I pulled into a parking area where two other cars were parked. The silver Mercedes SUV didn’t have a speck of dirt or dust on it, but the celery-green Jag looked in need of a good wash.
Getting out, I stretched my legs and looked around. The grounds were meticulously cared for and picturesque. In the distance was a pond and beyond that were rolling hills as far as I could see.
The scene dictated quiet, but there was work being done somewhere on the property, and the drone of a mechanical monster was out of place and annoying. If birds were chirping, as I was sure they were, I couldn’t hear them, and the bucolic view was marred by the sound. The air was filled with the perfume of the pungent pine trees and scents of fall. Somewhere close by, wood was burning in a fireplace.
Living in a very crowded city for my entire life, the idea of so much space and such solitude seemed both an enviable luxury and a frightening prospect.
The uneven stone path to the front door was edged on both sides with an English cottage garden. I noticed how many of the plantings were popular with butterflies: bee balm, violets, English lavender, passionflower, columbine, asters and buddleia bushes. Except for the purple, white, and lavender buddleias, the flowers were all past bloom. I had some of them growing in the planters on my own small balcony. It had been a warm fall and there were likely still some butterflies that came to feed in this garden, but I didn’t see any as I walked by.
I rang the bell and heard a long chime sound inside. Footsteps followed and then Nicky opened the door. He was wearing a pale blue shirt, black cashmere V-neck sweater and pressed jeans. He smiled warmly, shook my hand and told me how grateful he was that I’d agreed to come all the way out there.
“Daphne is inside,” he said as he led the way through a main hall, the living room and out onto a patio that had been enclosed as a sunroom. Majolica cachepots graced the end tables. The couch and chairs were oversized, deep-cushioned and covered with a cabbage-rose chintz. The walls were pale, pale blue with white trim. The tile floors were partially covered with almost threadbare, but exquisite, Oriental carpets. Everything bespoke old money. And a lot of it.
As I entered, Daphne stood and extended her hand.
I knew better than to think that something like agoraphobia would show on someone’s face, but I didn’t expect the woman who greeted me.
She was blond, long and lean, and offered a strong, firm handshake. An elegant neck supported a heart-shaped face that was well tanned. From the Cartier watch to the tweed slacks, leather boots, lemon-yellow sweater set and the string of lustrous pearls, everything fit the image of a Junior Leaguer.
I looked into her eyes as I introduced myself. They were a pale green-gray color, intelligent but stormy and defiant. Not the eyes of a woman afraid of going out of the house. Or afraid of anything else, I thought.
And then she gave me a soft smile that defused her hardness. “It’s so nice to meet you, Dr. Snow. Nicky’s told me a lot about you. He’s very enthusiastic about this process. Would you like some tea or some coffee? Something cold?” Her voice matched her prettiness, not the defiant eyes, and sounded like honey and silk.
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
She motioned for me to sit, and as I did, she did, too. “I really appreciate that you would come out here to work with us. It won’t be for long, though. I’m working on the agoraphobia with my own therapist and we both feel I’m getting close to a breakthrough.”
The chair was too big for me; I felt lost in it and missed my own office. The estranged couple sat on the couch facing me. It was a good sign that they had chosen to sit together.
“Who are you working with?” I asked, in case I needed to consult with her therapist at some point.
She hesitated. Was she apprehensive about telling me for some reason? A breeze blew in from an open window. It carried Daphne’s fragrance toward me. Lilies of the valley. Fitting. But the perfume wasn’t the only thing I smelled; suddenly, there was something else in the air, too. Clean, sharp and astringent. But I couldn’t place it.
“His name is William Klein. Here in Greenwich. I’ve gone to him on and off since I was a teenager.”
I wanted to ask her why she’d gone to a therapist when she was a teenager, but it was too soon. I filed the fact away. “How long have you and Nicky known each other?”
She looked over at him before she answered. I couldn’t see her face and so couldn’t read her expression. I asked a few more questions that didn’t matter very much except to get the session started and establish a rapport.
“Do you want to work out your problems with Nicky?”
Her answer was quick, and extremely vehement. “Yes. More than anything I have ever wanted. I’ll do anything to make our marriage work.”
“Well, not anything,” Nicky countered.
“Anything that I’m capable of doing.”
“Daphne, can you tell me about the problem the two of you are having?”
“Didn’t Nicky tell you?”
“Yes, but that was his version. I’d like to hear yours. And then I’d like you to tell me what you think the problem is, Nicky.”
“We already went through that at your office,” Nicky said impatiently.
“Yes, but I want each of you to hear what the other thinks.”
“The only thing standing in the way of our having a good relationship is Nicky’s fucking inability to leave the Scarlet Society.”
Her use of that one word seemed out of place in this genteel house. Was she being rebellious or angry?
“He’s told me three or four times that he’s quit, but he can’t stay away. I’m willing to accept that he has an addiction and work with him on it, but I can’t just shrug my shoulders and let him go there two or three nights a week, play the pussy pansy and look the other way.”
If she wanted a reaction to that expression, I wasn’t going to accommodate her. “Do you think shrugging your shoulders is a solution?”
“It’s Nicky’s solution. He wants to be married to me and have a family with me, and on the side get naked and be treated like a-”
“Let’s focus on you and what you want,” I said. “We’ll let Nicky speak for himself when it’s his turn.”
In her lap, Daphne fussed, clasping and unclasping her hands. Her nails were short, unpolished, not manicured. The skin was rough and red. Seeing me look, she smiled and held up her hands to make it easier for me to see. “Painter’s hands. The turp does damage.”
That must have been what I’d smelled.
“I’d like to see your work.”
“Are you an art lover?” she asked.
“I am, albeit an uneducated one.” That was true, but it wasn’t why I wanted to see her paintings. I was curious about what they would reveal about her.
“That’s the best kind. Someone who just looks at the work and decides if she likes it or not based on how it touches her, not based on what some asshole professor or critic tells her to think.”
Hostility now. I was curious to pursue that line, but couldn’t afford to go that far afield from Daphne and Nicky’s relationship in the first session. I turned to him. “Nicky, would you tell me if you agree with Daphne’s assessment of what’s going on between the two of you?”
He nodded. “I can’t give up what she wants me to.”
“Do you want to?”
“I can’t.”
“Are you willing to try?”
“I have.”
“Are you willing to try again?”
Before he could answer, Daphne did. “No-he’s not. He thinks it’s up to me to change. He thinks that since I was once part of that vile club, I should be understanding. But I want my husband to be faithful.”
“I am faithful, Daphne. What goes on there is not about love or even affection.”
“What is it about?” I asked him.