The English Wife. Doreen Roberts

myself, I explained about the cottage and the mystery woman, though I left out all my suspicions. I guess I was hoping Val would dismiss the whole thing as insignificant.

      She’d never been blessed with tact. “Are you telling me Brandon had a mistress? God, I didn’t think he had it in him. Just goes to show you can’t tell a book—” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, God, Margie, I’m sorry. This must be tough on you. No wonder you look like crap. It’s hard enough to lose a husband, but to find out he’s been cheating on you…” Her voice trailed off, and tears of sympathy glistened in her gorgeous violet eyes.

      I was pretty sure the tears were genuine. Val could be as tough as nails about most things, but if you were a friend in need, she was there for you. To hear her confirm my misgivings almost wrecked the careful hold I had on my composure.

      Even so, for some unfathomable reason, I struggled to give Brandon the benefit of the doubt. “I don’t know that he cheated on me. There could be a dozen reasons why he let this woman live there rent-free.”

      “Yeah? Name one.”

      I groped for possibilities. “She could be a relative, or an important client.”

      “So why didn’t he tell you?”

      The hollow feeling I’d been fighting all morning invaded my stomach. I reached for the pepper shaker and sprinkled a liberal amount into my soup. “Okay, so I don’t know.”

      Val’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “Well, there’s one way to find out.”

      “How?”

      “By going there and confronting the bitch.”

      “Go to England? You’ve got to be kidding.”

      “Why not? At least you’d find out for sure what Brandon was up to, and England is supposed to be beautiful this time of year. All those yards in full bloom, boating on the lake, garden parties, afternoon teas, flower shows…” She clasped her hands and gazed up at the ceiling. “Fabulous. If I had an excuse to get out of Seattle for a while I’d be on the plane tomorrow.”

      “You watch too much TV.” I picked up my spoon and tasted the soup. It needed more pepper. “James told me that Miles End is a little fishing village on the southwest coast. It’s probably smelly, grubby and full of sweaty fishermen who haven’t looked at a shower in days. I’d have to stay in some smoky, grimy pub where I’d be kept awake half the night by the drunken brawls.”

      Val grinned. “Obviously we watch different movies. Seriously, though, Margie. Think about it. You actually own a cottage in England. What are you going to do with it?”

      I didn’t want to think about the cottage. Just the mention of it made me want to dig up Brandon and wring his deceiving neck. My voice was abrupt when I answered her. “Sell it, I guess. Get it out of my life. Forget it ever existed.”

      “Why don’t you just throw the bitch out and rent it.”

      I had to admit, the idea had merit. Then again, we were both jumping to conclusions. The poor woman could be totally innocent and have a perfectly legitimate reason for enjoying a rent-free existence.

      Just to torment me, snippets of items I’d read about well-heeled business men renting luxury penthouse suites for their paramours danced gleefully through my head.

      I banished them from my mind. For one thing, if what James said was true, my husband had not been that well-heeled. For another, why go to all that trouble and expense to buy a cottage in England, when surely it would have been cheaper to rent something in the U.S.?

      Something just didn’t fit, and much as I hated to acknowledge the fact, I was dying to get to the bottom of the mystery. On the other hand, to let Val know that was inviting an exhaustive campaign to send me over there. I definitely wasn’t ready for that.

      “No,” I said firmly. “I just want to get rid of the damn thing.” I pushed the soup away from me, picked up the long dessert spoon and jammed it into my mushy frozen yogurt.

      Val was not about to give up that easily. Once she got excited about an idea she refused to let go. “Well, then, if you’re going to sell it, wouldn’t it make sense to go over there to protect your interests? How do you know if you’re getting a fair price and that everything is aboveboard if you’re not there to keep an eye on the proceedings?”

      I sent her a look that I hoped conveyed my loathing for that idea. It was all very well for her to give me advice. After all, she was used to living on the edge. She met guys through the Internet and dated them. That sounded a tad risky to me, but Val’s favorite saying was “If you’re not risking, you’re not living,” so I kept my thoughts to myself.

      “James gave me the name of a reliable agent.” I reached for my diet soda. “I’m sure the man knows what he’s doing.”

      “How can you be sure? You don’t even trust that creepy lawyer. How can you trust someone you’ve never met?” She leaned forward, her face glowing with excitement. “Just think. You could hook up with a good-looking, romantic young Englishman over there.”

      The idea was so ridiculous I’d have laughed if I hadn’t been simmering with all that resentment. “Val, I’m a forty-six year-old widow. Look at me. Do I look like I’m ready for a romance?”

      She studied me for a moment. Her thick blond hair was cut short, like a man’s. It looked great on her, but it wouldn’t have worked on me. My hair was too baby-fine. I let it hang around my face to hide my wrinkles.

      After a moment, Val nodded. “You look great for your age. Besides, someone told me the young Brits love older women. They call it granny grabbing, or something like that.”

      I choked, almost spitting a mouthful of soda across the table. “How terribly romantic,” I said, when I could stop coughing.

      “Well, I think it is.” She actually looked offended.

      I shook my head at her. “Brandon’s only been dead a month. I’m still trying to deal with that. The last thing I need is another man. Period.”

      She sat back, obviously disappointed. “Well, you can’t say you had a wildly passionate marriage. In all the times I saw you two together, I never once saw Brandon hold your hand or even touch you.”

      I pretended to be interested in the fizzy contents of my glass. True, Brandon hadn’t been into heavy petting. On the rare occasion he’d felt amorous he’d conducted the whole business with his usual precision, and finished up with his customary peck on the cheek.

      I’d reached the stage when it didn’t bother me that much anymore. It did bother me, I was surprised to discover, that other people had noticed his lack of affection.

      “He wasn’t the romantic type,” I murmured. “You know that. He had trouble expressing his feelings.”

      “He didn’t have any trouble expressing them in England, apparently.” She must have seen me flinch, because she hurried to add just the right tinge of sympathy. “Although I’m sure Brandon loved you. In his own way.”

      I almost laughed at that. “Who knows what Brandon felt, and who cares.”

      “You do,” Val said softly. “I’m sorry, Margie. I know how much this must hurt.”

      She was right. It did hurt. On the surface I’d had everything a woman needed to be content. I had a nice home, no worries to speak of, and I had companionship. I could wake up during the night, reassured by the sound of snoring next to me. Even when Brandon left on his business trips, I didn’t feel really alone. I knew he was coming back in a few days. I’d had security, the one thing I valued above all else.

      Security wasn’t something I took for granted. I was still a young child when my mother sank into her depression after my father died. She’d gone back to bartending, and buried herself in her job. I was left to fend for myself.

      I didn’t bother much