Tell Me No Secrets by Joy Fielding Read Free Book Online Page A

living in an old brownstone, she tried to remind herself, was the high ceilings. You didn’t find that in modern glass high rises.
    It wasn’t working. Her heart continued to race as her breath curled into a tight little ball in the middle of her throat. Once again she forced herself to her feet, teetering on legs that threatened to send her sprawling, toward the tiny, purely functional bathroom that the landlord had laughingly described as en suite when she’d moved in just after her divorce. She ran the tap and threw cold water across her face and shoulders, letting the water sneak down underneath her pink nightshirt and onto her breasts and belly.
    She rested against the side of the tub and stared into the toilet bowl. There was nothing she hated worse than throwing up. Ever since she was a small child and had overdosed on red licorice sticks and banana splits at Allison Nichol’s birthday party, she’d dreaded throwing up. Every night for years afterward, she’d gone to bed asking her mother, “Will I be all right?” And every night her mother had answered patiently that yes, she’d be fine. “Do you promise?” the child had persisted. “I promise,” had come the immediate reply.
    How ironic then that it had been the mother, and not the child, who’d been in danger.
    And now the nightmare that had plagued her after her mother’s disappearance was back, along with the shortness of breath, the trembling hands, the paralyzing, nameless dread that permeated every fiber in her body. It wasn’t fair, Jess thought, leaning over the toilet bowl, gritting her teeth against the possibility of what might follow, clutching at the pain that stabbed repeatedly at her chest, like the dull blade of a long knife.
    She could call Don, she thought, resting her cheek against the cool lid of the toilet. He always knew what to do. So many nights he’d held her trembling against him, his hands softly stroking the damp hair away from her forehead as he engulfed her inside his large arms, and assured her, as her mother had, that she would be all right. Yes, she could call Don. He’d help her. He’d know exactly what to do.
    Jess pushed herself back toward the bedroom, perched precariously on the edge of her bed, and reached for the phone, then stopped. She knew all she had to do was phone Don and he would dash right over, leave whatever he was doing, whomever he was with, and race to her side, staywith her as long as she needed him. She knew Don still loved her, had never stopped. She knew that, and that was why she knew she couldn’t call him.
    He was involved with someone else now. Trish, she repeated, examining the name in her mind. Probably short for Patricia. Trish with the wicked laugh. The
very
wicked laugh, she heard him say, recalling the proud twinkle in his eyes. Had the possibility that she might be losing Don to another woman been enough to precipitate this anxiety attack?
    The attack was over, she realized with a start. Her heart was no longer racing; her breathing had returned to normal; her body was no longer awash in perspiration. She fell back against her pillow, luxuriating in the sense of renewed well-being. Surprisingly, she discovered she was hungry.
    Jess shuffled through the darkened hallway to the kitchen, heading directly for the freezer. She opened it, recoiling from the sudden flash of light, and drew out a box of frozen pizzas, quickly tearing at the cellophane around one of them and popping the stiff disk into the microwave oven that sat on the side counter. She pressed the necessary buttons and listened to the soft whir of the micro rays as they circled their frozen prey, being careful not to stand directly in front of the oven.
    Don had warned her against standing directly in its path when it was on. But surely these things are perfectly safe, she had argued. Why take chances? had come his instant rebuttal. He was probably right, she’d decided, adopting his precautions as her own. You never