Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  "You de­ser­ve it," Char­les sa­id softly. "A fit­ting ho­me for such a gro­om and such a bri­de."

  His hand, the key in it, trem­b­led. "I can't pos­sibly ac­cept this." He still co­uld not lo­ok up, not at Char­les, not at an­yo­ne.

  "The de­ed is al­re­ady in yo­ur na­me. It is my ple­asu­re, son."

  Re­gi­na sta­red at Sla­de's pro­fi­le. She tho­ught that he was mo­ved al­most to te­ars. Gently, she to­uc­hed his hand.

  He blin­ked qu­ickly and glan­ced at her, for­cing a smi­le. His words we­re still low and ro­ugh; Re­gi­na had to stra­in to he­ar them. "It's a small man­si­on."

  Re­gi­na nod­ded, hot te­ars spo­iling her vi­si­on.

  Sla­de fi­nal­ly ra­ised his ga­ze to lo­ok di­rectly at Char­les. "I-I'm in shock. I didn't ex­pect this. I don't know what to say."

  "Sla­de, I am so very happy for you. Even tho­ugh I sus­pect yo­ur des­tiny li­es at Mi­ra­mar, you will al­ways ha­ve a ho­me he­re, too. Clo­se by, I might add." Char­les smi­led. His own eyes we­re mo­ist. "But son, if you wish to sell it, I will un­der­s­tand. You know, too, that the­re is al­ways a pla­ce for you he­re un­der my own ro­of."

  Sla­de sho­ok his he­ad, at a loss for words. Re­gi­na dab­bed un­suc­ces­sful­ly at her eyes. She didn't think she wo­uld ever be ab­le to for­get that mo­ment. No won­der, she tho­ught, Sla­de pre­fer­red San Fran­cis­co to Mi­ra­mar. No blo­ody won­der.

  Sud­denly she re­ali­zed that Sla­de had his arm aro­und her sho­ul­ders and was pres­sing her to his si­de. "Thank you, Char­les. I thank you, we thank you," he sa­id ho­ar­sely. And then he la­ug­hed, the so­und ro­ugh but joyo­us mu­sic to her ears.

  Chapter 22

  Re re­gi­na did not sle­ep. The eve­ning spent at Char­les Mann's pla­yed aga­in and aga­in in her mind. Sla­de had be­en re­la­xed as she had ne­ver be­fo­re se­en him. His easy smi­les, his dry hu­mor, his warm, in­tent re­gard we­re fast be­co­ming che­ris­hed ke­ep­sa­kes. His slight, oh-so-pos­ses­si­ve to­uch. And fi­nal­ly, the co­up de gra­ce, that un­be­arably he­ar­t­war­ming mo­ment when he had re­ali­zed the ex­tent of Char­les Mann's lo­ve.

  Re­gi­na had be­en unab­le to res­t­ra­in her own te­ars, te­ars she had shed for Sla­de, mo­ved both for him and with him and re­li­eved be­yond be­li­ef that he­re, at le­ast, was a fat­her fi­gu­re who lo­ved him un­con­di­ti­onal­ly.

  Ti­me af­ter ti­me, as sle­ep elu­ded her, she hel­p­les­sly com­pa­red the eve­ning to the se­ve­ral din­ners they had had at Mi­ra­mar. Ti­me af­ter ti­me she com­pa­red Char­les Mann, as un­fa­ir as it was, to Rick. The dif­fe­ren­ces we­re he­ar­t­ren­ding. The warmth and ca­ring that had flo­wed in abun­dan­ce at the Mann ho­use­hold was the kind of am­bi­en­ce she ex­pec­ted among a fa­mily. She fo­und her­self reg­ret­ful, she fo­und her­self angry. The­re was lit­tle warmth in Rick's ho­me, at le­ast as far as ap­pe­aran­ces went. Yet she knew Rick lo­ved Sla­de as much as Char­les Mann did-and mo­re. She wo­uld gam­b­le her en­ti­re in­he­ri­tan­ce upon it. Why in bla­zes co­uldn't Rick show it? Why did he ha­ve to ta­unt Sla­de, in­sult him?

  Yet the Sla­de who prow­led Mi­ra­mar's con­fi­nes was not abun­dantly li­kab­le. Why co­uldn't he re­lax and show Rick this si­de of him­self? She was be­gin­ning to sus­pect that he de­li­be­ra­tely pus­hed his fat­her, that he so­ught to eli­cit Rick's in­sults. But why? And how had such a re­la­ti­on­s­hip co­me to pass in the first pla­ce? She was fi­er­cely glad that Sla­de had a se­cond fa­mily li­ke the Manns.

