Maggy's Child (11 page)

“As you all know, we are gathered here tonight to wish my wife happy birthday on this, the thirtieth anniversary of her arrival on this planet. If you’ll all join in, we’ll get the formalities out of the way, and then, in the immortal words of Marie Antoinette, why, let ’em eat cake!”

Lyle signaled to the pianist, who launched into the opening bars of “Happy Birthday to You.” Everyone joined in, producing an exuberant, off-key version of the classic. It was the very antithesis of what Maggy was feeling as she smiled in acknowledgment, looking the picture of the happy, well-loved wife while Lyle’s affectionate-seeming embrace chained her to his side.

When she contemplated what she faced once they were alone, she felt frightened tears crowd the backs of her eyes.

Maggy blinked them back as the song ended. Everyone applauded, and then Lyle reached into the inside pocket of his suit. He pulled out a small, flat package, tastefully wrapped in shiny silver paper and tied with silver ribbons, and presented it to her with a flourish. Maggy accepted
the gift with a smile that hid her gritted teeth, and proceeded to tear off the wrappings with, she hoped, a degree less savagery than she felt. Everything Lyle did was done for show, including the acquisition of a young “trophy” wife and later a son. The annual public presentation of her birthday present was no exception. If there hadn’t been an audience to see and be impressed by his thoughtfulness and the expensiveness of his gift, Maggy knew that Lyle would have forgotten the date of her birth altogether.

The leather jeweler’s box contained a diamond brooch in the shape of a panther.

“It once belonged to the Duchess of Windsor,” Lyle said with satisfaction to everyone within hearing distance, while Maggy dutifully held the box up so that the gift could be admired and exclaimed over. Knowing it was expected of her, she smiled up at her husband.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” Hating herself for playing along, Maggy nevertheless went up on tiptoe to press a quick kiss to Lyle’s cheek. His skin felt cold, almost reptilian, beneath her lips. It was all she could do not to shudder in revulsion at the brief contact. But she performed her part in their prescripted little drama without a flaw. Lyle’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she stepped back.

“I’ll keep this for you until we can put it in the safe at home.” Lyle took the box from her and restored it to his pocket. Maggy knew that she would see the brooch again only when he wanted her to wear it to impress someone. Lyle kept the jewelry he bought for her under lock and key, and that, Maggy knew, was to keep her as dependent on him as possible. Not that he really feared she would try to leave him—after all, he still had David as the ultimate trump card—but just in case.

Maggy, still smiling though her facial muscles ached at the effort, cut the magnificent, five-tiered chocolate cake, and held out the first piece to Lyle so that he could eat from her hand, just as a bride might feed her new husband
cake at their wedding reception. This was an old ritual at her birthday party, one that Lyle insisted she follow every year. The hypocrisy of it used to sicken her, but lately she had grown beyond even being sickened by what her life had become.

If hypocrisy had only been the worst of her troubles, she would have borne it gladly.

Lyle ate his cake, fed her a piece, and the pianist launched into the opening bars of “Blue Skies.” She barely had time to wipe her mouth with a napkin before Lyle grabbed her hand and ran with her down the pair of steps to the dance floor, where he swung her into his arms for their ritual dance. Lyle was a wonderful dancer, exhibitionistic in that as in everything else, twirling her around so that her full skirt swirled, dipping her and twirling her again. One hand resting on his shoulder and the other on his waist, a smile pinned to her face, Maggy played her part in the charade just as she did every year. When they finished, the guests applauded.

“Have a good time, folks. The buffet’s open and the dance floor’s hot,” Lyle yelled. Then the ritual was over. Lyle dropped her hand as they ascended the steps. Maggy paused to accept compliments on Lyle’s dancing from one of the couples who were already moving onto the dance floor. Most of the guests had descended upon the buffet in a chattering throng, she saw as the couple moved away at last and she was free to glance around. Waiters were dishing up shrimp Creole and beef Wellington and all the trimmings, and slicing and serving the cake. Lyle was huddled with James Brean and a little group of businessmen in the far corner of the room. Lyle always had some deal or another in the works. Rich though he was, he was tireless in his pursuit of more money. Relieved to be freed of his presence, temporarily at least, and completely devoid of appetite, Maggy glanced longingly toward the door. She needed to get outside, get a breath of fresh air, and decide what was best to do.

