Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  She co­uld not con­cen­t­ra­te on the task at hand. Her mind was spin­ning cra­zily as it had be­en all af­ter­no­on. She had tho­ught her­self to be that wo­man, Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. For a we­ek or mo­re she had li­ved as that wo­man, as Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. And then, when the am­ne­sia had di­sap­pe­ared, she had mas­qu­era­ded as her as well.

  She co­uld not help be­ing to­uc­hed with gu­ilt for pur­po­se­ful­ly as­su­ming the ot­her wo­man's iden­tity.

  They did not re­al­ly lo­ok ali­ke. The­re was no re­al re­sem­b­lan­ce bet­we­en her and Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. Yes, they we­re both blon­de and pretty, both slen­der and pe­ti­te. But the­re was no way that an­yo­ne who had ever met eit­her one of them co­uld mis­ta­ke them for each ot­her.

  Of co­ur­se, Rick had al­re­ady con­fes­sed that he had re­ali­zed the truth from the be­gin­ning, and Re­gi­na had long sin­ce for­gi­ven him. No one el­se at Mi­ra­mar had ever la­id eyes on Eli­za­beth, ex­cept for James, who was de­ad.

  What was she do­ing he­re?

  The qu­es­ti­on had drum­med in her bra­in all day un­til her he­ad was ac­hing from it. Re­gi­na co­uld not help thin­king that she was he­re to ta­ke what sho­uld ha­ve be­en hers from the very start-both Mi­ra­mar and Sla­de.

  She sta­red at her­self. Her fa­ce was drawn, her ex­p­res­si­on ten­se. Her fe­ar was ri­di­cu­lo­us; she was Sla­de's wi­fe, and that was ir­re­vo­cab­le. But Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir's ad­vent in­to the­ir li­fe co­uld not ha­ve co­me at a wor­se ti­me. It was one mo­re blow for her to sur­vi­ve, and af­ter the se­ri­es of blows al­re­ady de­alt to the­ir mar­ri­age, she felt al­most in­com­pe­tent to de­al with it.

  But she wo­uld.

  Her tho­ughts we­re in­ter­rup­ted when Sla­de knoc­ked bri­efly on the do­or, then pus­hed it open. Re­gi­na sta­red at him in the mir­ror. He pa­used in the do­or­way, sta­ring back. Fi­nal­ly he sa­id, "Isn't the ga­la to­night?"

  "Yes, it is." Her vo­ice was ama­zingly calm. Was he go­ing to tell her abo­ut the vi­sit from Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir?

  He wal­ked in­to the ro­om, clo­sing the do­or be­hind him. He went stra­ight to the ar­mo­ire, whe­re his tu­xe­do, freshly pres­sed, was han­ging on the do­or. He be­gan to un­d­ress. Then, his shirt bal­led up and clen­c­hed in his hand, he fa­ced her. "Aren't you go­ing to say so­met­hing.”

  She lo­oked at him. "Abo­ut what?"

  "Abo­ut last night."

  "What do you want me to say?"

  "I don't know. So­met­hing. An­y­t­hing. Most wo­men wo­uld be ha­ving a fit, or be in te­ars, or be in bed with the co­vers pul­led up over the­ir he­ads, sul­king."

  "I'm not most wo­men."

  "Don't I know it."

  She he­si­ta­ted. "All right, I'm sorry you sta­yed out last night, sorry and di­sap­po­in­ted."

  He win­ced. "You wo­uld know how to ma­ke me fe­el even wor­se."

  "You sho­uld fe­el gu­ilty, Sla­de. If you want to apo­lo­gi­ze, I wo­uld ac­cept."

  "You know what?" he sa­id ro­ughly. "I am sorry. Damn, but I'm sorry for ever­y­t­hing."

  She was af­ra­id he was not re­fer­ring to last night, but to the­ir mar­ri­age. She fo­und she co­uld not res­pond.

  He tur­ned his back on her to pull off his pants, his mo­ve­ments hard and ab­rupt.

  Dis­may crept over her. "Aren't you go­ing to tell me?"

  "Tell you what?" He pul­led on a dres­sing gown.

  "Aren't you go­ing to tell me abo­ut the vi­si­tor you had to­day?"

  He fro­ze. "What?"

  "Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir."

