The Coach House
Prologue & Chapter 1
He watched her position and reposition the stiff mannequin. After looking around to see if any other passersby were
observing him observing her, he moved closer to the center of the window. At twenty-five, Richard had had his share of
girlfriends, every one of them a beauty, but none as captivating as her. What do I have to do to get your attention,
gorgeous? He cased her left hand for a wedding band. C’mon, sweetheart. Look my way.

When she finally noticed him, he froze for an instant, grabbed his chest with an open palm, and smiled. Her glossy
close-to-black hair softly framed her flawless olive-skinned face and accentuated her deep-set whiskey brown eyes.
His heart raced.

Exerting his best charm, Richard proceeded to give her hand signals to point out which way he thought she should
position the mannequin. Try uncrossing her legs, he pantomimed. Now put her arm across the back of the sofa.

The young woman gave him a puzzled look at first and then smiled back at him. He beamed when he saw her face
redden as she tried to follow his directions. She looked at him for approval each time she rearranged an arm or leg, a
reaction that encouraged him even more.

After several attempts, she took a couple of steps back to look at her handiwork and then shook her head. He couldn’t
help but laugh. The mannequin didn’t look anything like a happy housewife relaxing in the front room listening to the
radio while dinner was cooking in her brand-new 1944 Tappan Deluxe six-burner double oven.

With her back toward him, she continued her work. When he thought he couldn’t stand the distance between them any
longer, he tapped on the window, causing her to jump. He took off his Fedora and held it to his chest, gave her his
best smile, and mouthed, “Can we meet?” The awkward moment that followed didn’t deter him. He gave her a slow wink
and then gestured toward the door.

She looked at him for a long moment before revealing any response. Her narrowed eyes and tilted head told him she
was dubious of his suggestion. He smiled at her again. Come on, sweetheart, please don’t make me beg.

“Okay,” she mouthed back and then disappeared through a concealed door at the back of the display window.


It was one of those unbearably hot days in August when even the walls seeped sweat, the time of year when most
Chicagoans yearned for cooler weather, only to complain about that, too, come December. Twenty-one- year-old
Marie Marchetti suffered from a cruel summer cold with sinuses so congested they felt like they would detonate with
each sneeze. She was at work planning the upcoming Labor Day clothing displays in the Marshall Field’s flagship Loop
store when her cold peaked. By ten o’clock in the morning, she was too incapacitated to concentrate on what she was
doing and told her boss, Catherine Olsen, she needed to go home and to bed.

Marie dragged herself to the parking garage across the street and got in her 1938 Ford Coupe. It was in good
condition for an eight-year-old car, thanks to her husband Richard, a man with a keen appreciation for automobiles.
She started the engine, took in a shallow breath, and closed her eyes for a few seconds while she mustered up the
energy to put the car in gear.

She mindlessly listened to the news. Earthquake leaves 20,000 people homeless in the Dominican Republic. President
Truman establishes the Atomic Energy Commission. Writer H. G. Wells dies. The depressing reports made her head
pound harder, so she turned the radio off. All she could think about was going to bed.

It was a six-mile drive up Lake Shore Drive to her Lakeview neighborhood home. Rows of grey and brownstone
buildings lined the drive on her left. People owned these apartments—rich people who weren’t much affected by the
downturned economics following World War II. On the right, the gentle waves of Lake Michigan rose and fell along the
shoreline while Canadian geese practiced their V formations over the water, a surprisingly early drill for this time of

The two-story brick home on Byron suited newlyweds Marie and Richard. Purchased six months earlier, just a few
weeks before their wedding, it was an older home with high ceilings, hardwood floors, and natural oak woodwork.
Richard, a medical equipment salesman, used one of the three bedrooms for his home office.

Marie parked her car in the garage, fumbled for her keys, and unlocked the side door of their home. Once inside, she
threw on a soft, floor-length chenille robe, swallowed two aspirin, and curled up on the living room sofa under a
blanket. Flushed and shivering from the effects of the fever, she lay there with half-shut eyes waiting for the pain in her
face to subside. When it did, she fell asleep.

It took her several seconds after waking up in a barely conscious state to realize someone was ringing the doorbell.
She pulled herself off the sofa, straightened her robe, and ran her fingers through her tussled hair before opening the
front door.

“Where’s Richard?” the man in the shiny grey suit asked abruptly, his black hair slicked back tight against his large
head under a too-small felt hat. No introduction. No small talk. Just that one brief and unmannerly question.

Marie brushed away a strand of hair dangling on her cheek, stared at the stranger for a moment, and thought about
whether or not to shut the door in the man’s boorish face. “He’s at work,” she told him without expression. Deciding to
ignore his bad manners, she asked, “Is there a message I can give him?”

The man looked her up and down and, with all the warmth of a snake, said in a thick voice, “Jus’ tell ’em Vincent was
here. He’ll know what it’s about.” He tipped his hat, showing off his diamond pinkie ring, turned away from her, and with
a quick and jerky gait walked toward his double- parked black Cadillac. Still feeling the effect of his greasy glare, Marie
watched him drive away while wondering what that was all about.

This wasn’t the only recent conundrum involving her husband that bothered her. Lately, there had been several late-
night phone calls that Richard obviously didn’t want her to hear. His opaque explanations about the calls were always
the same—they were work-related, and he didn’t want to bore her with such stuff. Eager to build a life with the man she
so dearly loved, Marie desperately wanted to believe him.

When Richard came home that evening, she relayed the message from Vincent. “Who is he, hon?” she casually
asked. “I don’t remember you ever mentioning a Vincent before.”

