“What?”
“Have you got any money?”
She drew back to look at him.
“I exhausted my credit card limit buying that ring,” he said, laughing helplessly.
“I have twenty-three dollars in my purse,” she said.
“That will have to last until day after tomorrow.”
The scent of burning food wafted down the hall.
“There goes dinner,” Jack said.
“I have some tuna in the pantry.” She disentangled herself from his arms and stood, straightening her clothes. “Let me go turn off the oven and I’ll see if I can put together a casserole...”
“Turn off the oven and then come to the bedroom,” he said quietly. “Where is it?”
“Right at the end of the hall,” Marisa said. She went to the kitchen and fumbled with the knob on the stove, her fingers trembling. Then she made a feeble pass at straightening her hair as she followed Jack into the bedroom.
He was waiting and handed her a glass of champagne.
“To us,” he said, toasting her.
“To us,” she repeated.
They touched glasses and drank. Then he put his down and took her glass from her hand.
“Now come here,” he said.
She was only too happy to obey.
Epilogue
“So now I have to start planning a baby shower?” Tracy said. “I haven’t recovered from the wedding yet.”
“It’s not definite,” Marisa replied, pouring coffee into Tracy’s cup. “I haven’t seen a doctor.”
They were sitting in Marisa’s kitchen on a Saturday morning in late March, with the first spring thaw melting the icicles on the roofline outside the window.
“Didn’t you take one of those home tests?”
“Yes, but they’re not always accurate.”
“Come on. Was it positive?”
Marisa grinned.
“You didn’t have to say it,” Tracy said, smiling conspiratorially. “You’ve got the glow.”
“I’ve got the nausea, I can tell you that. I can’t contemplate food until about three in the afternoon.”
“You must be so excited.”
“I think I’m just in a daze. If anyone had told me when I left Florida that three months later I would be married to Jack, and pregnant, I would have laughed. Derisively.”
“Have you told Jack?”
Marisa shook her head. “I just found out this morning, and I didn’t want to tell him over the phone.”
“When is he due back from his trip?”
“About eight.”
“Big doings tonight, then. What will you say? How are you going to tell him?”
“Well, once he starts seeing me turn green at the sight of his breakfast, he’ll know. He’s been in Japan for two weeks promoting Renegade.”
“Is that his new book?”
Marisa nodded, taking a sip of her milk. “A thinly disguised account of our romance, I’m afraid. He was already writing it during the trial in Florida. Do you believe that?”
Tracy giggled. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. His hero falls for a lady lawyer, a New Englander who goes up against him in a complicated legal case. Sound familiar?”
“Am I in it?” Tracy asked eagerly.
“Well, the lady lawyer has a pal named Cindy who works as her researcher .”
“A beautiful, seductive, brilliant pal named Cindy,” Tracy corrected archly.
“Of course.”
“Who is responsible for bringing the lovers together in an act of friendship and generosity unparalleled in human history.”
“Right.”
“I still can’t get used to having Jack here all the time. Has he sold his condo in Oklahoma yet?”
“The real estate agent thinks she has a buyer but she isn’t sure if he’ll qualify for the mortgage,” Marisa said.
“I don’t think this town has recovered yet from the idea of Jack as a full time resident. Did you see the ad Mr. Faber ran in the newspaper, describing the ring Jack bought for you in his store?”
“You mean ‘Come to Faber’s, Jeweler to the Rich and Famous?’” Marisa asked, closing her eyes.
“That’s the one,” Tracy responded, cackling.
“Mr. Faber has never been known to pass up a lucrative business opportunity.”
“I think everybody in this town is secretly disappointed that you haven’t razed this tired old place and erected some sort of palace in its stead.”
“Jack really isn’t the palace type and neither am I. We did buy the house in Florida, though. For sentimental reasons. And I’ve ordered vinyl siding to be put on here in May.”
“My, you are getting frivolous. What next? A new fence? Painting the shutters? The neighbors will be talking.”
“What were they expecting, for heaven’s sake?”
“Well, you know how it is. A bestselling author moving into a seventy-year-old Cape Cod is not their idea of a luxurious lifestyle. At the very least, Jack should be driving some expensive Italian sports car. That 4 x 4 of his just doesn’t cut it.”
“But he’s from out West. There are mountains and foothills and the terrain is rough. A vehicle like that is practical.”
Tracy stared at her.
“I’m sorry we’re so dull,” Marisa said, sighing.
“But not in the bedroom. I’m sure you’re not dull in the bedroom,” Tracy observed wickedly.
Marisa threw a napkin at her.
“I suppose Jack could do a rain dance on the front lawn,” Tracy suggested. “At least that would satisfy their curiosity about his Indian background.”
“I’ll mention it to him.”
“And now I have to go,” Tracy said, rising. “I have a paper due next week that’s still in the notecard stage.”
“Okay. Good luck with the work.”
“Give my best to Jack. And to junior in there.” She patted Marisa’s tummy.
“I will.”
