Montega's Mistress (3 page)

Sophia’s most cherished guiding principle was to thwart her successor’s plans whenever possible. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t let Adrienne drive you out so she can throw a shindig for that fat little adolescent of hers. Take as long as you like, dear. Forget about the collections. I know you have things to do. Shall I call your father and tell him you need to stay a little longer?”

“That’s okay,” Helen answered, grinning. “I’m sure Adrienne and I can work it out. Have a good time, Sophia. Goodbye.”

“
Ciao
, darling.”

Helen hung up gratefully, going immediately to check on Matteo. Fresh red was already staining the gauze above the wound, but the blood wasn’t running in rivulets anymore. She hoped he didn’t need a transfusion, because he wasn’t going to get one lying in Adrienne’s bedroom. She realized that there was nothing more she could do for him and that she should just let him rest, so she completed the task Sophia’s call had interrupted: cleaning up and putting everything back where it belonged. Then she stretched out on the chaise next to Matteo, propping a pillow behind her head and closing her eyes. She was exhausted and it wasn’t long before she slept.

* * *

Helen awoke in late afternoon, to find that she had slept through the time to give Matteo his pills. She found him bathed in perspiration, still feverish, and drifting in and out of consciousness with a rapidity that scared her. During one of his lucid moments she told him that she was calling a doctor, but he reacted so violently that she retracted the statement in order to calm him. She changed the dressing on his wound and then gave him a dose and a half of the medicine, praying that it wasn’t too much. After drinking the liquid, Matteo fell back on the bed, his eyes closed, and Helen thought he was unconscious again. But as she moved away the fingers of his good hand encircled her wrist, squeezing it. Too weak to talk, he nevertheless communicated his gratitude, and Helen felt the sudden sting of tears behind her eyes. She was glad that she had sheltered him, sure now that she had not been wrong to do so.

After she had taken a quick shower and dressed, she made coffee and toast and took them back to the bedroom. She felt the disorientation that doing morning things in the evening brought, but forgot it when she saw that Matteo was shaking so badly that the bed rattled. He was wracked with chills. She grabbed extra blankets and piled them on top of him, crawling up on the bed to hold him when his trembling didn’t cease. She held him tightly, cradling his head against her shoulder, and after several minutes his shivering lessened. He relaxed into her arms, and Helen remained in her awkward position, loath to disturb him. When he seemed to be sleeping peacefully she let him slip back to the bed, turning his pillow so that the cool side touched his cheek. He sighed deeply, and she was happy that she was able to make him more comfortable.

Helen went back to her tepid coffee and cold toast, wondering how old he was. It was difficult to tell from his appearance, because he had probably never looked worse in his life than he did right now. That he was young and, under normal circumstances, quite attractive in a dark, Latin way was obvious. The rest was a mystery. He had no identification on him, which was undoubtedly not an accident, and his knowledge of English could have been gained anywhere. Resignedly she finished her toast and brought the dishes back to the kitchen.

For two more days Helen cared for Matteo while he plunged in and out of fevers, sometimes seeming to improve, then losing ground when his diminished strength was not equal to the struggle. At times it was clear he knew she was there, but at others all his concentration appeared to be focused on fighting off the infection that sought to conquer him. And he was a fighter. He wrestled with his illness the way Jacob wrestled with the angel, a mere mortal against a powerful force, but a fierce, stubborn mortal who would not acknowledge an enemy greater than himself. Helen, silent witness to the battle, fed him juice and medicine and stormed heaven with pleas for his recovery. Her papers gathered dust on the dining room table, and her books went unread as day merged into night while she kept her vigil by his bedside. She changed his linen and his dressings, forced soup on him when he seemed capable of drinking it and left him alone only once, to slip out to the local drugstore for supplies. Convinced that he would be dead when she got back, she ran headlong into the bedroom, relaxing only when she saw the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

By the afternoon of the third day she thought he looked better. His color had improved and the skin around his wound felt cooler. At suppertime she ate a container of yogurt and made a cup of tea, sitting on the edge of Matteo’s bed to drink it. She couldn’t remember ever being so tired; she ached with it, and for the first time in her life understood what it meant to be “bone weary.” Letting the empty cup fall to the rug, she lay down on the other side of the bed, where she would be able to hear Matteo if he made the slightest sound. She thought she should set the alarm to give him his medicine, and that was the last thing she remembered before she awoke because someone was touching her hair.

She sat up, startled to find him looking at her with eyes that were clear and steady.

“You’re better,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer, merely continued to gaze at her as if trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together.

“Do you remember me?” she asked.

“Helen,” he replied, in a disused, rusty voice.

“That’s right. Do you remember how you got here, what happened?”

He nodded.

“You’ve been very sick. You wouldn’t let me call a doctor, so...”

“How long?” he interrupted hoarsely.

“How long have you been here?”

He nodded again.

“Three days.”

“Three days?” He seemed unable to believe it.

“Yes. You...arrived late Friday night, and it’s now Monday evening.”

He attempted to clear his throat, wincing slightly. “And you’ve been taking care of me all this time?”

“Yes. I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”

He glanced around the room, then looked back at Helen.

“Where is my gun?”

“I put it away.”

“Where?”

“In the refrigerator,” Helen mumbled, dropping her eyes.

He looked blank. “What?”

“In the crisper drawer of the refrigerator. I didn’t know what to do with it, and I figured it was the last place anyone would look.”
 

For the first time he smiled. It wasn’t much of a smile, just a slight upward turning at the corners of his mouth, but it changed his face. “Good girl,” he said, and suddenly her action didn’t seem ridiculous anymore, and she smiled back at him, proud of herself.

