New Way to Fly

by Margot Dalton

  Brock looked at her in surprise. “I wouldn’t have thought Mary could afford that kind of thing,” he ventured cautiously.

  “Why not? Those clothes cost her less than four hundred dollars altogether. That’s not a lot of money for good designer fashions.”

  Brock’s dark eyes reflected his disbelief. “Come on, Amanda,” he said slowly. “What gives?”

  She glanced up at him, startled and defensive. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I was looking in shop windows at ladies’ clothes when I walked down here,” Brock said. “I saw what they cost. How could Mary buy all those things for that little money?”

  “I was…actually, I was able to give her quite a good deal,” Amanda told him stiffly.

  “Yeah,” Brock drawled, looking with thoughtful interest at the woman across the table. “Obviously you were.”

  But from the shuttered expression on her face, he guessed it would be dangerous to pursue the matter. Instead he scooped up the check, helped his companion into her silk jacket and followed her from the restaurant, conscious that every man in the room was watching Amanda Walker with admiration as she moved quietly among them, her dark head high, her dress swinging above beautiful shapely legs.

  AMANDA DROVE through the city streets toward her apartment. She arched her shoulders wearily and frowned at the lights of Brock Munroe’s truck in the rearview mirror, wondering what had possessed her to invite him back to her place for a drink.

  Not that she hadn’t enjoyed the evening. In fact, she’d been surprised by the ease and warmth of their dinner conversation, and by how interesting the man actually was when you managed to get past his rough cowboy exterior.

  Amanda moved restlessly in the driver’s seat, troubled by a random memory of what it was like to dine out with Edward. She recalled his subtle witty stories and brittle jokes, usually at other people’s expense, interspersed with long awkward silences while Amanda searched her mind for something to say, anything that he might find entertaining.

  She hadn’t felt that way at all with Brock Munroe. During the whole evening, she’d had the pleasant sensation that she was bright and fascinating, a beautiful woman with an impressive mind and all kinds of positive attributes.

  It did feel good for a change, Amanda told herself with a wry private grin, to spend time with somebody who thought you were wonderful. It did wonders for your self-esteem.

  Amanda pulled up in front of her building and waved an arm to indicate the visitor parking, then ducked into her own reserved space. She sat behind the wheel for a moment, thinking about the man she’d just spent the evening with.

  He was far more complex than she’d given him credit for, this Brock Munroe. He presented a cheerful disheveled appearance, but he was no fool. And he might have given Amanda all kinds of praise, but she suspected that deep down, he wasn’t really convinced of her value or her sincerity.

  “So who cares?” Amanda muttered aloud, gathering up her handbag and gloves with an abrupt angry gesture. “Who the hell cares one bit what Brock Munroe thinks? I’ll never see him again, after I get this evening over with.”

  She met him in the lobby with a cool gracious smile, rode silently up to her floor and unlocked her apartment. She glanced at him critically as she opened the door. He’d obviously spruced up a bit for this date, put on a pair of dark tan jeans and a crisply ironed cream-colored shirt under his brown leather jacket. The Western cut of the clothes flattered his wonderful physique, showing to fine advantage the broad shoulders and lean hips, the long muscular thighs that felt like iron when she brushed against him inadvertently as they entered the foyer together.

  Still, she had to suppress a little shudder of alarm when she imagined Edward meeting this man, and thought about what Edward would probably say later on the subject of Brock Munroe.

  “Who was that masked man?” she heard him asking in his flat nasal imitation of a Texas drawl. “Say, did anybody get the number of his horse? Does he wear those boots to bed, d’you think?”

  Amanda shook off the mental image and gave Brock a brief automatic smile, hanging his leather jacket in the closet while he stood gazing at her apartment in silence.

  She was conscious of a sudden heaviness in the air, of a growing discomfort and annoyance.

  Brock hated her apartment.

  She could tell just by the set of his shoulders, the sudden tension in his brown hands, the guarded look in his dark eyes when he turned to her.

