Beloved Stranger (13 page)

“I don’t want to.” His mouth was moving along the curve of her throat. His hand slid up her leg to her thigh. “Love me,” he whispered and kissed her again, softly this time, gently, coaxingly.

“Not here,” she muttered against his mouth. But her body was trembling, calling to him.

He pushed her bodice down and his mouth found the fullness of her breasts. His hand moved further up her leg. Her body quivered, reveling in his touch. For a minute she swayed on the edge of surrender. “Susan,” he said, his mouth moving against her. “Amada.”

“Ricardo,” she whispered unevenly, and the word was enough to tell him that he had won. She whimpered with pleasure as his weight pressed her back against the sand, her arms going up to hold him, her nostrils filled with the scent of him. Her body arched to the demanding urgency of his and they moved together in the shattering climax of passion while the silver moon looked down, silent, beautiful, and indifferent to human desires.

After a long while Ricardo rolled over on his back and stretched. Slowly, reluctantly, Susan opened her eyes and came back to reality. She looked at her husband and felt weak with love. “Darling,” she said softly, tentatively. She longed, with every fiber of her body, to hear him say he loved her.

The moonlight clearly showed her his face. It looked bright, triumphant. “I knew I could make you want to,” he said. “Little puritan.” He laughed.

Susan felt struck to the heart. Was this all he was going to say to her? She sat up and rested her face on her knees, her hair swinging forward to hide her face. “We’d better get dressed,” he was saying. “No point in pushing our luck.”

“No,” she replied numbly. “I suppose not.”

He talked cheerfully as they returned along the beach, and when she shivered he hung his jacket around her bare shoulders. His good humor appeared to be completely restored by her surrender on the beach. It was Susan, who had surrendered because she loved him so helplessly, who was left feeling betrayed and forlorn.

* * * *

They returned to Connecticut at the beginning of April and on the sixth the Yankees opened the season at the stadium. Susan went to the game and sat in a box with a few of the other wives and children. It was a Sunday afternoon and the huge ball park was crowded. Out in center field the World Championship banner fluttered in the breeze and the sun was warm on her head.

When Ricardo came to the plate, the whole stadium rose in ovation. He gave his famous, disarming grin, stepped up to the plate and cracked a single into left field. “God, but he makes it look easy.” It was Linda Fatato, wife of the Yankee pitcher speaking. “Sal always says one of the best things about being on the Yankees is that he doesn’t have to pitch to Rick.” Susan smiled in acknowledgment and looked at her husband as he took a lead off first base. There he was, she thought, the most conspicuous and most elusive of men. He performed with utter naturalness in front of thousands and yet his deepest self remained a mystery. Susan had no doubt that there were subterranean depths to Ricardo. She had met many people who were all on the surface; what you saw was all there was. Ricardo was not like that. He was like an iceberg—the important part of him remained submerged. She listened to the roar of the crowd as he jogged out to center field and thought that her husband was one of the most solitary persons she had ever known.

* * * *

With the beginning of the baseball season Susan’s life took on a more stable pattern. She had her room back to write in, and Maria was there to take Ricky off her hands for a few hours every morning. She found she was able to write and the book started to take on shape and depth.

She would have been perfectly happy if her relationship with Ricardo had been more secure. As it was, there were times when she felt closer to him than she had ever felt to any other human, when it seemed they were together in a way she had never found with anyone else. It happened when they made love, of course. But it was there at other times as well. The evenings, for instance, when they would listen to music, she curled on the end of the sofa and Ricardo stretched out with his head in her lap. Then the utter perfection of Bach, so pure and so clear, seemed to be merely the echo of what there was between her and this man whom she loved.

But there were the other times as well, the times when he seemed so far away, so inexplicable, so beyond the reach of her understanding. His initial tolerance of her writing had given way to barely concealed impatience. He did not attempt to infringe on her time, but she was aware, always, of his irritation, his disapproval. Consequently she was very careful not to overrun the time she had set for herself, even though there were times when she was caught up and working well and wanted very much to stay for another hour. But she didn’t. She would put down her pen and physically take herself downstairs even if her mind was still wrapped up in another world.

One morning, at the end of May, for the first time, she let herself believe what she knew in her heart of hearts: she had something publishable. When she came downstairs to lunch she was still floating in a cloud. Ricardo had spent the morning mowing the lawn. He had a night game that evening and was leaving directly after it for a two-week road trip. Susan smiled at him a little absently and went to get Ricky from the playpen. She carried him out to the kitchen and put his jars of food in a baby dish to warm them up. Ricardo followed her and began to tell her something and she listened for a few minutes without really hearing him. She had an opening sentence for her next chapter forming in her mind.

