Chapter Eleven
Ricardo hadn’t been home above a few hours before Susan asked him, “Where did you find Miss Garfield? Didn’t you tell me she came through an agency?”
“No, I did not.” He gave her a brief, dark look. “You were probably thinking about your book and not listening to me. She’s Frank Moyer’s daughter.”
“You never told me that,” Susan said positively.
“I did too.” His eyes closed a little and he rested his head against the back of his chaise longue. They were sitting out on the patio in the warm sun. Ricardo had flown into New York early that morning after a night game in California. He had not had much sleep.
Susan looked at his relaxed figure, clad now in running shorts and an old T-shirt. He had the strongest legs of anyone she had ever seen: long, deeply tanned, black-haired and hard as iron. She leaned back in her own chaise and squinted into the sun. “Frank Moyer,” she said idly. “Isn’t he the man who runs the Y?”
“Yes. I mentioned to him that I was looking for a new secretary and he suggested Vicky. She’s in the process of getting a divorce and I guess she’s found time hanging on her hands.”
“Oh.” Susan’s eyes swung back to her husband. “Why is she getting a divorce?”
His lashes lifted and his astonishing large brown eyes regarded her speculatively. “Why all this interest in Vicky Garfield? You aren’t jealous of her?”
Susan bit her lip and then, ruefully, she smiled. “Yes, I am. She makes me feel like an untidy little shrimp. The last time she came I even put on makeup and a dress—but it didn’t help.”
His eyes glinted and a faint smile touched his mouth. “Vicky is getting a divorce because she found out her husband was having an affair with his secretary.”
Susan’s eyes widened. “He must have been mad,” she said. “I mean, look at Vicky.”
“I have,
querida
,” he murmured wickedly, and she frowned. “And what I see,” he went serenely on, “is a foolish young woman who runs off to the divorce court at the least sign of trouble.” He closed his eyes again. “Women have no sense at all,” he said sleepily. Ricardo did not approve of divorce.
“It seems to me Vicky’s husband is the one with no sense,” Susan said severely. “If he loved her and wanted to keep her, he should have kept his hands off his secretary.”
The brown eyes opened again. “Now you are the one who sounds foolish.” He held out his hand. “Susan,” he said, his voice soft and dark, “let’s drop the subject of Vicky. Come here.”
She went over to sit on the edge of his chaise longue. “I thought we’d put some steaks on the grill for dinner,” she said. “Are you hungry? Do you want a snack first?”
“I’m hungry,” he answered. He was holding her hand and now his fingers moved caressingly over the thin skin of her wrist. “But not for food.”
“I see,” she whispered, and, leaning down, she kissed him, slowly and lingeringly. When she raised her head they were both breathing a little more quickly.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he said.
“All right,” she answered, all thought of Vicky Garfield and her divorce swamped before the rising tide of heat in her blood.
* * * *
Susan’s mother had a party a few days later and both Susan and Ricardo attended. Mrs. Morgan had invited a large crowd of friends, colleagues and neighbors and she had carefully consulted Susan about Ricardo’s schedule before she set the day. He had very few days off and Mrs. Morgan was anxious to have her son-in-law present.
Susan had given her mother a date and the party had been scheduled. Ricardo, who knew no one, was soon the center of a large, attentive group and Susan wandered off a little to see if she could do anything to help.
“Susan,” said a male voice that sounded oddly familiar. “I’ve been waiting for you to come.”
Slowly Susan turned and looked at the boy—man now, actually, who was facing her under the big maple tree. “Michael . . .” she said wonderingly, “is it really you?”
A familiar wry smile touched his mouth. “It’s really me.”
“I can’t believe it,” she said slowly. “It’s been so long.”
“I know. Too long.” His narrow, sensitive face looked much older, she thought. His light blue eyes flashed a look at Ricardo and then came back to her. “I only came because Dad said you would be here. Can we sit down and talk?”
“Of course,” she replied instantly. “Let’s go to the grape arbor.”
She was still there forty minutes later when Ricardo came looking for her. “Ah, there you are, Susan,” he said as he came up to her. “I thought you’d gotten lost.”
“No.” Michael had risen as Ricardo approached and now Susan got up too. “This is Michael Brandon, Ricardo,” she said, in introduction. “We grew up together. Michael, my husband, Ricardo Montoya.”
