When I Found You (A Box Set)

by Webb, Peggy

  “Need any help?”

  He wagged his ears at her, a real talent, guaranteed to make her laugh. It didn’t work this time. She walked to the window and stood looking out, though there was nothing she could possibly see in the pitch-blackness, not even the rain. Suddenly he was afraid, as if some wild animal were waiting just outside the window to snatch his wife away. He wanted to call her back, to beg her to turn around and face him, but the set of her shoulders held him powerless.

  When she finally turned around, the look on her face reminded him of one of the statues he’d seen in wax museums—Joan of Arc, maybe, or one of the generals of World War II. Fearless. Determined. Not somebody you’d want to mess with.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  As he watched her disappear, he poured himself a vodka and tonic. To take the edge off.

  Chapter 26

  Ruth pulled the sheet around her and leaned over Malone’s back so she could see his face. He was sleeping soundly, his mouth slightly open, his hair hanging over his eyes. Gently she brushed his hair back from his forehead.

  “Poor baby,” she whispered. The night before, he’d had too much to drink because he’d been worried about her. She’d make sure that never happened again.

  Easing out of bed so she wouldn’t wake him, she tiptoed to the window. The torrential rains had stopped, but the jungle looked like a sauna, steam rising everywhere, thicker in some places than others, so thick, she couldn’t see the trees.

  Could she see to drive?

  She set the coffee to perking, then hurried with her bath. Anxious to get started.

  Miranda wrapped herself around Ruth’s legs while she sat at the kitchen table, nibbling a piece of toast and composing a note to her husband.

  “Sweetheart, thank you for a lovely evening.”

  It had been lovely. Sitting on the rug beside him, eating popcorn before a cozy fire. Only two things had marred it: worry over Brett walking through the downpour, and the three vodka and tonics Malone had consumed.

  He’d gone to sleep the minute his head had hit the pillow. Ruth had been grateful for the respite, and then had felt guilty because she was grateful.

  Miranda climbed into her lap, purring, and Ruth finished her note.

  “I’ll be at Brett’s compound most of the day, working on my dissertation.”

  She hoped Malone would remember that she’d told him time was running out, that if she didn’t get to work, she’d miss the opportunity of finishing her dissertation with one of the most respected professors of anthropology in the country.

  “Please don’t worry if I’m not home by dark. You know how it is to get so involved in a project that you forget the time.”

  She toyed with the idea of merely signing her name, then decided that would seem cold and distant.

  “Love, Ruth,” she wrote, feeling hypocritical.

  But she did love him, in the same way she would love a wayward child.

  Ruth propped the note on the kitchen table where Malone would be sure to see it. Squatting, she hugged her cat.

  “’Bye, Miranda. Be a good girl and take care of Malone.”

  Miranda sounded like a miniature freight train as she wound herself around Ruth’s legs.

  “Sorry I can’t take you, old girl. But I’m going to meet somebody who might not love cats the way I do.”

  Just thinking about meeting Cee Cee gave her shivers. Or was that the real reason she was shivering?

  She wasn’t going to dwell on it. Wanda used to say that if you thought about something enough, it would come true. At thirteen Ruth had believed it. At twenty-six she did not. Still, it seemed logical that the most important things in your life would consume your thoughts.

  She made herself think of her husband.

  She filled Miranda’s dishes then made one last check on Malone. He was on his back now, his snores filling the room. He probably wouldn’t even know she was gone until noon.

  She took the map he’d drawn, just in case, but her sense of direction had always been good. In Girl Scouts she’d always been the first to earn her outdoor medals—camping, hiking, trailblazing. After Max, she’d been the only girl in her troop to win in archery—all that practice with the gun having paid off.

  Suddenly the steam over the jungle seemed denser, threatening. She put Max from her mind. He belonged to another world, another life. She was a Corday now, under the full protection of the Corday name.

  “Come to see me anytime you need me,” Brett had said.

