Woman in Black (13 page)

Driving past the bed-and-breakfast she and Gordon had stayed in, a two-story gingerbread house perched on the riverbank, with a wide deck that jutted out over the water, she indulged in a memory of the two of them making love by firelight, fueled by the complimentary bottle of champagne that had come with the room—a bittersweet reminder of the life they'd once shared, like the taste of something delicious lingering on the tongue after the last bite has been swallowed.

Once she'd passed through town, the landscape became more rural. Lila wound her way down country roads lined with trees that formed one long, continuous tunnel, broken only by the occasional field. She didn't see many houses; most were tucked back from the road. This was gentleman-farmer country, province of the landed gentry and wealthy second-home owners. Gated entrances were as far as you got unless you were there by invitation.

At last, she came to a graveled drive whose location matched the one in the directions Abigail had given her. There was no sign, but the gate stood open, as if in anticipation of her arrival. She turned down it without bothering to announce her presence into the intercom.

She'd seen magazine spreads of Abigail's estate, but nothing had prepared her for the sight of it firsthand. On either side of the meandering drive were gently sloping pastures so bucolic she expected to see sheep and horses grazing. She drove past a vegetable garden the size of a truck farm's, mulched over for the winter, with an orchard beyond that rambled for what seemed like acres. Just past it was a duck pond, with a white lattice gazebo gracing its banks in which a wicker table and four chairs sat in readiness, as if for an impromptu tea or picnic. It seemed almost too perfect to be real, like the set of a Merchant and Ivory movie. An impression that was only heightened by the house when it finally came into view: an impeccably restored colonial revival, its white clapboard and blue trim gleaming as if newly painted. Smoke curled invitingly from the chimney, and on the grass out front there was scarcely a fallen leaf or twig in sight.

Moments later, Lila was standing on the porch, ringing the doorbell. Her heart was in her throat and her mouth dry, despite the entire liter of water she'd drunk in the car on the way over. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this nervous. Maybe on her wedding day, but that had been joyful anticipation, not the sweaty palpitations she was experiencing now.

She was momentarily thrown off guard when Abigail answered the door herself.
It must be the housekeeper's day off
, she thought. Abigail, for some reason, seemed equally surprised to see her.

“Lila?” There was an awkward moment in which Abigail stared at her, as if at a stranger, before she broke into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Well, come on in. You look half frozen.”

Lila hadn't realized she was shivering. “It's good to see you, Abby.” She gave Abigail a light kiss on the cheek as she was ushered inside, feeling her stiffen a bit before she drew back.

Lila stepped into a sunlit vestibule. A vase of the most exquisite purple gladiolas sat atop an Arts and Crafts chest, over which hung a nineteenth-century portrait of a severe-faced woman in a mutton-sleeved dress, with her hair pulled back in a bun. The painted floor beneath the rug had a border stenciled around it resembling a leafy garland. Farther down the hallway she caught the buttery gleam of polished woodwork and the graceful curve of a staircase.

“How was the drive?” Abigail inquired as she took her coat.

“Not bad. There wasn't much traffic.”

“You're probably wondering why anyone who works in the city would want to live all the way out here,” Abigail commented, with a rueful smile. “But really, the commute's not bad. If I leave early enough, I can usually make it in just over an hour, door to door.”

“I can see why you love it here. It's so peaceful,” Lila remarked.

“It is, isn't it?” Lila saw a closed, unreadable look flit across Abigail's face as she turned to lead the way down the hall, and wondered what it meant. “Can I get you some coffee or tea?”

“Tea would be nice.” In the living room, Lila settled onto the long sofa facing the fireplace, where a fire was burning, its pleasant crackling the only sound other than the muffled tread of Abigail's footsteps as she retreated. Lila glanced around the room, which was tastefully decorated in muted shades of yellow and blue, with bold prints as accents. A large mirror inside a painted frame reflected the cozy seating arrangement and artfully placed Early American antiques. Sunshine poured in through a bank of windows looking out on the pool and patio beyond. Abigail certainly had good taste, she thought. But despite its coziness, she felt strangely uncomfortable. Though furnished in another style, there were echoes of the house in which Lila had grown up. It was almost eerie, like going back in time.