What could she do?

A tall man in an expensive-looking navy suit planted himself squarely in front of her, blocking her escape. Nick. She knew who it was even before her eyes traveled up over his broad, white-shirted chest and elegant foulard tie past the linebacker’s shoulders to his toughly handsome face. His expression was grave as he met her gaze, though there was the merest hint of a twinkle in his eyes that told her he knew she was less than pleased to be cornered by him.

Unable to control the impulse, Maggy swiftly glanced past him to see if Lyle was watching them. He was still far away in the corner of the room, for which she was thankful. His back was turned to them as he talked with his friends.

“C
hampagne?” Nick asked, holding up a crystal flute half full of the golden liquid. An identical crystal flute was in his other hand, and he swirled its contents idly as he waited for her response.

“Please,” Maggy said in a low, tense voice, ignoring the proffered glass, her eyes just touching Nick’s before darting away toward Lyle again, “just leave.”

He downed the champagne in his glass in a gulp—Lyle would have been outraged at the lack of respect for the expensive vintage—and then downed the contents of the second glass too. With a jerk of his head he caught the attention of a passing waiter and set the glasses down on the tray he bore, not caring that it held only newly poured drinks. Wooden faced, the waiter disappeared.

“Run out on your birthday party? Not on your life.”

“Please, Nick.”

“Afraid my presence will upset old Lyle?” His eyes narrowed on her face. “You’re right: it might. But what do you care?”

“I care.” Never had she ever spoken a truer statement, Maggy thought with a bubbling up of what was almost hysteria. Of course, Nick didn’t understand. No one did.

“Why? You don’t love him. Do you?”

“No.” She couldn’t lie anymore. Not to Nick. Not when she was almost sick with fear—and light-headed with the sudden need to walk into Nick’s arms and have them close around her as they used to do. He had always
protected her. Always. But however much every instinct she possessed urged her to, she couldn’t turn to him now. She was on her own. With her own actions she had put herself forever beyond his reach. “Now would you please go away? You’re making my life difficult.”

“If you don’t love him, why don’t you leave him? It can’t be the money keeping you. After twelve years, you’d get a fat settlement. Or did he talk you into signing a prenuptial agreement?” The satirical edge to his voice as he said this last stung.

“There’s David.” Her response was cool.

“So? Plenty of kids’ parents get divorced. He’d adjust.”

“This really isn’t the time or place for this discussion, is it? Anyway, why I choose to stay married to my husband is no concern of yours.”

“Isn’t it, Magdalena?” Nick’s voice was very soft. She glanced up, met his eyes. They were disturbingly intent, and his mouth quirked in the faintest suggestion of a wry smile.

Ah, Nick. How often had she seen that expression on his face before? It was so familiar, so beloved and dear, that her heart gave a sharp, painful throb.

“Go away,” she said between stiff lips and turned her shoulder to him, meaning to walk away.

“Not without you. Not this time.” He caught her arm just above the elbow. His palm was warm and large, his fingers long, his skin faintly callused. His hand was big enough to easily encircle her upper arm with room to spare. She glanced down, absorbing the swarthiness of his skin, which seemed even darker compared with the lilywhiteness of hers, the size and power of the hand that held her, the faint scattering of silky black hairs across its back, the gold of his expensive watch just peeking from beneath the gleaming white cuff of his shirt.

His hand, bold and possessive, curled around her arm as though it had every right to do so. She wished, oh, how she wished, it did.

“Please let me go.” She did not try to pull away, afraid that they would attract undue attention if he refused to release her. Instead, she turned toward him to lessen the appearance that he was detaining her, and even managed a brittle smile.

