A Matter of Circumstance

by Heather Graham

  “Why?”

  “It means, where is the bathroom.” She chuckled softly. “Then there’s te amo.”

  “Which means?”

  “I love you.”

  “Valerie!”

  “Aren’t you in love with him? Just a little bit?”

  “No. I’m not in love with anyone.”

  “Then it’s just sex.”

  “Of course it’s not just sex.”

  “Wow! Then you have made love, huh?”

  “Valerie, stuff some more food into your mouth, will you, please?”

  “Sure, but I can’t teach you much Spanish that way!”

  * * *

  Friday seemed to roll around very slowly. Mandy fluctuated between longing to see him so badly that she hurt and dreading it so thoroughly that she almost called to cancel.

  He didn’t call her. She even began to wonder whether he had been serious. He hadn’t asked for her address, but then, she was certain he could get it easily enough.

  At some point she realized that although he might be crazy, she was the one suffering a terrible illness. She didn’t want an involvement, yet she was involved. And that made her dilemma all the worse. She knew that she shouldn’t see him. Seeing him would only bring more arguments, more disaster. She still couldn’t tell whether he liked her or hated her—or if he was using her.

  But none of it mattered. She had to see him. And not even the memory of her tragic past could intrude on that basic desire.

  The week was a slow one on campus, too. They were almost at spring break. She made her arrangements to leave for the dig in Colorado on the Monday when the vacation began. She wouldn’t really be able to get too involved in the work—she wouldn’t have the time—but it would be fascinating just to be a part of it.

  As much as she was looking forward with dread and fascination to seeing Sean again, she was glad that she could hop aboard a plane and leave—run away—the Monday after.

  Friday night did come, as things inevitably did. He had said seven; at five she was in the shower, shampooing her hair, taking a long luxurious bath. She couldn’t help reminding herself that he had usually seen her at her grubbiest, and she wanted to be perfect—as perfect as she could be.

  If he was really coming for her…

  She had never experienced anything in her life like the emotions and physical agitation that came to her unbidden that night, growing worse and worse as seven o’clock approached. She was anxious and scared and nervous—and her fingers shook so badly that her first application of mascara was applied to her cheeks rather than her eyelashes. Her stomach felt as if fifty jugglers were tossing eight balls apiece inside it. Her palms were damp; her body felt on fire. And to her eternal shame, she seemed incapable of remembering what he looked like dressed, recalling instead every nuance of his naked body. She was trying to pour herself a glass of wine when the doorbell rang.

  She dropped the glass and stupidly watched it shatter all over the tile floor. She swept it up in a mad rush, raced to the door—then stopped herself, smoothing back her hair before throwing open the door.

  At her first sight of him all the nervous heat and energy and anticipation churned through her anew. He was tan and clean shaven, his hair still damp from the shower. He was wearing a light suit, tailored to fit his physique, enhancing the breadth of his shoulders and the trimness of his waistline. The most noticeable thing about him, as always, was his eyes. So green, so shocking, against the strong planes of his face. The look of character in them gave him his rugged appeal, raised him above such an undistinguished word as “handsome.”

  Then she realized with dismay that he was in a suit—and she was in jeans. “Oh,” she said softly.

  “Does that mean come in?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Come in.” She backed away from the door awkwardly. He followed her. For several seconds he stared at nothing but her, then he looked around her house.

  There wasn’t much on the first floor, just a living room that led to the kitchen on the left, the sun porch in the rear and the staircase to the right. It was pretty, though, she thought. The carpeting was deep cream, the furniture French provincial. The screen that separated the dining area from the rest of the room was Oriental.

  “Nice,” he said. He meant “rich.”

  She shrugged. “Thank you. Uh, would you like a drink? I think I need to change.”

  He acted as if he was just noticing her clothing. Then he frowned. “Where did you think I was taking you?”

  “A friend of mine suggested…never mind. Why don’t you help yourself. The kitchen is all yours. I’ll be right down.”

