LoveMakers

by Gould, Judith

  Sitting up slowly, she wiped her fingers across her eyes. During the endless night, the answer had come to her. She was too sensitive and vulnerable. Hurting herself did no one any good, herself least of all. Instead, she would arm herself with her own defenses. She would be stoic. Poised. She would never again show emotion, never let on how hurt she was.

  She would be just like great-grandmother Elizabeth- Anne.

  2

  Freddie took a last drag on his cigarette. The ash glowed red in the dim room, then he stubbed the butt out in a saucer. Reaching for the cup of coffee Mrs. Ramirez had brought him, he looked up at her. 'Thanks,' he said gratefully, taking the cup with both hands.

  'De nada.' Felicia Ramirez nodded toward the bed. 'Your wife. How is she?'

  'Resting.' He blew on the hot coffee, then sipped it carefully. It was thick and bitter, but it would help keep him alert. Help him do what he now realized he had to do.

  Mrs. Ramirez drank from her own cup, then said quietly, 'I try the telephone while I make the coffee.'

  He looked at her with raised eyebrows.

  'It still does not work,' she said.

  Freddie glanced at his wristwatch. The dial glowed pale green, showing past ten o'clock. He had thought it was much later; the minutes seemed to have crept by like hours. He looked up at Mrs. Ramirez. 'Do you think I should go outside and see if a car passes?'

  Mrs. Ramirez shook her head. 'No one but the locals use this road anymore. They know better than to travel in this storm. The bridge down the road sometimes washes away.'

  Freddie looked over at Dorothy-Anne, who slept quietly. 'She'll need a doctor.'

  Mrs. Ramirez laid a hand on his arm. 'We must wait until the storm is past.'

  He shook his head. 'It may be too late, then.'

  Felicia Ramirez stared at him, her face pulsating in the flickering candlelight. She knew it was true. The contractions were coming more frequently and still the young woman burned with fever. 'What do you suggest?'

  Freddie tightened his lips. 'I'll walk into town. You give me the directions and I'll come back with the doctor.'

  'The best way is through the orchards.' Her eyes clouded over. 'You may get lost. It is a long way.'

  He met her eyes. 'I'll have to take that chance,' he said softly. 'I have no choice.'

  Minutes later, Dorothy-Anne struggled to rouse herself. When she opened her eyes everything was at first a blur. Then her vision cleared, and she saw Freddie at the foot of the bed, shrugging himself into his jacket. Mrs. Ramirez handed him a black rain slicker, saying softly, 'Here, you will need this.' Freddie took the slicker, his expression grim.

  'Freddie?'

  He looked up sharply, then forced a smile. 'Hi, honey,' he said cheerfully. 'Feeling any better?'

  'Yes, a lot.' Dorothy-Anne hesitated. 'Where are you going?'

  'To get us some doughnuts.' He came toward her, sat on the edge of the bed, and took her hands in his.

  'No, I mean really,' she said, smiling weakly.

  'I'm going to see about a doctor.'

  'But -'

  'Ssh. It's just a short walk across the orchard into town.' He glanced over his shoulder. 'Mrs. Ramirez told me the way.'

  Dorothy-Anne's voice was thick with fright. 'But I don't want you to leave me.'

  'Don't you want to have a healthy baby for us?'

  She nodded solemnly.

  'Then you'll have to trust me. You do trust me, don't you honey?' With one hand he smoothed her glossy forehead.

  'Yes,' she whispered, 'I trust you.'

  A particularly sharp gust of wind tore at the tin mansard roof above them; the roof buckled inward and then snapped back, like tin shaken for theatrical thunder.

  'I love you,' she whispered urgently.

  'And I love you, too.'

  'You'll be careful?'

  Taking her hand in his, he pressed it firmly against his cheek. 'Of course I'll be careful.'

  'I wouldn't. ..'

  'You wouldn't what?'

  'I wouldn't want . . . in the wind, anything could happen.'

  'Don't you worry your pretty head about me.' He leaned forward and kissed her, then got to his feet.

  She looked up at him. He seemed so tall, so strong and in command. She was awash with gratitude, with love for him and the child of his she carried. 'I love you,' she whispered again. 'I've loved you ever since the first time I saw you.'

