Mirror Image

had told her that? They hadn’t engaged in a private conversation since the night he had kissed her. She found it hard to believe that he’d said something flattering about her to his secretary.
    “Is he in?” He was. His car was parked out front.
    “He’s with a client.”
    “I didn’t think he was handling any cases.”
    “He’s not.” Mary Crawford smoothed her skirt beneath her hips and sat back down. “He’s with Barney Bridges. You know what a character he is. Anyway, he pledged a hefty donation to Tate’s campaign, so when he hand delivered it, Tate made time to see him.”
    “Well, I’ve come all this way. Will they be long? Shall I wait?”
    “Please do. Have a seat.” The secretary indicated the grouping of waiting room sofas and chairs upholstered in burgundy and navy striped corduroy. “Would you like some coffee?”
    “No thanks. Nothing.”
    She often passed up coffee now, preferring none at all to the liberally sweetened brew Carole had drunk. Sitting down in one of the armchairs, she picked up a current issue of
Field and Stream
and began idly thumbing through it. Mary resumed typing, as she’d been doing before Avery had come in.
    This impetuous visit to Tate’s law office was chancy, but it was a desperation measure she felt she had to take or go mad. What had Carole Rutledge done all day?
    Avery had been living in the ranch house for over two weeks, and she had yet to discover a single constructive activity that Tate’s wife had been involved in.
    It had taken Avery several days to locate everything in her bedroom and the other rooms of the house to which she had access. She was constantly looking over her shoulder, not wanting to alert anyone to what she was doing. Eventually, she felt comfortable with the house’s layout and where everyday items were stored.
    Gradually, she began to learn her way around outside, as well. She took Mandy with her on these missions so they would appear to be nothing more than innocent strolls.
    Carole had driven an American sports car. To Avery’s consternation, it had a standard transmission. She wasn’t too adept at driving standard transmissions. The first few times she took the car out, she nearly gave herself whiplash and stripped all the gears.
    But once she felt adequate, she invented errands that would get her out of the house. Carole’s way of life was dreadfully boring. Her routine lacked diversion and spontaneity. The ennui was making Avery Daniels crazy.
    The day she had discovered an engagement calendar in a nightstand drawer, she had clutched it to her chest like a miner would a gold nugget. But a scan of its pages revealed very little except the days that Carole had had her hair and nails done.
    Avery never called for an appointment. It would be a luxury to spend several hours a week being pampered in a salon—something Avery Daniels had never had time for—but she couldn’t risk letting Carole’s hairdresser touch her hair or a manicurist her nails. They might detect giveaways that others couldn’t.
    The engagement book had shed no light on what Carole did to fill her days. Obviously, she wasn’t a member of any clubs. She had few or no friends because no one called. That came both as a surprise and a relief to Avery, who had been afraid that a covey of confidantes would descend, expecting to pick up where they had left off before Carole’s accident.
    Apparently, no such close friends existed. The flowers and cards she had received during her convalescence must have come from friends of the family.
    Carole had held no job, had no hobbies. Avery reasoned that she should be thankful for that. What if Carole had been an expert sculptress, artist, harpist, or calligrapher? It had been difficult enough teaching herself in private to write and eat with her right hand.
    She was expected to do no chores, not even make her own bed. Mona took care of the house and did all the cooking. A yard man came twice a week to tend to the plants in the courtyard. A retired cowboy, too old to herd cattle or to rodeo, managed the stable of horses. No one encouraged her to resume an activity or interest that had been suspended as a result of her injuries.
    Carole Rutledge had been a lazy idler. Avery Daniels was not.
    The door to Tate’s private office opened. He emerged in the company of a barrel-chested, middle-aged man. They were laughing together.
    Avery’s heart accelerated at the sight of Tate, who was wearing a genuinely warm