Releasing her arms to her sides, Jemima nodded. “We’ve witnessed the good over the past few days, don’t you think? People coming together to search for Miriama.”
“The bad, unfortunately, is the insular nature and the gossip.”
They both moved naturally back to the seating area, with Jemima taking the armchair that would allow her to keep an eye on her children while they spoke. On the small table in between them was a fine china tea set and a plate of small, beautifully iced cakes. “It’s not actually tea,” Jemima whispered with a grin that seemed far more real than any other expression Anahera had seen on her face. “It’s coffee. I hope you don’t mind.”
That was the second time the other woman had used those words: I hope you don’t mind. A nervous habit? Or had someone trained her to be uncertain by being constantly irritated or annoyed at her actions?
It was equally possible Anahera was letting her own past color her reading of Jemima Baker.
“Are you kidding?” she said, determined to get to the truth. “I live on coffee.”
Jemima laughed and poured the rich, dark liquid into both cups. “Cream? Sugar?”
“I’ll do it.” Anahera reached for the sugar bowl as she spoke. “We’re friends—or at least I hope we’ll become friends. Friends don’t stand on ceremony.”
Sea green eyes filled with light. “I’m so glad you’re back, Anahera.” Her hand flew to her mouth almost before the last word was out. “I’m so sorry. That was incredibly thoughtless of me.”
Anahera shook her head. “It’s all right. I’ve had time to accept my husband’s death.” Accept his perfidy and his generosity and his betrayal and the love he’d once had for her. Maybe one of these days, she’d even stop being so angry at him—not for the affair, but for dying and leaving her with no target for her grief, her rage.
“Vincent and I saw one of the shows he wrote when it did a run on Broadway,” Jemima said softly. “The one about Jane Austen’s life, with those amazing costumes and that strange, fascinating timeline.”
“That was always Edward’s favorite.” He’d been so happy when it won award after award, such a kid about showing off the statuettes to anyone who came around.
Old affection stirred in her chest, waking from a long sleep. “We flew over to see its Broadway debut, and the whole time, he sat there grinning while holding my hand.” It seemed a memory of two distant strangers. “We traveled constantly in the first year of our marriage. You and Vincent do a lot of travel, too, don’t you?”
“We used to do a lot more.” Jemima held her teacup of coffee on her knee. “But since the children, I prefer to stay in one place for longer periods and Vincent doesn’t seem to mind traveling alone when needed.”
The Anahera who’d sat next to her grinning husband in that darkened theater wouldn’t have caught the bitterness hidden beneath the unexceptional words. But to the Anahera who’d helped her husband’s distraught mistress from his graveside, the acrid taste was as familiar as the knot of anger and resentment and grief in her own chest.
Jemima knew.
43
The question was if she knew only that Vincent had been unfaithful, or if she had the name of the woman who’d become a silent third party in their marriage.
Anahera liked Jemima, but Miriama also had a call on her loyalty.
And the time for lies and rumors was over.
“You can tell me to shove off and mind my own business if I’m crossing a line,” she said, “but I get the feeling you aren’t happy in your marriage.”
Jemima’s face closed over. “That’s a very personal thing to say.”
“Comes from experience.”
Jemima froze in the act of stirring more cream into her coffee. Looking up after several long seconds, she searched Anahera’s face. “Do you usually tell strangers?”
Anahera felt her lips twist. “I haven’t told anyone. I only found out after my husband died and she turned up at my front door.”
China rattled against china as Jemima nearly dropped both cup and saucer. Putting them down, she stared at Anahera with horrified eyes. “I am so sorry.” Her next words trembled, white lines bracketing her mouth. “My God, why couldn’t she have waited?”
“She loved him, too.” Anahera had never blamed the woman—it was Edward who’d been married, Edward who’d broken vows, Edward who’d made his lover promises of forever. “She couldn’t stop crying.”
Smoothing back her flawless hair with an unsteady hand, Jemima looked over