Three minutes from start to finish, she double-locked the front door, checked the street for Cassie and the Mercedes, dove into her car, and took off. She was still wearing the work shirt and black pants she had donned for Cassie, but she had another outfit for the hospital at her new house. She headed down the hill to Roslyn Harbor, then turned onto Northern Boulevard, heading east toward Matinecock. At Wheatley Plaza, Mona turned north again on Glen Cove Road and drove past all the new stores that proved Glen Cove was coming up in the world.
Sometimes she liked to travel on Hegeman's Lane, then take Chicken Valley Road through the horse farms and grand estates, backtracking to Duck Pond Road. But today she went the shorter way, down Glen Cove and across Duck Pond.
Mona was in a hurry. She skimmed along Duck Pond, which was visually and fragrantly at its best in spring, but she didn't respond to any of its attractions. All she could think of was Mitch in peril. The stone house he'd named Le Refuge, with its natural stone swimming pool, tennis court, guest house, pond, waterfall, and five-car garage, was halfway across Duck Pond, sited on ten delightfully landscaped acres that Cassie had always particularly admired on garden tours of the area.
Mona caught a glimpse of her roof and chimneys from the road. The old-timers in the area called the house Chimneys because there were so many of them. Ten in all. She turned in at the brand-new wrought-iron gates with the crossed swords, shields, grapes, wine barrels, and Sales logo in gold. The graceful S of the driveway and towering oaks that lined it were over ninety years old. Seeing it now almost broke Mona's heart. The house had been built just before World War I, and getting it before it ever appeared on the market had been a major coup. She had especially admired the lawns-acres of green garnished in spring by huge clumps of daffodils.
The daffodils were finished now. The flowers were withered and dry. The spindly leaves, too, had a limp, bedraggled look. Later in the season, variegated hosta would wreathe each tree with white and green that would spike with purple flowers in the summer. Mona knew all about how gardens should look, because she'd been listening to Cassie talk about plants and fucking trees ad nauseam for many years. Mona had a gift for listening and picking things up. She rounded the circle, pulled up by the front door, and turned off the engine.
In the last six months she'd almost always come here with Mitch-to discuss decorating plans, to supervise the painting and wallpapering, the hanging of the drapes, positioning the furniture, and to make wonderful love. The first night they'd stayed there, back in March, Mitch had made a fire in the bedroom. They'd sat in front of it wrapped in new silk dressing gowns, eating beluga caviar off a spoon and sipping '90 Grande Dame Champagne from Baccarat flutes. When the caviar was gone, she'd taken out the Kama Sutra massage oil and rubbed Mitch's hands and feet, trying to envision and articulate every bone. Then she'd moved on, to his neck and shoulders. She'd rubbed and pulled his arms straight out of their sockets as hard as she could. He'd lain on his back moaning happily, attended to like the prince he was meant to be.
She'd drizzled the sweet oil down the hair on his chest and massaged it into his thickening waist, between his strong legs, up behind his balls. His eyes had been half closed as he'd watched her work on him, twitching her robe open from time to time for a better view of her breasts. She remembered it as if it were yesterday. He'd built the fire high. It had crackled and roared up the fireplace, drawing the smoke up and out of the room like a real champion. Candles had flickered all around them. On her knees, Mona had poured oil into her hands, warmed it between her palms, and gone to work on his towering cock.
"Ohhhhh, Mama," he'd moaned.
A glass had toppled over on her new satin quilt, spilling champagne as he'd shifted his big body, but neither of them had minded. He'd risen up from the floor, flipped her over, and plunged that slick sucker home in one muscular thrust that had hurt like hell. Mona had treasured the fierce burn in her furnace that had lasted for hours. She clicked her tongue.
The baptism of the bedroom was on her mind as she got out of the car. There were no workers or decorators to greet her today, not even a housekeeper to open the door. Grand and lifeless, the house was frightening. She'd never imagined having to stay there alone. She opened the heavy wooden door and deactivated the alarm system. Then she switched on the huge hall chandelier and sconces that glittered with enough crystal to dazzle a Las Vegas hotel owner. "Oh Mama," she muttered.
The hall galley had a pink marble floor and pink marble columns; the staircase was deeply carved mahogany, dark as bittersweet chocolate and shiny with new polish. Struggling through her misery for a breath of good air, Mona trudged up to the master suite at the top of the stairs. It consisted of a honey-colored, wood-paneled study, dressing room, and bathroom for Mitch, and a large, lovely bedroom overlooking the pond with a four-poster bed, dressing room, and a large bathroom for her. She headed straight for the bath.
An hour and a half later, Mona infiltrated the Head Trauma ICU at North Fork Hospital without incident. She was wearing a dashing turquoise Dior suit with a short jacket that nipped in at the waist and plunged low in the neckline. A touch of crisp white eyelet showed at her cleavage. The fact that it wasn't clear whether she was wearing a blouse or bra invited second glances. The suit skirt was pegged so tightly, she could hardly get in and out of the Jag much less hobble down the long hospital corridor from one wing to another. Every single thing was a misery to her, but her burnished shoulder-length curls and Nicole Kidman-esque finely sculpted features drew many admiring glances and not a single difficult question. She was thirty-eight but looked every bit as fresh as Mitch's twenty-five-year-old daughter, Marsha.
With very little effort, she located Mitch's room. There, all alone, she faced her lifeless intended and the bank of noisy machines for the first time. "Holy shit," she murmured.
One of Mitch's eyes was closed, the other was open just a slit. Frowning at the tubes and plastic bags collecting his revolting bodily fluids, Mona suddenly had the thought that she had overdressed for the occasion.
"Baby? I'm here." She moved with trepidation closer to the bed, tilting her head one way and then the other.
"Who knocks your socks off?" she queried softly. Like Grace Kelly trying to get Cary Grant's attention in To Catch a Thief, she struck a seductive pose in the lovely Dior suit, then answered the question.
"Mona does." Mona tried to keep her feet moving. But she was afraid to get any closer than the sick man's feet in case what Mitch had was catching. Mona was an asthmatic, a very allergic person. She couldn't afford to take any chances. From the foot of the bed, she leaned over to display her famous cleavage.