Книга - The English Wife

The English Wife
Doreen Roberts


He left her a cottage in England…and a photograph with the words "I'm sorry" written on it…Marjorie Maitland was used to a certain routine–she'd built her life around the safety of predictability. Then the unexpected happened–her husband died. But grief was not the only emotion that overwhelmed her. The mystery her husband left behind puzzled her–a deed to a cottage in England. Where had that come from? And who was the woman in the photograph? Margie knew trouble when it knocked on her door.The old Margie, safe in her suburban home, would have avoided this potentially humiliating situation. But things were changing. The new Margie had to unravel this tangled web and get to the truth. And that meant a trip to England to find out if her entire life had been a lie…or to discover the best parts of the rest of her life.









“What did you say?”


I asked as I sat in James Starrett’s immaculate office, mistakenly thinking that the worst shock of Brandon’s death was behind me.

“I was saying, I’d think about selling your property in England.”

I sat staring at him for the longest time, letting the words sink in. Even then, they still didn’t make sense. “Property?” My voice sounded as if I’d swallowed sand. “In England?”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “The cottage in Miles End. It’s occupied at the moment…ah… Eileen Robbins is the name…but you should be able to get around that. The woman might even be willing to buy it from you. I believe she’s living there free of rent.”

“I see.” I pulled in a deep, deep breath and let it out slowly. It’s strange how a single sentence can totally change your life.

That’s all it took to change mine.




Doreen Roberts


Doreen Roberts lives with her husband, who is also her manager and her biggest fan, in the beautiful city of Portland, Oregon. She believes that everyone should have a little adventure now and again to add interest to their lives. She believes in taking risks and has been known to embark on an adventure or two of her own. She is happiest, however, when she is creating stories about the biggest adventure of all—falling in love and learning to live happily ever after.




The English Wife

Doreen Roberts










www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




From the Author


Dear Reader,

As a young bride, I left my native England and everything near and dear to me to start life over in the U.S. Thirty years later, at the age of fifty-eight, once more I left behind everything that I loved—family, friends and the neighborhood I’d lived in all those years—to drive to the opposite coast and start over again.

The English Wife is Marjorie’s story, not mine, but her pain, her fear and her struggles to find her way in an unfamiliar and confusing world are all echoes of my past. Life throws changes at us, some small, some huge. It isn’t easy starting over, but we women are strong. When faced with whatever comes next, we struggle to make the best of it in the hopes that the new door will lead us to a measure of peace and, if we’re lucky, a better life.

I was one of the lucky ones. I wish all of you as much happiness as I found in my new life. If you’d like to know more, visit me at www.doreenrobertshight.com.

Always yours,

Doreen Roberts


To my wise and patient editor, Susan Litman. Thank you for all the great suggestions and advice. Your support and encouragement mean everything to me.

To my talented and generous critique partner, Jennifer Hoffman, for taking time out of your own writing to help me with mine. Thanks for challenging

me, and for reminding me that there’s always room for learning.

To my likewise talented Web pal, Lauren Nichols, for all the times you’ve let me whine, and all the nice things you’ve said to make me feel better.

Finally, and most of all, to my dear husband, Bill, for truly listening, for understanding, for loving me enough to give me all the time and space I need—and above all, for keeping your promise and giving me a whole new world. I’ll love you forever.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20




CHAPTER 1


It’s strange how a single sentence can totally change your life. That’s all it took to change mine.

I sat in James Starrett’s immaculate office, mistakenly thinking that the worst shock of Brandon’s death was behind me. Outside the window, rhododendrons soaked up the sun after a long bout of Seattle rain. I wished I could be out there with them, instead of trapped inside that stuffy room. James’s voice was enough to send me to sleep as he droned on about the will.

He sat behind a massive desk that gleamed in the rays of sunlight pouring through the window behind him. When he finally paused in his lengthy commentary and raised his eyebrows at me, it took me a moment or two to realize I might have missed something important. I leaned forward. “What did you say?”

He frowned at me over his rimless glasses. “I was saying, I’d think about selling your property in England.”

I groped through the fog in my head to make sense of his words. They seemed to hang in the air between us, about as clear as if he’d spoken in Japanese.

I’d had trouble making sense of anything the past few weeks. At first I couldn’t convince myself that Brandon wasn’t coming back. Or maybe I was afraid to accept it. As long as I floated along in my little cushion of denial, I wouldn’t feel the pain that I knew was waiting to crush me.

I missed him, of course. I kept expecting him to walk in the house, demanding his double-malt scotch, and grumbling because dinner wasn’t ready. The house seemed so lonely and empty without him, yet I wasn’t hurting the way I thought a new widow should hurt. I kept waiting for that to happen.

I seemed to live in a vacuum, where no one could reach me, and I had to give myself orders so I wouldn’t forget to eat or shower or comb my hair. It was a strange existence. I felt like a character living in a book, waiting for the reader to turn another page.

No wonder I couldn’t understand James, even though he’d said it twice. I gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

I didn’t like the uncomfortable expression that crept into his colorless eyes. “I said, you need to think about selling your property in England.”

I sat staring at him for the longest time, letting the words sink in. Even then, they still didn’t make sense. “Property?” My voice sounded as if I’d swallowed sand. “In England?”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “The cottage in Miles End, Devon. It’s on half an acre of land, so it should fetch a good price. It’s occupied at the moment…ah… Eileen Robbins is the name…but you should be able to get around that. The woman might even be willing to buy it from you. I can put you in touch with a good agent over there, if you like.”

I pulled myself upright on the hard chair and shook my head in a vain effort to focus.

James went on in his dry voice as if he were totally unaware of the havoc he was creating in my muddled mind. “Three bedrooms, living room, kitchen and bathroom. I’m told that’s considered quite sufficient in a small fishing village like Miles End.”

“Village?” I seemed to be repeating words without understanding any of them.

James looked at me as if I were stupid. I felt stupid. How in the world had Brandon kept property in England a secret from me? Why had he kept it a secret from me?

My late husband was an investments consultant and wrapped up in his work most of the time. I guess most people would call our life together comfortable. Maybe mundane. Certainly predictable.

Every Friday he and I ate dinner at one of the excellent restaurants in the city. Once a year we’d drive up to Vancouver or take the ferry to Victoria for a week’s vacation. That was about the extent of our social life together.

But then Brandon died, and life as I knew it vanished as completely as an early-morning mist on a hot summer’s day. Now, three weeks after my husband had been laid to rest, I listened to James drone on and wondered what in the world I was doing there.

“Marjorie?”

I jumped, aware James had asked me a question that had dissolved in my ears before I’d registered it. “Sorry. I didn’t get that.”

He gave me a pitying look. “I know this must be hard for you. It was a shock to us all. Fifty-four is far too young. We had no idea Brandon had a heart problem. He seemed so healthy and vital.”

I doubt even Brandon knew he had a heart problem. If he had, he hadn’t thought it worth mentioning to me. It wasn’t until the autopsy they found the clogged arteries. My late husband was one of those people who avoided doctors like a vegan avoids mink.

“Marjorie, how much do you know about your financial situation?”

Apparently not enough. Apparently there was a whole lot I hadn’t known. I wondered what else he’d kept from me. I had a sudden urge to run from that dismal office with its leathery odor and that awful sickly cologne James wore. I wanted to breathe fresh air, and feel the sun warm on my head. I didn’t want to sit there and answer his probing questions.

“Not much.” I looked him in the eye. “Brandon took care of all the finances. He was an expert, you know. He didn’t trust anyone with his money except himself.”

If James detected a slight bitterness to my tone he didn’t let on. “Yes, that’s what I thought. Judging by your reaction, I assume he neglected to tell you about the cottage.”

Good word, neglected. Covered a lot of sins. It definitely sounded better than out-and-out lying, though technically, I suppose, Brandon hadn’t exactly lied. He’d just gone to incredible pains to keep this enormous secret from me. No wonder he had so many business trips to Europe.

I remembered then, something else James had said. I wanted to know more about this woman living in my husband’s cottage. Was this a simple business arrangement, an investment, or was she the reason he’d kept it all a secret?

I fought to control my rising suspicions. Calm down, I told myself. There could be a lot of reasons why Brandon hadn’t wanted me to know he owned a cottage in a foreign country and that a stranger was living in it.

A female stranger.

I couldn’t think of one good reason. Except for the obvious. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s being made to look like a fool. Right then I felt like the biggest fool on the planet. “How long has Brandon owned this cottage?”

James flipped over pages for so long I thought he intended to ignore the question. Then he cleared his throat again. “Your husband bought the cottage shortly after your wedding. Three months later, to be exact.”

Three months? Was that how long it had taken before Brandon went looking for a diversion? No, I couldn’t believe that. Brandon wasn’t the type. Besides, I would have known. Surely I would have known?

I sat staring at James for quite some time before I finally managed to ask, “Did he say why he bought it?”

