I do, I do, I do (8 page)

Clara fully supported a woman's right to work if she must, but she, too, was shocked to discover a female working in a store catering exclusively to a male clientele. That the woman was young and attractive made her presence seem even more inappropriate. On the other hand, Clara reminded herself, some people believed it was scandalous for a woman to hand a man a key to a hotel room.

Drawn like magnets, Clara and Juliette passed two harried salesmen and moved directly toward the woman at the back of the store. She watched them approach with cool eyes.

"Can I help you?" she asked, stepping back from her worktable and wiping loose cornmeal off her hands.

Sacking cornmeal was respectable enough, Clara decided. "We'd like to inquire if—"

"Oh!" Juliette sat down hard on top of a flour barrel. Her hands flew to her mouth, and her eyes widened until they must have ached. Shock blanched the color from her cheeks.

Frowning, Clara stared at her. "What's the matter with you?"

"Her hand. Clara, look at her wedding ring!"

"Oh, no!" This time it was Clara who examined a wedding ring and felt like fainting from the pain of recognition. Confusion altered her breathing. How could this be? How many women had Jean Jacques married? Blinking to clear the fog from her vision, she steadied herself on the table in front of her. There was no question. The woman wore Jean Jacques's grandmother's silver heart ring.

The black-haired woman looked back and forth between them with grave apprehension as if she expected them to start foaming at the mouth any instant. "Uncle Milton?" she called, not taking her gaze off Clara and Juliette. "I need some assistance."

"We're not having fits, and we're not crazy," Clara whispered. From the corner of her eye, she saw Juliette yanking at her glove. "Look." She and Juliette held out their left hands.

The woman reeled backward as if they had struck her a punishing blow. Stunned by shock, she stared at her own left hand, then again at Clara's and Juliette's hands.

"My God." Disbelief and bewilderment made her face go slack. She raised trembling fingers to her lips. "The rings. How can this be possible?"

"We both married Jean Jacques Villette," Juliette stated in a toneless voice. "Apparently you did, too."

"My God," the black-haired woman said again. "He had two other wives?" She raised swimming eyes to the tin ceiling. "I trusted him. I…" In the silence that followed, Clara could almost see the woman working it through. "Everything was a lie, wasn't it?"

"I'm sorry," Clara said softly. "We know how hard this moment is for you. It's a shock to us, too, believe me."

"All the time he… but he was married to you two. And I…" Her eyes snapped down into slits. "That son of a bitch! He told me all the things I wanted to hear and played me for a fool."

"Zoe?" A bearded man wearing a long apron emerged from a back room. "Is everything all right here?" He swept a curious glance over Clara and Juliette.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Milton, but I have to leave now." The woman threw off her apron and ran her hands over her skirts, then looked around as if she couldn't remember where she'd put her hat and gloves. "I need to talk to these ladies."

Zoe Wilder shoved a hat on her head and snatched up a small wrist bag. "Follow me," she snapped at Clara and Juliette, then she almost ran out of the outfitting store.

"I feel sick," Juliette whispered. Her face had turned the color of whey. "We're in the center of a nightmare that just gets worse and worse."

Clara understood. A sense of unreality made her feel dizzy as they followed Zoe outside and climbed back up the steep incline to First and Yesler.

Grimly, Clara watched wife number three veer into a small park, fling herself down on a wooden bench, and fall forward, burying her face in her hands.

Clara and Juliette silently waited, once again subjecting themselves to the misery of comparisons.

Chapter 4

After punctuating Juliette's and Clara's tales of woe with little moans and cries, Zoe related her story. As she finished on a half-sob, drops of warm summer rain splattered her hat brim and spotted her skirt. Jumping to her feet, she dashed toward her boardinghouse, beckoning the other Mmes Villette to follow.

Once inside she recognized her mistake. Pain pinched the faces of her rivals as they gazed around her small sitting room and then stared at her bedroom door. Oddly, until now Zoe hadn't noticed how little Jean Jacques had left behind.

Her gaze swung to the book of wildflowers on the small round table near the window. Between the pages she had pressed the roses from the bouquet Jean Jacques had given her on their wedding day. She had one of his handkerchiefs, a cuff link she'd found beneath the bed, and a book of poetry. These items could have belonged to anyone.

Fearing her knees would collapse, Zoe sagged against the wall and covered her eyes. How could she have been so stupid? Why hadn't she looked beyond that handsome face? There must have been signs if she'd had the eyes to see, small slipups if she hadn't been too dazzled to notice.