  He mo­ved to­ward her, me­eting her eyes in the mir­ror. He pa­used be­hind her. "How do you know that she ca­me to see me to­day?"

  "I saw her. We met in the ele­va­tor, so to spe­ak. I had ho­ped to ha­ve lunch with you, but when I re­ali­zed who she was… well, I was up­set."

  "So you left."

  "Yes."

  Sla­de mo­ved to her si­de so he co­uld lo­ok at her di­rectly. Ap­pre­hen­si­ve, Re­gi­na tur­ned to fa­ce him. "What did she want?"

  "I don't know."

  "What did she say?" She was trem­b­ling.

  "She ga­ve me so­me stu­pid song and dan­ce abo­ut how sorry she was abo­ut James. It was a big fat lie. That wo­man do­esn't ha­ve a drop of sympathy in her blo­od for my brot­her," Sla­de sa­id an­g­rily.

  "Are you su­re?"

  "I'm su­re. She told me that be­fo­re James di­ed they had an ar­gu­ment and bro­ke it off mu­tu­al­ly. Which was why she didn't ar­ri­ve in Tem­p­le­ton as sche­du­led."

  "But no one knew," Re­gi­na sa­id.

  "That's right!" Sla­de cri­ed. "She was lying thro­ugh her te­eth, Re­gi­na. James was he­ad over he­els in lo­ve with her, al­t­ho­ugh af­ter me­eting her, I can't fi­gu­re out why. James wo­uld ha­ve ne­ver bro­ken up with her. She ob­vi­o­usly bro­ke up with him just be­fo­re he di­ed. But why, why didn't he say so­met­hing?"

  "Be­ca­use he was hurt?"

  Sla­de hit the wall with his hand. "Damn it! It kills me to think that James di­ed with a bro­ken he­art. Damn her!"

  Re­gi­na, ha­ving he­ard so much abo­ut James for so long now, felt as if she had known him, and she was al­so mo­ved. "May­be you're wrong, Sla­de."

  "No, I'm not. She left lic­kety-sp­lit when she fo­und out I was mar­ri­ed. In fact, when she fo­und out abo­ut you, she chan­ged as fast as a cha­me­le­on. If you want to know what I re­al­ly think, I think she was snif­fing aro­und me for one re­ason and it had not­hing to do with James-it was for the pur­po­se of mar­ri­age."

  "I knew it," Re­gi­na sa­id fa­intly.

  He ga­ve her a dark lo­ok and stal­ked away. Re­gi­na sta­red at the mir­ror, not se­e­ing her own ref­lec­ti­on or his. She had be­en right. Eli­za­beth had co­me he­re to cla­im Sla­de and her pla­ce at Mi­ra­mar. It did not ma­ke sen­se, not af­ter she had en­ded her en­ga­ge­ment to James. But it was the only ex­p­la­na­ti­on for her sud­den ap­pe­aran­ce in the­ir li­ves. "Why wo­uld she bre­ak it off with James and then de­ci­de she wan­ted to marry you?"

  "I don't know and I re­al­ly don't ca­re," Sla­de sa­id shortly. "For­get her, Re­gi­na, she's the past."

  He was right. Eli­za­beth was now the past. Re­gi­na had won­de­red abo­ut the ot­her wo­man for so­me ti­me, and slowly she be­gan to re­lax. So­me of the qu­es­ti­ons which had pla­gu­ed her we­re an­s­we­red, and she sup­po­sed the ot­hers wo­uld ne­ver be re­sol­ved. But it didn't re­al­ly mat­ter.

  Eli­za­beth had co­me he­re, dra­ma­ti­cal­ly en­te­ring the­ir li­ves, to cla­im Sla­de and her pla­ce at Mi­ra­mar. But she had co­me too la­te. Af­ter the mas­qu­era­de, af­ter ha­ving as­su­med her iden­tity, and even ha­ving be­li­eved her­self to be her for a whi­le, Re­gi­na was glad to ha­ve fi­nal­ly be­en con­f­ron­ted with the myste­ri­o­us ot­her wo­man. Her sud­den re­ap­pe­aran­ce in the­ir li­ves co­uld ha­ve be­en des­t­ruc­ti­ve, but as fa­te wo­uld ha­ve it, she co­uld be easily dis­mis­sed in­s­te­ad. She had to­uc­hed the­ir li­ves mo­re de­eply than she wo­uld ever know, for if not for her, Re­gi­na wo­uld ha­ve ne­ver be­en ta­ken in by the De­lan­zas, she wo­uld ha­ve ne­ver mar­ri­ed Sla­de. Her ro­le in this dra­ma was over, on­ce and for all. Per­haps in the back of her mind Re­gi­na had wor­ri­ed all along abo­ut the re­al Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. She re­ali­zed that she was re­li­eved.

