An Indian Affair

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “It’s lovely,” Cindy said, looking around at the luxurious apartment. A living room with a cathedral ceiling and a balcony overlooking the street opened into a dining area with a mirrored wall facing them and a gleaming galley kitchen with all the latest appliances. A hall led away from the living room to the bedrooms at the back. The whole place was done in pleasant neutral tones: beige carpeting, furniture and draperies in cocoa, sand and taupe, with warm accents of orange and peach in the throw pillows and in the modern paintings on the walls. “How does a humble nurse afford a place like this?”

  “She doesn’t,” Paula replied. “I am also the assistant manager of the complex, for which I get a considerable break on the rent. I collect checks, take complaints, and serve as general dogsbody for the outfit that owns the buildings.”

  “I see.”

  Paula dropped what she was carrying and headed for the kitchen. “You should have seen this apartment before I took it. I was so anxious to get in here I agreed to take on the mess. I needed two weeks to clean it up before I could move in.”

  “It was dirty?” Cindy asked, fingering a china cat on an end table.

  “Not exactly. The person who lived here before me had some rather unusual decorating ideas. The walls in the living room were black. When you pulled the drapes closed it was like a full blackout during the London blitz. And as if to make up for that, the master bedroom was fluorescent green, and there were orange flowers all over the bathroom walls.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “I almost went blind when the real estate agent showed it to me. I had it all stripped and painted before I brought one stick of furniture through the door.” She pointed to the back of the apartment, at the same time poking around in the freezer for ice. “Just put your things in the guest room on the left.”

  Cindy picked up the bag Paula had dropped and lugged her things down the hall, her sandals noiseless on the thick carpeting. The spare bedroom had a single bed with a brass bedstead, covered with a multicolored quilt. It was on the same side of the building as the balcony, which ended about three feet from its window. Cindy dumped her bags on the bed and removed her shoes, wiggling her bare toes blissfully on the cool rug. She ambled back out to the kitchen, where Paula was mixing a pitcher of iced tea.

  “It’s instant,” she said to Cindy, when she saw her watching the process. “I can’t be bothered boiling the water for the real stuff. It’s probably full of additives which will kill us both but today I’m too hot to care.”

  “Has Andrew Fox always lived in this area?” Cindy asked, leaning on the counter which bordered the dining area.

  “Back to him, are we?” Paula said, grinning. “I can see that he made quite an impression. Well, he usually does.”

  Cindy merely stared at her until she shrugged and said, “He travels a lot, as I said, but his home base has always been Council Rock. He’s very close to his father’s family, but almost nobody else.” She smiled as she emptied a tray of ice into the plastic pitcher. “He used to live in a lean-to on his uncle’s property, if you can believe that. Then he had an apartment, and now he’s moved into one of those waterfront condominiums on the other side of town. They cost a fortune, and his change of lifestyle has occasioned quite a bit of comment around town. There’s a lot of speculation about his reasons for relocation. It’s rather out of character.”

  “Why should it seem unusual?” Cindy inquired. “After all, he must make a lot of money doing what he does. You said so yourself.”

  Paula took two tall glasses down from a cupboard and filled them, shaking her head. “That’s not the point. If you knew Fox better, you would know he’d never buy such a place for himself.”

  Cindy didn’t respond, mulling that over. She accepted her glass from Paula’s hand and drank deeply, pulling her blouse loose from the waistband of her skirt.

  “Do you mind if I take a shower?” she said to Paula. “I’m a little grimy from the trip.”

  “Be my guest. There are towels in the bathroom closet and a robe on the back of the door.”

  Cindy went into the bathroom and started to strip. As she removed her blouse she noticed that there was a crusted scab just below the short sleeve. The blood had congealed into an irregular mass on the inside of her arm.

  She had felt no pain at all. She must have been cut when the window broke.

  Shrugging her shoulders philosophically, she took off the rest of her clothes and got into the shower, turning on the taps and adjusting the flow of water. As she washed the cut it began to bleed again and to sting. Annoyed, she finished her ablutions hurriedly and belted the terry robe around her, wadding up some tissue paper and holding it to the cut. Barefoot and dripping, she padded out to find Paula, who was pressing a white uniform on a portable ironing board set up in the living room.

