In Name Only

by Roxanne Jarrett

  She handed her shoes back to him. Marriage, a fortune, Brazil. "Boots," she said, as if in a dream. "It's snowing outside."

  His expression then puzzled her. He had frowned slightly as he took the shoes back. Was it sudden disappointment he felt? Disappointment that she had given in too easily? What did he really want?

  Money talks. He had told her so, yet he was apparently annoyed that she had listened. She walked out of her room and down the hall to the bathroom, passing Mrs. Hughes on the way, who winked at her triumphantly. Jill did not feel triumphant, however, even as she glanced at her watch to check the time. 11 a.m. It was 11 a.m., Tuesday, March 4, the exact moment when she had hoped her life would change.

  Chapter Two

  They sat in the back of the dark gray limousine heading downtown, Jill at the right window hardly noticing the snowy landscape sliding by, Simon Todd at the left, a vast desert of space on the seat between them.

  "We're picking up a friend at City Hall," he had explained when she returned to her room wearing the blue dress, his eyes inspecting her, but showing neither approval nor disapproval. "Jay Wilhelm. He's been able to shorten the paper work for us. We'll have the blood test, apply for your passport and visa before I go to New York. I'll be back on Friday. We'll marry here and then fly down to Manaus." His plan, delivered in a near monotone, seemed to have no more passion in it than a business deal. A business deal, in fact, would involve more than a cold recitation of facts. There were a million questions Jill wanted to ask, but didn't dare. Now that the fact of their marriage seemed settled, Simon Todd wore the distracted air of someone who was anticipating some other event taking place a thousand miles away.

  Sitting in her old coat, her knit cap and shoulder bag in her lap, she found herself repeating one phrase over and over again. Mrs. Simon Todd. Mrs. Simon Todd. Impossible. The fact refused to sink in. It was all so silly, waking up on a Tuesday morning and running off for a blood test with a perfect stranger. Yet here she was, sitting in a chauffeured limousine, its plush interior smelling pleasantly of leather, her bridegroom-to-be, about whom she knew absolutely nothing, at her side.

  She was leaving everything and everyone for a perfect stranger. "Oh, and that's another thing. I have a job, you know. I'll have to give some kind of notice, I guess," she told him.

  Simon turned to look at her. "Your job?" he asked brusquely, as if the intrusion of her work were of absolutely no consequence to him. "Your job? I didn't know you worked."

  She stared back at him, surprised. Strangers, indeed. "Well, what in the world did you think I've been living on?"

  He shrugged. "I suppose I thought Dan provided for you."

  She moved back deep into her velvety corner. "Once I graduated college, I was on my own. That was only right."

  He nodded and smiled. "Ah, of course, I vaguely remember now. That was before you were of the least interest to me. I can't say I paid much attention to your uncle's plans for you before this. He did say something about wanting you to be on your own for a while. He thought it would do you good."

  He could have told me, Jill thought resentfully. Uncle Dan seemed to have taken everyone into his confidence except his niece. It made no sense, no sense at all.

  "He figured that if you were made of the same stuff as he, you'd manage."

  I managed all right, thought Jill, by the skin of my teeth.

  "Did you?" Simon asked.

  "Did I what?"

  "Make your way in the world?"

  Jill gave a short laugh. Suddenly she did not want him to know that she had spent all that time—wasted it really—waiting to hear from her uncle. She had not proved her mettle at all, not one little bit. Daniel Carteret would not have been proud of her. He had been quite right to add that strange codicil.

  "Well?" he asked.

  "Certainly. I'm on my way to the top. I'm Dan Carteret's niece, remember? It's going to be dreadfully difficult to make the break, to start over."

  "Sure you want to leave all this?" Simon asked.

  Jill glanced out the window. She was not certain whether he was being sarcastic or not, but she had her answer. The snow, piled on the sidewalks, was already covered with a thin, gray film of soot. The roads, warming under a late morning sun, had begun to turn slushy. From the cocoon of the limousine, it seemed less attractive than ever. She turned to the interior of the car which rode the streets smoothly, like a guided missile. Everything was spacious, quiet, elegant—a dream. She might do well to pinch herself.