“Susan, are you listening to me?” The edge on his voice was what caught her attention.

“I’m sorry, Ricardo.” She sounded contrite. “What were you saying?”

“I was telling you that the men are coming to excavate for the pool this week.” His face was dark with annoyance. “I won’t be here, if you remember, and you must see to it.”

“I’m sorry, darling,” she repeated. “I was thinking of something else. I’m paying attention now. What do you want me to do?”

He proceeded to give her instructions and she listened carefully, but she could tell from the clipped tone of his voice that he was still irritated. “You’ve made out a list of your schedule for me, haven’t you?” she asked at the end of his lecture. “In case I have to get in touch with you?”

“Susan.” He looked even more annoyed. “I have just told you, very clearly, what you must do.”

“I know that, Ricardo,” she said with gentle dignity, “and I understand what you’ve said. But I just want to be sure I can get in touch with you. Suppose something happened to Ricky, for instance? You wouldn’t want to wait to find out until you called at night, would you?”

“No.” He watched as she put a bib on Ricky and propped him up in the high chair. “I’ve left a schedule and a list of hotels and phone numbers on my desk,” he said.

“Good.” She spooned some pureed vegetables into Ricky’s mouth. “I do wish you didn’t have to be away so much,” she said as she wiped Ricky’s chin with a cloth.

“Do you?” he said. He was standing just behind her and she could feel his eyes on the back of her neck. “Don’t forget Miss Garfield will be in on Thursday,” he added. “She’s the woman I engaged to take Mrs. Noonan’s place.” Mrs. Noonan, the woman who handled Ricardo’s mail, had retired to Florida with her husband.

Susan turned to look up at Ricardo. “Is there anything I need to tell her?”

“Not really. Just make her feel at home. I went over everything with her the other day when she was here.”

Ricky yelled and she turned back and fed him another spoonful. Ricardo smiled—she could hear it in his voice—and said, “I’m hungry, too. When is lunch? Where is Maria?”

“Maria’s downstairs doing the laundry and lunch will be ready in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll go shave first.” He walked to the kitchen door. “Have you packed for me yet?”

“Not yet. I’ll do it after lunch, after Maria puts away the laundry.” She turned her head. “Oh, and Ricardo, if you’re going upstairs, will you please take your jacket with you?”

“Of course,” he replied with absolute courtesy.

Later, when she went upstairs after lunch to pack his suitcase, she saw that he had indeed carried his sweat jacket upstairs. He had also deposited it in a heap on the bed. Susan saw it, frowned and then laughed. “Oh well,” she said out loud, “I suppose I mustn’t expect miracles. It was upstairs. It wasn’t on the floor. It’ll probably take the rest of my married life to get him to hang it in the closet.”

* * * *

On Thursday the doorbell rang promptly at nine A.M. and Susan called, “I’ll get it, Maria!” and went to the door. She had been waiting to greet Miss Garfield and make sure she had everything she needed before disappearing upstairs to her desk. She opened the door and found herself confronting a tall, slim, gorgeous creature who couldn’t have been a day over twenty-five. The vision smiled and said, “I’m Vicky Garfield. I’ve come to work on Rick’s correspondence.”

“Oh,” said Susan blankly. “Yes. Do come in.” She held the door open wider and the other girl walked over the threshold. “I’m Susan Montoya,” Susan added quickly. “My husband isn’t here, but I’ll be glad to show you around and help you get started.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Montoya.” Vicky Garfield smiled. She was at least five feet eight inches tall and she had pitch-black hair and violet eyes. She wore a slim, smart dress and elegant sandals. Next to her Susan felt small, insignificant and frumpy. “Rick explained he would be on the road,” Miss Garfield was going on, “and he showed me what he wanted and where to find things when I was here the other day.”

That was the second lime she had called him Rick. Susan cleared her throat and glanced down at her own dungaree skirt and ancient espadrilles. Her hair needed a wash and she had put it into pigtails for the morning. She felt ridiculous. “Well, then, you know where the study is,” she said faintly.

“Yes. Perhaps you could just help me locate this week’s correspondence.”

