Doublecrossed, p.5
Doublecrossed, page 5
A perfect moment. Even now, as mad as I was with her, I could feel the magic of the memory. No, Marnie couldn’t set me up, but how could I reconcile her present behavior?
When I arrived home, I opened the garage, parked the Jeep, and slammed the car door. The house was dark, so I switched on the lights and began to wander around in the living room, replaying the sentences I’d heard outside the cottage. My initial reaction had been a response to the infidelity. The more I got past that unhappy territory, the more I wondered about “the plan” Marnie had mentioned. A “dangerous” plan apparently centered around me. Whatever intrigue was being hatched, it sounded menacing and as if it had been devised some time ago. But, if Marnie had been involved with someone before me, why had she been so eager to make a commitment and buy a house?
Unfortunately, it didn’t take long to arrive at the sickening answer: the wills we both wrote up with the lawyer—her lawyer. In order to protect our investments, we had bequeathed our respective ownership and our estates to each other, an arrangement Marnie had suggested. If something happened to me, all my money, possessions, and my percentage of the house would pass to her, with no one left in my family to question her right to the inheritance or her role in my death or disappearance. Since I had subsidized $25,000 of the deposit and $60,000 at closing to reduce the mortgage, she would garner a nice amount, which she knew, and much more, which she didn’t. As compensation, Marnie had offered to cover more of the monthly mortgage—her income was higher and more regular than mine—a fact that had helped us to secure the house loan and had allowed me to avoid disclosure of my full assets.
In recent weeks, I had paid for most of the improvements because her $5,000 down payment had drained her funds. Marnie had promised to reimburse me from her next sales’ commission in July—which she hadn’t—but kept records, as if to convince me of her good intentions. Like an idiot, I had trusted her to make amends. Now, after what I had just overheard, it seemed as though Marnie was scheming to profit from the house, which meant I had to die and my estate legally transferred to her.
If this was the plot, then I was in serious jeopardy. It did no good to keep on about how I had been duped, how she didn’t love me and perhaps hadn’t ever. I had to concentrate on the end game, if, in fact, I had analyzed everything correctly.
It was very late. I was exhausted and needed sleep in order to find my way through this quagmire. Marnie was safely tucked away in a cottage nearly two hours distant, unlikely to leave before breakfast. I changed into pajamas and went to bed, telling myself that I would awaken early in the morning and find an attorney.
Chapter Seven
WHEN I WOKE the next morning, Marnie was staring at me, her green eyes blinking behind her tortoiseshell glasses. I recoiled, surprised to see her.
“I didn’t expect you.” I tried to keep my tone steady, to sound casual, but I heard the quaver in my voice.
“I needed to change clothes.”
I rose to my feet, which made me feel more in control since I was taller than Marnie. “Look, I want to know what’s going on.”
She blinked at me again.
“Can’t we talk? Maybe have some coffee?” I suggested, though I wasn’t feeling at all companionable.
She started to turn toward the closet and reconsidered, as if caught between two strong impulses. “Oh, Alex, this is such an enormous mess.” As she approached me, tears began to roll down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry I lost my temper the other night. I had too much to drink.” She removed her glasses and wiped her eyes.
I didn’t know what to say and stood there, speechless. Was this genuine remorse?
“Things just snowballed,” she said. “I feel absolutely horrible.”
Before I knew what was happening, Marnie placed her arms around my neck and kissed me. Instinctively, I embraced her. My mind was whirling with confusion, outrage, and, worst of all, a sexual response to her touch.
“I missed you so much,” she whispered.
Though my brain was tossing verbal protests at a blitzkrieg rate, I replied, “I missed you too,” and then wondered why I had said it, whether it was a lie or the truth.
“Really? Do you mean that?” Hopefulness spread across her face.
I was quiet, skeptical of Marnie, but then she kissed me again and led me to the bed, a treacherous place for us to be at the moment. I tried to step away, but she held me until I surrendered and sat on the mattress.
