When I Found You (A Box Set)

by Webb, Peggy

  Immobilized, Brett watched Ruth’s flush spread under his intense scrutiny, saw her cast desperately around for a way out of the uncomfortable situation.

  “Oh ... you brought flowers,” she said.

  Brett hadn’t noticed the florist’s box. He would have given his other eye for the right to bring Ruth flowers. But even that small gesture was forbidden to him.

  “I wish I’d thought of them,” Malone said. “Actually, these are from somebody else. They arrived this morning.”

  “Someone else sent them?”

  Malone chuckled. “Hey, honey, don’t look so belligerent. I’m the one who’s supposed to get fighting mad over these things.” He handed her the slightly crumpled florist’s box. “Why don’t you open them and see who they’re from? If it’s somebody you don’t like, I’ll send Brett to beat the shit out of them. He’s good at that.”

  It was the first time Malone had ever referred, even obliquely, to the fight in the Congo. Though he said it as a joke, Brett felt the full thrust of his brother’s resentment.

  “I’d better get back to the compound to check on Cee Cee,” Brett said. “She pouts when she’s left alone for too long.”

  The sooner he was out of their sight, the better off everybody would be. He set his face toward the rain forest, toward the massive trees that arched over him, cathedral-like, and a silence so deep, so mysterious, it was almost holy.

  “Brett!”

  Ruth’s cry ripped through him, tearing a jagged edge out of his heart. Her eyes were enormous and her face had gone pale. He rushed toward her, anxious to console, eager to protect.

  “What is it, honey?” Malone slid his arm around her shoulders.

  Brett froze, helpless, watching Malone do what any good husband should. But it was his name she’d called. At night when the sound of the male gorillas filled the jungle and the moon shone silver on the tusks of elephants, Brett would remember. Funny how one moment could change the entire tenor of a man’s life. He used to measure the quality of his life by his great leaps of scientific achievement, and now he measured it by the small attentions of a woman who could never be his.

  White roses lay scattered at her feet.

  “It’s roses,” she whispered. “White roses.”

  “Holy shit! There must be five dozen of the suckers.” Malone bent to pick up the fallen flowers. “Does the card say who they’re from, honey?”

  “There’s no card.”

  “No card! What kind of fool sends an expensive bouquet like this with no card? I’ll bet the florist forgot to put it in. We’ll call and find out.” Malone gave Ruth a handful of flowers, then bent to pick up the rest.

  She stared at the roses in her hand, tears trembling on the ends of her eyelashes. Then, slowly, her chin came up, and she ripped the petals apart, flinging them as far from her as she could. As she raced past Brett, a capricious breeze caught the crushed petals and swirled them around her like snow out of season.

  “What the devil?” Malone hopped to his feet. “Ruth ... wait. You forgot the flowers.”

  There was no reply except the sound of her feet running on the pathway.

  “Leave them,” Brett said.

  “What the hell? Don’t you tell me what to do.”

  “Didn’t you see her face? She doesn’t want the flowers. Leave them.”

  “Since when did you become an authority on my wife?” Hands balled into fists, face mottled red, Malone squared off against his brother. “Just what kind of research went on in this compound while I was gone?”

  It took all Brett’s willpower to keep from smashing his fist into his brother’s face. Instead he grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him up short.

  “Don’t you dare besmirch her with your filthy accusations. She’s pure gold, and if you don’t understand that about her, then you don’t deserve to be her husband.”

  Malone sagged, the fight draining slowly out of him.

  “Hellfire ... shit.” He put his hand on Brett’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, bro. I don’t think anything happened between the two of you, it’s just that she’s so damned beautiful and you’re so damned ...” He shrugged his shoulders. “You know what I mean.”

  Brett knew exactly what he meant. They were victims of their upbringing, Brett suffering from too much attention, too many expectations, and Malone from too little. He put his arm around his brother’s shoulder.

  “Go to her, Malone. She needs you.”

