folded into the sofa, the vulnerable slope of her shoulders, the delicate curve of her breasts clearly outlined against her thin pale pink sweater.
She enunciated her words very carefully. “I’m not going to discuss my married life with you, Nick.”
“When everyone knows it was unhappy. I couldn’t believe it when I was told Cindy Carlin was with Martin at the time.”
Martin starved for love and laughter. “I feel very badly about that, Nick. You can’t know.”
“I think I do.” He forced himself to look away from her. “What I can’t figure is why? Martin was crazy about you.”
“Not for long.” She shook her head vehemently.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“The best way to say it is we didn’t have a lot in common.”
He shrugged his shoulders, their width apparent under the black polo knit. “I could have told you that a long time ago. Why did you marry him, Suzannah?” A question he had asked himself at least a million times.
What was she supposed to tell him? “God knows,” she said, focusing on her hands. “On the rebound. Never a word from you. Your mother choosing to clam up on me.”
“That happens with mothers. She was thinking of me. Me with my anger and humiliation. Before God I swore to get even. Your father would have had me in jail. Did you realise that? In jail for something I didn’t do. It’s called fabricating evidence. And Frank Harris went along with it.”
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