“What makes it even worse is that you don’t feel contrite in the slightest,” Kim said. Her face reddened.
“I’m not going to apologize when I don’t think I did anything wrong,” Kinnard said.
“Fine,” Kim said. She started for the central desk again. Kinnard again restrained her.
“I’m sorry you are upset,” Kinnard said. “I really thought you’d have calmed down by now. Let’s talk about it more on Saturday night. I’m not on call. Maybe we could have dinner and see a show.”
“I’m sorry, but I already have plans,” Kim said. It was untrue, and she felt her stomach tighten. She hated confrontations and knew she wasn’t good at them. Any type of discord affected her viscerally.
Kinnard’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, I see,” he said. His eyes narrowed.
Kim swallowed. She could tell he was angry.
“This is a game that two can play,” he said. “There’s someone I’ve been thinking about dating. This is my opportunity.”
“Who?” Kim asked. The second the question came out of her mouth she regretted it.
Kinnard gave her a malicious smile and walked off.
Concerned about losing her composure, Kim retreated to the privacy of the storeroom. She was shaking. After a few deep breaths she felt more in control and ready to get back to work. She was about to return to the unit when the door opened and Marsha Kingsley, her roommate, walked in.
“I happened to overhear that encounter,” Marsha said. She was a petite, spirited woman with a mane of auburn hair which she wore in a bun while working in the surgical intensive-care unit. Not only were Kim and Marsha roommates, they were also SICU colleagues.
“He’s an ass,” Marsha said. She knew the history of Kim’s relationship with Kinnard better than anyone. “Don’t let that egotist get your goat.”. Marsha’s sudden appearance disarmed Kim’s control over her tears. “I hate confrontations,” Kim said.
“I think you handled yourself exemplarily,” Marsha said. She handed Kim a tissue.
“He wouldn’t even apologize,” Kim said. She wiped her eyes.
“He’s an insensitive bum,” Marsha said supportively.
“I don’t know what I did wrong,” Kim said. “Up until recently I thought we’d had a good relationship.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Marsha said. “It’s his problem. He’s too selfish. Look at the comparison between his behavior and Edward’s. Edward’s been sending you flowers every day.”
“I don’t need flowers every day,” Kim said.
“Of course not,” Marsha said. “It’s the thought that counts. Kinnard doesn’t think of your feelings. You deserve better.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Kim said. She blew her nose. “Yet one thing is for sure. I have to make some changes in my life. What I’m thinking of doing is to move up to Salem. I’ve got the idea to fix up an old house on the family compound I inherited with my brother.”
“That’s a great idea,” Marsha said. “It will be good for you to have a change of scene, especially with Kinnard living on Beacon Hill.”
“That was my thought,” Kim said. “I’m heading up there right after work. How about coming along? I’d love the company, and maybe you’d have some good ideas about what to do with the place.”
“Give me a rain check,” Marsha said. “I’ve got to meet some people at the apartment.”
After finishing work and giving a report, Kim left the hospital. She climbed into her car and drove out of town. There was a little traffic, but it moved quickly, particularly after she passed over the Tobin Bridge. Her first stop was her childhood home on Marblehead Neck.
“Anybody here?” Kim called out as she entered the foyer of the French château-style home. It was beautifully sited directly on the ocean. There were some superficial similarities between it and the castle, although it was far smaller and more tasteful.
“I’m in the sunroom, dear,” Joyce answered from afar.
Skirting the main stairs, Kim walked down the long central corridor and out into the room in which her mother spent most of her time. It was indeed a sunroom with glass on three sides. It faced south overlooking the terraced lawn, but to the east it had a breathtaking vista over the ocean.
“You’re still in your uniform,” Joyce said. Her tone was deprecatory, as only a daughter could sense.
“I came directly from work,” Kim said. “I wanted to avoid the traffic.”
“Well, I hope you haven’t brought any hospital germs with you,” Joyce said. “That’s all I need right now is to get sick again.”
“I don’t work in infectious disease,” Kim said. “Where I work in the unit there’s probably less bacteria than here.”
“Don’t say that,” Joyce snapped.
The two women didn’t look anything alike. Kim favored her father in terms of facial structure and hair. Joyce’s face was narrow, her eyes deeply set, and her nose slightly aquiline. Her hair had once been brunette but was now mostly gray. She’d never colored it. Her skin was as pale as white marble despite the fact that it was almost midsummer.
“I notice you are still in your dressing gown,” Kim said. She sat on a couch across from her mother’s chaise.
“There was no reason for me to dress,” Joyce said. “Besides, I haven’t been feeling well.”
“I suppose that means that Dad is not here,” Kim said. Over the years she’d learned the pattern.
“Your father left last evening on a short business trip to London,” Joyce said.
“I’m sorry,” Kim said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Joyce said. “When he’s here, he ignores me anyway. Did you want to see him?”
“I’d hoped to,” Kim said.
“He’ll be back Thursday,” Joyce said. “If it suits him.”
Kim recognized her mother’s martyred tone of voice. “Did Grace Traters go along with him?” Kim asked. Grace Traters was Kim’s father’s personal assistant in a long line of personal assistants.
“Of course Grace went along,” Joyce said angrily. “John can’t tie his shoes without Grace.”
“If it bothers you, why do you put up with it, Mother?” Kim asked.
“I have no choice in the matter,” Joyce said.
Kim bit her tongue. She could feel herself getting upset. She felt sorry for her mother on the one hand for what she had to deal with and angry with her on the other for her playing the victim. Her father had always had affairs, some more open than others. It had been going on for as long as Kim could remember.
Changing the subject, Kim asked about Elizabeth Stewart.
Joyce’s reading glasses dropped off the end of her nose where they had been precariously perched. They dangled against her bosom from a chain around her neck.
“What a strange question,” Joyce said. “Why on earth are you inquiring about her?”
“I happened to stumble across her portrait in Granddad’s wine cellar,” Kim said. “It rather startled me, especially since I seem to have the same color eyes. Then I realized I knew very little about her. Was she really hanged for witchcraft?”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Joyce said.
“Oh, Mother, why on earth not?” Kim asked.
“It’s simply a taboo subject,” Joyce said.
“You should remind your nephew Stanton,” Kim said. “He brought it up at a recent dinner party.”
“I will indeed remind him,” Joyce said. “That’s inexcusable. He knows better.”
“How can it be a taboo subject after so many years?” Kim asked.
“It’s not something to be proud of,” Joyce said. “It was a sordid affair.”
“I did some reading about the Salem witch trials yesterday,” Kim said. “There’s a lot of material available. But Elizabeth Stewart is never mentioned. I’m beginning to wonder if she was involved.”
“It’s my understanding she was involved,” Joyce said. “But let’s leave it at that. How did you happen to come across her portrait?”