“Anson?”
“No.” She punctuated her response with short, swift chops of the knife.
“You were here, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” She exhaled the word. “You were talking to Mr. Cristobal’s new customer.”
“Did his new customer say something to upset me?”
“You’ll have to ask him about that.”
Just as I was about to redirect, a booming male voice came from the other side of the kitchen door. “Jennifer?”
I braced myself.
This must be Anson, the cuckolded husband.
“We are in the kitchen,” Sudha called. The exultant gleam in her eye seemed meant to challenge me. Perhaps she anticipated a heated confrontation and enjoyed instigating conflict between Jennifer and Anson. I wouldn’t give her what she wanted.
The man who hovered over me while I pretended to sleep entered through the open doorway. He appeared taller than Jennifer by about three inches. His tie hung loose around his neck. His coat jacket was draped over his left shoulder, held by the index finger of his left hand. The fine lines of middle age softened his angular features. A splash of gray highlighted his temples. Not much. Just enough to be attractive. He wasn’t buff like Dr. Hollywood or trim like the deputy named Sairs. The hint of a paunch puffed out his shirtfront—not yet significant enough to be unattractive.
He examined me, but kept his distance. A spark of suspicion flashed in his eyes and jumped across the short space between us. Anson would not be easily duped. “How are you feeling?”
“She is feeling well enough to meet your daughter for lunch,” Sudha answered for me.
“Yes. I know.” He ignored her and peered at me with penetrating eyes—his face a blank mask.
“You know?” Sudha asked, but there was no surprise in her question.
“I talked to Marnie this afternoon,” he explained to me instead of her.
Sudha’s frown deepened. “Dr. Whitaker was here today.” Her eyes sparked with spite as if she relished relating this tidbit. I crossed my arms and offered her a blank face. She poked out her lower lip when her revelations failed to ruffle me. Turning her attention back to the meal, she hacked at the defenseless tomatoes.
“Really? What did he want?” Anson scrutinized me, waiting for my answer.
“He wanted to—”
“I can speak for myself, Sudha.”
Her back went ramrod straight. Anson raised an eyebrow. The two of them exchanged a glance full of meaning I couldn’t interpret.
“Dr. Whitaker came by to make sure I didn’t have any lingering symptoms from last night’s…fainting spell.” I paused before the last words on purpose, to gauge Anson’s reaction.
He laid his jacket over the barstool next to me. “And were there any?”
“I told him I would be seeing another doctor.”
“You did?” His satisfied reaction disappeared almost as soon as it developed.
“I don’t believe I’ll be requiring his services any longer.” I cringed at my poor choice of words.
Sudha sputtered the glass of water raised to her lips.
“That’s what Marnie told me,” he said slowly and deliberately, perhaps trying to determine if I would explode. “She also told me you’re planning a trip to California.”
“Oh, no. Mrs. Cristobal, you must not go there.” Sudha turned to us once again, planting her fists on her hips.
“I have to go.”
Anson countered with utmost patience. “We’ve been over this a thousand times. What purpose would it serve? I don’t want you to go to California again.” His last statement sounded more like a command than a request.
“I have money of my own.” At least, it appeared that way based on the hefty balance in Jennifer’s checking account. “I can go where I wish and do as I want,” I told him, presenting a direct challenge.
He rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his eyes. “Of course,” he muttered. “It always comes back to that, doesn’t it? You don’t need my permission, but it would be nice if you’d a least consider my opinion.” Should Anson discuss his personal issues with Jennifer in front of the housekeeper? I flicked my eyes toward Sudha. He followed my glance. “We will discuss this further after dinner.” He snatched up his jacket and headed toward the back stairs.
Sudha peered after him with half-closed eyes. “You should not displease him this way. This will not end well—”
“I will deal with Anson’s displeasure. Whether it ends well or not is none of your concern. Call me when dinner is ready.” I rushed out of the kitchen, ignoring the grim determination in her dark eyes.
