A Thread of Truth (23 page)

“First off, nobody is buying this whole ‘I only married Franklin out of pity' routine. Deathbed request or no, nothing could have made you marry him if you didn't want to. You married Franklin because you love him and only because you love him. Admit it.”

Abigail sat under this barrage with a face as petulant as a rebellious teenager's. For a moment, she refused to say anything, but Liza just stood in front of her and grinned, making it clear that she was willing to wait as long as necessary for a response.

“All right. Fine. It's true; I do love Franklin. Of course, I do.

“But,” she said, sticking out an index finger to underscore her point, “that doesn't mean I'm not mad at him. And no matter what you say, he
did
trick me. If he'd have asked me to marry him another time, when he wasn't ill, I'd have insisted on a proper wedding. Franklin knew that, but he played on my pity and fear so he could get out of having a real wedding. And the minute he got what he wanted—boom! There he was, sitting bolt upright in bed and miraculously cured. Lazarus couldn't have pulled off a more convincing resurrection. He tricked me, I tell you!”

“Abigail,” Margot chided gently, “Franklin would never do something like that. I think he really was feeling terribly weak and ill and worried that he wasn't going to pull through, so he asked you to marry him because he didn't want to leave this world without making you his wife. But, when you accepted his proposal, he probably felt so happy that it sped his recovery.” She giggled. “Really, it all sounds terribly romantic to me. Wouldn't it be better to think of it that way?”

“Margot, it's a good thing you're single, because the sum total of what you don't know about men could fill an ocean. Franklin is a good man but, even so, he cheated me out of the wedding I wanted. Eventually, I may be persuaded to forgive him, but at the moment I'm mad about it and I expect to stay that way for a good while.”

“Oh, Abigail. Come on,” I said. “After all you've been through with Franklin this week, haven't you learned that life is too short to go around holding grudges? Especially against a man you're in love with.”

That took the wind out of her sails.

“Well…” The angry look faded from Abigail's face but was replaced by an expression I couldn't quite read. Something was still bothering her, but I couldn't tell what it was.

“Evelyn has a point. At your age, especially,” Liza teased, “you've got to make the most of every moment you have left. And to those ends”—Liza walked over to a potted palm that stood in the corner and pulled out a white dress box tied with pink and green satin bows—“I have one more present for you.”

She walked to the armchair and placed the box in Abigail's lap. “Go on,” she urged. “Open it.”

Abigail pulled on the satin ribbons, lifted the lid off the box, removed the tissue paper, and held up the gift, a white negligee with a long, shimmering satin skirt that gave way to a see-through lace bodice with a plunging neckline.

She glared at Liza. “You don't imagine for one moment that I'm going to wear this, do you?”

“Well, why not? You said you'd wanted to get married in white.”

Margot giggled. Abigail shot her a look that could have shriveled a cactus.

“You know,” Liza said, “there's a matching garter belt and white fishnet stockings that go with that negligee. I can order them for you if you'd like.”

Everyone laughed, but Abigail was not amused.

“Ha! Glad you're all having such fun at my expense. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must be going. Thank you all for the party. Up until now, I enjoyed myself.”

“Oh, come on, Abigail. Don't be mad,” I said. “Nobody is making fun of you. It's just a little good-natured ribbing, that's all. It's practically required at bridal showers. You should have seen the getup my bridesmaids gave me when I got married. It was lime-green polyester lace with cheap black velvet ribbons and many strategically placed cut-outs; the most garish, vulgar, completely hilarious lingerie imaginable. This, on the other hand, is beautiful and in perfectly good taste. I think you should wear it on your honeymoon. You'd look simply lovely in it and, honestly, I think Franklin would agree.”

Abigail pressed her lips into a thin line and said nothing, just looked at me with that same tense expression whose origin I'd been unable to pinpoint before but now I thought I understood.

“Abigail, is that what's bothering you? Is that why you keep saying you don't want to think about being married? You're not worried about having sex with Franklin, are you?”

Abigail's eyes darted from my face to Liza's and back nervously.

“Well, wouldn't you be if you were me?” she practically shouted, all her objections and concerns spilling forth like floodwaters breaching a dam. “Do you have any idea how long it has been since I was intimate with a man? Thirty years, that's how long! Ever since Woolley died.”

