The Paper Marriage

by Flora Kidd

  “I know that, but I’d like to know more about that last meeting with you. Where it took place, what he said to you. It’s the little personal things like that which matter so much, Owen.”

  This time his sideways glance was surprised and more intent and the car sidled off to the right and had to be wrenched back on to the roadway.

  “Not now. There isn’t time,” said Owen. “Don’t think I don’t understand what you’re getting at. I do. I’ll tell you when I come back. But at the moment it’s important that I don’t miss my plane.” As usual he sounded calm and utterly reasonable, which had the effect of making Brooke feel she had been unreasonable in asking him while he was driving.

  “When will that be?” she asked.

  “End of the week, possibly. It depends on what the problem is on the site and how soon it can be solved.”

  With that she had to be satisfied. The car swept through the tunnels, down to the toll barrier. They paid and passed through and turned off to the airport. At the entrance to the departure lounge

  Owen stopped the car, took out his case from the back seat and she slipped into the driver’s seat.

  “See you,” he said briefly, and was gone.

  Brooke watched his broad-shouldered figure disappear through the automatic doors, then she slowly shifted the lever on the steering column of the car until the red needle on the dial in front of her pointed to “D” for “Drive.” The car eased forward.

  Driving along the fast road, up and up, higher and higher, away from the humid sticky heat of the coastal plain back to the eternal spring of Caracas, she wondered at her sudden depression. She hardly knew Owen, yet here she was wishing with an almost unbearable intensity that he had not gone away this morning or that she had been able to go with him and fly above the clouds of morning into the silver and blue atmosphere.

  The feeling of loss stayed with her all morning, puzzling her and making her absent-minded. Megan sensed her abstraction and accordingly behaved badly, refusing to do her exercises and having what amounted to a tantrum. Perturbed by the child’s unusual and rather violent behaviour, Brooke wrenched her thoughts away from her own reaction to Owen’s departure and worked patiently but firmly to settle the child, staying with her all day.

  The next day Megan was much better and welcomed the arrival of the young teacher who had come to tutor her. Taking the opportunity of the teacher’s presence, Brooke went into the city to meet Manuela Perez with whom she had arranged to visit the National Capitol buildings.

  She parked the car and walked through the streets of the old colonial quarter where rough tables lined the sidewalks, piled high with goods for sale. There was clothing of every description, cheap jewellery, slippers and shoes; Indian charms and amulets carved from ebony; ruanas, the poncho-like cloaks worn by the peasants and woven from a mixture of the fleece of Hama, alpaca and sheep. The tables were presided over by smiling nut-brown Venezuelans who called to her in Spanish to come and buy their wares with all their usual verve and vitality.

  She met Manuela by the ornate fountain in the centre of the patio around which the white graceful buildings of the Capitol were arranged. The patio was full of tall palm trees and the usual exotic flowering shrubs. Through the green fronds of the palm leaves the golden cupola of the Assembly Hall gleamed with benevolent opulence in the sunlight.

  Manuela was dressed simply in a navy blue skirt and a white open-necked shirt. Her straight glossy hair hung to her shoulders, glinting with blue lights, and her shining white teeth glimmered in her golden-skinned face as she smiled gaily in welcome.

  “You have come after all,” she said.

  “I said I would. Why should I change my mind?” asked Brooke in surprise.

  “I didn’t think you would, but I thought that Owen might order you not to come.”

  “He’s away. He flew to Peru yesterday. Anyway, even if he ordered me not to come I would still come. Although he is my husband he has no right to tell me what I should do with my spare time.”

  “I admire your independence of spirit,” remarked Manuela. “I had forgotten he had gone away again. Stella Cordoba told me he was going when I met her the other day. She is a friend of the Merediths’, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” murmured Brooke, and felt cold suspicion worm its way into her mind and begin to attack her common sense. How could Stella know that Owen was going away unless the ballerina had met him somewhere during the day? There had been no time to invite the dancer to dinner at the Casa Estaban before Owen had gone away, so he must have arranged to meet her elsewhere. But why hadn’t he told her himself? Had he forgotten? Or had he not wished her to know?

  “First of all we shall go to the Senate building,” Manuela was saying cheerfully, unaware that she had caused suspicion to undermine Brooke’s usual serenity of outlook. “This way.” They walked down the wide passage between the shrubs, their heels clicking on the highly polished stone floor. They entered a dim cool entrance hall of a white building and went up a winding stairway to a gallery which was furnished with red plush-covered seats. Below the gallery, on the main floor of the big room, were the desks and seats usually occupied by the members of the Senate when they were meeting.

  “There are forty-nine members and it is the senior house of the Congress,” Manuela’s voice flowed on in fine tourist-guide style while Brooke looked up at the unusual oval window which was set into the ceiling. The window was painted with a design of trailing leaves and pink flowers which were set around the words Simon Bolivar, El Libertador.

  From the Senate building they walked across the patio and up wide shallow steps of the Assembley building. There in the elliptically-shaped hall Brooke admired the painting on the ceiling which depicted the last Battle of Caraboba at which Bolivar had defeated the Spanish royalists. Manuela was just pointing out a group of figures representing the British Regiment, which had been made up of mercenary soldiers from the British Isles and had supported Bolivar, when Miguel entered the room. As usual he was handsome and elegant, dressed in a light suit and a dark shirt. He also looked up at the ceiling.

