Wedding Fever

by Susan Crosby

  It won’t work, he reminded himself. She’s a homebody; you can’t be. The Grand Canyon divided them with their differences.

  After a while, he noted a light sheen of perspiration coating her face, then she shivered. He tugged the quilt up, holding it under her chin until she stopped shaking. He dialed Jasmine, not intending to ask her to come stay with her sister while he worked, but perhaps Raine would come. He got the answering machine.

  Who else could he call?

  She stirred and opened her eyes, then shut them again. “My eyes hurt,” she said.

  “One of the possible symptoms, according to the doctor. Here, drink some water.”

  She sipped and fell back against the pillows. “Actually, I feel a little better. I could eat something. Maybe it was just exhaustion.”

  “Exhaustion doesn’t spike a fever, novia. Have we got soup?”

  We. The word shouted joyously in Maggie’s head. It was the first time he’d said it other than in regards to where they were going or what they were doing. Yes, we have soup in our cupboard in our kitchen, she wanted to sing.

  “Chicken noodle. In the cupboard by the refrigerator,” she said.

  “I’ll be right back. Drink some more water, if you can.”

  She slept some more, argued with him that she didn’t need anyone staying with her, convinced him to bring the television into her bedroom so she could listen to it at least, then ordered him to go to work.

  “I will be home by ten-fifteen,” he said, the worry coming through in his voice.

  “Okay. Thank you for everything.”

  “Sleep, Magnolia. It’s the best thing for you.”

  “I will.” She opened her eyes long enough to see the expression of concern on his face. “You can call, honey. I won’t accuse you of checkin’ up on me.”

  “Good. All right Good.” His relief was palpable. “Sleep well.”

  Maggie drifted in and out of sleep all evening, waking when Diego called, drinking water, watching television through slitted eyes until they grew heavy and she slept again. Close to ten o’clock she woke up more fully, the old black-and-white movie catching her interest. When he got home, she ran her fingers through her hair to comb it and struggled to pull herself up.

  He came through her doorway. She shut her eyes after the effort of sitting.

  “Just when had you planned on telling me about your secret life, Diego?”

  Twelve

  J.D. halted, then moved forward hesitantly. What the hell had happened while he was gone?

  “I always suspected you had a dual identity,” she added, glancing at him briefly. “I’m really hurt that you made me find out on my own, instead of your telling me. Hmmpf. Mild-mannered maître d’ by day and mystery man by night. I should have guessed.”

  “Should you have?”

  “I feel like an idiot for not having know.”

  He sat beside her and touched her forehead. Warm, but enough to be delirious? He didn’t know. “Would you explain what you’re talking about, Magnolia?”

  “Zorro.”

  “What?”

  She opened one eye and pointed to the television. “Do you know Zorro’s real name?”

  “Ah, no. I don’t think I’ve ever—”

  “Diego. ’Course, you’re much better looking than he is.”

  J.D. spun around to stare at the television.

  “We will return to The Mark of Zorro starring Tyrone Power and Linda Damell after these messages.” the disembodied announcer said.

  He rubbed his forehead, relaxing. She didn’t know, after all. Zorro. Dios.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Like a cornflake.”

  “Can I get you anything?” He fluffed pillows around her. “Milk? A bowl?”

  She smiled. “A cold, wet washcloth would be nice.”

  He made her take more aspirin and drink a full glass of water, then he gathered a bowl of water and two washcloths. He turned off the television and the bedroom lamp, leaving only the bathroom light to illuminate the room, enough to see her, but not enough to bother her eyes. He sat beside her on the bed, wrung out a washcloth and folded it twice.

  “Tell me a story,” she said.

  “What kind of a story?”

  “A fairy tale.” She sighed as he laid the cloth on her forehead. “About a princess and a frog.”

  He smiled at the way she wriggled into her pillows, awaiting a bedtime story. After a minute, he turned over the washcloth, giving her a cool side, noting how quickly the water had evaporated. She sighed again.

  “Once upon a time,” she prompted.

  He hoped she wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning. “Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a beautiful princess—”

  “But lonely.”

  “What?”

  “The princess is always beautiful, but lonely.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He replaced the washcloth with a fresh one. “Once upon a time, there was a beautiful but lonely princess.”

  “Young princess.”

  He made an impatient sound. “A beautiful but lonely princess who should have been married years ago but who interrupted her suitors so much, they were never actually able to propose.”

  Maggie grinned.

  “This princess believed that the man she married would be perfect in every way. The problem was, no man could live up to her expectations.”

  “Why? What did she want that was so outrageous?”

  “Oh, she had a list. Tall, dark and handsome. Good sense of humor. A snazzy dresser. Rich enough not to need her dowry.”

  “Doesn’t seem like too much to me,” she said, then softened it with a smile. “Go on, please.”

  “The princess found herself alone more and more as the eligible men in her kingdom and the neighboring kingdoms married women who loved them, flaws and all. Then on her thirtieth birthday, she decided to visit her grandmother, who lived a full day’s ride from the castle.” He flipped the washcloth again, alarmed by how warm it had gotten in such a bnef amount of time. “Along the way to Grandma’s house, the princess and her servants stopped to have a picnic lunch beside a pond. Of course, because she was the princess, she ate alone while the servants ate together a distance away. She envied the way they laughed and talked together, and wished someone would come along who she could talk to. Suddenly, a frog landed smack in the middle of her potato salad.”