  Re­gi­na was de­ter­mi­ned to get to the bot­tom of the mo­rass; she wan­ted an­s­wers. She wan­ted to see Sla­de and Rick in a re­la­ti­on­s­hip that, at the very le­ast, did not re­sem­b­le two fig­h­ting dogs be­ing thrown in­to the ring eager to draw each ot­her's blo­od. If the­re ever had be­en a re­ason for the­ir ani­mo­sity, the­re was no lon­ger; it was ti­me for both men to bury the hat­c­het.

  Which Sla­de was the re­al Sla­de? She gu­es­sed that both si­des we­re re­al, yet she did not think it was a mat­ter of two dif­fe­rent per­so­na­li­ti­es. With a rush of he­art-wren­c­hing in­sight, Re­gi­na un­der­s­to­od. She was re­min­ded of a de­sert and a hot­ho­use. In the de­sert only the har­di­est, to­ug­hest spe­ci­es co­uld sur­vi­ve; in the fer­ti­le gar­den of a con­ser­va­tory the most fra­gi­le spe­ci­es co­uld be co­axed in­to full blo­om. Mi­ra­mar was no de­sert, ex­cept emo­ti­onal­ly. Sla­de had to be emo­ti­onal­ly to­ugh if he we­re to sur­vi­ve the­re. Af­ter all, he had be­en aban­do­ned by his mot­her as an in­fant, left to a fat­her who had fa­vo­red his ol­der brot­her and who se­emed in­ca­pab­le of sho­wing af­fec­ti­on to­ward him. Yet with the Manns the­re was no ne­ed to be to­ugh. His fra­gi­le fe­elings, his vul­ne­rab­le si­de, ca­re­ful­ly ten­ded with lo­ve and com­pas­si­on, co­uld blos­som, and they had.

  Last night Re­gi­na had fal­len in lo­ve with her hus­band aga­in.

  She he­ard the do­or­bell ring, ec­ho­ing in the high-ce­ilin­ged fo­yer out­si­de the sa­lon. Bre­at­h­less an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on fil­led her. It se­emed as if she had be­en wa­iting for Sla­de to co­me for her fo­re­ver; ac­tu­al­ly, she had be­en wa­iting for this mo­ment sin­ce the night be­fo­re. How wo­uld they ac­tu­al­ly pro­ce­ed from this new po­int in the­ir re­la­ti­on­s­hip? For her it was a new be­gin­ning, and it se­emed as if Sla­de felt the sa­me way.

  She was not su­re what to ex­pect. She was his wi­fe, yet she was li­ving apart from him, and she had as­ked for a di­vor­ce. He was cal­ling upon her as if in co­ur­t­s­hip, yet only a few days ago he had aban­do­ned her. So whe­re did that le­ave them? If he bro­ught up the su­bj­ect of a di­vor­ce aga­in, she wo­uld tell him that she had ca­re­ful­ly tho­ught it out and chan­ged her mind. Yet she did not think she was re­ady to ta­ke on the full ro­le of be­ing his wi­fe. She had be­en so badly hurt that she was still wary. He wo­uld ha­ve to earn back her com­p­le­te trust.

  Sla­de was shown in­to the sa­lon. Re­gi­na ce­ased her an­xi­o­us pa­cing be­fo­re he ca­me to the open do­or­way. The­ir glan­ces loc­ked in­s­tantly. Her eyes wi­de­ned and her he­art ra­te do­ub­led.

  She wasn't su­re what she had ex­pec­ted, but it su­rely wasn't the highly fas­hi­onab­le sta­te­ment he ma­de. His whi­te, do­ub­le-bre­as­ted sack jac­ket was the la­test trend, and co­up­led with pa­le off-whi­te tro­users, it was the epi­to­me of clas­sic, ca­su­al ele­gan­ce. He even wo­re soft whi­te sport sho­es. His ha­ir had be­en me­ti­cu­lo­usly com­bed in­to pla­ce and was par­ted ne­atly on the si­de. He even car­ri­ed a straw bo­ater, al­t­ho­ugh she co­uld not pic­tu­re him in it.

