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“An invalid. Yes, so you have. But going out alone, in a neighborhood that’s strange to you, might be daunting.”
She smiled through stiff lips. “New York still has street signs, doesn’t it? Believe me, I’ll find my way home without sprinkling bread crumbs behind me.”
To her surprise, he laughed. “I’ll bet you will.” His smile faded. They stood looking at each other in an increasingly uncomfortable silence and then he cleared his throat. “Well, it’s getting late. You’ll forgive me if I hurry off, Jo, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
She smiled brightly as he picked up a leather briefcase from a table near the door. After a barely perceptible hesitation, he bent and dropped a light kiss on her forehead.
“Have a good day,” he said. And he was gone.
A good day, Joanna thought. Tears stung her eyes.
“Mrs. Adams?”
Joanna blinked hard, took a steadying breath and turned around to see the housekeeper standing in the doorway to the dining room.
“Yes, Mrs. Timmons?”
“Your breakfast is ready. Half a grapefruit and black coffee, as usual.”
“Oh. Thank you. I’ll be… Mrs. Timmons?”
“Madam?”
“Was that my usual? My breakfast, I mean. Grapefruit and black coffee?”
The housekeeper’s lips thinned in disapproval. “For as long as it mattered, it was.”
“Do you think we might try something different?”
Mrs. Timmons’s brows lifted a little. “We could, if you wish. What would you like?”
Joanna blushed. “I don’t really know. I mean…I’m open to suggestion.”
“Cinnamon toast,” the housekeeper said, her eyes on Joanna’s face, “orange juice, and hot chocolate.”
“Hot chocolate!” Joanna laughed. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Coffee, then, but with sugar and cream. How does that sound, madam?”
“It sounds lovely.” Joanna took a breath. “Do you have a minute to talk, Mrs. Timmons?”
The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “If you wish.”
Joanna ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. “Well, to begin with, I’d be pleased if you called me ‘Joanna.’”
Mrs. Timmons’s face paled. “I couldn’t possibly do that, madam.”
“Then call me ‘Mrs. Adams.’ Just don’t…don’t keep calling me ‘madam.’” Joanna gave a little laugh. “I have enough trouble thinking of myself as ‘Joanna,’ let alone as anybody called ‘madam.’”
The older woman’s mouth opened, then shut again. After a moment, she nodded.
“I’ll try and remember that, ma…Mrs. Adams.”
“And I was wondering… Do you know who…uh, who furnished this house?”
“Why, you did, of course.”
Joanna sighed. The answer was unpleasant, but not exactly a surprise.
“There’s just one last thing…” She hesitated. “What did I usually do with my days?”
“Breakfast at eight, your health club at ten, and then, of course, your afternoons were quite full.”
“Full? Do you mean…do I have some kind of part-time job?”
Joanna had the uneasy feeling that it was all Mrs. Timmons could do to keep from laughing.
“Certainly not, Mrs. Adams. You had your lunches, your charity commitments, your board meetings.”
“Oh. I see.”
“And then there were your three times a week hairdresser’s appointments—”
“I had my hair done three times a week?” Joanna said, her voice rising in disbelief.
“You have a standing appointment on Friday at the nail salon, and, of course, there are your massages…”
“My massages,” Joanna echoed faintly. She wanted to laugh. Or maybe she wanted to cry. It was hard to know which.
“You might wish to check your appointment book. Perhaps it’s in the library. Or in your desk, in your bedroom.”
“That’s all right,” Joanna said quickly, “I’ll, ah, I’ll forego all that for a while, until I’m feeling more like my old self…”
Her old self, who was beginning to sound more and more like one absolutely, monumentally pretentious bore.
* * *
The day was a duplicate of the one before.
She wandered through the house. She read. She sat in the garden. She had lunch, took a nap, and woke as restless as a tiger.
In midafternoon, she took a light jacket and headed for the door. Hollister, appearing from out of nowhere, reached it the same instant.
