Husband for Hire

by Susan Wiggs

  “What you thinking, eh?” Diep asked, studying her face. “You got a sad look, Twyla.”

  “I’m not sad. Just remembering the past.”

  “Past is always little bit sad, for everybody.” At the age of three, Diep had made the perilous voyage in a leaky boat from Saigon to international waters, where the fleeing refugees were picked up by a Japanese freighter and left on an oil-drilling platform, then transported to a refugee camp in Indonesia. She never said much about it, but she had lost most of her family members during the migration. “You think about tomorrow, Miss Scarlett.”

  Diep reached for a bottle of red glitter.

  Twyla snatched her hand away. “Oh, no, you don’t. No fancy stuff.”

  “Tasteful fancy stuff. Your dress is red, yes?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Shoes are red?”

  “Yes—”

  “Then hold still and let me work.”

  Twyla forced herself to relax. She had already resigned herself to taking the plunge. If she was going to become a woman of mystery this weekend, she might as well go all the way. Vanity was permissible in a woman—she had built her business on that premise. But she had always had a personal problem with it. There was probably some deep psychological reason that she enjoyed making other women beautiful but was so ambivalent about herself. Pondering that, she caught herself truly reveling in Diep’s attention.

  Her reunion dress hung in the clear plastic zipper bag on the back of the office door. Mrs. Spinelli had had it shipped overnight along with shoes and a bag, from Nieman Marcus, and Diep’s mother had done the alterations. Twyla knew in her heart the dress was too much, too red, too expensive, but the moment she had put it on, she had known it was the one.

  Diep concentrated deeply, using tiny brushes and even a surgeon’s blade for the details. When she was finished, Twyla regarded her nails with amazement. Each ring finger was tipped with a tiny, perfect depiction of the ruby slippers.

  “It’s beautiful, Diep. You’re a genius.”

  “You always say there is magic in the ruby slippers. Now there is magic in your hands.”

  HEY, STRANGER.” Lauren DeVane opened the door of her town house. “Long time no see. I missed you.” She lifted up on tiptoe and kissed Rob’s cheek.

  “Missed you, too,” he said automatically, loosening his tie, grateful for the end of a busy day at the lab.

  She had been to something called a “trunk show” in San Francisco. He was a little afraid to ask what a trunk show was, imagining a gross anatomy class from his med school days.

  “How was your flight?” he asked.

  “Fine. What’s that, darling?”

  He handed her the wrinkled plastic bag. “Something from Lost Springs. The auction wasn’t a total loss.”

  She took out the quilt he had won in the raffle. Just the sight of it, the worn and faded pieces forming new patterns, the hand stitching picking out swirling shapes, reminded him uncomfortably of his first meeting with Twyla McCabe. He’d had a powerful reaction to her, and that wasn’t like him.

  Lauren tilted her head to one side, silky yellow hair spilling over her shoulder. “A blanket?”

  “It’s a quilt. I won it in a draw at the bachelor auction.”

  She unfolded it halfway and eyed the soft blues and pearly pastel colors against her black ultrasuede sofa. “Quilts are so weird. Made out of people’s hand-me-down rags.”

  Rob went over to the wet bar, making himself a whiskey and soda and a vodka martini for Lauren. They touched their glasses, and she said, “Finally we get an evening together. I can’t believe you’re leaving again tomorrow.”

  Friday, he thought with a heavy feeling in his gut. He summoned a smile for Lauren. How tall and elegant she looked, like a Charles Aubrey painting. All she lacked was a cigarette in a twelve-inch holder. “Hey, DeVane, you’re the one who put me up to this auction thing. Having second thoughts?”

  She laughed and nibbled at the olive in her martini. “About some girl’s ten-year reunion?”

  The story of the local oil heiress buying him to take a woman named Twyla to her high school reunion intrigued and amused Lauren. With long, elegant fingers she twirled her martini olive on the end of a toothpick and regarded him with an enigmatic smile. “Your weekend could be very interesting.”

  He laughed briefly. “Right. I can hardly wait.”

