The Affair: Week 1 Read Free

he’d already started his own company here in the States before his father died. They make racecars, or something like that. He’s got like a couple dozen cars in this megahuge garage that he had dug into the bluff. It’s like some kind of billionaire playground or museum. At least that’s what Alice, the maid, tells me. She says Montand is hot as Hades, but all that sexy goodness is a waste, because he’s a cold, scary bastard.”
    “So Alice is around him a lot?”
    “
Never
,” Margie whispered. “He’s paranoid. He doesn’t want anyone in his private chambers but that scarecrow, Mrs. Shaw. Those two are cut from the same cloth. The cook hardly ever sees him, either. Mrs. Shaw collects the food and serves him or him and his
guests
,” Margie said with a pointed glance, “in the dining room.”
    Emma sighed. “Well, if this Montand guy holds any animosity for Cristina, he’s doing us all a favor by steering clear. I’m only interested in him if Cristina wants to—or needs to—see him during her last days.”
    “That’s why I believe in Alice’s opinion that he’s the devil,” Margie insisted before noticing Emma’s cautionary glance and nod toward the bedroom. She quieted her voice. “Cristina says her stepson is the last person on earth she wants to see.”
    Both women blinked when Emma’s cell phone buzzed where it sat on the desk.
    “The tech nerd?” Margie asked, grinning.
    “Yeah,” Emma said, reading the message from her boyfriend, Colin. “He says he’s
so
smoking Amanda’s butt at Modern Warlord.”
    Margie rolled her eyes and grabbed her purse. “They hang around together even when you’re not around?”
    “All the time. They’re both video game–aholics,” Emma replied, rapidly texting Colin back.
    She glanced up and caught Margie’s sharp glance. “And here I thought your sister was cool,” Margie said before she headed for the door.
    * * *
    The next night, Emma sat in an upholstered chair near Cristina’s bed and read out loud from a 1986 version of
Vogue
. Cristina had chosen the reading material, and then grinned the biggest smile Emma had seen on her yet when Emma discovered the article featuring Cristina. It turned out that Cristina had been quite the fashion maven in her day. She’d twice been declared one of the best-dressed women in the world. She had owned a posh, renowned secondhand designer retail store in downtown Kenilworth. Fashionistas from all over the world used to throng to her shop not only to buy one-of-a-kind, barely used designer shoes, handbags, and apparel, but also to empty out their own closets—presumably so they could be filled all over again.
    “I love it,” Emma said, setting aside the magazine and standing to pull down the covers. Cristina had broken out in a sweat while Emma’d read. Her regulatory mechanisms were going haywire. Poor woman was freezing one second, boiling the next. Emma picked up a cool, damp cloth and pressed it to Cristina’s forehead and cheeks. “I can’t imagine having wardrobes like those women must have owned.”
    “They were bored,” Cristina rasped. “I was bored. What else did we have to do but recycle our wardrobes? We couldn’t change our lives, so we changed our clothes . . . and our makeup and our hair. It didn’t work, of course, but doing it made us forget that. For a little while. How much does my stepson pay you?” she suddenly asked sharply.
    Emma blinked as she set down the cloth. “Your stepson doesn’t pay me. The hospice does. Are you asking me my salary?” she clarified amusedly as she stripped off a soiled pillowcase.
    “Yes. I suppose. How much do you make in a year?”
    Emma stated a figure, inclined to respond candidly to a candid question.
    “That’s not much.”
    “Thanks for reminding me,” Emma replied dryly.
    “Still, you told me you’re not married and you have no children. You have no excuse for dressing like a camp counselor every day.” She peered closer at