An Inconvenient Husband (9 page)

"We were talking
about our honeymoon." He straightened away from the doorjamb and moved
toward her.

"And I'm talking
about getting out of here," she snapped, automatically looking up at him.

"Are the memories
too disturbing?" he asked, meeting her eyes.

"It's all a long
time ago." She tried to sound indifferent, but her voice trembled.

He held her gaze.
"But not too long to forget, is it?" And it was there, in his
voice—pain and yearning mirroring her own.

She clenched her
hands, fighting for calmness, terrified to be overwhelmed by emotion.
"What are you getting at, Blake? What do you want me to say?"

"I'm not sure.
Something to the effect that our marriage was real to you at the time—no matter
that it ended, no matter what the reason."

Her stomach churned.
"Real, as opposed to what?"

"A fake, a game
of pretense." He pushed his hands into his pockets.

Hot tears filled her
eyes. "How dare you ask that! How could you even
think
that!" she said huskily, angry at herself for losing her composure.

He shook his head.
"I couldn't." He turned away from her, moving toward the door. As he
left the room, he glanced at her over his shoulder.

"I came to tell
you that if you're thirsty, Ramyah put drinks out for us on the veranda."

He left and she busied
herself putting the clothes away, trying to steady her nerves. It was crazy to
let herself get so affected by him. She'd have to keep her cool and not let
memories get the better of her. Be calm, be in control, she told herself. She
grimaced. Such brave words.

Having finished with
the clothes she took a deep breath to fortify herself and ventured to the
veranda. Blake was sitting in a chair, drinking from a tall glass, reading a
book. Not a novel, her glimpse told her, but something about global marketing strategies.

The wide, covered
veranda was like an open room, with comfortable furniture, reading lamps and
tubs of flowering plants. She poured herself some of the juice from the pitcher
on the tray on the table and took a sip. It was deliciously sweet and tangy.
Feeling too restless to sit down, she sauntered over to the veranda railing and
took in the view.

"It's very
dramatic," she said, gesturing at the panorama of mountains and blue sky.

"Yes." It
was all he said.

She contemplated the
forest-covered hills. "Do people live in the jungle here? I mean, like the
Indians in the Amazon?"

"Yes. They're
called the
orang asli,
the original people. They're nomadic hunters and
gatherers, but there aren't very many left leading the traditional life."

She tried to imagine
what it would be like to live in the forest, but couldn't. She leaned her arms
on the wooden railing and surveyed the garden below, discovering to her delight
a neatly laid-out plot with plants and vines to the left. "They have a
vegetable garden!" she said, hearing her voice rise a little with her
enthusiasm. "I'm going to have a look."

"You can go down
the stairs over there," he suggested, pointing to the far end of the
veranda.

She skipped down the
creaking steps and followed the path to the vegetable plot, which had been
fenced in, probably to keep destructive forest creatures out. She walked
between the rows, seeing several kinds of lettuce, hot chili peppers, curly
endive, green beans, tomatoes trained on bamboo stakes, and a big patch of strawberries.
Strawberries in the tropics? Amazing!

To her surprise she
found Blake next to her a few minutes later. "Looks good," he
commented, surveying the neat rows.

She sighed longingly.
"I'd die for a garden like this. Imagine having all this wonderful, fresh
stuff to cook with!" She moved her hand gently through a clump of basil.
"This smells so great," she said, moving her face closer. "I
love the smell of basil."

He was watching her
with an odd expression in his eyes.

She frowned at him.
"What? Did I say something wrong?"

"No," he
said tersely.

She bent down near the
strawberries. "Look, there are a lot of ripe ones. Don't they look
beautiful, that bright red amid all that fresh green? A work of art, really.
We'd better pick them and have them for dessert."

"Just leave
them." There was a sharp edge to his voice and she glanced up, surprised.
His eyes were a dull, metal gray, unreadable. She frowned.

"Does it matter
if we pick a few?"

"Leave it to the
gardener. He doesn't like it if people interfere with his work."

She stared at him.
"Don't be ridiculous."

He shrugged, his face
stony. "Suit yourself." He marched off, back to the veranda. She
watched him, puzzled. What was the matter with him? What had she done to
irritate him? It had nothing to do with the strawberries, or the gardener, she
was sure. Earlier today in the village market he'd been irritable and impatient
as well. This moody, short-tempered man was not the Blake she remembered.

She shrugged off the
thought and picked a few berries and ate them slowly, savoring them. There was
nothing here to put them in to carry them back to the house, so she might as
well enjoy them right here and give Blake a little space.

Back on the veranda,
she poured herself another glass of juice. Blake was reading his book again,
legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. A small white scar stood out
against the tanned skin of his foot. A childhood injury he'd contracted while
trying to rescue a frog out of the cruel hands of a neighborhood boy. Chasing
the bigger boy, Blake, barefoot, had fallen and cut himself on a piece of
glass. Lots of blood. The other boy had fled in fear, throwing down the frog.

Her heart contracted.
Blake's mother had told her the story, and the image of Blake as a little boy
saving a frog was touching. She moved her gaze to a wooden tub of coral
impatiens blooming enthusiastically a few feet away. She had to stop thinking
about him, remembering things. The best way to do that was not to be in his
presence.

She put the glass on
the table. "I'd like to call my fath—" She stopped herself, feeling
her heart sink. "I don't suppose there's a telephone all the way up
here?"

He put his book down.
"There's a cellular one. It works on radio waves. It's in the
office." He pushed himself to his feet. "Come on, I'll show you how
to use it."

