by Webb, Peggy
“I know.”
“Will you miss me, Ruth?”
“Yes.”
“Honestly?”
“You’re good company, Malone. Smart, and very sweet.”
Sweet. He could settle for that. At least for now.
“Tonight we’ll go somewhere special, Ruth. Anywhere you want to go. You name it.”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t?”
“I have to work.”
“Maybe I can pick you up after work.”
Ruth thought of the nightclub where she sang and the dress she wore, red-sequined, neckline slit to the waist, hemline to the thigh on one side, the kind of sleazy, come-on dress Margaret Anne might have worn to entice men to her bed before she’d found Max to pay all the bills.
When she’d first gone to work for Bernie at the club, she’d balked about the dress, but he had insisted.
“You’re paying me to sing, not to put my body on display,” she’d said.
“This is not about displaying your body, Ruth. It’s showmanship. My clientele likes the whole package— great songs, great voice, great body.”
“No. I won’t wear them. I’ll go somewhere else.”
“Fine. Go somewhere else. You’ll be back.”
She’d tried the clubs all around the island, but everywhere she’d gone, it had been the same.
“Sorry, we don’t need a singer.”
She’d tried other jobs, waiting tables, working as a maid in hotels, even selling hot dogs at a little stand on the beach, but nowhere else could she earn enough money to supplement her small scholarship and make ends meet.
So she had returned to Bernie’s club and put her body on display.
So much like her mother. Doing what it took to please a certain kind of man. Her only consolation was that the clientele could look but not touch.
She untangled her fingers from Malone’s and walked to the edge of the water. The sun had sunk so low, it looked as if it were falling into the ocean. Everything came to an end sooner or later.
Malone touched her shoulder, his grip light, his fingers gentle. He was sweet. So sweet. She covered his hand with hers.
“This is nothing personal, Malone. I sing two sets at the Blue Moon, and it will be very late when I finish. You’re flying out tomorrow; you need your sleep.”
“I don’t need to sleep, Ruth. Not when I can be with you.”
“Let’s say good-bye now, Malone. No complications, just thanks for a lovely interlude.”
“I can’t, Ruth.” His fingers tightened on her shoulders. “I’ve never even kissed you. May I?”
Kisses were for people with dreams. But Malone looked so forlorn, she couldn’t refuse. Steeling herself for the hateful invasion of her mouth, she tipped her face up and closed her eyes. He pressed his lips to her cheek.
Astonished, Ruth felt the sting of tears. She blinked rapidly so he wouldn’t see her crying.
“You sing?” he said, releasing her and squatting to toss shells into the water.
“Yes. I learned at church. When I was barely walking, I found out they had music in the sanctuary and refused to go to the nursery.”
“Stubborn little kid. Will you sing for me, Ruth?”
Why not? There was something so pure about his request, and the sun setting over the ocean looked almost sacred.
“Amazing grace,” she sang. “How sweet the sound.” Her voice was rich, deep, full of pathos and passion. Gifts from a father she didn’t even know. “That saved a witch like me ... ”
“The word is wretch, darling”.
Her mother stood on the front porch, a spring wind blowing her lilac-colored dress against her legs, and tears streaking the mascara down her cheeks.
Ruth leaned far out of the swing so she could reach the floor with one foot and set it back into motion. In the face of her mother’s tears, the swaying comforted her.
“Mommy, why are you crying?”
“Because you sound like your daddy.”
“Who is my daddy?”
“Somebody wonderful who had to go away.”
At four it hadn’t seemed important to know where he was and why he had gone.
Now, at twenty-six, it merely seemed too late.
The words of the song hung in the air between them. Had Malone noticed her slip of the tongue? Would he say anything?
“That’s beautiful,” he said. “Everything about you is absolutely beautiful.”
He need never know about the room in New Orleans, about the white satin sheets and the white roses.
“Please leave now while you still think I’m beautiful.”
She looked away from him, out over the ocean, and laced her fingers tightly together behind her back. Malone reached up and gently pried them apart. Then he kissed her fingertips, all ten of them, and walked away down the beach.
When he was almost out of sight, she noticed Hector sitting crumpled in the sand.
“You forgot the puppet.”
The wind caught her words and carried them out to sea. She picked up the puppet and hugged him to her chest. The heat of the sun, caught in his fur, warmed her.
o0o
He sat in the shadows so she wouldn’t see him. The red dress she wore might have been a warning to him. Stop. Walk away. But it was too late for warnings—far, far too late.
He was desperately in love with Ruth, “desperate” being the operative word. Going back to Africa without her was unthinkable. What would she say when he proposed? What would they all say?
He pictured it, his family gathered around the telegram: “I’M MARRIED STOP BRINGING WIFE HOME ON NEXT PLANE STOP SIGNED, MALONE.”
Eleanor and Joseph would wonder how he could possibly marry somebody he’d known only three days. They would certainly question his judgment, probably even his sanity.
Brett would understand, as he always did. He would know that love didn’t care whether you knew someone three days or three years. It either happened or it didn’t. Time was of no importance.