Abigail returned a short while later with a tea tray and a plate of what looked to be freshly baked scones.

“Pear-ginger,” Abigail said when she noticed Lila eyeing them. “Made with pears from my own trees.”

“They look delicious.” Lila helped herself to a scone after Abigail had poured her tea. She was too nervous to eat, but she nibbled on it anyway, to be polite. “Thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice.”

“Not at all. What are old friends for?”

Lila thought she detected a note of irony in Abigail's voice, but it might have been her imagination. Watching Abigail settle into the wingback chair across from her, Lila was struck by how much lovelier she was in person than on TV. She'd grown into the lanky frame she'd so despaired of as a teenager, blossoming into the elegant, streamlined woman seated before Lila now—a woman to whom the years had been more than kind; Abigail appeared ageless. Anyone who didn't know her history would have found it hard to believe that she hadn't always led a privileged life. She appeared the essence of refinement while at the same time achieving the parlor trick of coming across as down-to-earth and approachable. Her makeup was so expertly done it didn't look as if she was wearing any at all, and her glossy, shoulder-length hair was cut in a way that looked at once utterly natural and unattainably chic. In her tailored slacks and a wide-lapelled cream silk blouse, a cashmere cardigan the color of cinnamon butter draped over her shoulders, she brought to mind Katharine Hepburn in
The Philadelphia Story
.

“Still, it was nice of you to make time on a Sunday,” Lila said.

“Don't mention it. My husband and daughter went sailing, so I have the afternoon off.” Abigail reached down to give the English sheepdog that had wandered in to plop at her feet, like a furry ottoman, an idle scratch between the ears. “I'm sorry you won't get to meet them. They won't be back until later this afternoon.”

“Maybe another time?” Secretly Lila was relieved. She hadn't come all this way to make polite chitchat with strangers. There was a moment of strained silence before she said softly, “It really is good to see you, Abby. It's been a long time.”

Abigail acknowledged this with a pensive nod. “Too long.” There was a slight but discernible edge in her voice. “I must say, you're looking remarkably well under the circumstances.”

“Sackcloth and ashes aren't exactly my style,” Lila replied in a lightly ironic tone. She'd taken care getting dressed for this meeting; she'd even splurged on having her hair done, though not with her regular stylist but at Supercuts. “Besides, it's amazing how far a designer label and a little lipstick will carry you.” Not that she didn't have her moments. Days when she burst into tears at the slightest provocation. Nights, lying awake in bed, when she vacillated between thinking that if Gordon were still alive she'd save him the trouble of killing himself and wondering how she was going to survive without him. Sometimes she would be up until dawn and then be too exhausted to drag herself out of bed until later in the day. But she'd never told that to anyone, not even Vaughn.

Abigail smiled. “I see you haven't lost your sense of humor.”

“It comes in handy when you're swallowing your pride.”

Abigail studied her a moment, her expression coolly assessing. “So, what is it you wanted to see me about?”

Lila felt her stomach clench, as it used to in gym class when she'd been standing on the high dive, staring down at the water that had seemed a million miles away. But she'd always forced herself to take the plunge, and she didn't back away from it now. “I … well, the thing is …” She smiled nervously, saying into the napkin she was smoothing over her lap, “I suddenly find myself in need of employment.” She struck a light tone, not wanting to appear desperate. “And I thought … well, I
hoped
… that in a big outfit like yours, there might be a place for someone with my, um, talents. An entry-level position, anything at all—I'm willing to learn. I've done lots of charity work, so believe me, I know how to work the phones, and I'm taking a class to brush up on my computer skills.”

She looked up to find Abigail staring at her. “Why me?” she asked, wearing a small, perplexed frown. “You must have lots of other friends.”

“None who are in a position to hire me.”

“And what makes you think
I'd
want to?”

