by Joan Wolf
“Stupid not to have timed this better?” he said deliberately.
She stared up at him. He had been hurt and now he was trying to hurt back. “Do you think I’ve been unfaithful to you?” she asked.
He looked down into her clear, truthful eyes. After a minute his face relaxed a fraction. “No, I suppose not,” he said. “What was he doing here?”
“He came to bring back my book.” All the joy Martin’s words had given her were effectively destroyed by this sequel. She had to break through to Ricardo. She couldn’t bear the way he was looking at her. “Ricardo,” she said, “darling.” She put her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his chest. He was stiff and unyielding under her hands. “We talked about my book,” she said, “and then, just as he was leaving, he broke down and said he was in love with me.” The look in Martin’s eyes came back to her. “He meant it, I think. Poor Martin.” She turned her face into Ricardo’s shoulder. The scent of him, the feel of him, drove all thought of Martin from her mind. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her mouth pressed against his shoulder.
After a very long minute his arms came up to circle her lightly. “He has been in love with you for a long time,” he said. “Apparently you were the only one who didn’t see it.”
The relief she felt at the feel of his arms about her was tremendous. “Did you?” she asked.
“Of course.”
She closed her eyes. “Why didn’t you warn me?” she murmured.
“I didn’t think I had to. I thought all women had a sixth sense for something like that.”
It was true, she thought, tightening her arms about his waist. She should have known. But she was so absorbed by Ricardo that she didn’t see other men very clearly. “It’s bad enough being married to a femme fatale,” he was going on, “but an innocent femme fatale is murder.”
“A femme fatale? I?” She was so astonished her voice squeaked.
“You.” Very, very briefly his cheek came down to touch her hair. Then he released her. “What did Harrison have to say about your book?” he asked.
She longed quite desperately to feel his arms about her once again, but he had put her away from him very definitely. “He liked it,” she said.
“I was sure he would.” Ricardo sat down in his favorite chair and stretched out his legs.
A thought struck her. “Ricardo, do you suppose he was only saying that because—because of how he feels about me?” she asked in dismay. She dropped down onto an ottoman at his feet.
“No, I don’t. What exactly did he say?” She told him, and when she had finished he nodded slowly. “I’m not exactly one of Harrison’s admirers,” he said then, “but I don’t think he’d mislead you on something like this.”
“Not deliberately, no. . . .”
“Why don’t you let me read it?” he asked.
“I’d love you to read it,” she responded instantly. “If you’re sure you want to?”
In response he held out his hand. “No time like the present,” he said laconically.
She got up from her ottoman and went to retrieve the manila envelope from the sofa. “You don’t mean to start reading now?” she asked as she gave it to him. “It’s after midnight.”
“I’ll sleep late tomorrow,” he said, and slid the manuscript out of the folder.
She was utterly disconcerted. She had been sure he would want to make love to her tonight, to assert his rights in the face of another claim. And here he was, putting his legs up on her ottoman, making himself comfortable for a long stay. “Well,” she said uncertainly, “I guess I’ll go up to bed.”
“Um.” His eyes were on her manuscript. “You’d better. One of us is going to have to get up with Ricky tomorrow.”
Very very slowly she trailed off to their room. The whole scene after Martin had left had been very anti-climactic, she thought crossly. Once she had convinced Ricardo of her innocence, he had totally lost interest. And she had been sure he was going to murder Martin! He didn’t care, she thought miserably, as she undressed upstairs. So long as she remained sexually faithful to him, he didn’t care about her other feelings. She should have let him stew for a while. It would have served him right. She got into bed and curled up under the sheet. She remembered Ricardo’s hands, opening and closing so menacingly. No, she thought soberly. On second thought, she had acted in the only possible way. Ricardo had only been a hair’s breadth from punching Martin. Susan didn’t have any illusion as to Martin’s chances should such a situation have come to pass. She shivered and burrowed deeper into her pillow. In retrospect, she had gotten off very lightly. And he was even reading her book. She yawned. When you came to think of it, she reflected sleepily, that was really something. She closed her eyes and in two minutes she was asleep.
