Spirit Lost by Nancy Thayer

Author:Nancy Thayer [Thayer, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-553-39109-1
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2014-06-23T16:00:00+00:00

Now he did not let himself think or question. There were times in life when such blind obedience to a superior force was necessary: as an infant, in the armed services, in school. There was no question of choice. There was no question of values. He had been caught up in something miraculous. If he thought to himself, What kind of man spends his wife’s money to furnish a room for an affair with another woman? he pushed the thought aside. He was now beyond turning back.

Willy’s cheeks burned with cold.

“This is crazy!” she shouted, but John was already too far ahead of her to hear. That was how she felt he always was recently, going on along all on his own, too fast for her to follow, out of the reach of her voice.

She had agreed to come biking with him on this brisk January day simply because she thought the exercise would ease the tension that ran through him these days, making him edgy and impolite. So she had bundled up in long underwear and jeans and sweaters and her parka and gloves, but still it was fiercely cold. And here, by the water, it was painfully so.

She brought her bike to a stop at the end of the street and looked out across the long stretch of sand to the water lapping gently at the Jetties beach. Long grass the color of sand waved stiffly when the wind hit it, and a loose shingle or shutter on the boarded-up concession stand softly thumped like an insistent, irregular heart. The sky and sea were a heathery hue, everything was still, and far out shone a glaze of approaching white, promising that the snow that was now layering the Cape would soon be here.

Willy sighed. It was so lonely here now, it was melancholy. She was lonely, melancholy. She and John had had a fight this morning, not over his buying all the expensive furniture for the attic but over his impatience for its delivery.

“You’ve gone this long without it—you didn’t even want it until we came back from Boston—why get so upset about it, John?” she had asked, trying to be reasonable. But her reasoning, her attempts to calm him, had only infuriated him all the more.

The rug had arrived. It was an antique, different from anything Willy had ever thought John would like. It was a French design of flowers and fleur-de-lis on creamy wool. Two small armchairs in shiny striped brocades had also been carried up to the attic. And a mahogany side table with scalloped edges and ivory inlay.

What John was waiting for with such impatience was a bed.

He had been waiting for a week now, and it still hadn’t arrived from the mainland.

When Willy questioned John, the first time she so much as lightly mentioned all his purchases, he had blown up at her.

“You’ve repainted your sewing room!” he said, defensive. “Look at it! You’ve got an armchair, an Oriental rug, and how much

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