  It was one of the most be­a­uti­ful, and one of the most pa­in­ful, sights he had ever se­en in his li­fe.

  Sla­de sto­od on the ed­ge of the dan­ce flo­or, blen­ding in­to the fes­ti­ve crowd but fe­eling apart from it. The hu­ge bal­lro­om of the Man
n man­si­on was fil­led al­most to ca­pa­city. The men we­re clad in ta­il­co­ats, the wo­men in bril­li­antly hu­ed ball gowns, fe­at­he­red bo­as, and glit­te­ring jewels. The va­ul­ted bal­lro­om was ali­ve with the buzz of con­ver­sa­ti­on, la­ug­h­ter, and the rich, vib­rant stra­ins of a string qu­ar­tet. Whi­te-jac­ke­ted wa­iters pas­sed aro­und exo­tic ape­ri­tifs, and ban­qu­et tab­les in the back of the ro­om we­re la­den with equ­al­ly exo­tic fo­od. Xan­d­ria had cho­sen a tro­pi­cal mo­tif for the ball. The flo­ral ar­ran­ge­ments we­re tall, exo­tic oran­ge and pur­p­le blo­oms, and thir­ty-fo­ot palms gra­ced the fo­ur cor­ners of the ro­om. Sla­de was ba­rely awa­re of the­se de­ta­ils as he sto­od wat­c­hing the dan­cers whir­ling in clo­uds of bil­lo­wing, jewel-li­ke co­lors. For among them was his wi­fe.

  She was dan­cing with an ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce of his. She had be­en dan­cing for the past half ho­ur. Sla­de was cer­ta­in that his wi­fe had ta­ken to the dan­ce flo­or to es­ca­pe him.

  They had rid­den over to the Mann man­si­on in si­len­ce. He was well awa­re that his mar­ri­age had un­ra­ve­led. Re­gi­na, on­ce ca­ref­ree and gay, was pa­le and wit­h­d­rawn. Her at­tempts at light con­ver­sa­ti­on we­re for­ced. Over­w­hel­med with what he had do­ne ear­li­er that day, Sla­de co­uld not res­pond to her over­tu­res. But as so­on as they had ar­ri­ved, Re­gi­na was tran­s­for­med. He had wat­c­hed her in ama­ze­ment. She mo­ved among the crowd with ani­ma­ti­on and en­t­hu­si­asm, as if the­re was not­hing at all wrong in her li­fe. She had le­ar­ned the art of so­ci­al con­ver­sa­ti­on well. She con­ver­sed with stran­gers as if they we­re old and de­ar fri­ends. She had the knack of put­ting ever­yo­ne im­me­di­ately at ease. She was gay, be­a­uti­ful, and bright. Ever­yo­ne in­s­tantly ado­red her, fal­ling hard for her charm.

  He ad­mi­red her. He had al­ways ad­mi­red her, from the very first, but now mo­re than ever. This fa­ca­de of hers co­uld not be easy to ma­in­ta­in. He knew that she was stra­ined from his ru­de be­ha­vi­or last night, be­ha­vi­or he still reg­ret­ted, and from the bri­ef ad­vent of Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir in­to the­ir li­ves. Whi­le the me­eting with Eli­za­beth had left a bit­ter af­ter­tas­te in his mo­uth- he had ta­ken an in­s­tant, over­w­hel­ming dis­li­ke to her- she co­uld be easily dis­mis­sed from his tho­ughts. Last night co­uld not be so easily for­got­ten.

  He wo­uld ne­ver for­get the sight of Re­gi­na beg­ging her fat­her for her in­he­ri­tan­ce, he wo­uld ne­ver for­get the so­und of her ple­as. Des­pi­te the fact that he had told her he wo­uld not ta­ke her mo­ney, ob­vi­o­usly she co­uld not be­ar to be par­ted from it. He did not con­demn her for her ma­te­ri­alism. She de­ser­ved to li­ve li­ke a prin­cess; no wo­man de­ser­ved it mo­re.