Ricardo was beside her when she awoke the following morning. She looked for a minute at his dark head on the pillow next to hers and then her eyes traveled down to his strongly muscled shoulders and back. His skin looked very dark and coppery against the white of the sheets. She remembered the feel of that skin against hers, the hard demanding urgency of his body pressing her down into the softness of the bed. Desire ripped through her like a rowel of pain. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and then slid out of bed. Down the corridor Ricky was crying and she slipped her feet into terry-cloth slippers and went along to her son’s room. “Good morning, sweetheart,” she said as she opened the door. “Were you calling me?”
* * * *
Ricardo didn’t awake until almost eleven, an unheard of hour for him. He was capable of functioning on far less sleep than she was and was usually up by seven-thirty at the latest. “Good morning,” she said brightly as he came down the stairs dressed in old jeans and a light blue knit golf shirt. “You slept well.”
He grimaced and rubbed his head. “Too well. Do you have any coffee?”
“Come out to the kitchen and I’ll make you some.” Maria was on vacation for two weeks and Susan was doing all the chores and the cooking. He followed her out to the shining, modern, white Formica kitchen and sat down at the table. She put coffee in the Farberware instant perk and plugged it in. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” she said. “What did you think of it?”
“I think it is beautiful,” he answered simply.
Her heart thudded, skipped a beat and then began to function again. “Do you mean that?” she almost whispered.
“Yes.” He looked at her steadily, his brown eyes dark and oddly grave. “I know I’m not a literary type like Harrison, and I read mostly nonfiction these days, but I did take a few Lit courses in college. I know what good writing is. And your book is good. Very good.” She smiled at him from across the room, a smile of pure happiness. “It was about Sara, wasn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes.” She leaned back against the counter. “I wanted to try to capture her, to show what she was like—the warmth, the brightness, the vivid charm of her. It was something I felt I had to do. I wanted to do. For Sara and for Mother.”
“And you were Kate,” he said quietly.
“Yes.” The coffee had stopped perking and she poured him a cup and brought it over to the table. She set out milk and sugar and then poured a cup for herself and came to join him.
“Such a shy, sensitive little girl,” he said softly. There was a pause, “And so lonely.”
Her head was bent, and she was gazing intently into her coffee. “It isn’t easy to be the only weed in the flower garden,” she said lightly.
“I think, rather, it was the other way around.” He sounded very somber and, startled, she raised her head. “You must publish it,” he said, changing the subject.
She hesitated. “Martin said I should get an agent. He offered to recommend me to his.” She bit her lip.
“Ricardo, I think I should talk to Martin. He left last night on such an—unpleasant—note. I owe it to him to at least see him and explain.” She could feel the heat flushing her cheeks. “I’m dreadfully afraid I led him on,” she con
fessed. “I didn’t mean to, but if I’m honest I have to admit he could easily have misinterpreted my actions. I—I do like him, you see.” “Yes.” His eyes were dark and inscrutable. “I see.” “Then—then you don’t mind if I call him?” “Just this once, Susan.” There was a warning note in his voice and she responded hastily.
“Of course. I promise I won’t see him alone again.” His long lashes half fell, screening his eyes. “I’m hungry,” he said. “I could use some breakfast.”
She rose instantly. “What would you like? Eggs? Bacon? Toast?”
“It all sounds good.” He watched in silence as she fixed his breakfast, and when it was put in front of him he said, “Thank you, querida.”
She was standing next to him and bent to drop a light kiss on his thick shining hair. “De nada,” she said. Her head cocked. “There’s the prince, waking up from his morning nap. I’d better go up to him.” Ricardo watched her slight figure move swiftly to the door. It wasn’t until she was out of sight that he picked up his fork and began to eat.
