Paradise Read online

  38

  Still buttoning his shirt, Matt strode purposefully down the stairs. Meredith whirled around as he stalked past the kitchen doorway, pulling on a leather flight jacket, heading for the front door. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going outside to find your keys. Do you remember where you dropped them?”

  Her lips parted in surprise when she saw the granite determination that hardened his jaw. “I—I dropped them as I walked around the front of the car, but there’s no reason for you to go out there now—”

  “Yes,” he said flatly, “there is. This charade has gone on long enough. don’t look so surprised,” he snapped. “You’re as bored with this pretense at marital bliss as I am.” She drew in a sharp breath as though he had slapped her, and Matt added coldly, “I admire your tenacity, Meredith. You want the Houston property for twenty million, and you need a quick, congenial divorce with no publicity. You’ve spent two days catering to me so that I’ll be more agreeable to both. You tried and you failed. Now, go back to the city and behave like the competent executive you are. Take me to court over the Houston property and file for divorce, but knock off this nauseating farce! The role of humble, loving wife doesn’t suit you, and you must be as sick of it as I am.”

  He turned on his heel and strode out the front door. Meredith stared at the place where he had stood, her heart twisting with panic, disappointment, and humiliation. He’d suddenly decided these last two days were a boring charade! Blinking away frustrated tears, she bit down on her lip and turned back to the frying pan. She’d obviously passed up her best opportunities to tell him she hadn’t had an abortion, and she didn’t have the slightest, the vaguest idea why his mood had suddenly turned so hostile. She hated that volatile unpredictability that was Matt; he’d always been that way. You never knew what he thought or what he was going to do next! Before she left this house, she was going to tell him the truth about what had happened eleven years ago, but now she wasn’t certain he was going to care, even if he believed her. She picked up an egg and hit it so hard against the side of the frying pan that the yolk slid down the outside.

  For ten minutes Matt pawed through the snow near the BMW’s front tire in a futile effort to find Meredith’s damned keys; he dug and sifted until his gloves were soaked and his hands were frozen, and then he gave up and checked out her alarm system, looking through the window. There was no sign of a keypad, which probably meant hers could be disabled only with her car key. Even if he jimmied her door lock and got in to hot-wire the damned car, an alarm system like hers was designed to disable the vehicle so it couldn’t be driven.

  “Breakfast is ready,” Meredith said uneasily, walking into the living room when she heard the front door slam. “Did you find the keys?”

  “No,” Matt said, striving to keep his temper under control. “There’s a locksmith in town, but he isn’t open on Sunday.”

  Meredith served the scrambled eggs she’d made, then she sat down across from him. Desperately trying to restore some semblance of the relationship they’d shared yesterday, she asked in a quiet, reasonable voice, “Do you mind telling me why you’ve suddenly decided this whole weekend has been a boring plot on my part?”

  “Let’s just say my faculties have returned along with my health,” he said shortly. For ten minutes, while they ate, Meredith tried to engage him in conversation, only to have him rebuff her attempts with curt, brief replies. The moment he was finished eating, he got up and said he was going to start packing up the things in the living room.

  With a sinking heart, Meredith watched him go, then she automatically began to tidy up the kitchen. When the last dish had been washed and put away, she went into the living room. “There’s a lot to pack,” she said, determined to find a way to make him more receptive. “What can I do to help?”

  Matt heard the soft plea in her voice and his body responded with a fresh surge of lust as he straightened and looked at her. You could go upstairs with me and offer me that delectable body of yours. “Suit yourself.”

  Why, Meredith wondered fiercely, did he have to be so damned unapproachable now, and why did he suddenly find her boring and irritating? His father had said Matt had been wild with grief over her alleged abortion and that, when Meredith had refused to see him, it nearly killed him. She’d thought at the time Patrick must be grossly exaggerating Matt’s feelings for her; now she was certain of it, and the certainty made her feel strangely, inexplicably, despondent. It didn’t surprise her though. Matt had always been capable of shouldering great responsibility, but it was impossible to know what he was really thinking and feeling. Hoping against hope his mood would improve if she left him alone, she went upstairs and spent the morning packing away linens and bedding and the contents of the closets, most of which he’d told her at breakfast were to be donated to a charity. Only the family mementos were being kept, and she carefully sorted through his parents’ closet, making certain that nothing of sentimental value went into the boxes destined for charity. When she took a break, she sat down on the bed and opened a photograph album that had evidently belonged to Matt’s mother. It was filled with pictures that were so old, most of them were fading. Many of them were of relatives in the old country: sweet-faced girls with long hair and bonnets, and handsome, unsmiling men with Irish surnames like Lanigan, O’Malley, and Collier. Beneath each picture was the date it was taken and the name of whoever was in the photograph. The last picture in the album was the most current—it was a wedding photograph of Matt’s mother and father. April 24, 1949 was written beneath the picture in her neat script. Judging from the variety of names in that album, Elizabeth Farrell had lots of cousins and aunts and uncles in the old country, Meredith thought with a soft smile, wondering wistfully what it would be like to come from a big family.

  At noon she went downstairs. They had sandwiches for lunch, and although Matt wasn’t friendly, at least he answered her questions and comments with aloof courtesy, and she took that as an encouraging sign that his mood was improving. When she’d finished cleaning up after lunch, she gave a final satisfied glance at the gleaming kitchen, then she walked into the living room, where Matt was methodically packing books and knickknacks into boxes. She paused in the doorway, watching the way his chamois shirt stretched taut across his broad, muscled shoulders and tapered back whenever he lifted his arm. He’d taken off the jeans that had gotten damp while he was searching outside for her keys, and in their place he was wearing a pair of gray slacks that molded themselves to his hips and the long length of his muscled legs. For one hopeless moment she actually considered walking up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and laying her cheek against the solid wall of his back. She wondered what he’d do. Push her away, probably, Meredith decided dismally.

  Mentally, she braced herself for a rebuff and stepped forward, but after a half day of enduring his unpredictable temper, her nerves were scraped raw and her own temper was strained to the breaking point. She watched him taping the last box of books shut, and said, “Can I do anything to help you?”

  “Hardly, since I’m already finished,” he said without bothering to turn.

  Meredith stiffened, her frayed temper sending bright spots of warning color to her high cheekbones. With a last effort to sound polite, she said, “I’m going up to Julie’s room to pack some things she left behind. Would you like me to fix you a cup of coffee before I do?”

  “No,” he snapped.

  “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” he exploded, swinging around. “Stop acting like a patient, saintly wife, and get out of here!”

  Fury blazed in her eyes, and she clenched her hands into fists, fighting back tears and the simultaneous urge to slap him. “Fine,” she retorted, trying valiantly to hold on to her shattered dignity. “You can make your own damned dinner and eat it alone.” Turning on her heel, she stalked up the stairs.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demanded