Authors: Elizabeth Brundage
The Doctor's Wife (18 page)
“Maybe you were eating too many of those brownies.”
“Now you’re getting personal.”
“You’re somebody I’d like to get personal with.”
“I don’t know how to respond to that comment.”
“You don’t have to respond to it,” he said softly. “Not right away, anyway.”
She watched his face, the rain shadows dripping down it like tears. “Where did you grow up?”
“You don’t want to know about my measly past.”
“Maybe you don’t want to tell me.”
“Maybe I don’t. The mystery is infinitely more interesting.”
“Oh, yes, you have quite the reputation.”
He smiled a little bashfully. “It’s a very small pond here at St. Catherine’s, Ms. Knowles.”
“And you’re a very big fish. And a very good swimmer I might add. You owe me a rematch.”
“I thought you weren’t competitive.”
“I’m not. Not really.”
“Just slightly aggressive.”
“Just slightly.”
“A dangerous woman.”
“No,” she said softly. “Not dangerous.
Hardly.
” There was an awkward pause; she didn’t want it to be awkward. “I sure do miss those brownies, though.”
Hardly.
” There was an awkward pause; she didn’t want it to be awkward. “I sure do miss those brownies, though.”
“I’m sure you can dig up the recipe. In fact, now that we’re on the subject . . .” He started digging through his pockets and produced a joint. “Ah, yes.” He lit it, took a drag, and passed it to her.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t smoked pot in years. Years!”
“What better excuse?”
“I have kids!”
“All the more reason.” He took another drag. “A gift from one of my students. Lovely girl. Here, take a hit. It’s not going to kill you.”
She watched him sucking on the joint and reconsidered. Maybe one hit wouldn’t hurt. “All right.” He gave it to her and she dragged on the cigarette. It crackled and sent little sparks down to her thighs. Within seconds she felt her body vibrating, humming. I’m humming, she thought. Like the strings of a harp. “My husband would kill me.”
“I wouldn’t tell him, then,” he said a bit deviously. “I imagine he’d be somewhat suspicious.”
She laughed suddenly, a little excited by the idea. “And your wife. What would she think?”
“My wife is always suspicious.”
The rain fell harder now and she suddenly became conscious of the wheel in her hands, the sound of the road, the tires, the movement of the trees. The trees seemed to be crying out. The branches groped the sky like blind zealots. Simon’s directions became elaborate, sending them down a labyrinth of dirt roads. I’m stoned, she thought. I’m totally wasted. She hoped she wouldn’t get lost on her way out.
“We’re just down there,” he said. “That house there, through the trees.”
The house sat up on a hill overlooking the lake. You had to take a narrow dirt road to get up to it. The road was rutted and muddy, and the Volvo bucked and rocked over the bumps. At last the house appeared, looming over the sprawling trees. It was a rambling old place, in surprising disrepair. The paint had chipped and several of the shutters had come off their bottom hinges and hung crookedly, giving the house a haphazard gloom. A light shone in a window on the second floor. Annie parked near the steps to the porch. The roof had been strung with a collection of chimes of all shapes and sizes and colors, all of which were twisting in the wind, producing, in Annie’s state of mind, an eerie cacophony. Annie could see the lake, which looked black and ominous in the growing dark. Within seconds a pack of Great Danes had surrounded the car and were barking savagely. “My goodness,” Annie said.
“Don’t mind them, it’s all bark. They’re actually very gentle animals, but most people don’t know it. They’ve seen too many James Bond movies.”
“They don’t look gentle.”
“That’s the whole point, of course.” He gathered his things together, a canvas rucksack stuffed with papers. “There was a time, a few years ago, when we needed the protection. My wife, you see, on account of the paintings. We were hounded, no pun intended.” He smiled at the memory. “We’ve actually grown attached to the beasts. But that will happen, I suppose. In time, we all get attached.”
“It’s a beautiful house.”
“Was a beautiful house, a century ago. Come in for a minute, meet my wife.”
“I should use your phone. My cell phone’s dead.”
Annie followed him up the steps onto the porch, the dogs sniffing at her heels. She noticed that the paint on the porch floor had been scratched to shreds. To her surprise, she felt anxious about meeting Lydia Haas, as if something had already been established between her and Simon that his wife would no doubt discover. When they entered the house, it was quiet. His wife was not at home.
“Lydia’s not here,” he told her, as though reading her thoughts. “Come, we’ll go in here.” Simon led her into the sparsely decorated living room, where a fire smoldered in the fireplace. There was a Chippendale sofa, covered in a faded salmon-colored velvet, and a leather wing chair, and an impressive antique secretary cluttered with sheets of stationery, letters in the process of being written. The worn Oriental carpet looked dirty, covered with dog hair and ash from the fireplace, and the cold room smelled of smoke and ash. Simon brought in some wood and dumped it on the fire and the flames sprang up at once, casting an orange glow about the room.
