'You mean it's worse than this?'
'Believe you me. That drive puts new meaning into the phrase 'taking your life in your hands.''
They spent the next couple of hours wandering around on foot. The waterfront was lively. There were young tourists from a dozen countries and weather-beaten lobstermen relaxing after a busy morning and uniformed sailors from the naval ship checking out the pretty young senoritas.
'Don't ask me why, but for some reason the Mexican navy considers this to be one of their bases,' Dorothy-Anne said, explaining the presence of the sailors.
'But it's a fishing village!'
'Try telling them that.'
They browsed in the shops, where Dorothy-Anne bought gifts to take back to the kids, and Hunt insisted on buying her a big, ridiculous straw hat.
'Hunt!' she protested, laughing. 'I'm not a hat person!'
He plopped it on her head before she could duck. 'Oh, but you are. Now stand still.' He shaped the brim to maximize its jauntiness. 'There.'
She rolled her eyes. 'God, I must look goofy!'
'Charmingly goofy.'
So to please him, she went ahead and wore it. After cocking it a little more for extra élan.
Naturally, at the next shop they passed she bought him an even more outrageous hat. A giant sombrero.
'Now we're even Steven,' she giggled.
It was an afternoon Dorothy-Anne wished could last forever. She didn't know the last time she had enjoyed herself so thoroughly. For the moment, at least, she didn't have a care in the world.
They went to Suzy's, one of the two most popular establishments, where they drank margaritas and got into the salsa rhythm, and then Dorothy-Anne took him to see Zipolite, the town's famous nudist beach.
'You see those thatched huts?' She pointed to them.
He nodded.
'A lot of the nudists actually live in them.'
'Ah.' He tried for wistfulness. 'The lifestyles of the young and daring.'
She elbowed him in the ribs.
'All right,' she laughed, 'you've had your eyeful. On we go—before you get ideas. The next thing I know, you'll suggest we strip and join them!'
'No danger of that,' he grinned. 'I doubt I'd survive the fights.'
'Fights?' She looked puzzled. 'What fights?'
'The ones you'd get me into—what else? I've got jealous bones all over my body. Any guy ogles you—even the right way—I'd be forced to defend your honor.'
'How marvelous!' She laughed beautifully and squeezed his arm. 'You'd do that?'
His face became serious. 'Till the end of time,' he vowed softly.
Swiftly she let go of his arm and looked away. Somehow they'd stepped over the boundary from fun and games to territory that belonged to serious.
And she wasn't ready for serious. Not even jokingly.
Steady, old girl, she warned herself. Don't read things into it that aren't there.
She reminded herself that these few stolen hours were just a fluke.
You and Hunt were thrown together by chance. After today, he'll fly home to resume his life, and you'll fly back and pick up yours. You'll probably never see each other again.
Reality had an awful habit of asserting itself.
Hunt was looking at her strangely. 'Is something wrong?'
'No.' Dorothy-Anne glued on a smile. 'Why, should there be?'
But of course, there was. Because now she knew what Cinderella felt like.
Sometime or other, we're all Cinderella. Only the hour is different. The stroke of midnight comes at different times for each of us.
And later yet:
The afternoon was drawing to a close. Hats in hand, they were walking barefoot at surf's edge, along a deserted stretch of shell-strewn beach.
Soon now the sun would set, and the two of them would be silhouetted against a painted sky. Then dusk would fall swiftly and they would be heading back to Huatulco.
Dorothy-Anne was painfully aware of every passing minute.
'With the Whitman's gone, I guess your business here is done,' she said quietly.
'Yes,' Hunt replied. 'And yours?'
'I want to make one last round of our salmonella patients, but after that I'm done too.'
'And off you fly? Into the wild blue yonder?'
'That's right.' She nodded.
'So it's back to the rat race,' he sighed. 'San Francisco for me. New York for you.'
'Actually, I've got to stop off in the Caribbean first. A resort we're developing is running way over budget and way over schedule. It's time I kicked some butt.'
