Read Online Wellesley Wives (New England Trilogy) by Suzy Duffy - Free Book Online
Authors: Suzy Duffy
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drawn shut. Peter had obviously left early enough this morning to leave them closed so she could sleep. A thick winter-white carpet covered the expanse of the room and absorbed any noise that there might have been—not that there was any this Sunday morning. All was quiet.
The room may have been dim, but Popsy’s mind was clearing. Despite her best efforts, it looked like she was not going back to sleep.
The last thing she’d said to him before they’d fallen asleep the night before was to be home in time for lunch. “The girls are coming. I want my birthday lunch to be perfect.”
“Yes, dear,” he’d mumbled and almost instantly started to snore.
“Darn whiskey,” Popsy grumbled as she pulled herself up into a sitting position and switched on her antique bedside lamp. To be fair, over the years she’d become accustomed to her husband’s snoring, and now she was able to sleep right through it, but it would be nice if he was a quiet sleeper.
Like the rest of the house, Popsy had decorated their bedroom with antiques. Her parents had given her a lump sum when she married, and all of it went into their home. Early in their marriage, they’d taken a vacation to New Orleans where they found the most amazing antique shops and art galleries. As a result, Popsy had furnished her entire house with Victorian, Georgian, and Edwardian treasures.
Of course these days it was so out of vogue, but she didn’t care. She loved their bedroom. It was warm and welcoming, and the old pieces gave her a feeling of security and permanence.
The bed was the only exception she’d made to her “everything should be antique” rule. It looked like it was from the mid-1800s, but was, in fact, a modern reproduction. Peter had insisted.
“I don’t want a bed that hundreds of people have slept, screwed, and quite possibly died in,” he’d argued persuasively umpteen years ago. “I want a brand-new bed, and what’s more, I want the biggest bed money can buy—one that I can chase you around for the next fifty years. I guess I want a bed that I can sleep, screw, and maybe even die in myself! But at least I’ll die happy.”
Popsy had it custom made to look old but with every modern comfort and back-saving piece of technology she could get. The result was a four-poster bed that could have slept six if they felt the urge, which of course they never did. It was maybe her favorite place. Her comfort zone she would call it. Their “play zone” Peter had nicknamed it.
Popsy thought it was worth every penny of the tens of thousands she’d spent. The four posters did not hold up a canopy over the bed but rather stood proud. Over the years, Peter had been very inventive with all of them. And while current trends were more Feng Shui than Louis XIV, Popsy was certain that romance would never go out of fashion. Oceans of brilliant white cotton on a bed of deep mahogany had worked for her and her man for almost thirty years now, and she wasn’t going to change the winning formula.
Sitting in a cloud of white pillows with her knees drawn up to her chest and her comforter pulled under her chin, Popsy let her mind rest on the events of the evening before. The dinner party certainly wouldn’t go down in history as the best she’d ever thrown, but it wasn’t all bad. The business friends of Peter seemed quite nice, but she wished the deal wasn’t taking so long.
What gave her the most concern this morning were Sandra and Jack. His warning came back to her again. Why did she have to watch her back?
Peter had made it abundantly clear how much he was still in love with her. Okay, so they didn’t have sex every night, but she rarely turned him down. Given a second glass of champagne she could, on occasion, even initiate things. So Popsy was pretty sure that Jack wasn’t trying to warn her about her husband’s possible philandering.
What else was there?
Work? It couldn’t be. The boys were good businessmen, and she knew her financial
The room may have been dim, but Popsy’s mind was clearing. Despite her best efforts, it looked like she was not going back to sleep.
The last thing she’d said to him before they’d fallen asleep the night before was to be home in time for lunch. “The girls are coming. I want my birthday lunch to be perfect.”
“Yes, dear,” he’d mumbled and almost instantly started to snore.
“Darn whiskey,” Popsy grumbled as she pulled herself up into a sitting position and switched on her antique bedside lamp. To be fair, over the years she’d become accustomed to her husband’s snoring, and now she was able to sleep right through it, but it would be nice if he was a quiet sleeper.
Like the rest of the house, Popsy had decorated their bedroom with antiques. Her parents had given her a lump sum when she married, and all of it went into their home. Early in their marriage, they’d taken a vacation to New Orleans where they found the most amazing antique shops and art galleries. As a result, Popsy had furnished her entire house with Victorian, Georgian, and Edwardian treasures.
Of course these days it was so out of vogue, but she didn’t care. She loved their bedroom. It was warm and welcoming, and the old pieces gave her a feeling of security and permanence.
The bed was the only exception she’d made to her “everything should be antique” rule. It looked like it was from the mid-1800s, but was, in fact, a modern reproduction. Peter had insisted.
“I don’t want a bed that hundreds of people have slept, screwed, and quite possibly died in,” he’d argued persuasively umpteen years ago. “I want a brand-new bed, and what’s more, I want the biggest bed money can buy—one that I can chase you around for the next fifty years. I guess I want a bed that I can sleep, screw, and maybe even die in myself! But at least I’ll die happy.”
Popsy had it custom made to look old but with every modern comfort and back-saving piece of technology she could get. The result was a four-poster bed that could have slept six if they felt the urge, which of course they never did. It was maybe her favorite place. Her comfort zone she would call it. Their “play zone” Peter had nicknamed it.
Popsy thought it was worth every penny of the tens of thousands she’d spent. The four posters did not hold up a canopy over the bed but rather stood proud. Over the years, Peter had been very inventive with all of them. And while current trends were more Feng Shui than Louis XIV, Popsy was certain that romance would never go out of fashion. Oceans of brilliant white cotton on a bed of deep mahogany had worked for her and her man for almost thirty years now, and she wasn’t going to change the winning formula.
Sitting in a cloud of white pillows with her knees drawn up to her chest and her comforter pulled under her chin, Popsy let her mind rest on the events of the evening before. The dinner party certainly wouldn’t go down in history as the best she’d ever thrown, but it wasn’t all bad. The business friends of Peter seemed quite nice, but she wished the deal wasn’t taking so long.
What gave her the most concern this morning were Sandra and Jack. His warning came back to her again. Why did she have to watch her back?
Peter had made it abundantly clear how much he was still in love with her. Okay, so they didn’t have sex every night, but she rarely turned him down. Given a second glass of champagne she could, on occasion, even initiate things. So Popsy was pretty sure that Jack wasn’t trying to warn her about her husband’s possible philandering.
What else was there?
Work? It couldn’t be. The boys were good businessmen, and she knew her financial
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