Lauraine Snelling Read online

  The anger she’d been trying to keep under control skipped over orange and red and flared white hot. “What is the matter with him?” The trip had started out as a goodwill gesture, but now it would be a confrontation. She was sick and tired of being treated like an entry-door rug, and she intended to tell him so.

  She sucked in a deep breath and wiped off the streaming tears. Calling her husband names along the line of “ungrateful wretch” and “workaholic who thinks of no one but himself” helped to let off steam. If only she could quiet the little voice that kept reminding her that Martin had put his dreams on hold for all of them. But then, so had she. She had given up her dreams of business success to share their dreams of home and family. But thanks to her love of gardening, Lavender Meadows was now her dream.

  “But above all, put on love.” The verse wouldn’t leave her alone.

  I’m not feeling very loving at the moment, she thought, heading upstairs to pack. She wasn’t sure what a corporate wife should wear, but she couldn’t go wrong with her black slinky, a sparkly necklace, earrings, and bangle bracelets. Voilà. It would work. Slinky styles had become her equivalent of the little black dress all the fashion magazines said was de rigueur for cocktail parties and dinners with bosses. Her stomach took three flips and a swan dive. Was a hostess gift appropriate? It wouldn’t hurt. People always liked gifts. But what kind of gift? A bottle of wine? A gift certificate to a restaurant? She shook her head. Hardly. Lavender wands? She only had three left, but they would have to do.

  Back to packing. She added a black-and-silver shawl and a silver belt that would make the slinky outfit work for Saturday night at the theater, strappy sandals for both evenings, the remaining necessities, Bible, and journal, and left the suitcase open on the bed for anything she’d forgotten. After laying out khaki pants, rose cotton sweater, navy blazer, walking shoes, and gold jewelry, she stood back to study the mix. She added a blue oxford shirt in case it was warm, but the time she’d been in San Francisco before, she’d nearly frozen to death.

  Before showering, she rushed back out to the workroom, wrapped the lavender wands in tissue paper, placed them carefully in a white box, then tied the box with a bit of lavender ribbon. She’d kept just enough room at the back of her suitcase for the gift. Snagging a handful of business cards, she locked the workroom and headed back to the house.

  It seemed strange to leave her car in the parking lot. Usually, she was dropping off one of the children. Perhaps this will be good for me, going alone, taking care of everything myself, she thought as she checked in. Maybe next summer I’ll be flying off to France to visit lavender farms and practice my French. Ah, mon chéri. Mon petit chou. Combien? Quelle heure est-il?

  Pulling her bag, she made her way to the America West waiting area, found a seat, sat down, and stared out the window. Her thoughts went over everything Martin had said and everything he hadn’t said. She had always envisioned them growing old together at Lavender Meadows, enjoying their grandchildren who would miraculously live nearby. Not in Seattle or Montana, but within a few miles in Medford. She’d thought Martin had the same vision. How could she not have known?

  Her thoughts scattered when the agent called her section for boarding.

  She felt like a wood chip on a raging stream when she deplaned at SFO. Crowds, speaking languages from every country in the world and dressed in clothing from around the globe, poured both ways on the concourse. And no one to meet her. She comforted herself with the knowledge that no one could come to the gates any longer without a ticket. As she dodged her way to the exit, she hoped Martin had had a change of heart and would meet her at the screening area. She followed the signs to the exit and passed through the crowd waiting to claim their relatives and friends. Several people waited toward the back, holding signs for the people they were supposed to meet; a family converged in a hugging match; and a young couple kissed as if they were alone in their bedroom.

  But no Martin.

  Swallowing her disappointment, she scolded herself for even thinking Martin would be here. He’d given her instructions and gone about his business, knowing that capable Andy would manage.

  She kept a polite smile in place, all the while seething inside. She stopped short when she saw the BART signs. Yes, it would be easier to take a cab, but she’d come this far alone successfully, so why not go the distance? If she could do BART without Martin, she could do France with or without Martin.