“I imagine for an investment.”

There. So it was possible. Okay, maybe I was grasping at straws, but I was drowning in a sea of bewilderment and desperately looking for dry land. “So this woman is renting the cottage? Is that it?”

He seemed to have something wrong with his throat because he kept having to clear it. “Not exactly. I believe she’s living there free of rent.”

“I see.” I pulled in a deep, deep breath and let it out slowly. Seconds ticked by while I fought the waves of anger and disbelief. I’d been married twenty-seven years to a man I thought I knew at least reasonably well. Now it seemed I hadn’t known him at all.

“Marjorie, you should understand that your financial situation is somewhat delicate.”

It took all my willpower to sound indifferent. “I suppose you’re going to tell me I’m bankrupt now.”

James seemed offended by that. “Bankrupt? Of course not. Brandon was too good a manager to allow that. There are, however, certain matters which have to be addressed.”

“What kind of matters?”

He looked down at the papers in front of him. “Well, for one, I’m sure you know that Brandon has made you sole beneficiary of his will.”

Well, that came as no big surprise. Brandon had no family living and, to my everlasting regret, we never had children.

“Sole beneficiary,” I murmured. “How considerate of him. You’re sure he didn’t include Eileen what’s-her-name?”

Ignoring that completely, James went on talking in that wooden voice of his, seemingly unaware of my growing need to throw something at him. “He’s left all his worldly goods to you, with no exceptions. The life insurance should provide you with enough funds to settle immediate matters. You will be receiving a small pension, enough to pay for necessities, though I should caution you that your income will not be as favorable as the one to which you have become accustomed. Since you have at least another fifteen years or so until retirement age, you will most likely have to make some changes.”

I was in no mood to sort through all that lawyer-speak. “I assume what all that means is that I have to sell my home.”

I could no longer hide my resentment and James’s ears turned pink. “By no means. It’s a big house for one person, however, and the upkeep must be quite expensive. You might want to consider selling it, yes. Brandon lost money on the stock market and refinanced a couple of years ago, but there should be enough equity left, around thirty thousand or so, to give you a down payment on something a little smaller.”

I closed my eyes for a moment. Up until now I’d managed to deal pretty well with the numbing jolts life had just handed me. I’d survived the past three weeks by going back to work at the health club, and must have handled things okay, judging by the comments from my boss, Val Barnes, and the rest of the staff.

True, I didn’t like being alone at night, but after I’d locked myself securely in the house and downed two or three glasses of wine, falling asleep hadn’t been that difficult. I’d even begun to think about the future and how I wanted to spend the rest of my life.

Moving out of my home, however, hadn’t even occurred to me. Right now it was the only stable thing in my life. Losing that would be losing my fragile hold on security.

“I’m sorry, I know how hard this is for you.”

God, I wished he’d stop saying that. How could he possibly know what it felt like to lose everything that had formed the basis of my life for all these years.

“Apart from the mortgage on your house, you have no outstanding debts,” James said. “That leaves the property in England. You own that free and clear. The money you get from the sale should help considerably. I understand it’s worth around three hundred thousand, though of course, bringing that amount of money into this country will mean taxes….”

The cottage. For a moment I’d almost forgotten about it. I wanted to forget about it. Forget Eileen what’s-her-name ever existed. Forget the doubts poisoning my mind.

But I couldn’t. I wanted to know if Brandon had been having an affair with this woman all these years. Or maybe she was the latest in a string of affairs. Maybe that was the reason he’d bought the cottage in a remote village in England, so he could conduct his romances in complete assurance that I’d never find out.

If so, then why the hell did he marry me? Why did he stay married to me if he didn’t love me?

The questions were driving me crazy. I found it impossible to believe that the meticulous, distant man I’d lived with for so long could have led a double life of deceit and infidelity. I just couldn’t imagine him getting passionate over any woman. He certainly never showed much passion toward me.

A thought struck me, and although I hated asking, I really needed to know. “Does this Eileen person know that Brandon died?”

James wore his usual pained expression. “It’s not my place to inform Ms. Robbins. As the owner of the cottage, that will be up to you.”

I stared at him for a long moment. I couldn’t be sure that Brandon had a personal relationship with this woman. I could be jumping to conclusions, condemning my husband without any grounds other than circumstantial evidence.

On the other hand, if it was personal, I just couldn’t send her a blunt note telling her the man with whom she might be having an affair had died.

Phone call? Perhaps. Even as I considered it, I knew I couldn’t do that, either. I couldn’t talk to the woman without knowing the answers.

Which led to another burning question. Did she know about me?

Suddenly, I’d had enough. I gathered up my purse and scrambled to my feet. “I’m sorry, I have to go. I’m needed at work.”

James dropped the papers he’d held, and for the first time a flicker of anxiety crossed his face. “We’re not quite finished here, Marjorie. There are papers to sign, a few more concerns to go over, decisions to be made—”

“Not now!”

My sharp tone must have surprised him. He raised his eyebrows again and a red spot appeared in each cheek. He started to get up, but I waved a hand at him.

“I’ll call you. I need time to think about everything.”

To my horror I felt my control crumbling. I had to get out of there. Now, before I made a complete and utter fool of myself. I fled for the door, dragged it open and didn’t bother to close it behind me.

Melanie, James’s pinched-face assistant, said something to me as I hurried past her desk, but I couldn’t look at her. I just kept going and didn’t stop until I reached my car in the crowded parking lot of the office complex.

Tears spilled down my face as I got the door open and scrambled inside. My nice safe cushion had collapsed. Now that I no longer had to put up a brave front, I could give in to the pain that finally racked my body. I rested my arms on the wheel, buried my face in them and opened up the dam.



I was nineteen and incredibly naive when I’d married Brandon. Ten years before that my father had stepped on a mine in Vietnam and my mother never recovered. She shut herself away from the world and her only daughter.

I’d been lonely for too long when Brandon walked into the hotel where I worked as a desk clerk. He was new in town and I suggested a few good restaurants. To my surprise he invited me to join him for dinner, and I ended up helping him find a place to live.

He was eight years older than me, good-looking, confident, sophisticated—all the things I wasn’t. He made me feel safe just by being with him. Looking back, I guess he was the protective father figure I’d missed so terribly during my formative years.

There was something else, an air of sadness about him, as if he’d suffered some deep emotional trauma that he was determined to keep to himself, no matter how hard I tried to draw him out.

It was that melancholy that convinced me I should marry him. I thought perhaps we could heal each other. I was wrong. I never could reach that inner part of him, and after a while I gave up trying.

I asked him once why he’d married me. He’d given me that sad smile and murmured, “Because you needed me.” I’d had the feeling then that Brandon needed to be needed, and I was the first one to give him that.

But not the last, if my suspicions were correct.

When I reached the health club I did my best to mop up the ravages of my pity party, but I still looked as if I’d contracted some deadly disease. Blotched skin, bloodshot puffy eyes, red nose—crying always does that to me.

Val sat at my desk in the throes of a heated discussion with a customer. The young blonde’s vivid orange sweats clashed horribly with the pale pink palm trees decorating the lobby. Usually our clientele had better taste than that.

Their raised voices echoed far enough to turn the heads of some clients on the other side of the glass wall behind Val. I hurried over there, my own problems momentarily forgotten.

Val’s relieved expression went a long way toward restoring some of my self-esteem as I explained to the irate customer that her payment had arrived too late to credit her last bill. I promised the matter would be taken care of immediately.

As the young woman stalked off, Val rolled her eyes. “Thank God you got here. You know how useless I am at bookkeeping. The damn woman was getting hostile. I was just about to call security.”

“We don’t have security.” I took the chair she’d just vacated and reached for the morning mail.

“Well, we should get some. It’s times like these—” She broke off with a muttered exclamation. “Holy crap, Margie. What happened to you?”

I’d avoided looking directly at her until now. I didn’t need a mirror to know why she stared at me as if I’d grown horns. “I’ll tell you later,” I mumbled.

“You’ll tell me now.” She looked at the slim gold watch on her wrist. “Come one, let’s go eat.”

“But I just got here.”

“Yes, and over lunch you can tell me what you’ve been doing all morning to destroy your face.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me up off the chair.

She was used to getting her own way, and since she was my boss I didn’t waste time arguing with her. I followed her to the cafeteria, miserably aware that she would not be satisfied until she’d wrung every last detail out of me.




CHAPTER 2


When it had become obvious Brandon and I would not be blessed with children, I’d taken accounting classes at business school and for years I’d worked for my dentist until he retired.

When I saw the ad for a bookkeeper at a new health club, I couldn’t resist applying. I did it to show Brandon he wasn’t in total control of my life, but after talking to Val, it seemed such a happy place compared to the long faces at the dentist’s office, and I was overjoyed when she hired me. Brandon, of course, was horrified.