Smoke filled the room, fogging blue and mysterious around Ruth as she leaned close to the microphone and crooned. It was a love song, a love song for a lovesick man.
What if she said no?
He gave his cowlick a quick swipe, then took a sip of his beer for courage.
Of course she’d say no. A man she’d known only three days. A homely one, at that.
He should leave. Shove the beer aside and stay deep in the shadows so she’d never know he’d been there, never know he’d already changed his plane reservations, never know what a fool he was.
Her head was bowed over the microphone, the spotlight caught in her shining hair. “Someone to watch over me,” she crooned, as if she really meant it, as if her heart were aching with loneliness ... and hope.
He gripped the cold handle of the beer mug. For Ruth he could be that man. For Ruth he could be anything.
The crowd applauded, some standing on their feet, cheering and whistling. Catcalling.
“More! More!”
Ruth left the stage quickly, not even bothering with a bow, her red sequins sparkling in the glow of the footlights. Where was she going in such a hurry? Her car? If he didn’t get a move on, he’d miss her.
Malone Corday. Second best.
He knocked the chair over in his haste and tripped over a pair of big feet.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“Take it easy, buddy. There’s no fire around here that I know of.” The man took a deep draw on his Havana cigar and blew smoke in Malone’s direction.
“Sorry.”
The smoke nearly choked him. He could no longer see her red dress. Where was she?
o0o
Every night at the Blue Moon it was the same. She slid into the music, lost herself in its rhythm and beauty, and then the catcalls brought her back to reality. Standing in the narrow hallway, she leaned her head against her dressing-room door, trying to forget all the things they said.
�
��Ruth!”
Malone’s big feet pounded on the dingy linoleum. His shirt was bright yellow, new from the looks of it, with creases where it had been folded, in two straight lines down his chest. His pale hair flapped around his ears as he ran, and the wire frames of his glasses glinted in the glare of the naked bulbs spaced along the water-stained ceiling.
Seeing him was like discovering a fresh lemon drop in the midst of a compost heap, a pure bit of sweetness all wrapped in shiny yellow cellophane, untouched by the rotting vegetation around it. For a moment Ruth’s heart lifted. Then she remembered what she was wearing. A harlot’s dress. Designed to entice.
Malone stood before her, out of breath, his glasses halfway down his nose and sweat making circles on his new yellow shirt.
“I couldn’t let you go,” he said.
“We said good-bye this afternoon.”
“Not good-bye, Ruth. Never good-bye.” He reached for her hand, and she felt how he trembled. No man had ever trembled for her. “I couldn’t ... I came to say ...” He shoved his glasses back into their proper place. “I want to marry you, Ruth.”
The wonder of his proposal bloomed inside her as bright as the forsythia that burst golden upon the hills of northeast Mississippi every spring. She pictured herself as the wife of Malone Corday, loved, cherished, respected, cleansed.
“I know I’m not much,” he said, hurrying on, taking her silence for refusal. “But think about it. You can finish your dissertation at the feet of the man whose name is synonymous with gorilla research. Gorilla Man, they call Brett in Africa. All the while you’re being worshiped and adored by a man with his own hair and teeth.”
This man she’d known only three days, this virtual stranger, was offering her something she’d longed for without even knowing it. Suddenly she realized how hungry she was, starved for his goodness, for the kind of steady contentment he would give her.
And yet, what could she give him in return?
“Malone, you don’t know how honored I am by your proposal.”
“Ruth, before you say any more, let me say this. I know you don’t love me. I’ve seen myself in the mirror, and I have sense enough to know that I’m not much to love. ”
“Oh, but you are! Some woman is going to adore you.”
“I don’t want some woman, Ruth. I want you. Only you.” Tenderly he lifted her hands and skimmed his lips across her knuckles. “Just give it a try. That’s all I ask. Go to Africa with me as my wife, and if at the end of six months you’re not happy, you can come home. Free and clear.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“They say if you love something enough, you can let it go and it will come back to you.” His hand tightened on hers. “Maybe I’m lying to you. Maybe I could never let you go. All I know is this, Ruth. I love you and want you to be my wife.”
The sound of the saxophone drifted down the hallway toward them, a smoky, mournful sound, wailing about broken hearts and lonely lives. At the end of the hallway the night watchman banged open the outside door and reached for the light switch, then, seeing Ruth, called, “Sorry, didn’t know you were still here.”
“Yes, I’m still here.”
“’Bout closing time,” he said.
“Thanks, Ralph. I’ll be leaving soon.”
Looking at Malone, at the eagerness and hope shining in his face, Ruth was filled with a kind of yearning that went beyond hope: She was filled with possibilities. Making coffee for two in a small kitchen with a sunny window big enough for Miranda and a potted red geranium. Sitting side by side in front of a glowing hearth with blues softly filling the room. Sharing private jokes. Having a shoulder to lean on when she cried. Her yearning was so great it almost spilled over into words. “Malone,” she nearly said, “will there be laughter? Kindness? Hugs? Can you love me just as I am?”
There was the crux of the problem. Malone had no idea who or what she was. And she didn’t dare tell him.