“Has anyone been here?” he asked, closing his eyes, visibly running down, the strain of even this short conversation tiring him.

“No one at all. We’ve been quite alone.” Helen moved to check his bandage, and his eyes opened as she bent over him. The gauze bore a dried brown stain, small and unintimidating.

“Why did you help me?” he inquired huskily, holding her gaze with his.

Helen had been asking herself the same question ever since the first night, and she hadn’t been able to come up with an answer more complicated than the one she now gave him.

“I guess because you needed help,” she replied. She stepped back and eyed him levelly. “Matteo—is that your real name?”

He indicated assent.

“Matteo, what are you mixed up in?”

He turned his head. “I can’t tell you. For your own protection, it’s better if you don’t know. I’ll leave as soon as I’m able; if anyone traces me back here you can say I forced you to hide me at gunpoint, took you for a hostage.”

“Why? Would someone come looking for me?”

“For me,” he murmured. Helen’s brow furrowed, but as she opened her mouth again to press him for more information, she realized that he had fallen asleep and she felt ashamed. Now was not the time to grill the man; he was two steps away from an intensive care ward. She tucked his blanket around him and resolved to let the questions wait until he felt up to answering them.

She didn’t know then that as far he was concerned they would not be answered.

* * *

When Matteo awoke again, it was to the smell of food.

Helen was sitting next to the bed with a plate of scrambled eggs. She extended a forkful to him, raising her eyebrows.

He glanced at the offering without enthusiasm, then turned his head away.

“I know your appetite is gone, but it’ll come back once you taste something good,” she encouraged him.

He brightened. “Got any Angel Bites?”

Helen stared back at him in amazement. “Angel Bites? You mean those chocolate covered marshmallow snacks the kids like?”

He looked offended. “I never heard they were just for kids.”
      

“That sounds like an advertising campaign,” Helen said dryly. “Sorry buddy, no Angel Bites. I’ll pick some up when I go to the store. In the meantime you’ll have to make do with this.” She handed him the fork.

He eyed her warily.

“Eat, or I’ll feed you,” she threatened.

He picked up the plate and obediently swallowed several mouthfuls, then pushed the dish back into her hand. Helen allowed him the round and presented him with a cloudy glass of dissolved pills.

“What’s this?” he asked suspiciously.

“An antibiotic and a painkiller crushed up in water,” she answered.

When he still hesitated she added, “You’ve been belting it down since Friday night, so I wouldn’t worry. I do believe it’s the reason you’re not dead, so drink up.”

He drained the glass and said, “You’re the reason I’m not dead, Helen.”

She didn’t answer, unable to think of a suitable reply to such a tribute.

“Where did you get the medicine?” he asked, handing the empty tumbler back to her.

“My stepmother keeps an entire pharmacy in the bathroom. I just went through the bottles and picked out something from the assortment.”

“The right stuff, apparently. That was clever.”

“Not really. Adrienne has enough drugs in there to outfit the Peace Corps. It was only a matter of looking. She’s probably got the cure for the common cold buried in that closet.”

“Well, you don’t mind if I think you’re clever, do you?” he asked, teasing her.

Helen permitted herself a small smile. He talked just like an American, yet she had seen the foreign labels in his clothes, and sometimes she could hear a faint accent. And he had consumed enough Angel Bites to develop a fondness for them. What was going on here? Why was he in Florida, and why had he been shot? The pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit together, and it was driving her crazy, but she stuck to her resolution not to interrogate him. She wanted to keep the conversation light until he was feeling stronger.

“This house belongs to your stepmother?” he asked abruptly.

“My father, but he never comes here anymore. Adrienne and her children use it mostly; I came during the off season because I wanted privacy and quiet.”

“Which lasted until I arrived,” he concluded.

“It’s still quiet,” Helen said, and he grinned. The effect on Helen was considerable; she looked away so he wouldn’t see the response in her eyes.

“You’re much more alert,” she observed neutrally, fussing with his pillows. “You fell asleep in the middle of our last conversation.”

He sobered instantly. “No more painkillers. They’re knocking me out, and I have to get moving.” He tried to sit up, but fell back, his face pale. A fresh stain began to seep onto the gauze covering his wound.

“What are you doing?” Helen cried, grabbing his hands to hold him down. “You’re in no condition to get out of bed, do you want to open up that arm again?”

He subsided reluctantly. “I’ve been here too long already; there are people who need me, people waiting for me.”

“Well, they’ll just have to wait. If you go anywhere now, you’ll be scraped off the sidewalk in ten minutes and wind up in a hospital, a hospital full of doctors. And do you know what doctors have to do when they treat a gunshot wound? Call the police. How would you like that?”

The question was rhetorical. His eyes slid away from hers, and she picked up his dishes and took them to the kitchen. She made a production out of rinsing them off to give herself time to consider what he had said. Of course he would want to leave. Whatever had brought him to her door was still waiting to be accomplished. If he had succeeded in doing it, he would not have been shot. But the thought of his departure was painful in a fundamental way she didn’t wish to examine too closely. During the past few days Matteo had become the central feature of her existence; his total dependence on her had forged a bond between them that she wished, she now realized, could continue. But he intended to return to his original objective without a thought for her except the gratitude he had already expressed.

Helen dried a dish thoughtfully and replaced it in the cabinet above the sink. Had she expected something more?

When she returned to Matteo’s room he was staring out the window at the ocean. “This is a beautiful spot,” he said to her as she entered.