The Second Mrs. Adams Page 7
“An invalid. Yes, so you have. But going out alone, in a neighborhood that’s strange to you, might be daunting.”
She smiled through stiff lips. “New York still has street signs, doesn’t it? Believe me, I’ll find my way home without sprinkling bread crumbs behind me.”
To her surprise, he laughed. “I’ll bet you will.” His smile faded. They stood looking at each other in an increasingly uncomfortable silence and then he cleared his throat. “Well, it’s getting late. You’ll forgive me if I hurry off, Jo, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
She smiled brightly as he picked up a leather briefcase from a table near the door. After a barely perceptible hesitation, he bent and dropped a light kiss on her forehead.
“Have a good day,” he said. And he was gone.
A good day, Joanna thought. Tears stung her eyes.
“Mrs. Adams?”
Joanna blinked hard, took a steadying breath and turned around to see the housekeeper standing in the doorway to the dining room.
“Yes, Mrs. Timmons?”
“Your breakfast is ready. Half a grapefruit and black coffee, as usual.”
“Oh. Thank you. I’ll be… Mrs. Timmons?”
“Madam?”
“Was that my usual? My breakfast, I mean. Grapefruit and black coffee?”
The housekeeper’s lips thinned in disapproval. “For as long as it mattered, it was.”
“Do you think we might try something different?”
Mrs. Timmons’s brows lifted a little. “We could, if you wish. What would you like?”
Joanna blushed. “I don’t really know. I mean…I’m open to suggestion.”
“Cinnamon toast,” the housekeeper said, her eyes on Joanna’s face, “orange juice, and hot chocolate.”
“Hot chocolate!” Joanna laughed. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Coffee, then, but with sugar and cream. How does that sound, madam?”
“It sounds lovely.” Joanna took a breath. “Do you have a minute to talk, Mrs. Timmons?”
The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “If you wish.”
Joanna ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. “Well, to begin with, I’d be pleased if you called me ‘Joanna.’”
Mrs. Timmons’s face paled. “I couldn’t possibly do that, madam.”
“Then call me ‘Mrs. Adams.’ Just don’t…don’t keep calling me ‘madam.’” Joanna gave a little laugh. “I have enough trouble thinking of myself as ‘Joanna,’ let alone as anybody called ‘madam.’”
The older woman’s mouth opened, then shut again. After a moment, she nodded.
“I’ll try and remember that, ma…Mrs. Adams.”
“And I was wondering… Do you know who…uh, who furnished this house?”
“Why, you did, of course.”
Joanna sighed. The answer was unpleasant, but not exactly a surprise.
“There’s just one last thing…” She hesitated. “What did I usually do with my days?”
“Breakfast at eight, your health club at ten, and then, of course, your afternoons were quite full.”
“Full? Do you mean…do I have some kind of part-time job?”
Joanna had the uneasy feeling that it was all Mrs. Timmons could do to keep from laughing.
“Certainly not, Mrs. Adams. You had your lunches, your charity commitments, your board meetings.”
“Oh. I see.”
“And then there were your three times a week hairdresser’s appointments—”
“I had my hair done three times a week?” Joanna said, her voice rising in disbelief.
“You have a standing appointment on Friday at the nail salon, and, of course, there are your massages…”
“My massages,” Joanna echoed faintly. She wanted to laugh. Or maybe she wanted to cry. It was hard to know which.
“You might wish to check your appointment book. Perhaps it’s in the library. Or in your desk, in your bedroom.”
“That’s all right,” Joanna said quickly, “I’ll, ah, I’ll forego all that for a while, until I’m feeling more like my old self…”
Her old self, who was beginning to sound more and more like one absolutely, monumentally pretentious bore.
* * *
The day was a duplicate of the one before.
She wandered through the house. She read. She sat in the garden. She had lunch, took a nap, and woke as restless as a tiger.
In midafternoon, she took a light jacket and headed for the door. Hollister, appearing from out of nowhere, reached it the same instant.