  "Miss this city?" she asked in a troubled voice. "I've lived here my whole life." She couldn't go on, couldn't tell him that apart from its abundant culture, she wouldn't miss any of it.

  They were silent for a while as the limousine moved into downtown traffic. "You'll want to do some shopping," Simon told her.

  "Oh yes, I must," she said lightly. "Oodles of things."

  "That's what money's for."

  "Absolutely." There wasn't much she could afford, but she might, daringly, dip into her small savings. The shock of her inheritance had not yet sunk in. Even if it had, she would not have asked him for an advance on it.

  "From the looks of your wardrobe," Simon murmured, "you've a job ahead of you."

  Jill turned sharply toward him. His expression seemed arrogant, as if he had found her poor stuff, indeed. She remembered his pushing her clothes aside and grabbing the blue dress without so much as an apology.

  "I have some summer things," she said. "They're quite in fashion, thank you."

  "I'd suggest you begin again."

  Jill, swallowing her anger, tried to find a smart answer, but none was forthcoming. There wasn't much she could do about her wardrobe, ever. It was simple and perfect for her purposes, at least for Chicago purposes.

  She sighed. She could really see his point of view. She would have to begin afresh. She was an heiress now. Mrs. Simon Todd.

  Perhaps she could ask him for some money. It was hers, or would be sooner or later. She shook her head. Never. She would never beg him for money. It was bad enough to begin the way they would. They were building something on a bedrock of money, that was all. It was queer. Too queer.

  "Oh, I forgot." Simon reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a small jewel box. He opened it slowly and examined its contents for a second. "We are, I suppose, engaged," he said. "I suppose, in fact, that to you, being engaged means something extraordinary. Even given the circumstances. We mustn't disappoint, must we?" He slowly removed a ring which held the largest diamond Jill had ever seen. Emerald cut, it caught the white light and seemed to bounce it back with the intensity of a laser beam. It was flanked, as well, with additional diamond baguettes, the mounting of platinum. Jill stared at it, her heart pounding. She thought for a moment that he must be joking, or that the immensity of the diamond could only mean that it was fake.

  "You may have to have the fit adjusted," he said carelessly, which somehow confirmed that the diamond was, indeed, quite real. "I took a chance and described long, thin fingers." He took her hand in his. "Warm," he said. "Warm hands, cold heart? Is that the way it goes?" He examined her hand, turning it over and back again. She felt a long, delicious tremor race through her entire body. "Long, slim fingers. Very beautiful, indeed. Hands not meant to do a scrap of work. You should be quite happy in Manaus, ordering about a dozen servants."

  Jill stared at the ring, still held between his own strong, square-tipped fingers.

  "You took a lot for granted," she murmured, almost mesmerized by the diamond's brilliance.

  He slipped the ring on her finger. "You had no choice, had you? That's what I took for granted. There isn't a woman on earth who wouldn't have quit what she was doing for this opportunity." He lifted her hand to his lips.

  Jill pulled her hand away. The diamond had an odd, uncanny light to it, the light of stars. "It's very generous of you," she said, "given the circumstances." She slid it off her finger and handed it back to him. "I really don't like to be equated with every woman
on earth, as if I had no choice but to sell my soul to the devil."

  He grinned. "I'm not the devil. Come on, we've struck a bargain, one that's important to me, and one that should be important to you. It's what your uncle wished. The ring merely seals my sincerity."

  "My uncle never made his wishes known to me," Jill answered coldly. "I've only your word for it."

  "And his will." The ring lay in his open palm, icy, tempting.

  "Which for the time being I must take your word for." She had looked it over in her room, but was it real?

  Simon reached out and took her hand in his once again. "Pace," he said, slipping the ring back onto her finger. Then he turned her hand palm side up to his lips. "Friends?" he asked.

  Jill gave a short laugh. "Friends? Is that what it's for?"

  He placed his hands about her shoulders and brought her face close to his. "Mrs. Simon Todd," he whispered, kissing her lips softly, briefly, and releasing her even as she felt the impact of his closeness. He reached for her leather shoulder bag and put the small box inside. "Wife," he said with a strange laugh.