  The ride into the city passed without difficulty. Trying to ignore the homeless man sleeping against the wall in the station, she took the escalator up the steep incline to the street level. She should be right in front of the hotel. But she wasn’t. The Sheraton Palace was across Market, a street as wide as her lavender nursery field and filled with cars, trucks, trolleys, buses, and the stink of gas and diesel. Street people lined the sidewalks, one of them a toothless woman rocking and singing to herself, eyes closed, a clawlike hand clutching the blanket tight around her shoulders.

  “Miss, can you spare a dollar?” a black man with one eye importuned, his smile hopeful.

  Martin always told her to never give anyone money.

  But Martin wasn’t here. She pulled two dollars from her purse, stuffed it in his can, and joined the throng at the stoplight. How could anyone function with all this—the noise, the smells, the hurry that rode the crowd like a jockey driving for the finish line? The light changed, and she walked with the rest of them, keeping one hand on her shoulder bag, the other clenched to the handle of her suitcase. If she’d read the instructions better, she would have saved herself this trek.

  “I hate city life,” she muttered. Now she was getting as bad as those people on the sidewalk who were talking to themselves. Poor things. Yet she’d read about the problems of the homeless. Most of them, not willing to stay in shelters or to be retrained for a productive life, chose street life. The problem in San Francisco was endemic. Not that she believed everything she read. She entered the hotel by the door on Market.

  Perhaps Martin would be in the room. She trundled down the hall, past the dark-paneled Pied Piper Bar and Restaurant and the vaulted Garden Court to the check-in counter, where a smiling young woman greeted her.

  “Ms. Taylor, there is a message for you. You’ll find it waiting on the phone in your room.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced toward the Garden Court. “Does one need reservations for the Sunday brunch?”

  “Yes. This Sunday?”

  “Please. For two.”

  “Would nine be too early? That’s all I have.”

  “Fine, thank you.” Andy smiled at the young Eurasian woman. The contrast between the feeling of elegance within this building and the chaos across the street almost made her close her eyes as she turned to find the elevators. Lavender, think lavender.

  She took the elevator to the twelfth floor, following the signs to her room. With only one bag, she didn’t bother with a bellman.

  The fragrance of Martin’s aftershave greeted her when she opened the door, but other than his toiletry kit in the bathroom and his clothes hanging in the closet—as usual, the original neatnik, she’d so often called him—the room bore no trace of her husband. She pushed the button on the phone to retrieve her message.

  “I’m running late, so please be ready at six sharp.”

  She hung up. No “Glad you made it safely.” No “Welcome to San Francisco.” Don’t waste words. Yes, that was Martin all right. Endeavoring to stay calm, she unpacked and shook out her slinky outfit. Ah, the bliss of “no ironing needed.” Within half an hour, she was dressed with fresh makeup and the sparkly paste jewelry she loved. The only diamond she owned occupied the third finger of her left hand, in a set of rings she’d taken off only when the hospital insisted for the births of her children and for her hernia surgery.

  She stared in the mirror. “Andy, m’dear, you clean up real good.” She turned to study all sides. While she wasn’t fat, her size-12 curves didn’t match the current style of skinny
and emaciated. She smiled at the face in the mirror. How long since Martin had seen her dressed like this?

  With half an hour to go, she thought about leaving a note that would say “Meet me in the bar,” but since she’d never done such a thing before, she figured now was not a good time to start. Instead, she picked up the Guide to San Francisco and flicked through it. A short while later, she heard the key card in the door.

  Let the games begin.

  “You look striking.” Martin gave her an appreciative once-over.

  Andy smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

  “I’m really glad you could come.”

  Andy saw the opportunity to play her first game piece. “I told you that as soon as the business could afford to hire an employee, I’d hire one. I just didn’t think it would happen so quickly.” She had decided not to tell him whom she’d hired, unless he asked, because she knew he wouldn’t see Shari as a real employee. “Of course, it’s just parttime, but if everything works out, I’ll be able to come once a month.”

