Woman in Black (17 page)

“Say no more.” Lila took his hand, leading him down the hall and into the guest room as she might a sleepy child. She lowered the blinds while he removed his shoes, and he was nodding off almost as soon as he stretched out on the bed. “Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite,” she whispered, pulling a blanket over him before bending down to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

Vaughn, as he drifted off to sleep, thought that bedbugs were the least of his worries.

6

“You'll find everything you need in here.” Abigail led the way into the laundry room, gesturing toward the open shelving against one wall, which held a wide array of cleaning supplies. On the opposite wall was a pocket door, which she slid back to reveal a closet filled with brooms, mops, vacuum cleaner, and some sort of machine that looked vaguely industrial. She caught Lila eyeing it curiously and said, “Floor waxer. Twice a year I get the floors and carpets professionally waxed and cleaned. This is just for touch-ups in between.”

In between
. That phrase could easily be used to describe her life right now, Lila thought. She was caught between the broken-off end of her old life and the one to come, whatever that might be. Surely she wasn't meant to spend the rest of her days washing someone else's dirty clothes! Especially since there was another, darker reason Abigail had hired her, she suspected. It frightened Lila more than a little to think of how long Abigail's resentment must have been smoldering, like one of those underground fires that burn for decades.

Lila had spent her final weekend in New York packing up her few remaining belongings, having sold off the bulk of what was in storage. Everything she owned was crammed into her Taurus, which was currently parked out by the garage. An errant thought sneaked in:
I could still back out. It's not too late
. But once again, the reality of her situation asserted itself. Where would she go? What would she do? And Neal would be joining her soon. So, really, there was no alternative. She wasn't going anywhere unless Abigail decided to fire her.

“If you run out of anything,” Abigail went on in the crisp, businesslike tone with which she might have addressed a junior staffer, “I keep petty cash on hand for supplies.” She pulled open a drawer, showing Lila a tin stuffed with small bills and change. “For groceries, you'll use our account at L'Epicerie,” she said, referring to the gourmet market in town. “I think that covers just about everything. Any questions?”

Just one
, Lila answered silently.
Are you enjoying this as much as I think you are?
Clearly, Abigail wanted to see her eat crow, a dish she no doubt had a hundred ways of serving up.

They'd gone over the rest of the house, top to bottom, Abigail showing her where everything was and letting her know what was expected of her, such as the weekly dinner menu, which Lila would be preparing ahead each day, and various duties in addition to cooking, cleaning, shopping, and running errands.

Lila's head was reeling, but she managed to reply with a certain degree of confidence, “I think I have a handle on it.”

“Well, in that case, I'll leave you to it.” Abigail consulted her watch. It was early yet, the rest of the household not yet up, but she was on her way to work, dressed to the nines in a Donna Karan jacket and silk tank top, midcalf wool skirt, and high-heeled leather boots. A strand of chunky amber beads added the perfect downtown touch to an outfit that might otherwise have looked too put-together.

They headed back down the hallway into the kitchen, where the sunlight slanting in through the windows stretched in long slats over the terra-cotta-tiled floor. Copper pots and pans gleamed on the hanging rack over the butcher-block island. Beside the stove, a professional-grade Garland, various food items were laid out on the spotless granite counter—a carton of eggs, butter, English muffins, a bag of select Cuban coffee beans (available only by mail order, Lila had been told; the procurement would be another of her duties)—reminding her that she was supposed to fix breakfast for Abigail's husband and daughter when they finally made an appearance, which presumably would be any moment.

Lila wondered what they were like. The only member of the household whom she'd met so far, besides Abigail, had been the family dog. At least he was friendly. Brewster had jumped up to give her a big, sloppy kiss before Abigail had scolded him into slinking off.

Abigail was heading for the door when she paused to add, “Oh, by the way, I won't be getting in until late tonight, and Kent's eating at the club, so don't bother with supper. Unless Phoebe wants something, which I doubt. She eats like a bird, that girl.” A look of motherly concern momentarily softened her features, allowing Lila a brief glimpse of the Abigail she'd once known and loved.