The laughter of a moment before faded into silence as we all realized that, for Abigail, this was no laughing matter. She was truly distressed about this.

“And what about his heart? He keeps joking that once he gets back home and we start sharing a bed, we'll have to keep a defibrillator in the closet in case the throes of passion throw him into cardiac arrest.”

Despite my best efforts to keep a neutral expression, I couldn't help but smile a bit at this; the play on words was just so entirely Franklin. For a lawyer, he was actually pretty funny. But Abigail didn't think so.

“How can he joke about a thing like that? It could actually happen, you know.”

“But,” Margot interjected, “I'm sure the doctors won't let him…” She blushed. “Well…you know. I'm sure they won't let him engage in anything that's too strenuous until they're sure he's completely recovered.”

“Doctors!” she scoffed. “What do they know?”

“Margot's right,” I said. “Franklin has an excellent doctor. You know that, Abbie. You helped hire him. I'm sure he's not going to let Franklin take any unnecessary risks. Really, you just need to trust the doctor's judgment and relax. Put the whole thing out of your mind, at least for now. It'll probably be some weeks until Franklin is well enough for any kind of sexual activity. In the meantime, enjoy each other's company. And celebrate your good fortune! After all, you're one of the luckiest women in the world. And you're married to one of the most wonderful men in the world!”

Abigail let out a breath and nodded slowly. “He is, isn't he? The most wonderful man in the world. It's just that…well…I'm worried that he'll be disappointed.”

“He won't be,” Ivy said. “He'll understand that the two of you will have to wait until he's fully recovered.”

“No, it's not that…Franklin is patient. That's not my concern,” she said softly. Her eyes were downcast and for the first time since I'd known her, she sounded vulnerable. “I'm just afraid he'll be disappointed in…well, you know…in
me
.”

Liza made an impatient clicking sound with her tongue. “Disappointed in you? Are you kidding me? Franklin Spaulding has been in love with you for decades! I knew it within about fifteen seconds of meeting him just from the way he talked about you. And have you seen what happens when you walk in a room? His whole face lights up. Franklin is yours, heart and soul. There is no way on earth he could be disappointed in you. No way.”

Abigail still wasn't convinced. “That's easy to say, but men pin huge expectations on sex. Woolley certainly did. I disappointed him on plenty of occasions and he had no qualms about telling me so. At first, things seemed to go well enough, but after a few months…I don't know exactly what he expected of me but, knowing Woolley, I'm sure he felt he'd paid a high enough price for me that I should have fulfilled his every fantasy. Well, I didn't. I couldn't. I'm not sure anyone could have. I tried my best to please him, but…”

Abigail picked up her champagne glass and shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly before taking a sip, as if it was all water under the bridge. I wasn't convinced. Even after all these years, the memory of her husband's dissatisfaction still stung. No wonder the prospect of intimacy with Franklin had her so tied up in knots.

“People make sex into such a big deal,” she continued blandly. “Personally, I've never quite understood why. At the end of the day, it's just biology, a basic physical urge designed to ensure the continuation of the species. Nothing more.”

Ivy nodded her wholehearted agreement to this, but I couldn't let Abigail's assertion go unchallenged.

“Oh, come on, Abigail!” I laughed and took another sip of champagne. “You make sex sound about as appealing as eating a ham sandwich and far less romantic. Biology, my eye! You know there's more to it than that, much more. It's an important part of how couples connect and find emotional intimacy. At least…it is when you're in love.”

I stopped, realizing I should have been a little less mocking in my tone. I looked into the bottom of my glass and chose my words more carefully. “Is it possible that perhaps your first husband's dissatisfaction with your sex life had more to do with what you weren't
feeling
than what you weren't
doing
? You say that he knew you didn't love him and he accepted that, but I can't quite buy that.”

Abigail started to interrupt, but I wouldn't let her.

“I'm not saying it didn't happen the way you say it did, I'm just suggesting that he wasn't entirely honest—either with you, or himself. If all he wanted was sex with a beautiful woman, I'm sure a man as rich as Woolley Wynne could have easily attracted scores of women who would have been happy to accommodate him. It doesn't matter what he said; in his heart, Woolley wanted your love. Possibly he thought that once you were married, you'd learn to love him, but it didn't happen. I know you tried your best to make him happy, Abigail. I don't doubt that you were attentive, charming, beautiful, entertaining, and a delightful companion. But when you were in the bedroom, he must have known he'd bought your body, but not your heart. There are some things you just can't fake. Love is one of them.