“Of course.” Susan led the way to the study. Ricardo’s desk was in its usual immaculate order. He was as meticulous about his business papers as he was careless about his clothes. “The letters are kept here.” Susan pointed to a large wire bin. “Most of them are fan letters from kids, but there are also a lot of requests for appearances, for commercial endorsements and so on. But my husband explained all that to you.”

“Yes, he did.” The girl smiled politely at Susan. “Thank you, Mrs. Montoya. I suppose I’d better get to work.”

Susan smiled back with equal politeness. “If you want anything, coffee or tea or something to eat, Maria will be happy to help you. Have you met Maria?”

“Yes, the other day.”

“Oh. Well—good luck, Miss Garfield.” Susan closed the study door and went to the stairs, her mind in a whirl. Where had Ricardo found that gorgeous creature? And why hadn’t his wife been at home when he interviewed her?

She cast her mind back, trying to recall when Ricardo had told her he’d hired a replacement for Mrs. Noonan. It had been about a week ago, she remembered. She had been out for the afternoon, having lunch and going to the new exhibit at the Yale Art Gallery with Maggie Ellis. He’d told her when she got home that he had found someone. She frowned. He’d said she came from an agency. “A modeling agency, most likely,” Susan now muttered with unusual waspishness. She did not get very much accomplished on her book that morning.

Miss Garfield finished at two o’clock and sought Susan out before she left. “I’ve put aside all the mail that needs Rick’s personal attention and answered the rest,” she said. “Do you want me to stop at the post office and mail it?”

“If you would be so kind,” Susan responded formally. “Were there enough stamps?”

“Yes. But we’re running low on the pictures that Rick wanted included in all the answers to his fan mail. Shall I order more?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose you should.”

“All right, then.” Miss Garfield gave her a brief, impersonal smile. “I’ll see you next week, Mrs. Montoya.”

“Yes.” Susan’s widely set gray eyes did not reflect her own answering smile. “Yes, Miss Garfield, you will.”

* * * *

“Miss Garfield came today,” she told Ricardo when he called that night. “She seems very competent. She is going to order some more pictures—she said you were running low.”

“Am I? That’s the sort of thing Mrs. Noonan always saw to. Evidently Vicky is going to be all right.”

He’d called her Vicky. “Yes,” said Susan, a little hollowly. “So it seems.”

“Have they started work on the pool?” he asked.

“Yes, they came today at last.” She filled him in on what had been happening around the house, told him that Ricky was cutting a tooth and listened to his report on tonight’s game.

“I miss you,” she said softly as he was preparing to hang up.

“I miss you too,
querida
,” he said and the dark tones of his voice were like a caress. “I’ll miss you even more in a few hours,” he added, and now she could hear the familiar amusement. “As a roommate, Joe doesn’t compare with a wife.”

“Why?” she asked blandly. “Does he snore?”

“I’ll explain it to you when I get home.” The note of amusement deepened. “In fact, I’ll show you.”

“You do that,” she said gently. “Good-bye, darling.”

He chuckled. “Good-bye. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He hung up and Susan sat quietly for a few minutes staring at the phone. Then she went to pick up Ricky, who was fussing in his playpen. Later, she would watch the game on television. At least that way she would be able to see him. She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against her son’s dark silky head. Her stomach muscles were taut and she felt as if someone were squeezing her heart. She loved Ricardo so much. If only she could rest secure in the knowledge that he loved her too.

But he didn’t. To love someone meant to share oneself with the beloved, and that Ricardo did not do. She doubted if he ever had with anyone—certainly he did not with his mother or his sisters. But, then, they were only women. Women, in Ricardo’s view, had been made for specific purposes—for sex, for motherhood, for ministering to a man’s other appetites and needs. In response, men provided women with material comfort and security. That was the view her husband had about marriage—the view he had of her, his wife. She supposed it was a conception that had a lot to recommend it. She could always count on his recognizing his obligations toward her. She knew that he would always, unhesitatingly, put himself between her and any danger the world might threaten her with. If he was autocratic he was also invariably gentle. He had a temper but she had long ceased to fear it. He never allowed it to go beyond mild annoyance and irritation. She wasn’t important enough for him to get really mad at her, she thought a little desolately, just as she wasn’t important enough for him to confide in. And she couldn’t push herself on him. Some things had to be given freely or not at all. She pressed her lips against Ricky’s downy head and felt tears sting behind her eyes. Ricky squirmed, seeking her breast, and shakily she laughed. “All right, sweetheart. Mommy will feed you.” Blinking hard, she carried the baby into the other room.