  She tried not to stare at the ring, small explosions of emotion beating wildly at her temples. She wondered briefly about the chauffeur, whether he had seen the kiss, glad of the closed glass partition which cut off the front of the car.

  She could see Simon's reflection in the glass. He was sitting back against the seat, unmoving. He was perhaps a dozen years older than she, elegant, manly, sure of himself, that much she knew. And she knew also, that the mere touch of his hand caused her body to set up as many lights and signals as a computer—but who was he? Where had he come from? How did she even know he was Simon Todd? Or that her uncle was dead? Or if the ring or the will were real? Or if she were real? Instinctively she moved away, wishing somehow to dive into the depths of the seat, to hide from the astonishing possibilities before her.

  The limousine came to a halt before she could catch her breath, before she could ask questions and get answers. There, waiting on the street in front of City Hall, was a middle-aged gentleman in a heavy tan topcoat with a brown leather briefcase tucked under his arm. He spoke briefly to the chauffeur before stepping into the limousine and sitting down on the jumpseat facing them.

  "Simon," the man said with a pleasant smile, and then extended his hand to Jill. "Jay Wilhelm," he said. "Congratulations. All the best, Miss Carteret. I knew your uncle, by the way. Fine man, fine man."

  Jill shook his hand warmly, glad of his presence.

  "I'd suggest we get the blood test over with and apply for both visa and passport after," Wilhelm told them briefly. He turned to the chauffeur and tapped on the glass. The car moved out into traffic.

  It was easy being an heiress, an heiress in an old coat with waterproof boots and a knit cap, Jill decided. It was easy to have decisions made for you, to step lightly out of limousines, to be brought into doctors' offices without waiting, to be asked to sign on dotted lines by solicitous clerks whose eyes, like hers, seemed drawn to the huge, brilliant stone on her finger. Easy, indeed.

  If true. If she were an heiress. If he were Simon Todd—and if he were, he were telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth. She caught a glimpse of his passport, produced as they applied for the visa. Simon Todd, born in Waynesville, Texas. He saw her staring at .it, and handed it to her without saying a word. His age, thirty-three. The pages were stamped with the seals of countries all over the world. She returned the passport. Without smiling, he slipped it into a slim leather folder and put it back into his jacket pocket.

  "Satisfied as to my credentials?" he asked in a cold voice meant for her ears only.

  "Perhaps," Jill answered equally coldly. Passports could be forged, but she wouldn't back away. If it were a game, she was prepared to play it to the end. She had nothing, absolutely nothing, to lose.

  It was late noon when they finished. Wilhelm directed the chauffeur to drive them to Perigord, a restaurant Jill knew to be the most expensive in Chicago. It was on a side street, off State, its exterior unprepossessing, the restaurant seeming to hide shyly behind the chaste white curtains that covered the window and glass door.

  They were seated at once in a small room, red velvet banquettes against mahogany walls, the white linen tablecloths set with bone china and polished silver. Small bouquets of deep red roses and baby's breath in crystal vases decorated each table in the restaurant, which, though crowded, wore a quiet, subdued air. There was a vague, pleasant clinking of cutlery and dishes, and faintly, as if coming from a long distance away, was the sound of music, some classical piece which seemed to tie the entire scene together. Jill was enchanted, but she was the heiress now. There was no way she could act as awed as she felt.

  "I took the liberty of ordering for us all," Wilhelm said, "knowing your tight schedule."

  Simon nodded. "Fine, fine."

  Several waiters hovered about, filling water glasses, placing small elegant trays of bread and butter in front of them. A sommelier appeared, his great keys and bottle opener strung on a silver chain about his neck. Jill tried to look as if it were something she had dealt with every day of her life.

  A cooler with a bottle of champagne was brought to the table. "I left the choice of wines to you," said Wilhelm, "but first I want to toast the bride and groom."

  Jill felt her face grow hot as the sommelier uncorked the champagne. Simon reached over and took her hand in his as Wilhelm toasted them.