“So, yes, I can easily imagine that Woolley was disappointed because all his wealth couldn't buy what he was really after—your love. He took his disappointment out on you, but that's not going to happen this time, Abigail.” From my spot on the end of the sofa I leaned forward and took my friend's hand. “You love Franklin.”

“I do,” she admitted grudgingly. “Don't get me wrong: I'm still mad about this wedding, but I'll get over it. Because I do love Franklin, very much indeed.”

I smiled. “Then you don't have a thing to worry about. You don't need to do anything or be anything other than what you are—a woman in love. That's the only thing Franklin wants from you. You know I'm right, because that's all you want from Franklin, isn't it?”

A tight little smile bowed Abigail's lips as she nodded in agreement.

“In that case, you can relax. Everything will be fine—far better than fine. You'll see. When you and Franklin make love for the first time, whether it's next week or next year, it's going to be a beautiful, intimate, memorable experience—for both of you. Trust me,” I said with a smile, “by the next morning you're going to wonder why you didn't marry Franklin years ago.”

“I hope you're right, Evelyn, but…I don't know. It's been so long. I'm not even sure I remember how it all works.”

“It'll come back to you. Trust me.”

“And then there's this,” she said, picking up the white lace negligee from where it had been resting on her lap, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger as if it might bite. “Put me in a nice St. John suit and a good pair of shoes and I look, if not beautiful, at least well-groomed.

“At my age,” she said, examining the satin confection with doubtful eyes, “I won't even wear a sleeveless top. If I don't think it's fair to inflict the sight of my aging upper arms on others, why would I want to subject poor Franklin to the sight of my sagging flesh? It might be enough to bring on a second heart attack.”

She looked at Liza in mocking reproach. “And if it does, I'll know exactly who to blame.”

Everyone chuckled, not so much in response to Abigail's humor but because the moment had passed. Abigail was still feeling anxious about her first tryst with her groom, but it was the kind of anxiety common to any bride: part nerves, part anticipation. She was going to be all right.

“Just look at this thing!” She clucked and held the negligee up high so everyone could see. “That satin is going to cling to every bump and bulge. Liza, what in heaven's name made you pick this? Did you get a gift receipt? Is it too late to exchange it? Maybe we could find something more appropriate, something in a nice, heavy flannel.”

“Not a chance,” Liza said with a grin. “This particular lingerie store has a strict ‘no returns, no exchange' policy.”

“Well then,” Abigail said as she folded the negligee carefully and put it back in the box, “looks like we're stuck. I guess I'll just have to go through with it.”

“Guess so,” Liza said and then leaned down to give her aunt a kiss.

“N
ow this is more like it,” Charlie said as he snuggled closer tome in the booth. He picked up a golden brown shrimp tempura by the skewer, dragged it through the ginger sauce that Maurice had drizzled artistically around the edge of the plate, fed half of it to me, and finished off the rest himself. It was delicious.

“Look at us,” he said, amazed. “We're having a real date, the way people do!”

“Not quite. We're having a real date the way restaurant owners do, hiding out in the darkest corner of the dining room, hoping that nothing goes wrong in the kitchen, or at the hostess station, and that none of the customers spot you and come over to complain that the meat was overcooked, or the portions too small, or the bill too big.”

“You're a cynical woman, do you know that? My mother and sisters are just the same. Are you sure you're not Irish?” He picked up the wine bottle and topped off my glass before refilling his own.

“You know it's true,” I said, laughing. “I'll bet you five dollars that within the next twenty minutes—no, make it fifteen—somebody, either an employee or a customer, is going to come looking for you.”

“Five dollars? It's a deal. But I'm telling you right now, you're going to lose. I have given strict instructions to the kitchen that if they bother me about anything less monumental than a flood, famine, or fire—and I made it clear that in the case of fire, it'd better be a big one, two alarm at least, none of your little grease flare-ups—I'll sack the lot of them. And I told Matt, that new waiter who I promoted to mâitre d' for the evening so Gina could have a night off, that if there are any problems with reservations he is to solve them and that should he spy any irate customers approaching our table he is to intercept them. Failure to do so will mean that his first night as mâitre d' is also his last. I explained it very clearly. Trust me, Evelyn, no one is going to bother us tonight.”

