“Should be one in the back of your closet,” Mrs. Morse answered, curiosity alight in her face. “Do you need any help?”
“I can handle it,” she said, heading back in to discover an old-fashioned steamer trunk, large enough to hold even Molly Winters’s extensive wardrobe. Working at a leisurely pace, she loaded it with almost every conceivable piece of elegant clothing. Patrick must have been using understatement when he said she loved to spend money. It was a good thing she apparently had plenty of it. The stuff in the closets and drawers must have cost a fortune. Sudden guilt swamped her. Surely there was some deserving charity in town that would love something a bit better than rags.
She kept very little: a number of subdued cotton sweaters, a blessed second pair of worn jeans. Out went the gold-threaded caftan, the black satin sheath with the neckline down to there, the turquoise silk lounging pajamas. Whether she liked it or not, she was really a T-shirt and jeans type, and dressing up in sophisticated clothes would only make her look more ridiculous. And make the situation that much worse.
What situation? she asked herself suddenly. There was no answer. Only the instinctive knowledge that she wanted to be beautiful. Was she fool enough to care what her bad-tempered husband thought? If she harbored any warm emotions in that direction she would be wise to forget them quickly. Her life was a tangled mess, and she had absolutely no idea how things had gotten that way. She sighed as she shut the trunk on the expensive, unsuitable clothes.
There wasn’t much left. Several drawers full of lace underwear that she’d lost her heart to, those itchy nightgowns, and the sweaters and shirts. And one very beautiful eyelet and cotton dress of pure white. The woman Molly had begun to think of as her predecessor didn’t seem to go in for simple things like this, and she wondered if it had actually belonged to someone else. For the time being she could wear it if the occasion demanded a dress, which seemed unlikely. From what Patrick had said, it seemed as if she were to be kept in total seclusion. Until her memory returned, Molly thought she might prefer it that way.
She glanced down at her clothes. Sooner or later she would find out how to get hold of her money. She’d need to buy at least a few new things—she couldn’t spend all her time in two pairs of faded jeans and a few sweaters. Then again, maybe she could. After all, who was she trying to impress? If it was Patrick Winters, it was obviously a lost cause.
“I’ve got a trunk full of clothes up there.” Molly walked into the kitchen. “Have you any idea where I could send it?”
Mrs. Morse looked up from her luncheon fixings in surprise. “Send it?” she repeated blankly.
“Yes.” Molly reached out and snatched a piece of sliced carrot. “I don’t want them anymore. They’re not at all my style.”
“I was wondering if you’d ever learn that.” She offered her another carrot. “I’ll have Ben take care of it for you when he comes in for lunch.”
“Ben?”
She looked at her oddly. “My husband,” she said after an uncomfortable silence. “You’ve only known him since you were sixteen.”
Molly shrugged with embarrassment. “Will lunch be 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 out riding now. I’m expecting them in for lunch any minute now. If you want I can give you a tray in 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 wouldn’t 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.