  “Look at this,” Cindy said, extending her arm. “I didn’t even know the darn thing was there, and now it’s bleeding all over the place.”

  Paula unplugged the iron and moved to take a closer look. “Son of a gun,” she marveled. “That must have happened this afternoon. You mean to tell me you didn’t even feel it?”

  “Nope. I didn’t see it until I took off my blouse.”

  Paula winked. “Too dazzled by Mr. Andrew Fox, no doubt.”

  Cindy sighed. “Do you have a Band-Aid or something?”

  “What, are you kidding? You’re talking to Nurse Nancy here. I’ve got the works on hand at all times for just such emergencies. Have a seat and I’ll be right there. I’ll only charge my evening rates. That’s a reduced fee.”

  “Very comforting,” Cindy said, settling on the edge of the couch and watching warily as Paula produced a zippered bag from the hall closet.

  “First, antiseptic,” Paula announced, kneeling in front of her on the floor. “I love to show off for my friends,” she confided in a lower tone, as she daubed the wound with something from a bottle that looked evil and smelled worse.

  “Ouch,” Cindy exclaimed, pulling her arm back.

  “Still a sissy, I see,” Paula remarked, taping a patch of gauze in place over the cut. “Remember that time in college when you fell from the ledge outside the boys’ dorm? You moaned about your sprained ankle for the rest of the semester.”

  “You’re lucky it wasn’t broken,” Cindy responded sourly. “That’s what I get for going to rescue you when you got stuck up there. I wanted no part of that escapade, if you remember.”

  “Pick, pick, pick,” Paula said cheerfully, recapping the bottle and straightening up. “You have to admit that if not for me your college years would have been far less colorful.”

  “Far more productive, you mean,” Cindy countered, standing and admiring Paula’s neat, professional handiwork.

  “You’re the one who made the dean’s list every marking period,” Paula called from the hall. “I couldn’t have done that much damage.” She walked back into the living room, glancing at her watch. “My turn in the bathroom,” she added. “I’ve got the night shift at the hospital tonight, 7:00 pm to 3:00 am, and I’m running late.” She waved her hand, encompassing the apartment. “Make yourself at home. The refrigerator is full of food; the tv and stereo are self-explanatory. Just make sure you answer the phone because I have to take tenant messages. There’s a pad next to the phone; write down the name and apartment number of anybody who calls and the complaint. The messages are usually complaints.” She grinned, and then vanished down the hall. Seconds later Cindy heard the rushing water of the shower.

  She wandered back into her room and fished out some old clothes to wear, things in which she would be comfortable while studying. She planned on spending the evening profitably, organizing her notes. When Paula emerged fifteen minutes later, dressed for work, Cindy was already unpacking her briefcase on the dining room table.

  “Look at you,” Cindy said, smiling at Paula’s transformation. In her white nylon pantsuit and sensible shoes, she was a model of decorum. “Even your hair looks starched.”
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  “It is,” Paula replied. “It wilts like lettuce in this humidity unless I use a can of hairspray on it.” She picked up her purse and car keys from the counter. “Are you sure you’ll be all right here?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Paula, what can happen? Go to work.”

  Paula nodded, then peered at the cover of the book Cindy held. ‘‘What are you reading?”

  “Aboriginal Legends of the North American Indians,” Cindy recited, not looking up.

  “Um,” Paula said. “Sounds yummy. Save it for me, but don’t tell me the ending.”

  Cindy raised her eyes.

  “Okay, okay, I’m going. I’ll try not to wake you up when I come home.” She waved and then left, locking the door behind her.

  Cindy worked in silence for two hours, interrupted only once by a phone call. She left a note for Paula saying that Mr. Axelrod in 12-C wished to inform her that his bathtub was leaking, and would she please contact the plumber. She was thinking about making coffee and taking a break when the doorbell rang at about nine-thirty.