  Don’t say it, Amanda warned him silently, indicating the leather sofa and moving gracefully through the room toward the kitchen. Don’t you dare say what you’re thinking, because I can’t bear to hear it, and I’ll just…

  “Would you like a mixed drink, or a glass of wine?” she asked, pausing in front of her small black-lacquered china cabinet.

  “Do you have Scotch?”

  “Almost a whole bottle. I don’t drink Scotch very often.”

  “That’s fine, then. A little Scotch on the rocks, please, with just a touch of soda.”

  Amanda nodded, took a heavy crystal tumbler and a wineglass from the cabinet and vanished into the kitchen. She mixed his drink with trembling hands, painfully conscious of him sitting there in her living room, looking around at the elegant decor and forming judgments.

  And why did his judgments matter to her so much anyhow? She’d already dismissed the man as being of little consequence, impossibly far away from her in matters of sophistication and taste. Brock Munroe was nothing to her but a passing acquaintance, a friend of a friend.

  So why did it cause her such embarrassment to sense his silent criticism? Why did she hate the idea that he was looking at her apartment and her life with wry humor and private scorn?

  Amanda put the ice cube tray back in the fridge, pausing to press her hands to her hot flushed cheeks for a moment.

  Finally, her composure somewhat restored, she carried the drinks into the living room, set them on the glass coffee table and sank into a black sling chair opposite Brock.

  “So,” she inquired with a challenging glance, “what do you think of my New York look?”

  “I hate it,” he said quietly, reaching for the drink. “Don’t you?”

  Amanda stared at him, aghast at his rudeness. Her cheeks turned pale and her blue eyes flashed dangerously. “Of course I don’t hate it,” she said evenly. “I chose this decor myself, and put a lot of time and thought into it.”

  Brock leaned back on the couch and sipped his drink, gazing at her steadily over the rim of his glass. “That’s not what I mean,” he said finally. “I suppose it’s stylish as hell, and it shows that you’re first-rate at what you do, and all that. But when I look at something like this, I always wonder if people really like it, or of it’s just done for effect. I mean,” he added reasonably, waving an arm to take in the quiet room around them, “how could anybody possibly like this?”

  “Let me get this straight,” Amanda said, so angry that she could hardly control herself. “You’re accusing me of hypocrisy, is that it, Brock? Of creating a certain look just to impress other people at the expense of my own preference?”

  Brock considered this, his dark eyes calm as he looked around at the wrought iron and glass, the cold abstract atmosphere of the place, the stark monochrome color scheme. His eyes rested briefly on the only painting in the room, a huge modernist work above the dining table that featured two broad intersecting red lines on a field of pale gray.

  The purchase of this painting, by one of Edward’s favorite artists, had cleaned out most of Amanda’s savings. She tensed as Brock raised a cynical dark eyebrow, almost ready to strike the man if he made some disparaging comment. But he didn’t, just nodded and turned back to her with an easy smile.

  “Yeah,” he drawled. “I guess that’s what I’m saying, Amanda.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. I think this place…” He paused to wave a hand once more to include everything in the ro
om. “I think this is a form of hypocrisy, if that’s how you want to put it. I don’t think it’s really your own taste. I’d say you’ve done it just for effect.”

  “Oh, really? And what do you know about my taste?” Amanda asked him in low furious tones. “What do you know about me at all? We exchanged a few words at a party and had dinner together once. Does that make you some kind of expert on me?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “Of course it doesn’t. But I was attracted to you the minute I laid eyes on you, Amanda Walker. I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I also thought there was more to you than a few inches of style and glamour. Fact is, I still do. After all, how could I have been so wrong for all those years?”

  “What do you mean, all those years?”

  With a sudden uncomfortable shrug he drained his glass, set it down on the table and got to his feet. “Forget it,” he said abruptly. “I meant something else. Thanks for the nice evening, Amanda,” he added with formal politeness, extending his hand. “It was a real pleasure.”