  She fled up the stairs, tripping on the last one, and hoped he hadn’t noticed. She changed into a kelly green cocktail dress, almost ripping it in her haste to reclothe herself. It seemed very illicit, suddenly, just to be in the same house with him, half-clad. Especially half-clad, and trembling, and thinking that she would just as easily, just as gladly, crawl into a bed, onto a floor—anywhere—with him as she ever had.

  Unwilling to consider such thoughts for long, she raced hurriedly and breathlessly back down the stairs.

  He was sipping wine and had poured a glass for her. He handed it to her, watching her. She thanked him, then they fell silent.

  “How, was, uh, getting back to work?” she asked at last.

  “Fine. How about you?”

  “Fine.”

  Silence again.

  “I’ve got great students,” she offered.

  He nodded. Eventually he said, “We should get going.”

  “Yes.”

  She was somewhat surprised to discover that his car was a lemon-yellow Ferrari. He smiled at her look, leaning over her shoulder as he opened the door to whisper tauntingly, “No, I’m not on the take. My father was a cigar king once upon a time, and he left a trust fund, which I managed to invest rather decently.”

  “Did I say anything?”

  “Your eyes did.”

  She didn’t even know where they were going; he drove in silence. When they got onto the Dolphin Expressway, and then onto I-95, she finally asked him.

  “Miami Shores,” he said simply then lapsed back into silence again.

  She decided to break it. “I’ve been taking a few Spanish lessons.”

  His eyes met hers briefly in the mirror. “Oh? Why?”

  “I thought I should be able to say a few things tonight.”

  He smiled. “That’s nice.”

  There was something about that smile she didn’t like.

  He flicked on the radio. Mandy gave up, closed her eyes and leaned back in the seat. It was better than watching his hands on the steering wheel and remembering other places where they had been.

  Eventually they turned off the highway and drove through a series of side streets until they pulled into a circular drive fronting a beautiful old Deco residence. Mandy wanted to ask him whose house it was, but he didn’t give her a chance. He helped her out, then hurried to the door so quickly that she nearly tripped as she followed him.

  He didn’t ring the bell; he just walked in. And then Mandy understood that smile.

  It was a party all right. It was even ethnic. Half the people there were dressed in green, and on a beautiful rich oak bar at the back of the living room was a massive glass keg of green beer.

  “St. Patrick’s Day!” she gasped.

  “It is the seventeenth,” Sean murmured.

  “You rat!” It was all she could think of.

  “Sean! You made it! Come in, dear, and introduce me to Mrs. Blayne!”

  She didn’t need to be introduced to his mother; Mrs. Ramiro had apparently given her son the emerald green of her eyes. She was a tiny creature, no more than five-two, slim and graceful, with marvelous silver hair and a smile that could melt a glacier.

  Mrs. Ramiro was charming. She had a soft brogue and an equally soft voice, and she was entirely entrancing. “I’m Siobhan, Mrs. Blayne. You come with me!” She win
ked and tucked Mandy’s arm into her own. Then she walked her guest around, introducing her to various people—who seemed to come in all nationalities. Spanish was spoken by some of them, but it was always broken off politely when Mandy appeared, and she was impressed with the sincere interest shown by those who met her.

  At last Mrs. Ramiro brought her to the bar, where she was given a green beer.

  “You look shell-shocked, child. What’s the matter?” Siobhan asked her.

  Mandy found herself being perfectly honest. “I thought I was going to have roast pig,” she admitted finally, and Siobhan laughed. “I spent all week practicing my Spanish.”

  “Well, I daresay you’ll get to use it. A number of my guests are Cuban and Colombian.”

  “On St. Patrick’s Day,” Mandy murmured.

  “Oh, everyone’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day.” Siobhan laughed. “Aren’t you, just a smidgen?”

  Over the rim of her glass, Mandy saw Sean coming toward them, and she said very clearly for his benefit, “Oh, honestly, I don’t know, Siobhan. As far as I know I’m just an American mongrel. No one ever seemed to be able to trace my family.”

