Paradise Lost

declared heatedly. “Absolutely not.”

“What if the house burns down?”

“Then I’ll get a new Bible and start over,” Claudia had retorted.

After her mother’s death, Connie had left Claudia’s Bible as it was and where it was—in the bottom drawer of the desk. It had seemed disrespectful to her mother’s memory to do anything else. Now, as Connie counted some of those carefully hoarded bills into a neat pile, she was glad she had abided by her mother’s wishes. She had told no one of her mother’s private stash—not her father, not her sis­ter, and not even her new husband.

When Connie had counted out enough money to cover her debt, she started to put the Bible back in the drawer. Then, thinking better of it, she took it with her. In the kitchen, she stuffed the Bible into her capacious purse. After hurriedly drying her hair and slathering on some makeup, she dressed and headed off for her meeting with Ken Wilson. Twenty minutes later she was standing in the foyer of the private banking offices of First Bank of the Southwest. At that point, Connie had her involuntary quaking pretty well under control.

Ken Wilson himself came out to greet her and take her back to his private office. “I hope this hasn’t troubled you too much, Con­nie,” he said kindly.

She gave her banker what she hoped passed as a supremely con­fident smile as he showed her to a chair. “Oh, no,” she said, willing her face not to reveal the depth of her humiliation. “It’s no trouble at all. I’m sure this is nothing more than an oversight on Ron’s part. He was called out of town on business and ended up being gone longer than either of us intended. I expect to speak to him later on today, and we’ll get this whole thing straightened out. In the meantime, I brought along enough cash to dig us out of the hole.”

Carefully she counted out thirty-seven hundred-dollar bills. As she pushed them across the smooth surface of Ken’s desk, the banker cleared his throat. “I took the liberty of looking at your account again,” he said. “There’s another four hundred dollars’ worth of life insurance premiums that will be deducted within the next two days. Do you want to deposit enough to cover those as well?”

Grateful she had brought along the Bible, Connie extracted four more bills and shoved them over to Ken Wilson. “Good,” he said. “Very good.” He stood up. “If you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll be right back with your change and a receipt.”

Connie nodded and then sat staring out the window at traffic rushing by until he returned. He handed her the receipt and tale hilly counted out the change.

“If you’ll forgive my saying so,” he said hesitantly, “it sounded as though you had no idea these monies were being transferred from First Bank. I trust there isn’t some kind of problem. I mean, your family—you and your parents—have been good customers for a very long time—since long before First Bank became First Bank, as a matter of fact. I’d hate to think we had allowed something untoward to happen, although, since the accounts were all joint accounts—”

“Oh no,” Connie interrupted, answering too quickly and too brightly. She wanted to ask where the funds had gone, but she fought that one down. She didn’t want to admit to Ken Wilson that she had been kept totally in the dark. She didn’t want to admit to being that irresponsibly stupid. “If Ron decided to move the funds, I’m sure he must have had a good reason,” she continued. “As soon as I talk to him, we’ll have the whole thing ironed out.”

“Good, then,” Ken Wilson said. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Connie grabbed her purse and fled Ken Wilson’s office. She dashed through the marble-floored bank lobby and sank gratefully into the overheated leather of her mother’s oversized Lincoln Town Car. Although it was not yet the end of May, the Valley of the Sun had been sweltering in triple-digit temperatures for almost two weeks. Even so, Connie felt chilled. When she switched on the engine, she quickly turned off the air conditioner and opened the window, letting in a blast of broiling outside air.

Joint accounts! she chided herself. She had done that on purpose, too. In a fit of defiance, Connie had put Ron on as a signatory to all her accounts just to spite people like her sister Maggie and the other naysayers who had told her Ron was only after her money. Had she listened? Had she paid any of them the slightest bit of heed? No. Her father had been right after all. She was stupid—unbelievably stupid. She had taken everything Ron Haskell told her as gospel, and he had betrayed her. Other women might have railed and cried and blamed their betrayers. Driving back home, her eyes dry and gritty with unshed tears, Constance Marie Richardson Haskell blamed only herself.

Once in the house, Connie saw the blinking light on the answering machine as soon as she put her car keys and purse down on the kitchen counter. Hurrying to the machine, she punched the play button. First came Ken Wilson’s message, which she had already heard but had failed to erase. She fast-forwarded through that one. Then, after a click, she heard Ron’s voice, and her heart leaped in her throat.