Beloved Stranger (2 page)

“
Dios
!” The muffled exclamation from him came at the same time she felt a sharp shooting pain tear through her body. Her eyes flew open in shock and she tried to pull away, but he held her firmly. “It’ll be all right,” he muttered. “Hold on.” And then, mixed with the pain, came a flooding wave of pleasure that made her body shake and her fingers press deeply into his back. “Oh,” she whispered. “Oh.”

There was silence in the room, then a log cracked and fell on the fire and he raised his head to look down at her. “You were a virgin,” he said in an odd voice.

She felt sleepy and warm and peaceful. “Mmm,” she answered dreamily.

“But why?”

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. She smiled up into his puzzled face. “I don’t know,” she said simply.

He had been watching her steadily, seriously, but now he smiled as well, a slow smile that was as intimate as his touch had been. “It was magic,” he said softly.

So he had felt that too. “Yes.” Her eyes were very heavy.

He picked her up as if she weighed scarcely anything. “You are falling asleep,” he said. “Come.” And he carried her into the bedroom, wrapped her once again in his bathrobe and tucked her under the covers. “Good night,
querida
,” he said. “Sleep well.”

* * * *

She awoke to the bright sun streaming in her bedroom window. It was ten-thirty according to her watch and with an exclamation of alarm she jumped out of bed. The snow had stopped and the world outside the window looked like a fairy tale. She walked into the living room rather tentatively, but Ricardo was gone. He had left her a note on the kitchen table. “The roads are plowed and I’ve gone to try to locate your car. Make yourself some breakfast.” There was no signature. She walked back into the living room. Her clothes were spread on several chairs in front of the fire. When she felt them, they were dry. She looked at the blanket and pillow on the couch and knew where he had spent the night.

She dressed and went back to the kitchen, made herself a cup of instant coffee and sat down at the table. She should be horrified with herself, she thought. She had just slept with a man she didn’t know, a man who was obviously anxious to see her on her way as quickly as he could. And yet she wasn’t sorry. It had been—as he had said himself—magic.

It wasn’t magic two hours later, however, when Ricardo returned. He brought a gust of cold air in the door with him and the grin he gave her was good-natured and slightly cocky. He stood by the door and stripped his gloves off. “We’ve got your car going,” he said.

“Oh good.” She walked slowly into the living room from the kitchen, trying to conceal her uneasiness. “How did you know where to look for it?”

“Simple,” he replied. He came across the room, tracking snow all over the floor. “You said you were coming from the Notch and I knew you couldn’t have walked far. Not in that storm.” He unzipped his jacket. “It’s down at the garage in town. I’ll take you there after lunch.”

“Fine,” she replied quietly, “but I’m afraid there’s nothing to eat. You only have coffee and bread and butter.”

He fished in the capacious pocket of his jacket and brought out a small brown bag. “Ham and cheese.” He handed it to her. “You can make some sandwiches.”

She accepted the package. “All right.” He followed her into the kitchen, talking cheerfully about her car. She made the sandwiches, listening to him with half an ear and trying to deal with her own sense of shock. It was hard to believe that the tender lover of last night was the same person as this tall and obviously tough young man who was lounging carelessly at his ease, waiting for her to serve him. She put a sandwich in front of him. “I’m afraid there isn’t any mustard,” she said expressionlessly.

“I eat out,” he said, and bit into his bread with strong white teeth. “Where do you go to school?” he asked after half the sandwich was gone.

“Melford,” she answered, naming a very old and very prestigious women’s college.

“I see.” He looked amused. “And are you studying political science so you can change the world?”

She looked at him levelly. “No. I’m studying English literature.”

“Ah.” He started on the other half of his sandwich.

“What do you do?” she asked to turn the tables.

He regarded her reflectively as he chewed. Then he said easily, “I play baseball. For the New York Yankees.”

Her eyes widened and she put her coffee cup down. He had said his name was Ricardo. “You—you can’t be Rick Montoya?” she said breathlessly.

“I can be and I am,” he replied. He grinned at her engagingly. “You don’t follow baseball, I take it.”

“I knew your name.”

