IV. A Picture-Perfect Housewife

IV.  A Picture-Perfect Housewife

Taking a deep breath, Nathan opened his car door and climbed out of his seat.  Pushing the door shut behind him, he gazed up into the deep purple sky.  Half a dozen tiny bats fluttered back and forth between the tree branches overhead.

“Those little bats aren’t going to hurt you, Mrs. Harper… I mean, Cassandra!  They’re just flying around eating bugs,” he chuckled with male bravado.

“I do not care!  They are disgusting!” she exclaimed, waving her gloved hands about her head.

Her heels scraped on the pavement as she dashed for the cover of her porch.

Several crows cawed loudly as he trotted along the walkway and stepped up behind her.  The concrete porch was decorated with several pumpkins and colorful autumn topiaries.  A garland of orange and yellow leaves adorned the entryway and a wicker basket stuffed with sunflowers, mums, and berries hung on the door.

“I like your decorations,” he commented. 

“They must look rather plain compared to the ghosts and goblins you have in your yard!” she responded.

“I wouldn’t say plain.  I’d just say more... tasteful,” he grinned.

She slipped her gloved left hand into her coat pocket and withdrew a silver key.  The porch light cast gleaming yellow highlights over the smooth, polished arc of her leather back as she hunched forward slightly to insert the key into the door lock.  

There was a metallic click as she turned her wrist.

She opened the door and stepped across the threshold. 

“Please, come in,” she invited, her crimson lips smiling above her leather collar as she glanced over her shoulder at him. 

He followed her without hesitation. 

They entered a foyer that was dimly lit by a single table lamp.

Cassandra shut the door behind him, inserted the key into the double deadbolt, and locked the door from the inside.  She slid the key back into her coat pocket, methodically patting her hip to verify its location. 

He wondered why she locked the door if he was just staying long enough for a drink.  But then again, as private as she was it was probably just her habit to do so.  

He thought nothing more of it.

Cassandra flipped a switch that caused several lights to come on down the length of the hallway before them.  A glittering candelabra chandelier hung from the second story ceiling, illuminating a grand, sweeping staircase.

She spread her arms graciously with palms turned up, causing her shiny leather coat to pull tightly over her bosom with a sharp creak.

“Welcome to my home,” she beamed warmly.

“Wow!  This is a really nice place,” he remarked, glancing around to distract himself from her resplendent chest.

“It is comfortable enough,” she agreed thoughtfully.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked.

“Going on twenty-three years now,” she answered.

Her leather gloves squeaked softly in her grasp as she pulled them off.  She neatly folded them together, palm to palm, and slipped them into her right coat pocket.  

“Here’s your hat,” he said.

“Thank you,” Cassandra smiled, as he handed it to her.

She placed the hat on the foyer table as if it was a decorative centerpiece.  Then she examined her reflection in a mirror hanging above the table, fretting needlessly over her perfectly-arranged red hair with her tapered fingers. 

Her smooth, ivory hands were delicate and her manicured fingernails were painted with a crimson polish that matched her lipstick.  A large diamond glittered proudly in the center of her wedding ring.

Her every movement was accompanied by a low, continuous creaking and crackling as her leather coat shifted in shiny ripples about her svelte figure.  It was the only noise to be heard in the silence aside from the ticking of a nearby clock.  No doubt she had been producing such musical sounds all afternoon, but he couldn’t appreciate them so well before.  He could even hear her clothes rustling inside her coat now. 

It took a severe bit of restraint for him to not just stare at the beautiful woman.  He purposely pried his eyes away from her, if only momentarily, trying to calm the tumescent surge in his groin.

There was a Victorian hall tree behind him with umbrella racks built into both sides of a bench seat and a full-length mirror on the back. 

Nathan’s own reflection startled him.  He looked rather ridiculous half-dressed in seventeenth century costume; especially in comparison to his impeccable hostess.  He would be embarrassed if a potential girlfriend saw him dressed the way he was, but Cassandra didn’t seem to mind his appearance at all.  In fact, she kind of seemed to like it.