Over the six years I worked for Val I learned a lot about running a business, and ended up taking over most of the paperwork involved. Val was ten years younger than me and happily divorced, with alimony that would have paid my mortgage twice over. She kept trying to get me physically trained. I absolutely refused. Cramming my body into skintight clothes and bouncing around among all those nubile goddesses was not my idea of a good time. I’d never have a figure like Val’s, no matter how much I sweated and starved. I’d accepted that, even if Val wouldn’t.

Seated opposite me at a vinyl covered table in the club’s cafeteria, she studied my face. “We should be in a bar with a bottle of good Scotch. You look as if you could use one.”

The idea was tempting. “I’ve had a bad morning.” The understatement of the century, but I wasn’t ready to share my suspicions about my late husband’s activities just yet.

All around me young women in tight outfits were battling to be heard above each other’s chatter. The babble did nothing to soothe my frayed nerves. The price I paid for a free lunch.

I should have known I couldn’t fool Val. She pursed her perfectly outlined lips. “You’ve been doing so well up to now. Just tell me what happened.”

Giving up hope of keeping the news to myself, I explained about the cottage and the mystery woman, though I left out all my suspicions. I guess I was hoping Val would dismiss the whole thing as insignificant.

She’d never been blessed with tact. “Are you telling me Brandon had a mistress? God, I didn’t think he had it in him. Just goes to show you can’t tell a book—” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, God, Margie, I’m sorry. This must be tough on you. No wonder you look like crap. It’s hard enough to lose a husband, but to find out he’s been cheating on you…” Her voice trailed off, and tears of sympathy glistened in her gorgeous violet eyes.

I was pretty sure the tears were genuine. Val could be as tough as nails about most things, but if you were a friend in need, she was there for you. To hear her confirm my misgivings almost wrecked the careful hold I had on my composure.

Even so, for some unfathomable reason, I struggled to give Brandon the benefit of the doubt. “I don’t know that he cheated on me. There could be a dozen reasons why he let this woman live there rent-free.”

“Yeah? Name one.”

I groped for possibilities. “She could be a relative, or an important client.”

“So why didn’t he tell you?”

The hollow feeling I’d been fighting all morning invaded my stomach. I reached for the pepper shaker and sprinkled a liberal amount into my soup. “Okay, so I don’t know.”

Val’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “Well, there’s one way to find out.”

“How?”

“By going there and confronting the bitch.”

“Go to England? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Why not? At least you’d find out for sure what Brandon was up to, and England is supposed to be beautiful this time of year. All those yards in full bloom, boating on the lake, garden parties, afternoon teas, flower shows…” She clasped her hands and gazed up at the ceiling. “Fabulous. If I had an excuse to get out of Seattle for a while I’d be on the plane tomorrow.”

“You watch too much TV.” I picked up my spoon and tasted the soup. It needed more pepper. “James told me that Miles End is a little fishing village on the southwest coast. It’s probably smelly, grubby and full of sweaty fishermen who haven’t looked at a shower in days. I’d have to stay in some smoky, grimy pub where I’d be kept awake half the night by the drunken brawls.”

Val grinned. “Obviously we watch different movies. Seriously, though, Margie. Think about it. You actually own a cottage in England. What are you going to do with it?”

I didn’t want to think about the cottage. Just the mention of it made me want to dig up Brandon and wring his deceiving neck. My voice was abrupt when I answered her. “Sell it, I guess. Get it out of my life. Forget it ever existed.”

“Why don’t you just throw the bitch out and rent it.”

I had to admit, the idea had merit. Then again, we were both jumping to conclusions. The poor woman could be totally innocent and have a perfectly legitimate reason for enjoying a rent-free existence.

Just to torment me, snippets of items I’d read about well-heeled business men renting luxury penthouse suites for their paramours danced gleefully through my head.

I banished them from my mind. For one thing, if what James said was true, my husband had not been that well-heeled. For another, why go to all that trouble and expense to buy a cottage in England, when surely it would have been cheaper to rent something in the U.S.?

Something just didn’t fit, and much as I hated to acknowledge the fact, I was dying to get to the bottom of the mystery. On the other hand, to let Val know that was inviting an exhaustive campaign to send me over there. I definitely wasn’t ready for that.

“No,” I said firmly. “I just want to get rid of the damn thing.” I pushed the soup away from me, picked up the long dessert spoon and jammed it into my mushy frozen yogurt.

Val was not about to give up that easily. Once she got excited about an idea she refused to let go. “Well, then, if you’re going to sell it, wouldn’t it make sense to go over there to protect your interests? How do you know if you’re getting a fair price and that everything is aboveboard if you’re not there to keep an eye on the proceedings?”

I sent her a look that I hoped conveyed my loathing for that idea. It was all very well for her to give me advice. After all, she was used to living on the edge. She met guys through the Internet and dated them. That sounded a tad risky to me, but Val’s favorite saying was “If you’re not risking, you’re not living,” so I kept my thoughts to myself.

“James gave me the name of a reliable agent.” I reached for my diet soda. “I’m sure the man knows what he’s doing.”

“How can you be sure? You don’t even trust that creepy lawyer. How can you trust someone you’ve never met?” She leaned forward, her face glowing with excitement. “Just think. You could hook up with a good-looking, romantic young Englishman over there.”

The idea was so ridiculous I’d have laughed if I hadn’t been simmering with all that resentment. “Val, I’m a forty-six year-old widow. Look at me. Do I look like I’m ready for a romance?”

She studied me for a moment. Her thick blond hair was cut short, like a man’s. It looked great on her, but it wouldn’t have worked on me. My hair was too baby-fine. I let it hang around my face to hide my wrinkles.

After a moment, Val nodded. “You look great for your age. Besides, someone told me the young Brits love older women. They call it granny grabbing, or something like that.”

I choked, almost spitting a mouthful of soda across the table. “How terribly romantic,” I said, when I could stop coughing.

“Well, I think it is.” She actually looked offended.

I shook my head at her. “Brandon’s only been dead a month. I’m still trying to deal with that. The last thing I need is another man. Period.”

She sat back, obviously disappointed. “Well, you can’t say you had a wildly passionate marriage. In all the times I saw you two together, I never once saw Brandon hold your hand or even touch you.”

I pretended to be interested in the fizzy contents of my glass. True, Brandon hadn’t been into heavy petting. On the rare occasion he’d felt amorous he’d conducted the whole business with his usual precision, and finished up with his customary peck on the cheek.

I’d reached the stage when it didn’t bother me that much anymore. It did bother me, I was surprised to discover, that other people had noticed his lack of affection.

“He wasn’t the romantic type,” I murmured. “You know that. He had trouble expressing his feelings.”

“He didn’t have any trouble expressing them in England, apparently.” She must have seen me flinch, because she hurried to add just the right tinge of sympathy. “Although I’m sure Brandon loved you. In his own way.”

I almost laughed at that. “Who knows what Brandon felt, and who cares.”

“You do,” Val said softly. “I’m sorry, Margie. I know how much this must hurt.”

She was right. It did hurt. On the surface I’d had everything a woman needed to be content. I had a nice home, no worries to speak of, and I had companionship. I could wake up during the night, reassured by the sound of snoring next to me. Even when Brandon left on his business trips, I didn’t feel really alone. I knew he was coming back in a few days. I’d had security, the one thing I valued above all else.

Security wasn’t something I took for granted. I was still a young child when my mother sank into her depression after my father died. She’d gone back to bartending, and buried herself in her job. I was left to fend for myself.

I didn’t bother much with friends. I guess I was ashamed of the pigsty we lived in, and the empty bottles of booze in the sink.

Brandon came into my life shortly after she died. And maybe he wasn’t the prince of my dreams, maybe we weren’t consumed with passion like the characters in my favorite books, but I believed we loved each other and he offered me the security I’d never had. Or so I’d thought. Considering what I’d just learned, my life hadn’t been all that secure after all.

Determined not to let Val’s well-meant sympathy drag me down again, I chugged my soda. “I’m not going to waste my time obsessing over something that might never have happened. There has to be a completely valid reason for all this.”

“A reason for another woman to be living rent-free in a cottage you knew nothing about?” Val shook her head. “Get real, Marjorie. Stop making excuses for that bastard.”

Okay, so maybe I was making excuses for him. Maybe I wasn’t ready to accept the fact I’d been that dense that I couldn’t see what was going on under my nose. I’d thought we were reasonably content with each other.

True, I’d always known something was missing. There were even times, when his arrogance and insensitivity got a little tough to put up with, that I wondered why I stayed with him.

I guess it was that security thing again. I had too many vivid memories of revolting leftovers and freezing nights in our miserable apartment.

How’d that saying go? Better the devil you know, than the devil you don’t. Well, Brandon Maitland was my devil and until now I’d considered it a fair exchange.

“He practically ran your life,” Val said, echoing my thoughts. “Look what good it did you. Here you’ve got a chance to see another part of the world and you’re afraid to take it.”