He drained his coffee cup. “But not my face.” He got up, went over to the refrigerator and took a piece of paper from the top of it. “These are my addresses,” he said. “I’ll be in Florida for spring training until April.” He pointed to the Fort Lauderdale address. “The rest of the year I live in Stamford, Connecticut.” He looked at her soberly. “Let me know if you need any help.”

She stared at him blankly for a moment and then brilliant color stained her cheeks. Her eyes fell. She couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“Come on,” he said, “and we’ll go get your car.”

“Yes,” she answered, and jumped to her feet. “Just a minute and I’ll get my coat.” Two minutes later she walked out the door with him and it slammed behind her, slammed forever on her night of magic.

Chapter Two

Susan reached her mother’s house in Fairfield, Connecticut, by early that evening. Mrs. Morgan was surprised to see her. “You shouldn’t have traveled in all this snow, dear,” she said after Susan had kissed her at the door. “If I had known you were on the road, I would have been extremely worried.”

“The highway was plowed all the way down,” Susan said with a smile. “It wasn’t bad at all. But I could use something to eat.”

“Of course. Come into the kitchen.” Susan followed her mother and watched as she efficiently prepared a cheese omelet for her daughter. “Did you enjoy your skiing?” Mrs. Morgan asked as she sat down across from Susan at the kitchen table.

“Yes. The Fosters are very nice people. I felt a little guilty about leaving you, though.”

Her mother made a gesture of dismissal. “You mustn’t worry about me, dear. I’ve been very busy. The Talbotts had a dinner the other evening and then there was a meeting of the university women I had to attend.”

Susan ate and listened to her mother chatter on. Apparently she had resumed her old busy schedule of meetings and lunches and teas and dinners. She was indomitable, Susan thought. The uncharacteristic lethargy of Christmas week that had so worried her daughter had quite disappeared.

“Are you teaching a full load this semester?” Susan asked.

“Yes.” When working, Mrs. Morgan was Dr. Helen Morgan, Professor of Anthropology at the University of Bridgeport. Susan’s father had also been a professor at the university before his death a few years ago.

They moved into the living room and Susan curled up on the sofa. “I was so pleased to hear of your acceptance into the Honor Society, Susan,” her mother said warmly. “I’m proud of you. You worked hard for it.”

“I know.” Susan made a face. “I may be just a member and you and Sara were presidents, but I’m pleased with myself. It took me so long to finally get the grades.”

“I don’t see why,” her mother said briskly. “You’re a bright enough child.”

Susan sighed. “I have such a hard time finishing a test, Mother. I’m always still there when the time has run out and usually I’m only half done. I think too much and write too little.”

Mrs. Morgan smiled abstractedly, her mind obviously elsewhere. “I’ve gone through Sara’s clothes,” she said after a minute, “and there are a number of things that should fit you. The dresses will all be too big, but the sweaters should be all right. And the suits could be altered. And her new black coat. I’ve packed a bag for you to take back to school with you.”

“Oh Mother,” Susan said weakly, “how can I wear Sara’s clothes?”

“She would want you to. I want you to.” A shadow crossed Mrs. Morgan’s face. “I don’t want to just give them to the Salvation Army, Susan.”

Susan had a brief vision of her sister’s beautiful, vital face. She had loved clothes, loved shopping. “Of course you can’t give her things to the Salvation Army,” she said quickly. “I hadn’t thought. I’ll take them. They’ll remind me of Sara.”

For a brief moment it seemed as if Mrs. Morgan’s eyes went out of focus and Susan knew it was not she that her mother was seeing. “It doesn’t seem possible that she’s gone,” the older woman said at last in a low voice.

“I know.” Susan sat still, helplessly watching her mother. There was nothing she could say, nothing she could do to comfort her. Sara was gone, killed instantly by an out-of-control trailer truck on the New England Thruway, and no one could fill her place.

Mrs. Morgan forced a smile. “You must be tired, dear, after that drive. Don’t let me keep you up.”

“I am rather tired.” Susan rose slowly and went to kiss her mother’s smooth cheek. “Good night, Mother.”

“Good night, dear. Sleep well.”