He raked his matted blonde hair somewhat into place and tucked his baggy linen shirt into his breeches.  Thankfully the car heater had dried the sweaty dampness of his clothes.  He hoped that he didn’t stink of body odor, but he could not tell. 

Cassandra’s shapely backside caught his attention in the corner of the mirror.  He stole a furtive peek at the sexy curves it imprinted within her gleaming, black lambskin.   He lifted his eyes after a few seconds only to discover that maybe he was not as stealthy as he thought.  Cassandra’s emerald eyes darted away from his reflection and a coquettish smile played on her lips. 

Pleased with her hair, she turned toward him.

He spun around as well, hoping he did not look too guilty. 

“Do your boots have hobnails?” she asked.

“What?” he stammered at the unexpected question.

“Hobnails?  Um, yeah.  Actually they do!”

In fact, a hobnail in the sole of his left boot snagged a fiber of the area rug they were standing on even as he answered.

“I thought so.  If you would, please take them off here so you do not scratch my hardwood floors or pick my carpet,” she requested politely, but authoritatively. 

“Oh!  Yeah!  Sure thing!” he responded

He immediately sat down on the bench and pulled off his thigh-high cavalier boots.  He had to cross each leg and yank forcefully to drag his feet out of them.

It occurred to him as he complied with Cassandra’s command that he was in her domain now.  He suspected that her word reigned supreme in that house even if Marvin was home.

He neatly stood his boots side-by-side on the edge of the rug allowing the tall legs to fold over together.

“Just leave them here?” he verified, glancing up at her.

“Yes.  That will do fine, thank you,” she replied.

Her leather coat squelched loudly as she single-handedly twisted the top button open between her breasts, arresting his attention instantly.  Lambskin continued to squeak and crackle sumptuously as she unfastened the second, third, and fourth buttons as well, unintentionally performing a virtual striptease in front of him.  Her coat flaps spread apart as she popped the fifth button free, revealing her outfit within. 

Her crisp white blouse crinkled across her prominent bosom, buttoned snugly over her crimson turtleneck.  A long, double-stranded pearl necklace looped elegantly beneath her collar.  A V-neck cardigan of soft walnut-colored cashmere was layered over her shirt, closed by a row of mother-of-pearl buttons from the center of her chest to her hips with a narrow patent leather belt buckled about her slim waist.  

Her legs were enveloped within a flowing A-line skirt made of glossy, smooth-grained black leather that buttoned all the way down the front, falling just an inch or two shorter than the hem of her coat.  It was a librarian skirt tailored in supple lambskin instead of khaki cotton and it matched her coat and boots perfectly.

The sight and sound of her supercharged his senses.  Cassandra was buttoned-up perfection; truly a model from a fall fashion catalog brought to life!  

He stared stupidly at her for a moment too long.

She did not remove her coat.  Her chin brushed the collar of her blouse as she looked down at herself, tugging her sweater smooth over her flat stomach. 

“Now then!  Allow me to give you a tour,” she offered with a perky bounce of her own booted heels.

Nathan would have been more than satisfied to simply watch her than look at anything else.  

He bolted onto his socked feet to follow her as she sashayed into the first room on the right.  

“This is the parlour,” she said, switching on a table lamp. 

A couch and chairs upholstered in cream-colored damask surrounded a coffee table with an autumn floral centerpiece.   Every cushion was perfectly positioned and the windows were opulently draped.  The room was pristine and he imagined Cassandra serving tea to her high-class friends there.

  

“Do you use this room to entertain?” he asked rhetorically. 

“Yes.  We have guests over maybe five or six times a year for club meetings and holidays and so forth,” she answered. 

A richly framed painting of a tall white and red lighthouse on a grassy sand bluff hung over the couch.  The picture was iconic New England scenery and the sunset tone of it complemented the furniture in the room. 

“That is Nauset Light, my favorite lighthouse on Cape Cod.  The view from there is breathtaking.  It is like gazing into eternity,” she described enthusiastically. 

“Do you like lighthouses?” he asked.