“If madam wishes to go anywhere,” he said, “I am at her disposal.”
“Thank you,” Joanna said politely, “but I’m going for a walk.”
“A walk, madam?”
“Yes,” she said. “You know, left foot, right foot…a walk. In the park.”
“Madam might wish to reconsider…”
Joanna yanked open the door. “Madam is out of here,” she said, and slammed the door behind her.
* * *
The walk cleared her head.
She’d snapped at David this morning, and then at Hollister. There was no reason for it; everyone meant well, and she knew it.
It was she who was being difficult, not the staff or her husband.
It was just that it all seemed so strange…a wry smile curved over her lips as she made her way up the stairs to her room. This was the life she’d led, but was this the life she’d wanted?
It didn’t seem possible.
Ellen was in the bathroom, pouring perfumed oil into the tub.
“There you are, ma’am. I’m just running your bath.”
Joanna sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Ellen, do you think you could stop calling me ‘ma’am’? I keep expecting to turn around and find the Queen of England hovering just over my shoulder.”
Ellen giggled. “As you wish, madam.”
“What I wish,” Joanna said, “is that you’d call me Mrs. Adams.”
“Oh, but, madam… You were very specific when you hired me, you said I was to address you as ‘ma’am’ or ‘madam.’”
“Just forget whatever I said,” Joanna said, more sharply than she’d intended. “I mean…things have changed. Besides, if you call me ‘Mrs. Adams’ it will help me get used to the sound of my own name.”
“Yes, Mrs. Adams.”
Joanna smiled. “Thank you. Now, what’s this about running a bath?”
“Well, you bathe every day at this time, ma…Mrs. Adams. Then you dress for dinner.”
“Dress?” Joanna looked down at herself. She was wearing a navy dress and matching kidskin pumps. Dreary, she thought, and frowned.
“Yes, Mrs. Adams.”
“As in, long gown, white gloves and tiara?”
“Not quite so formal,” Ellen said seriously. “A short dress, no gloves, and I suppose I could find a comb for your chignon, if you like.”
“Do I do this every night? Dress for dinner, I mean?”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Adams, you do.”
Joanna’s smile faded. A morning spent doing a lot of nothing, then an afternoon doing more of the same, followed by a soak in a perfumed bath while she considered what dress to wear for dinner.
What a useless existence.
Was this what it meant to be David Adams’s wife? She thought of how he’d looked on Sunday, when he’d taken her away from Bright Meadows. The faded jeans, so worn and snug they’d outlined his body, the sweatshirt, straining over his broad shoulders. She thought of his admission that he never let anyone work on his car except him.
Why would a man like that marry a woman who made an art of doing nothing?
“My—my husband dresses for dinner, too?”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Adams showers and changes to a dark suit.” Ellen sighed. “I think it’s just so old-fashioned and romantic.”
Old-fashioned. Romantic. Joanna’s pulse quickened. Perhaps she was getting the wrong picture. Dressin
g for dinner didn’t have to be stuffy, it could be everything Ellen had just called it.
“All right,” she said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll shower, and you pick a dress for me to wear tonight.”
“Shower? But—”
“Trust me, Ellen. Unless I’m shivering cold or dying of the flu, I’m not a bath person.”
The maid looked at her, her face puzzled. Two out of two, Joanna thought, remembering the way Mrs. Timmons had looked at her this morning. Neither her maid nor her housekeeper could fit the present Joanna Adams inside the skin of the old, and if you added Joanna Adams herself, the score went to a perfect three out of three.
It was a sobering, even frightening, thought.
* * *
At seven, dressed in black peau de soie, Joanna started down the stairs.
The dress wasn’t much to her liking—it was blousey, almost shapeless, not short enough to be sexy or long enough to be fashionable, and it made her feel twice her age. But then, that description pretty much fit everything in her closet.
Why on earth had she bought all that clothing?
