Read Online The Woman Next Door by T. M. Wright - Free Book Online

grow solid, secure, if for no other reason than that it persists. Do you follow me?"
    "I don't know. Maybe, in a way."
    "I'll explain it all to you while I show you my house."
    Christine looked quizzically at her.
    "Would you like to see my house?" Marilyn said.
    "We didn't have time for it the other day."
    "Of course I'd like to see it, Marilyn, but—"
    "Oh." Marilyn's gaze settled a moment on the wheelchair. "Yes. Well, that's certainly not going to stop you from seeing the first floor. And there's plenty to see. I've spent years, literally years, furnishing this house" (Christine fought back a grin; Marilyn had used nearly the same words two days ago), "and it is my pride and joy. I am, by design and by inclination, a homebody, Christine. Women's libbers can go off and burn their bras and work as pipe fitters, but I am very happy, thank you, to see to my house and to my family." (And those were exactly the same words Marilyn had used two days ago. Christine had always thought such repetition was a sign of senility. It was also a sign of obsession, she realized now.)
    "Let me tell you about my house first," Marilyn said.
    Christine nodded quickly. "Yes, please do."
    "It's authentic mid-Victorian, built around eighteen seventy-four. The original owners were a banker and his family. Quite a large family, of course that's why the house is so large. His name was Sporrington "—she spelled it—"and he was a grotesque man. At the end of his life, he weighed all of three hundred and fifty-five pounds. He strangled to death at the dinner table. You'll see the table itself—a genuine Duncan Phyfe, inlaid mahogany. And while he was dying—while he was sitting there strangling to death on a chicken bone, or whatever it was—he stuck the table three times with his fork. In desperation, I'm sure. The marks are still there. You'll see them. And"—she beamed—"I have the fork, too."
    Christine grimaced. "Marilyn, I really don't—"
    "Duncan Phyfe," Marilyn cut in, "Eastlake, Haviland , Faience Manufacturing, Gillinder and Sons. Do these names mean anything to you, Christine?"
    "Well," Christine began, "I have heard of Duncan Phyfe, but I always thought it was Duncan and Phyfe."
    "No, no. He was only one man, a furniture maker, of course, and that was his name—Duncan Phyfe. I've spent literally years furnishing this house, Christine, making it into the showpiece that it is, making it comfortable for my family. We have few things in this life to cling to, Christine; the most important, of course, is the home we live in. . . and the people who live in it with us." She stood, crossed the room quickly, went around to the back of Christine's wheelchair, put her hands on the push bars.
    "I really prefer maneuvering the chair myself, Marilyn, when it's possible."
    Marilyn backed up a step. "Oh! I am sorry. I didn't know."
    "But, if you'd like. . . ."
    Marilyn stepped back to the chair, bent over slightly; Christine felt the woman's breasts against the back of her head.
    "Thank you, Christine. It would really be a new experience for me."
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    "F ourteen rooms," Marilyn announced. They were once again in the living room, Marilyn on the velvet rococo couch, Christine near the cherrywood table; her cup of tea, now cold, was still on it. "You saw only five of them, and I do so wish you could see them all."
    "It's a beautiful house, Marilyn. You must be very proud."
    "I am proud of many things, Christine: my home, my family, my marriage. I am . . . a rock in this little community." She adjusted her dress over her knees. "Have you met my husband?"
    "No, I'm afraid not, but I'd like to."
    "He's a busy man, a very busy man. He's an insulating contractor, you know. He goes around and insulates houses—not personally, of course; he has a crew of ten men who do the work—and this is the very busiest time of the year for him." She stood, crossed the room to a tall walnut armoire, opened it, withdrew a