“I want us to get back to where we were, Alex. I really do. Tell me what you want. Anything…” Her voice ambled back to Virginia, slow and smooth.
“I don’t know, Marnie.” A weak response if there ever was one. I was disgusted with myself, disgusted with her transparent manipulation. I felt like a trained seal waiting for fish.
She brought her ample chest closer. “Oh, come on, let’s just forget about everything,” she pleaded, massaging my neck.
Though I wasn’t persuaded by her apology, sexual sparks were flying.
“Marnie, I have some real concerns—”
“Oh, Alex, you still love me, don’t you?”
She had me there. A black-and-white question. “Yes,” I replied, trying to disguise my uncertainty.
“I knew it!” Her expression brightened. “We’ll work this out. Maybe everything was too perfect before, and we had to go through a little rough patch. Yes, that’s all it was.”
Was she attempting to convince me or herself? Or was she acting a part? Observing her carefully, I could see no trace of fakery, yet only last night this woman had been drinking wine in a romantic cottage and making plans that threatened me. It was possible she still loved me and was in some kind of trouble involving the person at the B&B. I considered confronting her with what I knew and then, just as quickly, decided against it. Though it felt absurd to do so, I hugged her. Marnie hugged me back and began removing my pajamas, almost ripping off the buttons. Her frenzied excitement was at once manic and also frightening, as if intensified by a “last time” quality.
“Oh, yes…” she moaned, tossing her dress and underwear on the floor. Within seconds, she lowered her naked body beside me. “Oh, you feel so good!”
Her flesh was soft and curving in contrast to my angularity. She ran her hands over my hip.
“Take me, Alex.” Marnie pulled me on top of her, wrapped her legs around mine, and pressed her hands against the small of my back. “Hurry!”
Her voice steamed my cheek, heating the space between us. I wanted to stop, to honor my reservations, but I was swept along with her passion despite my belief that this was a staged production. Or perhaps my anger was turning into aggression, goading me forward.
“Do it,” she murmured.
I pinned her against the pillows and kissed her hard and deeply, without love or tenderness, wanting to punish Marnie for her infidelity. Despite the bitterness I felt toward her, I was equally upset with myself. As if sensing my conflicted mood, she grabbed my hand and placed it in her mouth, her green eyes feral, like those of a large, dangerous cat. She began to bite and suck my fingers, alternating between hurting and soothing me. Then she forced my hand in the space between us.
“Take me,” she ordered again.
*
Later, we lay on the bed, silent and separate. The few spoken words of endearment uttered by Marnie sounded rote. I said almost nothing and made no promises of love. I felt miserable, unable to share my torment with Marnie, who seemed bent on maintaining the illusion of closeness.
“Come on. It’s time for coffee. I’ll make it,” she offered.
I didn’t answer.
“Alex, honey, are you okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Coffee is fine,” I lied, wishing for her to leave the room.
Marnie glanced at me, then put on her eyeglasses.
Detecting her suspicion, I changed the subject. “Aren’t you going to work?”
Sunlight struck the surface of her lenses. “I’ll tell them I’m sick.” Marnie headed toward the closet, her large breasts swinging easily. “I’ll phone after breakfast.”
I thought this was odd since it was so late already, but I let it go. As she donned her bathrobe and walked toward the kitchen, I settled in the sheets still warm from sex, but after a moment, I couldn’t tolerate lying in our bed and rushed into the bathroom to take a scalding shower.
*
When I entered the kitchen, the teakettle was whistling. Marnie looked askance at my shorts and blouse.
“Dressed already?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I grabbed my mug and added some sugar. I felt anxious, particularly since she kept watching me.
Marnie poured water into the white Melitta filter and gave me a glass of juice. Instead of moving away, she stepped nearer, placing her hand on my arm. “Really, Alex, we’re fine.”
I stared at her, stunned by her optimism.
Her lips brushed my cheek, then lingered by my neck, trying to provoke me. When I didn’t react, she drew away. “I just had some stuff to deal with.”