Ricardo put out his hand, and after a barely perceptible hesitation, Michael took it. Ricardo said something pleasant and as Michael replied Susan studied the two men before her. Michael only stayed for a few more minutes and ten minutes later Susan saw him leaving the party.
“You’re very quiet,” Ricardo said to her as they drove home later. “Is it because of that boy you were talking to?”
She sighed. It was a relief to be able to talk about it. “Yes. He’s changed a great deal. I must admit he’s made me feel very sad.”
“You said you grew up together?” His voice sounded detached, impersonal.
“Yes. He was always a year ahead of me in school— from nursery days on up. And we were always good friends.”
“Just friends?” he asked.
“No.” She stared out the window at the dusk. The trees of the Merritt Parkway were rushing by them. “You’re going to get a ticket if you don’t slow down,” she said automatically, and the car slowed. “He was a brilliant boy,” she went on softly, “but he was unhappy. Rebellious. He didn’t get on with his father or his stepmother. He was—oh, angry and hurt and he struck out at others because he was so unhappy himself. I understood that, you see. I understood him. With me he could be himself.” She rested her head against the high seat behind her. “I’ve always felt I failed him. I cared—but I didn’t care enough to give him what he wanted, what he needed.”
He grunted and she shot him a quick look. “Not just sex—though there was that too. He wanted me to run away and marry him. He’d gone to Harvard, and he was wretched there.” She sighed very softly. “He was so brilliant. He made high seven hundreds on both his college board SATs. And then he failed out of college.”
“He must have wanted to fail out,” Ricardo said noncommittally.
“Yes. I was finishing high school and he wanted us to run away. I didn’t want to give up college, give up my own life. What it comes down to is that I didn’t love him enough.”
“What has he been doing?”
“Oh, Ricardo,” the words were a cry of pain, “he’s just been drifting around, working on oil rigs, doing odd jobs. He’s gotten so—quiet. All the fight seemed to be knocked out of him. Talking to him made me feel like crying.”
“It’s sad to see a good mind wasted, but you mustn’t blame yourself, Susan. A man must find his own way. Either he has the strength to make it, or he does not.”
“No,” she said after a minute in a very low voice, “that may be true for you, Ricardo, but it isn’t true for everybody. I know my being with him would have made a difference.” She looked out the side window once again. “Poor Michael,” she almost whispered.
They finished the rest of the drive in silence.
* * * *
Ricardo left for another quick road trip the following week, and the day after he had left Martin Harrison called Susan to ask her out to lunch. She was pleased to hear from him and accepted gladly.
It had been quite a while since she had been into New York and she dressed with care and pleasure: a softly woven peach-colored suit and a creamy cotton and linen blouse set off her own coloring quite satisfactorily, she thought. In fact, she felt quite as sophisticated as Vicky Garfield as she stepped into the vestibule of the restaurant Martin had chosen and gave his name to the maître d’.
He was at the table and waiting for her. “Susan.” She had forgotten how southern his voice was. “You look marvelous,” he said, and sat down again as the waiter seated her.
“Thank you, sir.” The gleam of admiration in his hazel eyes was very pleasant. She grinned. “It’s fun, coming into New York for lunch. It makes me feel very sophisticated.”
“Does it?” The waiter reappeared and Martin asked, “Would you like a drink?”
“Yes.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I think I’ll have a Bloody Mary.” Martin ordered a martini, and as the waiter went away he looked at Susan with smiling eyes.
“Do you want to feel sophisticated?” he asked.
“Well, it’s nice for a change. I spend most of the time smelling like milk and baby powder.”
“Tell Rick to take you out more,” he recommended laconically.
The waiter arrived back with the drinks and set them on the table. Susan raised her glass and said, “Cheers. It’s good to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you.” He took a swallow of his martini. “I would have called you sooner but I got the distinct impression that Rick was not overly enamored of our friendship.”
Susan’s eyes widened. “Don’t be silly, Martin. Ricardo’s not like that.”
He smiled a little lopsidedly. “I would be, if you were my wife.”
“No, you wouldn’t be,” she answered serenely. “You’d be happy to know that I had a friend whom I liked very much.”
He was studying the olive in his drink. “How is the writing coming along?” he asked abruptly, changing the subject.
