By Their Rules

BY THEIR RULES

“There are more tears shed over answered prayers than over unanswered prayers.” 

- St. Teresa of Avila

Chapter One

Nassau County, Long Island, New York 

November 1955

“The defendant is found not guilty. Case dismissed.” The gavel slammed down crushing the gasps and whispers. I was free. I could go home. I kept my gaze level, not looking at anyone or anything as chairs scraped, wood on wood, and papers rustled. At the verdict, my mother-in-law’s dourness had curved into tight-lipped delight—Edith’s highest affirmation. She’d earned the gloat by paying for the best Manhattan lawyers to plead my case at the murder inquiry. Sweat beaded under my collar as I waited for my lawyer to fill his briefcase with manila folders. No one spoke. I toyed with the handle of my alligator handbag desperate to be out of the room. My punishment was to live with invisible blood on my hands—and smile. Because ladies are prettier when they smile. 

Trembling with relief, I silently followed Edith’s gloved gesture of release, and my portly lawyer to the Nassau County courtroom’s double doors while dreading how I’d look in the newspapers. The grand jury had found me innocent of murder, but now I was famous for the wrong reasons. I tucked a stray blonde hair under my black Christian Dior hat as the doors cracked open. This was it. One more walk to the car and it would finally be over. I could go home and enjoy the golden life I’d won. 

“Ready?” my lawyer asked, noticing my pause. His patient hard-shell had seen me through the worst of the trial but even my modeling experience hadn’t readied me for a swarming crowd of reporters ravenous for this kind of story. Cameras clicked, flashbulbs popped, and questions bit as we crossed the lobby. 

“Ann, do you have a comment?”

“How does it feel to be a free woman?”

“What are you going to do with all the money?”

“Ann? Ann? Is Edith going to let you keep the house?” 

My lawyer stayed close, swatting at microphones as we pushed through the throng. They had no chance of answers because polite society did not speak to reporters. It was killing me to stay silent.

Outside, a dusting of early snow turned the world as pristine as I hoped my new life would be without my bastard of a husband. 

Edith headed to her limousine without a backward glance, leaving us, but splitting the crowd. I was glad to see her go, but I’d need her to survive. Cameras clicked as we approached the curb.

“Thank you—for everything,” I said to the lawyer, but my voice cracked and came out as a whisper. He smiled, creating extra layers in his double chin as he handed me off to Jimmy, my chauffeur.

“Good evening, Mrs. Woodsen,” Jimmy said, positioning himself between me and the surging horde while opening the door of my car. His black bushy eyebrows pulled together and his rigid shoulders screamed that he was using all his will not to punch someone. My veneer began to dissolve like the cold sweat dripping down my back as a reporter darted between me and the car. “Ann. Ann, is it true your husband was planning to divorce you?”

 Jimmy repositioned, but another sprinted forward. “Are you really expecting?”

That one cut deeper. I wasn’t. Could never be thanks to Bobby. The memory tore through me, raw and merciless. I leaned against the car.

Jimmy grabbed my arm keeping me upright, and pushed the reporter away. 

“Thanks, Jimmy,” I replied, slipping into the plush security of the black Chrysler Crown Imperial. The familiar leather mixed with Jimmy’s Old Spice and traces of Brylcreem centered me back in the present. James “Jimmy” Marino was a good man. He’d known what Bobby was capable of—known what hell I’d gone through.

Reporters banged on the windows and I focused on the snowflakes clinging to Jimmy’s gray serge topper while gripping the armrest like a security blanket. When the car pulled away from the curb slicing through the mob, I forced myself to look straight. I wasn’t going to let them see the cracks. But the first turn after the courthouse that left the ugliness of Edith’s cut and the brutal questions behind, also ripped my resolve. My hands trembled as I shrugged off the sweltering Schiaparelli Persian lamb coat. I was free—and dangerously rich, but not if my mother-in-law had anything to say about it. 

I slumped back against the leather seat and unpinned my hat. The tension slid off me like the slush streaking down the windshield. I’d made some peace with what I’d done, but now that the price was paid, the days ahead were what mattered. This hadn’t gone as planned, but it was finished now. I’d get past it. I was a survivor. 

Jimmy drove Old Country Road out to the parkway and then took Northern Boulevard. He’d chosen the longer route, but I was in no hurry now. I fiddled with the velvet trim on the hat’s veil. At least I could pick my own clothes out again. My stay at Manhattan’s swank Doctors’ Hospital to avoid the press had been a different kind of jail. That was over too.

I rolled down a window as Jimmy smoothly turned north toward Oyster Bay. The icy wind was fresh and clean, a harbinger of my days ahead. Our house, South Forest, would be mine for my life, or until I convinced my mother-in-law that cash was better than legacy—or hell froze. Edith had disengaged the house staff while I’d been ‘resting’ at the hospital. That was her way of saying that the staff had been paid to keep their mouths shut.

An uneasiness uncurled as the wrought iron gate swung open. I shifted under the scrutiny of the private security guard who gave us a half-frozen nod as we passed through. The car slowed in front of the three-story brick colonial said to have made angels weep with the beauty of its symmetry. I used to think South Forest was paradise on Earth, but the memories locked in the twelve thousand square feet were loathsome. I’d worked my butt off for this golden ticket to the American Dream, and I wasn’t giving up on it now that I was slightly tarnished—but maybe I needed something first.