  “Think about it. This woman was driven from her hometown in disgrace—”

  “Why do you think she was disgraced?”

  “It makes sense. She left abruptly, abandoned her plans for college, and it takes a bachelor auction to get her to go back. Clearly she’s hiding something. I’ll bet there’s some great dirt she’s not telling you.”

  “Don’t count on me to dig it up,” he said.

  “You’re no fun. I wish I could be a fly on the wall.”

  “Better yet, you go to the reunion and I’ll stay here.”

  “Don’t be a baby. Sugar Spinelli never does anything halfway. You’ll have a fabulous time, show this poor girl a little glimpse of the high life, and you’ll have done your good deed for the day.”

  Rob took a swallow of his drink. “You make it sound so simple.”

  She lifted one eyebrow in that funny, cynical way of hers. “Isn’t it?”

  No.

  “I suppose,” he said.

  “What does she look like?”

  Rob smelled a trap. “I don’t know. A hairdresser, I guess.”

  Lauren laughed. “Does a hairdresser look a certain way? Mine has a five-o’clock shadow and a cowboy hat, and his name is Siegfried.”

  “She doesn’t have a five-o’clock shadow.”

  “You’re being evasive.” Lauren eyed him sharply. “So what does she have?”

  “Red hair. And I know she’s about twenty-eight because it’s her ten-year reunion.”

  Lauren lifted one thin eyebrow. “Is she tall or short?”

  “Average, I guess. Shorter than you.”

  “Good figure?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Glancing at Lauren, he realized it was the wrong answer. “I didn’t pay much attention. She’s not huge, she’s not skinny. So quit with the third degree.”

  She finished her drink with a satisfied smile and tucked her stocking feet up under her on the sofa. “You know, darling, the Fremonts have a summer cabin up in Chugwater. That’s just a short drive from Lightning Creek. Maybe we could have a rendezvous there after your weekend.”

  “Sure,” he said. Last time they had spent a weekend at a cabin, she’d spent most of her time on the phone. Maybe the Fremonts’ place didn’t have a phone. “I guess. I—” His beeper went off, and he checked it, muttering a soft curse when he saw the code in the LED screen.

  Lauren handed him the cordless phone. “Problem?”

  “This referral is driving me crazy. I swear, the patient wants every test done three times.”

  “I thought I was being smart choosing a pathologist,” she said with a pretty pout. “You’re not supposed to have crazy hours.”

  “I usually don’t.” He dialed his service and listened carefully to the message. Mrs. Lloyd-Morgan, whose tests had all come back negative, was supposed to be a happy camper by now. Instead, she was demanding to speak to him in person.

  He had met her once—she was an acquaintance of Lauren’s parents. Her face, surgically enhanced by one of Rob’s associates over at Cedarview, had been drawn into wan lines as she enumerated her ailments. She was a perfect example of why he avoided patients. Tonight, however, she wanted attention, and she wanted it now. According to the answering service, Mrs. Lloyd-Morgan was demanding a “doctor who wouldn’t overlook her suffering.”

  “I’ll have to go into the office for this one,” he said, handing Lauren the phone.

  “We were supposed to have dinner with the Steins. He’s on the board at Cedarview, you know.” Lauren knew everybody, and she was determined that Rob should meet them all.

 
“Sorry. Can you give them my regrets?”

  She smiled with a tolerance he appreciated. Damn, he was lucky to have her. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll make an early evening of it myself. I’m tired after the San Francisco trip.” A diamond-encrusted tennis bracelet flashed as she cupped the back of his neck and kissed him. “Call me when you’re done.”

  He went to the door, and she said, “Rob?”

  He turned to see her holding out the quilt. “Yeah?”

  “Don’t forget your blanket.”

  “It’s a gift,” he said.

  She stuffed it into the plastic bag. “I appreciate the sentiment, darling, but it doesn’t go.”

