“Marjorie Saunders?”
“Yes? I’m Marjorie.”
A hint of concern seeped into the older woman’s eyes.
What’s this about? she was asking.
“I was wondering if I might have a word with you.” Natalie clasped her hands together in front of her waist, feeling moisture collect on her palms.
“Do I know you?”
There was confusion in Marjorie’s face and voice.
That confirmed it. Michael had never told his mother that he had a wife, probably hadn’t shared that he had children—her grandchildren. Chances were this poor woman, whom Natalie believed had died of cancer decades ago, hadn’t seen or heard from her son since the day he changed his name.
“We don’t know each other,” Natalie said quickly, her voice coming out soft and uncertain. “We’ve never met, but I know you—well, I sort of know you. God, this is awkward.” She paused, sighed, while collecting her thoughts. Finally, she gave up on tact and settled for a more direct approach. “Maybe it’s best if I get right to the purpose for my visit. I’m your son’s wife, Natalie. I’ve been married to your son for nineteen years, though I know him as Michael Hart, and I’ve only recently found out that he changed his name.”
Marjorie’s controlled manner held, but her face lost all expression, as if she’d slipped into a shell for protective purposes. It wasn’t long before the color returned to her cheeks. She appeared to be dazed, slightly off-kilter. Natalie too was feeling unsteady on her feet, as if the ground beneath her had given way. Eventually, Marjorie pressed her hands together, setting them to her lips in a silent prayer.
“I should have been prepared for this,” she said. A shift took place before Natalie’s eyes, as if Marjorie had resigned herself to her fate. “You’re pretty,” she said. “I’m not surprised. My son always had a thing for the pretty girls.”
“Thank you,” Natalie said, feeling quite awkward and unsure how to respond.
“I saw the news reports,” Marjorie continued. “This is about Audrey Adler, isn’t it? The murdered girl from Massachusetts.”
“Yes, it is, in a way,” said Natalie.
“I see.” Marjorie lowered her head. “I was afraid of that. I knew her as Audrey Sykes. I guess Adler is her married name. She lived down the street, she—” Marjorie looked to her right, as if she could see into Audrey’s home. When she met Natalie’s gaze again, her eyes had reddened, but in them fired a fierce determination to maintain control. “He did it again, didn’t he? That’s why you’re here.”
Natalie’s heart dropped. She felt suddenly faint, almost needing to seize the railings for support.
Again …
It was a breathtaking punch to the gut. Part of her had come here hoping for a story that would exonerate her husband, a mother’s assurance that her beloved boy was innocent of all charges, that he’d been framed. But no, Marjorie all but confirmed Natalie’s worst fears.
Again …
Pursing her lips together until they compressed into a thin red line, Marjorie stepped aside to make room for Natalie to enter.
“Please come in.”
A sniffle, then a dab at her eyes with her finger, were the only indications that Marjorie’s stoicism wouldn’t hold for long. Natalie felt deeply sorry for this woman she didn’t know, pained to come here bringing her nothing but more grief and sorrow.
No turning back now …
Natalie entered the home feeling a burgeoning curiosity about the place where her husband grew up. What was he like as a boy? What stories would his mother tell? What would Natalie learn of him, and of the woman who should have been her mother-in-law—who, legally, was?
A palette of light blues and whites gave the interior the feeling of an ocean cottage, but the pleasing aesthetic did nothing to soften Natalie’s lingering apprehension and worry.
Marjorie escorted Natalie into the living room, where she offered her a seat on a pearled leather armchair. She excused herself to go make tea, giving Natalie a chance to survey her surroundings in an uncomfortable, weighty silence. The home décor had the touch of a professional designer. Everything was visually pleasing, from the vases lining the built-in shelves to the soft wool throw draped over the arm of a pristine couch, but the room itself lacked a personal feel.
Natalie noticed mostly what wasn’t there. No pictures of family. No trinkets or knickknacks of any kind, no mementos from vacations or family gatherings. It was a home that managed to feel both inviting and lonely at the same time. The house and the woman who occupied it appeared to be fitting companions: both were perfectly put together on the outside, but with something notably lacking on the inside.
Marjorie returned some minutes later, bringing with her two tea mugs and a small decorative pot, all of which she carried on a lacquered tray.
“Cream or sugar?” she asked.
“No,” said Natalie, who moved uneasily in her chair. She was having a difficult time meeting Marjorie’s gaze. “Thank you for your hospitality. I know this is a lot to take in.”
Marjorie nodded solemnly.
“It is,” she said, managing to maintain her control, which Natalie took to mean that Marjorie was either still in shock—or she had the game face of the century.
“So what did he tell you about me?” she asked.
“The truth?”
“Please.”
Natalie’s eyebrows slid up an inch as that uneasy feeling found its way back into her stomach.
How will she take it?
“He’d said that you had died when he was in college. Cancer.”
“Did he now?”
Marjorie winced slightly, but her expression quickly reverted to one of impassivity.
“I see,” she said.
“He also told me that he grew up in Charleston, South Carolina,” Natalie continued, “and that he had a difficult childhood, lots of upheaval and bad memories, which was his excuse for why we never went to visit. Part of those memories involved you.”
“And what of his father?” Marjorie asked, shielding her eyes with a lengthy sip of tea. She couldn’t as easily hide her hands, which were trembling.
“He said that he’d run off and left you when you got sick.”
Marjorie returned a nearly imperceptible nod.
“Well, I suppose that’s true, at least in part,” she said, adopting a slightly clipped tone.
“What happened to him?” asked Natalie.
“By him, do you mean Joseph or Joseph’s father? I’m sorry … you know him as—?”
“Michael,” answered Natalie. “Michael Hart. And I guess my question applies to them both. But you know what?”
“What?”
“Let’s slow down.”
She was seeing Marjorie in a different light, not as a person who had answers, but someone in need of loving kindness and goodwill. Using that as her guide, Natalie decided on her next course of action.