Woman in Black (20 page)

And now look at her. Abigail had a career most people would kill for. A handsome husband who was accomplished in his own right. A daughter who was smart and beautiful. So why wasn't she more content? Why did every little thing seem to rub her the wrong way?

Partly it had to do with Kent. There was no use denying that they'd grown apart. Her husband used to say that they were like swans, mated for life. But these days Abigail would have likened them more to a pair of goldfish, swimming around and around each other without ever really connecting. She couldn't remember the last time they'd even had sex. She wasn't entirely to blame, either. Kent devoted so much of his time and energy to his patients—not to mention his pet causes—that he was often out when she arrived home from work (though he seemed to have short-term memory loss in regard to that). Case in point: The night before, she'd gotten home early, having hinted to him that morning that she was in an amorous mood, only to be greeted by a note stuck to the refrigerator, saying he probably wouldn't be getting in until late and that she shouldn't wait up for him. It was close to midnight by the time he rolled in. He'd spent the evening at another one of his rabble-rousing town hall meetings. By then, she'd been too tired for sex. What made it so aggravating was that she wasn't even allowed to express her annoyance. Kent was doing “good works,” while she was serving the gods of commerce. There was no comparison, in his view.

She still loved him, though, and hoped he still loved her. Once this whole hideous business with the factory had been straightened out, she would make good on her vow to arrange a trip to someplace romantic. Paris … or maybe Venice, where they'd gone on their honeymoon. Venice, yes, she thought dreamily. What better place to rekindle their passion?

She closed her eyes as the makeup artist, an older woman named Candace, powdered her nose and applied shadow to her lids. Usually Abigail spent the time in hair and makeup gossiping with Candace, who'd been in the business long enough to accrue a lifetime's worth of stories that would “curl your hair without any help from me,” as she liked to joke. But today Abigail remained quiet, indulging instead in a fantasy of her and Kent ensconced in a suite at the Gritti Palace. She was picturing them having breakfast out on the terrace after a morning of mad love-making when her reverie was rudely interrupted by another mental image, which popped up out of nowhere: Lila scrubbing the kitchen floor. Which was precisely the scene Abigail had encountered when she'd arrived home from work yesterday.

For some reason, the sight of Lila on her hands and knees with a scrub brush, like some latter-day Cinderella, had only served to irritate her. “Is that really necessary?” she asked, stepping around Lila to fetch a wineglass from the cupboard.

“Isn't this what you wanted?” Lila paused to gaze up at her innocently. She was wearing a print dress that Abigail recognized as a vintage Lily Pulitzer, her hair tied up in a scarf and diamond studs sparkling in her ears—Brooke Astor meets Carol Burnett's scrubwoman.

“Yes, but there's no need to take it to extremes. This isn't a theatrical production. Wouldn't a mop do just as well?” She couldn't help feeling that Lila was playing her new role to the hilt in order to elicit sympathy. But that was silly, wasn't it? Lila couldn't have known she'd be home early.

Lila shrugged, replying in a tone that verged on insolent, “Whatever you say. You're the boss.”

Abigail thought,
She'll bend, but she won't break
.

Lila always did what was asked of her, giving no cause for complaint, but Abigail hadn't missed the prideful tilt of her chin or the defiant glint in her eyes. It wasn't helping matters, either, that Kent treated her like a family friend who was merely helping out around the house, or that Brewster jumped all over her, tail wagging, whenever she walked through the back door. Even Phoebe was coming around. It wasn't just that she tolerated Lila; she actually seemed to like her.

Abigail had half a mind to let Lila go. She might have done just that if a new wrinkle hadn't presented itself: The other day, Kent had said something in passing, as they'd been getting ready for bed, about some doctor friend of his to whom he'd spoken about Lila's brother.

At the mention of Vaughn, Abigail's heart rate ratcheted up, though she managed to reply in a normal tone of voice, “What about Lila's brother?”

Kent paused in the midst of pulling on his pajama bottoms. “Lila didn't tell you?” He seemed mildly surprised. Of course. He wasn't privy to her complicated history with Lila.

