by Warren Adler
Later was the next day when she was stronger, much stronger. She had managed to sit up in bed when he came in first thing in the morning. She had been thinking about things all night. It was inexplicable to her, but the episode, her brush with death, had made her braver than before. What more could happen?
He came in holding a bouquet of yellow roses and wearing a big smile. His tan face looked handsome, his teeth white. He wore a kelly green silk shirt and brought with him a happy, festive air.
She smiled at him and shook her head. "It's nice, but it's not going to work."
"Is this another role you're playing?" he said.
"Everything about this was a role," she said. "I spelled it all out. Were you listening?"
"I heard every word. Your deceit was very effective. I was completely taken in. You fooled the hell out of me, Grace. I was stunned. It was my son Bruce who blew the whistle. He had you investigated."
"Sorry, Sam. Guilty as charged. I was after your money."
"Join the crowd," he said.
She shifted in the bed, wincing slightly.
"Shall I get the nurse?" he asked, concerned.
She shook her head.
"Jackie, then? She's been waiting in the hall outside. We tried talking last night. This Darryl thing, what he did and said, has stunned her. And nearly losing you. I'd say she needs professional help, Grace. But now she needs you most of all. Shall I call her?"
Grace contemplated the answer. Not yet, she decided, shaking her head.
"Is there any hope there, Sam?" Grace asked.
"There's always hope."
"I'm not optimistic," Grace sighed. She wasn't. "People don't change."
"People change all the time."
"You're no expert, Sam."
"As you very powerfully illustrated."
She was quiet for a long moment, watching his eyes, inspecting her.
"There were certain aspects that were sincere, Sam."
"I have no doubt about that."
"The way to a man's heart is not always through his stomach."
"Almost never." He smiled. "Message received."
He continued to look into her eyes.
"And what is the way to a woman's heart?"
She let the question hang in the air.
"I want you to marry me, Grace," Sam said.
Her reaction was a pointed harrumph.
"After hearing my story? You've lost your mind."
"Yes or no?"
"No," she said, shaking her head to emphasize her decision.
He looked puzzled.
"Are you still playing with my head?"
"You want honest. You're getting honest."
"But you said ... that stuff about protection. Well, here I am, Sam Goodwin on his white steed come to rescue the maiden in distress. You're joking, right?"
"No. I'm rejecting your offer."
"I love you. You said ... you loved me."
"You sound like a teenager."
"I feel like one. And I hate being rejected."
She saw that he was pouting, a real pout. He had discovered that what he had mistaken for banter was dead serious. She had seen her course clearly, although he was right about protection.
"Am I too old?"
"When you're eighty I'll still be nearly ten years younger than you are now."
"You have a point. If I make eighty."
"What about the baggage I carry? A dysfunctional daughter. And your kids. Obviously I will not be welcome with open arms. Who, after all, put a private eye on my tail? Will your fancy friends accept me? I doubt it. You'll be a laughingstock. Who is that treasure-hunting little, ignorant, uneducated, rough lady Sam has on his arm? Look at the rock on her finger. He's in his second childhood. He's gone senile. If she was a spectacular beauty, well, maybe. He's entitled to a trophy wife...."
"Stop it, Grace," he said, raising his voice, then softening. "Stop it, please. I'm not a total fool."
"You're too much of a romantic, Sam," she said. "It makes you vulnerable, an easy mark. You need to be more hard-edged, more on your guard."
"I have other priorities."
"Like what?"
"Quality time," he whispered. He watched her through a long pause. "Love."
"You may be reading it wrong, Sam, putting too much stress on the physical."
"Better than not enough." He shrugged, smiled and winked.
"The comparisons will kill it, Sam. Your friends. Your kids..."
"Anne is dead," he said, interrupting.
Anne again, Grace sighed, suddenly panicked by the memory of the letters.
"Oh, my God," she cried, sitting higher in the bed. She felt the stitches stretch. "My pocketbook."
He opened a drawer, pulled it out and gave it to her.
"I found it in my driveway."
With shaking fingers, she took it from him, opening it quickly, then snapping it shut. She had glimpsed the letters.
"It's all there," he said.
"All?"
"Your wallet and keys. Some letters. It could only be yours. I picked it up, checked the ID and brought it here."
"Did you..." She cleared her throat, felt words forming on the tip of her tongue. Then she bit down on it, hard. "Thanks," she said.
He continued to hold her hand.
"About the matter at hand," he said. "You think I'm too much the romantic, then I'll talk turkey and make you an offer you can't refuse. Here's the deal: Ring around your finger. No prenup. What's mine is yours, what's yours is mine."
"Mine? I have nothing, Sam, but a screwed up teenager."
"You're the real thing," Sam said, after a long pause.
"The real thing?"
"It's about time," he said. His statement confused her. What did he mean?
He bent over and kissed her gently on the lips. "It all balances out, Grace. Think of our arrangement as a depletion allowance." When she frowned he said, "Oil. The devil is in the details."
She felt herself fading again.
"You rest," he said. "I'll be outside."
He started for the door, stopped.
"I'm selling as hard as I can, Grace," Sam said before leaving the room.
She nodded and closed her eyes. Then quickly opened them again. Reaching for her pocketbook, she opened the clasp and took out the letters, inspected them. There were no signs of their being tampered with. She arranged them chronologically again, then opened the first letter.
"Darling," it began. "My mind can barely accept this..."
She checked the envelope again. This was the last letter. It was placed in the envelope of the first one. Thinks he's the clever one, she thought. Now she understood what he meant by "the real thing." Compared to Anne.
She lay for a while, her eyes closed, then felt a sudden surge of energy. She pressed the nurse's button. The nurse's voice responded.
"Tell Mr. Goodwin I'm ready to see him again. And yes, he can bring in my daughter."
Ring around her finger, she whispered to herself, laughing. The stitches hurt, but she didn't care.