  “Yuk.”

  “He was quite clean, you know. Spent all of his days in water.”

  “Covered with pond scum.”

  J.D. switched washcloths again as her face flushed even more. He skimmed his fingers down her arm as it rested on top of the sheet. She radiated fire. “Who’s telling this story?”

  “I’ll be quilt”

  “The frog croaked at her, which was more conversation than she’d had all morning. She was so grateful to the little green guy that she leaned over and kissed him.”

  “And he turned into a handsome prince.”

  “Not quite.”

  Maggie opened her eyes to a squint.

  “Your version’s been done to death,” he said. “In my story, the princess turns into a frog.”

  She laughed. “Why am I not surprised? The machismo version. I don’t think that was what the princess had in mind, but go on.”

  “You promised to be quiet.”

  “I’ll try harder.”

  “Thank you. Needless to say, the princess was so shocked to find herself perched upon a mound of potato salad alongside this good-looking frog, her crown slipped down over one eye. The gallant frog used his talented tongue to set the crown aright and the princess croaked her thanks. ‘How ’bout a swim in my pond, Princess?’ the frog asked. ‘I never learned how,’ she demurred. ‘Princesses never have any fun. It’s a royal rule.’ The frog assured her he would teach her, and off they went, leaping one over the other, until they reached the water’s edge.”

  He wiped Maggie’s arms gently with a wet
washcloth, then dipped it in water again and pressed it to her throat. She sucked in a breath but said nothing. “Now, the princess liked adventure as much as the next person, and for a while everything was wonderful. After all, in the frog world, he was considered tall, dark and handsome, so the princess had no complaints there.”

  “Lucky princess.”

  “She thought so, too. The frog protected her from the dangers of the pond. They shared a lily pad in perfect harmony. As the sun beat upon them, the water soothed their skin. All day they swam and floated. A breeze blew. The trees shaded them from the sun.”

  “That feels heavenly,” she whispered as he changed cloths.

  He could feel her body cooling. “Life was good for the princess and the frog. They seemed compatible enough. Then the frog, being gallant, caught a fly for her dinner.”

  “Oh, double yuk.”

  “But try as he would, he couldn’t convince the poor princess to swallow it. He tried again and again. He knew her survival hinged on her living his life, the life of a frog. She had to learn to eat flies. She just had to. Here, drink some water,” he said to Maggie, helping her sit up and holding the glass to her lips. When she leaned back, exhausted, he applied more cool cloths and continued his story. “The frog was a realist, however, and he soon saw she wouldn’t survive life in the pond. He had to do something, fast.”

  “Did they love each other?”

  Quiet settled in the room as he considered her question. “They came from different worlds, and their relationship wasn’t destined to be. So the frog found the courage to kiss the princess and, poof, she was human again. She sat in the pond, a lily pad snagged on her crown, and she was—”

  “Crying,” Maggie said, turning onto her side so he couldn’t see her expression. “This is too sad of a story, Diego. Fairy tales are supposed to end happily.”

  “It does. She was glad for the experience because the frog had taught her something important”

  “What? That eating flies is a matter of life or death?”

  “That what seems right at the time, isn’t necessarily right forever.” He stroked her arm with the cloth. “The princess climbed into her carnage a sadder but wiser woman. Then at the crossroad to Grandma’s house, a carriage wheel broke, halting their progress. And who should come along but a chivalrous stranger who helped them fix the wheel, not worrying a bit about dirtying his garments, then accompanying them to Grandma’s. She watched him astride his horse as he rode beside the carriage. He wasn’t tall, dark and handsome, but he was kind and his eyes twinkled when he smiled. And he told her he loved children, wanted a bunch of them himself. She thought him Prince Charming. So they married and lived happily ever after.”

  “But what about the frog?”

  “The frog never forgot the princess, even when he settled down with a lady frog who didn’t mind moving lily pad to lily pad.”

  “He never forgot the princess?”

  “Never.”

  J.D. watched her tuck her hands under her cheek. She was quiet for a long time. Then finally she spoke, her voice slurred with impending sleep.

  “Did they ever make love?”

  He swallowed. “Once. Just once.”

  “I’ll bet she thought it was the most beautiful experience of her life.”

  He waited until he thought she was asleep, then he pressed his lips to her temple. Her temperature had dropped some.

  “I would’ve learned to like flies,” she murmured.

  “I can’t believe you went running this morning,” Maggie said. They’d just gotten home after Diego had picked her up from school, still dressed in his running clothes.

  “I am not sick,” he mumbled.

  “Is that so?”

  “I do not get sick.”

  She pulled out the thermometer from his mouth and read it. “This doesn’t lie, Zorro—101.2.”

  “Do not call me Zorro. It is worse than ‘honey.’ And I have never been sick.”

  “Everyone catches the occasional cold or flu.”

  “I do not.”

