Woman in Black (14 page)

The old bitterness rose in Abigail once more. Where had Lila been when it had been Abigail in need? No one in the family except Vaughn had even sent condolences when Rosalie had died. The weight of those memories pressed down on her until Abigail felt her legs give way. She slid slowly to the floor, where she sat hugging her knees, shivering uncontrollably. It occurred to her that, in re-creating herself, she'd failed in one crucial respect. She hadn't been able to excise her anger, which had become rooted over time and was now a part of her, like an inoperable tumor. Maybe this was what she needed in order to be free of it: the chance to reenact the past, this time with the tables turned—
she
the one in a position of authority and Lila at her mercy.

The beauty of it was that she hadn't even sought it out. The opportunity had landed like a fat plum in her lap. What was it if not poetic justice?

She didn't doubt that Lila would accept her offer. Abigail was on intimate terms with that kind of desperation. She could easily picture the scenario: the friends who'd deserted Lila in droves, the potential employers who'd shied away due to the threat of bad press, the ever-shrinking reserves of money that had left the proverbial wolf not just at her door but gnawing its way through it. So, yes, Lila would do whatever it took to survive. Just as Abigail had all those years ago, after her exile to Pine Bluff.

An old memory surfaced. Uncle Ray bending over her, his face inches from hers, the smell of the mints he sucked on to help him quit smoking so strong she could almost taste it—a smell she'd come to loathe. She heard him rasp, in his gravelly smoker's voice, “The way I see it, girlie, you're lucky to have us looking out for you, your mama being so sick and all.” She could feel his breath tickling her ear. “If it weren't for me and your aunt Phyllis, you'd be shit out of luck. Now, ain't that right?”

She'd feared and despised her uncle from the very first moment she'd laid eyes on him. No sooner had they walked in through the door than he was sizing her and her mother up with a long, slow look that had held a world of contempt, as if they weren't his wife's kin but just another pair of mouths to feed. And in the weeks that followed, he did nothing to dispel that negative first impression. Though her aunt and uncle were fairly affluent by Pine Bluff standards, their modest ranch house a palace compared to the one-room shack Uncle Ray had grown up in, he was as coarse and crude as his moonshine-drinking pappy before him (about whom they'd had to listen to stories ad nauseam). Out in the world, Uncle Ray played the part of all-around good guy: the dependable husband who went off to work each morning in a suit and tie, to the offices of Farmer's Mutual, where he was chief claims adjustor; the good neighbor who kept his lawn trimmed and who was quick with a smile and a handshake or the offer of a cold beer. But at home, he was a foul-mouthed tyrant, barking orders at Rosalie and Abby when he wasn't yelling at his wife, as if they existed for the sole purpose of seeing to his every need. At the same time, he seldom missed an opportunity to remind them of the debt
they
owed him. He'd taken them in when no one else would, he'd say. Where would they be if not for his generosity?

Aunt Phyllis, a weak, washed-out woman, was too intimidated to stand up to him. It must have been somewhat of a relief to her that, with the arrival of her sister and niece, she was no longer the sole person at the receiving end of her husband's abuse. The only true respites the women enjoyed were when Uncle Ray went away on overnight trips, to assess the damage caused by some catastrophe in a neighboring county, as he frequently had to do in his line of work.

The first time he asked Abigail to accompany him on one of those trips, she did her best to wriggle out of it. But Uncle Ray insisted that he needed her to spell him on the driving—she had her driver's license by then—so she had no choice but to go along. If Aunt Phyllis saw through his ruse, she was too cowed to offer any objection. And Abigail's mother was so ill by then that every ounce of her energy was devoted to simply getting through each day. Looking back, Abigail could see that Uncle Ray had timed it perfectly.

She should have had some inkling of what was in store when he booked a double room at the motel that night, instead of two singles. But she was so naive, her only sexual experience to date that one time with Vaughn—which by then had come to seem as if it had taken place in another lifetime—that she didn't see the handwriting on the wall.