  Shel­ton's words ha­un­ted him, too. Ap­pa­rently he, Sla­de, was not her first in­fa­tu­ati­on, and, li­ke Shel­ton, he do­ub­ted he wo­uld be the last.

  It wo­uld be easy to be­li­eve what he wan­ted to be­li­eve-that she lo­ved him. It wo­uld al­so be very fo­olish.

  They we­re so dif­fe­rent. He had known it all along, but now the dif­fe­ren­ces we­re gla­ring. Se­e­ing her he­re at the ga­la, mo­ving so easily among the eli­te of San Fran­cis­co so­ci­ety, was the fi­nal pro­of. She lo­ved this kind of li­fe and all that it in­vol­ved; he ha­ted it. He ha­ted this non­sen­se, he al­ways had. He was a sim­p­le man with sim­p­le ne­eds. A li­fe at Mi­ra­mar was all he'd every re­al­ly, sec­retly co­ve­ted, un­til Re­gi­na. But Re­gi­na thri­ved in this glossy, glit­te­ring set­ting. How co­uld he ha­ve tho­ught for a mo­ment that she wo­uld be happy li­ving with him at Mi­ra­mar? He­re, at last, was pro­of that he had do­ne what was right.

  Tur­ning, Sla­de wal­ked away, in­to the crowd.

  Re­gi­na fi­nal­ly re­fu­sed her fifth or sixth dan­ce par­t­ner, not ha­ving to ma­ke up an ex­cu­se, for she was truly ti­red. The eve­ning se­emed en­d­less. On­ce upon a ti­me a night li­ke this wo­uld ha­ve de­lig­h­ted her. Now it to­ok all of her well-bred scho­oling and all of her de­ter­mi­na­ti­on to pre­sent an ami­ab­le fa­ca­de to the gu­ests who had co­me in her and Sla­de's ho­nor.

  She did not see Sla­de, which was just as well. His in­c­re­asingly wit­h­d­rawn de­me­anor was frig­h­te­ning her. With every pas­sing ho­ur he grew mo­re dis­tant from her. Re­gi­na did not know what she was do­ing wrong. She was che­er­ful and bright, in­c­lu­ding him skil­lful­ly in every sin­g­le con­ver­sa­ti­on, even when it was all too cle­ar that he did not want to be in­c­lu­ded. She was gro­wing des­pe­ra­te. This eve­ning sho­uld ha­ve be­en the per­fect op­por­tu­nity for the two of them to re­ga­in so­me nor­malcy in the­ir mar­ri­age, as they had to pre­sent a uni­ted front to all tho­se they met. Yet it was just the op­po­si­te ca­se. Dre­ad had long sin­ce be­at its way in­to her bre­ast.

  Exha­us­ted, Re­gi­na he­aded to­ward the pow­der ro­om. She lo­oked for Sla­de as she mo­ved thro­ugh the crow­ded bal­lro­om but did not glim­p­se him. Her pa­rents we­re in at­ten­dan­ce, and they wa­ved at her, trying to en­ti­ce her to co­me over to them. Re­gi­na sig­na­led them that she wo­uld re­turn in a mo­ment. But she did not want to spe­ak with them to­night. They wo­uld ta­ke one lo­ok at her and de­mand to know why she was so un­hap­py.

  She was un­hap­py. She was un­hap­py and frig­h­te­ned. How we­re she and Sla­de go­ing to con­ti­nue if the­ir re­la­ti­on­s­hip kept on wor­se­ning? How co­uld she stop this pe­ri­lo­us dow­n­s­li­de when she did not even un­der­s­tand it?

  She was mo­ving past the open do­ors of the ter­ra­ce when a mo­ve­ment in the sha­dows out­si­de ca­ught her at­ten­ti­on. The ter­ra­ce was il­lu­mi­na­ted with do­zens of pa­per lan­terns, strung up and glo­wing li­ke small in­can­des­cent mo­ons. She pa­used, her ga­ze set­tling on a very fa­mi­li­ar out­li­ne.

  Rick had se­en her too. Shrug­ging she­epishly, he ca­me out of the sha­dows and met her in­si­de.

  "You ca­me!"