  She laid the thermometer on the nightstand beside his bed. He was stretched out on top of the quilt, his face flushed, his eyes as glazed as hers must have been a few days ago, except that his symptoms were undoubtedly intensified by irritation.

  “What’s the matter? Afraid you can’t prowl the streets for a few nights?” She slashed a Z in the air with an imaginary sword. “They’ll just have to do without you for a little while.”

  She felt so close to him, so needed, finally. He could talk about how their marriage wasn’t real until he was hoarse; she saw it differently. He may have tried to tell her again in the fairy tale he’d created when she was sick, but she wasn’t buying it. The princess not being able to survive life in the pond seemed a flimsy excuse.

  “I’m going to get you some aspirin and water, then I’ll arrange substitutes for both of us at work tonight.”

  “I am going to work.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. “Dios.” He dropped back down.

  “Dizzy?” she asked sweetly.

  His eyes closed; he nodded reluctantly.

  She knelt to take off his shoes. “Do you need help undressing?”

  He shook his head.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  J.D. listened to the sound of the door shutting. He tugged at his clothes until they lay in a heap next to his feet, then he slid under the blankets and gratefully relaxed. In truth, he was glad she’d taken over. He couldn’t remember feeling so bad. Worse, he liked her fussing over him, liked it far too much.

  He needed to call Callahan and let him know what was going on. The discovery that Hastings was afraid of his wife had led to some surprising revelations, the most important being that Hastings wasn’t the head man in the operation, as they’d believed. The knowledge gave them an advantage they’d never had before, even as it presented a new problem—how to get to the man in charge.

  J.D. punched in Callahan’s number and waited, the receiver cushioned by his pillow so that he didn’t have to hold it.

  “I’ve got the flu,” he said without preface.

  “Bad?”

  “If it’s like Magnolia’s, I’ll be down a couple of days.”

  “Did you have a meeting scheduled tonight?”

  “Tentatively. Let’s just play this by ear. It’s not a good idea to show any weakness.”

  “All right. Stay in touch.”

  He used the remainder of his energy to cradle the receiver as Maggie returned.

  “We’re all set for tonight,” she said, handing him the pills and pouring a glass of water. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “My father.”

  “Ah. The Zorro of the senior set. Do you come from a long line of mystery men?”

  He took the medicine, then lay back, ignoring her as he pulled the quilt over his shoulders. She dragged it higher. “Would you like some cool washcloths?”

  “I just need to sleep.”

  “Dismissed, am I?” she asked cheerfully.

  He opened an eye. “Thank you, Magnolia. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “You know, Diego, you could accept my help with a little more grace. I let you take care of me.”

  “I’m not as sick as you.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay, I’ll let you sleep. But just let me know if you need anything.”

  “I will.”

  She wished she knew Spanish. She might have learned a lot about her husband as he spoke in his sleep, the fever freeing his words. His voice held her mesmerized—commanding, cynical and questioning, a how-dare-you-speak-to-me-like-that tone. What could he be saying?

  Her curiosity getting the best of her, she found her tape recorder and taped his one-sided conversation until his eyes flew open and he grabbed her by the shirt, pulling her close to his face.

  “No le tengas confianza.”

  “Shh, Diego. It’s all right.”

  “¿Sabes lo que él hubie
ra hecho contigo?”

  He rambled some more, his expression fierce, his tone arrogant. This was a man she didn’t know at all.

  She needed to stop his words, the words of a stranger. “Here, drink”

  He pushed her hand away, spilling water in an arc from the bed to the rightstand, then he grabbed her shirt again. He seemed to stare right at her. “Haces de mi trabajo mucho más difícil. No debería hacer sido de esta manera, Magnolia. Dios, quisiera nuna haberte conocido.”

  He fell against the pillows, his mouth twisted in anguish. Maggie wrung out a facecloth and laid it on his forehead. With another one, she cooled his chest and arms.

  “Magnolia.”

  She looked at his face and saw signs of awareness. She refilled his water glass and passed it to him, hiding the tape recorder at the same time. As he drank, he examined her face, then her shirt, where his hands had twisted the fabric. He set the glass aside.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly.

  “Of course not.” She fussed with the quilt. As sick as he was, she couldn’t keep her eyes off his chest She couldn’t keep her memory off the brief, beautiful moment they’d shared just a few days ago. Suddenly, it seemed like a lifetime ago. Another person ago.

  He laid his hand, warm and dry, on hers. “Did I say something to offend you?”

  She pushed herself off the bed and picked up the pitcher, intending to refill it. “I have no idea what you said. You spoke in Spanish.”

  By the time she returned he was asleep again, resting calmly this time, his breathing slow and even. She put a hand on his forehead. The fever had broken.

  Glancing at the floor beside the nightstand, she contemplated the tape recorder tucked away there. She let the inevitable guilt drift over her, then waited until it passed. If she had to find out about him by trickery, so be it. At least now she would know what she was fighting.

  Maggie refused to believe that Diego was involved. She looked at everything and nothing as she made her way blindly from the student union to the parking lot where he always picked her up. A friend had just translated the tape for her. From it, she’d learned that Diego was working for Brendan Hastings, and that huge sums of money were involved. Mind-boggling sums. Millions.