The Blue Cotton Gown Read Online Free Page B

you’re responsible for everything you sign, don’t you? Your signature is on the tax returns; you’ll be personally liable.” It’s 2:25 a.m. I throw the covers back and crawl out of bed. In the bathroom I find my jam jar of scotch and pull my robe closer around me. I pad though the dark living room, moving by feel, past the sofa and love seat, dragging my fingers along the muted south-western cream and blue upholstery. It’s the same Pine Factory furniture we bought when Tom was an ob-gyn resident. The cream
    Berber carpet is soft under my feet.

23

    In the corner, in front of four tall windows, a ten-foot ficus tree grows in a pot. If it weren’t for the cathedral ceiling, there’d be nowhere to put it. I stand for a moment looking out, and then step through the glass door onto the wraparound porch. No peepers tonight. No stars.
    This house, cedar sided, perches over Hope Lake. To the south, through the bare trunks of oaks, the water picks up light from cottages. Steep wooden steps lead down to the dock. I pace around the porch to the west.
    Here two acres of grass spread gently uphill. In the moonlight I can dimly see Tom’s beehives, our oval vegetable garden, and be-yond that the gazebo. When we first moved to Blue Rock Estates, the yard was just mud. Now there are peach, pear, and apple trees and a few pines.
    There’s something about Rebecca that makes me uneasy. We’ve only been with her three months. Our failure with the previous accountant causes me to doubt my judgment. We’ve started with her now, so we’ll continue. Tom trusts everyone, and he hates change. I don’t much like it myself.
    I take my first sip and swallow it down. The first sip is the worst
    . . . bitter and burning. There’s no movement down at the lake, no sound, only the little waves lapping.
    Rebecca has promised she’ll contact the IRS and request an ex-planation of the bill. She’ll argue that the error in underpayment, if there is one, was an oversight of the previous accountant and apply for an extension to give us some time. We’ve never owed money like this before, and I don’t have a clue where we’ll get it.
    I gaze at the half-moon as it slips back and forth between the clouds, an unhappy lady, then I say a small prayer. Twenty-one thousand dollars!

    trish

    “What’s wrong?” Trish catches my arm as I hurry out of the medical center and across the parking lot on my way to the car. I’m not sure I want to see her. Since the meeting with Rebecca Gorham, I’ve been walking around like a whipped dog. “You look awful. Are you getting sick?”
    Trish is a nursing assistant in the Family Wellness office, two floors below the Torrington Women’s Health Clinic. We’ve been friends for ten years, maybe twelve. Tom delivered her third baby and did her surgery when she had an ectopic pregnancy. She left the university medical practice to join Dr. Wilson at Community Hospital about the same time we left the faculty ob-gyn practice to start out on our own.
    “I’m having a meltdown,” I say grimly. Trish follows me to my car; her straight, cropped sandy blond hair blows across her face as she hauls her heavy satchel over her shoulder. I fumble with my keys at the Honda. “I feel like crying all the time.”
    “What? What’s up? I’ve never seen you like this.”
    I get in the car, take a deep breath, and rub my hand over my face as I settle behind the steering wheel. “It’s the IRS . . . We’re screwed. We thought our first accountant, Bob Reed, was fine, but what did we know? I mean, Tom and I can barely balance a check-book. Not that we can’t, we just don’t get around to it, know what I mean? Anyway, to make a long story short, the guy wasn’t doing his job. We got a letter a few days ago saying we owe the Feds twenty-one thousand dollars!”
    I let that sink in. Trish gets in the car, settles herself in the passenger seat, and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her bag. Then, realizing we’re sitting