She twisted her hands behind her back so she wouldn’t be tempted to reach out for him. It would be cruel to give him mixed signals.
“Please don’t think I’m not tempted, Malone. I am.”
“Ruth, don’t say no. At least say you’ll think about what I’ve said a while longer. You can call me at my hotel. Any time of the night. Whatever your answer is—yes or no —you can tell me on the phone. I’ll be awake waiting for you.”
“Malone, I don’t want to give you false hope. I can’t marry you.”
“I don’t want your answer, Ruth—not yet.” He shoved back a limp, sweat-dampened lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Just call me.”
When she started to protest, he placed a finger over her lips.
“Later ... please.”
He was so dear, so kind. How could she refuse him?
“I will,” she said.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He smiled as if he’d won a million-dollar lottery. She hated that she was going to be the one to wipe that look of wild, delirious anticipation from his face.
“Can I walk you to your car, Ruth?”
She had meant to change clothes before she left the club. She didn’t like wearing the sequined dress any longer than she had to. But it was already very late, and she didn’t want to be with Malone any longer. Every moment she spent with him weakened her resolve. His enthusiasm was contagious. How easy it would be to get caught up in his dreams, to forget everything except the rosy future he painted for them.
At the car he kissed her on the cheek, then opened her door and handed her inside as if she were special. She hadn’t felt special since she was thirteen.
“I’ll be waiting, Ruth.”
She said good-bye then drove away without looking back. She didn’t have to look back to see him standing under the streetlamp, his new yellow shirt awash with nervous sweat and his face shining with hope. The memory would haunt her forever.
Chapter 16
The minute she stepped into her apartment, Ruth knew she was not alone. She stood just inside the door, her muscles tense and quivering, her nostrils flared at the smell of the intruder, her eyes wide as she tried to see through the darkness.
“Don’t move or I’ll shoot,” she said.
Her Beretta was in the purse hanging around her shoulder. The room was pitch black, all the curtains drawn against the moon that spilled over the Pacific, bleaching it silver.
What should she reach for first? Her gun or the light switch?
“There’s no need to use your gun, though I’ve absolutely no doubt that you can, since I’m the one who taught you.” The lights came on. Max stood indolently, so sure of his power, so certain of his charm.
“I taught you many things, Ruth. Remember?”
The quivering started deep inside, and a chill spread until she felt as if she’d never be warm again.
She felt the heavy weight of her gun. What would happen if she pulled it out and shot him?
“I taught you well. You could hit me dead center, right in the heart.” Max had always been able to read her thoughts. “But then how would we celebrate the bull’s-eye?”
With champagne and silk sheets and everything she hated.
“Get out.” The shaking increased until it vibrated in her very bones.
His easy laughter mocked her rage.
“I’m glad to see your spirit is still intact.” Slowly he moved toward her. “If you’d really wanted me out, you’d have used the gun.”
She stood before him as powerless as a mongoose before a cobra.
“We both know what you want, don’t we, Ruth?”
Age had not marred his looks nor diminished his power. All the old feelings swept over her—naked fear, shame. When he was close, she smelled his aftershave and the lingering aroma of white roses.
White roses. Always white roses.
But she was no longer thirteen.
“If you take another step, I’ll start screaming.”
“I
always did know how to make you scream, Ruth.”
“I’m not that scared little teenager anymore.”
“No. You’re all woman.”
Like a predatory lion, he circled her, pausing every now and then with his head tilted as if he needed a different angle to study the changes in her. When he was behind her, he slid his fingertips along her bare skin. Her hand tightened on the gun. Why couldn’t she pull the trigger?
She felt his hands on her zipper, heard the metallic whisper as it glided downward. She was in New Orleans, and the tub he’d prepared for her was waiting. He would join her there, rubbing his hands over her body, soapy slick, saying wicked words her mother would make her wash her mouth out with soap for saying.
Her dress fell to her waist, and Max was in front of her, his eyes boring into her, seeing beyond her skin and past her bones, penetrating all the way to her dark, secret shame.
“You make me sick,” she whispered. The person who really made her sick was herself. She caught her dress and held the bodice tightly to her chest.
“Let the dress fall, Ruth.”
The gun was tangled under the red sequins. If she pulled the trigger, who would die? Max or she? Did it matter?
“Let it go. I want to see your body.”
“No.”
“You belong to me, Ruth. I’ve finally come to claim what’s mine.”
He was as still as a lion cornering its prey, every muscle in his body tensed, poised for action. Why didn’t he move? Why couldn’t she?
“I don’t belong to you. I’ve made my own way in the world with no help from you or Margaret Anne.”
“Do you sing for your supper, sweetheart?”
“Yes! I sing. It pays the bills.”
“No. I pay the bills.” His smile was slow and dangerous. “Who do you think owns the club?”
“You’re lying.” She couldn’t bear to look at him, couldn’t bear to see the truth in his eyes.
“Why do you think you were paid six times what you’re worth all these years? Because of your singing? You’re not that good, sweetheart.”
“Damn you to hell.”
“I’ve just come out of hell, and now I’ve come to get my reward.”
In one smooth motion he came to her and stripped away her dress..
