Knit in Comfort (24 page)

 

“Okay, I think we're ready.” Megan put her overnight bag in the trunk of Elizabeth's rental car and slammed the lid. She hadn't packed much. A couple of clean shirts, shorts, and for the two days she'd spend with Stanley in the motel, the red lace lingerie he'd given her years earlier. She wasn't really excited at the prospect of wearing it—if for no other reason than she thought it made her look like a pudgy over-the-hill stripper—but when you got to spend alone time with your husband for the first time in a decade plus, she supposed sexy underwear was the thing to bring.

She turned to her kids, hugged Lolly first. “Bye, sweetie. You're in charge, okay?”

“Why can't we come?” Jeffrey pouted at his mother. It seemed unbelievable, but the nights, weeks and years had come and gone since Lolly arrived squalling, into Megan's shocked stupor over Stanley's dual life, and Megan hadn't ever managed to go anywhere without kids in tow, even for a girls' overnight locally.

“You'll have a great time with Grandma.”

“I'm going to let you gorge yourself with candy and play computer all night long.” Vera hugged Jeffrey to her.

“Really?” Jeffrey's eyes grew wide with bliss.

“Not exactly.” Megan pulled her second daughter toward her, held her tight and kissed the top of her head, which she wouldn't be able to do much longer without a stool. “Bye Deena, you be good. I know you will be.”

“Why ‘not exactly,' Mom?” Jeffrey had extracted himself from Grandma's arms and was back at Megan's side.

“You'll have a sleepover at Michael's house tonight, Jackson's
tomorrow and Curtis's the next day. You'll hardly notice I'm gone.”

“I don't know. I think I will notice.”

She gathered him in for a fierce hug she made sure wasn't longer than the ones she gave his sisters, tousled his hair and got into the car, as anxious to get going as she was anxious over leaving her children.

Two nights ago in the wee hours, she made up her mind to follow Elizabeth's suggestion and go on this crazy trip. In the morning, she'd cleared the details with Elizabeth, who was enthusiastic as always, then summoned all her courage to call information for Stanley's other home number in Roxboro. And if that took courage, then it made sense that she sat for long minutes on the bed with the phone in one hand, the number in the other, unable to make herself dial, thinking back to high school in Portland, Maine, when she had a killer crush on Jeff Huskins and could barely bring herself to call him on the harmless pretext of getting a math assignment.

Finally the prospect of the kids' return from a trip to the drugstore for gum—
straight
over and
straight
back she'd told them—spurred her to make the call, then launch herself off the bed and start pacing. Genevieve had picked up after the third ring, her voice deep and slow, changing Megan's image from a strong, dynamic Ella type to a languorous nymph whose full-time job was lounging around in negligees drinking cocktails and oozing sexuality.

The conversation had been brief, to the point, and ten times more awkward than asking Jeff Huskins for math. Genevieve had agreed to her visit, but Megan had a feeling it was more
because she was so taken aback at the request than from any desire to meet the other Mrs. Morgan.

Amazingly, Megan hadn't given in to her instinct, which was to tell Genevieve sorry, she'd lost her mind briefly, but it was back now and please forget she ever called.

She buckled her seat belt, waved out the window to her kids. “Call my cell if you need anything, but not if it's to remind you where you put your socks. Bye! Back in a few days!”

“Have a good time.” Vera gathered Jeffrey to her. “You'll miss the craft fair judging, but we'll let you know the results when you're back.”

“Okay. Bye, everyone! Love you!”

Elizabeth pulled the rental out of the driveway, kids calling good-byes, Jeffrey running after them, waving, until the car picked up speed and left him behind. Downtown they turned off Main Street and joined Highway I40. As they traveled down from the mountains, Comfort lifted away behind them and Megan's spirits lifted with it. She was free. On her own, with highway spinning out in front of her.

“How are you doing? Freaked out or okay?”

“Both.” Megan turned to smile at Elizabeth. “It feels wonderful to be going somewhere. Like getting out of jail, much as I love my kids. I get to be a woman again, instead of a mother or wife.”

“Yeah, that is really great.”

