Woman in Black Read Free Page B

though, he acted as if nothing were out of the ordinary. They talked about their favorite scenes in the movie, the trip he was taking to St. Simons Island with his family on Labor Day weekend, and what his football team’s chances were of making the division playoffs next year. Before she knew it, they were pulling into the driveway. The only indication that a profound change had taken place came when Vaughn, as he was saying good-night, brushed his lips over hers instead of giving her the usual peck on the cheek.
    Now, as Abigail carried a plate of bacon and eggs out to Vaughn on this first morning of her new and not necessarily improved life—a life like an upended boxful of puzzle pieces scattered every which way—she thought, What now? She was trying to remain cool, but it was difficult with her heart racing a mile a minute and her cheeks on fire.
    But Vaughn had his head buried in the newspaper; he wasn’t even looking at her. She wondered what he was thinking, or if he was thinking about her at all. Maybe he just didn’t know how to act. It was an awkward situation, the two of them all but living under the same roof and having to pretend everything was normal. Some might say it was downright weird .
    Her hand trembled as she poured his juice, and some of it dribbled onto his place mat. “Sorry,” she murmured. Vaughn glanced up from his newspaper then, and she saw, from the expression on his face as his gaze met hers, that he’d only been pretending to read. As she reached for a napkin to mop up the spill, she felt the light brush of his fingertips against the inside of her wrist. The same fingers that last night had fondled her breasts. That had pushed her damp panties down around her thighs.
    â€œYou don’t have to do that,” he said.
    â€œI don’t mind.” She aimed for a normal tone but couldn’t hide the quaver in her voice. Her cheeks were so hot, they felt scalded.
    â€œWell, I do. Don’t you have anything better to do than wait on me?” He spoke in a playful tone no doubt meant to break the tension. But all it did was remind her that it was her job to wait on him. And what had he meant, anyway, by touching her like that? Had it been some sort of secret signal, his way of letting her know that last night was only the beginning … or merely a way of telling her he was sorry, that it wouldn’t happen again?
    He stayed at the table just long enough to bolt his breakfast before heading out. Minutes later, Abigail heard the roar of his pickup’s engine in the driveway. She let go of the breath she’d been holding and turned her attention to preparing Mrs. Meriwhether’s tray.
    â€œNo, not like that. Do it the way I showed you,” Rosalie gently corrected as Abigail arranged toast triangles on a plate. Abigail suppressed a sigh. Her mother had schooled her so well that by the age of twelve, Abigail could iron a collar that would stand up and whistle Dixie. She knew that old linen, made from flax grown tall and stout, was more durable than new, that soaking a tablecloth in milk got out red wine stains, and that ants wouldn’t cross a chalk line drawn across a stoop or windowsill. But her mother still didn’t trust her with this simplest of tasks.
    Rosalie fussed over Gwen Meriwhether as she would a child in delicate health. When Gwen was laid up with one of her “headaches,” Rosalie brought her breakfast in bed. The rest of the day she tiptoed in and out of Gwen’s room bringing cold compresses and warm solace.
    When she wasn’t looking after her employer, she was filling in for Gwen by acting as surrogate mother to Lila and Vaughn. She’d been the one to remind them when they were growing up to take their vitamins and to zip up their jackets on cold days, to phone home if they were going to friends’ after school. Abigail knew her mother secretly worried that Ames would one day leave his wife.