Chapter Thirteen
Susan’s interview with Martin left her feeling distressed and guilty. She hated to be the cause of someone else’s unhappiness and, clearly, she had made Martin very unhappy.
“I shouldn’t have spent so much time with you in Florida,” she said wretchedly. “I shouldn’t have come into the city to have lunch with you. I wouldn’t have misled you the way I did if I had been single. All I can say is that I thought my marriage made anything more than friendship between us impossible.”
“Not everyone takes marriage so seriously,” he had said.
“Well I do.”
“And Rick?”
“Ricardo as well. We are married and we plan to stay married, Martin. I’m sorry, but there it is.”
She had spoken the truth to Martin, she reflected as she rode home on the early-afternoon train. Ricardo had not married her because he loved her, but he did take his marriage seriously. It was one of the reasons they had been able to make it work. He might not love her, but he respected her position as his wife and the mother of his son. She could not imagine any circumstances under which he would run off to the divorce courts. If he found another woman whom he desired more than her, he would simply make arrangements on the side. Her position would always be secure.
She felt unutterably depressed by the time she got off the train. Ricardo was waiting for her at the station, and as she got into the station wagon next to him she felt like bursting into tears. What did she care about position? It was his love she wanted.
“How did it go?” he asked as they maneuvered through downtown traffic.
“Terrible,” she said mournfully. “Poor Martin. I felt so wretched for him. He was really quite serious, I’m afraid.”
He grunted. “And what about your book?”
“I’m to call his agent tomorrow. That part at least looks promising.”
“Good.”
Susan turned around in her seat to smile at Ricky, who was securely belted into his car seat in the back. “How did you make out with the prince?” she asked. It was the first time she had left Ricardo in charge of the baby for more than an hour.
“Very well,” he answered peacefully. “I paid bills and answered mail all morning and he zoomed around in that walker you bought him. We managed very well.” He shot her a quick, sidelong look. “I even changed his diaper. Twice.”
She laughed. “Bravo. Shall I pin on your medal now or later?”
He kept his eyes on the road although a faint answering smile touched his lips. “If you can keep awake until I get home tonight, you can reward me then,” he said.
They didn’t speak again until they reached home. “I think I’ll take a swim before dinner,” Susan said as they got out of the car. “The city is like a furnace today and seeing poor Martin has really thrown me. I hate to make people unhappy.”
“I know you do.” Very briefly he touched her cheek. “I think I’ll join you. It has been hot today.”
They swam for an hour, taking turns swimming Ricky around. The baby loved the water and cried whenever they tried to take him out. “Enough,” Ricardo finally said. “I have a game tonight and I won’t have the energy for it if I don’t sit down for a few minutes.” Ricky yelled as his father plunked him down and promptly got his legs up under him to crawl toward the pool again.
Susan snatched him up. “Life has certainly become peppier since Ricky learned to crawl,” she said. “We can’t leave him here, Ricardo. Get the playpen from the house.”
Ricardo wrapped a towel around his waist to keep his bathing trunks from dripping on the carpet and went in through the french doors. He was back in a few minutes carrying the folded-up playpen, which he proceeded to set up in the shade of the umbrella. Susan took off Ricky’s wet suit, put a dry Pamper on him and deposited him in the playpen with some of his toys. “Now,” she said, “take a nap.” Ricky kicked and fussed and both his parents sat down and ignored him. In ten minutes he was asleep.
“I hope he stays as easy to handle as he gets older,” Susan said to Ricardo with a smile. “Somehow, though, I doubt it.”
“I doubt it too,” he answered dryly.
He stretched out on the chaise longue and closed his eyes. Susan regarded his relaxed figure for a minute in silence and then she sighed. “I wish you weren’t going away again tomorrow,” she said wistfully. He opened his mouth to answer and she said hastily, “I know, I know. It’s your job. You tell me that every time. But that doesn’t mean I won’t miss you.”