Uncle Ray didn't try anything that first trip. He lay in wait until the next time he coerced her into going out of town with him. On that occasion, she was half asleep in bed, lights out, when she felt him crawl in next to her. Even now, more than twenty years later, she physically recoiled at the memory: Uncle Ray, his bony knees poking her under the covers, a scrawny arm hooked about her middle, while she lay there, too frozen with shock to move so much as a muscle. A slightly built man with a head too large for his body and a rattle in his lungs from having smoked two packs a day from the time he was a teenager, he couldn't have outweighed Abigail by much, but he was wiry and strong as an old cockfighting rooster. Had she put up a struggle, there was no question as to who would have won.

Nothing happened that night. He gave her time to get used to the idea, as if she were supposed to think it was the most natural thing in the world for a grown man to get into bed with his sixteen-year-old niece. He didn't make his move until the following night. They'd spent the day wading through the wreckage caused by a flood in nearby Tull's River, which had left many of Farmer's Mutual's policyholders either homeless or under several feet of water, and by the time she hit the sack, Abigail, who hadn't slept more than a wink the night before, was so tired she was scarcely able to keep her eyes open. She was sound asleep when she woke to him spooned up next to her, rubbing himself against her backside with slow, undulating movements.

She cried out and attempted to push him away. But he only clamped his arm more tightly about her. “You know what happens to ungrateful little bitches who bite the hand that feeds them?” he hissed. “You get your poor, sick mama kicked out into the cold, and it'll be on your head, girlie.”

He had her right where he wanted her. She would have endured anything for her mother's sake. Even that.

She'd never told a living soul about those nights in the motels with her uncle Ray. Not the therapist she'd seen for a short while after moving to New York; not even her husband. Rationally, she knew that she hadn't been to blame. You had only to watch
Oprah
to know that. She'd been victimized, plain and simple. Still, even after all this time, she couldn't shake the sense that she'd been at fault somehow, that she could have done something to prevent it if she'd been smarter or braver or more devout. Every so often the old shame would sneak up on her, triggered by some reminder of the past, and she'd be forced to confront the beast slumbering within. A beast she feared would one day awake.

In the meantime, she had more pressing matters at hand. Such as Lila. And the fire that had destroyed her factory in Las Cruces.

Her thoughts turned to the poor girl who'd died in the fire. Only nineteen! Just a few years older than Phoebe. A shudder went through her at the mental image of her daughter being consumed by flames. But no one else had perished or been seriously injured in the blaze, so they'd been lucky in that sense. Small consolation to the girl's family, she knew. And from what she'd just learned from her Mexican middleman, there was reason to believe the fatality might have been prevented. Certain measures had been taken to ensure that the workers remained at their stations for the duration of their shifts, Perez had belatedly informed her. Measures he'd taken the liberty to implement
only
after she'd ordered a step-up in production, he'd hastened to underline. When asked if those measures could have caused a delay in evacuation after the fire had broken out, he grudgingly conceded that it was possible.

“Why wasn't I told about this before?” she demanded.

“I didn't wish to concern you. It seemed a minor matter,” he said.

“Minor matter! A girl is dead.”

“Yes. Most unfortunate,” he murmured sympathetically.

“Who else knows about this?”

“Only the workers, and they'll keep quiet about it. They're too afraid for their jobs.” Señor Perez sounded nervous, even so. “The girl's mother, on the other hand …” He let the sentence trail off.

“You think she'll make trouble?”

“Who can say if the ravings of a grief-stricken woman are to be taken seriously?” he said.

“Do you think it would help if I spoke with her myself?”

“No, no!” Señor Perez was quite firm on that point. “Let me handle it, Señora. I know this woman. I can reason with her. You'd merely be giving credence to her accusations.”

And so, against her better judgment, Abigail had left Perez to handle the matter. There was no sense in her mixing in if it was only going to cause more trouble. And right now, she needed to concentrate on the home front. The company had taken a hit, and some serious damage control was in order. For one thing, she'd had to delay the planned launch of her bed-and-bath linen line. The Tag executives hadn't been happy about it. Marty Baumgarten had even gone so far as to say they were considering backing out of the deal altogether.