  Wrapping the thought around her mind like a warm blanket, she felt comforted. Her grip on the wheel loosened. Even her toes, curled tightly against the soles of her sandals, relaxed.

  For the first time in years she sang for the sheer pleasure of making music, an old tune she remembered from Sunday school, “Heavenly Sunshine.” If she’d thought about it, it might have struck her as strange that she was singing about sunshine when the sun was nowhere to be seen, but she wasn’t thinking. She was merely being and enjoying.

  As she topped the last ridge, she saw Brett in the front yard waiting for her, rising out of the mists like a mythical god. Without warning, her heart lurched, as if something else had been lying in wait for her in the mists.

  Not wanting to think about what it might be, she beeped the horn and waved.

  “You came out to meet me,” she said, inordinately pleased.

  “I heard the Jeep coming up the mountain. I knew it would be you.”

  In spite of the mists, the song about sunshine still soared through her mind, and she smiled at Brett.

  “I can tell the sound of Malone’s Jeep,” he added.

  “For a minute there, I thought you might be psychic.”

  “No. Just an ordinary guy.”

  “Not ordinary,” she said, meaning it then hoping he wouldn’t take it the wrong way.

  “Thank you, Ruth.” He leaned into the Jeep, and she suddenly felt the total impact of him. Like being face-to-face with a rare and beautiful animal.

  She held on to the steering wheel as if she were headed somewhere instead of having just arrived.

  “I’m glad you made it through the rain last night,” she said. “It was so dark.”

  “I’m not afraid of the dark.”

  “Sometimes I am.”

  Her quick confession took them both by surprise. She’d learned the hard way how to dam up her fears. Now, suddenly, a tiny crack had sprung in the wall. If she didn’t shore it up, the dam was likely to burst. She gathered up her material.

  “I brought all my notes. For my dissertation. I hope you don’t mind that I came without warning.”

  “Do I need to be warned?”

  There was laughter in his face. She loved that quality in the Corday men, the ability to ease a painful situation with laughter.

  “You and Malone. Always kidding around.”

  As Brett opened the door, she pictured her husband lying tangled in their bedcovers, still sleeping. The contrast between brothers was enormous—one dynamic, enthusiastic; the other soft, unfocused. That she should be so happy in the company of the one who was not her husband made her feel disloyal to the one who was.

  It was too late to turn back now, even if she’d wanted to.

  “I can’t wait to get started,” she said.

  “Here. Let me carry that.”

  Brett relieved her of her notes as if they were an enormous burden instead of a small stack of papers. The old-fashioned courtliness of the gesture touched her more than she would have dreamed possible. She thought of other things he did, little things—opening doors, offering his arm, telling her to come anytime she needed him.

  As she walked beside him with the mists swirling at their feet, she stole a glance upward. Because of his eye patch she was on his blind side and had no need at all for stealth. And yet the force of her feelings made her shy and somehow bold at the same time.

  “I want to brief you thoroughly before I introduce you to Cee Cee,” h
e said. “She is far more complex than most people imagine, and I don’t want to do anything in haste that might turn her against you.”

  He even wanted to ensure her a cordial welcome from a gorilla. Another small kindness.

  Whatever she felt for him, whatever had risen unexpectedly out of the mists to take control of her, could be tamed, could be turned into nothing more than gratitude, admiration, and genuine affection.

  “I’m so glad I have you,” she said.

  Ruth reached out. Softly he intertwined their fingers, then closed his hand around hers. Connected to him, she felt anchored and secure.

  Chapter 27

  OXFORD, MISSISSIPPI

  It was almost like old times.

  A ray of sun coming in through the window glinted on the silver teapot. She’d bought pecan tassies for the occasion because they were his favorite pastry.

  “You’re looking good, Max.”

  “Thank you, Margaret Anne.”

  Her feelings were hurt that he didn’t return the compliment, but she hid them well. He didn’t like pouting women.