“I’ll see you at the office on Monday morning.” Tracy sailed out the back door.
Marisa put their dishes in the sink, feeling once more the secret elation that had become part of her inner life ever since she realized that she was pregnant. Jack would be so thrilled. She was preparing a special dinner, all of his favorites, but if she knew her man they would be in bed before they had a chance to eat it. She was getting very good at wrapping leftovers.
Marisa went to get her doctor’s office number to make an appointment.
* * *
Jack swept through the door at eight-ten, carrying a stack of parcels and drenched with a cold rain. Marisa was waiting for him in the living room, sitting next to the roaring fire and holding a glass of his special Napoleon brandy.
“Woman!” he shouted and threw the boxes on a chair.
Marisa put down the drink and ran into his arms.
“Oh, God, you feel so warm and good,” he murmured, his mouth moving in her hair. “I missed you terribly. Why the hell didn’t you come with me anyway?”
“Jack, we discussed it before you left. I had that ease going before the Superior Court and...”
“Never mind,” he said, holding her off to look at her. “I’m back now. Is it possible that you got more gorgeous while I was gone?”
“Jack, you were gone two weeks,” she said, laughing and smoothing his wet hair.
“Two weeks prettier, no doubt about it,” he said and kissed her lingeringly, his face wet with rain.
“Jack...” Marisa whispered.
“What?” he replied distractedly, steering her firmly toward the bedroom.
“Don’t you want your drink?”
“Not as much as I want you.”
“Wait a minute” she said, as he started to unbutton her blouse.
“Yes?” he said innocently.
“Jack,” she said, more urgently.
He slid his hand up her back to unhook her bra.
“Jack!” she protested.
“What did you bring me?”
He burst out laughing. “You really don’t want me to answer that question.”
“I meant, what’s all that stuff in the boxes?” Marisa amended, blushing.
“Later,” he said, pushing her blouse off her shoulders impatiently, his fingers chilly against her skin.
Marisa closed her eyes.
Jack trailed his tongue across her collarbone and down into the valley between her breasts.
Marisa sighed. “Later,” she agreed.
They hit the bed hard and did not resume the conversation until some time had passed. Marisa was propped against Jack’s shoulder, thinking how perfectly and utterly happy she was, when she said drowsily, “So how was Japan?”
Jack chuckled softly. “Lonely.”
“I’ll bet. Did you meet any geishas?”
He kissed the top of her head. “Counselor, it’s clear you’ve never been on a book junket.”
“True.”
“Even if I’d had any desire to expand my horizons in that direction I was too busy to do it.”
“Hmmpf,” she said disbelievingly.
“It’s true. Publishing houses do not sponsor these trips for authors to visit the tourist attractions. They expect you to flog the book twenty-four hours a day.”
“And did you? Flog the book?”
“Relentlessly.”
“Good. You had quite a few messages from the NFN while you were gone. They want you to appear at a rally to raise money for Jeff Rivertree’s legal defense.”
“Okay. I’ll get to them in the morning.” He tightened his arm around her. “Tonight is for us.”
“May I see my presents now?”
He sighed. “You’ re like a six-year-old.”
“Come on, I’m curious.” She slipped out of the bed and into a robe, padding barefoot into the living room. Jack followed, pushing back his still damp hair.
“I should warn you, they’re not all for you,” he said, dropping onto the sofa and taking a deep swallow of the drink Marisa had gotten for him earlier.
“What!” she said, feigning disappointment.
“I got something for my mother and for Ana,” he said, leaning forward to remove those boxes from the pile.
“That’s permitted.”
“Thank you.”
Marisa tore into the first package, discarding the wrapping and lifting the lid.
“Sorry about the makeshift packaging. I had to have them wrapped after customs and...”
“Jack!” Marisa cried in delight, lifting a royal blue robe of heavy fuji silk from the box and holding it aloft. Emblazoned across the back of it was a golden imperial dragon, and it was encrusted with sapphire bugle beads at the collar and cuffs. The dragon’s head swirled down one arm and the tail trailed down the other, the gilt embroidery contrasting sharply with the smooth silk.
“This is gorgeous,” she breathed.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said. “It’s really for me.”
Marisa looked at him.
“Just kidding,” he said.
Marisa stood, dropping her tired chenille robe to the floor and then wrapping herself in the satiny folds.
“How do I look?” she said, striking a pose.
“Like the first blonde empress of Japan,” he said, saluting her with his glass.
“Too bad I can only wear this at home,” Marisa said sadly, fingering the lapels.
“I don’t recommend wearing it to the office. Charlie Wellman will have a stroke.”
Marisa grinned.
Jack took another sip of his drink and added, “Open that small one next.”
Marisa tore into the wrappings greedily and came up with a jeweler’s box.
“You’re spoiling me,” she said, opening it.
“I’m trying.”
“Pearls,” she said, lifting a string of perfectly matched lustrous gems from the bed of cotton wool.
“I thought that necklace would match your earrings pretty well,” he said.