As a result, her team at Goldman Sachs had decided to postpone filing an application with the SEC for Abigail Armstrong Incorporated to go public, at least until the dust had settled. They didn't have to tell her what it would do to stock prices should potential shareholders get wind of any illegal activity, even on the part of a middleman acting on her behalf. Especially if said activity were connected to a fatality. The fact that it had taken place in a Third World country would only make her look worse. She'd come across as a heartless exploiter of the poor and disenfranchised. Every international rights group would be all over her like white on rice. The media would have a field day.

And none of it would bring back that poor dead girl.

She was busy preparing supper when Kent and Phoebe walked in. Phoebe, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed, looked livelier than she had in weeks. The fresh air and exercise must have done her good. Kent appeared energized as well—ruddy and tanned, his tweed-colored hair scuffed from the wind. She felt a moment's regret that she hadn't joined them on the boat. But she'd had so much to do, and there had been Lila.…

“I'm making pasta,” she announced. “Would anyone like to volunteer to set the table?”

“I'm not hungry,” Phoebe said pointedly as she squatted down to let Brewster give her a wet, doggy kiss.

“We had burgers at the club,” Kent explained somewhat sheepishly. “We didn't know you'd be making supper.”

“What do you mean? We always eat together on Sundays!” Abigail's voice rose on a peevish note.

“I know, but we figured that with Veronique gone …” He shrugged off his North Face parka and tossed it over the back of a chair. “Anyway, it's not the end of the world, is it? Won't it keep until tomorrow night?” He peered into the pot of pasta bubbling on the stove.

“It won't be the same.” Abigail didn't know if it was the spaghetti marinara or the missed opportunity to dine with her family she was referring to. “Couldn't you at least have phoned? I wouldn't have gone to all this trouble if I'd known you were eating at the club.”

“Sorry. It was an honest mistake.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders, delivering a cool kiss to her forehead. He smelled of damp wool and sea air. “Anyway, you said you had a meeting. We thought you'd be tied up with that. How did it go?”

“What?”

“The meeting.” He gave her a funny look.

“Oh, that. Yes. I was going to tell you about it over dinner. I hired a new housekeeper today.” She spoke casually in an attempt to downplay it.

“You did
what?
” Phoebe yelped, so loudly that their dog cowered as though it were something he'd done.

Kent eyed Abigail with a somber expression. “I thought we agreed it would be a family decision.”

“She's very nice,” Abigail went on in the same mild tone, as if they hadn't spoken. “In fact, she's someone I've known for a very long time.” The less they knew about the true nature of her and Lila's relationship, the better.

“Who?” Kent wanted to know.

“Lila DeVries.”

“The wife of that guy who offed himself?” Phoebe shot to her full height, staring at her mother in disbelief.

Kent looked similarly taken aback. “Abby, I don't know if this is such a good—”

Abigail didn't let him finish. “
You're
the one who suggested I reach out to her.” He didn't need to know it had been Lila who'd contacted her. “Well, I did. And she happened to mention she was looking for work. So I offered her the job.”

“Something tells me it wasn't the kind of job she had in mind,” he said, eyeing her warily.

Abigail shrugged. “Work is work.”

“Couldn't you have found her something at the office?” Kent asked.

“Maybe, but I didn't really think it through. She needs a job and we need a new housekeeper. It just seemed the natural next step. Frankly, I thought you'd be pleased.” Abigail turned away, so Kent wouldn't see the guilty expression on her face, and dumped the contents of the boiling pot down the disposal. The marinara sauce would keep, but the pasta wouldn't. “Anyway, I'm not even sure if she's going to take it. She's supposed to let me know tomorrow.”

Kent settled heavily into the chair over which his jacket was slung. It was always this way when they argued. The angrier he got, the quieter and more über-reasonable he became. Good qualities in a doctor; not so good in a husband. “Let's say she does take the job,” he reasoned in that slow, ponderous way of his, as if she weren't his wife but one of his patients. “Have you given any thought to what will happen if the press gets hold of this?”