She’d as much as asked the question of Ellen, who’d shrugged.
“You shopped at all the best stores, Mrs. Adams.”
“Did I?” Joanna had said softly, staring into the mirror.
Maybe she’d forgotten more than the details of her own life, she thought as she reached the bottom of the staircase; maybe she’d forgotten the tenets of high fashion.
She hung on to that thought as she paused in the doorway to the library. She could see David waiting for her before the fireplace, his back to her, one foot up on the edge of the stone hearth, his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers.
What a handsome man he was, even from this angle. Those incredible shoulders. Those long legs and that tight bottom…
Her taste in furniture, clothes and hairstyles might be in doubt. But her taste in men seemed to have been impeccable.
David turned around.
“Joanna,” he said.
Color flew into her cheeks.
“David.” She swallowed dryly. “Hello.”
His gaze swept over her. She waited for him to say something complimentary about her appearance but he didn’t. She studied his face, trying to read his expression, but it was like trying to read the face of a statue.
“Well,” she said brightly, “how was your day?”
“It was fine,” he said evenly. “How was yours?”
Her heart sank. They were going to have another one of their standard, oh-so-polite conversations. How was your day? he’d asked and she was supposed to say it was fine, it was pleasant, it was…
“Dull.”
David’s eyebrows lifted. “Dull?”
“Well, yes. I didn’t do anything.”
His eyes narrowed. “You did something. You went for a walk.”
Her head came up. “Ah, I see Hollister reported in, did he?”
“Hollister was only following orders.”
“You mean, you told him to spy on me?”
David ran his hand through his hair. “It’s been a long day, Jo. Let’s not quarrel.”
“Do we?” Joanna said quickly. “Quarrel, I mean?”
“No,” he said, after a pause, “not really.” It was true. Even their decision to divorce had been reached in a civilized way. No raised voices, no anger…no regrets. “Why do you ask?”
Because at least, if we quarreled, there was something more than this terrible nothingness between us…
She sighed. “No reason. I just wondered.”
“Look, I’m only trying to make sure you don’t overdo.”
She sighed again. “I know.”
“Before you know it, you’ll be phoning up old friends, going to lunch, maybe even attending one or two of those meetings of yours.”
“Yuck.”
“Yuck?” David laughed. “Did you say ‘yuck’?”
She blushed. “I meant to say that, uh, that doesn’t sound very exciting, either.”
Why had she let the conversation take this turn? David was watching her with a sudden intensity that made her feel like a mouse under the eye of a hungry cat. There was no way she could explain what she felt to him when she couldn’t even explain it to herself.
“Don’t pay any attention to me,” she said with a little laugh. “I’ve probably been lying around feeling sorry for myself for too long.” She turned away from him, searching desperately for a diversion. Her gaze fell on the built-in bar across the room. “What great-looking hors d’oeuvres,” she said, hurrying toward them. “Cheese, and olives…what’s this?”
“Chèvre,” David said as she picked up a tiny cracker spread with a grainy white substance and popped it into her mouth.
“Chèvre?”
“Goat cheese.”
Joanna stared at him. “Goat cheese?” Her nose wrinkled.
“Yeah. You love the stuff.”
She shuddered, snatched up a cocktail napkin, and wiped her mouth.
“Not anymore.”
He grinned. “It’s even worse than it sounds. That’s not just goat cheese, it’s goat cheese rolled in ash.”
“Ash?” she repeated in amazement. “As in, what’s on the end of a cigarette?”
His grin widened. “I don’t think so, but does it really matter?”
“You’re right, it doesn’t. Ash. And goat cheese.” She laughed. “What will they think of next?”
“Chocolate-dipped tofu,” he said solemnly. Her eyes widened and he held up his hand. “Scout’s honor. It was part of the buffet at a business dinner last week. The Halloran merger. You remem… A deal I’ve been working on.”
Her smile slipped, but only a little. “And how was the chocolate-dipped tofu?”