“I don’t think I can.” He smiled at her, and the wryness she had noticed moments earlier was there in force. “I don’t think you want me to. Tell the truth for once, Magdalena. Do you really want me to go away?” His grip loosened, became almost a caress as his fingers moved against the soft skin of her arm. She steeled herself against him, and pulled her arm free.

“Yes, I do,” she said with cold, clear decision for all she spoke in an undertone. “You’re a complication my life doesn’t need.”

He laughed suddenly, surprising her.

“You don’t exactly simplify my life either, you know.”

“So do us both a favor and leave me alone.”

Despite the curt dismissal of her words, he reached out and caught her hand. Twining his fingers in hers, he pulled her toward the dance floor, pausing only to tap the pianist on the shoulder on the way.

“Damn it, Nick, let me go!” Maggy said in a furious undertone as they reached the dance floor and he turned to face her, his hand still imprisoning hers. Conscious of the other dancing couples, some of whom were watching, Maggy kept a smile glued to her lips. Though she had no doubt that it did not fool Nick, who was more accustomed than most to reading the danger signals in her eyes.

“Don’t swear, Magdalena,” he chided her on a tender note just as the pianist began a new song. Then he pulled her into his arms.

“ ‘Hey, where did we go days when the rain came …’ ” Nick sang the words softly in her ear as Maggy subsided against him in shock. “ ‘Laughin’ in the hollows …’ ”

She hadn’t listened to that song in years. Twelve years,
to be precise. On the few occasions when she had been in a car and it had been aired with a selection of oldies, she’d asked that the radio be switched off. It had been too painful to listen to, because it brought back so many memories. Wonderful memories. Heartbreaking memories. And he knew it. Damn him, he knew it, and he was deliberately having it played so that she would remember things he knew she’d rather forget.

Nick had always loved that song, because he’d said it made him think of her. Magdalena’s song, he’d called it, just as he had once called her “My Brown-Eyed Girl.”

“ ‘Do you remember when we used to sing sha-la-la-la-la …’ ” Nick’s arms were wrapped around her waist, holding her close against his body. Her arms were looped around his neck. The song had shocked her so that she hadn’t even realized what she was doing until she was plastered against him, dancing like a want-wit in his arms. Now it was too late. To pull away from him would, she feared, cause more comment than finishing out the dance, especially if he wouldn’t easily let her go. Which, knowing Nick, he wouldn’t.

Maggy tried to put a modicum of space between their bodies, and realized he wasn’t going to let her do even that. Turning her head, she rewarded him with a furious glare, to which he responded with a twinkle and a naughty smile. No shame there. Maggy resigned herself to the dance. If only, she prayed, Lyle stayed at the far end of the room.

Nick had never been a great dancer—his forte was a standard box step—but then, he’d never needed to be. The thrill in dancing with Nick came from having his arms around her, feeling the hardness of his chest pressing against her breasts, feeling the brush of his thighs against her own as he moved her with him. When they were kids, all the girls had wanted to dance with Nick. He had usually obliged them, too, until the last few months
they’d been together. Then she’d been the only one.…

“ ‘You, my brown-eyed girl …’ ” Nick sang the words into her ear, pulling her even closer as he did so and executing a less-than-graceful turn. “My brown-eyed girl.”

Despite the best will in the world to do so, Maggy couldn’t prevent the memories from washing over her. She’d taken him to her junior prom, at Manual High School. They’d sneaked in, because the twenty-five-dollars-a-person cost of a ticket had been as out of reach for them as the price of the Hope diamond. She was sixteen, he was eighteen. She wore a white dress with a tulle skirt and a silver flower in her hair, both courtesy of Nick’s skill as a thief. He wore a tuxedo that he’d borrowed from a friend who ran a funeral parlor. In it he was so handsome that just looking at him had made her heart speed up. When he took her in his arms, he had made her shake—and this was while he was still treating her like a well-loved but sexless little sister. As far as she knew, he’d remained oblivious of her mad crush on him until that night.