  “Your countrymen have always been on hand to help mine, in the way that your father came to help us find ore deposits,” he murmured. “I happened to be passing through here on my way to another government department when I remembered that Manuela had told me she would be showing you round this afternoon. Are you enjoying your tour of these lovely old buildings?”

  “Yes, I am. The history of your country is fascinating,” Brooke said, pleased to see him again.

  “Are you sure that it is the history and not the men who make it that you find fascinating?” he suggested with a teasing smile. He put his hand courteously under her elbow and guided her round the room to look at the portraits of the principal characters in Venezuela’s fight to free itself from Spanish domination.

  “Here is the elegant and brilliant Francisco de Miranda,” he said. “He was once a lieutenant-general in the French Army and later became a favourite of Catherine the Great of Russia, returning here to lead the first rebellion against Spain. And here is the Liberator himself, a sophisticated aristocrat whose endurance and horsemanship won the respect of this man, the wild cattleman of the plains, Paez, who in his time became President of the new Republic. All of them are fascinating men, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I do. And I’m sure you’re a worthy successor to them,” said Brooke, smiling at him. “But what about women? Haven’t they played a part in the history of your country too?”

  “But of course. Where would any of us be without our mothers, our wives or our mistresses?” he parried charmingly, his dark eyes twinkling as they met hers. “Ever since our last meeting I have been thinking of you, senora, hoping that it would not be too long before we could dine together again. You said you would think about it and let me know. I have been waiting.”

  Brooke glanced round the room, suddenly aware that Manuela had gone and that she was alone with Miguel apart from a few
workmen who were attending to the lighting system.

  “I’m sorry I’ve not been in touch with you,” she said. “Owen came home that night and there wasn’t much time to spare while he was home. We were busy visiting family and entertaining friends.” Miguel grimaced ruefully.

  “It makes me wish that I was still a friend of Owen’s so that I too could be invited to your home.”

  “You could come, Miguel. Owen has nothing against you,” said Brooke earnestly.

  “I know he hasn’t. But I have something against him, something I have not yet been able to forgive,” he said with a touch of grimness. “Have you time to sit with me for a while on the patio where we can talk?”

  “Yes, I have, but what has happened to Manuela?”

  “I believe she has gone to meet a party of tourists to take them round.”

  “I’ve been intending to contact you again,” said Brooke, as they went out into the warm sunshine and down the steps to sit on one of the intricately-designed wrought iron seats which were set here and there under the shade of the palm trees. “Owen said that I should because you would know whether there was any chance of the search for my father being continued.”

  “That is very difficult for me to answer,” he said. “I would like to say yes, to please you, but I’m afraid at the moment the answer is no. To search in the area where he disappeared is very costly and since the money for providing planes and helicopters has run out we have had to call off the search. It would help a little if I knew what he said to Owen at that last meeting. He might have given some indication as to which direction he intended to fly.”

  “But surely Owen must have told you something?”

  “I personally have not discussed anything with Owen for the past two years,” replied Miguel, pride stiffening his handsome aquiline face. “But I know from a young man who was working with the drilling company at the time that Tony gave Owen a package before he took off in the helicopter which was to take him on the next part of the survey. Once I hoped that the package contained information about the location of other iron deposits, but Owen has not handed it over to the department, so I can only assume that it contained something of a more personal nature. Has he not mentioned it to you?”

  The question flustered her slightly.

  “We haven’t had time ... ” she began lamely, and saw his eyebrows shoot up in swift surprise. “I shall ask him when he comes back from Peru,” she added quickly.

  “So he is away again. It was ever like that,” murmured Miguel. “We must not let you become too lonely while he is away. His first wife suffered greatly in that way.” He glanced at his watch and smiled regretfully. “My spare time is up. Manuela will make arrangements for us all to meet again. Adios, Brooke.”

  He walked away just as Manuela appeared with a group of American tourists. She broke away from them and came over to Brooke.

  “I am sorry I had to desert you. We must meet again - I shall telephone you. We mustn’t let you get too lonely while Owen is away.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Brooke, wondering why brother and sister harped so much on the possibility of her becoming too lonely while Owen was away.

  Yet she had no chance to feel lonely as they had feared. Her new relatives and new acquaintances made sure of that. There was always someone inviting her to take coffee with them or lunch, and Eileen Atkins, who lived fairly near, made a habit of dropping in every day.

  “You’ve no idea how glad I am that Owen has married you,” she confided one morning. She was a tall willowy blonde from Boston, Massachusetts, and it was difficult to believe that she was the mother of two lively children. “When Al was first moved here with the steel company I thought I’d go crazy. I couldn’t speak the lingo and I didn’t like having my roots pulled up. But people have been very kind and now I can speak a little Spanish. Of course, buying the place down at Macuto has helped. I just love to swim in the Caribbean. Have you been down there yet?”

  “No.”

