Chapter 6 #2
“Just give me a few minutes,” she begged in that unfamiliar, sultry voice. “I’ll be fine.”
She heard their voices trail off behind fire closed door, but she didn’t move, standing completely still in the darkened bedroom, afraid, when she had always done her best to fight her fears.
She took a deep, steadying breath and touched her hair again.
The long flowing curls that didn’t belong to her.
She pushed herself away from the bed and moved to the dressing table with its triptych mirror. There were two tall lamps on either side, and she sat down on the bench and switched them on, lifting her head to stare at her reflection without flinching.
The woman in the mirror looked a little simple-minded from shock, Susan thought wryly. And who wouldn’t, facing a reflection that was completely foreign.”
Well, not . completely. She’d seen that face, that body in the minor in her mother’s house in Connecticut. And she’d seen that face, that body in one of the few old photographs her mother possessed of her long-dead sister.
The woman in the mirror was Tallulah Abbott. The woman whose body was encasing Susan’s soul was Tallulah Abbott Three days before her wedding day. Three days before her death.
Susan slammed down the panic that suddenly swelled into her throat Maybe if she screamed she’d wake up, or maybe if she screamed all those people would come running again, and she’d have to come up with some sort of excuse.
It had to be some crazy dream, brought on by the stress of the past few weeks, topped off by the appearance of Jake Wyczynski and the stranger who might possibly be her father.
She was having the mother of all nightmares, and there was nothing to worry about.
She knew about dreams. How they mirrored the deeper concerns of everyday life. How they could teach you a lesson you were unwilling to learn during the day. No dream ever killed you, no matter how bizarre.
She could survive this dream in all its strangeness. She might wake up in a second, or it might take days. But panic would only make things worse.
She looked up at her reflection once more, taking a moment to enjoy it She really did look like a cross between Ava Gardner and Rita Hayworth.
The rich dark curls tumbled to her shoulders, her eyebrows were delicately plucked over huge, vibrant eyes, her nose was small and narrow, her mouth painted a lush crimson.
For the first time in her life she was astonishingly beautiful, and she might as well enjoy it.
She rose and pulled off the wedding dress. It fitted more tightly than when she’d put it on, and she loosened tire satin lacing in the front to get it off.
Her underwear was absurd. She had to be at least a thirty-six-C bra size, when she’d never been much more than a thirty-four A. She was more rounded, but still not in need of the thick rubber girdle that encircled her hips and held up the dark stockings.
She was about to peel off the girdle when she saw the maroon dress lying across a chair. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out she was supposed to wear that dress, but she wasn’t ready to do that Wasn’t certain she was ready to accept this dream, or nightmare.
Instead she found a chenille bathrobe hanging inside the closet door and she pulled it around her, oddly chilled in the warm air. She went over to tire window to close it and then stopped, looking out over the wide, curving driveway.
She was at the old Abbott mansion. Where else would she be—that was where Tallulah and Mary had grown up, where Tallulah had lived before she married.
Her grandparents had been forced to sell it in the fifties, and a decade later it had been struck by lightning and burned to the ground.
All that remained was the garage that she could see to her right The garage where Jake Wyczynski had kissed her.
It was a warm June night and still Susan felt goose bumps crawling on her arms. Tallulah must have been a June bride as Susan was planning to be. For some reason it seemed unutterably sad to die in June.
She heard the door open once more, and she whirled around, only to see little Mary Abbott sneak inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.
“What’s wrong with you, Lou?” she demanded. “Mummy and Daddy would have a fit if they knew you had a man in your bedroom. Particularly that man. Mummy’s already half-tight and Daddy’s furious, demanding to know when you’re coming down. Neddie doesn’t look any too happy either.”
“Half-tight?” Susan echoed, picking up on one small thing amidst Mary’s spate of words.
“Smashed. Loaded. Bombed. She’s been drinking. You know how she gets.”
“Is it my fault?” Susan found herself asking. The question, the instinct was automatic and had nothing to do with Susan Abbott.
“Naaaah,” Mary said with a precocious shrug. “Mummy dear will use any excuse. She’ll get drunk tonight, she’ll have a hangover tomorrow, and then she’ll behave through the rest of the wedding. She probably won’t go on another bender for at least a month. By then you’ll be long gone.”
“I hope so,” Susan muttered, mainly to herself. “But what about you?”
Mary shrugged. “I keep out of her way when she gets like this. Don’t worry about me, Lou. I’m good at taking care of myself. You taught me that.”
Susan looked at the child who would one day be her mother. Mary Abbott had always seemed serene, able to weather the storms of life with surprising equanimity. She’d obviously learned it young.
“You said Ned Marsden is downstairs?”
“Do you know any other Neddie? He’s over here every night. He wouldn’t like it if he knew lick was hanging around. He was always jealous of Jimmy, you know.”
Susan took a deep breath. “Jimmy,” she echoed. The dead war hero.
For a moment Mary looked preternaturally old, worried and maternal. “What’s wrong with you, Lou? And why haven’t you dressed for dinner? You know Neddie’s got an even worse temper than Daddy, and he’s expecting you.”
“I don’t suppose you could convince them I wasn’t feeling well,” Susan suggested weakly.
“Not without having all of them troop up here to check on you. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong and I’ll see what I can do to fix it.”
“You’re nine years old. What can you do?”
“Well, at least you remember that much,” Mary said.
“You had me worried for a moment Jack told me you were acting like you’d never seen him before in your life, but I figured he was making things up.
He’s a writer, after all, even if it’s supposed to be tire truth, Daddy says most journalists are born liars. ”
“He’s a journalist?”
Mary came up to her and placed her small hands on Susan’s larger ones. Foreign ones, with a big, gaudy diamond ring and nail polish. “What’s wrong with you, Lou?” she asked quietly.
Susan looked at the little girl who seemed to be both her sister and her mother, and she didn’t even hesitate.
“I’m not Tallulah.”