“If you insist-Ellie.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
The house seemed nude without the statues and without the doilies and the crocheted covers on the cannisters and the patchwork rugs. Perhaps feeling their absence as well, Ben soon suggested we have an early night. On our way through the hall, the telephone rang. I was afraid to pick it up in case it was an outraged widow, but wonderfully, it was Dorcas.
“Ellie? Everything shipshape on the home front?”
When I could stop my joyous squealing, I said, “As of now, yes. Why?”
“Had the spookiest feeling all day that something was wrong. Got a letter this morning from one of the teachers at the Miriam Academy where I used to work. I’d written and told her about that girl you mentioned, Jenny Spender, who said she was a pupil at the school. But Evelyn, my chum, says there’s no such kid. Never has been. Has to be a logical explanation, but haven’t been able to shake this peculiar feeling of menace.”
“Dorcas, it’s all right. There was a problem with Jenny, which I will tell you all about when you get home. Which I hope will be soon. Because I miss you terribly. If you went away to be noble and give Ben and me time alone, forget it.”
I could hear whisperings and then Jonas came on the line. “We’ll be home on Saturday. Have the Ovaltine hot.”
The air was filled with the lovely tranquility of twilight and apple blossom. I was lying on the bed wearing a rather fetching green nightshirt when Ben came in with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. His hand brushed my shoulder and then snapped on the radio. I started to tell him about the return of the wanderers when I became distracted.
“Ben, what is that music? It sounds like a knife on a sink.”
Foam sidled down the bottle and a comma of dark hair fell over his brow as he listened. “It’s a violin solo, darling. Don’t you like violins?”
“Yes,” I said, “when they are lost in a crowd of trombones and flutes and other less screechy instruments.” I took the glass he handed me.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Just happy.” My fingers wove into his and I felt my soul being set alight by the emerald fire of his eyes. I looked down at my wedding ring and remembered, with regret, the diamond shine of my engagement ring.
“Now what are you thinking?” His lips touched the side of my neck and the horrible violins faded away.
“About Edwin Digby and Teddy. I hope they find happiness at last. I hope that Sylvania and the old nanny are well cared for after the investigations at The Peerless. I hope your parents are doing justice to my pearl-pink nightdress. We’ll make Abigail’s a success, not an overnight one, but the other kind is better.”
“Here’s to Happy Ever After, darling.” Ben touched his glass to mine, and we crossed hands and sipped like lovers on the big silver screen. As I watched the golden bubbles dance, I thought with wry amusement of the girl I had been, the one who thought marriage was like a diet. If you followed the rules to the letter, it would be painless and you would be a winner. I reached out for Ben, wondering if I should warn him that the fat woman was alive and well inside me, that I knew enough now not to make any glib promises even to myself. Should I tell him what else these months of marriage had taught me? That there is no such thing as Happy Ever After, and that is the sadness, the splendour, the magic of real love.
From the Files of
MEMO: To Mrs. Millicent Parsnip, Recording Secretary.
In view of the exodus from the community of the entire membership of our noble organisation, I request you burn all files lest they fall into unworthy hands.
Yours, in the hope that we shall rise again,
Amelia Bottomly,
President
Dorothy Cannell
DOROTHY CANNELL is the author of the Ellie Haskell mystery series, including The Thin Woman, The Widows Club, which was nominated for an Agatha Award as Best Novel of the Year, Mum’s the Word, Femmes Fatal, How to Murder Your Mother-in-Law, and How to Murder the Man of Your Dreams. She is also the author of Down the Garden Path. She was born in Nottingham, England, and currently resides in Peoria, Illinois.