****
I tapped my fingernail on the fine crystal water glass while I twisted my thoughts this way and that. Anson cleared his throat and directed his gaze at my incessant tapping. I ceased my nervous habit and picked at my food. His disappeared before I’d finished my third bite.
“You’re not hungry?” he asked.
“No. Not really.” The pepper steak smelled delicious, but I was afraid to eat it. After all my misgiving and suspicions, I didn’t trust anyone. Someone might be trying to kill Jennifer and I wasn’t sure who…or how.
Both Price Whitaker and Sudha pushed medication at me. What was Jennifer taking? What kind of medical condition did she have? Did it have anything to do with the scar in the middle of her chest?
No one would tell me what happened the night Jennifer fainted. Why? I was left to fill in a lot of blanks. Why would Jennifer fake an episode? Was she suspicious of everyone around her? Who was she trying to manipulate? So many innuendos and hints of deceit. Suggestions of unfaithfulness and misdeeds. What kind of woman was Jennifer Cristobal?
Sudha barely conceals her disrespect toward Jennifer. Price Whitaker pretends he’s had enough of Jennifer’s antics. Marnie hates her because she suspects Jennifer is cheating on Anson with Price. Sairs holds some sort of grudge against her. And Anson…why doesn’t he want her to go to California? No one says what they mean or means what they say. I’m surrounded by people that don’t trust her and I can’t trust any of them.
“It’s good.” He flicked his index finger at my food as if I wouldn’t know what he referred to without the visual aid.
“I’m sure it is.” I pushed the plate away from me.
The rim of the service caught the glint of the chandelier. The table looked heavy—twin pedestals supported its weight. The chairs were not a matched set, yet they worked well as a unit. The table was unadorned by a tablecloth, laid with simple place settings—bone, gold-trimmed dinner plates against brilliant red chargers. The flatware and crystal lent a sparkling iridescence to the atmosphere.
“This is a beautiful room,” I said without thought, fingering the lace-edged napkin.
“It should be. You worked hard enough on it…and paid enough for it.”
My head popped up.
Didn’t he tell me—not too many minutes ago—that it all came back to money where Jennifer was concerned? And didn’t Sairs imply the same thing?
“You should eat. It’s not good for you to skip meals.”
“I’m not hungry.” My tone was defiant.
“You ate hearty at lunch,” he muttered.
Pride stiffened my backbone. “So you’re dictating what I eat—”
“I’m just saying you should be careful what you eat…and how much you eat…and when you eat. You know these things. That’s all I’m saying.” Weariness tinged his words. Like he was tired of dealing with Jennifer’s temperament, her indiscretions, and her fractious attitude.
“Was Marnie supposed to spy on me…make sure I followed orders?”
“Jennifer, please. Let’s don’t do this. Not again.”
His eyes might have said much to me as they searched the depths of mine…if I had known the man better. It was like trying to decipher a dead language without a dictionary. I sensed he was waiting for me to say something, biting his tongue to hold back what he wanted to say, giving me the chance to go first.
My conscious pricked me. There were unaddressed issues between us.
How do I tell him I’m not his wife? If I’m Rhonda, where is Jennifer? Should I tell him about my five-year lapse of memory? Should I tell him I don’t know him?
“Anson…”
Sudha entered the room, clearing the dishes in stony silence. Anson and I remained seated at the table, neither of us making a move to end the evening. Jennifer’s stomach churned.
Being someone I’m not is exhausting work.
Her anxious heart pumped her blood at an alarming rate. The turmoil wasn’t good for either of us.
I was no closer to unraveling the mystery or devising a viable solution to my dilemma, so I left Anson alone in the dining room to speculate on my odd behavior. He didn’t try to stop me, letting me go without a word.
Chapter Six
After my escape from dinner, I discovered the verandah—an inviting hideaway secluded from the neighbors by a high privacy fence, stone at the foundation, pickets at the top. An expanse of decking surrounded three-quarters of the house, starting left of the front door, continuing on the right side, and ending by the back door. White-painted rails with handcrafted carvings lined the deck. Set about at regular intervals were large pots of annuals. Boston ferns hung from crossbeams.