  

“I have been intrigued by them for years,” she told him. 

“I have visited every lighthouse from Maine to Connecticut.  Marvin and I have made several weekend trips touring them.  It is an enjoyable pastime that gets us out of the house.”

She turned off the lamp and led him across the foyer to the doorway on the other side.  

The heels of her boots tapped lightly on the hardwood floor and he caught a glimpse of a shimmering purple satin lining as her coat tails flickered outward.  More poignantly, he could plainly hear her legs swishing through her supple leather skirt now that the flaps of her coat were open.  Her walking caused a dramatic swoosh that was music to his ears.  

“This is the formal dining room,” she said, turning on a brilliant crystal chandelier that hung above a long rectangular table.

“Marvin and I usually just eat at the kitchen table.  We only use this room if we have guests over for dinner.  I mostly store my best silverware and China in here.”

She ran her finger along a massive mahogany hutch that took up the far wall as if to inspect it for dust.  The antique-looking cabinet was filled with perfectly-positioned plates and sparkling glasses.  

The buttons on her coat sleeve clicked and dragged across the wood. 

The polished table top gleamed as bright and smooth as a mirror in the chandelier light with six chairs spaced evenly around it.  A colorful array of squash, maize, pears, apples, and pumpkins spilled from a curved horn of plenty centered on a crimson runner with golden yellow trim.

A grandfather clock looming in one corner chimed 6:30 PM.

“That is the clock I heard ticking out in the hall,” he realized aloud as he walked over to examine it. 

“You can hear it throughout the whole house,” she agreed.

The tall mahogany case almost touched the ceiling with a swan’s neck broken pediment scrolling around an ornate finial at the top.  The prominent woodwork appeared to be hand-carved judging from the wood grain running through it.  A lunar dial above the Roman-numeraled clock face was painted with the image of a sailing ship at sea that was rotating downward as a smiling moon face rose for the night hours. 

“Wow!  This thing looks really old,” he remarked.

“Indeed.  That clock has been in my household line since 1793.  I wind it each morning to remind myself that time continues to tick away whether I want to pay heed to it or not,” she remarked, smirking with some wry personal amusement.

“Yeah.  We’ve all got some kind of schedule that forces us to watch the clock, don’t we?” he grinned.

“I would be much happier if I never needed to look at a clock again,” she sighed. 

“But, punctuality is a virtue and I dare not be late!”

He chuckled at her comment.  He suspected that Cassandra was twenty minutes early to every appointment.

He followed behind her as she switched off the light and continued out of the room. 

The hallway beyond the foyer narrowed along the left side of the grand staircase.  A burgundy runner carpeted the steps and the curved banister was polished mahogany with white colonial spindles. 

“This is Marvin’s study,” she indicated somewhat flippantly with a wave of her arm as she passed a door to the left about halfway down the hall.

Nathan stuck his head through the doorway without entering the small room. 

There was just enough light from the hallway for him to make out the large desk and cabinets that occupied the office.  Files, letters, and magazines were organized in stacks around a computer monitor on the desktop.  There were shelves cluttered with football, baseball, and golf paraphernalia.  A big blue marlin was mounted on the wall above the chair. 

It was definitely a man’s room, lacking the effeminate touch Cassandra applied everywhere else. 

“He spends far too much time in there working,” she complained.

Her coat draped open as she reached in front of Nathan and pulled the door closed, the lustrous purple satin lining flashing inside the billowing placket. 

“Being industrious is certainly respectable, but if people realized how short their lives really are I wonder if they would still choose to spend what little time they have toiling to no end?”

Her thoughtful observation trailed off in his ears as he spied a collection of framed pictures on the opposite wall behind her. 

“Is this your wedding picture?” he exclaimed, referring to the large portrait in the center.

“Why, yes.  It is,” she affirmed.

A notably younger, thinner version of Marvin in a tuxedo stood next to beautiful redheaded Cassandra in a traditional white wedding dress and veil. 

“What year did you folks get married?” he asked.

“Marvin and I wed in 1985,” she answered. 