Lila realized, with a sinking sense of despair, that it had been a mistake to come here. Even so, she made one last attempt to appeal to Abigail in the name of friendship. “I know I don't have any right to expect it, after what happened with your mom.” She'd been waiting until the time was right to apologize, but she could see from the look on Abigail's face that there would never be a good time. “I should have come to you years ago. Or at least written. There's no excuse, so I won't bother giving one. I just want you to know how sorry I am. I let you down when you needed me most, and I've felt terrible about it ever since.”

“So now it's forgiveness you're after?” Each word was like an ice cube dropping into a chilled glass.

“I don't blame you for being angry at me.”

Abigail gave a scornful laugh. “Angry? I'm not angry. That would imply I cared enough to be angry.”

Lila felt as if she'd been slapped. With that single sentence, she'd been put in her place more surely than if Abigail had hurled accusations at her. She realized there was no point in sticking around. She was a stranger to Abigail. And Abigail,
this
Abigail, was a stranger to her.

Lila set her cup and saucer down on the coffee table and rose stiffly to her feet. “In that case, I won't waste any more of your time. Thank you for the tea. I'll see myself out.”

She was turning to go when Abigail called after her, “Wait.” Lila swiveled to face her. “I might have something. It's not the kind of work that you're used to,” she went on in a hurried tone, as if rushing to get the words out before she could change her mind. “In fact, you'd probably consider it a step down. But I'm afraid it's the only thing I have at the moment.”

Lila regarded her uncertainly for a moment before giving a wary smile. “Like I said, I'm willing to learn. Though I'll be honest with you, my typing needs some brushing up.”

“You won't have to worry about that. I don't need another secretary.”

“Then what—?”

“The opening is for a housekeeper.”

Housekeeper?
At first, Lila wasn't sure she'd heard correctly.

“It's a live-in position. Five hundred a month, plus meals, and your own separate quarters over the garage,” Abigail went on, ticking off all the perks. “Thursdays and Sundays off and half days on Saturdays.”

For a moment, Lila was too stunned to reply. She felt as if she'd been punched in the gut. Was Abigail looking to punish her, or was this some twisted form of charity?

“It … it wasn't quite what I was expecting,” she managed to stammer at last. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course, but don't take too long. I need someone right away, and I have a long list of applicants.”

It wasn't until Lila was being ushered out the door that the shock finally wore off. She paused on the threshold, turning to face Abigail. “Why are you doing this?”

Abigail regarded Lila a moment, her eyes dark and unreadable, before replying cryptically, “Let's just say it's out of friendship.”

But what kind of friendship was it, Lila wondered, that would have her mopping Abigail's floors and washing her dirty underwear? “I'll let you know tomorrow,” she said in a dull voice that seemed to come from somewhere outside her. Every instinct urged her to walk away before it was too late, but she didn't have that luxury. It wasn't just her. She had Neal to think of.

“Call me at my office. Say, ten o'clock.” Abigail gave Lila a business card with the number for her private line. Her trademark smile was firmly in place as she shook Lila's hand. “Whatever you decide, I wish you the best. No hard feelings.”

No hard feelings?
What a joke. Abigail had no sooner shut the door than she collapsed against it, trembling all over as if wracked with fever. The truth was, she wanted to see Lila suffer. Just as Abigail and her mother had suffered as a result of the Meriwhethers' coldhearted disregard. If she'd felt any flicker of affection toward her childhood friend just now, Abigail likened it to the ghost sensation of an amputated limb.

As for her offering Lila the job left open by Veronique's ill-timed departure, it had been pure impulse. Curious as to Lila's reason for wanting to see her, Abigail had intended to do no more than hear her out, if only for the satisfaction of seeing her humbled. Now she wondered what could have possessed her. What did she hope to gain? Certainly not a viable replacement for Veronique. Lila wasn't exactly cut out for domestic work. She probably hadn't made her own bed since college. And it wasn't as if she needed to be brought down a peg or two. Life had already taken care of that. Thanks to her husband, she now knew what it was like to be scorned and humiliated, to feel as if you hadn't a friend in the world.