I've Got You Under My Skin

49

On Tuesday morning, George Curtis got up at six thirty as was his custom and brushed Isabelle’s forehead softly with his lips, trying not to wake her. He felt a desperate need to touch her. He had woken often during the night and put his arm around her. Then the guilty memory would flood his brain: Betsy always wore satin nightgowns, too. Inevitably his next thought was, Isabelle, I almost lost you. I almost lost the joyful life I have been living with you and our children for nearly twenty years.

That new life had begun the morning of the Gala when Isabelle told him that she was expecting twins. That incredible news was followed by Betsy demanding $25 million for her silence about their affair. I didn’t mind paying her, George thought, but I knew it would be only the beginning of her threats to go to Isabelle.

These were the thoughts that were running through his head as he showered, dressed, and went down to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. He carried the cup out to the car, placed it in the holder, and was on his way to his office, the international headquarters of Curtis Foods, ten miles away in New Rochelle.

He loved his early morning hour-and-a-half alone time in the office. It was when he could concentrate on important mail and e-mails from his district managers all over the world. But today he could not concentrate. After going over the highly favorable earnings reports, his only reaction was that he could easily have found a way to pay Betsy and bury the payment without raising any suspicion.

But I couldn’t have trusted her, was the refrain that ran through his head.

When the office began to fill up just before nine, he greeted his longtime assistant Amy Hewes with his usual cordiality and crisply began to go over some e-mails he wanted answered immediately. But he knew he was too distracted to concentrate. At eleven-thirty he called home. “Any plans for lunch?” he asked Isabelle when she answered.

“Not one,” she said promptly. “Sharon called and asked me to meet her for golf, but I’m too lazy today. I’m stretched out on the patio. Louis is preparing gazpacho and a chicken salad. How does that sound?”

“Perfect. I’m on my way.”

As he passed Amy’s desk and told her he wouldn’t be coming back this afternoon, she looked surprised. “Don’t tell me that you, the sought-after speaker who always wows the audience, is nervous about being interviewed this afternoon?”

George tried to smile. “Maybe I am.”

The short drive seemed interminably long to him. He was so impatient to see Isabelle that he left his car in the circular driveway, bounded up the steps, threw open the door, and rushed down the long hallway to the rear of the house. Before he opened the glass door to the patio he stopped and looked out. Isabelle was sitting in one of the padded chairs, her feet on a hassock, a book in her hands. Sixty years old on her last birthday, her hair was now completely silver. She wore it in a new shorter length and with bangs. The style framed her face perfectly, with her classic features that were the product of generations of fine breeding. Her ancestors had come over on the Mayflower. Her slender body was already tanned. She had kicked off her shoes, and her ankles were crossed.

For a long minute George Curtis studied the beautiful woman who had been his wife for thirty-five years. They had met at a dance given by the senior class at Harvard. Isabelle had attended it with friends from Wellesley College. The minute she walked into the room, I made a beeline for her, George thought. But the first time I met her parents, I know they were underwhelmed. They would have preferred that our family had made its money on Wall Street, not by selling hot dogs and hamburgers.

What would her mother and father have thought had they known I was having an affair with my best friend’s wife? They’d have told Isabelle to get rid of me.

And if Isabelle had ever known, even though she was pregnant with our twins, she would have dropped me, too.

And still would, George thought grimly as he slid open the patio door. Hearing the sound, Isabelle looked up and smiled warmly. “Was it me or the menu that inspired you to join me for lunch?” she asked as she got up and kissed him warmly.

“It was you,” George replied fervently, returning her kiss and putting his arms around her.

Louis, their chef, came out onto the patio carrying a tray with two iced teas.

“Good to have you home for lunch, Mr. Curtis,” he said cheerfully.

Louis had been with them for twenty-two years. He had been working as a chef in a nearby restaurant when one evening as they were having dinner there, he came to the table. “I heard that you are looking for a new chef,” he had said quietly.

“Yes, our current chef is retiring,” George had verified.

“I would very much like to try out for the job,” Louis said. “We serve mostly Italian food here, but I am a graduate of the Culinary Institute in Hyde Park, and I promise I can offer you a wide selection of menus.”

And so he had, George thought, including preparing fresh baby food every day when the twins were born and letting them “help” him in the kitchen when they were little.

George sat in a chair near Isabelle, but as Louis placed the glass next to him, he said, “Louis, will you put my tea on the table and bring me a Bloody Mary?”

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “That’s not like you, George. Are you nervous about the interview with Alex Buckley?”

He waited until the patio door closed behind Louis, then answered, “Uncomfortable rather than nervous. To me the whole idea of this program seems bizarre. I get the feeling that this is not about proving people innocent as it is proving that someone in the group was guilty of Betsy’s death.”

“Someone like you, George?”

George Curtis stared at his wife, his blood running cold. “What do you mean by that?”

“I overheard that interesting conversation you had with Betsy the night of the Gala. Even though you had pulled away from the crowd, I followed you. I was on the other side of those palms they had brought in for decoration. You didn’t realize how much you had raised your voice.”

George Curtis knew that the nightmare he had feared was happening. Was Isabelle going to tell him, now that the twins were raised, that she wanted a divorce? “Isabelle, I’m sorrier than you can possibly imagine,” he said. “Please, please forgive me.”

“Oh, I already have,” Isabelle said promptly. “Did you think that I was too stupid to suspect you were having an affair with that slut? When I overheard the two of you, I decided I wasn’t about to lose you. I realized we had grown apart, and I knew that some of it was my fault. I wasn’t going to forgive you too easily, but I’m still glad I made that decision. You’ve been a wonderful husband and father, and I love you dearly.”

“I was so terribly worried and guilty all these years,” George Curtis said, his voice breaking.

“I know you were,” Isabelle said crisply. “That was my way of punishing you. Oh, here’s Louis with your Bloody Mary. I’ll bet you’re ready for it now.”

My God, I thought I knew my wife! George Curtis exclaimed to himself as he reached for the glass Louis was putting in front of him.

“Louis, I think we’re ready to have lunch now,” Isabelle said as she took a sip of her iced tea.

When Louis went back to the kitchen, Isabelle said, “George, when you warned Betsy that if she ever told me about your affair with her you would kill her, I may not have been the only one who heard you. Like I said, you didn’t realize how loud you were speaking. Then, after we came home and went to bed, I fell asleep in your arms. When I woke up at four A.M. you weren’t in bed, and it was more than an hour before you returned. I just assumed that you were downstairs watching television. You always do, if you wake up and can’t go back to sleep. When I heard Betsy had been smothered, I begged God that if you had killed her, you didn’t leave any evidence that would lead to you. If anything comes up during the filming of this program, I’ll swear that you never left our bed that night.”

“Isabelle, you don’t believe…”

“George, we live only a few blocks away from them. You could have walked to their house in five minutes. You knew the layout. And frankly, I don’t care if you killed her. I know we can afford it, but I see no reason why you should have paid twenty-five million dollars in blackmail to that tramp.”

As George held her chair for her at the table, Isabelle said, “I love you so dearly, George, and the twins adore you. Don’t say anything to spoil that. Now here comes Louis with the salad. I’ll bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?”