“You feel pretty sure of that, do you?”

“I do.”

I sighed heavily. I'd tried to warn him, but if he insisted on taking sucker bets, there was nothing I could do about it. “All right then. Let's see the color of your money.”

I reached into my handbag, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and laid it on the tablecloth. Charlie dug out his fiver and laid it next to mine.

“Let me see your watch.”

He held out his arm and pulled up his shirt cuff. I squinted to see the dial in the dim candlelight.

“The current time is nine fourteen. If no one comes to bother you before nine twenty-nine, then you win, but if they do, the kitty goes to me. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“In the meantime,” I said, taking another shrimp off the plate, this time feeding it to Charlie, “let's relax and enjoy ourselves because you know something, Charlie? I'm really having a lovely time.”

“Me, too.”

At nine seventeen, the waitress brought our salads to the table along with a two-and-a-half-foot-tall piece of carved black wood that looked like a piece of fancy stair railing that turned out to be Charlie's new pepper grinder. He took great delight in showing me how it worked. Charlie loves new kitchen gadgets the way I love new sewing notions.

At nine twenty-one, there was a tremendous flash of lightning outside, followed by a boom and a flickering of the lights inside the restaurant. A few diners gasped, then laughed at their startled response to the thunderstorm, after which everyone continued eating, drinking, and talking.

At nine twenty-four, Gina ran in the front door. Her eyes were wild and her hair was dripping wet. She stood near the mâitre d' station, squinting as she scanned the restaurant, looking for a particular face.

I clapped my hand over the two five-dollar bills and pulled them toward me. “Too bad. Another five minutes and they'd have been all yours.”

Charlie groaned and raised his hand. “Over here, Gina.”

Gina turned toward the sound of his voice and scurried to our table. “There you are! I've been looking all over town for you!”

“Why?” Charlie asked. “Where else would I be?”

Gina shook her head, making drops of water fly through the air. “Not you, Charlie. I was looking for Evelyn.”

“Evelyn?” Charlie clapped his hand over mine and smirked. “Not so fast there, Jimmy the Greek. The bet was that someone would come looking for me, not you. I'll thank you to leave the kitty on the table.”

I let go of the money. “What is it, Gina?”

She pulled a soggy newspaper out from under her jacket and thrust it to me. “I was picking up some milk at the mini-mart and there was a guy delivering the newest edition of the
Herald.
Have you seen it?”

I took the paper and scanned the page, wondering what in the world could be written on the editorial page that would make Gina come out in the middle of a thunderstorm to find me. And then I saw it.

I was so astonished by what I'd read that I was literally struck dumb. For a moment I couldn't do anything but sit with my hand over my mouth. Charlie, on the other hand, had less trouble finding his voice.

“That pompous, sneaky, lying…! I'm going to kill him! Do you hear me? I am going to hunt him down and kick his pompous, sneaky, lying carcass from here back to Beverly Hills!”

“I can't believe it,” I whispered hoarsely. “I can't believe he'd write something so vindictive and then actually get it published in the paper.”

Gina looked pained. “I'm sorry, Evelyn. Maybe I shouldn't have told you, but I figured you'd find out sooner or later.”

“No. It's okay, Gina. You did the right thing. By ten o'clock tomorrow morning, half the town will have read this and the other half will want to. That means I've got to figure out what I'm going to do tonight.” I looked at Charlie. “What
am
I going to do?”

His face was as red as a poker that's been left in the fire. “
You're
not going to do anything! I told you.
I'm
going to hunt him down and kick him into next week!”

“Charlie, be serious. You can't do that.”

“Oh, can't I? Watch me.” In one infuriated motion, he pushed away his salad, slid from the booth, and leapt to his feet.

“Gina, you stay here with Evelyn and keep an eye on the restaurant. I'm going to go out and find that sniveling, putrid excuse for a man who was belched up from the bowels of Beverly Hills and beat him senseless. And then…”

“Charlie, sit down. Be reasonable. I'm touched that you want to defend my honor and all, but you can't just go out looking for Dale Barrows and challenge him to a duel.”