“Like what?”
She shook her head at my unfriendly tone and returned to the coffee pot. “Just things. Maybe we went too fast…buying the house and all. Maybe I needed a little time to catch up to where we were. Oh, I don’t know. But I feel better, like everything is good again.” As she said this, she turned and smiled at me.
Unsure of what to say or how to behave, I nodded and reached for the cereal bowls.
*
We spent the day gardening, an activity we could do together and maintain our separate thoughts. Mine were as convoluted and confused as the creepers circling through the forsythia bushes. I berated myself for not leaving Marnie, but the situation seemed increasingly gauzy and surreal. At five, sweating from the heat, I came into the house to shower while Marnie prepared a chicken for the oven. Later, as I was slipping on khaki shorts, she came into the bedroom bearing two tall whiskey sours.
“Oh, thanks,” I replied, “but I should have water first or this will go straight to my head.” I then noticed the liquid level in Marnie’s cocktail glass. She had skipped the water and made considerable inroads on her drink.
“My turn for the shower,” she said, smiling. “You make the salad.”
“Okay,” I replied, relieved we would have more time apart.
I headed into the kitchen, drank some ice water, rinsed a head of Boston lettuce, and sliced some tomatoes, all the while analyzing how to confront Marnie. After shaving some parmesan cheese and adding green olives to the salad, I dressed it and placed the bowl on the table. Marnie appeared, her auburn hair damp and brushed back. She was wearing black shorts and a white, low-cut, knit top. Marnie held up a Nike box.
“Hey, Alex? Are these shoes for me?”
I’d forgotten about them. “Yeah. There was a sale. Have a present.”
“Got some for yourself too, I see.”
I nodded.
“Well, thanks. I’ll try them on later.” She made another drink and walked into the living room.
I delayed joining her by measuring water and rice. Suddenly, I felt weary, but not too weary to stop worrying. Waiting for the water to boil, I sipped my whiskey sour, all the while trying to determine if last night’s fears were reasonable or ridiculous. Our morning activities had done nothing to clarify how Marnie felt about me. If anything, I was more unsure of her now, having glimpsed an emotional void disguised by her seductive behavior. Of course, I could also be accused of acting with little feeling or at least little positive feeling. However, we had arrived at this chilly place, it was apparent our relationship had become a charade, one I had to fix or end.
This realization brought me to one of the urgent questions I’d been wrestling with all afternoon: should I consult an attorney tomorrow to change my will, or should I wait? Changing my will meant altering the mutual agreement with Marnie about the house and tacitly breaking the commitment we’d made. On the other hand, at the very least, Marnie had been cheating on me and possibly was intending to do something much worse. Thinking about the conversation I’d heard below the window of the B&B, my resentment was rekindled. What had I been doing having sex with her? Revulsion roiled my stomach. And why hadn’t Marnie called the office to report her absence from work? Because she’d already taken the day off as part of the plan with her partner? And, more importantly, was I in danger?
I resolved to be very observant tonight and to call an attorney when Marnie left in the morning. If I had misconstrued her conversation with the unknown partner, I could always nullify the revised will and Marnie would never know.
*
Marnie’s coq-au-vin was fine as always and the wine was too. After we finished dishes of lemon sorbet, I told her I was going upstairs to check my answering machine and e-mail. It took me about fifteen minutes to erase all the spam advertisements, plus answer a few short notes from Gregory Reynolds and another client. Then I stretched, stood, and headed downstairs, the thick carpet cool on my bare feet. Nearing the laundry room, I heard Marnie talking quietly in her study. I stopped, hoping I hadn’t made too much noise.
“Look, this may not work out—” she was saying. Whoever it was on the other end of the line seemed to cut her off. She was silent for a few seconds.
“Mmm. Yeah, I know, I know.” She sounded like a chastised child, but a moment later her voice acquired a decisive edge. “Okay, listen, you’re right, we’ll go with it as scheduled. Let me think about it…see what I can arrange. No, she doesn’t suspect. Good. Day after tomorrow is fine. See you then.”