  “Thanks, Brett. Anything I can do for you ... you need anything, anytime, just call me. I mean that.”

  “Just go.”

  He couldn’t bear to watch Malone comfort his wife. After his eye had been ripped out, he’d learned that the best antidote to pain was work.

  Assuming the gorilla posture, Brett hunkered in the edge of the clearing to watch Doby and his clan. Ignoring him, the giant male silverback leaned against a tree trunk while three of the young females groomed him. When two of his adolescent sons came too close, feeling the need to challenge the leader, Old Doby bared his teeth and grunted. They swung onto the nearest branch and pretended they’d been playing a game of tag all along.

  Doby’s group was the most stable in the Virungas. Because of his age he was wiser than most of the male silverbacks, and because of his size most predators left him alone. Brett studied him the way any doting father would a prospective son-in-law.

  In order for Project Cee Cee to succeed, she must mate, and she would soon be in estrus.

  As Doby glanced his way, Brett’s thoughts swung wildly toward Ruth and Malone. What were they doing now? Was he comforting her with soft words against soft pillows? Was he being tender with her? Understanding?

  Involuntarily his hand closed over a rose at his feet. He smoothed the bruised petals, his hands as gentle as they had been when he’d touched Ruth’s cheek. Over and over he caressed the crushed petals, remolding them until they became a perfect rose.

  Touching the rose to his lips, he cried out like a wounded lion. There was the sound of heavy footsteps, and the sudden loss of light as a shadow fell over him. The giant male silverback stood only inches away, his face filled with such concern and his eyes so wise that Brett felt as if he were confronting his best friend.

  In their studies with the mountain gorilla, the Cordays had been careful to remain at a distance, merely to be observers. Their main concern was the protection of the species, and in order to survive, the gorilla had to retain his natural suspicion of man, the most lethal predator. Too, human contact brought diseases to the great apes, diseases their bodies were unable to counteract.

  Brett barely breathed as Doby continued his kindly observation. Though the gorilla outweighed him many times over, he felt no sense of danger, no threat, only an elation that he was experiencing something so magical, so mystical, it might never happen again.

  The need to explain his situation to his unexpected comforter overwhelmed him. But how could he tell Doby that having his eye ripped out was nothing compared to having his heart torn from his body?

  “I don’t know if I can bear this terrible burden, Doby,” he whispered.

  Slowly the great dark hand reached out and touched his shoulder. Brett felt the comfort and the sting of his own tears.

  Chapter 36

  She was at Brett’s compound before Malone caught up with her.

  “Ruth!”

  What would happen if she kept running? If she climbed into his Jeep and never looked back?

  “Ruth. Wait a minute, honey.”

  She huddled in front of the compound, her arms wrapped around herself. She didn’t think she could bear it if Malone touched her, not after the white roses.

  “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? You throw six dozen roses in the dirt and tell me it’s nothing?”

  He was her husband; he deserved some sort of explanation. But how could she ever explain Max and what he had done?

  “I’m s
orry, Malone. It has nothing to do with you.”

  He looked as if he might be going to argue with her, but to her great relief he grinned.

  “I don’t want to talk about flowers somebody else sent you, anyhow, not after being away from you for so long. Come here, woman.”

  She shrank back when he reached for her, but he didn’t notice. When he nuzzled her neck, she thought she might scream.

  “Malone ... please. Brett might come back.”

  “He’s up there with the gorillas. He won’t be back for hours.”

  With his hands on her, the remembered fragrance of white roses almost smothered her. Ruth thought she was going to faint.

  “Oh, honey ... sweetmercifulheavens ... baby ...”

  Malone picked her up, kicked open the door, and headed to the nearest bed.

  No, God. Please. No.

  Muted golden lights, the last of the day, spilled through the enormous bank of windows in the large room. Bookshelves lined one wall, neatly filled with volumes on primate language and behavior, on anthropology and biology, on astrology and psychology. In one corner was a CD player, and propped against it was a battered guitar. An open copy of Cyrano de Bergerac lay on the seat of a slatted rocking chair.