“Well. . .” she let out her breath on a long note, and then proceeded to tell him.
“This was just lovely,” she said as she finished her coffee an hour and a half later. “I do thank you so much, Martin.”
“I meant what I said earlier, you know,” he said. “You ought to get Rick to take you out more.”
She smiled gently. “Ricardo has a very busy schedule at the moment, I’m afraid. And he really doesn’t like going out all that much. But we do see people, you know. As a matter of fact, I’m having a party in two weeks—just a backyard picnic. We’ve built a new pool. I was hoping you’d come.”
“I’d love to,” he answered immediately. “When is it?”
“June twenty-eighth.”
“I’ll write it on my calendar,” he promised.
“Good.”
“Can I get you a taxi?”
“No, thanks. I’m going to do some shopping while I’m here.” She gave him a charming, rueful look. “Ricardo has this new secretary who is so elegant that I feel like a frump every time I look at her. I’ve decided I need some new clothes.”
He looked down at her fair shining head. “You could never look frumpy,” he said gravely.
“You haven’t seen Vicky Garfield,” she retorted. She rose up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Thanks again. We’ll see you soon.”
“Yes. Soon.” He stood in the doorway of the restaurant and watched as she walked away down the street.
* * * *
Martin duly presented himself at the Montoya residence in Stamford on June twenty-eighth. He parked his car on the wide circular drive behind a lineup of other cars and walked around the house toward the sounds of voices and laughter.
There were about twenty people on the patio and several in the pool. Susan saw him standing there and came across to greet him. “You are looking very fragile and very beautiful in that raspberry dress,” he said, and she smiled, not knowing how it lighted up her widely set, luminous eyes.
“I’m so glad you came,” she said simply. “There are quite a few people here you must know. Come along and let me introduce you around.”
It was a very casual, pleasant party, with food spread on a table in the shade of the patio and a bar where guests could help themselves. Rick came over to greet him and stayed to chat for a while. Martin, who was tall himself, was uncomfortably conscious of the superior height and strength of his host. Ricardo was wearing lightweight khaki slacks and a navy Izod shirt and he looked muscular, lean and very tough. His manner was pleasant but Martin was aware of a cool look in the great dark eyes that made him feel distinctly wary.
There was a little stir among the Yankee players who were standing by the bar and Martin and Ricardo turned to look. A stunningly beautiful girl, tall and slim and raven-haired, was coming out to the patio. “Excuse me,” Ricardo murmured to Martin, and went over to greet the new arrival. The girl smiled up at him radiantly and put a hand on his forearm. They spoke together for a few minutes and then Ricardo took her over to the bar to get her a drink and introduce her to the people there. Martin looked for Susan.
He found her deep in conversation with a silver-haired distinguished-looking man and an equally distinguished-looking woman of approximately the same age. As he watched, the woman said something to Susan and she turned toward the bar. The black-haired beauty had accepted a drink from Ricardo and was smiling perfunctorily at the men who were being introduced. That one is only interested in Rick, Martin thought, and he turned back to Susan. She was excusing herself, and as Martin watched she crossed the patio toward her husband. Martin watched in admiration as she greeted the newcomer with gentle dignity. Next to the tall, magnificent, dark-haired splendor of her husband and the other woman she looked very small and slight and fragile. With a sudden flash of insight, Martin realized that this must be the Vicky Garfield who Susan said made her feel like a frump.
A middle-aged Spanish-looking woman came out of the house and crossed to say something to Susan. As Martin watched, Susan excused herself and disappeared inside. Vicky Garfield slid a hand into Ricardo’s arm and drew him away toward the pool.
“Mr. Harrison?” a woman’s voice said at his elbow.
He turned and found the distinguished woman Susan had been talking to regarding him with a smile. “I’m Helen Morgan,” she said, “Susan’s mother.”
“Mrs. Morgan.” He put out his hand to take her extended one. “How nice to meet you.”
It was a successful party in that all the guests appeared to have a very good time. Vicky Garfield hung on Ricardo for the whole time, but it was not awkward because Susan did not appear to mind nor did Ricardo appear to take it very seriously. He seemed to be in a relaxed mood, his eyes sparkling with good humor and amused comprehension as he looked down into Vicky’s gorgeous face. He did not seem at all smitten, Martin thought. He said something of the sort to Susan.