'Come now, Ann,' Barbara snapped. 'Surely you've had that I-can't-live-without-you feeling. That clutching of the heart, those palpitations of desire.'
'I don't think about it,' Ann replied nervously. 'I'm too busy with my studies.'
'Don't you?'
'It's not a priority. That's all.'
Perhaps she had gone too far. Certainly she had stirred things up. She retreated quickly, sure now of this newly discovered weapon. Yet she was fond of Ann, and using this tactic made Barbara uncomfortable.
'I'm sorry, Ann,' she said, half sincerely. 'It's beginning to get to me. All this strain. Perhaps if I went away. Maybe up to Boston to visit my parents. And took the kids.' She was being deliberately hypothetical, waiting for some reaction. But none came. Ann got up and started to move away.
'What do you think?' Barbara asked hurriedly.
'About what?' Ann asked.
'About me going away for a weekend with the kids.' 'I don't know, Barbara.'
You know exactly what to think, Ann, Barbara thought, laying the anchovies on the salad mound.
15
The children's excitement at going to Boston masked Ann's own. She helped them pack and wrote down a great list of instructions that Barbara had given her, mostly about shopping and defrosting, so that Barbara would be able to meet her commitments when she came back Monday morning. Ann had also promised to feed Mercedes.
'I'll miss you all,' she cried, embracing each of them at the door, waving as they ran down the walk to the waiting taxi. She stood in the doorway for a long time, hoping they would see her lone figure.
But when they had gone, she wanted to shout for joy. Alone with Oliver. It was all she had thought about. She hoped she had successfully kept Barbara's suspicions at bay. But that was merely a detail now. All's fair in love and war, she thought gleefully. Not that he had ever given her the slightest encouragement, especially after his apology for the incident in the library on Christmas Eve.
'I'm sorry,' he had said, revealing both his vulnerability and his guilt.
She took a long, lingering bubble bath, perfumed and powdered herself, and put on a flimsy peignoir. She knew she was no physical match for Barbara. Ann's figure was spare but well proportioned, her breasts and buttocks small. Serviceable, she told herself, reflecting on her meagre experience. Nothing had moved her as much as that brief moment with Oliver. Nothing.
She hadn't told Oliver of her conversation with Barbara, which had agitated her. At the same time, it made her feel safer. Oliver, she was certain, believed that he was being watched and conducted himself accordingly. Perhaps now, possessed of the knowledge that Barbara had given her, she could allay his fears.
Nothing would have made her happier than to be the chatelaine of this lovely house. Was it a stroke of fate that Barbara had decided to divorce him so soon after she had arrived in the house? It was incomprehensible that Barbara could reject such a good and loving man.
Ann had lit a fire in the library, selected a book from the shelves, and, while the words swam before her concentrated on picking out his familiar step on the sidewalk and Benny's heralding bark. To calm herself, she opened the armoire and poured some vodka.
She hadn't long to wait. He appeared surprised when he saw her sitting in the library.
'I hadn't realized,' he began. 'I thought you might have gone away as well.'
'Here I am.'
He went to the armoire and poured himself a scotch, turning to look at her. He shook his head and smiled gendy.
'You drop a spark on dry kindling and you get fire,' he said, lifting his glass.
'Nature's way,' she said, smiling.
'You're taking advantage of a peculiar situation,' he warned with mock sarcasm.
'I know.'
'It won't do either of us any good. Certainly not yourself, Ann.'
'So I've been forewarned.' She was surprised at her boldness. He walked to the window and, parting the drapes, looked into the street. Then he turned to face her.
'I feel uncomfortable,' he confessed. 'That last episode nearly unnerved me.' He swallowed hard and his eyes roamed over the Staffordshire pieces on the mantelpiece. 'It took years to collect those pieces.' 'I know,' she said.
His hand swept the air. 'All those beautiful things. This house. I'm not going to let her have it, Ann. She doesn't deserve it.' His belligerence was tangible, aggressive.
He sat down opposite her. 'There's a lot of pain in this process. Some people might think it's self-inflicted. I could walk away-. Say good-bye. Kiss it off. And start all over again.' He looked up at her suddenly. 'I'll bet that's what you think. Walk away and start all over again.' She was shocked at the accusatory tone.
'No,' she said cautiously. 'I'm also a fighter for the things I want.' But he ignored her, still focusing on the cause of his animosity.
'She's just being ornery. A bitch,' he said. 'Maybe it was there all the time. This meanness. But I was too stupid to see it.' He shook his head. 'I can't get rid of the anger. It's like a perpetual flame. Every time I think about it I get mad. Mad at myself. Mad at Goldstein, as if it were his fault that he's putting me through this. Mad at Thurmont because I know the bastard is advising her. Mad at my kids for not taking my side.' He looked at her.