  Still shaken by their exchange, she took his hand briefly and was once again almost overwhelmed by the firmness of his grip, by the feel of his warm flesh against hers and the dark compelling depths of his eyes as he gazed down at her.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, struggling to compose herself, to keep her voice light and casual. “Let’s just put all this behind us and consider the issue closed, all right?”

  “Sure,” Brock said easily, moving toward the closet to get his jacket. “All in the past, Amanda. And I won’t be bothering you again. But the invitation’s still open if you feel like dropping in someday to give me advice about my house.”

  Amanda stared at him, caught off guard by his words. “You’re kidding,” she said with forced lightness. “You haven’t exactly been bowled over by my decorating, Brock. So why on earth would you want advice from someone like me?”

  “You don’t understand. I don’t like this place, Amanda, not one bit. But that doesn’t change anything. I still happen to believe that your advice would be real valuable.”

  She shifted nervously, confused by the conflicting messages his words contained. “Maybe it’s best just to let it go, Brock,” she said finally. “But thanks for the vote of confidence, if that’s what it is.”

  He opened the door and turned to give her one more thoughtful glance, hesitating as if on the verge of saying something else. Then he was gone, striding off toward the elevator, his tall figure looking vital and larger than life in the silent polished confines of the apartment hallway.

  Long after he disappeared around the corner, Amanda stood gazing blankly in the direction he’d vanished, her eyes bleak, her face distant and sad.

  When she finally went back into her apartment the place looked much less satisfying than it had just a day earlier. The stark walls and furnishings seemed almost to be mocking her, chilly and silent, devoid of comfort, so lonely all at once that she was tempted to sink down on the cold leather couch and cry like a lost child.

  MARY GIBSON STOOD in a cramped dingy washroom behind the service station, arching her back and trying to see more of herself in the cloudy mirror. Nervously she rummaged in her handbag, put on some lipstick, frowned and smudged most of it off again, then tried once more to catch a full-length glimpse of herself.

  Mary knew that she looked nice. She wore the beautifully fitted gray flannel trousers and soft sea-blue sweater that she’d bought from Amanda Walker, and they flattered her more than any clothes she’d ever owned. And her hair was trimmed and shaped, tinted a dark ash blond with sunny highlights that softened her face and deepened the golden brown of her eyes.

  She wore a little makeup, too, applied with a spare skillful hand the way Amanda had shown her. It was surprising what a difference that made, just a tiny bit of color and contouring. Mary felt confident about her appearance, but not about what she was about to do. In fact, this was one of the hardest things she’d ever done in her life.

  Slowly, her face set and grim, Mary took her handbag and cast one final look at her reflection in the mirror. Then she went out, climbed into her waiting car and drove the last few miles.

  She pulled up a long curving drive and through the electronic gates in the direction of a low complex built of gray cinder block. When the buildings were directly in front of her, Mary almost changed her mind. It took all her strength of will not to put her car in reverse, turn around and roar off through the gates in the direction of home, away from all the terror and misery of this place.

  The drive to the prison had seemed endless. She wondered why they had to put Al in a jail clear across the state. Maybe it had something to do with security, and the fact that most people wouldn’t want a prison in their neighborhood. But then most people didn’t have to visit their husbands in prison.

  Mary wondered if anybody from Crystal Creek had made this long drive to visit her husband. Did Martin Avery or Vernon Trent or J.T. McKinney ever give up their weekends, get up before dawn to drive all this way?

  Did Billie Jo Dumont?

  Mary shivered suddenly and gripped the wheel, almost blinded by emotion. She parked in the lot and got out, moving with halting steps toward the marked doors at the front of the complex.

  If anybody from Crystal Creek had come to visit, they’d never talked to Mary about it. Of course, she reflected, they never talked about her husband at all. The whole town maintained a kind of tactful silence about Al in her presence, as if he’d died suddenly and she needed to be protected from the pain of his memory.