Megan pulled her lace for Sally's dress out of its bag. Elizabeth didn't understand. She got to be a woman anytime she wanted to be. “This was an incredible idea. Thank you.”

“Don't thank me yet. Did you sleep last night?”

“Not much. You?”

“I had a dream.
Babcia
, my grandmother again.”

Megan wasn't sure she wanted to hear this. Especially if Granny predicted a fiery road crash or duel to the death between Stanley's wives. “What did she tell you this time?”

“Always to pimp my friends.” She glanced at Megan ruefully, then back at the road. “I'm serious. She was all somber, shaking her finger at me with this warning voice, ‘Elizabeth, Elizabeth'…and then that's what she said. ‘Pimp your friends!'”

Megan burst out laughing. “Should we stop and pick up some fishnets and black leather for me?”

Elizabeth lifted her hand, let it smack back on the steering wheel. “It really unsettled me. I mean what if my whole journey to comfort turns out to be a completely stupid misinterpretation of nothing, like David said? Then what is this all for?”

“To help me?”

“Help you learn to prostitute yourself?” She looked so miserable, Megan felt a surge of protective sympathy.

“How about to help me see my life more clearly? That's pretty worthwhile. To me anyway.”

“You would have done that on your own. So far I've just gotten you into a huge mess, which the trip today could make worse.”

“Maybe. You shouldn't give your grandmother all the credit, though. Even if you assigned more meaning to the dream than it deserved, you knew you needed distance from your situation or you wouldn't have jumped on her suggestion.”

“I like that interpretation.” She looked in the rearview mirror and changed lanes. “Dominique would say I'm running away.”

“Have you spoken to him?” Megan turned her work, started on the next row.

“I'm avoiding him. And he's avoiding me.” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “Maybe I'll figure out what I want before I die. Ya think?”

Megan didn't have an answer for that. She'd died in their house in Comfort with Stanley and hadn't noticed until David started coming by on his visits home and brought her back to some semblance of life. Then Elizabeth, in all her bumbling earnestness, furthered the process. Soon—maybe today?—Megan hoped to complete it.

She tried to enjoy the trip, knitted, watching the mountains flatten to gentle hills, the forests thin and give way to patches of farmland, felt the heat climb and bear down on the car, the humidity creep into the interior in spite of the air-conditioning, making her perspire uncomfortably. Reidsville, where Stanley wanted them to live, wasn't far from here. About an hour northeast, half an hour north of Greensboro where Sally and Foster would move to. Hotter even than Comfort. Megan would melt.

Highway I40 joined with I85; they left both for Route 49 northeast through Prospect Hill and Bushy Fork toward Roxboro. Megan put her knitting away. The lovely suspension of time in the car was nearly over and Megan's tension rose. She'd worn one of her favorite skirts, black flowered rayon that would be too warm in this climate, had fussed with her appearance as if she were going on a date, French-braiding her hair instead of pulling it into a ponytail, wearing muted lipstick and a little mascara. She might as well look her best meeting this Gillian who completed her husband.

By the time they reached Roxboro and turned right on Allgood Street, Megan was ready to hyperventilate. “It's Number One-ten.”

The street looked vaguely like theirs in Comfort, the houses similar in style and economic level. Good so far. If he had Genevieve/Gillian in a mansion, Megan would show up to meet Stanley in the motel later tonight wishing she'd brought a weapon.

“There.” Megan pointed. Elizabeth slowed and they watched the house growing closer. “That's it.”

“Okay, then.” Elizabeth put the car in park. They sat staring at the modest colonial, white with forest green shutters. The neighborhood was still enough to look fake, until a calico cat chased a butterfly across the neighbor's lawn. “Well.”

“So.” Megan giggled, she couldn't help it. What had seemed a good idea at some point was absolutely stupid now and utterly beyond her. “Here we are.”

“Yup. We're here all right.”

“Okay. We're doing this. One, two, three…
go
.” Megan picked up her wrapped lace gift and pushed open the door into the horrid sweltering heat. Elizabeth emerged on the other side.

Their doors closed.
Thunk
.
Thunk
.