“It seems like only yesterday.  Time truly does fly.”

The office rumors were right about one thing at least.  Cassandra had not aged a day!  Aside from the big 1980s hair she didn’t look any younger, thinner, or prettier in the wedding picture; just the same.

He scanned through the dozen other photos quickly.  Marvin was in few of them.  Cassandra was in all of them. 

In Nathan’s experience older women did not like to have their photograph taken and they rarely displayed pictures of themselves.  Whether this was out of modesty, or because they identified themselves as wives and mothers first and foremost, it was unusual to see photographs of a married woman without her husband or kids.

Apparently Cassandra had no such aversion to her own image and Nathan eagerly examined the snapshots of the woman who fascinated him.

It was no wonder that his coworkers did not like her.  The pictures showed pretty plainly that Cassandra did not fit in with the middle-class people her husband employed.  She associated herself with the country club elite.  She sported monogrammed navy blue blazers with gold buttons in two of the photos and her shirt collar was almost always popped.  Her snobby-looking friends truly fit the stereotype of rich middle-aged women who frequented the plastic surgeon’s office to reclaim their youth.  Their faces looked craggy and botoxed compared to Cassandra’s naturally smooth complexion.

“Who are these other women?” he asked.

“Those are my friends; Marsha, Trish, and Beverly,” she answered.

Her leather coat creaked as she crossed her arms and leaned against the wall beside him.

“We all belong to the same country club and we are the executive officers of the local women’s society.”

Sometime in the 1990s Cassandra’s red hair evolved into the classic side-parted flip that she still groomed.  She smiled contently in every frame, buttoned up demurely in crisp, tailored shirts and silk blouses at most every occasion.  A different full-length black leather coat with raglan sleeves and a stand-up collar shined on her as she posed in front of the christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.  She looked stunning beside Marvin in one shot with her red hair pulled up and a turquoise silk evening gown shimmering on her slender figure at a formal event. 

She reminded him of Jacqueline Kennedy in another picture, posing proudly on the prow of a luxurious-looking sailboat wearing a pair of sandals and black capris.  The collar of a crinkling white shirt fluttered about her neck and her red hair tossed in a gale.  The name printed on the side of the ship was Desire.

“Do you own a yacht?” he asked, somewhat in awe of such a status symbol of wealth.

“That is Marvin’s fishing boat,” she responded, her clothes rustling as she stepped away.

“Where did he come up with the name Desire?” Nathan asked as she led him to the end of the hallway.

“Oh.  Desire is my middle name,” she answered.

“Seriously?” he stammered.

“Why, yes.  It is a perfectly respectable Puritan name after all,” she giggled artfully.

Nathan actually was quite familiar with the Puritan practice of giving virtue names like Desire in reference to their passion for God.  However, in Cassandra’s case the name definitely did not provoke thoughts of holiness and chastity in his mind. 

The hallway intersected another corridor running perpendicularly in both directions.  A large painting of a woman in a garden hung on the wall.

“You’ve got plenty of space in this house.  How many kids did you and Marvin raise here?”

She stopped and turned toward him, clasping her hands at her waist.

“Marvin and I have no children,” she answered flatly.

Her thick lashes cast their melancholy shadows over her averted eyes.

“Sorry Cassandra!” he apologized quickly, feeling like an idiot.

“For some reason I assumed you folks had kids!”

“No.  God never saw fit to bless me with children,” she sighed, fidgeting with her coat flaps.

“Some men hold the opinion that a barren womb makes a woman worthless as a wife.  Fortunately, Marvin had no interest in children, so my infertility did not affect our marriage.”

Her leather coat creaked again as she hugged her arms about her chest.

It was clearly not a pleasant subject for her.  He wondered if the hint of sadness in her eyes stemmed from her inability to conceive. 

“That’s good, I guess,” he said.

He didn’t know what else to say and cursed himself for sticking his foot in his mouth.

“What about you, Nathaniel?” she asked.

“Would you remain with a woman who could not bear children for you?”

“I haven’t really thought too much about kids, although I am glad I don’t have any yet!” he chuckled.