Lila followed her out into the vestibule. “Um, Abby?”

Abigail paused as she was pulling on her coat and gloves. “Yes?”

“About my day off … I was wondering if it would be all right if I took Wednesdays instead.”

Every Wednesday for the next three weeks, between the hours of two and four, Vaughn would be getting his chemotherapy at New York–Presbyterian, and she wanted to be with him on those days.

Abigail hesitated just long enough to make her annoyance known. “I suppose so,” she said. As if it could make the slightest difference to her. From what Lila could see, one day was the same as the next as far as her schedule was concerned.

“I wouldn't ask if it weren't important,” Lila felt obliged to add. “You see, my brother—” She broke off, not sure she wanted Abigail to know every detail of her private life. But it was too late. Abigail seized upon it.

“Vaughn's in town?” She tried to make it sound like a casual inquiry, but Lila couldn't help noticing the way her cheeks colored. She wondered if what she'd suspected as a teenager was true, that Abigail had secretly been in love with Vaughn.

With the cat halfway out of the bag, Lila was forced to reply, “He flew in last week.”

“Will he be around for long? I'd love to catch up with him one of these days.”

Lila gave a noncommittal shrug. “With him, you never know.”

Abigail lingered in the doorway. She seemed on the verge of saying something more, but she must have thought better of it—or feared it would reveal too much—because she swept off to the chauffeured car idling in the drive, leaving a slipstream of Chanel-scented air.

Alone at last, Lila retreated to the kitchen, thinking she could take advantage of this brief spell before the rest of the household was up to become familiarized with its layout. In the early years with Gordon, she had done all the cooking. She recalled a few disastrous meals in the first months of their marriage, like the time she'd made creamed tuna over mashed potatoes, instead of rice, which had been about as appetizing as wallpaper paste. The memory brought a smile even while causing her to wince inwardly. Over time, she'd mastered the basics, but once they'd been able to afford full-time help, the domestic duties had been relegated to others. And since Gordon's death, she'd been too preoccupied with urgent matters to be bothered with meals. The most she could manage was to boil an egg or heat up frozen lasagna. Now she found herself praying she still knew her way around a kitchen.

She was peering into the cupboard over the sink when a deep voice startled her into swinging around.

“Good morning. You must be Lila.”

A man around her age, medium height, with hair the scruffy brown of a terrier's coat and an open, friendly face ruddy from the outdoors, stood in the doorway. He was wearing khaki trousers and a corduroy sport coat over an open-necked shirt that showed his suntanned throat. His intelligent gray eyes regarded her with lively interest.

“Good morning. You must be …” She hesitated, wondering how she ought to address him—by his first or last name?—before deciding on the latter. “Dr. Whittaker.” This wasn't a cocktail party, after all. She was the
maid
.

“Kent.” He walked over to her, offering his hand. “I'm only Dr. Whittaker to my patients.”

“It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you.” His handshake was dry and firm. Lila had seen photos of him in magazines, posed alongside Abigail, the two of them looking like the ideal couple, enjoying the ideal lifestyle. He was much handsomer in person, she thought.

“Likewise,” he said. “Welcome aboard. I take it you've been given the grand tour?”

“Yes. I hope we didn't wake you.”

“Not at all. I was up, I just wasn't dressed. Everything meet with your approval?”

Since when did her approving or disapproving have anything to do with it? Lila wondered. But she put on a pleasant, neutral expression. “Yes. You have a lovely home.” She felt awkward chatting with him like this, however much his demeanor seemed to invite it. If they'd met socially, she'd have known how to act, but in her new role as hired help, the old rules didn't apply. Watching him amble over to help himself to a glass of juice from the fridge, she remembered to ask, “Would you like me to fix you something to eat?”

Kent seemed to sense her discomfort. “I have an even better idea,” he said. “Why don't
I
fix breakfast for us both? It's your first day, and I still have some time before I have to leave for work.”

“Oh, I don't—” Lila grew even more flustered.