That stung. “Hey, it wasn’t that bad. Brandon liked to be in charge, sure, and I was okay with that, as long as I had my job and my own interests. I’m not afraid to go to England. I’m just not that interested.”

“That’s bullshit. Aren’t you just the tiniest bit curious? Don’t you even want to know what the bitch looks like?”

“Not at all.” I was lying through my teeth, of course. I was eaten up with curiosity.

Val leaned toward me again, her eyes willing me to agree. “Come on, Margie. It’s time to start taking risks. You don’t have Brandon breathing down your neck anymore. You’re free, girl! Go for it! Go to England, tell that tramp what you think of her and throw her out of your cottage. Then go have yourself one hell of a vacation.”

The waiter arrived with the bill just then, saving me from answering right away. This was a mistake, I thought. I should have gone home instead of going back to work. I needed time to absorb all this.

I wanted a hot bath, perfumed oil, candles, a bottle of wine and a good book. I wanted to throw my clothes all over the bedroom, leave dirty dishes in the sink, turn the CD player on full blast, now that Brandon wasn’t there to frown his disapproval.

I didn’t want to think about the cottage, or what it might mean. Not now. Not yet. Right now I wanted to be alone, to pamper myself, and give myself time to recover.

I’d spent twenty-seven years with a man who’d been leading a secret life. All those years I’d put up with his overbearing attitude and his annoying little habits, telling myself I was better off with him than without him. How wrong could I have been.

Well, now he was gone, and he couldn’t hold me back anymore. I still missed him, more than he deserved, but now I wanted to be done mourning and get on with my life. The sooner the better.

I soon found it wasn’t that easy to get back to normal. Val insisted I go home after lunch, and I was only too happy to agree. I needed to be alone to think.

After all, I was pretty much used to doing things on my own. I didn’t make friends easily—a throwback, no doubt, to my lonely upbringing. Once you get used to doing without people, it becomes a habit.

With the exception of Val, the few women I knew well enough to call friends were wives of Brandon’s business cronies, and had faded out of my life within a few days of the funeral. I didn’t miss them.

As for all those young women at the health club—well, they were mostly athletic types with a focus on perfecting their image and an annoying penchant for trying to outdo each other. All that competitiveness was not for me. I just wasn’t in their league.

I was comfortable in my own company, but as I sat outside the house I’d shared with Brandon, I felt an odd reluctance to go back in there. The memories mocked me, as if chiding me for being so trusting, so accommodating all these years. I’d taken the easier path, and I had only myself to blame if I’d missed the signals.

I climbed out of the car and left it at the curb. I still couldn’t go back into the garage. That’s where I’d found Brandon, that awful night I’d arrived home to see him sprawled half in, half out of his BMW, his head on the ground, those cold blue eyes of his wide open and staring at nothing.

He’d managed to stop the car, though it was angled across the entrance. The heart attack must have hit him before he got to the driveway. Brandon was fussy about parking in the exact same spot every single time. Then again, Brandon was fussy about everything. He wouldn’t have appreciated being seen by strangers with his hair all mussed and his ass in the air.

I let myself into the house, conscious of the deathly quiet with the door closed on the outside world. I decided to forgo the wine that evening. I didn’t want it to become a crutch.

I woke up in the middle of the night, as I’d done for the past three weeks, expecting to hear Brandon snoring next to me. Listening to the house creak and crack in the dark, I thought again about the woman who lived alone in the cottage.

Was she lying awake, too, wondering why Brandon hadn’t been in touch with her? How had he kept in touch with her? The phone? Letters? E-mail? There had to be records of some sort. Or had he ignored her once he was back home, as he’d so often ignored me?

Memories invaded my mind, little things that had meant nothing at the time but now seemed significant in light of what I now knew. The evenings when we’d be watching TV and I’d catch him staring into space, oblivious of what was playing on the screen in front of him. I’d assumed he was thinking about his work, but now I wondered if he was thinking about her.

I tossed over onto my other side and pummeled the pillow. I had to stop all this guesswork. Tomorrow I’d search the room he’d used as an office, and see if I could find any clues to the cottage and its mystery occupant.

I slept through the alarm the next morning. Staring at the neat row of suits, dresses and skirts in my closet, I couldn’t decide what to wear. For once, the thought of sitting at that desk, smiling at all those fresh, eager faces with their perfect figures and their perfect lives depressed me.

Not only that, I just couldn’t handle the prospect of having to field another barrage of questions from Val. I needed some time off. I had some huge decisions to make, stuff to take care of and I simply wanted to be alone for a while.

I called Val. She was understanding, considering I’d left her stranded without a bookkeeper or receptionist. “Don’t worry,” she assured me. “I’ll get a temp until you feel like coming back.”

“I don’t know how long—” I started to say, but she interrupted me.

“Take as long as you need. Is there anything I can do? Let me know if you think of something.”

I heard agitated voices in the background just before she hung up, and guilt pricked at me for letting her down. I felt better after I’d showered, but I put off going into Brandon’s office until I’d drunk two cups of coffee and finished off a box of cereal.

I walked down the passageway to the office and threw open the door. After being shut up for so long the room smelled of worn clothing and rotting apples.

As always, Brandon’s desk had been cleared, except for a neat pile of papers sitting in the tray I’d bought him for Christmas one year.

I flipped through them, finding nothing more exciting than a few bills, all of which had been paid after I got the second notices. The telephone bill was tucked in with them, but I could find no records of a call to Devon, England. Of course not. He would have called from work. He wasn’t a stupid man.

I turned on the computer and played with several possible combinations of words and numbers, knowing all the time how futile it was. Brandon’s E-mail would be lost forever. In any case, he’d have used his work computer if he wanted to hide anything from me.

The lower drawer held a number of files, all neatly labeled. I flipped through them but couldn’t see anything connected to a cottage in England. I should have known he was too clever to leave clues lying around for me to find. Obviously he wasn’t as trusting as I had been.

I gave up and went back into the living room, where I called James. Melanie answered, and I made an appointment to see him. I still had papers to sign, and I wanted the address and phone number of that darn cottage. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it yet, but I’d feel better knowing how to get in touch with her.

The days after that stretched before me without any real purpose, and I felt lost, wondering if I’d made a mistake by taking time off. The house seemed so empty and silent.

At first I filled my time by cleaning all the corners that sometimes got neglected during normal housework. I shoved furniture around and rearranged everything, polished windows and washed all the light fixtures.

I sorted out drawers, cupboards and shelves, managing to avoid Brandon’s closet, his dresser and his office. I’d exhausted the contents of the kitchen cabinets, and I went grocery shopping, coming home loaded with frozen dinners, packages of cookies and gallons of ice cream.

The television kept my evenings occupied until well into the night. I slept until late the next morning, and lived in jeans and oversize shirts. Val kept calling to ask me to lunch, but I couldn’t be bothered to get dressed up, much less face her constant chatter, so I made excuses until finally she stopped calling.

Through it all, an underlying guilt kept nagging at me. Thousands of miles away, a woman waited for a word, a letter, an E-mail or a phone call that would never come. James had given me the address and phone number, but I couldn’t seem to make a decision on what to do about it.

The questions still haunted me. Was she suffering, wondering why she’d been abandoned? Or was she innocent of any wrongdoing, going on with her life, happily unaware that her free ride in the cottage was about to end?

Each time I thought about her I pushed the questions to the back of my mind. I’d deal with that problem later, I told myself. When I felt stronger. After all, there was plenty of time. Or so I thought.




CHAPTER 3


Val called the day before the Fourth of July holiday. “Come on over,” she said, her voice brittle with forced enthusiasm. “I’m having a barbecue. Just a few friends, you don’t have to bring anything. You need to get out of that house. Besides, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

The thought that she might want me to meet one of her computer dates scared me. I tried to sound appreciative. “Thanks, Val, but I already have plans.”

I could tell she was miffed when she answered. “Well, don’t say I didn’t try. You’ll be missing a great party.”

“I know. Thanks for thinking of me.” I hung up, wondering how she could have known me for six years without realizing I wasn’t a party person.

A month after that I sat down one afternoon to pay the bills and realized there wasn’t enough left in the bank to pay the mortgage for longer than three months. It was wake-up time. I had to go back to work.

I paced around my spotless house, arguing with myself over my next move. I had to get on with my life, that much was obvious. Decisions had to be made. One thing was certain—I didn’t want to go back to the health club.

What I needed was to put the past firmly behind me and start over. I wanted a new place to live, a new job, a whole new life. I’d wasted enough of the former one. I had a lot of catching up to do.

I went back to the kitchen table and studied the bank accounts and the bills I owed. It dawned on me then that I couldn’t put the past behind me until I’d dealt with it. I had a house I couldn’t afford to live in for much longer, and property in England that wasn’t producing one cent of income, yet had to be accumulating debts, like taxes and maintenance. It was time to sell them both.