  That would have been so much easier to bear, Mary told herself miserably, presenting her visitor’s card and submitting to a cursory search by the female admitting guard. If her husband had died, she’d have all the dignity and respect of a widow in the community. Instead, she was a sort of outcast, an embarrassment to everyone who met her.

  Not that Mary didn’t understand their discomfort. After all, what could you say to a woman whose husband had cheated on her openly with a girl young enough to be their daughter, then went to jail for insurance fraud? No wonder they were all embarrassed by her.

  Mary lifted her chin and bit her lip to prevent herself from crying. She followed the signs to a large room with stained pale green walls, filled with little wooden tables and shabby folding chairs.

  People sat at most of the tables, men in faded blue institutional pants and shirts, women of all ages. Some of the couples were holding hands, gazing at each other while one or both of them cried silently. Others talked in earnest murmurs and a few were arguing in low tones.

  Mary gave her card to an official, then seated herself at one of the empty tables and waited, balling a tissue tight in her hand and gripping it frantically.

  She saw Al come through a door on the other side of the room. He stood looking around while Mary gazed at him, forgetting her own discomfort, stunned by his appearance.

  Al “Bubba” Gibson had always been a substantial man, with an impressive breadth of shoulder on a heavy six-foot frame. In recent years, he’d even run a little to fat, carrying a rounded arrogant belly above his jeans like a trophy.

  But all that was changed now. In the weeks since Mary had last seen her husband he appeared to have shrunk. The cheap blue cotton pants and shirt hung limply on him, making him seem stooped and old. There was a lot more gray in his thick shaggy hair, and his face had an unhealthy pallor.

  Of course, this was the first time she’d ever seen Al without a tan. Even in Mary’s earliest memories his skin had always had a weathered warm look, with deep laughter lines in his cheeks and little wrinkles next to those sparkling blue eyes….

  Suddenly she felt a wave of pain, of loss and sorrow so shattering that it was all she could do to keep from moaning aloud and hurrying out of the room.

  But it was too late. Al had seen her, and was moving awkwardly though the crowded room in her direction.

  Finally he stopped by Mary’s table, gazed at her for a long t
ense moment, then began to look around for a chair.

  “Here, Al,” Mary said quickly, getting up and pulling an empty chair from an adjoining table, carrying it around to him. “Here’s a chair.”

  He took it, still silent, gazing at his wife in stunned astonishment. “Mary…” he began. His voice cracked and he paused, trying to smile at her. “You sure do look nice, girl. Real nice.”

  The ghost of that old cheerful smile brought fresh tears to her eyes. Once again she fought to compose herself. “Thanks, Al,” she said finally. “I just got my hair done on Friday. And I bought some new clothes the other day, too.”

  “Well, good for you,” he said warmly. “I’m real glad to hear it.”

  Mary swallowed hard and seated herself opposite him, knowing that what he said was true. Al had always been a generous husband. He liked Mary to dress well, and frequently during their married life he’d tried to coax her to fix herself up, spend a little money on her hair and wardrobe.

  Maybe I should have listened to him, Mary thought bleakly. Maybe if I’d taken better care of myself, he wouldn’t have had to…

  “I just can’t get over it,” Al went on, smiling shyly across the table. “You really do look pretty, Mary. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Oh, Al…” This time it was Mary’s turn to fall abruptly silent, not trusting her voice. “Do you see anybody else?” she asked finally. “Do folks come to visit you, Al?”

  He shook his head. “Not much. It’s a long drive, Mary, an’ they’re all busy with their own lives. Martin an’ Vern drove up one day just after I came here, but Vern’s married now, an’ Martin’s busy all the time. You know how it is for folks.”

  Mary nodded. “How about J.T.?”

  “He came a couple times, back earlier on, at the very beginning, but now that Cynthia’s so close to her time, he don’t like to leave her alone that much.”

  Mary hesitated, gripping the tissue so tightly in her fist that her fingernails dug into her callused palm. But she had to ask. “And…and Billie Jo?”