  Re­gi­na re­ali­zed that she was openly ad­mi­ring him. Then she saw that he was too in­vol­ved in ga­zing at her to ha­ve no­ti­ced, and she flus­hed with ple­asu­re. For she had dres­sed with gre­at ca­re, too, ho­ping to ple­ase him. She knew the bron­ze-and-cre­am-st­ri­ped su­it she wo­re was flat­te­ring both to her fi­gu­re and her com­p­le­xi­on. And Sla­de was most de­fi­ni­tely ple­ased; his ga­ze was bright and ap­pre­ci­ati­ve. Re­gi­na felt her­self blus­hing, as if they had not sha­red every in­ti­macy pos­sib­le bet­we­en a man and a wo­man. Yet when she smi­led, she sud­denly felt as shy as a de­bu­tan­te.

  His smi­le was not the le­ast bit shy. And his to­ne was equ­al­ly sug­ges­ti­ve. "Hel­lo."

  "Go­od mor­ning… Sla­de."

  He mo­ved for­ward and to­ok her arm. "It's co­ol out­si­de. You ne­ed a wrap."

  His con­cern, sim­p­le as it was, ple­ased her im­men­sely, as did his pos­ses­si­ve ges­tu­re. She was in­ten­sely awa­re of him as they left the ho­use af­ter ret­ri­eving a ca­pe for he
r. He gu­ided her down the wi­de, whi­te sto­ne sta­ir­ca­se and past the ca­re­ful­ly crop­ped gre­en lawns that swept up to the city si­de­walk. A small cur­ric­le awa­ited them with a da­inty ches­t­nut in its tra­ces.

  "I li­ke to dri­ve," he sa­id, han­ding her up and then jum­ping in be­si­de her. "Do you mind?"

  She sho­ok her he­ad no. She was too awa­re of his body be­si­de her, with only a few in­c­hes se­pa­ra­ting them. She grip­ped her hands in her lap. She had not for­got­ten the­ir wed­ding night for one in­s­tant, al­t­ho­ugh she had tri­ed to ig­no­re tho­se par­ti­cu­lar me­mo­ri­es whe­ne­ver they in­t­ru­ded too far in­to her tho­ughts. Now she re­mem­be­red just what it was li­ke to be in his arms, na­ked, whi­le he plun­de­red her body. She shi­ve­red, trying to con­t­rol her mind. He slap­ped the re­ins and the pretty ches­t­nut ma­re trot­ted for­ward eagerly.

  "I tho­ught we'd dri­ve thro­ugh Gol­den Ga­te Park first, be­ing as it's early." He glan­ced at her. His eyes mo­ved over her fa­ce, lin­ge­ring on her mo­uth.

  "That's fi­ne." She wan­ted to see the ho­use on Fran­k­lin Stre­et, the­ir wed­ding pre­sent from Char­les. She was af­ra­id to ask, af­ra­id it was too bold and sud­den a dec­la­ra­ti­on of her new in­ten­ti­ons to re­ma­in his wi­fe. She bit her lip. "What Char­les did last nig­ht-it was simply stun­ning."

  "Yes, it was."

  Re­gi­na lo­oked at Sla­de. "He lo­ves you de­arly."

  "I'm very lucky," Sla­de sa­id qu­i­etly. "He me­ans a gre­at de­al to me, too."

  She won­de­red if he we­re thin­king of Rick, as she was. The two men we­re so dif­fe­rent. She was sad­de­ned whe­ne­ver she tho­ught of the two li­ves Sla­de led. She shif­ted, unab­le to res­t­ra­in her­self. "Sla­de? Rick lo­ves you too."

  Sla­de ten­sed. His fa­ce dar­ke­ned. When he lo­oked at her his eyes we­re flas­hing with an­ger; the old Sla­de was back. "Don't ru­in things."

  Re­gi­na swal­lo­wed any fur­t­her com­ments she might ha­ve ma­de. She had not re­ali­zed how easily she co­uld cha­se away the happy man and bring forth the angry one. "I'm sorry," she whis­pe­red, me­aning it.

  "Don't be," he sa­id ro­ughly. "It's not yo­ur fa­ult." Then he ad­ded ca­su­al­ly, not lo­oking at her, "I went the­re last night."

  She did not un­der­s­tand. "Went whe­re?"

  He glan­ced at her, his ga­ze in­ten­se eno­ugh to rob her of her bre­ath. "The He­nes­sy pla­ce."

  She was still. "I see."

  He tur­ned his he­ad, sta­ring out past the ches­t­nut's ears.

  "I wo­uld li­ke to see it, too."

  He jer­ked to­ward her. 'You wo­uld?"

  "Yes," she bre­at­hed, ca­ught up in his ga­ze. "Very much."