  “Really?” He sounded surprised. “The business is doing that well?”

  There was something in his expression and his voice that made an alarm go off in her head. Could he be jealous, as Shari had suggested? Was he one of those men who was intimidated by his wife’s success? She considered her answer carefully and decided to downplay the business, in case he was suffering from a case of green-eyed monster. “It’s doing okay, growing some every day.”

  “That’s great,” he said, then gave her a bland smile.

  For the first time in their marriage, Andy felt like she needed to tiptoe around Martin. She hoped that by the time Sunday came around and she was on her way home, she would know for certain what was going on with him.

  Downstairs at the main entrance, he handed her into the cab the doorman had whistled up. “Masa’s, please.” He gave the driver a piece of paper on which the address had been neatly penned. That was Martin, always paying attention to the smallest detail. The cab roared away from the curb, hung a right, and hit warp speed in thirty feet.

  “I’m looking forward to tomorrow,” Andy said, in an effort to ease the strain that she couldn’t help but feel.

  “About tomorrow.” Martin cleared his throat. “I thought I would be able to go with you, but—”

  “Martin!” Andy interrupted, turning in her seat. “Don’t you dare tell me you have to work.”

  He shrugged. “Well, I do.”

  She glared at him. “I came here to be with you, not with your bosses, not with your colleagues, and certainly not with some real estate agent.” She turned back around and stared over the front seat, out the driver’s window. Anger boiled just below the flash point. She should have known better than to think he wanted her there because he missed her. All he wanted her there for was to do his bidding, to be his nice corporate wife, to be his house-hunter, to be his … She was so mad she shuddered.

  Biting down on her tongue was the only way Andy could keep from saying anything else. She held the box of lavender wands tightly in her lap and watched the city go by.

  “There are some things you need to know before we arrive,” Martin said, as if nothing were amiss. He briefed her on the guest list. There would be three other couples. She had met two of the couples at previous events. The new couple had been brought in from another company, and the wife was now the new senior vice president of something or other.

  When he was through, she realized she had only heard half of what he’d said. Was it Jo or Joe with the last name Waters? The new senior vice president, should she be addressed as Mrs. or Ms.? Until she knew for sure, she would avoid addressing anyone.

  Martin adjusted the knot in his tie. Again. He was nervous. Funny, she didn’t recall him having any trouble in the past at functions such as this. Was he worried about the dinner in general, or was he worried she would mention the move that wasn’t going to happen? She supposed she could reassure him, but right now she wasn’t in a particularly charitable mood. On top of backing out of looking at houses, he hadn’t even asked how her trip had been into the city, or if she’d had any trouble with BART.

  At the restaurant, Martin paid the driver and handed her out. Acting the perfect, thoughtful husband, he put his arm around her and escorted her up the red carpet. If she weren’t so mad, she would feel like a queen. At the door, he quickly moved in front of her and held it open. The smile he gave her reminded her so much of their early years that the tingle went clear to her toes. Now, though, every nice thing he said and did only aroused suspicion.

  Lord, please get me through this occasion with my social face intact. Playing the game of corporate wife had often been a joke with her, one that Martin never found humorous. He had always been far too serious about his job. As they wended their way between the white-clothed tables, Andy told herself to make nice and remember to smile.

  Then she saw them, six of them, seated at a rectangular table toward the back. Were they late? Martin was never late to anything. She used to tease him about being early to his own funeral, just to make sure everything was in order.

  Andy squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Good little corporate wife.

  The three men rose from their chairs simultaneously. Black suits. Starched white shirts. They looked like a line of dominoes, standing up instead of falling down.

  “Good evening, Andrea.” Brad Grandolay, head of the company, greeted her. “I’m glad you could join us.” He turned slightly, indicating the woman beside him. “I don’t believe you’ve met my wife, Sophia.”