“Will you, querida?” His eyes were still closed.
“Yes, I will.”
“That’s good.” He sounded very sleepy and, annoyed, Susan closed her own eyes.
She must have dozed off, for when she woke Ricardo was gone. After checking on Ricky, who was still sleeping, Susan went into the house. The only sign of her husband downstairs was a wet towel draped over one of the kitchen chairs. She picked it up and went upstairs. Ricardo was in the shower. Susan looked at the clock. It was almost time for dinner. Hastily she pulled off her own suit and put on a pair of navy shorts and a yellow Izod shirt. She tied her hair at the nape of her neck with a yellow ribbon, thrust her feet into sandals and ran back downstairs to put the chicken on the grill and the rice on the stove. When Ricardo came downstairs ten minutes later she was able to say, “Dinner will be in half an hour. I think I heard the paperboy come by a few minutes ago.”
He went out to get the paper and sat on the patio reading it as she took Ricky upstairs to change him. When she came back down the rice was done. “I think we’d better eat in the kitchen, Ricardo,” she called as she threw a salad together and heated up Ricky’s food. “I’m going to have to feed Ricky as we eat. He’s starving.”
He came out and took a place at the table. Susan strapped Ricky into his high chair and served up the food. “I’m spoiled rotten,” she said as she tried to eat and feed Ricky pureed carrots at the same time. “Maria takes so much off me. I almost forgot to put dinner on.”
“I could have gotten something at the ball park,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you. You looked tired.”
“I was,” she admitted. “And depressed, too.” She sighed. “Poor Martin.”
“Do you know, querida,” he said, and a curious look of quiet gravity came over his face, “I live in growing dread of one day hearing you say, ‘Poor Ricardo.’ “
* * * *
Ricardo didn’t go on the road trip after all. A pitch from the Orioles ace relief pitcher connected with Ricardo’s head and he ended up in the hospital. Susan, who had been watching the game on TV, was frantic. He had lain still for so long and then she couldn’t see him because he was surrounded by trainers and teammates. When the announcer said, “He’s moving! He’s getting up!” the rush of relief was so overwhelming that she nearly fainted.
Ricardo walked off the field and a runner went to first base for him. Ten minutes later the phone rang. “Susan?” said
a male voice. “This is Chuck Henderson.” It was one of the team coaches. “Were you watching the game?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said tensely.
“Rick seems fine,” he said quickly. “Dr. Hastings is going to take him over to the hospital for an X-ray—he most probably has a concussion—but I’m sure he’ll be fine. He asked me to call you and tell you that.”
“Are they going to keep him overnight, Chuck? He shouldn’t drive. Does he want me to come in and get him?”
“They’ll keep him overnight.” Chuck was positive about that.
“Oh. Will you ask Dr. Hastings to call me after they’ve checked him over?”
“Sure thing, Susan. Try not to worry. He took a hard crack but the batting helmet absorbed most of the shock. He’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Thanks for calling, Chuck.”
“I’ll have Doc Hastings call you later,” he promised again. “Try not to worry too much.”
“Okay,” she said again, and slowly hung up the phone.
The ball game was still on in the family room when she went back inside. “It was a fast ball that got away from Richards,” the announcer was saying. “Montoya went down like a shot.” Susan switched the TV off and started pacing. She was still on her feet two hours later when the phone rang again. She picked it up on the first ring.
“Hello,” she said sharply.
“Mrs. Montoya?”
“Yes. Is this Dr. Hastings?”
“That’s right. Rick’s going to be fine, Mrs. Montoya, but he has a concussion and the hospital wants to keep him for a day or two.”
“I see. How—how serious is the concussion, doctor?”
“He took a good knock. He’s got some ringing in his ears and he’s dizzy and nauseous. But there doesn’t appear to be any serious damage.”
Doesn’t appear to be. Susan swallowed hard. “When can I see him?”