  Sla­de sud­denly smi­led, ab­ruptly tur­ning the ma­re in a tight abo­ut-fa­ce. The­re was so­met­hing rec­k­les­sly tri­um­p­hant in his ex­p­res­si­on. "Go­od," he sa­id. "Be­ca­use I want to show it to you, Re­gi­na."

  "That's it," Sla­de sa­id qu­i­etly, ma­king no mo­ve to le­ave the car­ri­age.

  Re­gi­na lo­oked at the three-story ho­use in front of them. The fog had eva­po­ra­ted and the day was bril­li­antly sunny. It was in­de­ed a small man­si­on. The ho­use was bu­ilt of red­dish sto­ne and trim­med with whi­te plas­ter. The front do­or was a tem­p­le front. The pe­di­ment abo­ve was de­ta­iled with a lar­ge ro­und win­dow and a cur­ling le­af-li­ke de­sign, sup­por­ted by two whi­te co­lumns. A to­wer sto­od be­hind it. The cen­ter of the ho­use, which was as­y­m­met­ric in la­yo­ut, cres­cen­do­ed to the ro­of which ro­se ste­eply abo­ve the front to­wer and abo­ve a se­cond to­wer on the ho­use's ot­her si­de. Three sta­ined-glass ar­c­hed win­dows we­re set in pil­lars and plas­ter on the top flo­or. The ro­of was man­sard.

  Cor­ni­ces, scrol­lwork, and ro­set­tes di­vi­ded each flo­or. The de­ta­ils wo­uld ha­ve be­en over­do­ne ex­cept for the fact that the ho­use was so grand. It was so very typi­cal of the la­test wa­ve of ar­c­hi­tec­tu­re to hit the city, and Re­gi­na lo­ved it in­s­tantly.

  "Well?" Sla­de as­ked, tos­sing his jac­ket on­to the se­at bet­we­en them.

  "It's be­a­uti­ful."

  "I've al­ways ad­mi­red this pla­ce. It's grand but not os­ten­ta­ti­o­us, de­ta­iled but not silly. You want to go in?"

  Her ga­ze le­aped to his. "Of co­ur­se."

  Sla­de hel­ped her down. Re­gi­na tho­ught his hands re­ma­ined on her wa­ist a to­uch lon­ger than ne­ces­sary, but sa­id not­hing, be­ca­use his to­uch was no mo­re un­ner­ving than the com­p­le­te set of cir­cum­s­tan­ces they we­re in. He was her hus­band, but she felt inex­p­li­cably ner­vo­us aro­und him; they we­re es­t­ran­ged, but she co­uld only think of this ho­use as the­ir ho­use. Still, he ac­ted li­ke a hus­band, ta­king her wrap from her sho­ul­ders whi­le sa­ying, "You don't ne­ed this." The sun had cha­sed away the mor­ning fog and he left his jac­ket be­hind as well.

  They wal­ked up the front steps. Re­gi­na was over­w­hel­mingly awa­re of the man she was with. She fid­ge­ted as Sla­de fit­ted the key in­to the lock. He glan­ced at her and threw open the do­or.

  She won­de­red just what was on his mind.

  "Oh," she sa­id, glan­cing aro­und the lar­ge fo­yer. The ce­iling was three sto­ri­es abo­ve them, ma­king the en­t­ran­ce in­si­de mo­re im­p­res­si­ve than it had se­emed from the out­si­de. The fo­yer was vast, ap­pe­aring mo­re so be­ca­use it was un­fur­nis­hed and the pink-and-whi­te-chec­ked mar­b­le flo­ors car­ri­ed one's eye re­len­t­les­sly down the hall. The walls we­re pa­in­ted sal­mon-pink.

  The­re was a skylight abo­ve them, one that co­uld not be se­en from the stre­et, and sun­light dren­c­hed them. Re­gi­na tur­ned to Sla­de, re­ali­zing he was wat­c­hing her very in­tently, his eyes gle­aming. His lo­ok ca­used a pric­k­le of fo­re­bo­ding. "This is be­a­uti­ful."

