The Millionaire Claims His Wife
“Have you ever considered changing supermarkets?” Annie said sweetly. “What else did my darling daughter tell you?”
“Only that you and Chase went out of town in hopes of a reconciliation, and that it didn’t work out. Is that about it?”
“Yes,” Annie said. “That’s about it.”
Deb, who was nobody’s fool, eyed her best friend narrowly.
“Maybe your baby girl bought that story,” she said, “but I have a few years of observing the human condition on her.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, you want to tell me what really hap pened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Annie,” Deb said.
The doorbell rang. Annie sent up a silent prayer of thanks.
“Don’t think you’re off the hook,” Deb called as Annie hurried from the kitchen. “I have every intention of picking up the inquisition as soon as you get back.” Her voice rose. “You hear?”
Annie rolled her eyes. “I hear,” she said, as she flung the door open.
A boy stood on the porch. Rain glittered on his hair and shoulders, and on the yellow panel truck in the driveway.
“Mrs. Annie Cooper?”
Annie looked at the long white box clutched in his arms.
“Ms. Annie Cooper,” she said. “And I don’t want them.”
The boy frowned and looked at the tag clipped to the box.
“This is 126 Spruce Street, isn’t it?”
“It is, and you’re to take those flowers right back where they came from.”
“They’re roses, ma’am. Long-stemmed, red—”
“I know what they are, and I do not want them.” Annie reached behind her and took her pocketbook from the hall table.
“But—”
“Here,” she said, handing the boy a ten-dollar bill. “I’m sorry you had to come out in such miserable weather.”
“But, ma’am...”
“Good night.”
Annie shut the door. She sighed, leaned back against it and closed her eyes.
“What was that about?”
Her eyes flew open. Deb was standing in the hall, staring.
“Nothing. It was a—a mix-up. A delivery of something or other, but the kid had the wrong—”
“I heard the whole thing, Annie. He had the right house and the right woman. He also had a humongous box of roses, and you told him to take them away.”
Annie’s chin lifted. “I certainly did,” she said, marching past Deb into the kitchen. “You want a glass for that Coke, and some ice?”
“I want to know if I’m going crazy. Somebody sends you long-stemmed roses and you don’t even want to take a look? You don’t even want to ask who they’re from?”
Annie took two glasses from the cabinet over the sink and slammed them down on the counter.
“Chase,” she said grimly.
“Chase what?”
“Chase sent the roses.”
“How do you know? You didn’t even—”
“He’s been doing it for weeks.”
“Your ex has been sending you roses for weeks?”
“Yes. And I’ve been refusing them.” Annie sat down at the counter and picked up her slice of pizza. “Your pizza’s going to get cold, if you don’t eat it pretty soon.”
Deb looked down at her plate, then at Annie.
“Let me get this straight. You went away with your ex, he’s been sending you roses ever since, and you really expect me to believe nothing happened between You?”
“That’s exactly what I expect you to believe,” Annie said, and she burst into tears.
* * *
Half an hour later, the pizza had been forgotten, the diet Cokes had been replaced by a bottle of Chianti, Annie’s eyes and nose were pink and Deb had heard the whole story.
“The bastard,” she said grimly.
“Uh-huh,” Annie said, blowing her nose into a paper towel.
“The skunk!”
“That’s what he is, all right. Taking me to bed and then telling me how terrific it was—”
“Was it?”
Annie blushed. “Sex was never our problem. Well, not until the very end, when I was so hurt and angry at him for never coming home....”
“Other women, huh?”
“No.” Annie blew her nose again. “I mean, not then. At the end, there was somebody, even though Chase said there wasn’t.”
“Yeah,” Deb said, “that’s what they always say. So, if it wasn’t some foxy broad, why didn’t the oaf come home nights?”
“Oh, he came home. Late, that’s all. He took all these courses, see, so he could learn the things he needed to build up the business he’d inherited from his father. He worked crazy hours, too. Most days, he’d leave before sunrise and not get back until seven, eight at night.”