I wondered where Brandon had kept all the papers on the cottage. His company had sent home his personal belongings from his office, but I still hadn’t opened the box. I went to get it from the spare bedroom, where I’d dumped it on the bed.

There wasn’t much in it except a few books, a little stand with his name tag on it, a few CDs of jazz music and a slew of receipts for his expenses, which I assume had been paid with his last salary check. Nothing that had anything to do with property overseas. No photo of me to stand on his desk. Trust Brandon to prefer gazing at his own name rather than a picture of his wife.

Having drawn a blank on that issue, I called Val, and after some hedging around, told her I wanted to quit.

“You’re not serious!” she said, sounding more upset than I’d expected. “So are you going to England?”

“No, of course not.” I tried to think of a diplomatic way to say it. “I just think I need something a little more rewarding if I’m going to make a career of it. I thought I might do something with children, maybe office work in a school or something.”

“Well, you can’t quit. You’re the best bookkeeper I’ve ever had. You know just as much about the business as I do. Besides that, you’re the only woman I know who isn’t into competing with me.”

“That’s because I’d lose. I’m sorry, Val. I’ll really miss you.”

“Hey, just because you won’t be working for me doesn’t mean we can’t ever see each other, does it?” Doubt crept into her voice. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

I wasn’t sure of anything right then, but I didn’t want to admit that. “Quite sure.”

“Have you decided what you’re going to do with the cottage in England?”

I was expecting the question, but not the sudden stab of resentment. “No, I haven’t. I’m sorry, Val. There’s someone at the door. I have to go.” When did I get so adept at lying, I wondered.

“Let’s have lunch,” Val said urgently. “Today. You’ve got to get out of that house.”

I muttered something about next week and hung up.

Determined not to fall back into that awful inertia, I took a walk in the park. The August sun had dried out the grass, leaving brown patches despite the sprinklers that must have worked overtime to compensate for the lack of rain. We were in midsummer already, and I’d lost the past two months in a haze of laziness and procrastination.

I sat on a sun-warmed bench and tried to empty my mind, to let the surroundings soak into me. Joggers loped along the curving path between the trees, dodging around the two elderly women engaged in what appeared to be an intriguing and highly amusing conversation. I couldn’t help wondering if I’d ever feel like laughing again.

In front of me, two little girls chased each other around the swings. Listening to their squeals, I envied their blissful ignorance of life’s brutal punches. How I wished I were a child again, with my whole life ahead of me and choices still to be made.

As I watched, one little girl fell on her knees and started to cry. Out of nowhere an elderly woman rushed toward her and gathered her up in her arms. The tug I felt then had nothing to do with being young and making choices.

If I hadn’t married Brandon I might have had grandchildren by now. I’d wasted so many years, and now it was too late. I’d never have a child of my own, never see grandchildren grow up, never know what it was to tuck up a child in bed and read bedtime stories, or watch a daughter walk down the aisle as a beautiful bride. So many wonderful moments I’d missed.

Brandon had told me shortly before we were married that thanks to a vicious bout of mumps in his teens, he was sterile. At the time it hadn’t seemed to matter that much. I was young, looking at a secure future, and vague thoughts of adoption had calmed the doubts. But then, as I matured, the mothering instinct had taken over.

Brandon absolutely refused to consider adoption, or any artificial means of having a child. Maybe if he’d given me the affection I’d needed, opened up to me, let me in to that private world he’d guarded so zealously, I could have found comfort in that. As it was I found other compensations—in my job, and eventually in music and in books, just as I had as a child.

Now, thinking about how he’d deceived me, I was boiling with anger and regret for all the things I’d given up for him.

I had to stop wallowing in resentment. It wasn’t Brandon’s fault he was sterile. He certainly didn’t ask to die suddenly and leave me alone. As for the business with the cottage, I had no real reason to suspect him of cheating on me. I had no proof, and I should know better.

I was forty-six years old, and I still had a life to live. I still had time for choices, good or bad. All I had to do was find the strength to make them.

Fueled by my determination to move on, the following morning I tackled Brandon’s closet. The faint remnants of his cologne still clung to his suits, and the robe he always wore at night hung above his neatly placed slippers.

I lifted it from its hook and immediately a voice in my head wondered if he’d worn a robe when he was with her. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t seem to get rid of my ridiculous suspicions.

Irritated with myself, I pulled suits, shirts, jackets and pants from their hangers and threw them in an untidy heap on the bed. I piled shoes, ties and underwear on top of them, then found a box of black plastic yard bags. After stuffing them full I hauled them out to the garage. The next local charity drive would reap a bonanza.

Brandon’s face came back to haunt me as I walked back into the house. How he would have hated to see his clothes tossed out in such a cavalier way. I felt a stab of guilt, then got annoyed at the thought that he could still reach out from the grave to criticize me.

On impulse I called Val. “How about lunch?” I said, as soon as she answered. “Today?”

“What’s happened?” Her voice vibrated with curiosity. “You’ve decided to go to England?”

Once more I had the feeling of air being snatched out of my lungs. The reminder that I still had a huge problem to deal with threatened to undermine my resolve. “No, of course not. I’m tired of talking to myself, that’s all. I need some real conversation with another human being.”

“That I can do.” She hesitated, and her voice turned wary when she added, “Ah…did you change your mind about coming back to work?”

“I’m not asking you for my job back, if that’s what you mean.” I thought that sounded a bit abrupt and hurried to reassure her. “I’ve put in an application with the school district, but I haven’t heard anything yet.”

She sounded relieved when she answered, and I figured she’d already replaced me. We arranged a time and place and I hung up, feeling more positive than I could have imagined two months ago. I was going to make it. I’d survived the worst and I had nowhere to go but up. At last life was beginning to look good again.

I met Val in a quiet little restaurant on the edge of town. With its paneled walls, white tablecloths and soft music playing in the background, it provided a welcome contrast to the health club’s noisy cafeteria.

She arrived late, falling onto her chair with a flurry of apologies. “Damn traffic, I swear it’s getting worse. I had two calls just as I was leaving. We really miss you at the club, Margie. Things haven’t been the same since you left.”

Thinking about those days of striving to please all those demanding women, I knew I’d made the right decision. After we both ordered chicken Caesar salads, I listened while Val told me about her latest adventure with a computer date.

“I was having a good time until he said he’d left his wallet at home. I ended up paying for the meal. Then he asks to borrow cab fare. Hello? I told him he could freaking walk home. Jerk.” She snorted in disgust and took a swallow of the chardonnay the waiter had just put down in front of her.

For the first time in weeks I felt like laughing. I bit my lip instead.

“What about you?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing. “You look like you’ve lost some weight.”

Fifteen pounds to be exact, but I didn’t want to admit to that. “A little,” I said instead. “I’m doing fine. I’m getting used to being on my own. I’m sleeping better and getting things done around the house.”

“Way to go,” Val murmured. “But what about the cottage? Have you sold it yet? Are you going to England?”

I waited for the hollow feeling to pass before answering untruthfully, “I haven’t given it much thought lately. I’ve had other things on my mind.”

“Like what?”

I reached for my own glass of wine. “Well, like getting a job. Selling my house.”

Val’s jaw dropped. “You’re going to sell your house? Why?”

“It’s too big for one person, too expensive.” Too many memories, I added mentally.

Her eyes lit up. “All right! Can I go house hunting with you?”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead. The idea of buying another house was unnerving. “I was thinking more of renting.”

“Even better. We can go look for apartments.”

I didn’t want to go apartment hunting with Val. She’d force her ideas on me as usual, I’d insist on sticking with mine and she’d get miffed. I changed the subject. “So tell me all about the club. What’s been happening since I left?”

Fortunately she was happy to fill me in, and we’d eaten our salads by the time she’d finished. Having exhausted her topic, once more she scrutinized my face. “So what about you? You haven’t been moping around the house all this time, have you?”

“I’ve kept busy.” I fiddled with my glass, even though it was empty.

“Margie, don’t you have friends, relatives you can visit? You shouldn’t be spending all this time alone.”

“I don’t mind being alone, and I’ll be working again soon.”

She pursed her lips. “You don’t make friends easily, do you? I’ve known you for six years, and I feel as if I don’t really know you at all. Except you weren’t happy, and didn’t want to talk about it.”

I stared at her. “What made you think I was unhappy?”

“Well, weren’t you unhappy?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Brandon and I had our differences but we rarely argued.”

“That’s because you were never together. You led separate lives from what I could tell.”

I hadn’t realized I’d given so much away. “Well, Brandon wasn’t much of a talker,” I said carefully.

“But what about friends? You must have had girlfriends you could talk to, have a laugh with and hang out together?”

“Not really. I’ve never been much on girl talk.”

Val crossed her arms and I knew I was in for one of her lectures. “Margie, you’re a nice person. A good person. But it’s time you started living. I mean really living.”