"We're not permitted to cook in our rooms, but everyone does. I'll make some coffee." If Ma were here she'd throw up her hands. Not only had Zoe brought home her husband's other wives, she was about to serve them refreshments like the perfect little lady that Jean Jacques had believed she was. Or had he?

Opening her eyes, she stared at Juliette. Juliette perched on the edge of the divan, her spine not touching the back cushion. Her knees were modestly pressed together, her hands folded in her lap. With a sinking sensation, Zoe suspected Juliette was the genuine item. And they could not be more unalike. Zoe didn't possess Juliette's quiet stillness, nor her sense of style. She would never have sat as Juliette was sitting. Everything about Juliette March Villette proclaimed her pedigree. Her posture, her clothing. The way she spoke, the way she walked and carried her head. And the reverse must be true as well. Everything about Zoe Wilder Villette announced that she was a Newcastle girl with a chip on her shoulder and calluses on her palms. She knew how to work and fight and swear, and she suspected her background was as obvious as Juliette's.

Aching inside and no longer sure of anything, she went through the motions of making coffee atop the potbelly stove. At once the room became unbearably hot, so she opened her window, not caring if rain dripped inside. For a long moment she gazed at her watery image reflected in the upper panes. The face of a fool.

She should have known that Jean Jacques couldn't be real. Handsome princes didn't appear and lay a kingdom at the feet of someone like Zoe Wilder. What craziness had made her think she deserved to have her dreams come true?

"Oh, Ma," she said softly, pressing her forehead to the cool window glass. She had betrayed the people she loved most. Jean Jacques's aristocratic tales of wealth and the exalted life they would lead together had made her feel ashamed of her family. She had actually felt humiliated when she anticipated what the servants would think when Ma came to visit wearing her crushed hat and mended stockings. Shame almost dropped her to her knees.

She would never forgive him for making her feel embarrassed about her family.

"Thank you. This is good coffee," Juliette murmured after Zoe poured. She balanced her cup and saucer on her knees, making the feat look comfortable and easy.

Clara's eyebrows lifted toward a fringe of red hair. "What are you doing? This is the worst moment of our lives, and you're making polite comments about the coffee!" Disgust pursed her lips as she set her saucer on the floor beside her sensible shoes.

Zoe wished she had splurged and purchased the table she wanted to place before the divan. Later, Jean Jacques's other two wives would probably laugh and make cutting comments about how they'd had to place their cups and saucers on the floor.

"We needn't abandon proper manners because we're upset and distraught," Juliette announced, raising her chin. "Manners are the armor of civilized people. Manners will see one through the most difficult situations."

Clara sighed heavily and rolled her eyes.

First Zoe listened in disbelief. Then outrage stretched her skin tight across her cheekbones. Jean Jacques must have secretly chuckled every time he referred to her as a lady. Mortification flamed bright on her throat. She, who always believed herself too smart to be flimflammed, had been taken in completely. What stuck in her craw was how easily and quickly she had lost her senses. A few besotted glances. A few flattering honeyed words. Clean fingernails. And she had fancied herself in love.

"I am going to find him," she said furiously, speaking between her teeth. "And when I do, I swear I am going to put a bullet between his lying eyes!"

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't make me a widow before I get my money back," Clara said in a short, terse voice.

"And not before he explains everything," Juliette added.

Clara threw out her hands and gave Zoe an exasperated look. "She refuses to believe that he married us for the money!"

"If it was only money, then why didn't he take more?" Juliette glared at them. "I would have given him twice the amount he suggested. He could have waited until you sold your inn, Clara, and taken those funds, too. And you would have given him all your reward money plus your nest egg, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," Zoe admitted, hating the truth of it.

"But I guess I do know it was mostly the money," Juliette admitted softly, blinking down at her cup and saucer. "I want to believe it wasn't only that. I want to believe he loved me a little, too. Maybe that's why he only took part of my money. In any case, he owes us an explanation. I need to hear the truth from his own lips."

At the mention of Jean Jacques's lips, they all fell silent, remembering feverish kisses on sweat-dampened skin. And all three were bitterly aware that the others shared identical memories.

Zoe decided she had never hated anyone or anything as much as she detested the two women staring at her across her inadequately furnished sitting room. Logic informed her it was not their fault that Jean Jacques was a lying, thieving, womanizing son of a bitch. But her heart insisted otherwise.

Jumping up, she crossed the room and gripped the doorknob. "I want you to leave. Right now."