  He smiled at the memory and whispered, 'And I've loved you, Dorothy-Anne.'

  They stared at each other in silence, the memory a visible bond between them.

  October 17, 1983 was a windswept autumn afternoon in Chicago. The giant skyscrapers stood out in sharp relief against the sparsely clouded sky. One could smell the tang of the lake, a mere three blocks away. The beaches along Lake Michigan were chewed by the breakers, and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds as Dorothy-Anne got out of the rental car.

  She tilted her head back, squinted up at the large grimy building, and shook her head in despair. It did little to inspire her. Still, her great-grandmother had sent her to scout out the work of Freddie Cantwell, so scout it out she would. Although she couldn't for the life of her see why she was doing it.

  Slamming the car door shut, she picked her way gingerly across the debris to get to the planks coursing up into the high dark doorway of the building. The stairs had been removed. The sidewalk was torn up, and the sand was thick and deep. She would have to cross ten feet of it in order to get to the planks.

  As soon as her feet sank into the soft sand, she was irritated. She had spent a hundred and fifty dollars on the Maud Frizon shoes, and now they would be ruined. She hadn't anticipated such a mess; it was the last time she would ever wear good clothes to a construction site she wasn't familiar with. But she hadn't had a choice. She had flown in, rented the car, and she'd have to fly back to New York again this very evening. There wasn't time to go to a hotel and change.

  Suddenly her left ankle twisted sideways and she let out a short cry at the sharp pain. Bending down, she massaged her ankle gingerly.

  A burly black construction worker in a silver hardhat and sleeveless T-shirt hurried over to her. 'You okay, Miss?' he asked.

  She tilted her head to look up at him. 'No, I'm not all right,' she wanted to snap, but she nodded, bit down on the pain, and refused to show either it or her irritation. 'Yes, thank you. I'm fine.'

  'You sure don't look it. I mean, you look right sharp in that outfit but it's all wrong for this place.' He tilted back his hardhat and scratched the front of his gray, woolly scalp. His face held a puzzled expression. 'What you doin' here, anyway?' He eyed her keenly. 'Are you from the bank?'

  She straightened and shook her head, her wheat-gold bangs and page-boy cut swaying gently. 'I'm afraid I'm not.'

  'Good.' He grinned with relief. Then, as she took a few tentative steps, he automatically reached out to help her.

  'Thank you.' She smiled at him faintly. 'Do you work for Freddie Cantwell?'

  He grinned widely. 'Sure do. Wouldn't want to work for anyone else, either.'

  'Oh? And why's that?'

  'Cause he's a genius. He can take an old building like this one, gut it, and make it better than anything ever been built. Better looking too. He can cut corners and costs, but he knows where to cut them.' He grinned even more broadly. 'But most of all because he hires folk like me.' He saw her puzzled expression. 'You see,' he explained, 'I ain't got much of a chance to work. Neither have many of the others. We've all had trouble in the past, jail, drugs and stuff. Mister Cantwell's the only person who gives us a chance.'

  'I see.'

  'You want to see him?'

  'That's what I came for.'

  'He's up there.' The black man took off his hardhat, leaned his head way back, and squinted as he pointed toward the roof of the building. A crane was lifting a pallet of bricks skyward, and then swung its cargo gracefully out of view.

  'Fine, just lead the way.'

  'T
hat's the way up.' He gestured at the crane. 'But we gotta wait till the pallet puts down empty.'

  'You mean . . . 'Her voice faltered. 'That's the only way up?'

  ' 'Fraid so. We ain't got no money for nothing else.' He smiled apologetically. 'But I'll go up with you. I won't let you fall, don't worry.'

  Sooner than she would have liked, Dorothy-Anne found herself clinging onto the big black man's arm as the two of them rose gracefully into the sky, perched on the pallet. She groaned in dismay as she glanced down between the wide gaps in the pallet wood and saw the ground sink swiftly away. She glanced sideways at her companion, who casually held onto the cable.

  'Old Sepp, he's the operator,' the big man said admiringly. 'Handles this baby smooth as silk.'

  Dorothy-Anne nodded and forced her eyes to look up. She hated heights, but she didn't say a word. A minute later, the pallet swung gently toward the roof and set down without a quiver.