I knew what she meant by that. Computer dates, noisy, smoky bars, crowded dance floors. The very thought of it made me shudder. I managed to pull off a smile. “I’m too old to change now. Guess I’ll stick to my books and music.”

Val rolled her eyes. “Now you’re talking like an old woman. You need to get out in the world and start living. Go to England, have it out with the bitch and get it all out of your system. Meet new people, and stop hiding behind that damn wall.”

I was beginning to get a little annoyed with her. “Maybe I’m just not that kind of person.”

“So what kind of person are you, then?”

I could have told her about my lonely childhood. How I never really knew my father, who was always away in the military. How after his death my mother had ignored me until her own years later. How distant Brandon had been so much of the time.

How hard I found it to bare my soul to anyone.

Instead, I said lightly, “Guess I’m just too independent for my own good.”

“Yes, you are.” She pouted, managing to look like a petulant little girl. “I want to help you. You’re a friend and I always help my friends. Just tell me what you need me to do. You know you can come and live with me until you get things settled.”

I smiled at her. I liked her well enough, and I appreciated her generous offer, but I knew our tenuous friendship would not survive the two of us living under the same roof. We’d managed to get along at the club because we’d each had our own job to do, and spent most of the day apart. Thrown together any more than that, we’d drive each other crazy.

She’d tell me what to wear, what to eat and nag me into smothering my face in hideous makeup, the kind that would sink into my wrinkles and make me look ancient. I needed that like I needed a cup of cyanide. “That’s so sweet,” I murmured. “Thank you, but I should find my own place.”

Her face dropped, and I felt as if I’d just stepped on a wounded bird. Cringing inside, I added, “I’ll take that help looking for a place, though, if you meant it.”

She brightened at once. “Of course I meant it. You know where I am. All you have to do is ask.” She looked at her watch. “I have to get back to the club, but call me. Okay?”

I nodded and got to my feet, trying to reconcile all these new decisions with my natural inclination to avoid anything that required upheaval of any kind.

The following morning I awoke with a new sense of purpose. I showered, dressed, put on the coffee then, without giving myself any more time to think, I called the number of the first real estate agency listed in the Yellow Pages.

After talking to the agent, I felt as if I’d just climbed a mountain. It seemed a little unsteady up there, but I’d taken that final step.

A while later Linda Collins introduced herself and marched into my house as if she owned it. With her beauty-spa looks and expensive clothes, she made me feel old and hopelessly outdated. I tried to make up for that with my enthusiasm.

After wandering around the various rooms and giving a very good impression of ignoring my occasional comment, she sat down in the living room and balanced her clipboard on her knee. “So, how much were you thinking of asking for it?” she demanded.

Without giving myself time to think, I named what I immediately felt was an outrageous price.

I expected her to laugh at my ignorance, but instead, she raised her perfectly tweezed eyebrows and said calmly, “Well, you might have to come down a thousand or two, but we’ll see what happens. We’ll do a neighborhood comparison, that should give us a better idea.”

Apparently taking my dazed nod for acceptance, she went on, “Take all the stuff off the walls, put away everything you don’t need into drawers. The less clutter you have around the better. Fresh flowers would be nice, and make sure they have a fragrance. Cookies baking in the oven is a nice touch. Gives a house that nice homey feeling. I’ll try to give you fair warning when I’m stopping by.”

Cookies? I’d never baked in my life. Brandon didn’t care for anything that might have expanded his waistline.

Linda shot more questions at me, then I signed a bunch of papers. After promising she’d be back very soon with prospective buyers, she left.

I shut the door behind her and drew a deep breath. I’d done it. I was going to sell the house.




CHAPTER 4


Excited about my newly found confidence, I called Val to tell her. I could hear the excitement in her voice. I half expected her to drop everything and rush right over.

“So you’ve actually put the house up for sale,” she exclaimed. “When are you going to start packing?”

“I was thinking of having the moving people pack for me.”

“Are you nuts? I’d never trust my stuff to those idiots. Besides, it will cost a fortune. I hope you can afford lots of insurance.”

I couldn’t. Now that I came to think of it, I’d probably have to pack everything myself. I let all the air out of my lungs in a long sigh. This independence thing was getting tricky.

“I’ll be happy to help you pack.”

Now Val sounded wary. Probably expecting me to turn down the offer. I was tempted, but I’d seen enough gift horses’ teeth lately. “That would be great. Thanks.”

“Sure. It’ll be fun. We’ll drink wine and play your CDs and party while we’re working. By the way, did I tell you I hired another accountant? She’s working out pretty well. Not you, of course, but at least it will give me time to come over and help you.”

I thanked her and hung up, wondering how much work we’d get done while partying.

My first priority was to pack anything I didn’t want strangers to see. The most obvious place to start was Brandon’s office. I had just about emptied his file cabinet when I found the large envelope stuffed with mortgage documents.

I flipped through the pages, finding pretty much what I’d expected to see. In spite of what I’d considered an exorbitant price for the house, even if it sold for what I asked, by the time the agent’s fees were paid there wouldn’t be much left over.

Tucking the last pages back into the envelope, I saw something small and square fall out and land at my feet. It was a photograph, and in it a young woman squinted into the sun while shading her face with one hand. She wore a limp floral dress that barely skimmed her knees and a cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. It wasn’t so much the woman that caught my attention, though. It was the cottage behind her.

The sun shone on a thatched roof, latticed windows and an abundance of flowers crowded into a fenced yard. It looked quaint, infinitely charming and exuded a peaceful, quiet solitude. Even as I fell in love with it at first sight, I knew I was looking at the cottage. My cottage. Which meant the women standing in front of it had to be her.

I stared at her face, at the smile that I knew was for my husband. He must have had this picture for years. I’d fought long and hard to keep an open mind about Brandon’s relationship with this woman, but now my fears seemed justified.

My carefully constructed wall of denial finally collapsed. I wanted to scream, to yell, to pound my fists against the wall, to batter his image and hers until they’d been erased from my mind. The thought of them together, laughing, confident their secret was safe, was like a knife in my heart. Now that I knew what she looked like, that vision was all too brutally clear to me.

Jamming the picture into my pants pocket, I thanked heaven Val wasn’t there to pummel me with questions and unsolicited advice. I’d have to deal with it sooner or later, but right now I needed to get Brandon’s office cleared out before she had a chance to poke around and find more evidence of my late husband’s indiscretions.

I worked all afternoon, sorting out papers, shredding what I didn’t need, packing away others, while all the time the vision of the cottage smoldered in my mind.

At last I was satisfied I’d taken care of everything. Nothing else incriminating had turned up in Brandon’s files, and it was with relief that I shut the door of his office behind me.

Sitting alone in my living room, I took out the picture once more and studied it. The woman’s face was fuzzy and I was sure I’d never recognize her if I saw her. Especially after so many years had passed. I squinted harder, striving to see something, anything, that would help me understand.

I don’t know how long I sat there, the faded photograph in my hand, while memories crowded my mind. I thought about the day Brandon got his promotion, and how we celebrated over dinner in the Space Needle restaurant.

As the revolving view of the city crawled past our window, we’d raised our glasses of champagne and toasted his success. He’d been more animated that night than I ever remembered, and I was proud of him. He’d worked hard and deserved the success.

I wondered now if he’d called her to tell her about the promotion. I racked my brain trying to remember how soon he’d taken a trip to England after that. Had they celebrated there, in some quiet country inn? I imagined the two of them together, laughing across flickering candles and glasses of wine.

Impatient with myself, I tucked the picture away in a drawer and promised myself I wouldn’t look at it again. But like a smoker drawn to another pack, I kept going back for one more peek, one more moment of self-torment.

The next few weeks slipped by while I did my best to keep the house “sparkling” clean, as Linda had suggested, for the steady stream of prospective buyers.

Late at night, when the house was dark and quiet and all mine, I thought about the cottage and wrestled with the tug-of-war going on in my mind. There were times when I wanted to go over there and tear out the woman’s hair in a screaming, bitching catfight. Luckily my horror of making a spectacle of myself in public prevented that option.

I kept telling myself I should put the cottage up for sale, but deep down I knew that once the cottage was sold and the woman who occupied it disappeared, I’d never have the answers I needed so badly. Part of me argued that I didn’t want to know. It was the part that did want to know that kept me from calling James.

As the summer died and the first showers of Seattle’s rainy season sprinkled the thirsty lawns, I faced the inevitable. Val was right. I would never have true peace of mind until I knew the truth about Brandon’s relationship with this woman. Only then could I put the whole mess behind me and get on with my life.

When the house finally sold, I was unprepared. After watching a young couple trailing behind my fast-talking agent, I was sure they hated everything they saw. Linda called a half hour after they left to tell me they’d made an offer.

“It’s a good offer,” she assured me. “Very close to what I expected. It’s up to you, however. You can try a counteroffer, of course, but I think they’re pretty firm.”

