ready soon? I’m starving.”
She nodded, an even more uncomfortable look passing over her face.
“Mrs. Winters, I don’t know if it’s my place to say this, but…”
“Have you always called me Mrs. Winters?” Molly interrupted, snatching one more carrot.
“Since you’ve been married. Before that you were Molly to me and Ben.”
“Then I think I should be Molly again.” She smiled warmly at her.
“Mrs. Winters doesn’t seem like me at all. Molly at least seems a little closer to who I feel like.”
“All right. If that’s what you want.” She glanced uneasily toward the door.
“I think I’d better tell you something before they come in for lunch.” It was there, a tiny fluttering of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. She managed a calm smile.
“Tell me what, Mrs. Morse?”
She leaned against the counter, hoping she looked nonchalant.
“It’s common knowledge around here that they’re going to be married as soon as the divorce is final.”
She said it all in a rush, clearly eager to get it over with.
Molly looked at her blankly.
“Who’s going to marry whom?”
“Patrick. It looks like he’s going to marry Mrs. Canning. Her husband passed away the day you left here and it looked like they started making their plans right away.”
She looked miserable.
“I thought you’d better know, in case you started getting… well, getting ideas.”
“What kind of ideas would those be? That my husband shouldn’t be getting ready for wife number two before he’s gotten rid of wife number one?” She couldn’t keep the trace of bitterness out of her voice.
“Who’s Mrs. Canning? Do I know her?”
“You and Lisa Canning used to be thick as thieves,” Mrs. Morse replied grimly.
“She and Patrick are oat riding now. I’m expecting them in for lunch any minute now. If you want I can give you a tray ia your room.
It couldn’t be very pleasant for you, dearie. It’s always been that way between Patrick and her, ever since she married old Fred Canning and moved here five years ago. Though I used to think it was more on her side than his. “
“Then why did he marry me? For the money? He told me I was rich.”
“I was never really sure of why he married you, honey. I guess I hoped that he loved you.”
“But he didn’t. Did he?”
She wouldn’t answer, busying herself with the dishes. Then she looked up.
“All I know is that Pat would nit have done something like that. If he’d wanted that money there were other ways he could have gotten it.”
Like killing me, she thought, unable to hide from the chilling notion.
At that moment there was a commotion in the yard, and with a false calm Molly moved to the window and looked out. And some of the pieces fell together in the puzzle.
At first her attention was drawn to the man who was still, ostensibly, her husband. He looked as if he were born in the saddle. He was tall and gorgeous in the bright sunlight, his long, muscled legs easily controlling the spirited bay, and Molly had no doubts at all as to why she had married him. By his side was her erstwhile friend Mrs. Canning, a well-preserved beauty of indeterminate age, her white blond hair expertly tinted and coiffed, her face youthful, her figure opulent and desirable.
Everything Molly was not. She laughed and put one hand on Patrick’s arm, and the look he gave her was one that sent such a flashing wave of jealousy through Molly that she felt sick. She might not remember Patrick or the woman, but that emotion was an old and comfortable foe.
The woman dismounted from the horse in one lithe movement, and suddenly Molly realized why she looked vaguely familiar. She belonged in that bedroom upstairs, with the pink-tinted satins, in those sophisticated and expensive clothes. They were made for a woman like her, and Molly wondered who had decorated that bedroom and chosen those clothes. Had it been Patrick?
Or the helpful Mrs. Canning? Or had Molly tried to turn herself into a
She nodded, an even more uncomfortable look passing over her face.
“Mrs. Winters, I don’t know if it’s my place to say this, but…”
“Have you always called me Mrs. Winters?” Molly interrupted, snatching one more carrot.
“Since you’ve been married. Before that you were Molly to me and Ben.”
“Then I think I should be Molly again.” She smiled warmly at her.
“Mrs. Winters doesn’t seem like me at all. Molly at least seems a little closer to who I feel like.”
“All right. If that’s what you want.” She glanced uneasily toward the door.
“I think I’d better tell you something before they come in for lunch.” It was there, a tiny fluttering of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. She managed a calm smile.
“Tell me what, Mrs. Morse?”
She leaned against the counter, hoping she looked nonchalant.
“It’s common knowledge around here that they’re going to be married as soon as the divorce is final.”
She said it all in a rush, clearly eager to get it over with.
Molly looked at her blankly.
“Who’s going to marry whom?”
“Patrick. It looks like he’s going to marry Mrs. Canning. Her husband passed away the day you left here and it looked like they started making their plans right away.”
She looked miserable.
“I thought you’d better know, in case you started getting… well, getting ideas.”
“What kind of ideas would those be? That my husband shouldn’t be getting ready for wife number two before he’s gotten rid of wife number one?” She couldn’t keep the trace of bitterness out of her voice.
“Who’s Mrs. Canning? Do I know her?”
“You and Lisa Canning used to be thick as thieves,” Mrs. Morse replied grimly.
“She and Patrick are oat riding now. I’m expecting them in for lunch any minute now. If you want I can give you a tray ia your room.
It couldn’t be very pleasant for you, dearie. It’s always been that way between Patrick and her, ever since she married old Fred Canning and moved here five years ago. Though I used to think it was more on her side than his. “
“Then why did he marry me? For the money? He told me I was rich.”
“I was never really sure of why he married you, honey. I guess I hoped that he loved you.”
“But he didn’t. Did he?”
She wouldn’t answer, busying herself with the dishes. Then she looked up.
“All I know is that Pat would nit have done something like that. If he’d wanted that money there were other ways he could have gotten it.”
Like killing me, she thought, unable to hide from the chilling notion.
At that moment there was a commotion in the yard, and with a false calm Molly moved to the window and looked out. And some of the pieces fell together in the puzzle.
At first her attention was drawn to the man who was still, ostensibly, her husband. He looked as if he were born in the saddle. He was tall and gorgeous in the bright sunlight, his long, muscled legs easily controlling the spirited bay, and Molly had no doubts at all as to why she had married him. By his side was her erstwhile friend Mrs. Canning, a well-preserved beauty of indeterminate age, her white blond hair expertly tinted and coiffed, her face youthful, her figure opulent and desirable.
Everything Molly was not. She laughed and put one hand on Patrick’s arm, and the look he gave her was one that sent such a flashing wave of jealousy through Molly that she felt sick. She might not remember Patrick or the woman, but that emotion was an old and comfortable foe.
The woman dismounted from the horse in one lithe movement, and suddenly Molly realized why she looked vaguely familiar. She belonged in that bedroom upstairs, with the pink-tinted satins, in those sophisticated and expensive clothes. They were made for a woman like her, and Molly wondered who had decorated that bedroom and chosen those clothes. Had it been Patrick?
Or the helpful Mrs. Canning? Or had Molly tried to turn herself into a
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