  “Please, Malone. Not now. Not here.”

  But Malone was past hearing. Or caring. As he took his pleasure, the bed moved, setting into gentle motion the two objects intertwined on the headboard ... a leather eye patch and a length of red ribbon.

  Ruth closed her eyes and endured. When it was over, she’d leave and never come back.

  Chapter 37

  HOLLYWOOD

  He had the complete schedule in front of him: dates, times, places. He couldn’t have been more pleased if somebody had presented him with a blueprint of their lives. But the thing that pleased him most was not the schedule; it was the balance sheet.

  The Corday Foundation was in deep financial doo-doo. And Max was the only one wearing wading boots.

  Too excited to sit still, he prowled his new house, going first to the white bedroom. It was an exact duplicate of the upstairs bedroom in his house in New Orleans. The white roses on the bedside tables were turning brown around the edges. He made a mental note to order some more.

  Everything had to be perfect for Ruth.

  With one last look at her room, he returned to his study, punched the intercom, and buzzed the man who made his household run like a well-oiled machine, who would cut off his finely boned, snobbish British nose before he’d reveal any of Max’s private affairs.

  “Clifford, get me San Francisco.”

  Chapter 38

  THE VIRUNGAS

  They had made love on his bed.

  Her scent was on his sheets.

  Hanging on to the door frame, he swayed at the edge of his bedroom, riveted by the fragrance and the images of Ruth that crowded his mind—naked upon his bed, glowing as if the sun were caught beneath her skin.

  Like a sleepwalker he approached the bed, then lay upon it, fully clothed. Her scent wrapped itself around him, soaked through his shirt and into his skin, invading him, filling him until he had the sensation of holding her.

  But his brother had been the one to possess her—not he. There were two scents upon the bed.

  Brett jerked upright, sweat dripping down his face and wetting the front of his shirt. Filled with disgust, he jerked the sheets off the bed and threw them onto the floor. Then he ripped his shirt off and flung it toward the rocking chair. It hung for a moment on the back of the chair, swaying crazily before it fell into a heap on the floor.

  He had always defined his life with order. He lived on a rigid schedule, keeping a tight control over his records and over his emotions.

  The sight of his shirt on the floor released something primitive in him. He stripped all his clothes off and stalked from the room. When he came back, he was armed with mop and bucket, with dust cloth and lemon wax, with fresh sheets and air freshener. Buck naked, he cleaned the room until there was not a single sign of them left, not a wrinkle, not a hair, not a whiff.

  Dripping with sweat, he stood in the middle of his bare and shining room. Alone. Leaving his cleaning supplies, he approached the bed once more. With its crisp white sheets tucked in with sharp corners, it was as stark and bare as his hospital room in Ruhengeri.

  He stretched full-length on the bed, naked, arms and legs spread-eagled, reclaiming his territory, marking it with his scent like an animal. The fresh smell of lemon wax and the sharp pungency of the air freshener soothed him. He took deep breaths, and gradually a new fragrance invaded his senses, a fragrance that belonged only to her.

  His hand closed over the red ribbon hanging on his bedpost, and as he pulled the bit of satin to him, he thought about passion, about how it could lie inside you for years without ever showing itself. And then unexpectedly it could grab you right around the heart for no other reason than a soft and lovely woman calling your name. Now, with the ribbon against his cheek and the fragrance of her so evocative, he imagined she lay beside him on the bed—he heard her voice once more, a soft, shattered cry, calling out to him. Not to Malone, but to him.

  Pain sharper than the panga that had sliced his eye caught him deep in the gut and wouldn’t let go. Ruth’s plea was one he could never answer, because he had always loved his brother first and best ... because he would always love his brother.

  Still clutching the ribbon, he crossed his hands over his chest, holding the scent of Ruth against his heart.