  Nor did she berate him that she’d had to learn of his wife’s death from the six o’clock news on television. It was enough that he finally was back.

  Like fine wine, he’d improved with age. Margaret Anne felt a stab of resentment ... and fear. Then she remembered her trump card, her ace in the hole, which was as good a way as any of describing where her daughter was. She’d read that in the newspapers too: “Malone Corday of the famous Corday family weds Ruth Bellafontaine.”

  Wedded her and bedded her, then took her off to the Virungas. The only thing Margaret Anne knew or cared to know about Africa was that she’d seen some of the finest male bodies in the world in a color layout of the Congo in National Geographic.

  Max prowled the room, pausing in front of the mantel to pick up the photograph in a filigreed silver frame.

  “I see you have his picture out again.”

  “I no longer have to hide it. Ruth will never be home again.”

  “Do you still love him, Margaret Anne?”

  She remembered him at sixteen, his beautiful body gleaming with sweat from the fields. She remembered the long, tapered fingers as they held a dipper of ice water for her to drink, and years later as they’d moved over her with the mastery of a virtuoso.

  “Does it matter?” Her hands trembled as she picked up the teapot, then reached for a china cup.

  “No.” Max caught her hand and pulled her from the chair. “There’s only one thing that matters.”

  She didn’t dare risk spoiling the moment by asking him to spell out what it was that mattered. It had been so long since she’d died the small death, so very long, but she waited, knowing how he liked to take the lead.

  Much to her joy, he led her upstairs to the bedroom where the sheets were cool and the air perfumed with summer flowers. Then he drew the shades so the room would be dark.

  That suited her to a tee. No matter how hard she tried, her body had given in to the effects of age and gravity. Feeling flushed as a schoolgirl, she undressed and lay down on top of the clean sheets.

  He turned his back to her. Was he going to leave? What had she done wrong? Choking back her protests, she forced herself to wait, making no sound, no move that would call attention to herself.

  He pulled a small bottle from his coat pocket, then stood at the window looking out. His naked thighs were still strong and sturdy, his naked back beautiful. Had he had other women while she’d waited alone in Mississippi? Young women with flat bellies?

  “It’s been so long,” he whispered, still gazing out the window. “So long.”

  Suddenly he was beside her, bending over the bed.

  “You’re going to love this, sweetheart.” He’d never called her sweetheart before. Smiling, he poured oil into his palms and began to massage her. The whole room smelled of white roses.

  “Hmmmm. Max ...”

  “Don’t talk.”

  His hands were skilled, and with each caress her confidence returned.

  “Nobody can satisfy you the way Margaret Anne Bellafontaine can,” she said, gloating.

  He jerked back, then sat on the edge of the bed, his head between his hands.

  “Max? What’s wrong?”

  “You’re not Ruth.”

  Cold sweat broke out on her forehead, and suddenly she was afraid as she had never been. But she wouldn’t let him see her fear, for a display of any weakness would mean certain defeat. She left the bed and got her pink silk robe from the closet. The oil he’d rubbed on her would stain, but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except playing out this new and dangerous game ... and winning.

  She snapped on the lamps, then came around the side of the bed where he sat hunkered. When he looked up at her, there was a spark of the old interest in his face, a fleeting twinkle in his eye. She was glad she’d changed the bulbs to pink. Pink was flattering to women of a certain age.

  “She’s not coming back, Max.”

  “She’s like you. She’ll always come back to me.”

  Genteel Southern women knew how to laugh through their pain. It was a lesson Margaret Anne had learned well when she was young.

  The sound of her laughter was as brittle as the yellowed pages in her diary.

  “She’s not like me, Max. She’s stronger. She’s beat us both.” She propped both hands on his shoulders, then parted his knees so she could stand close. “She’ll never be back. I’m all you have of Ruth.”

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in the front of her pink silk robe. Margaret Anne closed her eyes, thinking she’d won.

  Suddenly he pushed her from him so hard, she had to catch the bedpost for balance.