A bolt of anxiety shot through me. I hadn’t misunderstood Marnie’s intent after all. She was plotting something, but what? All I knew was when, not why, how, or with whom. I retreated a few steps and then walked more loudly toward the kitchen and slowed near the wine rack.
“Marnie, should I open another bottle?” I asked, not that I wanted any.
She hurried from her study. “Huh? Did you get everything finished, Alex?”
I decided that two could play the same acting game. “Yes, just a lot of nonsense as usual. No one called or missed me all day. I guess I’m not that popular.”
Marnie didn’t skip a beat. “You’re popular with me,” she drawled, encircling my shoulders and kissing my cheek. “I don’t think we need more wine, do you?”
Chapter Eight
I RETRIEVED MY WILL and two other documents from the safe deposit box at the bank and arrived promptly for my one o’clock appointment. The receptionist ushered me into an expensive office. The attorney, Mr. Reilly, came in almost immediately. He was beefy like a football tackle and dressed in a conservative gray suit and maroon necktie. His thinning dark hair was combed back to emphasize a protruding forehead. Half glasses perched on his large nose.
We shook hands.
“Alexandra Wyatt? Hi, I’m Jim Reilly.” He sat behind his gleaming mahogany desk, which smelled faintly of lemon, clasped his two big hands together, and observed me with a patient expression. “What can I do for you?”
“I need a revision to my will and to my power of attorney and health proxy.” I handed him the documents that had been drawn up with Marnie before our house closing. “I hope it will be possible to have them changed and signed while I’m here or at least by the end of the day. Your secretary told me you might be able to do it.”
The lawyer studied me attentively, probably wondering why I was in such a rush, though he didn’t ask. Instead, he gave me a practiced smile. “We can do that if the will is simple.”
“It is. My previous document is fine as a model except for a few changes.”
He examined the contents of the envelope and raised his eyebrows when he saw the date. “These have been done very recently.”
“Yes, I know. My circumstances have changed rather suddenly.”
“I see. What must we amend?”
“The beneficiary, the executor, the power of attorney, and holder of the health proxy.”
He concentrated on the will first and read the appropriate sentences, moved a yellow legal pad to the center of his desk, and unscrewed the cap on a black Mont Blanc pen. “May I have the name of the new executor?”
I gave him Copelia’s name and address.
“Is she a relative?”
“No. Everyone in my family is dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, jotting the information down. “And who would you like as a secondary executor?”
“No one.”
“Are you sure?”
“You can list yourself.”
He nodded, then read the part about the house. “And the beneficiary and contingent beneficiary?”
“Just Copelia. Please specify that she will inherit my estate and my part of the ownership of the house, the one listed in the old will.”
“Perhaps you’d like to name your current beneficiary as a second? Marnie Hardwick?”
“I expressly don’t want that,” I replied with some vehemence. “I’m sorry. There really isn’t anyone else. And also stipulate that in the event of my death, the house must be sold since I own a majority interest, and that Copelia Bye will receive my percentage of the net profit or the co-owner—”
“Marnie Hardwick?”
“Yes, the co-owner,” I repeated, “may opt to keep the house and reimburse Cope for my investment plus my percentage of any rise in appraised value.”
“Not that you expect to leave us soon,” Mr. Reilly said with a bland smile. “I assume, since you have joint ownership, that the two of you signed a legal agreement detailing this arrangement?”
“No, not exactly. She has listed me as first beneficiary of her part ownership.” At least that’s what she agreed to do, though I hadn’t seen the final signed document. I felt my cheeks color, thinking how dumb I’d been. “At closing, it was recorded that my down payment was $85,000 and hers was $5,000 and what percentage of ownership each of us had.”
“I see. That’s certainly a step in the right direction, though it doesn’t spell out what your intentions are regarding any future sale of the house and the consequent loss or gain on the property. Or who will pay the monthly mortgage or for any improvements…things of that nature.”