My muscles relaxed as I settled into an old-fashioned porch swing. The motion calmed my overwrought nerves. A full moon bounced into view as day receded into the darkness of night. No breeze. My eyelids drooped until Anson paused the swing. Our elbows brushed as he eased into the seat next to me. Every one of my nerves tingled. He sighed and flexed his fingers above his head before he rested one arm across the back of the swing. Without a word, we started the back and forth again.
“Will you really go to California without me?” His words floated across the still night.
I rubbed my hand over the surface of the arm rest. Many hands had worn the wood to a warm gloss. “You won’t go with me?” A note of disappointment crept into my tone, despite my conviction the trip to the west coast was something I needed to do alone.
“No, I won’t. You’ll go whether I think it wise or not?”
I turned toward him, sideways in the swing, tilting its motion to a peculiar, hitching glide. “Why don’t you want me to go?”
“The last time you went it nearly killed you.”
A shiver traversed my spine. “Surely you exaggerate.”
“The long plane ride when you were barely recovered from the surgery. The stress of the situation. The disappointment when no one would cooperate with you.” These were all gentle reminders, not harsh criticisms. “It will do you no good to go through that again.”
Why would Jennifer cheat on a man like Anson? Even in his distress, he shows compassion toward her. Why isn’t he striking with venom and heat?
“I’m stronger now.”
“You fainted last night.”
He’d opened the door for discussion of last’s night episode, so I pounced on the opportunity. “I don’t remember what happened. Who was I talking to? Why was I upset?”
“I don’t know what you were talking about.” He lowered his arm from the back of the swing and clasped my hand in his. “I was across the room. I didn’t see anything until you were already down. Marnie said…” He waited, perhaps for my reaction to the interjection of his daughter into the conversation.
“Go ahead,” I urged and removed my hand from his. I couldn’t afford to display even an infinitesimal amount of affection. Anson was Jennifer’s husband and I still didn’t know who I was.
He didn’t react to my small gesture of rejection. “You were talking to Jackson. She said you went pale. You grabbed his shoulders and shook him, and then you went down. You were out so long it scared me.” The worry lines deepened around his eyes.
Jennifer’s pulse jumped, her blood hopping and skipping through her veins. “Who’s Jackson?”
“He’s a representative for a wholesale firm. A new customer of ours.”
“Where is he from?” I asked with almost no breath.
His foot stopped the swing. “His company supplies the west coast.”
The jolt of suspended motion restarted my stalled breathing. “California?”
“Yes.” He locked his eyes with mine, perhaps anticipating my next question, as if he perceived what was coming.
“Jackson Prentiss?”
“Yes. That’s his name.” He frowned and shifted in his seat. “How do you know Jackson Prentiss?”
I closed my eyes, trying to conjure the man’s face. It jumped onto the viewing screen of my consciousness without hesitation. “Jackson is Alex’s brother.” To my surprise, I said the words aloud.
“Who’s Alex?”
I bit my lower lip and searched my mind for a reasonable answer. “Just someone I used to know.”
“Jennifer—”
“I think I need some rest.”
“Fine.” He clipped his words, his inflection low and gravelly. “Go to bed. I’ll be up after a while.”
I rose on unsteady legs. When I teetered, he braced me and kept me from falling. Warmth radiated from his hand on the small of my back. I looked down to thank him, but the longing in his eyes stopped me. Heat rose up my neck.
When he spoke, his voice was thick with concern. “I think you should see another cardiologist before you go to California.”
“Sure. Maybe you’re right.”
I left him, knees wobbling, my breath escaping in short bursts. The darkened house frustrated my attempts to find my way upstairs. I flipped on every light switch I passed. It took a long time to navigate the hallway that ran the length of the first floor. My heavy limbs ached as I ascended the stairs. When I reached the landing, I stalled, pausing a moment to regain my equilibrium. I shook off the dizziness and kept moving. A few more minutes ticked by before I found their bedroom. I fell onto a bed that wasn’t mine and passed out with her clothes still on my back.