How to Score (40 page)

She pulled away. “You and I have nothing further to talk about.”

“Sammi—”

The ambulance driver slammed the door. “Ready to go, miss?”

Sammi nodded, then turned back toward him. “Good-bye, Chase.” Her eyes were somber, her tone final. And with that, she turned and headed for Horace’s car.

A
rlene lifted a lime-green-and-turquoise shift out of one of Justine’s trunks. It was 9:00 on Saturday morning, and Arlene didn’t usually work on Saturdays, but she’d hated the idea of spending the day at home alone.

She had a bad feeling about firing Sammi. It had been a rash decision, and she was afraid it was going to backfire. It probably had been unwise, but something inside Arlene had snapped. She was sick to death of sharing Chandler with another woman. All those years, she’d played second fiddle to Justine, and now she was being forced to play second fiddle to Sammi.

Arlene picked up her notebook, wrote down the description and designer of the dress, then hung the garment on a wooden hanger and placed it on the portable dress rack. She’d just never had the right credentials, she thought bitterly. She didn’t have a blueblood birth certificate, she’d never had a marriage license, and she’d never had a college diploma. She’d never had anything but a burning, passionate love for Chandler. And even that was slipping away. Ever since she’d found that nightgown in Justine’s trunk, thinking about him made her sick inside.

She’d gone to Chandler’s bedroom this morning, hoping to reclaim the tenderness that had driven her all these years. She’d lifted the velvet rope to his austere bedroom and let herself inside. As always, she’d breathed in deeply, hoping for some trace of a scent that reminded her of the man she’d loved.

Nothing. Just the faint smell of lemon oil radiating from the furniture. She’d crossed to the bed, taken off her shoes, and lifted the covers. Her fingers had frozen on the red wool bedspread.

Had Chandler and Justine made love in here, or in Justine’s fancy floral bedroom? The fact was, they’d probably made love in both places. And knowing Chandler’s predilection for variety, probably in every other room of the mansion, as well. The thought wrapped around her lungs and squeezed the breath out of her.

How often had Chandler and Justine done it? Had Chandler ever made love to both women on the same day?

Her ribs had felt as if they were biting into her skin. She’d flipped the covers up as if they were hot pancakes, then smoothed the bedspread and stepped back into her shoes. She refused to lie in a bed where another woman had slept with Chandler.

She hadn’t found any comfort in her own bed last night, either. She used to take solace in the fact that she’d once shared the mattress with Chandler, but now the fact made her toss and turn. As she’d driven to the museum this morning, it occurred to her that it might be time she got a new bed.

She pulled a white cashmere coat out of Justine’s trunk and shook it out. It was the color of cream and soft as a kitten, and it looked like it had never been worn. What a waste. What a terrible, terrible waste. Of course, the coat was completely impractical. One brush against anything dusty or dirty, and it would be ruined. Arlene had always worn black winter coats because they didn’t show dirt.

Arlene chronicled the coat on her inventory list, carefully hung it on a heavy wooden hanger, then turned back to the trunk. There, on a black satin shawl, lay a white leather diary. A tiny key dangling from a yellowed ribbon was attached to the spine.

Arlene shook her head. Wasn’t that just like Justine, to keep the key attached. Why did she even bother to lock it if the key were accessible to anyone who came along?

But then, Justine had never been known for her smarts. Chandler had once complained about his wife’s ignorance of the business world. “I can never talk to her like I can talk to you,” he’d told her. Arlene had reveled in her role as his business confidante. She’d encouraged him to pour out all of his problems and plans, to give her all the inside scoop on his associates and competitors, to tell her all his thoughts and feelings.

Sometimes, though, Arlene secretly wished that Chandler would show just a tiny bit of interest in her life. Just once in a while, it would be nice if he’d ask about her hopes and dreams.

But he never did. Maybe because he knew that they were all pinned on him. Or maybe, Arlene thought with a pang, he just hadn’t cared. He’d seemed to take it as his due that he was the focus of her entire life without any thought of reciprocation.

She turned the diary in her hand, strangely reluctant to open it. She didn’t know why; it was probably full of a lot of silly rubbish about teas and clothes and whatever other frivolous concerns occupied Justine’s days. Arlene lifted the key and tried to insert it in the tiny lock, but for some reason, her hand shook, and she missed the keyhole. A feeling of dread filled her chest.

The murmur of voices reverberated off the marble floor on the first floor. The weekend tour guides had arrived; she was no longer alone in the museum.

A sense of relief flushed through her, as if she’d gotten a temporary reprieve. She’d read the diary later, she decided—at home, where she wouldn’t be disturbed.

At 4:00 that afternoon, Arlene carried a cup of tea and the diary out to the wicker table on her screened-in porch. A cool autumn breeze carried the musty scent of falling leaves. Her garden was even brighter this time of year than when it was in full flower; the leaves of the maple glowed bright orange, the red-oak leaves flamed scarlet, and a sweetgum in the corner blazed sunshine yellow. She often came out to her porch to pay her bills and do mending, because the lovely setting made unpleasant tasks more palatable.

This task threatened to be unpleasant, indeed. Drawing a deep breath, she picked up the little key and fit it into the tiny lock. It clicked open. She pulled back the leather strap and parted the cover. Justine’s round, girlish lettering filled the pages.