She didn’t laugh.  She peered at him earnestly with her green eyes, waiting for him to answer her question.

“But, yeah, I don’t know.  If I loved a woman I wouldn’t abandon her for something she couldn’t control like that.”

“Not all men are so understanding,” she nodded, apparently pleased with his response.

“As for me, it is for the best that I have no children.  I suspect that they would just grow older and leave me with heartache.”

She cleared her throat and inhaled as if to let out a long sigh.

“Well!” she exclaimed.

“That cider smells delicious!”

She let her arms fall, slapping her thighs with a sharp leathery smack.

“What?” he replied, surprised at her abrupt change of subject.

“Do you not smell it?” she asked him incredulously.

“Come along!  The kitchen is right around the corner.”

He sniffed as she continued to the left.

“Yeah.  Now that you mention it, I do smell something good,” he agreed.

“That is the living room,” she interjected, gesturing with her right hand as she went by another door. 

“When Marvin is not working this is usually where you will find him.  Men never seem to get tired of watching sports on television.  For my part, I would rather curl up under a blanket with a warm cup of tea and read a good book.”

Orange rays of twilight filtered through the large window of a contemporary, comfortably furnished room with a large sofa, loveseat, and a recliner positioned in front of a wide-screen TV.  

Nathan didn’t know too much about interior decorating, but he would describe Cassandra’s style as New England done by Martha Stewart for Diane Keaton.  The house possessed the refined atmosphere of a colonial Georgian mansion while still feeling very cozy and homelike.  There were no quaint Americana nicknacks to be found.  Everything was tasteful, immaculate, and placed just so.  All surfaces were polished, all linens were fresh, and he had no doubt that he could probably eat off the bathroom floors. 

“So do you have a maid or a housekeeper?” he asked. 

“A maid?” she responded somewhat indignantly over her collar.

“Heavens no!  In all my years I never had a maid who tended her chores to my satisfaction.  Why would I pay somebody to do something that I am fully capable of doing better?  This is my house and I keep it as I see fit.”

She clearly took much pride in being a homemaker, proving once again that she was not the pampered lady of the manor his coworkers implicated her to be.  She was probably too frugal and practical to spend money on housekeeping, although he found it hard to believe she scrubbed floors with her delicate hands.  He would scarcely expect to ever see a cracked nail or chipped polish on her tapered fingers. 

However, he entirely pictured her with a ruffled apron over her silk blouse, running a vacuum cleaner while wearing a skirt and heels.  Such a woman hardly existed anymore, if ever, but the thought of Cassandra as an iconic domestic goddess was just as stirring to him as everything else about her.

She led him through the door at the end of the hall.

“This is my kitchen,” she proclaimed.

Not surprisingly, her kitchen was resplendent with cream-colored cabinets and black marble countertops.  The room was outfitted in deluxe fashion from its tiled floor to its coffered ceiling, incorporating every modern convenience in a veneer of classic elegance.  Two placemats embroidered with autumn leaves designated where she and Marvin sat for meals at opposite sides of a round table.  

A congenial plaque above the sink read “Cleanliness is next to Godliness”.  The old phrase was Cassandra’s motto, no doubt.

She swished around an island in the middle of the room set with a bouquet of orange, yellow, and red blossoms.  She passed a designer black vintage-style stove with brass knobs, and brass trim and stopped in front of a crock pot on the counter beside it.  

She lifted the lid off the pot, filling the air with the delicious autumn smell of warm cider.  Inhaling the aroma, she picked up a copper ladle shaped like a cup.  It looked antique, but the metal was still bright red without the slightest bit of tarnish.

“That’s a cool-looking scoop,” he remarked.

“Have you never seen a cider dipper before?” she asked, plunging it into the crockpot.

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

She raised a dripping ladle full to her puckered lips, blew and took a sip.

“Mmm.  Just a dash more of cinnamon and it will be perfect!” she chirped thoughtfully, pouring the remainder of the cider back into the pot.