“Oh, it does, thank you, thank you so much,” she said, running to embrace him.
“Hey, hey, you’re not finished yet,” he protested, disentangling her arms from his neck. “There’s another one.”
Marisa glanced over her shoulder at the last package, forgotten on the floor.
“Dinner’s been warming in the oven. I should take it out before it ossifies,” Marisa protested.
“It can wait a minute. Open that.”
Marisa knelt obediently and opened the last package. Marisa lifted it, puzzled at first.
“What?” she said.
“Look at it closely,” Jack advised.
Comprehension dawned.
“This is an Indian baby board,” she said, examining the flat back and front bundling used to hold a papoose.
“Right.”
“You didn’t get this in Japan.”
“Right again. It’s Blackfoot, my mother sent it. I picked it up on the porch on the way in. It must have been left by the parcel service earlier today.”
“You knew it was coming.”
“I had an idea.”
“Is this a family heirloom?”
He nodded.
“Am I jumping to wild conclusions, or is this a hint?”
“That’s my mother, world famous for her subtlety.”
Marisa put the carrier on the floor and walked over to sit next to Jack, slipping her arms around his neck.
“Jack?”
“Uh-huh?”
“I have something to tell you.”
– THE END –
MEDICINE MAN’S AFFAIR
Doreen Owens Malek
–
Originally published as
Native Season (1983)
–
Published by
Gypsy Autumn Publications
PO Box 383 • Yardley, PA 19067
–
Copyright 1983 and 2012
by Doreen Owens Malek
www.doreenowensmalek.com
The Author asserts the moral right to be
identified as author of this work
All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the Author or Publisher.
First USA printing: 1983
All of the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Dedication
For Anne Baldwin Freiberger,
companion of my childhood,
lifelong confidante.
Blessed are the peacemakers.
Chapter 1
It was a beautiful midsummer morning in Philadelphia, still cool at this early hour, the sky a cloudless, pale blue. Jennifer pulled her car into the company lot and showed her pass to the security guard, who waved her on to her assigned space. She drove into it mechanically, her mind on the business of the day. It would be a long one.
She walked across the marble floor of the lobby of the Freedom Building, past the tall potted plants and the glass-enclosed business rosters on the walls. She nodded at another security guard seated at a desk and unlocked the employee elevator. Her ascent to the third floor was swift and noiseless.
Outside her office, Dolores, her secretary, handed her a stack of mail and coffee in a plastic foam cup. “Bradley Youngson at nine,” Dolores reminded her, wearing a mischievous smile.
“Why the Cheshire Cat grin, Dolores?” Jennifer said, depositing her purse and the correspondence on her desk.
Dolores paused in the doorway, her smile widening. “You’ll know when you see him. He was here last week when you were in Chicago.” She rolled her eyes. “Sexy as hell.”
“Thank you, Dolores, for that capsule assessment,” Jennifer said dryly. “I only hope he can read.”
Jennifer was the publicity director for the Philadelphia Freedom football team and was responsible for the contracted promotional appearances the players made on behalf of the club. In her previous dealings with the athletes she had found quite a few of them, to put it charitably, something less than bright.
“When you look like him” Dolores said, “it doesn’t matter if you can read, write, or even think. The world will beat a path to your door.”
Jennifer gave Dolores a look that sent her scuttling back to her typewriter. Dolores had an unfortunate tendency to moon over the more attractive players. She was otherwise an excellent secretary, but her sophomoric hero worship made Jennifer feel like the den mother at a sorority house. She was always sending Dolores off on a manufactured errand to prevent her staring, thunderstruck, at some gloriously healthy young quarterback who had arrived to sign papers. Judging by this preview, Jennifer might have to give her a one-way ticket to the Ozarks while Youngson was around.
Jennifer sat and sipped her coffee, reviewing the material on Youngson. He was an American Indian, raised on a reservation in Montana, whose athletic prowess in the school there won him a scholarship to Cornell. He had been a star halfback in college and had signed with the Green Bay Packers upon graduation. He had had a magnificent career since, at the top of the league in yardage gained and passes received wherever he had played. He had been brought to the Freedom with the publicity of an astronaut returning from Jupiter. His salary could feed the population of China for a decade, and that did not include the perks—the cars, the clothes, the residuals from advertisements. The man was loaded. Jennifer always found herself resenting the amount these players were paid, but Youngson was in a class by himself. And all for playing a children’s game.
Jennifer was not impressed. She knew the type, all brawn and no brains. She had been married to one of them for three years. College degrees meant nothing in this business. Athletes were supplied with free tutoring in order to pass the most basic courses. And there had been more than one scandal about grade fixing and credit given for classes never attended, so that the starting lineup would be eligible to play. Jennifer had met some of the products of this system: college graduates who were functional illiterates, reading on a fourth or fifth-grade level, unable to decipher the material she handed them. She knew that quite a few of the faces she saw grinning from the sports pages couldn’t read the stories written about them. It had a tendency to dim the brightness of their accomplishments on the field.
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