“It’s a lovely room,” she said. “The fire feels good.”
“It’s damp out. I see it’s raining again. You may as well wait till it lets up. Have a drink with me.”
“All right. I’ll just call home.” She followed him back into the foyer, then through another door to the kitchen. It was a bright, sprawling space, cluttered with the disarray of cooking. She smelled something baking in the oven and watched as he opened it and peered inside.
“Smells good,” Annie said, looking for the phone.
“Apple pie. We must be having company—she doesn’t cook like this for me.”
“You don’t sound terribly excited.”
“No. In fact, I dread these dinners of hers. People from her church. They sit around discussing psalms, for Christ’s sake. I can’t think of anything more depressing.”
“And what do you do while they’re discussing psalms?”
“What else? Drink. Telephone’s over here.”
Annie went to the phone and dialed her number. Rosie picked up. “Hello?” Annie could hear Henry practicing his violin in the background, the screeching sound of the strings.
“Hi, honey.”
“Mommy! When are you coming home?”
“Soon. Can I talk to Christina?”
A moment later, Christina came on. Annie explained how she’d driven Haas home. “I’m leaving in ten minutes.”
“Did you say Haas?” Christina blurted. “The art professor?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Watch out, Mrs. Knowles. He’s a
letch
!”
letch
!”
Annie put the phone down and found Simon in the living room, stoking the fire. He handed her a glass of bourbon, which she readily accepted even though she rarely drank hard liquor, especially in the afternoon, and the two of them sat down together on the couch. She felt surprisingly good. Outside it was getting dark and the rain was falling hard and she liked the sound of it coming down on the roof. Through the windows she observed the loping hides of the dogs pacing on the porch, their wet snouts pressing against the glass.
“Here’s to your dinner party,” she said.
“Yes, yes, another evening of folksy chat around the kitchen table. It’s my penance, I suppose, for all the years I exploited her. Payback time.”
“Is that what you did? Exploited her?”
“Isn’t it?” He looked at her and smiled and held up his glass. “Cheers.”
They drank their drinks and a moment passed where they said nothing to each other.
Just then a blue Mercedes appeared in the driveway and pulled into the unattached garage. “My wife is home,” he said without emotion. Silently they watched Lydia Haas run through the rain to the house. She was carrying a brown paper grocery bag.
“We’re in here, Lydia,” he called. When there was no reply, he sang out her name childishly: “Lydia! We’re in the living room!”
Lydia Haas came to the doorway wearing an old coat with wood toggles and brown corduroy trousers and muddy black boots. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman Annie had ever seen. She stood shyly in the doorway and said nothing.
“You’re all wet, silly girl,” Simon said.
“I got caught,” she answered, shrugging awkwardly.
“Well, for God’s sake, go and dry off.”
“You have a visitor,” she said, waiting to be introduced.
“Hello.” Annie stood up, reaching out her hand. “I’m Annie Knowles.”
“Remember, I told you. The new professor,” Simon explained. “Ms. Knowles was kind enough to drive me home.”
“Not your car again?” She tossed Annie a dark look. “I come home every night to find another stranger in the house.”
“But look at all the nice friends I’m making,” Simon said lightly, winking at Annie.
“I was actually on my way out,” Annie said, starting toward the door. “I’ve got kids waiting for me. The pie smells wonderful.”
“We’re having some people from church,” Simon’s wife said haltingly, shrugging off her coat. “Or else I’d ask you to stay.”
“I’ve got to get home,” Annie gently dismissed her. “I’m sure my son has stacks of homework, none of which he’s done.”
“Another time, perhaps,” Simon said. “I’ll walk you out. There’s an umbrella on the porch.” Annie could see Lydia at the oven, a flowered apron around her waist, her face flushed in the heat. Simon hurried in front of her and ushered her outside.
“Well, good-bye, Lydia.”
“Bye.” Lydia Haas raised her hand in a solemn wave.
Annie could feel Lydia’s gaze like heat on her back as she followed Simon onto the porch. He had the umbrella open and escorted her through the pouring rain to her car. The dogs surrounded them again, sniffing and yapping at her thighs, their wet fur dampening the legs of her pants. Simon dug in his pocket, producing a handful of dog biscuits, and tossed them into the woods. “Ah, the old dog-biscuit trick,” she said.
“Works like a charm.” He hesitated, watching her. “Like all angry creatures they can be appeased. The trick is finding out what they want.” He smiled at her meaningfully, then pulled her toward him and kissed her on the mouth. She broke away from him immediately.
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