  'See? What'd I tell you? Smooth as silk.'

  She smiled gratefully. 'You'll help me? On the way down?'

  'Sure will. You just signal for me. My name's Luther. And over there, that's Mr. Cantwell.' Luther pointed to the far end of the roof.

  Dorothy-Anne's gaze followed his pointing finger. A man was kneeling on the roof with his back to them. Spread out before him were sets of blueprints weighed down with a brick at each corner.

  'Hello? Mr. Cantwell?' Dorothy-Anne called out.

  The man didn't appear to hear her. She narrowed her eyes, squared her shoulders, and made her way toward him.

  'Mr. Cantwell,' she said sharply, when her shadow covered the blueprints. 'I'm Dorothy-Anne Hale, of Hale Ho-'

  He turned around then, and suddenly, for no explicable reason at all, she lost her voice.

  Perhaps it was his smile, or maybe the magnetic, bottomless depths of his eyes, or even the easy charm which emanated from him . . . Dorothy-Anne had the sensation of suddenly tumbling into a vacuum, of somersaulting through airless space, of being drawn, in slow motion, into those hypnotic eyes.

  In that instant, her mind seemed to snap, clicking a sharply focused photograph of such impossible intensity, such surreal clarity, that she knew it would be frozen in her mind forever. She had captured his face, been drawn into the inescapable image of his pale gray eyes with amber flecks and fine, thread-thin streaks of emerald. She would never forget his soiled, sleeveless T-shirt which showed off his thick, muscular shoulders tapering down to a slim, tight waist. His stormy good looks were dark, and his face tanned and rugged, but with laugh lines sculpted deep around his eyes. Even close-cropped, his hair was blue- black, his chin strong and cleft, his mouth sensuous and sensual.

  One instant he had been a stranger, and the next she could think of nothing but his touch, his hands holding her against his powerful chest.

  One instant she was a young lady, a mere eighteen year old just out of school and the next she was a woman, a full grown woman with a desire that shook her to her very core.

  In that instant, all the frustration she had felt over soiling her shoes and hurting her ankle evaporated. Instead, she saw him, and knew with an uncanny certainty that he was just as keenly aware of her. For a long moment he locked eyes with her.

  She felt the blush creeping up into her face. 'I have come all the way from New York to see you, Mr. Cantwell,' she said, her voice curiously unsteady.

  'Have you now?' His eyes appeared to be laughing at her.

  'I have,' she said a little too sharply. She swallowed, trying to regain her calm. 'I am here as a representative of Hale Hotels. We're interested in your work. You not only have a reputation for coming in under budget, but for renovating and designing buildings which . . . ' Her voice trailed off under his unblinking gaze. She felt acutely uncomfortable.

  'Yes?' he asked quietly.

  Suddenly she was burning with anger. She was not used to being treated like this, to being thrown off kilter so completely by a perfect stranger. He was obviously not only aware of her discomfiture, but seemed to relish watching her flounder. She knew then that he wasn't about to come to the aid of her faltering conversation.

  'I have come,' she said between clenched teeth, 'to see some of your work first hand.'

  'But most of all,' he added shrewdly, 'to see if I can be bought by the Philistines?' He winked at her.

  She ignored the wink and the jibe. 'Well? Are you going to show me around?'

  He placed his hands on his lean hips and grinned disarmingly. 'No,' he said matter-of-factly.

  Her eyes widened. 'And may I ask why not?'

  'Because,' he said without taking his eyes off her, 'it's way past lunch-time, for one thing.'

  'Then I'll take you to lunch.'

  'Sorry.' He shook his head. 'I can't take the time. I've still got too much to finish today.'

  She growled in exasperation. 'Mr. Cantwell,' she said curtly, 'I've flown here all the way from New York just to see you.'

  'Something which neither I, nor anyone else here, asked you to do,' he reminded her.

  She inclined her head. 'Granted.' Then she raised her face, her stubborn chin jutting outward. 'Under the circumstances I should think you would be only too happy to see me and show me around.'

  'Oh? And why should that be?'

  'I happen to know for a fact that you're financially strapped. You've put everything you have into this project, and it's still far from completion. It'll be a miracle if you ever finish it.'