“I’ll try,” murmured Susan; the memory of how she had slept last night flashed into her mind. She wrenched her thoughts back into the present and slowly, resolutely, climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

* * * *

Susan looked out the window of her dorm and sighed. It had been raining for five days and the new leaves on the trees looked heavy and green and limp. The weather was a perfect reflection of her mood. She stared blankly for a few more minutes at the paper she was trying to write for a poetry course and then reached into the desk drawer and drew out, once again, the lab report. There it was, clear and inescapable, the unwelcome news: she was pregnant.

Her first reaction had been anger. How could she have been so stupid? Her second reaction had been self-pity. Why me? I only did it once. From self-pity she had progressed to her present state of mind, which could be summed up by one question: what am I going to do?

Ricardo had foreseen this possibility. He had told her to get in touch with him, and given her his address. The regular baseball season had opened a few weeks ago. Susan, who had never followed baseball in her life, had taken to reading all she could get her hands on about the New York Yankees and about Ricardo Montoya in particular. Consequently, she knew that he had signed a multimillion dollar contract in February and that he had had a sensational spring. The Yankees were universally expected to win the American League Pennant this year.

Ricardo would be home in Stamford. Should she write him?

She took out a fresh sheet of loose-leaf notebook paper and began to compose a letter. After three sentences she stopped, looked at what she had written and tore it up. “I sound like an idiot,” she muttered disgustedly. She stood up. “I am an idiot.” She got her raincoat from the closet and ran down the stairs. She needed to get away from her own company.

The student lounge was more filled than usual due to the rainy weather. Susan spotted a group of friends and went over to join them. One girl had a copy of a national news magazine on her lap and Susan felt a jolt of shock when she looked down and saw the picture on the cover.

“May I see that for a moment, Lisa?” she asked rather breathlessly.

“Sure,” the other girl answered. “You can join in the general drooling if you like. We’ve all just decided that that is the man we would most want to be stranded on a desert island with.”

“Would you?” asked Susan, and stared down at the picture. Ricardo was wearing his baseball uniform but not the hat. His thick, straight, dark brown hair had fallen slightly forward over his forehead. He looked lean and brown and his smile was the irresistible grin that she remembered so vividly. But it was the eyes that caught and held you, the large, beautiful, thick-lashed brown eyes.

“You could travel halfway round the world and you wouldn’t find another man like that,” one of the girls was saying.

Susan cleared her throat. “Where is he from? I mean, he’s not American, is he?”

“He’s Colombian. Or his parents are Colombian. He was born in the States, so that makes him an American citizen. It’s all in the article.”

“May I borrow the magazine. Lisa? I’ll give it back to you.”

Lisa grinned. “Susie! Now we know why you find all your dates so uninteresting. You’re holding out for Rick Montoya.”

Susan could feel herself flushing and the other girl reached over to give her hand a quick squeeze. “Of course you can borrow it. But I do want it back.”

“Lisa wants to hang Rick’s picture over her bed,” one of the other girls teased, and everyone laughed. About ten minutes later Susan made her escape, clutching the magazine securely under her arm. Up in the solitary shelter of her bedroom she read the cover story through. Then she went to lie on her bed and stare out at the rain. Rick Montoya. It was impossible to make herself believe that the man she had just read about was the same man who had given her shelter from the storm and had made such tender and rapturous love to her.

She couldn’t write to him. Everything the article said had removed him further and further from her. He was wealthy from baseball, she knew that, but according to the article, he had been born wealthy. His father was a director of Avianca Airlines and he had grown up partly in Bogota and partly in New York. He had been drafted by the Yankees after college and had consistently been one of the best hitters in baseball ever since. He averaged thirty-eight home runs a season and had a lifetime batting average of .320. Susan didn’t know much about baseball but she gathered from the article that these were highly impressive statistics. He was twenty-eight years old. He was unmarried, but according to this article, he never lacked for feminine companionship. The names of two or three of the world’s most beautiful models were listed as his frequent companions. No, she couldn’t write to him. She felt sure that all he would do—all he could do, really—would be to offer her money for an abortion.

Susan closed her eyes and blotted out the view of the rain. An abortion. The temptation was so great. It would solve all her problems. No one would ever have to know. It was so easy, she thought, to be opposed to abortion in general. It was so hard when the particular case was you. She thought of her mother. How could she hit her with this? And after Sara. It wouldn’t be fair. It was, in fact, unthinkable. Morgans just did not have babies out of wedlock. Period.