“Well,” said Gina, looking toward the front of the restaurant, “if he does, he won't have to look very long.”

Sure enough, Dale Barrows, Porter Moss, and Lydia Moss came through the door, laughing and shaking the rain off their coats.

“Charlie, don't.” I leaned out to grab his arm but I was too late. With an expression as roiling as the storm outside, he grabbed the long black pepper mill from off our table and, brandishing it like a club, strode toward the mâitre d' station where Dale Barrows and company were talking to Matt.

“Ah! The innkeeper himself!” Barrows boomed. “Just the man I wanted to see. This young fellow tells me that the kitchen closed at 9:30, but I've assured him that, for frequent customers like ourselves, Maurice won't mind staying a few minutes longer. We can order right away, can't we, gang?” He looked at the Mosses, who nodded.

Charlie wasted no words.

“Get out! Get out, the lot of you, and don't come back!”

Porter Moss smiled and took a step forward, holding his palms out in a conciliatory gesture. “Hey, Charlie. Come on now. Surely you can keep the kitchen open an extra five minutes, can't you? What's the big deal? After all, we're old friends. You voted for me in the last election.”

“A decision I have lived to regret.” Charlie gripped the pepper mill so tightly his knuckles went white.

I decided I'd better get up there before he did something we'd both regret later. There are certain things it is never wise to do. Frying bacon in the nude is one; clubbing an elected official with a pepper mill in front of a restaurant filled with witnesses is another. I came up and stood next to Charlie, gently pressing my hand on his arm so he'd drop it to his side.

“Hello, Porter,” I said, before acknowledging the others. “Lydia. Dale. How are you? Charlie and I were just sitting here reading tomorrow's paper.” Unblinking, I turned my gaze on Dale and was gratified to see him blush. At least he had some sense of shame, though I could tell from the way he jutted his chin out that he wasn't planning on apologizing.

“Hello, Evelyn. I take it you read my letter to the editor?”

“I did.”

“Well, I'm sorry if it offends you, but…”

“No, you're not,” I said. “But you should be.”

Lydia gave Porter a nudge in the ribs. He stepped forward. “I saw that letter, Evelyn, and for what it's worth, I thought it was out of line. Dale has some gripes with you, but he shouldn't have sent that in and I told him so.”

I believed him. Porter wasn't necessarily somebody I wanted to make my new best friend, but he was okay and he worked hard at a fairly thankless job. “Thank you, Porter.”

He cleared his throat. “Maybe we should all sit down and talk this thing out.”

Charlie jumped in before I could respond. “Not tonight, you're not! And not in my restaurant! Out!”

Porter gave Lydia a sidelong glance and tilted his head toward the door. She took the hint and left. Porter was right behind her. “Good night, Charlie. We'll come back another time.”

Dale spun around to watch the Mosses retreat. “Wait a minute! Come back here! We're not putting up with this! We should demand to be seated and served!” But when Porter ignored him, he turned back to Charlie and stuck his chin out so far that you could have used it to open cans.

“This is a free country with a free press,” he declared. “And I've got a right to express my opinion.”

“That may be,” Charlie said, “but this is a privately held restaurant and as you were told before, the kitchen is closed. And even if it weren't, it sure as hell would be to the likes of you. Now get out!”

Charlie raised the pepper mill, stabbed it into Dale's chest like a swordsman preparing to run his enemy through, and forced the sputtering Barrows to back out the door into the rainy street and then clicked the deadbolt into the lock position with a flourish.

The restaurant had been silent as the diners watched the drama unfold, but now one of the regulars quipped, “Gee, Charlie, I was going to ask to see the dessert menu, but now I'm having second thoughts. Too risky.”

A round of tentative laughter rippled through the dining room.

Charlie pasted a grin on his face and turned toward his customers. “Well, Jim, if you'd been adding extra notches to your belts the way I have lately, I wouldn't recommend it. However, you seem fit enough. I think you can chance it.”

“All right, Charlie. But let me ask you something first: Can I get mine without pepper?”

Tensions eased and the wave of laughter that followed was full-throated and long.

“Matt!” Charlie shouted jovially. “Bring Mr. Snelling an order of chocolate bread pudding, on the house—no pepper. While you're at it, offer everyone a dessert with my compliments. Enjoy your evening, everyone!”