Woman in Black (33 page)

“It's nothing,” she said, clearly embarrassed. “Just a touch of the holiday blues, I guess.”

“Anything you'd like to talk about?” Holiday blues, he thought, didn't have you sitting outside in subfreezing temperatures.

“Not especially. It would only bore you.”

“Try me,” he said.

For the longest time, she didn't say anything. There was only the ghostly vapor of her breath rising and falling in the chill night air. The breeze that had kicked up sent a handful of fallen leaves scuttling crablike over the patio tiles around them. From inside the house came the faint tinkling of piano music. Finally she spoke.

“That's Phoebe,” she said. “She's been taking piano lessons since she was a little girl.”

“She plays well.” Vaughn recognized the tune from the musical
South Pacific
and thought,
This is some enchanted evening, all right. Abigail sitting out here crying while her husband and daughter are whooping it up inside
. Clearly, something was wrong with this picture.

“She does, doesn't she?” Abigail perked up a bit before her face collapsed once more into misery. “Not that she plays much when I'm around. She says I make her nervous. Of course, it's a different story when it's her dad putting in a request. There's nothing she won't do for him.” Her voice was at once bitter and full of longing.

“Girls and their daddies,” he said in an attempt to console her.

“No, it's more than that. I sometimes think she'd be happier if I were out of the picture altogether.”

“I'm sure that's not true.”

“What if it is?” She turned a pair of anguished eyes on him.

“She's sixteen. All teenagers are like that,” he said, thinking of how moody his once happy-go-lucky nephew had been these past months. “She'll grow out of it.”

“Spoken like someone with no children of his own,” she said with a dry little laugh.

Seemingly oblivious to the cold, she sat with her hands curled loosely in her lap, palms facing upward. He brought his fingertips to rest against the inside of her wrist. She wasn't wearing gloves, and though her flesh was cool to the touch he could feel a pulse beating there. “Is that all that's bothering you?” he asked, sensing there was something more.

There was another long pause before Abigail confided in a low, tremulous voice, “It's my husband, too. We … we've been fighting a lot lately. No, that's too strong a word. We don't fight. It's more like a cold war. We're like coworkers who don't particularly like each other but who have to put on a good face for the sake of the company.”

Vaughn felt tenderness well up in him—the same urge he'd felt earlier in wanting to protect Lila. Only Lila wasn't hurting at the moment. Struggling, yes, but not the basket case she'd been a few months ago. Abigail, on the other hand, despite all her outward success, was clearly in torment: this strong, capable woman who'd built up so many defenses around her that they had become a sort of trap. For all of his sister's resentment of her, he thought, it was Lila who was inside where it was warm, surrounded by family and friends, while Abigail was spending Christmas night out here alone in the dark.

“I used to think that if I spent more time at home, we could go back to the way it was when we were first married,” she went on in the same sadly resigned tone. “And maybe that was true at one time. But I don't think it is anymore. He's moved on. I can sense it.”

“Has he told you as much?”

“Not in so many words. But it's there, like an invisible wall between us.”

“It might help if you talked to him about it.” Vaughn knew he was about as qualified to offer marital advice—to a woman he'd fantasized about making love to, no less—as a quack doctor to perform heart surgery, but he thought it was worth a shot.

“I have,” she said. “But all we do is go around in circles. Not that I blame Kent. It's mostly my fault.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself.” Vaughn might not have been the world's expert in such matters, but he knew it took two to tango.

“No? Then who's to blame?” Her eyes, illuminated by the light from the windows facing onto the patio, sparked with some of her old fire. “Kent's not the one who got his priorities screwed up. I was so hell-bent on making a name for myself, I lost sight of what it was all for. Now everything I do to make it better only seems to make it worse. Phoebe? She barely speaks to me, and tonight she hardly touched the supper I went to so much trouble to make. And Kent? It's me he won't touch.” Her mouth twisted in a pained smile. “See? Aren't you sorry you asked?”