I tried to digest the news, though my brain seemed incapable of working. This was it. I say yes now, and it’s all over. “Yes,” I said, before I could talk myself out of it. “I’ll take it.”

At first I felt an overwhelming relief that I didn’t have to find another mortgage payment. My application for a job with the school district had been put on hold until “something suitable had come up,” I’d been informed. I hadn’t looked for anything else.

Then reality set in. I called Val. Much as I hated to admit it, I hadn’t even begun to pack. I was going to need her help after all.

Val’s confident tone reassured me. “I’ll come over in a little while. We’ll work out a plan of action. While you’re waiting for me, mark down apartments in the want ads that appeal to you.”

Apartments. Now that I was actually faced with looking for one, all I could think about were the cramped, cold, dark rooms I’d shared with my mother.

I could still hear the music rebounding off the skimpy walls from next door. My mother pounding on the ceiling when heavy, stumbling footsteps threatened to break through. People coming and going, doors slamming, voices shouting—all of it echoed in my head in a waking nightmare of memories.

How would I adjust after living for so long in a house with all this space around me and the quiet solitude I treasured so much?

The cold, sick feeling of dread almost overwhelmed me. I was convinced I’d made a terrible mistake. I should have hung on to the house, managed the mortgage somehow. I could have cut corners, given up the little extras, anything rather than leave the safe haven of my home.

I thought about calling Linda in the hope that it wasn’t too late to back out of the deal. I never made the call, of course. Instead I did something I’d never done before. I opened Brandon’s cocktail cabinet and took out a half-filled bottle of brandy. I’m no seasoned drinker. By the time Val arrived, my head was buzzing and my tongue had trouble getting out words.

Val took one look at me and plugged in the coffee machine.

My memory of that afternoon is vague, but I remember very clearly the days that followed. The endless packing, sorting and deciding what to keep, what to sell and what to give away. Val insisted we have a garage sale, and I must admit, it gave me a certain satisfaction to see some of Brandon’s prized possessions go for a song. He would not have appreciated that.

Looking for a place to live was something else. After working out a budget, it was clear that even with a reasonably good salary, any house I felt suitable to rent was out of my range. At least until the cottage sold.

Val insisted on taking me to look at apartments, some of which, I had to admit, were half-decent. They were, however, still apartments, and I felt sick every time I imagined myself sharing walls with noisy strangers.

At the end of one long, fruitless afternoon, Val sat me down in my barren living room. “You have two weeks,” she said, “before you have to move out. You should have put the cottage on the market months ago, when you put this one up for sale. You’d have had the money by now and had your pick of where to live. You could even have bought a smaller house.”

“I know,” I said, aware that this time she was right. “It’s too late now.”

“Yes, it is.” Val looked at me, her eyes clouded with concern. “So what are you going to do?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Well, you can always come live with me until you decide what you want to do.”

That was the wake-up call, the moment I realized I was out of options. I thanked her anyway, and promised myself I’d make a firm decision by the following morning.

After she left I fished out the photograph once more. As always, the charm and beauty of the tiny cottage stirred a deep-seated longing I didn’t fully understand. Half an acre, James had told me. That was a spacious lot. I couldn’t see what was on either side of the cottage, but judging from the background, there was nothing behind it but fields and trees.

How wonderful it would be to live somewhere like that, secluded and peaceful in your own private corner of the world. How lucky she was to have lived there so long.

Staring at the face of the woman who had caused me so much agonizing, I began to feel ashamed of my stalling. She deserved to know Brandon had died. Whether or not she’d been romantically involved with my husband, she was about to lose her home. I knew how that felt. For once I could afford a tinge of sympathy for her. It would be difficult for her to leave such a paradise.

The next instant I hardened my heart. For all I knew, this woman had stolen my husband’s affections and carried on an illicit relationship all these years. Why should my life be shattered and not hers? I called James. It was time to put the cottage on the market.

In his usual brusque way he offered to call the real estate agent in England for me and set things in motion. “Edward Perkins is the man who’ll be handling the sale. Would you like him to appoint a lawyer or do you want to go over there and settle things yourself?”

Seconds ticked by while I fought with indecision. Part of me wanted to let someone else deal with the cottage and then try to put it out of my mind. A much bigger part of me knew that would be impossible while there were still so many unanswered questions.

Besides, after all I’d been through, surely I deserved a vacation? Val was right. I had the insurance money, and what better way to spend part of it than on a trip to England. Once the cottage was sold, I’d have plenty of money to tide me over until I landed a job. Before I could change my mind again I said firmly, “You can tell…Mr. Perkins was it? Yes, you can tell him I’ll be there in a week or so.”

James sounded surprised when he asked, “Have you informed Ms. Robbins you’re selling the cottage?”

Guilt slapped me square in the chest. “No, I haven’t. I thought the estate agent could do that.”

James hesitated so long I wondered if he’d heard me. I was about to repeat what I’d said, when he spoke again. “Ah, that’s a bit abrupt, don’t you think? I mean, it might be better to give the woman a few days’ warning before the sales signs go up. Give her a chance to get things squared away.”

I fought back the resentment. As far as I was concerned, she deserved no consideration. She certainly hadn’t considered me when she’d entertained my husband in that free home he’d so generously given her. “That’s fine with me. Just tell the agent to wait a week or two before putting up the signs.”

James cleared his throat, a sure signal he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear. “You know it might be difficult to sell a house that’s renter occupied. You might want to talk to Ms. Robbins and find out if she has any plans to move. After all, a new owner will certainly expect her to pay rent, and since she…ah…has lived there rent-free until now, she might not be willing to pay for it now, in which case she’ll need time to find something more suitable.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that there might be renter’s rights to deal with, and that it might be impossible to get her out of the cottage. Then again, why should I care what she did once the cottage was sold?

Irritable with James for taking her side, I got belligerent. “Have you met this woman?”

His surprise sounded genuine. “Met her? Of course not.”

“But you knew about her.”

“I knew your husband owned the cottage with a tenant in it. That was all.”

“Did you know he kept it a secret from me?”

“I did not. Even if I had, it was not my business to interfere. I advised Brandon on legal matters, that was all.”

“Was it legal for him to keep valuable property a secret from his wife?”

“That was a personal decision on his part. Since he ended up leaving you the property in his will, I really don’t see the problem.”

In other words, his tone implied, I was overreacting. Maybe he was right. There was only one way to find out. I ended the conversation and hung up. I was going to England, and I was going to get the answers to my questions.

Somewhere deep inside me lurked a tiny flicker of hope that this had all been a huge misunderstanding. Until I knew for sure, I would forever torment myself with doubts and unfounded suspicions.

This wasn’t something that could be resolved in a letter or a phone call. It would be too easy for the woman to cut me off without a word. I had to deal with her face to face, if I was to get what I needed.

Just to make sure my lack of conviction wouldn’t allow me to back out, I called the airlines and booked a flight to London. Then I called Val. “I’m going to England,” I told her. “I’m going over there to sell the cottage and settle things myself.”

She was so excited I thought for a moment she was going to suggest coming with me. I was relieved when she said, “I wish I could come, too. I’d love to see the bitch’s face when you turn up on her doorstep. I’ll worry about you all alone over there, but right now I can’t leave the club.”

“I’ll have people to help me over there,” I told her. “I’ll be just fine.” I actually believed it as I hung up, serenely unaware that my long-delayed decision would set off a chain of events that would change my life in ways I could never imagine.



Two weeks later I sat in the window seat of a crowded jumbo jet, trying to convince myself I wasn’t in the middle of one of my muddled dreams. The past few days had been a whirlwind of activity and wrenching misgivings as I’d closed the door on my home for the last time.

Red and bronze leaves floated down from the spreading arms of the maple tree in the front yard as I’d driven away, and my heart ached as I’d caught a last glimpse of it just before I’d turned the corner. Right then, all I could remember were the good times. We’d had our share of good times, Brandon and I, even if they had been few and far apart.

Val had helped me put into storage the few things I’d kept, and I’d spent the last two nights in her spacious condo. That alone had been enough to confirm my reservations about living with her for any length of time.

I made up my mind that as soon as I returned, I would use the money from the sale of the cottage to buy myself the first small house I could find.

Val had driven me to the airport, and the last I’d seen of her she was bobbing up and down behind the security gate, waving frantically and yelling last-minute instructions.

I’d never enjoyed air travel. Not that I’d flown that much, anyway. This was the first time, however, that I’d traveled by air on my own. Now that we were actually taxiing down the runway, my insides were clenched as tight as the bolts on the fuselage, and I was quite prepared to hold my breath all the way to London.

Once in the air, I bought two of the little bottles of wine from the flight attendant. By the time I started on the second one, I had begun to float in a pleasant haze of well-being.