  MERCIFULLY, Mrs. Lloyd-Morgan’s fury was brief and easily assuaged by an assurance that he would perform a battery of expensive, high-level tests in consultation with her internist next week. By the time he finished, it was seven o’clock, still early enough to return to Lauren’s. But when he phoned her, the line was busy, so he decided to head home, maybe lose some of his tension on the long walk to his condo. The last sun of the day lay across the landscaped hills of the medical center. The coffee carts and hot dog stands were folding up for the day, and cars crammed the outbound lanes of the avenue.

  Without breaking stride, Rob loosened his tie and opened the top of his shirt. What was it with him lately? He seemed to be a magnet for rich hypochondriacs.

  Manna from heaven, his partners in the practice would declare. They loved patients like Mrs. Lloyd-Morgan. Diagnose an important-sounding illness, prescribe a nice mild laxative and she declares you Albert Schweitzer.

  The trouble was, Rob was beginning to resent the time he spent on patients who had no complaint more serious than boredom or neglect from a busy husband. He had chosen to practice medicine for more than just the money and prestige, though some days he forgot the real reason. It was his dream. He liked getting to the root of a problem, liked the precision and accuracy of lab work. He liked doing something that mattered.

  But lately, he felt like an overpaid lab technician. At first, a pathologist’s practice had seemed the ideal setup for him. Figure out the problem, pass the course of treatment on to someone who would administer it. But for the past year or so, he had been wondering what it would be like to go into practice as a GP. He’d tried to explain to Lauren that he might want patients who were his to worry about, his to heal. Lauren hadn’t understood at all. She loved his flexible schedule—he was free to travel, he didn’t have to be on call. It suited their lifestyle perfectly.

  Then why didn’t it feel right anymore?

  His strides lengthened in agitation. It had been a lousy week, that was all—following the strangest weekend of his life. The bachelor auction had left him distracted and out of sorts. He’d get over it. The sooner he got this reunion thing behind him, the better.

  He passed through the bustling commercial area of Lower Downtown Denver. Rescued from urban blight, former railroad warehouses had been transformed into a mecca for shoppers, tourists and brew-pub fans. He was tempted to stop in at Champion’s for a growler of lager, but passed it by.

  A few blocks from his vintage condo on the corner of Drake and Albert, Rob found himself in front of the plate-glass window of Breaknell Designs, staring at a necklace displayed on a field of black velvet. He had passed the jeweler’s shop hundreds of times, but he’d never been tempted to look. Today, the window display had caught his eye. Behind him, the smog and bustle of Denver’s LoDo district steamed and swelled, but he ignored the familiar rhythm of the city. He just kept staring at the necklace.

  Each link in the chain was an oval-shaped setting for a ruby, tapering gradually to a slender thread at the fastening. In the center, the jewel was large and set between a pair of unusual triangular-cut diamonds.

  The sound of traffic on hot pavement faded to nothing, because all Rob could hear was the echo of his last phone conversation with Twyla.

  What color is your dress?

  Red. Ruby red. Mrs. Spinelli wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’ve never owned anything this red in my life.

  It was Lauren who had taught him the importance of knowing the color of a woman’s dress on a date. In fact, it had been Lauren who had insisted that he ask Twyla about her dress. Lauren even went so far as to suggest a cummerbund color for Rob that would complement the red dress. At first he’d thought she was kidding, but it turned out that this sort of thing actually mattered to most women.

  He thought he should probably get Twyla a corsage or something. But when he saw the ruby necklace, he forgot all about a corsage.

  With a doomed sense of inevitability, he went into the jeweler’s and asked to see the necklace. The price staggered him, though he could easily afford it. He’d always had trouble spending money, even now that he had plenty. He’d grown up with virtually nothing, had worked his way through school by depriving himself of everything except the most basic essentials, but now that he was a partner in his lab practice, he no longer suffered from money troubles. Lauren had been instrumental in getting him to relax about spending. She deprived herself of nothing. She had no patience with being conservative. It was probably healthy, he realized, giving in to impulse every once in a while.

  But even so, the price of the necklace made him break out in a sweat.

  “What’s your return policy?” he asked.

  “Thirty days, and keep your receipt.” The jeweler sent him a look of incredulity. “What, you think she’ll refuse this? You got to be kidding.”

