Change of Life. Leigh Riker

she looked thrown together. Of course, she’d had no reason to expect company.

      Geneva’s mouth quivered.

      “All right, then. Show me.”

      Nora had expected a bigger fight.

      “Really?” She handed Geneva the first of half a dozen drawings, her ideas for the main rooms of the Whitehouse home. Despite Geneva’s decision Nora had put them together last night and she felt they’d turned out well. There would be none of Starr Mulligan’s typical touches, no garish colors, strange artifacts or overstuffed furniture. The fact that Starr did possess an eye for arrangement, and that her judgment on wall coverings could be pleasing, didn’t enter into Nora’s assessment. “As you can see, I’ve gone for a minimalist effect. Neutrals, clean lines, a contemporary look that should serve as a natural background to highlight your treasures.”

      Her sharp glance made Nora swallow. Perhaps she shouldn’t have reminded her would-be client—her temporarily lost client—about the missing vase or any of its scintillating companions.

      “This sort of design is all the rage now. I think you’d be very pleased with the outcome—”

      “Or else?”

      Nora faltered. “Why, of course I’d be happy to work with you on any changes, minor or more extensive.”

      “Nora. As you know I’ve already hired Starr Mulligan.”

      “Yes, I do know.” She cleared her throat. “And I realize my comment to her was less than, well, businesslike. I’m sorry you heard it. Starr and I have our differences, but they shouldn’t concern you. It’s the job that really matters.”

      “Does it?” Geneva’s strained tone alerted Nora. There was something wrong here, even more wrong than Nora being replaced by Starr because of some silly misunderstanding. She’d already apologized, but maybe not enough.

      “I am sorry, Geneva. I made a bad impression, but that’s why I’m here. Other than to show you my sketches, of course, which I had hoped might speak for themselves. And me,” she added.

      “The sketches are beautiful.”

      “You like them?”

      Geneva’s blue gaze swept over the last drawing in the stack. For an instant her eyes brightened, but then, to Nora’s horror, they filled with tears. A few brimmed over, and before she stopped to think, by instinct Nora had fallen to her knees onto the thick carpet in front of Geneva’s sofa. She reached out to pull Geneva awkwardly into her arms. “There, there. We can work something out.”

      “I doubt that,” Geneva wailed.

      Maybe she felt terrible about her earlier decision. She might feel torn between Nora and Starr but regretted her rejection of Nora based on such tissue-thin evidence of a crime. Maybe now she wanted to make amends, as Nora did, but wasn’t sure how.

      Nora rocked Geneva in her embrace, as she might one of her children even now. Geneva clung to her, sobbing as if her heart had broken.

      “I don’t know about you,” Nora said after a few moments, “but I can’t sit on this rug as if I’m in a Japanese restaurant with one of those little tables that are no higher than a foot.”

      Geneva Whitehouse didn’t smile. She pulled back, embarrassed by her display of emotion, and avoided Nora’s searching gaze. Geneva studied the pale cream carpet, the wall covered in an exquisite gold-washed French paper, the violated curio cabinet just visible in the hall, then the deep crown molding that edged the double tray ceiling before at last she met Nora’s eyes. Nora had misunderstood.

      “Oh, Geneva. Please tell me what’s wrong. What have I done that can’t be corrected? Certainly you don’t believe Detective Caine—”

      “No,” Geneva murmured. “It’s not him.”

      Unable to speak, she gestured at the elaborate living room before she followed Nora’s lead and struggled to her feet. They faced each other with the marble-topped coffee table between them, a gorgeous piece of stone that Geneva hoped would be incorporated in the new design. Right now the house was the furthest thing from her mind. Odd, when it had consumed her for so long.

      “My husband…lately, he hasn’t been very attentive. He works almost every night—not in his study here, as he used to do, but at his office in town. When I called there last evening, I—I got his voice mail.” The last was uttered in a shaken tone. “I thought then he was on his way home, but he didn’t show up until three in the morning. I know because I was still awake.” She made a futile gesture. “I don’t know what’s happening…”

      Nora sat beside her again on the sofa. She took Geneva’s cold hand.

      “You’re freezing, angel.”

      Geneva shivered, feeling more bereft than she had since before she met Earl and at last escaped the life her parents had wanted for her. But had she only exchanged one misery for another after all? “I can’t seem to get warm.”

      Nora looked eager to help, but it was clear she didn’t know how.

      “When my relationship became…difficult, I didn’t feel warm for weeks.” Nora blanched, as if realizing what she’d said. “Not that I think you have the same problem,” she hastened to add. “Marriage is a long-term investment,” she tried again. “One that sometimes doesn’t work as we’d like. What I’m trying to say is, there are always ups and downs. I wouldn’t worry,” she said. “Don’t even think about my experience.”

      Geneva withdrew her hand from Nora’s clasp. The memory of that other existence, and of one recent night, were still fresh in her mind. “A few nights ago when Earl was home, I went up to his study—it’s next to our bedroom—to ask him something and I found him at his computer. That’s not unusual, but when he noticed me standing in the doorway, he blanked out the monitor, I think so I couldn’t see what was there. He looked…guilty. I don’t know that anything was wrong, but it didn’t feel right.”

      Nora looked away. “Your husband is probably embroiled in one of those male things that always seem to consume them.” She flushed. “That is, men get caught up in rectifying some global injustice or correcting the company balance sheet while we women do so in our smaller way without much fanfare.”

      Geneva sniffled.

      “Is that what your husband does, too?”

      “Not any longer. I’ve been divorced for some time. But I’m sure he does,” she added quickly. “Or he will, with his new wife, as he must have with the others. He’s getting married again soon. I’m invited to the wedding.”

      Geneva’s eyes widened. She dabbed at them with the handkerchief Nora handed her, using the delicate lawn fabric and Swiss embroidery to blot her smeared mascara. When she saw Nora wince at the stain, she set the cloth aside.

      “That,” Geneva murmured, “was more information than I need.”

      Nora wasn’t being very tactful, but Geneva knew she was trying, and it wasn’t easy to deal with a hysterical woman. Geneva wondered miserably if she was turning into her mother, the stage mama of all time who had been given to outrageous displays of temper and tears.

      She couldn’t hold back her worst fear. “What if Earl is having an affair? Or visiting Web sites with nubile women on display?” Women younger, prettier, than Geneva now?

      “Wilson’s first peccadillo nearly killed me,” Nora admitted, not helping at all, “and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” She couldn’t seem to stop herself. “For a long while I regretted that it didn’t kill Wilson instead, even when I still loved him with all my heart.” Nora paled again. “Oh, my God. That doesn’t mean you should worry about Earl.” But something in her expression told Geneva that Nora felt exactly that about Geneva’s husband.

      Geneva looked at her hands. “I was his trophy wife, you know. We’ve been married