“Tell me what?” she asked.

“He has cancer.”

“Cancer?” It had been decades since she'd had any contact with Vaughn, but for some reason the news hit hard. She felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her.

“Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma,” Kent went on. She must have appeared shaken, for he paused to peer at her with concern. “Abby, are you all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost.”

“I … I'm fine,” she stammered. “It's just that I didn't know he was ill.”

Kent gave a somber nod. “It's stage two, so his chances are good. But he's got a long road ahead of him.”

“Poor Vaughn,” she murmured, shaking her head as she lowered herself onto the bed, the hairbrush in her hand resting forgotten on one knee.

Kent shot her a puzzled look. “I didn't realize you and he were close.”

Abigail didn't know how much to tell him—he'd wonder why she'd withheld it until now—so she settled on a partial truth. “Vaughn was always nice to me,” she said, letting it go at that.

It had been preying on her mind ever since. She couldn't stop thinking about Vaughn and the fact that he was ill. Though it had been more than two decades since she'd last seen him, she knew she couldn't let any more time elapse; she might not get another chance.

Easier said than done. She'd had a devil of a time prying his whereabouts out of Lila. At first all she'd been able to glean was that he was staying with a friend in the city.

“Why don't I give him your number?” Lila hedged. “That way, he can call you when he's feeling up to it.”

“Or I could leave him a message.”

Lila gave her a flat look that Abigail recognized, from when they were kids, as her digging her heels in. “I don't think he wants his friend's machine tied up with a lot of calls for him.”

“Doesn't he have a cell phone?”

“Who, Vaughn?” Lila gave a derisive snort. “You're talking about a guy who spends most of his time in places that don't even have running water, much less cell-phone service. When he calls, it's usually from a sat phone.”

Abigail felt herself losing patience. “Fine, whatever. So just give me the number of where he's staying. Really, Lila, I don't see the problem. It's not like I'm going to be pestering him at odd hours. I just want …” She paused. What
did
she want? “… to see how he's doing.”

“I told you, he's holding up just fine. Better than expected, as a matter of fact.”

“I'd like to see for myself, if you don't mind.”

“Right now, the only people he's seeing are his friends,” Lila said pointedly.

Determined not to let Lila's little power trip get to her, Abigail replied breezily, “Well, then, I'm sure he'll be delighted to hear from me.”

In the end, she'd managed to wrangle from Lila the address and phone number where her brother was staying. For all the good it had done her. Abigail had left several messages, none of which had been returned so far. Was Vaughn really so sick that he couldn't pick up the phone? The uncertainty nibbled at her like tiny rodent's teeth. What if he wasn't doing as well as Lila had said? What if he needed some kind of help, something that was in her power to provide? A private nurse? Money to tide him over until he was back on his feet? Whatever it was, she'd be there for him, just as he'd been for
her
when she'd needed it. Vaughn hadn't turned his back on her like the rest of the Meriwhethers. Now it was her turn to repay the favor.

After a restless couple of nights she'd decided that, if Vaughn wouldn't return her calls, she would just have to drop in on him unannounced, even if it meant catching him at a bad time. In fact, she planned to head over there as soon as her segment wrapped.

Contemplating that prospect, she made her way back to the set, freshly coifed and powdered, to find Dana Zeigler, the host for her segment, conferring with the director, Tim Graberman. Tim resembled a large stick insect, all arms and legs and protruding eyes, while Dana, with her fiery red hair, stood out like an Olympic torch amid the small army of cameramen and sound engineers mobilizing around her. She spotted Abigail and broke into a grin, waving to her as if they were old friends. Which, in a way, they were. In the eight years that Abigail had been doing regular guest spots on
A.M. America
, she'd seen other anchors and producers come and go, while she and Dana had remained fixtures.

Nothing lasts forever
, whispered the old voice of insecurity in Abigail's head. What if the public were to learn that she'd been partly responsible for the death of that poor girl in Las Cruces? If the guilt she felt was any indication of what the public backlash would be, it could spell the end of her career. She felt a cool trickle of unease at the thought.