  'Ah. So you've been checking up on me. How deeply did you happen to delve into my resources, Miss - '

  'Hale. Dorothy-Anne Hale.' She shrugged. 'We checked you out perfunctorily. Nothing more than the surface. But we know you need money, and lots of it.'

  'And you can provide it, I take it? As long as I join your organization?'

  'Perhaps.'

  'I don't want it.'

  'I haven't offered it yet.'

  'But you will, won't you?' He gazed at her intently. 'Why else would you have flown all the way out there?' He paused. 'The answer is no.'

  'You mean you won't show me around?'

  'I mean, I don't want your money. I happen to like my independence. I don't want to work for anyone besides myself. It's nothing personal, you understand.'

  She smiled grimly. 'Oh? Then what is it?'

  He smiled disarmingly. 'I just don't happen to think it's healthy for a husband and wife to work together.'

  She looked startled. There was a quiet intensity to his voice which turned her knees to jelly. Then she recovered her composure. 'Mr. Cantwell,' she said quietly, stressing every syllable, 'I do not appreciate jokes. I take my business very seriously. And my time happens to be precious.'

  'And so is mine.' He reached out and took her hand. He smiled hugely then, and his unexpected touch sent a tremor through her.

  'Let's . . . ' She took a deep breath. 'Let's be serious, Mr. Cantwell.'

  'Freddie,' he corrected her calmly. 'You should call me Freddie. After all, this isn't the Victorian age when husbands and wives called themselves by their formal surnames.'

  'Stop joking,' she said in a whisper.

  'I'm dead serious.'

  'But '. . . you don't even know me,' she sputtered. Suddenly she couldn't face him, and looked down at his hand. He was still holding hers.

  'I know enough,' he said confidently.

  There was a long silence then. In the background, the sounds of construction equipment sounded distant and unreal. From somewhere below, she could hear a workman's harsh, clipped voice yelling, and then she heard the clearing of her own throat. She was aware of Freddie's gaze softening, the gray-and-black limpid pools of his eyes surveying her tenderly, his teeth even and white and flashing as he smiled good-naturedly, his natural, instinctive charm in brilliant evidence as he said, 'Naturally, I don't expect your reply right now. You've got to think it over first. And for that I've got all the time in the world.'

  'You're persistent, aren't you?' she said with grudging admiration. Sh
e smiled, her coolness thawing.

  'That I am. And like I told you, we've got time. Lots of it. Because before I get married, I intend to finish this project. Without any help.'

  'And why's that?' she found herself asking. 'It might be a year. Even two.'

  'I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea,' he smiled. He let go of her hand.

  'What do you mean?'

  'I wouldn't want you to think I'm after your money. It's like I said. I'm independent. Now, since that's settled, can I buy the lady a cup of coffee?' he asked.

  And like a fool, Dorothy-Anne blushed a bright crimson and she found herself sputtering, 'Yes, thank you . . . I mean . . . if you really want to - '

  'I do,' he said gently, hooking his arm through hers and leading her toward the pallet. His words echoed in her mind . . . She couldn't believe this man meant to offer those words to her as a promise . . .

  Do you, Frederick Cantwell, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to honor and cherish her, through sickness and through health, until the day that you die?'

  'I do.'

  I do. Tiny, simple words. Huge, grave words of responsibility. But they were only a short year later. Meanwhile, Dorothy-Anne and Freddie lived together on weekends. During the workdays of those many, many weeks, he was in Chicago, and she traveled constantly on business. Until the building he was working on was finished, without any help from her, he refused to tie the knot.

  For the time being, there was her flight back to New York, a smooth flight through soaring emotions she would never forget. The day seemed to billow and sail along with her spirit and her thoughts were filled with the image of Freddie Cantwell's eyes. Only when she arrived back in New York, and met Elizabeth-Anne at the airport, did she remember what day it was. And, even then, Elizabeth-Anne had had to tell her.

  The night in New York was clear and star-studded. Traffic on the Long Island expressway was light, and moving along at a swift clip. Elizabeth-Anne unsnapped her large Bottega Veneta handbag, and rummaged through it. She took out a thick, vellum envelope. 'Dear?' She held it out to Dorothy-Anne.