And then, unfortunately, there was nothing to stop Megan from walking up the front path meandering through a lawn remarkable for being picture-perfect green next to the neighbors' patchy yellowing grass, and being bordered by expertly varied masses of African daisies, baby's breath, marigolds and snapdragons. Hedges grew in perfect rounds under the front windows; impatiens and larkspur flourished around the bottom of an oak.

His other wife was a gardener too.

On the front step Megan felt herself going faint. “I can't do this. I feel terrible.”

“Just press the doorbell and get it over with.” Elizabeth touched her arm gently. “It's the heat. Don't forget to breathe.”

Megan filled her lungs, lifted her hand and pressed the glowing orange rectangle.

A woman opened the door. Megan took a step back. Not the woman from the photo. Who was this?

“Hello.” She had light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, pretty, bland features, a few extra pounds camouflaged by a blue-and-white floral dress with short sleeves and a full skirt. She looked from Elizabeth to Megan, expression neutral. “One of you must be Megan.”

The voice. The voice was the same as on the phone, slow, Southern and rich.

“I'm Megan's friend, Elizabeth. You're Genevieve?”

“Yes.” She flicked a nervous glance at Megan, forced a smile. “Come on in.”

Megan didn't move. Elizabeth had to give her a gentle shove to get her across the threshold. This couldn't be Genevieve. Genevieve was dark, model-beautiful, voluptuous…the Gillian other-half Stanley needed. This woman was no more any of those things than Megan was.

Inside, the house smelled like fresh homemade cookies. Which meant the other Mrs. Morgan must be a baker too.

Genevieve ushered them into her living room with reluctance that made Megan even more uncomfortable. If she didn't want them there, why hadn't she said so?

She answered her own question: because Genevieve was the type to put others' needs ahead of her own, and Megan had needed to come.

That sounded familiar too. But not as familiar as the room's
furniture—the type, the quality, even the arrangement. Stanley's same recliner, the very same model, the very same reddish-brown color, with probably the same-shaped butt-depression from him being parked in it. And look! The chair sat in front of an older model Sony TV, almost exactly like theirs. Not too big. Cable connection. No doubt Genevieve was enjoying Megan's old coffeemaker and whatever else Stanley had brought over from his other house.

Interchangeable. Houses, appliances, wives.

This was unbearable.

Cross-stitch on the wall, faded floral rugs. No lace. Thank God no lace. Stanley had to have something to orient him in the morning as to which house he'd woken up in.

Megan took another look at their grudging hostess. If this was Genevieve, who was the woman in Stanley's wallet?

If he had three wives, she was going to kill him. Maybe if Genevieve didn't know about the third woman either, she'd like to help with the murder. Maybe Gillian and Fiona found out Calum had someone else too, so they got together and tossed him off a cliff, then blamed the storm for his death. Megan was starting to see how these things could happen.

“Have a seat.” Genevieve gestured to a sofa, which, amazingly, was blue. Megan's was beige. “Would you like some lemonade and cookies? I made them this afternoon.”

“Thank you, that would be nice.” When Genevieve left the room, Elizabeth shot Megan a wide-eyed look of disbelief and pointed to the recliner, the cross-stitch picture, the old TV.

“I know,” Megan murmured.

“Here we go.” Genevieve brought in a tray on which she'd put three iced glasses, a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies.
She served her guests and sat on the edge of a gold wingback, clutching her glass as if it were the saddle pommel on a bucking bronco. “Sure is hot today.”

“Yes,” Megan finally found her voice. “It's cooler in the mountains, where we live.”

“Is it?”

Horrible silence while cookies were nibbled, lemonade sipped. Even Elizabeth must be at a loss. This was Megan's show. She had to start it. “I brought you something.”

“Oh?” Genvieve looked apprehensive, as if she were afraid Megan had hauled over Stanley's laundry.

Megan stood and crossed to where Genevieve sat, held out the rumpled package, a lace doily she'd done shortly after she'd settled in Comfort, before she married. “A peace offering, I guess.”

Still cautious, Genevieve unwrapped the lace. “Oh, thank you. This is lovely.”

“Shetland lace,” Elizabeth told her. “Megan made it.”

“She did? You did?”