“Uh…I used to work with him,” he mumbled as he turned away from her. “I haven’t seen him in years. Hey, can I get you
anything, sweetheart? Aspirin? How about a cup of tea?”

“Well, how will you know how to contact him? He didn’t leave a phone…”

Richard interrupted her midsentence and shot her an all-too-familiar look. “I’m not going to contact him, Marie. So let’s
drop it…okay?” And with that, he disappeared into the kitchen. Marie had learned to accept the sudden shift in her
husband’s demeanor when he didn’t want to continue a discussion.

Marie didn’t mention Vincent again for the rest of the evening, even though she was more than a little curious about
what the man wanted with her husband. She figured the more she knew about Richard’s work, the better she would
know him, and the fact that Richard didn’t see it that way bothered her. But what was beginning to bother her even
more was that masking the truth appeared to come as natural for Richard as delivering the truth did for her.

She went to bed early and was almost asleep when she heard Richard’s voice. Curious, she got up and walked to the
hallway expecting to hear him on his office phone. But the sound of his voice grew fainter the closer she got to his
office. Puzzled, she retreated to the bedroom. She looked out the window, and from her second-story vantage point
she could see him talking over the fence with Russian-born Ivan Botkin from next door. They talked freely back and
forth for a few minutes, smiled at each other, and then shook hands.

They had met the Botkins the previous month. Marie and Richard had been sitting on their back porch enjoying an
early evening breeze and a glass of wine when the couple walked over, each with a drink in their hand. They
introduced themselves. Five-foot-eight Ivan, a burly man with a facial expression as heavy as the heat and hair
everywhere but on his head, appeared to be somewhere in his forties. His thick accent and broken English made it
hard to understand him. Blond-haired blue-eyed Nanette was younger, taller, and thinner…much younger, taller, and

With Nannette acting as Ivan’s quasi interpreter, they learned he was an importer of Russian furniture, artwork, and
assorted trinkets. When Marie asked Nanette what she did, she responded in a sing-songy voice, “Oh, I don’t work. I’m
just a housewife, here to make Ivan happy!”

Marie smiled as she recalled that evening, especially after the Botkins left. Richard was in a playful mood, and they
made love on the living room sofa that night. He was a good and considerate lover, always heightening her arousal
with his keen awareness of her physical needs. She loved the way he took control, almost every move aimed toward
satisfying her. And that wasn’t his only attribute. He took good care of Marie…from the very beginning.

Richard interrupted her walk down memory lane. “Feeling better?” he asked as he crawled into bed beside her. He
gently stroked the length of her back. That was usually enough to get her aroused, but not tonight the way she felt.

“A liddle.”

He caressed her hair and kissed her on the cheek. Marie looked into his eyes and wondered whether to ask him what
he and Ivan had talked about over the fence. But she was too weak to confront him.

“It’s going to kill me not to make love to you tonight,” he whispered. Except for when he was on the road on business,
they hadn’t gone a day without sex since they married.

“I’ll feel bedder soon. Don’t worry.”

“And don’t you worry.”

“About what?” she asked, half asleep.

“About Vincent.”

“I’m dot worried about him.” The more she talked, the more congested she got.

“You look worried.”

“I’m dot worried. I’m jus’ sick.”

Shortly after Marie fell asleep that night, she was awakened by the sound of Richard’s voice in the next room. She
strained her ears to hear what he was saying. “Not tonight.” He paused. “I’ll contact [inaudible] tomorrow and see what I
can do.” Another pause. “That’s not up for discussion. And don’t…you know.”

The next morning, Marie didn’t feel much better. She called in sick, and after hanging up the phone, went back to bed.
The sound of a door slamming woke her. She glanced at the clock. It was ten thirty.

“Richard?” she called out in a hoarse voice.


“Why are you still here?”

He entered their bedroom. “I thought I’d work from home today…in case you needed anything.”

“Are you sure? I’ll be fine.”

He bent down to kiss her forehead. “I’m sure. I have plenty of work I can do from home today.”

“Okay, but if you need to leave, don’t worry about me.”

“Do you need anything before I go back to my office?”

“I thought I heard a door slam a few minutes ago.”

“Sorry. I went out for the paper and must have closed the front door a little hard. I’ll try to be quieter, sweetheart.”

Marie was seconds away from falling back asleep. “Okay.”

When Marie awoke two hours later, Richard was standing with his back to her looking out the window. “Hey,” she

“Hey, yourself.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Give me a minute. I don’t know yet.” She reached out for his hand, which he kissed. “Better now.”

“Feel like lunch? I can open a can of chicken soup.”

“Sounds good. My stomach is growling. Give me a few minutes to splash some water on my face and comb my hair…or

Before going downstairs, Marie stopped in Richard’s office, which was at the front of the house, and turned off the
lamp on his desk. Movement outside caught her attention, and when she looked out the window she saw Richard
picking up the paper from the sidewalk and scurrying back into the house. I thought he said he had gotten the paper
earlier. Maybe I misunderstood him. She blew her nose, popped two more aspirin, and then proceeded to the kitchen
to meet him.

He stood on the busy sidewalk at the corner of State and Randolph streets and watched the
feet. The hem of her blue satiny dress swirled around her as she moved, touching the back of
her calves with each step, calling attention to her Betty Grable legs, and making him forget the
original purpose for his being in this part of town. He strained to get a look at her face, but she
was preoccupied with her work, oblivious to him and all the other pedestrians bustling around
Chicago’s busy Loop.
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