The War of the Roses: The Children by Warren Adler Read Free Book Online

often heap vocal criticism on what she called “a pack of old junk.”
    The
pièce de resistance
was the oil painting of Queen Victoria in her prime that hung over the fireplace. Josh had bought it for her on their honeymoon in England. In an odd way, he considered it a not-too-subtle attack on Victoria’s mother, who had never been told about her daughter’s visit to her estranged father.
    Victoria was, after all, as her father had revealed, named after this long-reigning royal. No psychiatrist was needed to explain the obsession. It was a validation of sorts, a link to absent and unknown antecedents. In an upstairs closet, she had a collection of Victorian dresses, which she would occasionally try on in the privacy of her bedroom. Early in their marriage, such episodes had been a sexual turn-on, especially for Victoria. Josh viewed it as a harmless eccentricity.
    Josh understood it perfectly and had his own less extensive but equally heartfelt nostalgic exercise. He had retained those few still-intact Staffordshire figures that had been his father’s pride. Scattered among the books were what was left of his collection of Napoleons and Shakespeares, as well as a prized Neptune that had escaped the carnage.
    As a sentimental gesture, he had purchased another set of boxers, figures of the eighteenth-century combatants Cribb and Molineux, that had brought his parents together for the first time at an auction in Cape Cod. They faced each other in imaginary combat, Molineux the black man, Cribb the white, in a glass box especially made to protect them.
    Periodically, Victoria would devote a day or two to dusting, cleaning, and often rearranging the various objects in her collection. She never trusted the job to cleaning ladies.
    The den, which was by far the house’s most dramatic and dominant room, had been chosen as their designated place of family gathering, reflection, and refuge, and so far it had served its purpose handily. It was also the central point for their stereo system, which played through speakers strategically located throughout the house. They both enjoyed classical music. At the moment he could hear the strains of Chopin’s polonaise.
    â€œMaybe you’re pushing too hard,” Victoria sighed.
    â€œI’m fine,” he said, brushing her sincere worry aside. “Now tell me what happened at Michael’s school.”
    Victoria had a narrative style that left no detail expunged. She described the Crespos and Mr. Tatum, mimicked their words contemptuously, and provided an analysis of her own reaction and possible scenarios for further action.
    He listened patiently, watching her, marveling at her still-lovely alabaster skin, unblemished and white against her black hair, the bangs deliberately cut imperfectly, giving her a perpetually wind-blown look. He had always admired her chiseled nose, slightly off-center smile, and her almond-shaped eyes with their hazel irises, which burned as vivid as emeralds in the bright light.
    She was tall, her posture straight as an arrow, with a lithe, efficient body, small breasts, and flat stomach, which miraculously resisted extra flesh. She had the movement, style, face, and figure of a young Jane Fonda lookalike, a comparison that she dismissed although he could tell it pleased her immensely. Knowing he had betrayed this lovely unsuspecting woman for the past six months made him ache with remorse. It was a violation of such enormity that the very thought of being discovered was enough to trigger the shakes and nausea. He was sick at heart.
    Glenfiddich in hand, he listened to her narrative with a conscience so burdened that he felt as if a gargantuan weight was pressing painfully on his chest.
    â€œHe says the Crespo girl is lying.”
    â€œThen let’s leave it at that.”
    â€œOne would think a mother has a sixth sense about these things. I know my child and I know the atmosphere in which we have raised him. Trust is