It took all of Abigail's media savvy to keep the stress and sleepless nights from showing on her face when, minutes later, the cameras rolling, Dana launched into her thirty-second intro. It wouldn't do to let the viewers see any cracks in her facade, she thought, for them to know that underneath this calm, smiling exterior she was as fallible as they.

She chatted as easily with Dana as if they were in her own kitchen at Rose Hill as she pressed pastry dough into tart pans and whisked the cranberry juice reduction into the softened mascarpone, then folded it into the whipped cream. While spooning poached cranberries over the finished tarts, she filled the viewers in on her upcoming projects, which included a book on wedding planning and a food festival to raise money for an orphanage in Bangladesh, in which she'd be participating along with a number of other chefs.

It wasn't until Abigail was wrapping up, with a tip on holiday party decor, that Dana ambushed her, interjecting with a staged coyness, “From what I hear, you'll be getting some help this year from someone who knows a little something about entertaining herself.”

Abigail was momentarily thrown. How had Dana found out about Lila? With Gordon's suicide, there had been a last flurry of the media frenzy surrounding the DeVrieses, but in the weeks since, with Lila out of the public eye, there had been no mention of her in the press. Dana must have her own sources.

Abigail quickly recovered her wits—wasn't her catchphrase “When life gives you lemons, make lemon meringue pie”?

“You must mean my dear old friend Lila DeVries. Yes, we're lucky to have her,” she replied without missing a beat. She carefully positioned a cranberry atop the tart, smiling as though she and Lila were indeed the best of friends.

Dana clued the audience in. “For any of you who've just dropped in from another planet, we're talking about
the
Lila DeVries, widow of the late Gordon DeVries, who was convicted earlier this year in the Vertex scandal. If you were wondering where she'd disappeared to, I'm here to report she's alive and well and working for Abigail.
As her live-in housekeeper
.”

Abigail seized the opportunity to spin a negative into a positive. Fortunately, she'd anticipated being questioned about Lila—just not this soon. “Yes, and I tell you, Dana, she's been a godsend. In fact, I don't know what we would have done without her. You see, my old housekeeper had to leave suddenly because of a family crisis, and we were in a real pickle. When Lila found out, she took pity on us and insisted on helping out—that's the kind of person she is. Oh, I know how she's been portrayed by the press, but she's nothing like that. Which only goes to show, you can't believe everything you read in the papers.”

“‘Selfless' isn't exactly a word that comes to mind with Lila DeVries,” Dana lobbed back at her. “Does it concern you at all, given the negative publicity she's gotten, that this might tarnish your own image?”

“Not in the least,” Abigail replied smoothly. “Besides, what are friends for, if not to look after each other in times of trouble?” She smiled serenely into the camera, as if her words weren't sticking in her throat like a spoonful of dry cornmeal.

“Well, we wish you both a happy holiday.” Dana moved to wrap things up with Tim Graberman signaling wildly to her off camera, adding with a sly chuckle, “One thing's for sure: It's going to be an interesting one in the Armstrong house this year.”

You can say that again
, Abigail answered silently. She flashed Dana a dirty look as she unclipped the mike from her lapel, letting her know that she hadn't appreciated being blindsided, but all in all she was confident that she'd managed to salvage the situation, even if it had meant having to lie through her teeth on national TV.

On her way to her dressing room, she spied the PA snapped at earlier, scurrying down the corridor just ahead of her as if she were trying to escape her notice. Feeling a fresh pang of regret, Abigail called out to her, and the girl—thin and dark like Phoebe, though not nearly as pretty—slowed to a halt, looking as if she expected to get yelled at again. But Abigail only said sweetly, “I just wanted to thank you for doing such a nice job. I'm sorry if I was a little hard on you earlier. Let's just say it's been one of those mornings.”

The girl relaxed visibly. “It won't happen again, Ms. Armstrong.” Color rose in her cheeks, and she hastened to add, “The poinsettias, I mean. I'll remember the next time.”