The Second Mrs. Adams Read online

  Dammit, Adams, are you nuts?

  “David? Do you mind?”

  He frowned, shook his head. “No,” he said coldly, “I suppose not.”

  She smiled. “Thanks. I was hoping you wouldn’t mi—”

  “It’s a free country,” he said as he swung the door open and started down toward the street. “And a big park. Just do your best to keep up, Joanna, because I don’t feel much like tailoring my pace to suit yours.”

  * * *

  Gracious. That was the word to describe her husband’s acceptance of her presence, Joanna thought sarcastically as she panted after him half an hour later, gracious and charming and oh-so-welcoming.

  But she was matching the pace he’d set, even if her legs were screaming and her breath was wheezing in lungs that felt as if they were on fire.

  It had occurred to her, one or two times, that David was deliberately trying to exhaust her but why would he do that?

  No. She was just out of shape, that was all.

  But she’d be damned if she’d admit it.

  * * *

  Stupid. That was the word to describe his acceptance of his wife’s presence, David thought grimly as he pounded through the park, stupid and pointless and all-around dumb.

  Why hadn’t he just told her he didn’t want any part of her? That he was perfectly happy with the way things had been for the past few years, thank you very much, with him running alone and her doing her la-di-da exercises at her fancy health club.

  She’d caught him off guard, that was why. Well, it wouldn’t happen again. He couldn’t imagine what insanity had gotten into her today, especially after what had happened between them last night. Corbett had come down from her bedroom looking smug and mysterious; he’d said she was in excellent health and that he’d advised her to get on with the business of living.

  Was this Joanna’s idea of how to do that?

  David didn’t think so. The real Joanna hadn’t thought so, either, and if he was playing his cards right, this new one would soon come to the same conclusion.

  He was running harder and faster than he’d run in years, running in a way that would exhaust anybody, especially a devotee of glitter Spandex, odor-free sweat and fancy treadmills.

  By the time they got back to the house, she’d be finished with early morning runs and whatever foolishness had sent her along on this one.

  Still, he had to admit, she was keeping up.

  He frowned, put his head down, and ran harder.

  * * *

  But she wasn’t finished with early morning runs, not by a long shot.

  She was waiting for him the next morning, and the morning after that. By the third day, he adjusted his pace back to where it had been before Joanna had intruded.

  He did it for her sake. Hell, it wasn’t fair to tax her so, even if Corbett said she was fine.

  He certainly didn’t do it for his. And he certainly didn’t enjoy having her tag along.

  But when she wasn’t bent over the bench in the foyer Friday morning, doing those stretching exercises that tilted her sexy little bottom into the air, David paused on the steps while he tried to figure out what the strange emotion stealing over him might be.

  Disappointment?

  No. Hell, no, why would he—

  “Hi.”

  Joanna was standing in the door to the library, clutching a cup of coffee in her hands, smiling at him over the rim.

  His heart did something absolutely stupid, as if it were on a string, yo-yoing in his chest.

  “Hi,” he said, and managed not to smile back.

  “You’re early.”

  “Am I? Well, that’s OK, if you’re not ready to—”

  “I’m ready. Just let me put this cup in the sink and I’ll be—”

  “Jo?” He shoved his hand into his hair and scraped it back from his forehead.

  “Yes?”

  “I was going to say…I was going to say…”

  He knew what he’d been going to say, that they might skip this morning’s run, take their coffee out into the little garden, drink it together at the minuscule wrought-iron table under the tree and talk about nothing in particular and everything under the sun, just the way they used to, a million years ago.

  “Yes, David?”

  He looked at her. Was he crazy? He had to be. It was bad enough they’d started running together but they’d also started spending the evening together, too. Joanna waited for him to get home, no matter how late, before sitting down to dinner. He’d even begun to look forward to it, just sharing their mealtime, talking, telling her about the inconsequential bits and pieces of his day…

  Why was he letting these things happen? Nothing, nothing, had changed. Joanna had lost her memory but sooner or later she’d get it back. She’d remember who she was and what she wanted. She’d turn into the real Joanna Adams again, the one that lay hidden beneath that mask of sexy innocence, and when she did…when she did, he had no intention of watching it happen again.

