“You shouldn’t joke about things you don’t understand.”
She stiffened. “I understand plenty.”
“Then you should know when to stop talking.”
Izzy bit her bottom lip as he rolled to face the wall. He thought her a simpleton, that much was clear, even though she’d attended Winfield on a full scholarship. Just because she didn’t tell him all her thoughts, didn’t mean she wasn’t paying attention.
While Louie hadn’t reappeared, at least when Izzy was home, Simon’s telephone calls were more frequent now. Instead of arguing, he and the professor barely spoke, Simon often skipping their Sunday dinners. At times, she thought the professor even seemed to be afraid of his son.
A year ago, she’d wanted to know what Simon did in Cleveland, who he saw, why he wouldn’t take her and Greta with him, but these days,she just wanted him to leave his horses behind and buy some reputable property near Winfield.
“We should take a trip together,” she proposed. “Now that we have money, we could visit someplace warm like South Carolina or Georgia. We could even bring Greta with us.”
“Good night, Izzy.”
“We need a vacation,” she whispered.
“The only thing we need tonight is sleep.”
Her eyes closed, but instead of rest, a dreary road of never-ending days stretched before her, the scenery rarely changing. Each and every day that Simon was gone. Same. Same. Same.
She was only twenty-two. How was she going to survive in this house, with this moody man, for the rest of her life with nothing to do but care for a baby who would grow up soon enough? Everything inside her felt as if it was about to explode.
She’d tried to step out several times, but Simon didn’t want her to join a ladies’ group. And she certainly couldn’t take lunch with a friend. Even if she could afford those luxuries, even if she had actual friends left in Winfield, who would watch Greta? The professor worked at the college all week, and the housekeeper would say that socials were not considered urgent.
Whether she slept or not, Izzy didn’t know, but sometime during the night, she heard the faint ringing of the telephone. She tried to ignore it, but the ringing persisted. Simon didn’t wake, so she finally reached for her robe, and oh so carefully, inched open the door. Ten rings and then fifteen, beckoning her to hurry as she padded down the dark hall and stairs.
Inside the office, the clanging sound seemed to grow more urgent.
She eyed the telephone on the professor’s desk, then looked up at the clock. A quarter past one. It must be an emergency for someone to call at this hour.
With a quick clearing of her throat, she lifted the receiver.
“I have a call for Simon Farrow,” the operator said.
“This is Mrs. Farrow.”
“I need to speak with Simon,” a man barked over the operator’s voice. “Now.”
Was Louie on the other line? She didn’t appreciate the man’s tone, but at least it wasn’t another female colleague. “I’m glad to take a message.”
“Where is Simon?”
“He’s not—”
“I’ll take that,” Simon snapped, yanking her arm.
She tried to shake off his grasp. “You’re hurting me—”
“Then give me the phone.”
The phone clattered on the desk, and he pointed at the door. “Privacy, Isadore.”
Stumbling back toward the hall, she clutched her arm where he had surely bruised it.
“Shut the door!” he shouted.
She obeyed, but his words bled through the wood.
