Double Take

impossible hope that this woman was his long-missing wife.
    But no, this woman was a stranger.
    “Mr. Noble? Is something wrong?”
    Her voice. Damn, it was very nearly Christie’s voice. Her fingers tightened around his. He abruptly released her hand, aware that Mr. Pallack, a man older than Chappy, pushing seventy, and on the portly side, his paunch neatly hidden in his beautifully styled suit—this woman’s husband—was eyeing him, actually staring at him, eyebrow raised, suddenly suspicious of him now because he’d held his wife’s hand too long, was too intense, wasn’t—acting normal, Dix supposed. Perhaps he was wondering if this stranger was sexually interested in his younger wife.
    Dix quickly stepped back and managed an impersonal smile.
    It’s over. It isn’t Christie.
    He said, “Forgive me for staring, Mrs. Pallack. You remind me of someone I knew very well a long time ago. Like her, you’re very beautiful.”
    That was a perfect thing to say. Thomas Pallack seemed to get his suspicion back under control. It seemed to Dix that he now preened in the face of the younger alpha male who openly admired his wife, but he couldn’t have her because she was his. As for Charlotte Pallack, she cocked her head to one side and continued to stare up at him, both surprised and pleased with the compliment. She didn’t know him, didn’t have a clue who or what he was. It isn’t Christie.
    Evelyn Sherlock said in a light, social voice, “This twin business—I wish I could find mine. I wonder if she’s in a loony bin or perhaps a Mother Superior in an Italian abbey. What do you think, Corman?”
    Judge Sherlock laughed, a deep, full-bodied laugh that gave Dix time to regain full control and perspective. “Please, Evelyn, not a Mother Superior, Italian or not, I couldn’t handle that. Do you think you’d make the wine at your convent?” He added with a smile to Thomas and Charlotte Pallack, “Do come into the living room. We’ll have a drink and some of Isabel’s delicious hors d’oeuvres before a dinner that will make us all loosen our belts.” It isn’t Christie.
    But he found himself walking behind her, studying her walk, comparing it to Christie’s. There were subtle differences, but the thing was, it wasn’t that different, almost as if she’d observed Christie, copied her—no, he had to get a grip here, he had to cut it off right now. He would go home tomorrow and finally do what he had to do to clear up his marital status. He’d go in front of a judge and actually say the word abandonment. Oh God, he didn’t know if he could bear that—no, it was time, past time. He would do what he had to do. He would stop living in limbo. It wasn’t fair to Ruth. He prayed she would be his Ruth, that he was lucky enough to have found two extraordinary women in his life. Nor was it fair to his boys. They’d all been in limbo for too long.
    Dix tried to keep his eyes off Charlotte Pallack during dinner, and succeeded for the most part. It was Charlotte, however, who was sneaking looks at him.
    He listened to Thomas Pallack speak, amused at how the man wore his wealth like a royal robe. He knew his own importance, his own power, and best of all, he knew how to hide it enough so that people didn’t resent him. He had a lot in common with Chappy, except Chappy was better at it.
    Dix accepted a glass of the excellent merlot Judge Sherlock served with dinner. He was pleased he could sip at it and not have his stomach rebel on him. He was still finding it difficult to keep his eyes off Charlotte Pallack—and both she and her husband knew it. Dix knew that if he were Thomas Pallack, he’d want to break the interloper’s face. But the fact was the older man appeared to remain fatuously pleased. Trophy wife, Dix supposed, was the unflattering term for Charlotte Pallack.
    He looked up from his plate and said, “Mrs. Pallack—”
    “Oh, since you’re a friend of the Sherlocks, do call me Charlotte.”
    “Charlotte,” he repeated, nodding, knowing a deaf man could hear that extra warmth in her voice. “I can’t place your accent. Perhaps it’s southern?”
    “Why, Mr. Noble, you’ve a very good ear. I’m from back east originally, then my folks moved to Durham. But I’ve been in California for many years now. And your accent, it’s also got a bit of the South.”
    He nodded. “I’m from a small town called Maestro, in Virginia. I’m the sheriff there. Do call me Dix.”
    “Ah, more law