  Feeling disappointment turn to despair once in a lifetime was more than enough.

  He stood straighter and, with a cool smile, pulled the door open.

  “I’d rather not wait, if it’s all the same to you,” he said politely. “I’d prefer running by myself today.” The sudden hurt in her eyes knotted in his gut and his irritation with himself only made him twist the knot tighter. “Oh, by the way, Joanna…don’t expect me for dinner tonight. There’s a fundraiser at the Gallery of Alternative Arts and I’ve agreed to attend.”

  Joanna stared at her husband. It had taken him no time at all to undo the progress of the past days. She wanted to weep; she wanted to slug him. Instead, she did the only thing she knew she ought to do, which was to smile brightly.

  “How nice for you,” she said.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” he answered, blithely ignoring the fact that tonight’s event was just the kind of thing he hated, a bunch of fat cats standing around stroking each other’s fur, telling themselves they were helping the world when all they were really doing was making asses of themselves. He hadn’t even intended to go to the damned gala until desperation had forced his hand a couple of seconds ago. “Morgana reminded me of it yesterday.”

  “Morgana,” Joanna repeated, even more brightly.

  “My Personal—”

  “—Assistant.” She nodded. “Yes, I know.”

  “Anyhow, don’t wait up. These things usually run late.”

  “Oh, of course. Well, have a good run. And a good day. And a good…”

  He was gone.

  Joanna stood in the open doorway, watching her husband. His stride was long and loose as he ran toward Fifth Avenue without so much as a backward glance.

  Her bottom lip trembled.

  So much for sharing.

  So much for getting back into life.

  So much for letting herself think there might be a human being lurking inside the man she was married to.

  She slammed the door, made her way back to the kitchen, rinsed out her cup and put it away.

  “Carpe diem, my foot,” she muttered.

  Dr. Corbett’s advice had been useless. Useless. She’d wasted her time, wasted her hopes.

  That’s right, Joanna. You might as well go back to sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself.

  Her head jerked up.

  “I’m not feeling sorry for myself!”

  Sure you are. You’re thinking that he could have waited while you rinsed your coffee cup, that he could have asked you to go with him tonight.

  Unless, of course, he was taking the ever-present, ever-helpful Morgana.

  A muscle ticked in Joanna’s cheek. She put her cup down, trotted up the stairs to her room and to the Queen Anne secretary that stood on one wall. There was a white-leather appointment book in the top drawer; she’d flipped through it a couple of times, shuddering at the stuff she saw scrawled over the weekly calendar pages, nonsense about hairdresser’s appointments and dress fittings and lu
ncheons and meetings that sounded senseless and silly…

  There it was, under today’s date, in her handwriting.

  Eight p.m., Gal of Alt. Arts, benefit for Tico the Chimp.

  Her eyes widened. Tico the Chimp?

  She closed the book, lay it aside, and stared into space. Tico the Chimp. The elusive Morgana. And David, all under one roof.

  Joanna shucked off her running clothes and headed for the shower.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AMNESIA, as Joanna was quickly learning, was a strangely elective ailment.

  She didn’t remember any of the details of her own life. But when she thought back to what Ellen had said—that she shopped in only the best stores—a list came quickly to mind.

  And though she’d apparently bought only dark, conservative clothing in those fashionable shops, surely they also carried other things. They had to sell dresses that were bright in color and didn’t have sleeves to the wrist and hems to mid-calf, that didn’t make a woman look as if she were…what had David said? As if she were a sack of potatoes?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Joanna dressed quickly, without giving much thought to her selections. What was there to think about, when all her clothing had a grim sameness? Even her underwear was dowdy and utilitarian.