Placing the ladle onto the countertop, she opened a cabinet filled top to bottom with spices and herbs.  Her clothes rustled as she reached inside.  She selected a jar and sprinkled a tiny amount of it into the cider.

“That should do,” she told him, replacing the cinnamon in the cabinet.

“We will let this simmer for a few minutes more while I show you to a comfortable seat.”

He followed her out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the door at the opposite end. 

“And this is my room,” she announced as the lights came on seemingly of their own accord.

Her leather coat and skirt swirled about her in shiny waves as she spun around exuberantly with her arms outstretched.     

“Marvin calls it the library.  I call it my solarium; my own private little space,” she expounded.

Nathan wasn’t so sure about her use of the word “little”.  The room was actually quite spacious with a twelve-foot high vaulted ceiling.  It was easily three times the size of Marvin’s cramped, dingy man-cave of an office.  

A plush sofa and loveseat surrounded a coffee table in the middle of the room, facing a richly carved neoclassical mantel on the far wall.  Built-in bookshelves flanked both sides of the chimney breast and continued from floor to ceiling along the length of the wall to his right.  

It was obviously a woman’s retreat.  The sophisticated decor was distinctly feminine and accented with pillows and drapes in a palette of vibrant, warm colors.  Decorative candles were placed on shelves and ledges.   There was another autumn floral arrangement on the couch table and a vase of flowers on an elegant secretary desk set in front of a broad bay window to the left.  A long oval cheval mirror with an ornate wooden frame stood in the corner beyond the desk.  

“This room is like a librarian’s dream,” he commented.

“I bet you spend lots of time here reading.”

Cassandra did not respond.

He glanced back at her. 

She leaned against her left hand in the doorway and stared at him with her brow knitted, as if torn with uncertainty over something.  Her eyes glittered on him like bright emeralds and her mouth clamped pensively.  She did not flinch as he returned her gaze with a friendly grin.  The corners of her red lips curved further downward in a bewitching smile over her white blouse collar.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Harper?” he asked.

“I am very well, thank you!” she exclaimed. 

“You have no idea how delighted I am to have you here, Nathaniel!  I am simply pondering how to make the most of your company.”

“Thanks Mrs. Harper, but you don’t need to do anything special for me.  I don’t expect my boss’s wife to serve me.  Your hospitality is more than enough,” he said humbly.  

Her lips parted in another dazzling, toothsome smile that made him weak in the knees.  She cocked her head with a toss of her hair and put her hands on her hips.

“You can repay my hospitality by doing what I asked you to earlier,” she scolded him playfully.

“What’s that?” he asked with confusion.

“Call me by my name!” she exclaimed.

“I am only and always Cassandra.”

“Oh yeah!” he chuckled. 

“Sorry, Cassandra!”

“Now, if you will excuse me, I shall go pour two mugs of cider for us.  Please make yourself at home.  I’ll be back in just a few minutes,” she told him.

“Okay.  Thanks,” he answered as she swished off into the hallway, her coat flaring in a liquid black wave behind her.  

An antique Victorian mantle clock ticked quietly.  It was now 6:42 PM.  

Nathan made his way along the shelves by the fireplace.  Most of the books there were richly bound in leather with gold leaf and a good number of them appeared to be rather old.  Not surprisingly, Cassandra had them arranged in matching collections.  There was classic literature that he recognized grouped beside dozens of titles he had never heard of. 

She apparently liked mythology and romances as Marvin hinted at earlier.  There were individual copies of Medea, The Odyssey, Romeo and Juliet, and The Three Musketeers.  “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” by Washington Irving and multiple editions of Nathaniel Hawthorne, including The Scarlet Letter and Twice-Told Tales were prominently displayed.  Edgar Allan Poe, Victor Hugo, Charles Dickens, and the Brontë sisters filled more than one shelf. 

Nathan was somewhat surprised to find Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Sheridan Le Fanu’s Carmilla, and even Henry Rider Haggard’s She occupying the shadowy corner behind a wooden stepladder.  He enjoyed Gothic fiction quite a bit, but he would not have guessed that Cassandra would have a taste for such macabre literature.  Obviously she did.  A nearby shelf contained what appeared to be a complete hardback collection of Anne Rice novels. 

