Good Little Wives by Abby Drake Page A

showing off the media room he’d had renovated since she’d gone back to school after Christmas. He’d popped in a movie—Ben Affleck’s latest—and they settled in front of the giant new screen until Aimée fell asleep with jet lag.
    Bridget had downed a Lunesta and gone straight to bed.
    Over breakfast, Randall announced he wanted to go to the twelve-fifteen Mass, which was the most crowded. As the three of them strolled up the long sidewalk to the big stone church now, the bright sunlight bounced off Randall’s broad smile and spun a proud glow around his cherished Aimée.
    Then one of Randall’s cronies pulled him aside and Bridget seized the opportune moment.
    â€œAimée,” she whispered while grinning at the passersby who were accustomed to seeing Randall at church but not her. “I thought about what your father said regarding Monsieur et Madame LaBrecque, that it would be nice to invite them for dinner. Did they give you a number where they could be reached?”
    â€œOh,” Aimée said, “It’s not them, Maman, it’s only Monsieur. His wife went on to Houston where she has family.”
    Only Monsieur? Only Luc? Bridget wanted to shout, Thank you, Jesus, but held herself back out of respect for the time and the place. Instead she said, “Well. Did you get a number?”
    â€œAimée, dear,” Randall suddenly said as he turned back toward them and scooped an arm around the girl’s waist. “You must say hello to Mr. McNaughton. He hasn’t seen you since your first Communion.”
    Mr. McNaughton was older than dirt and probably didn’tremember who Randall was, let alone Aimée. Bridget set her jaw into a clench.
    â€œAnd my dear wife,” Randall said, and Bridget stepped forward and murmured bonjour . Then she took Aimée’s elbow and guided her away.
    â€œYou were saying,” she said, “about Monsieur LaBrecque.”
    â€œOh. Well, no, I didn’t get a phone number.”
    Bridget longed for the old days when one wore a hat and a short veil to church, when one could conceal unfettered emotion.
    â€œWho didn’t get what?” Randall asked, having jogged to catch up with them now as they ascended the steps of St. Bernadette’s.
    â€œMonsieur LaBrecque,” Aimée said. “He didn’t leave me a number so Maman could call him.”
    Bridget wanted to gulp the sunshiny air. She didn’t dare look at her husband, for fear he would see the hope of infidelity dance in her eyes. “I liked your idea. To invite them for dinner.” No sense in Randall knowing that the madame had gone on to Houston.
    â€œWell,” Randall said. “Yes.”
    They went into the narthex, which was dark and quiet and emoted more guilt than Bridget thought she deserved. At least the priest she’d paid off long ago was now in another diocese.
    â€œBut it doesn’t matter,” Aimée quickly whispered. “I gave him the house number and he said he will call.”
    Organ music and incense rose up to greet them. Bridget clutched her purse.
    He said he will call .
    She wanted to ask when Luc would call, but decided totemper her interest for the sake of both her husband and her guilt.
    Checking her watch before she genuflected, Bridget and said a short prayer that Luc wouldn’t phone before they were back home at one-thirty, two o’clock at the latest.
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    Caroline leaned against the antique writing desk in her morning room even though it was past noon. She stared at the large banquet table in the center of the room and the four-by-eight-foot sheet of plywood that rested on top. It was a model floor plan of the Hudson Valley Centre where the gala would be held, and had been crafted by the hospital maintenance department exactly as Caroline had instructed, with a matching sheet covered with velveteen and fashioned to scale, and miniature tables strategically set.