'The Caribbean,' he murmured dreamily. 'Powdery white beaches . . . whispering palms . . . '
'Bulldozers,' she added, 'backhoes . . . cement mixers . . . '
He wasn't fazed in the least. 'How long will you be there?'
She shrugged. 'Two days . . . three at the outside.' She glanced at him. 'Why?'
'I could always delay my return a couple of days. Maybe charter us a sailboat, keep it anchored offshore. What do you think?'
Her heart skipped a beat, then added velocity to what she had been feeling. Heavens above, what did he think she thought? It was only the most tempting proposition she'd had in eons.
Then caution intervened, and she stopped walking so she could examine his face to see if he was having her on.
He wasn't. His expression was sincere—and so unguardedly ardent, so wholeheartedly eager and enthusiastic, that seeing it brought a sudden blush to her face.
'You're crazy!' she laughed.
'Maybe,' he admitted softly. 'But I've never been more serious in my life.'
A breeze sprang up and tugged at her hair. She fingered it back over her ears, then turned and stared out to sea. The setting sun had electroplated the ocean with molten gilt, and the lights of a big sport fisherman heading back to shore semaphored a victorious catch.
'Well?' Hunt prodded.
Dorothy-Anne drew a little breath and held it, then let it escape. One part of her was dying to jump at his offer. Today doesn't have to be the end! she thought exultantly.
But another part of her was coldly rational. The sooner we part company, the easier it'll be on both of us. I'm not ready for a relationship, and neither is he. He's already got a wife.
Dorothy-Anne had no intention of becoming the Other Woman. God, no. Her life was filled with enough complications. The last thing she needed was to add to them.
His voice was a whisper above the roar of the surf. 'What's the matter? Can't you just say yes?'
She turned and looked up at him and started to say no. Instead, she could feel his eyes reaching out and pulling her in, and the word died on her tongue. Damn. She didn't want to turn him down! She wanted to say yes!
Hunt was the only man who had attracted her since Freddie had passed away. But that wasn't quite true. In fact, it wasn't true at all. I might as well be honest with myself. Hunt attracted me from the very beginning—even before I learned of my beloved's tragedy. The moment I laid eyes on Hunt, and he on me, something between us clicked.
Yes. She had been swept up in the blinding aura of his charisma from the start.
The freight of guilt pressed heavily on her shoulders. Surely by merely being with Hunt she was besmirching Freddie's memory—how could it be otherwise? And sharing yet more time with Hunt would be . . .
Her breath sighed out. 'I'd like you to come along,' she told Hunt carefully, her lips pursed in a puritanical frown. 'I'd really like to . . . '
'Then why do I hear a 'but' coming on?'
'Because I'm not ready for a commitment. Oh, Hunt! Don't you see? It's too soon!'
He drew closer to her. 'I'm not looking for a commitment,' he said softly. 'I don't intend to make any demands.'
She made an agitated gesture.
'Can't we just enjoy each other's company?' he asked.
She stared at him. 'Can we, Hunt? Can we really? Or would we only be fooling ourselves?'
He looked deep into her
eyes. 'Since when has friendship been a crime?'
Dorothy-Anne could feel her resistance crumbling. It wasn't as if she was going to kick up her heels and spread her legs.
Friendship, she silently told the hovering presence of Freddie. Since when has that been such a crime!
Friendship.
That's all it is.
The following morning, when she boarded her jet to fly to Eden Isle, Hunt went with her.
40
Unappreciated: the vast blue sky, the clouds like tiny white puff- balls from antiaircraft fire. Unappreciated too: the houses stacked like firewood on Russian Hill, presumptuously soaking up the sun as though it were their rightful due; the crisp diorama of bay and mountains and bridges; the flotillas of sailboats skimming across the blue sheet of water like tiny gulls.
Amber had no use for the view. She was conscious of herself as a sallow, conspicuous intruder whose worn denims, old Nikes, and waist- length black hair branded her as a trespasser. She was too different, too hardened for this genteel neighborhood of freshly painted houses and tiny, tended gardens. No one would ever mistake her for a homemaker or a professional woman. Her body language was too defiant, her eyes too furtive.