  “That’s strange, because Owen likes swimming and sailing.” Eileen’s thin face creased into a puzzled frown. “But then come to think of it he might be off the place because his wife used to go down there a lot. The number of times I’ve seen her lolling about on the beach there with some character or other when Owen was sweating his guts out somewhere in the wilds. He’s a great guy, that husband of yours. The salt of the earth, Al says.”

  “Oh. Why does he say that?” asked Brooke, and for a moment the naive, out-going American girl looked slightly disconcerted.

  “Well, because it’s true, I guess. I mean, look at the way Owen stuck with Glynis when everyone was talking about her and saying she was crazy. And then look at the way he loves Megan. And how he puts up with his stepmother.”

  “I haven’t met her yet,” said Brooke.

  “Oh, haven’t you?” exclaimed Eileen with that air of bewilderment which was one of her most endearing characteristics. “Do you mean to tell me she doesn’t know about you?”

  “I don’t know whether she knows or not,” replied Brooke. “I’m afraid I never gave her a thought when Owen and I married. You see, I didn’t really know he had a stepmother. He told me so little about himself.”

  “Then you’re in for a shock, and so is she. She’s one of those

  matriarchal women. Loves to tell her children how to run their lives - and you can imagine how that goes down with an independent spirit like Owen. Not at all well. She was mad when he married his first wife, or so I’m told. She would have liked him to have married a Venezuelan. Come to think of it, she had someone lined up for him to marry after Glynis was killed.... Oh, heck, there I go, running on about things, when I really know nothing. Al would be mad with me if he knew. But you should be warned, Brooke, Inez Meredith isn’t going to be pleased about you one little bit.”

  It was remarks like that which rankled all week, along with the remark Manuela had made about Stella having known that Owen would be going to Peru, implying that the dancer had met him during the time between seeing him at the racecourse and his departure. Brooke tried not to let them bother her. After all, Owen was entitled to meet his friends without consulting her and without telling her every time. He had not objected to her meeting Miguel Perez, so why should she object to him meeting Stella Cordoba with whom he had been good friends in the past?

  But Stella had hoped that one day she would be more than a good friend to Owen, whispered that horrid little worm of suspicion. And although Owen might never have hoped that he could marry the beautiful ballerina, might he not now be wishing that he had not married again?

  The suspicion lay at the back of her mind. It was there gnawing away at her peace of mind when she went to the bullfight only to find that Manuela had been unable to go and Miguel had taken her place. When the fight was over he invited Brooke to attend a concert with him at the Concha Acustica. Grateful for his interest, Brooke did not see anything wrong in accepting his invitations and even went out to dinner with him one evening. He was always a charming and courteous companion as he guided her through the swinging carnival which was the night life of Caracas.

  Saturday came, but Owen did not come home, so she accepted the Atkins’ invitation to spend the day with them at their seaside cottage near Macuto. There she swam in the silken water of the Caribbean Sea and built sand-castles in the soft warm sand with

  Megan and the Atkins children under the shade of the waving fringed leaves of the slim-trunked palm trees.

  The day by the sea had a beneficial effect and when they returned to the Casa Estaban Megan was ready for bed and did not complain, as she had done every night that week, about her father’s absence. Brooke was also pleasantly sleepy and slept dreamlessly, waking on Sunday with the conviction that Owen would return that day.

  The thought brought peace back to her mind and a certain unusual excited expectancy. It would be good to see him again. Lingering beside the swimming pool, after giving Megan her exercises, she sunbathed for a
while, allowing herself the luxury of a little day-dreaming, thinking of what life might be like if she and Owen were in love with each other.

  “Senora,” Pilar’s harsh voice broke in on her thoughts. “Senora Cordoba is here to see you, in the house,” she said in the simple basic Spanish which she knew Brooke would understand.

  “Gracias, Pilar. Please tell her I’m coming.”

  Before going to greet the ballerina Brooke went to her bedroom and changed quickly into a simple flowered cotton shirt-waister dress which emphasized her tall graceful figure and matched the dark blue of her eyes. She brushed her hair into a smooth neat waving cap, applied a little make-up to her lightly tanned face and then made her way to the lounge where she found Stella admiring with pleasure some lovely pieces of antique silver.

  “Buenasdias, Senora Cordoba.”

  Stella, who was dressed in a coffee-coloured sheathlike dress of some silken material which moulded her slight figure and played up the smooth coil of her gleaming black hair, classical features and deep brown eyes, turned with a smile.

  “Good morning, senora,” she murmured in her attractive slightly husky voice, as she replaced a silver goblet on its shelf. “It gives me great pleasure to be here in this house which in the past has been so much like home to me. I hope you will forgive me for intruding upon you. I hoped to find Owen at home. Last time I saw him... ” She paused and smiled again. “But then perhaps you did not know that I lunched with him the other day. I could not wait, you see, to be invited to dinner as you suggested, and also it is not easy for me to go out in the evening when I am dancing. I had so much to tell him and I needed his advice.”

  “I understand. I’m sorry he isn’t here. He is in Peru. I hope he’ll be back to-morrow.”

  “Oh. You do not know then when he will return? He has not informed you?” enquired Stella, as if such casualness on Owen’s part was beyond her understanding.