The man seated next to me appeared to be about Brandon’s age. He seemed harmless enough. Businessman, I suspected, judging from the neat gray suit and silver-blue tie.

He must have noticed my inspection, since he smiled and asked, “Your first trip to Europe?”

“Yes,” I admitted, sounding a little breathless—a direct result, no doubt, of having held my breath for so long on takeoff. “I’m on my way to Devon, in England.”

“Ah.” The man settled back in his chair and lifted what appeared to be a glass of Scotch. “Very nice part of the country.”

“You’ve been there?” Eager to know more about the area, I turned to him.

“Indeed I have.”

We spent the next half hour in very pleasant conversation while I learned a great deal about southern England and “the great city of London.”

His name was Wes Carter, I found out later, and he was CEO of a big corporation, took frequent business trips to Europe, and lived in San Diego.

I wasn’t nearly as forthcoming, telling him only that I was traveling to England to settle a business matter. The mention of it reminded me of the daunting prospect that lay ahead of me. I tried to imagine how I would feel if the wife of my longtime lover suddenly appeared on my doorstep with the news that he was dead and my home was being sold.

No matter how delicately I handled the situation, it was bound to be devastating for both of us. I wished I’d listened to my instincts and stayed buried in my web of denial. Even as I wished it, I knew I’d come too far to back out now. I was committed to see this through to the bitter end.

Later, as we flew over London and I got my first view of Buckingham Palace and the famous River Thames twisting its way through the ancient city, I wondered what Brandon would have thought if he could see me right then. I hoped that somewhere out there in that vast abyss on the other side, he was watching, filled with remorse for his selfish indiscretions. Racked with guilt and apprehension, I hoped, and aware that I was about to uncover whatever secrets he’d worked so hard to hide.




CHAPTER 5


My first impression of the English countryside was a hazy blur of vibrant green fields, desolate moors, small modern towns and quaint little villages that made me feel I’d been thrown back in time.

Mostly I dozed in the back of the car I’d hired for the long drive to Devon. By the time the limo pulled up in front of The White Stone Inn, all I wanted was a cup of strong coffee, a quiet room and a soft bed.

The inn had obviously been named for its gleaming white walls that glittered in the midday sun. Beyond the crest of the hill I caught a glimpse of a shimmering dark blue strip of sea beneath a cloudless pale blue sky. The sea air felt mild for late September, and all that talk I’d heard of constant English rain and fog seemed ludicrous in this enchanting setting.

While I waited for the driver to unload my luggage, I looked at the landscape spread out below me. A narrow road wandered through a cluster of buildings that apparently made up the main street of Miles End. At one end the tall steeple of a church seemed to pierce the skyline, and a few uneven rows of houses dotted the area behind it.

I must have been sleeping when I passed through the village. A tingle of excitement woke up my drowsy mind. What fun to explore those crooked streets and intriguing shops! I couldn’t wait.

On the heels of that thought came the realization that somewhere down there was the cottage. And her. Okay, Eileen Robbins. I had to get used to calling her that, much as I disliked the idea.

My enthusiasm dwindled. Now that I was actually here, I wasn’t too thrilled at the thought of confronting the woman. In the next instant I scolded myself. I hadn’t come all this way to chicken out. I was determined to be as fair and diplomatic about this mess as possible. There had been far too much secrecy and deceit already.

In the flurry of checking into the inn and getting settled, I managed to forget my worries. I’d been given a charming little room on the top floor. The only drawback as far as I could see was the absence of an elevator, which meant I’d be climbing three flights of stairs. I convinced myself that the exercise would be good for my health, and it would be worth it for the magnificent view of the coastline.

Now that I could see over the hill, I was enchanted by the deep bay and the picturesque harbor. A faint mist hung over the little boats that bobbed around close to shore. A sprinkling of tiny thatched cottages hugged the grassy slopes, and a mass of blossoms set the little square yards ablaze with smudges of dazzling color that reminded me of an artist’s palette.

After opening the window, I leaned out to get a better view of my surroundings. Clean, salty air, fresh from the sea, mingled with the heavenly scent of newly cut grass. Below me, an elderly man pedaled with grim determination up the hill on his bicycle, one wheel squeaking in rhythmic protest.

I felt the sun warming my bare arms, and heaved a sigh of pure pleasure. So many times during the hassle of the past few weeks I’d longed for peace and quiet. This tiny village, with its calm streets and pleasant landscape, breathed a serenity that seeped into my body and soul.

I didn’t know how long I would stay in Miles End. Much depended on how fast I could deal with her and sell the cottage. I couldn’t help hoping that my stay would be long enough so that I could enjoy any distractions the tiny village might offer.

I was eager to meet the people, explore the neighborhood, and learn more about this wonderful place my charming companion on the plane had called the English Riviera.

For a fleeting moment I wondered what he was doing, and if he had thought any more about me once we had parted in a flurry of goodbyes and good wishes. Then I forgot him in the fascination of investigating the hotel.

I was somewhat taken aback when I discovered I was expected to share a bathroom with four other rooms on my floor. I was even more upset to note that the spacious bathroom had no shower in the footed tub. Bathing was going to be interesting. Trying to convince myself it was all part of the adventure, I decided to make the best of it. After all, it wouldn’t be for long.

My appointment with the real estate agent wasn’t until the following morning. I resisted the urge to sleep, and after unpacking my luggage, I made my way down the narrow cobbled street to the village.

The main street meandered between unique little shops that looked as if they had been plucked from the pages of a Dickens novel. Behind the leaded pane windows a wonderful selection of elegant porcelain ladies and bone-china rabbits peeked out at me from among miniature cottages and lighthouses.

Tearing myself away from all that enchantment, I caught sight of a sign swinging in the stiff breeze from the ocean. On it was painted a bright yellow teapot standing next to a plate of tempting pastries.

It seemed like a haven, beckoning me, especially since I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in hours. I paused in front of a wooden door, feeling as if I were about to enter Snow White’s cottage.

As I stepped inside, a bell jangled angrily above my head. The inside of the tearoom looked even more like a scene from Disney. A dozen or so little square tables had been crammed into a space no bigger than my living room. A wide ledge ran around the walls, bearing the weight of brass cooking pots, copper kettles and huge china jugs.

It was the heavenly fragrance of fresh-baked bread, however, that convinced me to move farther into the room, wondering why this amazing place wasn’t jammed with customers.

“Can I help you?”

The raspy voice had come from behind me, and I swung around. The chunky woman facing me wore a floral dress covered with a white apron, and soiled red velvet slippers. A pair of granny glasses sat on the end of her nose and she peered over them, studying me with frank curiosity.

Being the target of such a formidable scrutiny was uncomfortable, and I had second thoughts about sitting down. “Are you open for business?” I asked, half-expecting the woman would tell me to come back later.

“I am. Take a seat. You’ve got plenty of choice.” She waved a flabby arm at the tables.

“Thank you.” I sank down on the nearest chair and laid my purse on the vacant one next to me. “I’d like a pot of tea and a Danish.”

The woman’s dark eyes narrowed in curiosity. “You’re American, aren’t you?”

I nodded with a smile.

“On holiday, are you?”

The woman seemed in no hurry to get my order, and her direct questions began to make me uncomfortable. I wasn’t used to this small-town cosiness with strangers. “As a matter of fact I’m here on business.” I picked up the well-thumbed menu and studied it in the hopes of discouraging any more conversation.

My hostess was not easily put off. “Not much business going on around here. Mostly tourist stuff. What sort of business you in, then?”

I hoped my tone would warn her I didn’t like her prying. “I’m here to sell some property. A cottage to be exact.”

Ignoring the hint, her voice rose. “Oh, you’re here to sell the Hodges’ cottage. I heard it was going up for sale.”

Thoroughly impatient now, I shook my head. “No, not that one. I’m in rather a hurry. Could I get my order, please?”

“Oh, of course. Be back in a jiff.”

She waddled off in the direction of the kitchen and I slumped down on my chair. My head felt as if it had separated from my shoulders. The lack of sleep had caught up with me. I did a mental calculation. It had been more than twenty-four hours since I’d woken up in Seattle. I hoped the tea would keep me awake me long enough to get back to the hotel.

The waitress returned a short time later with a tray bearing a miniature teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl, an exquisite bone-china cup and saucer, and two large pastries. She set the tray in front of me and folded her arms. “You sure it’s not the Hodges’ cottage? The one on Marsh Lane?”

That rang a bell. “Well, yes, it is in Marsh Lane, but it’s not that cottage. It must be another one.”

The woman smiled. “There’s only one cottage in Marsh Lane, dearie. That’s the Hodges’ cottage. Mr. Perkins, the estate agent was in here two days ago. He told me the American owner was coming here to sell the place.” Her smile faded and her sigh seemed to echo like the wind before a storm. “I don’t know what the Hodges will do, and that’s a fact, with three little ones and all.” With that she turned and bustled off, leaving me in a haze of confusion.





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