  Cindy got up to answer it, taking care to look through the peephole before she threw the bolt.

  Andrew Fox was standing in the hall.

  Her heart beating a little faster, Cindy opened the door.

  He leaned against the jamb and folded his arms.

  “Hi, Lucinda,” he said quietly. “Remember me?”

  Chapter 2

  Cindy was silent, painfully conscious that her hair was screwed into a straggling bun on the top of her head and that there was a badly chewed pencil stuck in it. She was also barefoot and wearing ancient, paper thin jeans faded to white at the seams. These were topped by a bleach spotted sweatshirt bearing the slogan: “Run for Life—The 1983 Juvenile Diabetes Marathon.” Why, just once, couldn’t she be wearing a black lace negligee when an attractive man appeared unexpectedly? Or at least a cocktail dress with high heels. But no. On such occasions she was invariably attired in the most ragged, ridiculous clothes she owned. It seemed to be a curse from which there was no escape.

  He shook his head. “No response,” he mourned. “How quickly they forget.”

  Cindy snapped out of it. “Of course I remember you,” she said, recovering.

  “Good.” They stared at each other. “Well,” he went on, “do I stand out here in the hall like a student selling magazines?”

  “I’m sorry, come in. Please excuse me. I just wasn’t expecting anyone.” She stepped aside and he walked past her into Paula’s apartment.

  “Paula’s not home,” she said, watching as he looked around.

  His light eyes moved back to her face. “I know that. I came to see you.”

  Cindy’s pulse jumped. “Oh, yes?”

  “Nice place,” he commented. “Last time I saw this apartment it was a mess.”

  “When was that?”

  “A couple of days before Paula moved in. She was having it painted, and Johnny and I carried some stuff up for her. He was here for a visit.” He eyed her levelly. “Paula didn’t seem to know what to do with me. I think she was afraid I was going to set a signal fire on the balcony.”

  This so accurately described Paula’s attitude toward him that Cindy couldn’t suppress a giggle. He smiled at her response.

  The telephone rang, interrupting their shared moment. Cindy moved to get it, took the message for Paula and hung up. She glanced around for a pencil with which to write it down. Fox stepped in front of her and removed the mangled pencil from her hair.

  “Looking for this?” he asked mildly.

  “Thank you,” Cindy said briskly, as if she had placed it there for safekeeping. This attitude was a little difficult to maintain as her hair, loosened by his action, tumbled from its confinement and fell over her right eye, obscuring her vision. Coughing delicately, she shoved it behind her ear unceremoniously, bending to scribble quickly on the pad.

  “Lucinda, Lucinda, let down your hair,” Fox recited softly.

  “I didn’t let it down, it fell down. Besides, that line is supposed to be for Rapunzel.” She tossed pencil and pad onto the telephone table.

  “A princess by any other name...” he said, shrugging.

  “I’m not a princess.”

  He nodded wisely. “Oh, yes, you are. Take it from me. I can spot a princess a mile off, Lucinda.”

  “Please stop calling me that,” she said faintly. “It makes me feel like I’m back in fourth grade, being called on the carpet by one of the nuns.”

  “Okay. Cindy it is,” he replied, chuckling.

  Annoyed at her loss of composure, Cindy gathered her hair in her hands, planning to bind it up again. Standing there facing him with it falling about her face made her feel childish and awkward.

  He saw her intention and stayed her hand, closing his strong brown fingers around her wrist. “Don’t do that,” he said quietly. “Your hair is so pretty, such a nice color, not too brown or red and just a little gold at the tips. What do you call that shade?”

  “Golden brown?” Cindy replied, swallowing, intensely aware of his touch.

  “It looked beautiful this afternoon, like a beacon in that dull street, a glossy mane flowing over your shoulders.” His hand moved to touch the strands lying against her neck, and his fingertips brushed her skin.

  Cindy closed her eyes. She had to put him at a distance, fast. She was definitely getting out of her depth.

  She stepped back, away from him. “Do you always pay such extravagant compliments to women you’ve just met?” she asked frostily.