“We won't tell anyone,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. Before she could utter another word of protest, he was scooping coffee beans into the grinder. “This is going to be an adjustment for us all, so why don't we just play it by ear? I don't know if Abby told you, but our last housekeeper was with us for a number of years. Phoebe, especially, was devoted to her.”

“I'll be sure to keep that in mind,” Lila murmured in response.

“You haven't met Phoebe yet, have you? She should be down soon. That is, if she wants a ride to school,” he said, turning to frown at the clock on the wall before he dropped a pat of butter into the skillet on the stove.

“No, but I know how she likes her eggs—over easy.” Abigail had filled her in on everyone's food preferences.

“Speaking of which, how do you like yours?” Kent cracked a couple of eggs into the now sizzling skillet.

“Sunny side up.”

“Ah, a girl after my own heart.” He tipped her another wink. Minutes later, he was sliding two perfectly cooked eggs, sunny side up, onto a plate, to which he added a toasted English muffin and some cut-up strawberries before presenting it to her with a flourish. “Bon appétit.”

They sat down to eat in the breakfast nook, which was tucked between two sets of bookshelves holding Abigail's vast array of cookbooks. “I understand you have a son who'll be joining us soon,” Kent said, as he buttered his English muffin.

“Yes, he's around your daughter's age. His name's Neal.”

“I look forward to meeting him.” Abigail's husband took a bite of his muffin, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before adding, “I wonder what it'll be like having two teenagers underfoot. Currently, we have our hands full with just one.” His tone was mild, but she sensed an undercurrent of something more than parental exasperation at a teenager's high jinks. “Oh, don't get me wrong, Phoebe's a darling girl. It's just … she's been kind of closed off lately. Don't be offended if she comes across as a little standoffish.”

“Believe me, I know the territory,” Lila commiserated, thinking of how moody Neal had been lately. The news that they'd be living out in the boonies, far from all his friends and former hangouts, had sent him into a funk. There was no longer even the pretense of putting on a brave face. He'd gone from doing his best to please her to making her life even more miserable.

“You, too?” Kent eyed her in solidarity. “Well, I suppose some of it's to be expected. Though I don't remember being that way when I was their age.”

“What were you like?” she asked, curious about him all of a sudden.

He shrugged. “Pretty dull, actually—your typical overachiever. I suppose I was born too late, in one sense. I missed out on the radical '60s, which, according to Abby, would have brought out my true nature. In case she hasn't told you, I'm a bit of a crusader. Though she sees it more as tilting at windmills.” Again, Lila sensed an undercurrent in the fleeting look that crossed his face.

“You're a doctor,” she said. “Doesn't it go with the territory to want to fix things?”

He cast her a grateful look, as if he wasn't used to being praised for his efforts, or at least not around here. “An excellent point,” he said. “But back then, all I cared about was what would look good on my college résumé. It wasn't until I graduated from med school and started my internship that I figured out there was more to life than being the best at everything.” He set his fork down, his gaze momentarily turning inward. “It was all those patients, you see. They'd wash in and out of the ER every day, like a tide. A lot of them didn't have insurance. Hell, most didn't even speak English. I remember thinking how lucky I was and that I'd never truly realized it, because I'd been so hell-bent on meeting my goals. It was then that I decided I wanted to do something more meaningful with my life.”

“Very admirable,” she said, meaning it.

“I didn't do it to be noble. At the risk of sounding like a do-gooder, I really enjoy helping people. Okay, so being a country doctor isn't exactly a UN relief mission, but even out in this neck of the woods, there's real need—you'd be surprised. For one thing, a lot of our old folks are too sick or infirm to make it into my office and too proud to admit they need help. It's my job to see that they get it.”

“You must be the last doctor in America who still makes house calls,” she observed with a smile.

“It's not just that,” he said. “I see patients who can't afford insurance or who've maxed out their policies. I get my share of pregnant teens, too—not much for kids to do around here, and you know what happens when they get bored.” He rolled his eyes. “A lot of them are too scared to go to their parents, but for some reason they trust me.”