the other hand,” Marta said with strained cheerfulness, “I took your advice and had everything planned before I spoke to him.”
“Good!”
“I saw an attorney and had our joint assets frozen right away.”
Anne approved. “That was smart—and practical.”
“My attorney advised me to wait a week until he had everything in place. Then Jack came home smelling of her perfume and I went ballistic.”
This was so unlike Marta that Anne could scarcely picture her friend in that kind of state. “How did he react?”
Marta’s laugh was short. “Of course he denied everything.”
Just like Burton had, accusing Anne of having a filthy mind, of being insecure and ridiculous. In the beginning, she’d felt dreadful for suspecting such terrible things about her husband. Burton had insisted on an apology and in her innocence, Anne had given him one. Her face burned with mortification at the memory.
“Burton denied everything, too.”
“Then I told him about seeing an attorney,” Marta said, her voice quavering, “and … and then I threw him out.”
In every likelihood, Jack had immediately gone to the other woman, but Anne didn’t mention that.
“He … he didn’t want to leave. He kept trying to reason with me but I wouldn’t listen. He said I was imagining things—and this is the crazy part—for a moment I actually believed him. Here he was, hours late, smelling of perfume and denying everything, and because I so badly wanted to believe him, I … I almost did.”
“Of course you wanted to believe him. Jack’s your husband.”
Marta paused. “That first night was so dreadful. Jack called the apartment ten times. I wouldn’t answer the phone and he left messages for me, pleading with me to hear him out.” She released a soft hiccuping sob.
“When was that?”
“Three days ago.”
“How long has it been since you talked to him?”
“Since that night … I just can’t. I thought maybe I’d blown everything out of proportion and, Anne, I’m no longer sure what to believe. I know he’s involved with someone else, but I so desperately want him back that I’ve decided I can’t trust my own feelings. If I talk to him, I’m afraid he’ll manage to convince me that this is all nonsense and I’ll take him back.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Right now, nothing. I’ve hired a private investigator. It sounds so stupid, so clichéd. You’re the only person I’d admit this to, but I’m paying a man outrageous fees to follow my husband around and photograph him with another woman. Is that sick or what?”
“Oh, Marta. Of course it isn’t. A detective might be the only means you have of learning the truth.” Early on, before the breakup of her own marriage, Anne had considered the same thing. In retrospect she wished she’d done it. Photographic evidence might have opened her eyes to what Burton was doing.
“All I want is for this to go away. I think now I should’ve waited until after Christmas, but, Anne, I couldn’t. I couldn’t endure this for another second. I couldn’t pretend and look the other way anymore.”
“I’m so sorry, Marta,” Anne told her friend. “I wouldn’t have wished this on you for anything.”
“Oh, Anne, I don’t know what to do. Christmas is only a week away. I can’t deal with this and the holidays, too. What am I going to tell our friends? How can I possibly face everyone?” The questions came between deep sobs.
“Oh, Marta, I’m so sorry,” she said again.
“Why is this happening to me?”
Anne had asked herself the same question hundreds of times. “Would you like to fly out to Seattle? Stay with me and take a few days to collect your thoughts. Let your attorney know you’re coming and just get on a plane.”
“I can’t believe you’d do that for me,” Marta said, and continued to sob.
“I’ve walked in your shoes. I know how hard this is. What do you want to do?”
“Would you mind terribly coming to New York? I’d pay for your ticket. I just need someone with me—someone who understands.”
“Of course I wouldn’t mind! I’ll check on flights the minute we get off the phone.” Roy wouldn’t care; Anne was sure of that. Her son would be just as happy to spend Christmas Day at Julie’s. With Anne in New York, he’d be free to do so.
“Thank you. Oh, thank you, Anne. I’d fly out and join you, but I don’t want to leave. There’s no telling what Jack would do if I were to vacate the house.”
Naturally her friend was right. “That’s fine, Marta. I’ll come to New York for Christmas and be your moral support.”
“Thank you,” her friend whispered again. “I don’t know how I’d cope if it wasn’t for you.”
“We’ll have a wonderful Christmas,” Anne tried to assure her, although she knew what Marta was experiencing. The pain and shock …
“Oh, Anne, I’m just shocked that Jack would be so stupid.”
“He might come to his senses yet.”
“I’m not counting on it,” Marta said. “He seemed so sincere, so horrified. He kept insisting I was wrong. I never knew he was capable of such lies.”
It hurt just to listen to her friend’s agony. Anne didn’t have the heart to tell her that the pain, even when dulled by time, had a way of resurfacing when you least expected it. Anne had felt its sting only moments earlier when she’d opened her mail.
Marta grew quiet, as if she was composing herself. She took a deep, audible breath. “I’ve been so caught up in my own troubles I forgot to mention what’s been going on with your painting.”
Although she was dying to know, Anne was prepared to put it off. “That’s not important now.”
“But it is.”
“Did Mrs. Gould decide against it?” Anne asked. She’d never been comfortable with letting the buyer assume she had no intention of selling her angel.
“No, she’s more interested than ever, but now there’s another prospective buyer.”
“That’s wonderful,” Anne said excitedly.
“This one claims she’ll match or beat anything Mrs. Gould offers.”
“Are you saying that two customers have gotten into a bidding war?” Anne was almost afraid to guess what this could mean financially.
“That’s