  He hung his head, clasping his hands behind his back and staring at the floor. “I think I’ve just been put in my place,” he said, sighing dramatically. His mocking tone and exaggerated attitude of contrition had the desired effect on Cindy: her high-handedness became ridiculous in her own eyes. She was beginning to see that it was impossible to gain the advantage with him. The best she could hope for was a draw.

  “Look, Mr. Fox,” she said evenly, deciding to try the forthright approach, “suppose you tell me why you came here.”

  “Drew,” he corrected, dropping his chastened schoolboy act and resuming his normal stance.

  “Drew,” she repeated dutifully.

  “Actually,” he said, “I came here to apologize.”

  Cindy frowned, puzzled. “Apologize for what?”

  “For your injury. I stopped off at the hospital tonight and Paula fixed me up.” He touched the neat patch of gauze that had replaced his makeshift dressing. “She told me you got cut too, and I feel responsible.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Cindy said, turning away. “It’s nothing.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Let me see.”

  Cindy thrust her arm behind her back.

  He shook his finger in her face, “Let me see it, princess, or I’ll turn you over my knee.”

  He seemed ready to do just that, so Cindy offered the hidden arm reluctantly.

  Fox took her hand and pushed the sleeve back from her wrist, turning her arm over to see the inside. He gently probed the edges of the bandage, his touch firm and sure.

  “No redness, no swelling. And another nifty wrapping job by Paula Desmond, R.N.” He looked up to meet her eyes. “I guess you’ll be okay.”

  “I told you I was all right,” Cindy responded huffily, trying to pull her hand from his.

  “Wait a minute,” he cautioned. “Not so fast.” Before she could react he raised her trapped fingers to his lips.

  “What are you doing?” Cindy gasped.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he murmured, his mouth caressing her hand.

  “No, it’s not,” she replied, tugging harder, but to no avail.

  “I’m kissing it to make it well,” he said softly, trailing his tongue along her knuckles.

  “My arm was cut, not my hand,” she said logically, trying to hang on to some shred of sanity. The moist warmth of his mouth was traveling up her arm like an electrical current.

  “I’ll kiss that, too,” he res
ponded, his lips moving past her wrist.

  “Stop!” she cried, in a voice so loud and anxious that he obeyed her, surprising both of them. He released his hold, and she scrambled backward, her eyes wide.

  “Are you afraid of me?” he asked, alarmed. He hadn’t intended to scare her.

  Cindy didn’t know what to say. Fear didn’t exactly describe what she felt.

  Fox watched her, his light eyes vivid, almost otherworldly in his dusky face. His black hair shone like polished ebony in the artificial light, and the white bandage stood out against it like a lonely patch of snow on dark macadam. In his tight jeans and loose cotton shirt, his expression alert, but patient, he looked like the modern embodiment of one of his ancient ancestors, who knew how to wait and listen.

  “Just don’t...” Cindy said, leaving the sentence unfinished but gesturing to indicate that he should stand back.

  “I won’t,” he replied, in a low tone. He guessed it was not a good idea to push her when she was in this mood.

  Cindy took a deep, shaky breath. He waited until she met his gaze directly and then said, “I didn’t mean to upset you. Please allow me to make amends. Let me take you to dinner on Saturday night, that is if you have nothing else planned.”

  Cindy heard herself saying, as if by rote, “I have nothing else planned.”

  “Then you’ll go?” he asked, searching her face as if waiting for her to change her mind.

  She nodded dumbly.

  He smiled, his white teeth flashing against his brown skin. “Do you like seafood?”

  “Why, yes. I do.”

  “Fine. I know a place, Neptune’s Table, down in St. Petersburg Beach. It’s about a twenty minute ride. Would that be all right?”

  “Okay,” she said. Anything would be all right.

  “I’ll pick you up around seven-thirty.” He moved toward the door, intent on getting out before she called back her acceptance.

  “All right.”

  He stopped, smiled back at her, and then made a hasty exit. Cindy remained in the same spot for about a minute, trying to absorb what had just happened. Then she went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror.