My Love Betrayed

by April Lynn Kihlstrom

  He turned to Carlos. “You come highly recommended, young man! And, speaking of recommendations, Miss Steffee, we will be sending an excellent report to the Chicago office on your work here. Now, Mr. Zapora, I understand you have three assistants, and I also understand that three will be sufficient. I’m very pleased to hear it. Do you have any questions?”

  Carlos shook his head. “No, sir.”

  I hesitated, then said, “If if I could be of further assistance, Mr. Thayer, I’d be happy to continue to help out here for the rest of my, er, vacation.”

  “No, no,” his genial voice replied. “You just go ahead and enjoy your vacation, Miss Steffee. You’ve certainly earned it and we can’t, won’t, impose on you any longer! Now, Zapora, we need to have the system set up by July. In your opinion, is that possible?”

  Carlos made a very good impression on them. He considered the question, then answered in measured tones, his English excellent. Basically, he gave them the only acceptable answer: yes.

  “Good, good. Well, then, we won’t keep you from your work. Good luck to both of you!” Mr. Thayer concluded.

  It was clearly a dismissal, and we gratefully took it. Together, we left the room. Carlos was too stunned to ask any questions of me, but the other men, when we got back, were not. As soon as we walked in the door, they were all on their feet, asking in Spanish, “What happened?”

  It took Carlos a moment to answer, but then his excitement matched theirs. By unanimous agreement, we headed out to lunch to celebrate.

  Over the beer, Carlos managed to ask me, “But how?” Then, “Did you know?”

  I nodded. “Mr. Iveson told me a few days ago that he expected the promotion to go through. But he asked me to keep it a secret.” Impulsively, I added, “I’m so glad for you, Carlos. You should be in charge!”

  He grinned, then sobered. “But you. What will you do? Go back to the United States?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. The police still want me here. I don’t know why, unless they think I did have something to do with Rick and the smuggling. But then why haven’t they arrested me?”

  Carlos didn’t have any answer, and I didn’t expect him to. Finally, he said, “Well, what will you do?”

  I thought about it for a while before answering. “Right now, I’m still too nervous to play tourist alone in Mexico City. I suppose I’ll relax. Maybe take Mrs. Iveson up on her offer to show me around. Maybe ask her to show me some of the nearby archaeological sites. I’ve always been fascinated by things like that, and I can’t imagine a better guide.”

  “What sites?” Eduardo asked, joining the conversation.

  “Xochicalco and some of the others,” I said.

  Eduardo nodded. “Xochicalco is very impressive. You will like it, I think.”

  “You’ve been there?” I asked.

  “Si. Once. A long time ago.”

  “Also,” Jaime broke in, “you should see Xochimilco, the floating gardens.”

  Luiz and Carlos nodded. So, for a while, we discussed places to see. Each of the men had his favorites. In fact, we got back to the office a little late, but no one cared. The work was going well, and the news of Carlos’s promotion had deserved a celebration. Well, a few toasts with beer, anyway; we did have work to do that afternoon.

  While Luiz, Eduardo, and Jaime ran a couple of programs, Carlos and I went over the work on my desk. It didn’t take long. I’d only been there a week and, except for information about Rick’s programming habits, the men were much more familiar with the project than I was.

  Still, Carlos was nice enough to insist that my work had been important. “Si!” he said emphatically. “Rick Kemmler would never explain, and it is not always so easy to read another’s programs. You have saved us a month, perhaps two. And,” he added, with a grin, “it was fun.”

  I laughed, knowing I would miss them all very much, and I said so.

  At quitting time, we all shook hands gravely, under Mr. Iveson’s watchful eyes. Then it was over, and Greg and I were leaving. He seemed to understand how I felt and, tactfully, said little on the ride home.

  Once there, I slipped away to my room.

  When I came down for dinner, Edna was waiting for me on the patio. Impulsively, she hugged me. “Ellen! Greg told me the good news! I hear you’re completely free of the office now.” She paused and, ever observant, caught my mood. “Or, maybe, you’re not so happy about it? Yes, yes, I know you’re too generous to begrudge that fellow, Zapora, the promotion. But I can see that working might have been a help to you this past week. It must have kept you from brooding about Rick Kemmler, and everything. Well, we’ll just have to find you something equally distracting, now that the job is over.”

  Grateful for Edna’s perception, I said, “You’ve got it, exactly. I’ve always hated the feeling of helplessness, and that’s what I am now. Helpless. At least, while I was working, I felt in control of something! Even if it was often frustrating,” I added, with a wry grin.

  “And you can’t even go home now,” Edna said sympathetically.

  “I wish I could!” I said grimly. “And yet, I don’t really feel ready to face the people I know there and answer their questions about Rick. Crazy, isn’t it?”

  “No, I don’t think it’s crazy at all,” Edna answered thoughtfully. “If you could do it, the ideal thing would be for you to leave Mexico City and go back to the States. But not to Chicago. Anywhere but Chicago, for a week or two. Then, go home. But you can’t.”

  We were both silent then for a few minutes. Finally, Edna said gently, “Ellen, why are the police still so interested in you? Do you know? Or have you any idea?”

  I shook my head. “No. Unless Rick…”

  I let it trail off, unable to tell Edna what had happened. But she wouldn’t let it rest. Persistently, she probed, “Unless Rick what?”

  Biting my lower lip, I shrugged. “Unless Rick told them some sort of story, claiming I was involved.”

  “Were you? No, don’t look at me like that, Ellen!” she said sharply. “I’m not suggesting you willingly helped Rick. I just meant that maybe he somehow used you.”

  I laughed bitterly. “He did! As a smoke screen.”

  “But, dear—”

  “Please, Edna!” I snapped. “I just don’t want to talk about it! I can’t! If you’re worried about harboring a criminal, I’ll be happy to move back to a hotel.”

  Behind me, someone coughed. We both turned to see Greg standing in the doorway, staring at us. His face was stern as he said, “Edna, I won’t have you badgering our guest! Ellen, there’s no need to leave. Unless, of course, you really want to. But I would like you to understand that neither Edna nor I consider you a criminal. And we do enjoy having you as our guest.”

  He continued to stare sternly at Edna, who said hastily, “Oh, Ellen, I really didn’t mean to offend you. I suppose it’s being so relatively isolated, but I can’t help being curious. You are the first,” she added reflectively, “real-life heroine I’ve met. At least, the first, in some time.”

  Impossible to stay angry with Edna, who, after all, had been so kind to me these last few days. So I smiled and said, “I understand.”

  In a way, of course, I did. Gossip is a universal fact of life. Still, I found myself oddly disappointed in Edna. It was Greg who was the peacemaker. After dinner, Edna excused herself, saying she was tired. I would have gone to my room, too, but Greg stopped me. He said as I stood up, “Wait, Ellen, I’d like to talk to you.” He waited until I sat down to go on. “I’d like to explain about Edna; I know she upset you earlier. Yes, I do have to explain. You see, we’ve never had children, and I think Edna really minds not having been a mother. Whenever there’s a young person around, especially one with problems, she can’t resist trying to mother them. Usually in a discreet, inoffensive way. In your case, Edna is rather more concerned. She has a theory that Rick Kemmler somehow used you maybe to hide some of the stolen gems. If we knew how he had used you, we might be able to pr
otect you.”

  “How?” I demanded bluntly.

  He shrugged. “That probably depends on how you were used. If Rick did hide something with you, you can see why you’re in danger! We’d find it and turn it over to the proper people, and then there would be no reason for anyone to go on attacking you.”

  “And if it’s simply revenge?” I asked.

  He was quiet a moment, then sighed. “Then, Ellen, I just don’t know.”

  “Well, I’m sorry!” I said. “But I just don’t want to think about it. I can’t.”

  Greg Iveson sighed again, and I realized he was honestly disappointed. “Very well, my dear,” he said gently, “I won’t press you anymore. Go get some sleep. But, if you can’t sleep, try to think about what I said. Okay? Good night, dear.”

  “Good night,” I echoed. Then I fled to my room.

  I thought, all right. It would have been impossible not to. But the only conclusion I could come to was that I wished Charles were here. If Rick had used me, he had been awfully subtle about it!

  Morning. There was no need for the maid to wake me. Dawn had done that, through gay, lightweight curtains. I hadn’t bothered to draw the heavier drapes the night before. No use to try to sleep any longer. I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and settled them into the slippers I had brought from home. Then I pulled on my soft, long robe, tying the belt around my hips. And, in the huge, comfortable chair in the corner of my room, I curled up to think. Inevitably, my thoughts went to Charles.

  I had been in love before. But never with such intensity-an intensity that frightened me. It was love that demanded I throw away all caution and trust a man I knew almost nothing about. I knew now that it was because of this intensity that I had run so hard from Charles, found so many excuses to be angry with him, often without real cause. I’ve said that I hate the feeling of helplessness, and that it frightens me. Love, the kind I felt for Charles, is a kind of helplessness, also. And there is no way to escape it. But I had tried. Well, the fight was over. I knew that when Charles returned, if Charles returned, if Charles still said he loved me, there would be no more running no more games of hide and seek. Because love, wherever one finds it, is too precious to waste. Better to be hurt because it ends, than never to feel love because of fear.

  Fear. There was so much of it around me these days. I wasn’t a woman who sought adventure. I had no need to court danger to prove I was as good as a man. I already knew it. And, although I had never run from shadows, or spiders, or snakes, or bullies (of either sex), I would have run now if I could. But it wasn’t that easy.

  I tried to consider Mr. Iveson’s suggestion that Rick might have somehow used me, and that the attacks were not random, or revenge, but an attempt to get something from me. But the only answer I could find was the one from the night before. So I climbed out of the chair and began to get dressed.

  I was ready long before the maid tapped at my door, but I waited until the usual time before I went down to breakfast. I still felt awkward, although safe, as the houseguest of a couple I barely knew, and I wanted to impose as little as possible. As usual, both Ivesons were already seated when I arrived. It was a beautiful morning, and Greg and Edna both seemed in a good mood. “Good morning, dear,” Edna greeted me, as usual.

  Greg simply nodded. I murmured a “Good morning” as I slid into my chair.

  “Well,” Greg said, a little too heartily, “I’ll miss driving to work with you, Ellen. But my loss is Edna’s gain. And I assure you, she knows it!”

  “Don’t embarrass the girl,” Edna told him. Then she turned to me. “Are you very tired, Ellen? Do you feel as if you need to rest? Because, if not, I wondered if you would like to go to Cuernavaca with me today. It’s close enough to Xochicalco that we could stop to see the pyramids, if you’d like. Two hours down, and two hours back, but I’ve often done it in one day.”

  She paused, then explained, “In any case, I have to go down there today. A couple of years ago, I officially became an importer, with a partner in New York. Said partner has just sent me a telegram saying she urgently needs a new shipment of silver jewelry and artwork. And Cuernavaca is very good for that sort of thing.”

  “Frankly, it sounds like a lovely idea!” I said.

  “Good. We’ll leave right after breakfast.”

  In spite of our plans, however, we ate an unusually leisurely meal. Once, Greg looked at me speculatively, and I wondered if he were thinking about our conversation the night before. Without intending to, I barely shook my head. Perhaps I guessed right, because Greg didn’t seem surprised. He just sighed and turned to discuss details of the trip with Edna. Obviously, this was a common jaunt for her.

  But, finally, we climbed into a VW van, Edna and I, and were on our way. “Why an importer?” I asked, when we were out of the city and she had time for something other than watching traffic.

  Edna smiled. “It’s really very simple, Ellen. I love to buy nice things, just to buy them. But there is a limit to how much any one person can use, or even truly appreciate owning. So, the solution seemed obvious. I would incorporate, as an importer. And I had a good friend in New York who was sure she could sell anything I could send her. Soon, we were in business. It’s been marvelous! There are so many beautiful examples of Mexican work that I, personally, could never have found a place for. And yet the temptation to buy them is overwhelming. This is the perfect compromise.”

  “Do you ever ship out archaeological pieces?” I asked, knowing her interests.

  Edna shook her head emphatically. “No. Absolutely not. It’s forbidden by the Mexican government. And, frankly, I can’t blame them. Why shouldn’t Mexico preserve her treasures? All of them. They belong to the Mexican people. No, I never ship archaeological work. But, occasionally, I find an artist who specializes in reproducing ancient work. When that happens, if he-or she is good enough, then I commission several pieces some for myself, some for New York.”

  “Sounds ideal,” I agreed.

  Edna glanced at me, then laughed. “And here I’ve been thinking how ideal it would be to have your job!”

  I laughed with Edna. Her easy humor was impossible to resist. She asked me about my childhood and I found myself telling her a great deal more than I intended. Even things I had long forgotten. In turn, she told me about growing up in Boston.

  It was late morning when we reached Cuernavaca. We headed straight for a musuem that turned out to be closed. Our real goal, however, was the nearby market.

  Apparently, Edna was a well-known figure here. She was greeted by several sellers, who called out, “Senora Iveson! Senora Iveson!”

  A conversation in Spanish would usually follow, and Edna would smile and consider various goods. Now and then, she frowned, shook her head, and then shrugged. Although my Spanish was totally inadequate to follow what was said, I gathered these were the preliminaries to bargaining. The seller would name a price, then Edna would name hers.

  Back and forth it would go, until both would be smiling. Then the seller would carefully wrap the purchase as Edna counted out pesos. Occasionally, we took charge of the package. More often, it was set to one side, tagged with Edna’s name. At one point, I asked, “How on earth are we ever going to carry all this?”

  Edna laughed. “Oh, but we won’t, Ellen! You’ll see. When we’re ready to leave, several boys will suddenly appear and carry the packages for us. And, I assure you, they will be delighted to do so!”

  That didn’t surprise me in the least, considering how much Edna was buying. I had the feeling that the merchants would have been delighted to carry her to the car if she had asked them! At any rate, I was enjoying myself.

  Once or twice, I stopped and bought something on my own. But the real fun was watching Edna bargain. Only once did she pay the full price for something. It was at a small stall, tucked away in a corner. The seller was an old man, who sat in the back, carving an animal from wood. The piece that Edna wanted, however, was the head of a woman-the hard, dark
wood, polished smooth. It was beautiful. One couldn’t look at the face without wanting to stroke it.

  Involuntarily, Edna and I both did. She looked at the man and, drawing in her breath, asked the price. The old man hesitated, and I had the strange feeling that he didn’t want to sell the piece. At least not to us. He tried to interest Edna in other carved pieces, but she was adamant. Finally, he asked her why she wanted it. I gathered that Edna explained about her partner in New York and shipping it there.

  I don’t know why, but I felt as if her answer came as a relief to the old man. At any rate, he stopped objecting and named a price. Edna agreed at once, apparently not taking any chances that the old man would change his mind.

  I don’t know how much Edna had come to Cuernavaca prepared to spend, but she met the exorbitant price in cash. Lovingly, the carver wrapped his work. It was then that he looked at me, and I shivered under his gaze. I don’t know why, but he seemed to be looking at me with pity and anger.

  Even Edna seemed affected. As we turned away from the stall, she squared her shoulders and said briskly, “Well, I think that will have to do for today.” She glanced at her watch. “We should have time for the museum before lunch. The Diego Rivera murals are marvelous!”

  “What about all the packages?” I asked as she started to walk ahead of me, and out of the marketplace.

  Over her shoulder, she said carelessly, “Oh, they’ll hold them for me until after lunch.”

  Oh, well, I thought, it’s hardly my worry. So I relaxed and let Edna take me on a tour of the museum. Strangely, I remember very little about the place, except that there were endless rooms of artifacts and I spent most of the time feeling lost. I suppose that I saw the murals, but I have no memory of them at all. Perhaps because Edna allotted only half an hour for the whole thing. The pace irritated me, and I began to wonder if it was going to be such a marvelous trip, after all. But, over lunch, Edna apologized.