattered, really. Grandmere needed Annabelle because there was no one else.

When Annabelle had had no one else, her grandmother hadn’t hesitated to take her in.

She’d fed and clothed Annabelle, sent her to the best schools, even tried from time to time to act like a regular grandmother. It wasn’t her fault that she’d failed so miserably. She was a dragon by nature, and the disastrous circumstances under which she’d acquired Annabelle had destroyed the way of life she cherished, turned the woman into a bitter recluse.

It didn’t even matter that she’d made Annabelle pay psychologically over the years. Grandmere had done the best she could. Now it was Annabelle’s turn. That was the way families worked.

She couldn’t manage to look after Grandmere from eighteen hundred miles away any longer, to turn over her care to unknown women who came and went almost as often as they changed Grandmere’s antique linen sheets.

Six months wasn’t much to give back for all those years and all those school bills. Dr. Renfro said his best guess was that Grandmere probably had less than six months left.

Annabelle dreaded losing the old woman. They had always had a love-hate relationship, but when Grandmere died, the last tiny root that tethered her to home would be gone. She’d be forever adrift.

Right. The old lady would outlive them all if will was any criterion.

The microwave dinged. Annabelle turned off the CD and flipped on the television. The news was over. Now she at least had the company of human voices and laugh tracks.

She put her dinner on a tray, took it back to the club chair and ate with little attention to the television sitcom.

Her finger, the one that she’d jabbed with the dressmaker’s pin, throbbed. She’d doctored it with antibiotic ointment and covered it with a bandage, but it still hurt. Drat Ben anyway! The thought of him set other nerves throbbing.

She glanced over at the lace, now spread carefully on a sheet of white cardboard on her worktable. At least she didn’t see the thing dripping with blood any longer.

After dinner she had to drive over to check on Grandmere, to be certain the current caregiver hadn’t given up in disgust as so many of the others had, or that Grandmere hadn’t lobbed a silver tray at her head and brained the poor woman.

Amazing how strong Grandmere could be when she was angry. Lying in that big old bed she looked no larger than a kitten.

Annabelle picked up her tray and took it into the kitchen. Then she swung her black sweater over her shoulders. The April nights still got chilly. As she started for the stairs the telephone shrilled.

She yipped. Silly to be so jumpy at sudden sounds. She grabbed the phone and said, “Yes, hello,” and knew she sounded crabby.

“Uh, Annabelle?” A male voice. “It’s Ben, Ben Jackson.”

“Yes, Ben, I recognized your voice.” Her body had recognized his voice. She wasn’t about to tell him that.

“Look, I wanted to say again how sorry I am…”

“No need. I understand perfectly.” She started to put the receiver down. His voice stopped her.

“The thing is, I’d like to make it up to you if you’d let me.”

“Not necessary. Ben, I’m kind of in a hurry right now.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’ll make this fast. Let me take you to dinner Thursday night.”

“No thank you.”

“It’s not a real date, only Mother’s Thursday-night thing.”

“No way.”

“It’s right across the yard, Annabelle. You’ve got to eat.”

“I work with your mother—no, make that for your mother—five days a week. The last thing she wants is to see my shining face at dinner with all those bigwigs she always has.”

“It’s a really small group. Probably people who remember you.”

“Wow! Talk about your really great enticement.”

“Look. You’re the one who came back to town. You can’t hide yourself upstairs in the garage forever. You’ve got to come out sometime. You play hermit in New York as well?”

“In New York I am plain old Annabelle Langley. Here I’m—well, you know what I am.”

“It’s ancient history, and you didn’t have anything to do with it. Come with me, please. If only to make me feel less of a jerk.”

“Ben…”

“Next step is I blackmail you.”

“What?”

“I mean, I’ll make Mom put pressure on you.”

“That is dirty pool.”

“Don’t I know it. Save me. Come with me Thursday.”

She dropped her forehead against her hand. “Okay, Ben. I’ll come. But I don’t have any dress-up clothes.”

“Whatever you wear will be great.” He suddenly sounded immensely cheerful. “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

“Pick me up?” She laughed. “Ben, I live in your mother’s backyard. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then shall we say I will call for you, Mademoiselle Langley?”

“Whatever. Now I really do have to go see about Grandmere.”

“Sure. Sorry. Bye.” As he hung up, she was certain she heard a shouted “Yes!” down the line.

“YES!” Ben said as he clicked his cell phone shut. He considered doing a victory dance, but suspected that the anteroom of the men’s room at the club wasn’t the place to do it. As it was, one of the late golfers raised his eyebrows. Ben grinned at him, and went back outside to find Brittany.

What on earth was he going to do about Brittany? She wasn’t responsible for his attack of insanity, but he could not, absolutely, positively and totally could not take her home and to bed. Not tonight, not ever again.

But he couldn’t actually say to her, “So, Brittany, sorry about this, but I’ve fallen madly in love with my mother’s new chef d’atelier.” That ought to go over big. He’d read somewhere that when a woman asked a man into her bed, it was only gentlemanly to accept. Not as if it would be the first time. Or even the twentieth, come to that.

Was that part of the reason he’d gone crazy? Was the first careless rapture with Brittany dying down?

Actually, there had never been much careless rapture with Brittany. Just workmanlike, satisfying, athletic and inventive sex. She had a great body and one hell of a lot of expertise. Going to bed with her wasn’t something any red-blooded male would turn down lightly.

So how come he couldn’t just accept the implicit offer? Who would he hurt? Not Annabelle, who didn’t know the way he felt, didn’t know he existed, probably. Not Brittany, who wouldn’t be doing anything she hadn’t done with him before. Not himself…

Himself. Taking a woman to bed just to be accommodating was the sort of thing his father did. Over and over again. Casually wounding his family, and ultimately the women he seduced. Ben had sworn he’d never be that sort of man. He wasn’t about to start now.