  "A long, healthy, happy life."

  Their glasses were filled with champagne and Simon, still holding her hand, raised his. "To my bride," he said, downing the champagne quickly. Jill, knowing her face to be suffused with an embarrassed red, raised her glass. "To my groom," she said in a whisper, sipping the drink, her eyes locked with his, yet realizing with a shock that she saw a warning light in them. A warning that told her they were playing games, and that she must keep to the rules.

  "Well," said Wilhelm, rubbing his hands happily, "I've never seen two people more suited to one another."

  Simon silently placed his glass on the table, and turned to discuss ordering the wines with the sommelier.

  Wilhelm smiled attentively at Jill. "Well, I suppose you're all ready for your trip. Are you looking forward to it?"

  "Oh yes," Jill said, forcing a smile. She did not know how much Wilhelm had been told concerning their plans, but something about Simon's manner warned her to say as little as possible.

  "Very pretty place," Wilhelm went on. "Still, a small, sleepy backwater compared to Chicago."

  "I've had quite enough of Chicago," she told him. "I'm looking forward to something small, sleepy and out of the way."

  "Speak Portuguese?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, then, you'll get along." He smiled and picked up a small roll and began to butter it. "You'll get along."

  Jill realized that she had no appetite, none at all. She preferred the champagne, quite content to drain her glass and have the waiter refill it instantly.

  Simon, finished with the ordering of the wine, turned to her. "You didn't have any breakfast, I suppose," he stated. "You'd better eat something." His manner, perfunctory, even bossy, had an overtone of condescension to it, as if he were talking to a child and expected to be obeyed.

  The first course was served, a small square of pate, a black truffle like a baleful eye, decorating the center.

  White wine appeared and her glass was filled at once. Jill, the heiress, she thought, as she tried the pate and found it delicious. The heiress in an old coat and knit cap and boots that had seen better days, with a huge diamond ring upon her finger.

  Simon, deep in conversation with Wilhelm, turned to her occasionally and gave her hand a pat of reassurance, as if she were quite welcome to join in. There was something so superior in his manner, however, so cold and even calculating, that she felt suddenly frightened, and isolated. There was no one, she realized, absolutely no one upon whom she could count for disinterested advice. Mrs. Hughes, by her s
miles and nods, had given unqualified approval. Apart from her landlady, there was her college roommate, whom she saw only infrequently for visits to museums or shopping expeditions. No one, because for the past half year, she had all but cut herself off from her friends, with the exception of Derek Fairchild. She had been waiting, waiting, waiting to hear from Daniel Carteret.

  And now she had.

  Before dessert was served, Jay Wilhelm stood up. "Well, I've work to do," he said with a wide smile. "Ought to leave you two lovebirds alone. I've been in your way long enough." He shook Jill's hand and pressed his business card on her, telling her to call him for anything, anything at all.

  After he was gone, a dessert tray was wheeled up, filled with an immense assortment of pastries. The lunch had been light, but Jill had scarcely touched her food. The sight of the confections was not tempting, however. She shook her head.

  "You're way too thin," Simon said. "What kind of food have you been living on?" He turned to the waiter. "The young lady will have that." He pointed to an éclair, small but bellied out with crème, blanketed with mocha.

  Jill tried to voice her refusal, but was ignored by both the waiter and Simon. "Plump you out a bit," he said with an attractive and ingratiating grin, as the plate, like a peace offering, was solemnly laid before her.

  "I really don't want to be plumped out," Jill said. "I'm happy the way I am, thank you." She toyed with her fork and then made a curious stab at the éclair. It seemed to burst open at a touch, the crème oozing out. She took a taste.

  "There, you see," Simon said affably, "it won't hurt at all." His lunch had been even more Spartan than hers. As coffee was poured, he lit a cigarette, and stared at her through the blue smoke. She finished the last bit of éclair, almost angry that she had enjoyed it.

  "Jay is going to take care of everything," he said. "You just let him know what you want to send down, and he'll take care of the rest. I don't want you worrying about anything. I'll be back on Friday morning at around nine-thirty."

  She laughed. "Can I count on it?"