The office was a huge
room with one wall entirely taken up with windows. Underneath them, wide planks
of polished wood resting on filing cabinets functioned as desk space. Another
wall was covered with maps and photographs of plants. The two remaining walls
were taken up with bamboo shelving full of books, magazines and office
materials.

A muffled curse made
her turn around. "What's the matter?"

Blake was scowling
down at a small black box on the table. "The receiver is gone. Let me
check with Ramyah." He charged out of the room.

She entertained
herself by studying the maps and photographs on the wall. The maps appeared to
be of the surrounding forest, indicating locations where various plant species
had been found. The photos were beautiful, technically as well as artistically,
and she was quite content studying them.

Blake didn't look any
happier when he returned a while later, the missing receiver in his hand—in
pieces.

"For what it's
worth," he said flatly, "the mystery of why Ramyah was so nervous, is
solved." He slid the jumble of wires and metal pieces onto the table next
to the base.

"How did that
happen?" Nicky asked, surveying the mess. "This doesn't happen just
by dropping it!"

"No. This happens
when a curious seven-year-old decides to take it apart to see what's inside and
what makes it work."

Nicky groaned.
"Oh, no. Whose kid? Hers?"

He nodded. "She
took him to work with her last Saturday and you can guess the rest." He
grimaced. "She was afraid she'd be fired."

Nicky sighed. "No
wonder she was a nervous wreck. What did you tell her?"

"That it was an
accident and she's not getting fired, of course, and that the O'Connors will
arrange for another phone when they get back." He ran his hand through his
hair. "Damn," he muttered. "I don't understand the woman."

"You don't
understand what?" Nicky asked, surprised. "You mean that she lost
track of the kid so he could wreak his havoc with this thing?"

He waved his hand
impatiently. "No, of course not."

"Then what?"

"Think of this,"
he said. "Ramyah has been with the O'Connors for twelve years. She keeps
this place running like clockwork, no matter how many students or other people
invade the place. She's worth her weight in gold. They'd be lost without her,
and they know it." He gave an exasperated sigh. "And here she is,
terrified she'll be fired over a damn phone! You should have seen her a minute
ago. She was shaking like a leaf when she brought me the stuff. She'd been
praying all night for forgiveness."

Nicky felt a wave a
pity. "I feel sorry for her."

"But
why does she feel this way, for heaven's sake? Why doesn't she know her own worth?"
Nicky shrugged helplessly. "I have no idea. Maybe it's culture, or
something. Or maybe nobody ever actually
told
her she was worth her weight in
gold."

He frowned
impatiently. "I can't understand why she wouldn't know."

"How are you
supposed to know what other people think if they don't tell you? Are you
supposed to read their minds?"

He gave an exasperated
sigh. "Oh, for God's sake, Nicky, I'm not going to argue about this."
He swept up the bits and pieces of the receiver and dumped them unceremoniously
into the wastepaper basket. "I don't think we'll need this anymore."

"So now we have
no phone," Nicky stated unnecessarily.

"Right. Cut off
from the civilized world we are," he said indifferently. "I, for one,
don't care. A little peace and quiet won't hurt me at all."

Irritation swelled
inside her. "That's all good and well, but in the meantime I'm sitting
here not knowing what's going on with my father!"

He nodded, his
expression softening. "Don't worry about your father, Nicky. He's a smart
man."

"That's easy for
you to say!" She clenched her hands, feeling suddenly close to tears.
"I can't believe this is happening to me! I hate not knowing what to do,
to just...sit here!"

"It's the best
you can do for now."

"Well, it isn't
good enough!"

His jaw tensed.
"Complaining isn't going to get you anywhere. You might want to consider
what would have happened if I hadn't been able to get to you in time. You might
have found yourself in a place much less agreeable than this one."

The thought alone
cooled her considerably. He was right. Of course he was right. She dragged in a
calming breath of air. "I'm sorry," she said, trying to infuse her
voice with a little mature dignity. "My nerves were getting the better of
me. I'll work on them." She was going to stay in control of her emotions
if it killed her. She wasn't going to complain.

She caught the silver
glint deep in his eyes, but had no idea how to interpret it. She didn't know
his thoughts. Had she ever really known his thoughts?

She turned and went
back into the living room which also had a wall of shelving containing books
and magazines in both French and English.

To her delight she
found a wonderful collection of books on native foods, herbal medicines, and a
cookbook on aphrodisiacs and love potions. She took them to her room and read
through them, enjoying the strange tales and myths. There was an article in
there somewhere. She'd have to give it some thought.

Ramyah served them a
delicious meal that night, flavorful, spicy food which Nicky enjoyed
thoroughly.

"Does Ramyah live
in the village?" she asked Blake, trying for some conversation. He had
said little since the start of the meal.

He nodded. "Yes,
but during the week she and Ali stay in the servants' quarters at the back of
the house. They go home on Thursday night and come back Saturday
afternoon."

Nicky went on talking,
about her writing, about the success of her book, about the book she was
writing now. After a while it was clear that she was doing most of the talking
and annoyance began to creep through her.

"Listen,"
she said, "I'm trying to be pleasant and keep up my part of the
conversation, but a little feedback would be appreciated."

"I'm sorry, but I
don't feel like talking." He scraped back his chair. "I've work to
do, excuse me."

She stood up, too, her
heart suddenly pounding. What was the matter with this man? She did not
recognize him. She faced him squarely.

"I'm sorry if you
don't find my company stimulating, but I don't believe it's necessary for you
to be rude about it."