A blanket of golden fox fur hung over the arm of a button-back reading-chair upholstered in cocoa leather beside the fireplace.  Another lamp stood on a side table next to the chair.  A pile of magazines was neatly arranged on the table that included Travel + Leisure, Elle Decor, and fall catalogs from Lands’ End, Brooks Brothers, Chadwicks of Boston, and Avon. 

The bookshelves of the adjacent wall framed an alcove in the center and were filled with an endless variety of modern single-editions.  There were tomes about history, music, and art, manuals about cooking and gardening, and self-help books for women about personal fitness, health, and beauty.  A few shelves were dedicated to investing and finance.         

Cassandra had a virtually complete library all to herself!

The alcove was inset about eighteen inches and accommodated a large chest with a painting hanging over it.  The trunk was a three-panel oak coffer that was slightly warped with age, but meticulously polished and richly stained to a deep mahogany.  There was a broad, rectangular lock plate made of wrought iron on the front.  

If Nathan was to guess the age of the coffer from his historical research it could very well date to the late seventeenth or early eighteenth century based on the carved motifs and woodwork.  It appeared to be even more antique than the grandfather clock in her dining room.  He wondered if it was another family heirloom.       

A footed bronze cauldron with a turquoise patina was set on the trunk lid with an old-fashioned besom broom laid in front of it.  It was obviously a seasonal display very evocative of witchcraft and the leather hat Cassandra wore that afternoon would have finished it nicely.

The painting above the trunk caught Nathan’s eye.  He knew it by name because it was right out of his period of interest.  It was called The Introduction and was the work of the Dutch artist Gerard ter Borch from about 1660.  An officer in an iron cuirass, buff coat, and cavalry boots bowed gallantly as he took the hand a red-headed lady gleaming in a dress of white samite. 

If the romantic genre of the painting appealed to Cassandra enough to hang in her own solarium Nathan began to understand why she became so preoccupied when he kissed her hand in very similar fashion.  His kit very much resembled the costume of the dashing cavalier.  Perhaps he had indeed conjured up a daydream in her mind like Marvin suggested.

There was a console table on the wall leading back to the door with a large baroque mirror hung above.  A set of matching picture frames stood side-by-side on the table.  The photographs inside of them were curiously similar, but different.

Marvin and Cassandra posed at the same spot in front of historic Beacon Hill in both pictures.  Marvin grinned amiably and Cassandra smiled proudly, clinging to her husband’s waist in an affectionate embrace.

Marvin looked considerably younger in the first portrait with a thick, brown comb over that was something right out Remington Steele.  Nathan wondered how old the picture was when he noticed 1985 engraved at the bottom of the frame.  Marvin was the older man Nathan knew in the second frame that was dated 2005.

Remarkably once again, Cassandra looked the same age in both photos.  Only her hair changed.  She sported the iconic Linda Evan’s hairdo in 1985 with feathered bangs and a big swooping bob that curled under her shoulders.  The volume of her classy side-parted hairstyle currently was only slightly less bouffant by comparison.

Apparently she and Marvin had fun dressing in his and hers versions of the same outfit and repeated it in both pictures.  They were both buttoned and belted in classic cotton gabardine trench coats.  Starched blue Oxford shirts stuck out of their coat lapels.  A silk scarf puffed out the front of Cassandra’s unbuttoned collar, printed with the same Burberry check as Marvin’s tie.  Even their brown leather gloves matched.

Nathan understood that wearing matching outfits was one of the corny things couples did when they were together for a long time or if they were actually in love.  He had never heard of anyone doing it twice for pictures taken twenty years apart, but he supposed the Harpers were rich enough to do whatever they damn well pleased.

Marvin looked like the ultra-conservative business man he was and Cassandra looked sophisticated as ever.  The collar of her coat was stylishly rolled up behind her neck in both pictures.  They were the epitome of an elite White Anglo-Saxon Protestant couple and looked like they were heading out to the country club for an official meeting. 