“If madam wishes to go anywhere,” he said, “I am at her disposal.”
“Thank you,” Joanna said politely, “but I’m going for a walk.”
“A walk, madam?”
“Yes,” she said. “You know, left foot, right foot…a walk. In the park.”
“Madam might wish to reconsider…”
Joanna yanked open the door. “Madam is out of here,” she said, and slammed the door behind her.
* * *
The walk cleared her head.
She’d snapped at David this morning, and then at Hollister. There was no reason for it; everyone meant well, and she knew it.
It was she who was being difficult, not the staff or her husband.
It was just that it all seemed so strange…a wry smile curved over her lips as she made her way up the stairs to her room. This was the life she’d led, but was this the life she’d wanted?
It didn’t seem possible.
Ellen was in the bathroom, pouring perfumed oil into the tub.
“There you are, ma’am. I’m just running your bath.”
Joanna sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Ellen, do you think you could stop calling me ‘ma’am’? I keep expecting to turn around and find the Queen of England hovering just over my shoulder.”
Ellen giggled. “As you wish, madam.”
“What I wish,” Joanna said, “is that you’d call me Mrs. Adams.”
“Oh, but, madam… You were very specific when you hired me, you said I was to address you as ‘ma’am’ or ‘madam.’”
“Just forget whatever I said,” Joanna said, more sharply than she’d intended. “I mean…things have changed. Besides, if you call me ‘Mrs. Adams’ it will help me get used to the sound of my own name.”
“Yes, Mrs. Adams.”
Joanna smiled. “Thank you. Now, what’s this about running a bath?”
“Well, you bathe every day at this time, ma…Mrs. Adams. Then you dress for dinner.”
“Dress?” Joanna looked down at herself. She was wearing a navy dress and matching kidskin pumps. Dreary, she thought, and frowned.
“Yes, Mrs. Adams.”
“As in, long gown, white gloves and tiara?”
“Not quite so formal,” Ellen said seriously. “A short dress, no gloves, and I suppose I could find a comb for your chignon, if you like.”
“Do I do this every night? Dress for dinner, I mean?”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Adams, you do.”
Joanna’s smile faded. A morning spent doing a lot of nothing, then an afternoon doing more of the same, followed by a soak in a perfumed bath while she considered what dress to wear for dinner.
What a useless existence.
Was this what it meant to be David Adams’s wife? She thought of how he’d looked on Sunday, when he’d taken her away from Bright Meadows. The faded jeans, so worn and snug they’d outlined his body, the sweatshirt, straining over his broad shoulders. She thought of his admission that he never let anyone work on his car except him.
Why would a man like that marry a woman who made an art of doing nothing?
“My—my husband dresses for dinner, too?”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Adams showers and changes to a dark suit.” Ellen sighed. “I think it’s just so old-fashioned and romantic.”
Old-fashioned. Romantic. Joanna’s pulse quickened. Perhaps she was getting the wrong picture. Dressin
g for dinner didn’t have to be stuffy, it could be everything Ellen had just called it.
“All right,” she said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll shower, and you pick a dress for me to wear tonight.”
“Shower? But—”
“Trust me, Ellen. Unless I’m shivering cold or dying of the flu, I’m not a bath person.”
The maid looked at her, her face puzzled. Two out of two, Joanna thought, remembering the way Mrs. Timmons had looked at her this morning. Neither her maid nor her housekeeper could fit the present Joanna Adams inside the skin of the old, and if you added Joanna Adams herself, the score went to a perfect three out of three.
It was a sobering, even frightening, thought.
* * *
At seven, dressed in black peau de soie, Joanna started down the stairs.
The dress wasn’t much to her liking—it was blousey, almost shapeless, not short enough to be sexy or long enough to be fashionable, and it made her feel twice her age. But then, that description pretty much fit everything in her closet.
Why on earth had she bought all that clothing?