“Not at all. I'm not exactly the guy to go to for advice on such matters, having never been married myself, but I'm a good listener.” He threaded his fingers through hers.

She shot him a grateful look before saying in a contrite voice, “You're the last person I should be dumping on. You must think I'm the most self-centered person on the planet. What are my problems compared to yours?”

He smiled. “It's not a contest.”

“Still. Look at you, you're shivering. What are you doing out in this cold, anyway? You'll catch your—” She broke off before she could say the verboten word.

Vaughn filled the awkward silence that ensued by withdrawing from his pocket the envelope containing the receipt for the Yankees tickets. “I came over to thank you,” he said. “I don't know what to say. It was incredibly generous of you. It must have cost a fortune.”

“I can afford it. Besides, I wanted you to have something you could really use.”

“I just hope I get the chance,” he said, his smile fading a bit.

“Don't talk that way.” She frowned, tightening her fingers around his, as if he were in imminent danger of slipping away. “You're going to be around for a long, long time. I'm more worried about the Yankees than I am about you, with the losing streak they've been on,” she added with a shaky laugh.

“I didn't get anything for you,” he said abashedly.

“Don't be silly. You've just given me the best gift of all,” she told him. “I was going a little crazy out here until you came along. Thanks for talking me off the ledge.”

“My pleasure.” He tipped an invisible hat. “I'm always available to lend an ear. Or a shoulder, if need be.”

“In that case …” Smiling, she snuggled up to him and dropped her head onto his shoulder. He could feel the collar of her fur coat tickling his neck, and something softer and silkier that he realized was her hair. Her voice drifted up. “Merry Christmas, by the way. At least, I hope it's a merry one.”

“Very.” He thought of the cozy scene taking place in the little apartment over the garage, one that six months ago he never could have imagined.

“Good. That makes one of us, at least.” There was a silence, then her voice drifted up again, softer this time. “Vaughn? Do you ever wonder what would've happened if my mother and I hadn't been sent away? With us, I mean. If you and I had … you know …” She let the sentence trail off, though he could tell from her tone that their little interlude out at the quarry on that long-ago night wasn't just a distant memory for her. She gave a sigh. “I suppose our parents would've put a stop to it if they'd found out.”

“They were hardly in a position to judge,” Vaughn replied in a harsher tone. “Your mom was sleeping with my dad, and
my
mom was drunk most of the time.”

“Still, do you ever wonder?” She lifted her head, her eyes searching his face.

“The thought,” he said slowly, choosing his words with care, not wanting to spoil what they had in the here and now, “has occurred to me from time to time.”

“What do you think would've happened?”

Vaughn tried to recall how he'd felt at the time. He hadn't been just another horny teenaged boy looking to score, that much he knew. The truth was, he'd been in love with Abigail. He had been, secretly, for quite some time before he'd made his move.

“I think we would've been in over our heads,” he replied honestly.

She gave a knowing laugh. They sat for a moment in silence before she said with an uncharacteristic shyness, “Would you do me a favor, Vaughn? Would you kiss me? For old times' sake.”

Not stopping to think it through, Vaughn leaned in to gently kiss her on the lips. Her breath was sweet with wine and something faintly, deliciously spicy. Then, unexpectedly, the kiss deepened and he was wrapping his arms around her, forgetting everything else in that moment—the fact that he was ill and that she was a married woman—as he sought to recapture more than just the memory of their teenaged selves. She surrendered to the moment as well, her mouth opening to his, her body soft and pliant in his arms. He could feel her shivering—not just from the cold, he suspected. Something born of nostalgia—a sweet, almost ironic brushing together of lips—had become something far more than either of them had bargained on.

It took every ounce of Vaughn's willpower to draw back. “You should go inside,” he whispered, releasing his hold on her.

“You're right,” she said. “It's freezing out here.” Even so, it was a moment before she reluctantly rose to her feet.

“I was thinking more of your family,” he said. “They're probably wondering what's keeping you.”