  Rob shook his head. “I don’t know her that well.”

  “You will after you give her this.”

  At the very least, Rob reasoned, if Twyla refused the necklace, he could give it to Lauren.

  As soon as he had the thought, his head reeled. What was he thinking? You didn’t recycle one woman’s gift to another. He slapped a bank card on the counter.

  The jeweler rang up the sale and couched the ruby necklace in a long black velvet box. Handing it to Rob with the charge slip, he said, “Congratulations. It’s going to be a great weekend.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  GWEN MCCABE BEAMED at her daughter. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this day,” she said. “I thought you’d never get over your disenchantment with men.”

  “What makes you think I’m over it?” Twyla asked, checking the latch on her overnight bag. It was a wonder she even had an overnight bag—she never went anywhere.

  “Well, of course you’re over it if you’re going to your reunion with that nice young doctor from Denver.”

  Twyla decided not to burst her mother’s bubble. Gwen believed this weekend meant more than it did, and Twyla didn’t see the harm in letting her think this was something fun and pleasurable. She privately hoped that her return to Hell Creek would inspire Gwen. Perhaps seeing her daughter take this big step to face the past would help her take a step of her own.

  Off the porch.

  Twyla shut her eyes briefly. Her mother’s panic attacks had grown so severe that Gwen no longer left the house. She made it as far as the top step of the porch, then nearly collapsed from anxiety. Her mother’s condition had gone on so long that they seldom spoke of it anymore, because they got nowhere.

  “You must be so excited,” Gwen continued, oblivious of Twyla’s thoughts. “Remember how you used to look forward to your dates when you were in high school?”

  “That was high school, Mom.”

  “Nevertheless, you must feel like you’re walking on air.”

  “I feel like projectile vomiting.”

  “Oh, Twyla—”

  “He’s here!” Brian came charging through the house from the kitchen, Shep right behind him, toenails clattering on the scratched wood floor. Twyla had brought him home from school early today, so that she could say goodbye. “Rob’s here!” Brian left the house at a run, pausing at the top of the porch steps to leap over them, landing on the battered earth with full symphonic sound.

  “Someone’s glad to s
ee him, at least,” Gwen pointed out.

  Brian bounced like a rubber ball, peppering Rob with questions as he led him up to the house. Twyla was, for a moment, entirely captivated by the picture of her small son walking beside a tall man, Brian’s worshipful face turned up and Rob’s dark head bent low as he listened intently to whatever the boy was saying.

  Don’t do this, she warned herself. Don’t start thinking…But she was already thinking it. Already thinking that no matter how much she loved Brian, no matter how hard she worked to raise him, no matter what she taught him, there was one thing she had never given him—a father. And no matter how many times she’d tried to convince herself Brian was fine without one, she couldn’t help thinking that it was important.

  Her own childhood was filled with memories of her father. There were certain things a mother couldn’t give a child—the bristly feel of a cheek rough with five-o’clock shadow. The belly-deep laughter set off by tasteless jokes that made a mother roll her eyes. The way to punch a baseball mitt down into the palm of your hand. The illicit joy of sneaking downstairs at midnight to eat sandwiches made with peanut butter and marshmallow fluff. The big-shouldered protector who appeared in the doorway to ward off a nightmare.

  Many boys had grown up with less, she told herself. Rob Carter was a perfect example. Raised at Lost Springs, he had been deprived of both parents—and look how he turned out.

  Just look.

  “Hi.” She could barely choke out a greeting when he came into the house. The prospect of throwing up was becoming progressively more real.

  He gave her a dazzling prime-time TV smile. “All set for the big event?”

  “As set as I’m ever going to be, I suppose.” She knew it was too late to chicken out, but Lord, she wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to.

  He picked up her overnight bag and zippered garment bag. “Is this everything?”

  “Yes.” She clutched her purse in front of her like a shield, and went down on one knee in front of Brian. “Be good, sport. You do everything your grandma tells you, all right?” She looked deep into her son’s face, dreading his reaction. What if he got hysterical over the prospect of her leaving for the weekend?