Nathan was utterly intrigued by the glimpse he was getting into the exclusive world Cassandra inhabited.  

Passing the console table, he paused at the door.  He could see into the kitchen at the other end of the hall, but Cassandra was not visible.  She had been gone for a few minutes already.  He wondered if it would be polite to go help her.

No sooner did the thought cross his mind than her voice rang out.

“I will be there in just a moment!  Please, just make yourself comfortable Nathaniel!”

“Okay, Cassandra!” he called back, chuckling at her uncanny ability to practically read his mind.

Marvin joked about her being clairvoyant and Nathan was beginning to believe it!  

He moved along to casually inspect the several frames and plaques that decorated the adjoining wall.  What he found there was rather impressive.

Cassandra’s name was printed on half a dozen appreciation certificates and engraved on half a dozen more top contributor awards from a variety of women’s charities and organizations.  There were certificates identifying her as an Honorary Member of the Executive Homemakers Club and VIP Member of the local Women’s Society. 

Apparently Cassandra did not just sit at home, sip tea, and flip pages of Good Housekeeping with her perfectly-manicured fingers all day!  She may have clung to Marvin’s shadow in mixed company, but she obviously networked quite well in the elite circles of rich New England housewives.  She was active in the community and she was proud of it.

There was a large professional photograph prominently displayed in the center of the collection featuring a group of people wearing skirts and suits gathered outside of a building entrance.  Cassandra stood in the middle of them with a benevolent smile on her smooth face and her burnished red hair perfectly sculpted in its voluminous side-parted bob.  She was dressed in a shiny two-button black leather blazer with a turquoise silk scarf puffing out of her preppy, popped white shirt collar and a full, pink taffeta skirt billowing about her legs.  She posed with a large pair of scissors in her hands ready to cut a ribbon hanging horizontally in front of her.

A newspaper clipping was framed beneath it with a caption that read, “Pell House, a shelter for battered women, opened its doors to the community Friday October 22, 2002.  Mrs. Cassandra D. Harper (pictured front center above) was honored in the ribbon-cutting ceremony for launching the project in April 2001 with a personal donation of $250,000”.

“Wow!” he reacted aloud.

He had no idea that Cassandra was so involved in charity work and philanthropy.  It would seem that she was far more comfortable patronizing the working class than socializing with them.  

The more he learned about her the more he wondered what she could possibly have in common with a poor, young engineer like him?

The soles of her boots tapped lightly on the hardwood floor outside the door and her leather skirt swooshed as she entered the room.  She approached him, walking carefully with a mug in each hand.  Her step was so poised that she barely caused a ripple in the steaming contents of either cup.

“Marvin has never mentioned that you folks donated money to charities like this,” Nathan commented glancing at her awards.

“That is because Marvin has nothing to do with it,” she responded, pursing her lips.

“What I give to charity comes out of my own pocket.  Marvin tells me that I am wasting my money, but I do it anyway.”

“You can write a check for a quarter million dollars against his wishes and he doesn’t get upset about it?” Nathan asked in amazement.

“He has no say in the matter.  The money comes out of one of my personal accounts,” she explained.

“So, you were wealthy before you married Marvin?” he asked in a surprised tone.

“I was worth far more than Marvin when I met him and I still am,” she boasted demurely.

“Despite what you may have heard from your coworkers, I did not marry Marvin for his money.  I married him because he loved me and he promised to provide me the life I want.”

Nathan tried not to look embarrassed, but he was.  He would never call Cassandra a gold digger, but somehow he always did assume there was financial gain for her to be Marvin’s wife.  Apparently he was as mistaken in that assumption as he was in everything else about her.

“Well, you’re certainly very generous from the looks of these awards.  I bet you have helped a lot of people with your donations,” he complimented her.

“I like to think of myself as a good person,” she admitted modestly.

“I have been provided considerably more than my share in life.  What I give back through charity is trivial compared to the excess I have acquired and the benefit I pray it does my soul is beyond price.”