  "Ye­ah, well, hell." Rick lo­oked un­com­for­tab­le. "You ha­ve a way abo­ut you."

  Re­gi­na smi­led. It was tre­mu­lo­us, but her first re­al smi­le of the night.

  "You don't lo­ok go­od," Rick sa­id bluntly. "You've had eno­ugh for to­night. Sla­de sho­uld ta­ke you ho­me."

  Te­ars we­re mis­ting her vi­si­on, te­ars that had not­hing to do with her own he­avy he­art. She po­in­ted to­ward the dan­cers. "He's over the­re so­mew­he­re. Go to him, Rick."

  Inste­ad of mo­ving, Rick sa­id, "I sho­uldn't be he­re."

  "No," Re­gi­na sa­id, "you sho­uld be he­re." She to­ok his arm. She had be­en go­ing to the pow­der ro­om for a bri­ef res­pi­te, but this was mo­re im­por­tant. "Co­me with me."

  Re­luc­tantly, Rick al­lo­wed him­self to be led ac­ross the ro­om.

  They fi­nal­ly fo­und Sla­de stan­ding alo­ne be­ne­ath one of the pot­ted palm tre­es. It struck her then that his lo­nely stan­ce be­ne­ath the tree in the cor­ner of the ro­om was as pur­po­se­ful as his self-in­f­lic­ted exi­le in San Fran­cis­co, and as me­anin­g­ful.

  He saw them. His eyes wi­de­ned.

  Rick nod­ded at his son. "Fancy tur­no­ut."

  "I don't be­li­eve this," Sla­de sa­id. "I've be­en li­ving in the city for ten ye­ars, yet un­til last we­ek I ne­ver saw you he­re, not on­ce. Now, in one we­ek, I see you twi­ce. I don't un­der­s­tand."

  Rick sho­ved his hands in his poc­kets. "I ca­me to the city to spe­ak with yo­ur wi­fe. But sin­ce she won't ask you to co­me ho­me, I re­ali­zed I'll ha­ve to do it myself."

  "What?"

  "You he­ard. You're go­ne and Ed­ward's go­ne." He shif­ted. "I can't run the pla­ce alo­n
e."

  "Su­re you can, Rick. Even when James was ali­ve, you we­re run­ning it alo­ne."

  Re­gi­na ca­me to li­fe. "Sla­de, yo­ur fat­her has just as­ked you to go ho­me!"

  "I he­ard him. I'll think abo­ut it," he sa­id to Rick.

  "What the hell is the­re to think abo­ut?" Rick as­ked an­g­rily. "You pre­fer this crap to Mi­ra­mar? That’s re­al. This is a fa­ir­y­land and not­hing mo­re!"

  "May­be I'll think abo­ut how long it to­ok you to ask me to co­me ho­me-and why you want me at Mi­ra­mar now-when you ne­ver did be­fo­re."

  "Stop it!" Re­gi­na cri­ed. "Why can't you both put yo­ur dam­nab­le pri­de asi­de and ad­mit that you ne­ed each ot­her? Why? Oh, to hell with you both!"

  She tur­ned and fled, fi­nal­ly pus­hed over the ed­ge. She had had eno­ugh. She ran thro­ugh the crowd and fo­und her­self alo­ne on the ter­ra­ce un­der the do­zens of pa­per mo­ons. She grip­ped the cold iron ra­iling, re­fu­sing to cry. "Damn you," she whis­pe­red, cur­sing Sla­de. "Stub­born blo­ody fo­ol." If he re­fu­sed to ma­ke pe­ace with his fat­her, wo­uld he re­fu­se to ma­ke pe­ace with her, too? What wo­uld it ta­ke for Rick to get thro­ugh to him? What wo­uld it ta­ke for her to get thro­ugh to him?

  "Re­gi­na?"

  She ten­sed. Her fat­her was the last per­son she wan­ted to see. "Ple­ase go away."

  "I can't, not when you are so up­set." He put his hand on her sho­ul­der. "Why isn't yo­ur hus­band he­re com­for­ting you?"

  Re­gi­na tur­ned to fa­ce him. "Be­ca­use we're ha­ving prob­lems. Isn't that what you want to he­ar?"

  Nic­ho­las sat be­si­de her on the bench. "Do you want to tell me?"

  "No, not re­al­ly."