  Andy put on her brightest smile. “I’m so happy to meet you, Sophia.” This was not the same wife Brad had been married to a few years ago. Andrea reached out to shake the woman’s hand and was blinded by the diamond—as big as a bantam chicken egg—on her finger. Vaguely, Andy recalled Martin saying that Brad’s first wife had left him to pursue a career in something or other. Yeah, right.

  “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you, too,” Sophia said with a distinct southern drawl.

  The syrupy drawl, combined with the blond hair and the chicken-egg ring, told Andy that Sophia could find her way around Saks blindfolded and that it would be hard to strike up a good conversation with her.

  Andy drew her hand back and went to the next introduction. “And this is our new senior vice president of R&D, Ms. Waters.”

  Andy nodded and smiled, but before she could say anything, the fashionably thin woman extended her hand. “Please call me Marcelene, and this is my husband, Joe.” The way she said it made it clear that Marcy was not an alternative. Her husband might have a nickname, but she didn’t.

  Andy shook hands with her and then with Joe. “I’m glad to meet both of you. Martin said you came from Dallas. Welcome to the West Coast.” She greeted the other couple, whom she’d known from company Christmas parties and summer picnics, and sat when Martin pulled out her chair. Laying her box on the table, she untied the bow and lifted out the lavender wands, wrapped so carefully in tissue paper with a lavender bow, and handed one to each of the women. “A token from Lavender Meadows.”

  “How lovely.” Each woman held the wand to her nose and smiled in delight at the fragrance.

  “Did you make these?” Marcelene turned the ribbon and lavender wand and admired the handiwork.

  “Yes, they are one of our specialties. They last a long time, and when the fragrance fades, you can brush them gently to release new scent, or add a few drops of essential lavender oil.”

  When Martin cleared his throat, Andy glanced at him and detected a hint of annoyance in his expression. Why would just mentioning Lavender Meadows earn her that look? Oh, Martin, what has happened to you? She felt herself shrivel inside.

  Forcing herself to smile, she tucked the box down at her feet with her evening bag.

  At least the women seemed to appreciate her gift.

  The waiter arrived with menus, explained the evenings entrées, took their drink orders, and left. It was Joe who star
ted out the conversation, lightening the mood with a humorous account of their move to San Francisco.

  Andy liked Joe. Not only did he have a good sense of humor, but he was also a good storyteller, which he came by naturally, she learned a few minutes later. He was a novelist. Somehow one comment from Brad turned the conversation, however, and before she knew it, they were talking about company business.

  “So I understand you’re going out with a Realtor tomorrow,” Brad said, catching Andy off guard.

  “Why, I—” She glanced at Martin and saw the look in his eyes. “Yes. First thing in the morning.” Sorry, Lord. Now she would have to go. Lying wasn’t something she took lightly, and spending the day with a Realtor in this city hovered somewhere between having a root canal and a mammogram.

  Brad nodded. “We ask a lot of our executives and their spouses, but we’d like to think we make it worth their while.”

  I wouldn’t know, since my husband hasn’t told me how much of a salary increase you gave him, or how much the bonuses will be or—anything else. Andy’s first thought was to tell Brad that some things couldn’t be bought, things like family roots, dreams, and happiness. But she kept still.

  “If there is anything AES and I can do to help you, feel free to ask.”

  Again Andy smiled. “Thank you. I will.”

  The conversation turned to expansions and acquisitions, which was frankly boring, as far as Andy was concerned. She glanced over at Joe and saw him watching his wife, his smiling eyes telling Andy that he was proud of her. Picking up her glass of iced tea, she looked over the rim at Sophia, who was watching the candlelight reflect off her diamond ring. The other woman, Denise, who sat at the opposite end of the table, nodded at everything her husband said. She reminded Andy of one of those plastic dashboard dogs.