She was convinced she had trouble written all over her. Why else would the cabbie who'd dropped her off have regarded her with suspicion, demanding she flash her cash before accepting her as a fare?
His assumption that she'd stiff him stung at Amber's pride, left her with the bitter aftertaste of resentment.
'Fuckin' lowly cabbie!' she cursed to herself.
Under normal circumstances, she'd have told him where to shove it, but urgency would not permit. She didn't have time to wait for another cab. If she didn't hurry, Christos or the woman might beat her to the house—ruin her plans.
Like hell they will! she thought, anger propelling her forward. It was imperative that she get there first—unnoticed. Her entire future hinged upon it. Christos had become unusually secretive of late. He's holding out on me. Obviously something was afoot. Something big, which doesn't include me.
Hair flying, she darted along the narrow walkways that linked the rabbit warren of little houses. What she was up to was illegal, could easily land her in jail—reason enough to be jumpy. She tried to will the twitches in her muscles to cease, was unable to keep from rotating her head to scan the surroundings, casting guilty glances uphill and down and back over her shoulder.
She felt exposed out here in the open, could almost feel the local busybodies flattening their noses against their windows. Watching her every move. No doubt wondering what the stranger in their neighborhood was up to. No good, surely . . .
She reached the second house in, her elbow brushing the diseased hedge of thin waist-high boxwood, when a dog started barking furiously.
Amber froze with shock, like a rabbit caught in the glare of oncoming headlights. Heart lurching, she tensed herself for an imminent attack. Then the dog barked some more, and she realized it was several houses away.
Stupid, her panicked reaction! She should have realized how sound here carried.
The relief she breathed was tight in her chest. For a moment, she just stood there, wobbly kneed and cold. She heard a sharp male voice yell at the dog. The frenzied barking continued. Then came a yelp, a whine, and silence.
Amber hurried past the third house in, the bougainvillea-smothered cottage above the shoulder-high retaining wall. Home of the female executive she'd run into the last time, from whose terrace she'd kept Christos under surveillance, shielded from sight by the tilted sun umbrella.
The memory triggered a moment's pleasure, and Amber recalled the sweet yearning she had felt, the daydream she had allowed herself of living in a house such as this.
A few leisurely steps later, she arrived at her destination, the cream- painted little house with the second-floor deck projecting, porch like, out over the tiny, terraced front yard.
The place to which she'd tailed Christos.
How well Amber remembered his song and dance about how he was going to a 'sleazy hotel' to meet the 'old hag.'
Only there was no hotel. No old hag, either. However, Gloria Winslow existed.
Oh, did she ever!
Naturally, she wasn't a bit like Christos had described.
The remembered treachery detonated like shrapnel inside her, and Amber wondered how she could have been so dumb. She, of all people, should have known better than to swallow the crapola Christos handed out.
Letting her fingers do the walking, Amber felt along the retaining wall for the loose stone behind which Gloria Winslow hid the house keys. Despite the sunshine, the rough-hewn chunks of granite were cool to the touch. Cool and unyielding.
Which one, which one?
While she searched, Amber's head throbbed with the two messages she'd intercepted on the answering machine.
Yesterday afternoon's: 'It's me, Glo. I've been through the wringer and could use some TLC. I'll be at the usual place within the hour.'
A spur-of-the-moment impulse on Gloria Winslow's part. Amber knew Christos hadn't met up with her, because he'd been out all day.
Then today, not half an hour ago, another message. Christos was in the shower, and Amber, on her way out to the topless club where she worked, turned up the volume on the answering machine to listen.
Gloria Winslow again: 'Hell are you? Timbuktu? It's Glo. Guess you know that. I'm heading over to Russian Hill. Do try to make it, will you?'
Amber turned the volume back down and hastily made tracks. Screw work, she decided. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for. Lord only knew when she'd get another.