  She paid even less attention to her hair. She hadn’t yet grasped the knack of neatly knotting it low on her neck. Ellen had been fixing it, most mornings, but today was her maid’s day off and even if it hadn’t been, Joanna was too impatient to wait while her curls were brushed and sprayed into submission. So she simply caught her hair in one hand, gave it a twist, then pinned it into place.

  Ugh, she thought, grimacing as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she looked even more funereal than usual.

  Not that it would matter, after this jaunt…

  My God, Joanna, are you sure you know what you’re doing?

  “No,” she said, into the silence, “I don’t.”

  She thought of her husband’s biting comments about her dress, about the way she wore her hair. She thought of her doctor’s admonition that she give up searching for the past and instead concentrate on the present and the future.

  She thought of Morgana, and tonight’s party.

  And then she took one last deep breath and set out to face New York.

  * * *

  She let Hollister drive her to the first store on her list, then told him not to wait.

  It was not an order that pleased him.

  “But, madam…”

  “Go on, Hollister. Go to the park or something. Take your girl out for a spin.” Joanna laughed at the look on his face. “You do have a girl, don’t you?”

  “Madam, really—”

  “Hollister, really,” she said gently, “I much prefer to do my shopping on my own.”

  Once inside the store, the giddiness that had been bubbling inside her since she’d read the entry in her appointment book was all but swept away by a sense of near panic.

  The store was so big… Why had she come? Nothing about it was familiar; she had no idea where to start or even what to start looking for.

  “Madam? May I help you?”

  Joanna turned toward the smartly dressed young saleswoman who’d materialized at her elbow.

  “Yes,” she said gratefully. “I’d like to buy a dress. Something—something special, to wear to a party tonight”

  The girl’s eyes moved quickly and professionally over her.

  “Certainly, madam,” she replied, “if you’ll just come with me…?”

  Within moments, Joanna found herself in a sea of dresses.

  “Here we are, madam. Did you have a preference as to color?”

  “Does it matter?” Joanna said with a little laugh. She turned in a slow circle. “The only color I see is black.”

  The salesgirl smiled coolly. “Black is always fashionable, as madam can attest.”

  Joanna looked down at herself. She was wearing the first thing that had come to hand in her closet, a long-sleeved, long-skirted, incredibly expensive and incredibly unattractive two-piece dress and yes, indeed, it was black.

  “Always,” she said, and smiled politely at the salesgirl, “but not always interesting. Haven’t you got other colors? Something in yellow, perhaps, or pale blue?” Her gaze lit on a mannequin in the next department. “Something like that, for instance.”

  “That?” the clerk said, her voice losing its cultured purr and rising in dismay. “But that dress is…it’s heliotrope!”

  “I’d have called it violet,” Joanna said. The girl trailed behind as she walked toward the mannequin. “But perhaps you’re right. It’s lighter than a true violet.”

  “I don’t think this is quite what madam is looking for,” the clerk said with a quick, artificial smile. “The neckline is rather low.”

  “Shockingly low.”

  “The skirt is very short.”

  Joanna nodded. “It seems to be.”

  “This dress is definitely not madam’s style.”

  “How do you know that, Miss…” Joanna peered at the salesgirl’s identification tag. “How do you know that, Miss Simpson?”

  “Why, from looking at…I mean, it’s my job to listen to what a customer tells me and then determine what will best meet her needs.”

  “Then do it, please,” Joanna said with a pleasant smile. “I’ve told you I need a special dress for this evening, and that I particularly like this one. Please show me to the fitting room and bring me this dress in a—what would you think? A ten?”

  The baffled clerk stared at her. “I don’t know, not for certain. It’s difficult to assess madam’s proper weight and shape in the dress she’s wearing.”

  Joanna smiled wistfully. “So I’ve been told.”

  * * *

  Size ten was too big.

  Eight was perfect. And so was the dress, Joanna thought, staring at herself in the three-way dressing room mirror.

