Stanley Redman

Mark_s wandering wife vol. 1

CHAPTER ONE

It was Saturday and Mark had left early to play golf at the country club. There had been no kiss good-bye nor tender love-pats such as a young, new wife might expect from her husband, not even a word when he'd left her; but then, already she had grown accustomed to such treatment.

Dianne Coleman lay stretched out on their large, luxurious bed, a voluptuous, golden-haired Venus, the soft rounded contours of her breathtaking loveliness veiled enticingly by the diaphanous negligee she wore. Her wide-set; deep hazel-eyes bore an expression of sadness; her perpetually pouting lower lip trembled… her mind had suddenly conjured up the semblance of Phillip Gates… Too often, lately, that had happened… too often.

She struggled with her thoughts, forcing out all others but those of her husband. He would be soliciting support for his campaign from business and professional cohorts, the purpose of this rare day of leisure; at least, that had been what he had told her last night… one of the unusual occasions when she had been granted the pleasure of his company during the full month of their marriage. My God… it was unbelievable, wasn't it? A nightmare…? No… no, simply a deception.

Tears clouded her eyes; she bit at her full lower lip and subconsciously reached for the book on the stand beside her. Something… anything, to absorb her attention momentarily.

We are never deceived; we deceive ourselves…

She read Goethe's words blurringly from the small volume of quotations she had taken from Mark's study. Good Lord, how appropriate, she thought. Then, she found herself wondering if her handsome attorney-husband had ever taken the time to read this, or any of the other dusty works that lined the walls of that room. She doubted it; there was hardly time in Mark Coleman's ruthlessly ambitious existence for anything that didn't have to do with his quest for political power… even his wife.

Dear God, how was it that she hadn't detected this from the very beginning, she wondered for the thousandth time. How could she have been so utterly blind… his secretary for six months, yet know so little of his personal traits?

Again, she forced her eyes to the printed page, and the words of Moliere seemed to leap out at her in answer to her question.

One is easily fooled by that which one loves.

She closed the book and sat up, disconsolately surveying the splendor of her surroundings as she contemplated the wise, philosophical words. Suddenly, a bitter smile caught at her pretty mouth as she thought: the first sight of love is the last of wisdom.