  Siobhan laughed softly again. “I’ll warrant there’s some Irish in you somewhere!”

  Sean smiled down at his mother, helping himself to the green beer. “Maybe there is, Mother. I tried to call her WASP once, and she told me that she was Catholic. Could mean a good Irish priest was nestled in the family somewhere.”

  “You called her what? Sean!”

  “Dreadful of me, wasn’t it?”

  “Certainly. I don’t know how you stood him for all that time, Amanda!” Siobhan shook her head. “I must get back to my other guests. Please, Amanda, have a wonderful time. I’m so glad to meet you. And I promise,” she added, her eyes sparkling, “we’ll roast you a pig next time!”

  Mandy was left to face Sean again. She sipped her beer, staring steadily at him. “You really are a rat.”

  “Why?”

  “You knew what I assumed.”

  “I’m sorry about the lack of a pig. Well, actually, we do have a pig. Cabbage and bacon.”

  “Umm.”

  He set his beer down on the bar and swept hers from her hand, then looped his arms around her and brought her against him. She stiffened, but he seemed not to notice. “There’s music out on the patio. People are dancing. Dance with me, Mandy.”

  She didn’t really have a chance to refuse. He simply led her out to the back, where a trio was playing and people were indeed dancing beneath soft colored lights.

  The music was slow, and she found herself in his arms. Dancing with him came as easily as making love.

  “Why did you come with me tonight?” he asked her at length.

  Her face was against his shoulder; her hand was clasped in his. She could feel all the rhythms of his body, and the softness of his dark hair brushing her forehead as he bent his head.

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Are you glad you did?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you hate me?”

  “I…no.”

  “You smell great.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You feel great.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you know what I’m thinking?”

  “Do I want to know?”

  “I don’t know.” He waited a moment, then continued. “I was thinking that I wish a leprechaun would suddenly whisk all these people away so I could ravish you this very second.”

  She wondered how just his words could affect her so deeply, but they could. She was glad that she was clinging to him; she needed the balance.

  She closed her eyes before she spoke. “I didn’t mean what I said, you know,” she told him, then hesitated. “About Latins. You know. The, uh, last American remembering the flag.”

  His arms tightened around her as they swayed.

  “You’d marry a Ramiro?”

  “That wasn’t the question. You never mentioned marriage.”

  “I suppose I didn’t. But if I had—hypothetically, of course—what would your hypothetical answer have been?”

  “I—I don’t think that I—”

  His interruption was a whisper that swept her ear like velvet. “But you can handle an affair?”

  She didn’t answer him.

  “You’ll sleep with me, but that’s it, huh?”

  Suddenly she wasn’t leaning on his shoulder any longer; she was being held away from him, and his eyes were searching hers.

  And she was desperately wondering why she was here. Dr. Jekyll always turned into Mr. Hyde.

  He started to say something, but before he could a slim dark-haired young man tapped his shoulder apologetically, smiled with rueful fascination at Mandy, then cleared his throat as he remembered his mission. “Sean, we’ve got an emergency call. And you promised to introduce me.”

  “Harvey Anderson, Amanda Blayne. What’s the call?” he inquired, annoyed.

  “Mrs. McKinley’s being treated at Jackson. Suicide attempt. Sorry, Mrs. Blayne. They want us. Pronto.”

  Sean’s shoulders fell as he stared at Amanda. She knew that he was really aggravated, he had wanted the discussion to go further.

  So had she. He never understood her, and it was largely her fault. Still, maybe this was for the best.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Mom will see that you get home. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  She nodded, knowing that he wouldn’t reach her. She was going to change her flight and leave for Colorado in the morning.

  He looked as if he was going to say something else, as if he longed to. As if he longed to touch her one more time.

  But he didn’t. He just closed his eyes briefly, shook his head and left her.