  “Do you think I’m going to let her go?”

  Chapter 28

  THE VIRUNGAS

  Eleanor was glad to be out with her cameras. She’d been cooped up in the compound too long. It gave her too much time to think, and she didn’t like the direction her thoughts had taken lately.

  Squatted beside a scrubby acacia tree, she took aim at the sunrise coming up over the gorge. After the night’s rains it was spectacular, as it angels had spilled colors across the sky, then polished it to a high gloss. Mud squished under her feet and spattered the legs of her trousers, but she didn’t notice. When you’d lived in Africa as long as she had, you got used to the mud.

  And the flies. And the animals. And the mists.

  Lucky for her, the mists had come down in patches this morning, covering the compounds, the roads, and the jungle, but leaving the gorge as bright and clear as freshly washed Waterford crystal. As the sun climbed over the peaks of the Virungas, the vivid rose in the sky faded to pink.

  “Come on, come on.” She swiveled to get all angles, her shutters clicking furiously. “Give me just a few more minutes.”

  She was already past deadline with the photographs, and there was only so much patience she could expect of the long-suffering editor of Exotic People and Places.

  “One more good shot. That’s all I ask.”

  Still focusing through her lens, she moved down the gorge so she could get closer to the waterfall. Suddenly her feet slipped.

  “Damned mud!”

  Holding her camera out of harm’s way, she landed hard on her bottom. Her teeth jarred together, and she lost her wind, but she’d saved her camera. Reaching back with her left hand, she braced to push herself off the ground. Mud oozed between her fingers and soaked the seat of her pants.

  “Damn.”

  She balanced her camera on her knees and fumbled for the handkerchief in her pants pocket. By the time she got her hand clean enough to shoot, the sunrise would be over. She found her handkerchief, eased her left hand out of the ooze ... and screamed.

  Her hand was red with blood. The camera toppled to the ground as she scrambled onto all fours. Blood was everywhere, on her pants, on the grass, soaked into the ground where it had mixed with the rain and become
a small river of vermilion. The smell nauseated her.

  Like a cornered animal at bay, she swung her head around. A tiny duiker lay like a broken Tinkertoy, his spindly legs at odd angles from his body, his black eyes open and staring, and his throat slit.

  Another scream rose in her throat, and she crammed her clean hand in her mouth to stop it. She hated blood. It seemed impossible that one small animal should have so much.

  Eleanor leaned over and retched. Then she gathered her camera and went to the base of the waterfall to wash her hands. No need to bother about her pants. They would never come clean.

  Joseph was somewhere beyond the ridge observing the giant male silverback Petey, and his wives and offspring, but it was not to her husband that Eleanor turned.

  With the blood still coloring her mind, Eleanor drove like a madwoman, out of the gorge, through the rain forest, and into the clearing. She had to find her son.

  Suddenly Brett was there, standing beside his front door. And with him was Ruth.

  Eleanor braked hard, her tires spewing mud as she came to a stop.

  They turned and saw her. And she saw them, saw their faces, shiny as newly minted dimes, and their hands, fingers intertwined, joined, connected. Brett and Malone’s wife.

  She didn’t stop to think. She only knew what she saw. And that she hated it. Hated what it would do to her sons. Hated what it would do to her family.

  “Mother. We didn’t expect you,” Brett said.

  “Obviously.”

  Ruth’s smile vanished. She released Brett’s hand and stepped apart from him. Guilty. If Eleanor hadn’t been a moderately civilized woman, she’d have slapped her new daughter-in-law’s face.

  “Ruth drove up this morning to observe my work.”

  “Is that what they call it now?”

  “Brett ... I’ll leave.”

  “No, Ruth. Stay.”

  He caught her hand to stop her. Eleanor didn’t think she’d ever seen him so mad. Especially not at her. But she was his mother, and not about to back down. She knew exactly where his backbone had come from.

  Certainly not from Joseph.

  “Eleanor, you owe Ruth an apology.”