“I doubt that. But thanks for the thought. By the way, just for the record, you're right. We
would
have been in over our heads.” She gave him a fleeting smile before turning to go, calling softly over her shoulder as she headed back inside, “Merry Christmas, Vaughn.”

Watching her retreat into the house, the sweet taste of her lips still on his, Vaughn knew that they'd crossed over into a realm from which there would be no turning back. He thought, for the first time in a long while not in relation to his illness,
Man, you are so fucked
.

Sliding the patio
door shut behind her, Abigail paused to lean against it for a moment with her forehead pressed to the cold glass. Through the closed louvered doors to the living room, she could hear her husband and daughter on the other side. Phoebe had segued from show tunes to more traditional holiday fare. She was playing “Winter Wonderland,” Kent singing along in his somewhat rusty but still serviceable tenor. Abigail shivered inside her mink coat. She might have been standing there naked, she felt so chilled. Chilled and shaken.
Like a martini
, she thought. Which she could use right now: a little liquid cheer to take the edge off. Lord knew nothing else seemed to be working.

Vaughn's kiss, however sweet, had only served to reinforce the knowledge that her marriage was on shaky ground. If she'd thought it would put an end to any nagging questions about what might have been, or provide what her former shrink would have called
closure
(a ridiculous concept, if there ever was one), it had had the opposite effect: She was more confused than ever. What did she feel for Vaughn? Was it love? Or was she merely seeking to recapture a more innocent time in her life? Something she could hold on to while the life she'd built for herself—out of substandard materials, it had turned out—teetered on the brink of collapse?

And it wasn't just her marriage that was in trouble. Perez had reported earlier in the week that the Delgado woman was indeed on her way here, presumably for some sort of showdown—it had been confirmed by a relative of hers. What did she want? More money? She'd rejected the money Perez had offered on Abigail's behalf, so maybe she was holding out for a larger sum and thought that a face-to-face with Abigail was the way to get it. Somehow, though, Abigail didn't think that was it.

What was she after, then—revenge? Was she going to go public with this? Make Abigail the new object of the media hounds' bloodlust? Whatever her intentions, one thing was for sure: Her being in this country spelled trouble.

Abigail regretted now more than ever having taken Perez's advice. She should have flown down to Mexico immediately after the fire and met with the Delgado woman herself, if only to let her know how truly sorry she was. Now it was too late; the damage was done.

Abigail straightened and drew in a breath. “Merry Christmas,” she muttered grimly to herself.

The scene she encountered when she walked into the living room was straight out of a Hallmark commercial: Her husband and daughter, their songfest concluded, snuggled on the sofa in front of the crackling fire, with Brewster curled asleep at their feet. Kent was telling Phoebe one of his stories, which she never seemed to tire of—tales of the blue-blooded, Yankee Doodle Dandy Christmases he'd enjoyed as a boy at his parents' country house in Fairfield, Connecticut. Seeing them together like that, so perfectly at ease and attuned to each other, Abigail felt something catch in her chest. It was a mighty effort to put on a cheerful face.

“Who wants dessert?” she called out brightly. After they'd finished dinner, Kent and Phoebe had each proclaimed that they were too full to eat another bite, but Abigail was determined not to let the plum pudding she'd gone to so much trouble to make go to waste.

Kent glanced up at her, not seeming to notice that she was wearing her coat. “Will it keep? I'm still pretty full,” he said, patting his stomach.

“Same here,” Phoebe seconded.

“Well, I'm not going to eat alone, so I suppose it'll have to wait.” Abigail kept her tone light, but inside she was burning, as if it were a personal rejection.

Finally one of them noticed that she had her coat on. Phoebe said, in a disinterested voice, “Are you going somewhere?”

Not that it would matter to either of you
, Abigail answered silently. But all she said was, “I stepped out for some fresh air. What are you two up to?” She shrugged off her coat and tossed it over a chair. Years ago, she'd read in some magazine that a real lady treated a mink coat as if it were cloth and a cloth coat as if it were mink, and it was a habit she'd adhered to ever since.