  And perhaps it was for the best. Because although Mandy insisted again and again that she could call a cab, Siobhan Ramiro was determined to drive her home. She kept up a pleasant stream of chatter from the north of the city to the south and, surprisingly enough, agreed to come in for coffee before driving home.

  Mandy soon discovered why.

  As Siobhan sipped her coffee she dropped all pretense of casual interest and stared at Mandy with her clear green eyes. “I think my son is in love with you.”

  Mandy couldn’t pull her eyes away from that green stare. Nor could she give anything but a bitter, honest answer. “Sometimes I think he hates me.”

  Siobhan lowered her eyes, smiling slightly. “No, he just doesn’t always handle himself very well. You see…” She hesitated briefly, then shrugged and continued. “I came here to tell you something. I hope I can trust you. I’m not supposed to know this. A friend of his told me about it, because I was beside myself, worrying about him. There was a spell a few years ago when he had a different woman every week. He almost seemed to—to delight in starting an affair. And ending it. And they were all…blond.”

  Siobhan sat back in her chair with a sigh. “He grew out of it quickly, though he never became really involved again. Cruelty really isn’t a part of his nature. I should have known all along. You see, there was this particular girl…well, he’d been madly in love with her. He wanted to marry her. He was going to meet her parents, she was going to come and meet me. All of a sudden it was off. I found out later that she had been pregnant—and that her parents had forced her into an overseas boarding school after a quick abortion.”

  “Why?” Mandy gasped, stunned by the story.

  Siobhan smiled with a trace of her son’s bitterness. “They were very rich. And totally bigoted. The name Ramiro just didn’t fit in with their idea of their daughter’s future.”

  “Oh,” Mandy said weakly.

  Siobhan rose. “Well, that’s it. I—I hope I’ve helped. I noticed the sparks flying at the bar tonight, and knowing him, well, I thought maybe you deserved an explanation.”

  Mandy bit her lip, rising to escort her visitor to the d
oor. “Siobhan,” she said impulsively, “It has helped. And I hope you believe that I would never feel that way. Sean…Sean thinks that I do, though. I’ve got a few problems that he doesn’t understand.”

  “I know,” Siobhan said softly. “I know about your husband and your child. And I’m so sorry. But you’ve got a long life ahead of you. Neither of them would have wished you to spend it in misery.”

  “I’m afraid,” Mandy told her.

  “To care again? We all are.”

  “Siobhan,” Mandy said again impulsively, “I’m going away for a while. To work.”

  “And more than that, to think?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, whatever you decide, I wish you the best.”

  “Thank you.”

  Siobhan kissed her cheek, smiled encouragingly, then hurried down the walk to her car.

  Mandy watched the taillights until they disappeared in the night, then thoughtfully closed her door.

  CHAPTER 13

  The dig was a recent one; the site had only been discovered about a year before. A camper had found a piece of bone sticking out of the ground in a field near the mountains. Curious, he had asked another friend to look at it, and luckily, the professionals had been called in before anything could be destroyed.

  Mandy’s time had just about expired, and she wasn’t sure if she was sad—or grateful. There was a yearning in her to go home. She had desperately wanted to get away to think, but she hadn’t really thought at all. By day she had chiseled and wrapped and plastered; by night she had lain alone and wished that she was not alone. What frightened her was that, though Sean hadn’t actually said so, she knew that he wanted a wholehearted commitment, and she cringed like a child from that thought.

  But then, she had thought she couldn’t possibly make love with him, and that had occurred easily, beautifully. Maybe all things would follow suit. Maybe all she had to do was take the plunge.

  As the afternoon fell she was sitting in her little spot in front of the phalanges of a Tyrannosaurus rex, carefully dusting the last of the sand from them with a sable brush so that they could be prepared for removal.

  There was gigantic oak behind her, and a pile of rocks before her, so although the site was filled with workers, she was virtually alone. The find had been magnificent: a dozen of these particular beasts, and then any number of other creatures they had fed upon. She was glad to be alone, yet when she did try to think she panicked and wished that she was in the middle of a crowd.