  Chapter 39

  NEW YORK

  White rose petals drifted around her like snow, landing at her feet and piling up around her legs, falling so thick and fast it was like being buried alive.

  “Brett ... Brett ...”

  Ruth woke up drenched with sweat, her heart pounding so hard, she had to put her hand over her chest to keep it from jumping out. Beside her, Malone lay flat on his back, mouth slightly open, his breathing slow and even. And then she realized what had awakened her: the sound of her own voice, calling Brett’s name, over and over, just as she had done every night since she’d taken flight off his mountain.

  Three weeks without seeing Brett, without hearing the sound of his voice, without feeling his touch upon her hand, briefly, fleetingly. Three weeks. An eternity.

  She leaned close to check that Malone hadn’t heard. No one must ever hear. No one must ever know. And eventually, if she tried hard enough and lived long enough, she’d forget how Brett had looked on that mountain, and how much she’d wanted him to answer her, how much she wanted him to answer her still.

  She went to the window and drew back the curtain. There wasn’t much sky to see. Not that it mattered. There were so many lights in New York it was hard to tell daylight from dark, anyhow.

  “Honey.” Malone lifted himself on his elbow. “Are you all refreshed from your nap and ready to party?”

  Slowly she lowered the curtain. When she faced her husband, she was smiling.

  “Let the good times roll,” she said.

  Later, in a darkened theater on Broadway, Malone reached for her hand.

  “You’re great. The best wife a man could ever have.”

  She saw herself with a Best Wife sign around her neck, scarlet, the color of shame. She imagined herself going through the rest of her life, the sign getting heavier and heavier, until she was so weighted down, she fell to the ground and prayed to be trampled.

  “You’re not so bad yourself, Malone Corday.”

  “You know how to turn a man on, Mrs. Corday. I don’t know if I can last through this show.”

  In the darkened theater he nuzzled her neck. He hadn’t shaved since morning, and she knew she’d have a beard burn the next day, the kind teenagers got from necking in dark cars on back country roads.

  If beard burn was what it took to save her marriage, she’d gladly sacrifice her tender skin. Wasn’t that the point of coming with Malone on this whirlwind fund-raising tour of the U.S.?

  After the sh
ow she and Malone went to the Essex House to meet supporters of the Corday Foundation. They’d come from all over the United States to hear him speak—from Texas and Alabama and Mississippi and North Carolina, from Colorado and Idaho and Utah and Montana. She knew she should be trying to remember their names, but it took too much effort. All the energy she had was gone, used up in the flight off the top of Brett’s mountain.

  “Quite a little wife you have there, Corday.”

  “I think so.” Malone wrapped his arm around her waist. “Darling, you remember Newton Ellis, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Mr. Ellis, how lovely to see you again.”

  How smoothly she lied now. She could leave Africa and make her living that way. Ruth Corday. Liar.

  “I was just telling Sue Evelyn here, there’s some great jazz in this city if a country boy like me can only find it. You like jazz, Miz Corday?”

  “Call me Ruth. And, yes, I do.” As long as she wasn’t the one singing it.

  “Why don’t the four of us skip on out of here after this here shindig and cozy up in a corner somewhere? We might even get down to real bidness. That’s spelled D-O-N-A-T-I-O-N-S, if you want to know.” Mr. Ellis winked at her.

  “Actually, this is sort of a delayed honeymoon for us, but if my wife doesn’t mind ... Is that all right with you, sweetheart?”

  Did he ever listen when it wasn’t all right with her?

  She thought of the red ribbon swaying on the bed, spinning round and round, irrevocably tangling itself with the leather eye patch.

  “Honey?” Malone’s brow puckered the way it often did these days. The badge of concern. The dubious honor she’d bestowed on the husband she had pledged to love and cherish till they were parted by death.

  Death had already parted them. The death of hope. It had died on that mountaintop in the Virungas when she’d called out his brother’s name.

  All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again. But Ruth was going to try. With every ounce of strength she possessed, she was going to make her marriage work.