“I didn’t touch the stuff. Morgana tried it and said it was great, but you know…” He frowned. “Sorry, Jo. I keep forgetting. Morgana is my P.A.”
“Your…?”
“Personal Assistant.”
Joanna nodded. “Oh. And she—she went to this dinner with you?”
“Of course.” He hesitated. “She’d like to stop by and see you. She’s wanted to, ever since the accident, but I told her I wasn’t sure if you were up to seeing visitors, even when they’re old friends.”
Old friends? A woman named Morgana, who spent more time with her husband than she did? His assistant? His personal assistant?
“That was thoughtful of you, David. Please tell—Morgana—that I need just a little more time, would you?”
“Of course.”
Joanna smiled at him, her lips curving up softly, and he realized that she’d inadvertently wiped away all that bright red lipstick she favored and he despised. Her mouth was full, pink and softly inviting, and he suddenly wondered what she’d do if leaned down and kissed it. He wouldn’t touch her; he’d just kiss her, stroke the tip of his tongue across that sweet, lush flesh…
Hell!
“Well,” he said briskly, “how about a drink?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he poured some bourbon for himself and sherry for Joanna. Her fingers closed around the delicate stem of the glass as he handed it to her.
“To your recovery,” he said, raising his glass.
She echoed the sentiment, then took a sip of her drink. The pale gold liquid slipped down her throat and she grimaced.
“What’s wrong?” David said. “Has the sherry gone bad?”
“It’s probably just me. This is just a little bit dry for my taste, that’s all.”
He looked at her. “Is it?”
“But it’s good,” she said quickly. “Really.”
“Come on, Jo. I can see that you don’t like it.”
She hesitated. “But…but I used to,” she said in a suddenly small voice, “didn’t I?”
“Tastes change,” he said with studied casualness. “I’ll pour you something else. What would you prefer?”
A picture popped instantly into her
head. A bottle, dark amber in color, with a red and white label…
“Jo?”
She smiled uneasily. “I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but…I just thought of something called Pete’s Wicked Ale.”
David went very still. “Did you?”
“Isn’t that crazy? Who’d name something… What’s the matter?”
“You used to drink Pete’s.” His voice was low, almost a whisper. “A long time ago, before you decided that sherry was…that you preferred sherry to ale.”
Joanna began to tremble. “Oh, God!”
“Easy.” David took the glass from her hand. He led her to the sofa and helped her sit. “Put your head down and take a deep breath.”
“I’m…I’m OK.”
“You’re not OK, you’re as white as a sheet.”
“I just…what’s happening to me, David?” She lifted her face to his and stared at him through eyes that had gone from violet to black.
“You’re remembering things, that’s all.”
“It’s more than that.” Her voice shook. “I feel as if I’m trapped inside a black tunnel and—and every now and then I look up and I see a flash of light, but it never lasts long enough for me to really see anything.”
“Dammit, Joanna, put your head down!” David put his hand on her hair and forced her face toward her knees. “I knew this would happen if you went sailing off as if nothing had happened to you.”
“I’m not sick!” She shoved at his hand and leaped to her feet. “Didn’t you listen to anything I said? I’m—I’m lost, David, lost, and I can’t…I can’t…”
Her eyes rolled up into her head and she began to slump to the floor. David cursed, caught her in his arms, and strode from the dining room.
“Ellen,” he bellowed. “Mrs. Timmons!”
The housekeeper and the maid came running. When Mrs. Timmons saw David hurrying up the stairs with Joanna in his arms, her hands flew to her mouth.
“Oh, my Lord, Mr. David, what happened?”
“Ellen, you get some ice. Mrs. Timmons, you call the doctor. Tell him my wife’s fainted and I want him here now.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best but it’s after hours and—”
“Just get him, dammit!” David shouldered open the door to Joanna’s room. Her eyes fluttered open as he lay her down gently on the bed.
“David?” she whispered. “What…what happened?”