So here she was, prodding at the retaining wall with her fingertips. Searching for the loose stone. Surely she hadn't been mistaken! It had to be right about—
A chunk of granite shifted slightly.
—here!
'Well, praise the Lord!' she offered up thankfully, jiggling the stone loose and pulling it out. It was barely an inch thick, and not very heavy. With an expression of distaste, she brushed aside a spider, then reached quickly into the hole with her free hand.
Her fingers groped crablike. Please be there, she prayed. Please . . .
They were.
With a cry of triumph, she snatched up the bunch of keys, withdrew her hand, and glanced down at her prize. Four keys on a chrome ring.
Way to go!
She closed her fingers tightly around them. But instead of getting her going, their reality unnerved her. She stared at her clenched, white- knuckled fist. What she intended wasn't exactly 'breaking,' but it was 'entering.'
Did that make it a felony? Or a misdemeanor? She wasn't sure. However, either one could land her in jail.
But only if I get caught, she told herself. And I won't, not if I'm careful.
Positive thinking got her moving. But first she glanced cautiously— furtively—to her right, checking the walk one last time.
The coast was still clear. No Gloria Winslow—yet.
Moving in a swift crouch, Amber loped up the stone steps to the front door, grateful for the protruding deck overhead. She felt less exposed in the sanctuary of its cool, dark shadows.
Now for the door.
She eyed it uneasily. It was white and looked solid. Steel, she strongly suspected.
Just don't let there be an alarm. That's all I ask.
Fingers trembling, Amber tried the first key, fumbling badly and scratching it across the lock, steadying her hand only to find the key didn't fit, then trying the second one, and the third—
She heard the soft click of the tumbler being thrown.
Here goes, she thought. She tensed against the shrill, accusatory shriek of an alarm as she turned the knob and inched the door open, unprepared for—silence?
Yes, silence.
No electronic wails. No deafening warbles. Only the distant shrieks of the seagulls, the tinkles of wind chimes, the peaceable sounds of a quiet neighborhood going about its normal business.
Slowly, shakily, Amber wiped her brow with her sleeve, then left the door cracked and hurried back down the steps. She thrust the keys into their hole, replaced the stone, and scuttled guiltily back to the house.
Once inside, she slammed the door and threw the latch, then leaned weakly back against it. For a moment, she breathed in the sweet, soothing balm of relief even as her subconscious reached out, testing the parameters of her surroundings.
Except for her rapid heartbeat and noisy breathing, her mind registered nothing; the house was pervaded by that stillness peculiar to buildings devoid of all human activity.
So far, so good.
Amber was nearly giddy with relief. She was alone and in. In, yes, but she wasn't out of the woods quite yet. Not by a long shot.
Pulling herself together, she glanced around and took a swift inventory.
She was in a small, low-ceilinged entrance hall with a highly polished wooden floor. In front of her, a flight of narrow, uncarpeted steps rose steeply up to the second floor. To her right, an open arch led into what she presumed was the living room, judging from her partial view of a brick fireplace, and to her left, an identical arch opened into what was obviously the kitchen.
Amber decided a brief reconnaissance of the premises was in order.
Without further ado, she proceeded to acquaint herself with the layout.
Downstairs were the entry hall, living room, dining area, powder room, and kitchen. Other than the kitchen cabinets and appliances, the rooms were empty. There wasn't a stick of furniture to be seen, or carpeting to absorb sound, or curtains to soften harsh acoustics. Amber was uncomfortably aware of a constant hollow echo as flat, hard surfaces amplified the squeaks of her rubber-soled Nikes on oak, the rasps of her agitated breathing.
Without fail, the blinds were pulled down over all the windows, with only thin slivers of light leaking in around the edges.
A cursory examination of the refrigerator revealed chilled bottles of champagne, tonic water, and club soda; the freezer contained frosted bottles of Stolichnaya.
Upstairs were a landing, three bedrooms, and a tiled bathroom. Just like downstairs, the two smaller bedrooms were entirely devoid of furnishings. As for the master bedroom . . .
Second Love Page 40