  The color was wonderful, almost the same shade as her eyes and a perfect foil for her creamy skin and dark hair.

  The neckline certainly was low and the skirt certainly was short…not that Fifth Avenue wasn’t crowded with stylish women wearing their necklines just as deeply cut and the hems just as high. Still…

  “Madam looks…” The salesclerk’s stunned eyes met Joanna’s in the mirror. “She looks beautiful!”

  Joanna turned, frowned, and peered at herself over her shoulder. She had a sudden vision of David, seeing her in something so outrageous.

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Maybe you were right This dress is—”

  “Stunning,” the girl said. “With your hair done differently and the right shoes…”

  The women’s eyes met in the mirror. Joanna could feel her courage slipping.

  What are you doing, Joanna? What would David think?

  There was no way of knowing. But I know what I think, she thought suddenly. I think I look—I think I look…

  She reached behind her and gave the zipper a determined tug.

  “I’ll take it” she said, before she lost her courage completely.

  * * *

  The rest was easy.

  The right shoes turned out to be conveniently waiting one department over, a pair of silver sandals with slender high heels and narrow straps, and there was a tiny purse on a silver shoulder chain to match. The right underthings—an ivory silk teddy with lacy garters and a pair of gossamer-sheer stockings—were just a couple of blocks away, almost calling out Joanna’s name from the window of a stylish boutique.

  There was only one last step to take.

  Joanna stood before the mirrored door of a beauty salon. Her appointment book had confirmed that she had standing appointments at this trendy place three times a week.

  The door swung open and the scent of hair spray and expensive perfume came wafting out, born on a cloud of lushly romantic music.

  Joanna squared her shoulders and march
ed inside.

  The girl at the reception desk did a double take. “Oh, Mrs. Adams,” she squealed, “how lovely to see you again. We’d heard you were in an accident!”

  Joanna admitted that she had been, assured the receptionist that she was well on the road to recovery and said she was here to have her hair done.

  “I know it’s not my day but I was hoping you could fit me in.”

  The girl smiled. “Of course.” She motioned to the glittering mirrors beyond them. “Arturo’s just finishing up with a client so if you wouldn’t mind waiting just a couple of secs…?”

  Joanna followed the girl’s pointing finger. Arturo confirmed he was her usual hairdresser by waving his hand and smiling. He was a gray-haired man in late middle age, as was his client whose hair was being pinned and sprayed into a style that was the duplicate of Joanna’s.

  “That’s OK,” she said quickly, “someone else can do my hair today.”

  “We wouldn’t dream of letting that happen, Mrs. Adams. I promise, Arturo will only be—”

  “How about him?”

  The girl’s eyes widened. The man Joanna had indicated was young, with shoulder-length hair and a tiny gold stud in one earlobe. He was cutting the hair of a woman in her midtwenties—just about my age, Joanna thought with a surprised start—and shaping it into a style that was swingy, sexy and feminine.

  “Oh, but, Mrs. Adams,” the receptionist said nervously, “I don’t think Mick’s the right guy for—”

  “I think he’s perfect,” Joanna said, ignoring the butterflies swarming in her stomach. She smiled, sat down in an empty chair and piled her gaily wrapped packages beside her. “And I’ll be happy to wait until he’s free. Oh, by the way…the sign outside says you do cosmetic makeovers, too. Is that right?”

  The girl’s throat worked. “Uh—uh, yes. Yes, we do. In fact, Mick is the one who—”

  “Great.” Joanna plucked a magazine from a lamp table, opened it and buried her face inside. After a moment, the receptionist took her cue and fled.

  Joanna let out a shuddering breath and thought how perfect it would be if only the butterflies would do the same.

  * * *

  She taxied home, locked herself into her bedroom. Then, like a cygnet exchanging its dull feathers for the glorious plumage of a swan, she took off her old clothes and replaced them with the new.