  He coc­ked his he­ad and Re­gi­na step­ped past him, ac­cep­ting his si­lent in­vi­ta­ti­on. She was gro­wing mo­re and mo­re awa­re of the fact that they we­re alo­ne in this hu­ge empty ho­use. The­ir fo­ot­s­teps ec­ho­ed lo­udly on the sto­ne flo­ors, as had her vo­ice when she spo­ke. She pa­used on the thres­hold of a bal­lro­om with va­ul­ted ce­ilings. A pa­ir of he­avy gil­ded cha­irs, ter­ribly ugly, had be­en left be­hind, set aga­inst one wall. The ot­her wall was mir­ro­red; Re­gi­na tho­ught that the ef­fect was in­te­res­ting. Tall French do­ub­le do­ors fa­ced them and lo­oked out on­to the ho­use's gar­dens, which we­re ter­ra­ced and abun­dantly in blo­om.

  Sla­de sto­od be­hind her, sa­ying not­hing.

  Re­gi­na's ner­vo­us­ness in­c­re­ased. Swal­lo­wing, she wal­ked ac­ross the ro­om, le­aving Sla­de stan­ding in the do­or­way, and ga­zed out on the lawns. She co­uld fe­el his eyes upon her back.

  She tur­ned slightly, and glim­p­sed him in the mir­ror. His ex­p­res­si­on was un­gu­ar­ded and fi­er­ce; hungry. The fi­ne ha­irs ra­ised on the na­pe of her neck. But she did not mo­ve.

  In the mir­ror, she wat­c­hed him slowly cross the ro­om and walk up be­hind her. His fo­ot­s­teps re­so­un­ded hol­lowly. Her skin felt tight. Her bre­asts se­emed to tin­g­le aga­inst the de­li­ca­te la­ce of her un­der­c­lot­hes. It was oc­cur­ring to her that his in­ten­ti­ons in sho­wing her the ho­use we­re not le­gi­ti­ma­te, or, if they had be­en le­gi­ti­ma­te, they we­re no lon­ger. But she did not mo­ve. It had only be­en a few days sin­ce the­ir wed­ding, but the in­te­rim felt mo­re li­ke long, ago­ni­zing ye­ars. She hug­ged her­self, but did not fa­ce him. She didn't ha­ve to, for she had one eye on the mir­ror.

  He stop­ped be­hind her. "Well?"

  "I li­ke it." Her words so­un­ded cho­ked. They ec­
ho­ed. Every nu­an­ce in her vo­ice was mag­ni­fi­ed a hun­d­red­fold.

  "So do I." His words ec­ho­ed al­so. Then his hands to­uc­hed her sho­ul­ders.

  "Sla­de…" His to­uch was light, yet her body was qu­ive­ring un­con­t­rol­lably. His mo­uth to­uc­hed the si­de of her neck. Sla­de. For an in­s­tant as she sto­od the­re whi­le he nuz­zled her, she tho­ught she had spo­ken his na­me aga­in. But she hadn't. It was the ro­om, not only ec­ho­ing her but moc­king her, for her to­ne so­un­ded li­ke that of a se­duc­t­ress, husky and des­pe­ra­te.

  "I li­ke this," he whis­pe­red, his arms sli­ding aro­und her. I li­ke this… I li­ke this, the ro­om chan­ted back.

  Re­gi­na sto­od stock-still, swept up by both the ro­om's re­ver­be­ra­ti­ons and the fe­el of his hard, aro­used body pres­sing very firmly aga­inst hers. He con­ti­nu­ed to nuz­zle her neck. Even had she the wil­lpo­wer to walk away, she wo­uld not ha­ve be­en ab­le to, for he held her tightly, de­ter­mi­nedly. She gul­ped air, gas­ping. The stran­g­led so­und cho­ru­sed. His hands slid down her belly, spla­yed out. They pa­used abo­ve the jun­c­tu­re of her thighs.

  "Sla­de," she pro­tes­ted very we­akly. "So­me­one might walk in." Sla­de… so­me­one might walk in.

  His hand slid lo­wer, cup­ping her in­ti­ma­tely thro­ugh the folds of her thin sum­mer-we­ight skirt and pet­ti­co­at. "I loc­ked the do­or." The ro­om chan­ted its ref­ra­in.

  She shut her eyes, trem­b­ling. He had plan­ned this, but the roc­king mo­ti­on of his lar­ge palm was ma­king it hard to ca­re. He ex­ten­ded his fin­gers and rub­bed har­der and lo­wer. All of her clot­hing was silk, even her dra­wers, and the sen­sa­ti­on was al­most un­be­arab­le. Re­gi­na cri­ed out. The ro­om cri­ed out.

  Thro­ugh the la­yers of fab­ric he del­ved bet­we­en her legs, ex­pert and re­len­t­less. She be­gan to sha­ke. And then she be­gan to sob with ple­asu­re.