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Mark Jones followed my gaze. “Ah. An honest man. A rare quality, it seems.”
I didn’t say anything. Sometimes silence is good enough.
“Are you a religious man, Mr. Anderson? Are you a praying man?”
“No,” I answered. “I’m a man of science. But I have taken to my knees a bit lately.”
“You don’t think beliefs play a part in making society work as a whole?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Do you think you could have a come-to-Jesus meeting, so to speak, with yourself?”
“I have no interest in attending church Mr. Jones.”
“Oh, but Tom,” he said. “We are so much more than that.”
Chapter Nine
Melanie
I feel her eyes everywhere. “You look tired,” Beth remarks. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Fine, thanks.” I motion for her to follow me toward the living room.
“Gosh,” she says pausing in the foyer. “You’ve certainly been busy.”
I watch as she takes the place in, accessing her features closely. I want to ask who is doing her work now that Dr. Dunn is six feet under. I want to ask who is doing her bidding now that his wife is out. But I assume that’s why she’s here, so I simply say, “A little.”
“Well, the place looks great.” She is attractive for a woman her age. Whatever work she’s had done, it’s tasteful, not over the top, but not exactly unnoticeable either. “So…fresh,” she says, turning on her heel. “Tom must be thrilled.”
Sarcasm, obviously. She knows as well as I do Tom abhors change. Slowly, very slowly, with the twist of an arm and a few shallow tactics on my part, he has allowed me to replace a few of his former wife’s things. Beth notices every one of them. Oh my, I love that new mirror. Is that a new vase? Tom let you replace the rug? Is this what I think it is?
I offer her tea with milk and a buttered croissant. Tom says she likes these things.
She declines both politely.
“I cannot believe Tom hired a housekeeper,” Beth says, lowering her voice. She glances around as though our maid might pop out at any minute. “Tom hates the idea of staff. I know June tried for years, to no avail.”
That name causes me to flinch. I shrug and play it off. “Really? He seems so happy now that we have Rose.” June must have been weak. Come to think of it, Tom never explained why he was so against help. Had I thought—or cared—to get to the bottom of this little problem, I might have saved myself a bit of purging.
“Speaking of which, how are things working out?” I know she isn’t referring to the help who has made herself scarce for our company, as I asked her to do.
I assume trying to manage my starter husband while I’m on my way to my next, probably isn’t the answer she wants to hear. People really dislike the truth when it's delivered unexpectedly
Instead, I take a seat on the sofa and watch as she follows suit, taking the armchair adjacent to me. “So, things are going good then?” She tries again.
“Pretty good, yes. It’s really nice to have help with the last minute shopping and the cleaning. Especially with so many visitors.” I offer a small laugh. “You just never know who is going to pop by.”
“It’s impressive,” she tells me, one brow lifted. “What you’ve done with the place.” We both know she isn’t talking about the decor.
Impressive is right, and I want to tell her it took faking morning sickness to get my husband to hire help. I want to tell her that desperate times call for desperate measures, and when the OCD excuses hadn’t seemed to do the trick, the matter called for escalation. More so, I want this to serve as a warning. I want her to know, although I have a feeling she might already, that sticking ones finger down their throat is worse than it sounds. I have no idea how bulimics manage. Real pregnant women are lucky, their purging comes easy.
But I don’t say any of that. Obviously.
I smile. “Croissant? Tea?” I offer again. One should never show their hand.
“I’m flattered, really,” she tells me, eyeing the spread. “But gosh Melanie, this is just too much.”