September 29, 1965

Dear diary,

I don’t know how much more humiliation I can take. I went to the Art Appreciation Club’s luncheon today. While I was in a stall in the powder room, I heard two women (I think they were Laura Meyers and Susan Statton) come in and start talking. One of them—I think it was Laura—said she and her husband had seen Chandler out with that opera singer last night. “Poor Justine!” the other one said. “Do you think she has any idea?”

Oh, I wanted to die! If I could have escaped through the sewer, I would have jumped in the toilet. It’s bad enough that Chandler carries on with his secretary. At least he has the decency to keep that low-key, although I can’t imagine that he’s really fooling anyone. But must he flaunt his infidelity with other women, as well? I can’t take it anymore. I won’t take it anymore.

September 30th

I did it! I left Chandler. Packed four suitcases and caught a flight to Chicago, with instructions to the staff to pack up the rest of my things and forward them.

Apparently he was in quite the tizzy when he came home from Houston and found me gone. Wish I could have been a fly on the wall and seen that! He called and demanded I stop this foolishness and come home. I told him to go to hell.

October 1st

He showed up at the hotel at four in the morning, carrying flowers and candy and champagne, with the most remorseful long face you’ve ever seen. Broke my heart, it really did. He said he couldn’t live without me, and he cried. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Well, I couldn’t stand it. I took him in my arms.

He sobbed and begged me for another chance. Begged me to try for another child with him.

I told him I would no longer stand for being made a fool. He has to stop with the other women. He said he already has, that he loves me and me alone. He begged me to take him back and go on a second honeymoon to Europe.

Of course I said yes. I love him. I always have, and always will. He’s never cried before. This time I think he means it. I pray he means it.

Arlene let the diary fall to the table. With a sob, she buried her face in her hands.

At 5:00 sharp, Walter walked up to Arlene’s door, shifted the bouquet of roses to his left hand, and rang the doorbell. He smoothed his blue bowling shirt and straightened the collar, hoping Arlene wouldn’t think it was too hokey. He’d gone out and bought it, then taken it to the cleaners to be starched and pressed. He couldn’t recall ever doing that before. But then, he hadn’t courted a woman in forty-some–odd years.

He rang the bell again. No answer. He waited a long interval, then rang again. Still no response. That was odd. Arlene’s car was in the driveway.

He knocked, and then waited. He hoped she wasn’t angry at him for the things he’d said yesterday morning. Or… anxiety crawled through his chest. Oh, dear, he thought with a frown—he hoped nothing had happened to Arlene, the way it had happened to Helen. When she’d had her stroke, he’d found her on the floor in the living room, unconscious, the television remote near her hand, the television blaring out an episode of
Maury
.

Arlene had already had one heart attack. What if she’d had another?

His hands tightened on the bouquet. Maybe she was in the backyard. He strode around to the side and let himself in the wooden gate. She had a lovely backyard; she liked to garden, just like Helen, and just like Helen, she had a sweetgum.

He looked around and saw her, sitting at a table in the screened-in porch. She had her head on her hands, and a little book beside her. It looked like she was crying.

He rapped on the door. “Arlene?”

She looked up and wiped her eyes. At least she wasn’t unconscious. But, oh, dear—she looked like she’d gotten some bad news. The screen door squeaked as he pushed it open.

“Arlene—what’s the matter?”

“I-I found Justine’s diary.” She shoved the little book toward him.

Who the hell was Justine?

“She—she left him,” Arlene continued before Walter could ask. A sob rose in her throat. “She left Chandler! He said he could never leave her, that it would kill her if he walked out—but
she
left
him
. Apparently more than once! And each time, he chased after her, and begged and
cried
to get her back. He
cried!
”

She looked up, her face flushed. “The whole time he was telling me she would never grant him a divorce, that he couldn’t abandon her, that she was emotionally fragile because their only child had died… the whole time, he was lying!”

So Chandler Phelps had been her gentleman friend. Walter had suspected as much, but Arlene had never said, and he’d never asked.

She rose from the chair, knocking it over, sending it clattering to the brick floor. Walter picked it up.

Arlene stared out at her garden, her arms wrapped around her waist. “That’s not all, either. He was cheating on both of us.”

Walter’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“He was seeing other women. Besides Justine and me, I mean.” Fresh tears coursed down her face. “There were always rumors, but I just wouldn’t let myself believe them. Just like I wouldn’t let myself believe that he and Justine ever… ” Her voice broke off in a sob.

Walter started toward her, then stopped. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn’t know what to say or what to do. He stood beside her and waited. One thing he’d learned from Helen was that sometimes a woman just needed to be heard.

She buried her face in her hands, then wiped at her cheeks and sniffed. “I turned a blind eye,” she finally said. “I didn’t want to see it. I’ve lived my entire life in denial.” She stared out at the garden, twisting her fingers together. “I always thought I was the only one who loved Chandler, but Justine did, too. And Chandler loved her back! He didn’t leave her because he didn’t
want
to leave her.”

Her head drooped forward. “I tried to take another woman’s husband.” She drew in a ragged breath. “I thought loving him made it right.”

“You made a mistake.”

“Worse than a mistake! When I think about the things I must have put that woman through… ” She held her hand to her mouth. Her fingers shook. “It’s just unforgivable.”