Beloved Stranger

by Joan Wolf

  “You feel things more,” Martin said slowly, his eyes on her delicate, wistful face. He resisted, with difficulty, the desire to reach out and touch her. “You give one hundred percent of yourself to everything you do. With you, nothing is part-time. You may not do as much as your mother, but I’ll wager you get a lot more out of what you do do.”

  “Well,” said Susan with an obvious attempt at lightness, “that’s a comforting thought. I’ll try to hold on to it.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to be boring you with my complaints, Martin. It’s ridiculous. I have all the modern conveniences, all the help I want to ask for. I’m just making excuses.”

  They were together on the beach again and Martin’s eyes were drawn irresistibly to the slenderness of her throat, the high fullness of her breasts. He lay back on the blanket and shaded his eyes from the sun. “You don’t have the two things every writer needs,” he said quietly from behind his shielding hand. “Uninterrupted time and a place to work.”

  Susan gave a heartfelt sigh. “I’ll have it when we get home,” she said. She too moved from a sitting position to lie on her stomach and prop her chin on her hands.

  “It’s all this moving around these last few months that’s thrown me so. I’m a dreadful creature of habit.”

  “Rick is a bird on the wing, isn’t he?” Martin asked in an expressionless voice.

  “He has to be, I’m afraid.” She turned her head and he uncovered his eyes to look at her. “I’m enough of a writer to resent sometimes the upheaval of husbands and babies, but not enough of a writer to do without them.” She smiled a little wryly. “It’s the classic feminist dilemma, I fear.”

  Martin’s hazel eyes looked gravely back into hers. Their faces were very close together. Then he glanced up. “Rick!” he said. “I didn’t see you coming.”

  Ricardo didn’t answer but stood next to the sand chair looking down at them. Susan smiled at her husband. “Did you win?” she asked. There had been a preseason game that afternoon.

  “No, we lost.” He did not smile back but looked down at her out of half-shut eyes. She sat up and pushed the hair off of her face.

  “What was the score?” asked Martin with an attempt at casualness. Ricardo’s eyes moved, consideringly, to his face.

  “Seven—four,” he said.

  Susan picked up her sunglasses and put them on. She sensed the tension, Martin thought. “Ricky didn’t wake up in time for me to come by,” she said. “Did anything special happen?”

  “No.” Ricardo’s eyes were very dark and there was a decidedly grim look at his mouth. Then his gaze shifted to Martin and the message in that dark stare was unmistakable.

  Martin rose to his feet. “Well, I’ll be pushing off. Good to see you, Rick.” He looked at Susan. She was so very sweet, he thought. So very vulnerable. “Remember what I said,” he told her.

  She gave him a fleeting smile and then looked again, nervously, at her husband. Martin felt his stomach muscles clench. There was nothing he could do. He managed to return her smile and give a casual wave to Ricardo before he walked away, on rigid legs, down the beach toward the parking lot.

  There was silence between Ricardo and Susan after he had left and then Susan started to lie down again. “What did Harrison mean, to remember what he said?” Ricardo asked, and she rose up again and looked at him.

  “Oh,” she answered uncomfortably, “he just told me to keep on writing. He was trying to be encouraging.”

  “And I am not encouraging,” he said flatly.

  “I didn’t say that,” she protested.

  “I see. I’m glad to hear that.” He looked at her, measuringly, and then said, “I’m going to swim and then we’ll go back to the hotel. It’s getting late.” He looked at Ricky, who was lying in his basket under the umbrella waving his fists. “Unless you would like to swim first? You must be hot from lying here in the sun.”

  His courteous offer set her teeth on edge. He was out of temper, and she didn’t know why. “No,” she replied quietly, “I’m fine. Martin watched him for me before. You go ahead.” She watched as he went down to the water’s edge and dived in. What could have happened today to put him in such a rotten mood, she wondered. He was making her nervous. She hated it when he was annoyed with her. But she hadn’t done anything, she thought in bewilderment. It must have been something that happened during the game. Oh well, she thought with determined optimism, he was hot and he had lost. A swim and dinner should cheer him up.

  Chapter Ten

  They went back to the hotel and Ricardo watched the news while she bathed and fed Ricky. He was still sitting in front of the TV when she came out of the bathroom from her shower and said, with determined cheerfulness, “The bathroom’s free if you want a shower.” He got up without a word and went inside.

  Susan took special pains with her appearance, putting on mascara, which she rarely used, and choosing a hot-pink dress with spaghetti straps and a full skirt. It was a good foil for her tan and her pale hair and, Ricardo had said he liked it when she bought it. She clasped a thin gold chain around her throat and was putting on earrings when Ricardo came out of the bathroom. He had a white towel wrapped around his waist and he was scowling.

  “I cut myself shaving,” he said with great annoyance, and Susan jumped up.

  “Oh dear. Let me see it.”

  “It’s all right. But I can’t find the alcohol.”

  “It’s in the closet,” she said immediately, and went to fetch it for him. He took it from her and went back into the bathroom. He left the door open, and as he raised his hand to apply the cotton swab to his chin Susan saw the muscles in his back ripple. Then there was a knock on the door and she went to let in the girl who baby-sat for Ricky every evening.

  They had dinner in the hotel dining room and were joined by Joe Hutchinson and his wife. The extra people relieved the tension between Ricardo and Susan a little and Susan found herself chattering away in a manner quite foreign to her usual quiet self. Ricardo was pleasant although he seemed a little abstracted. They said good night to the Hutchinsons in the lobby and Ricardo said, “Let’s go for a walk along the beach. I don’t want to go in yet.”

  “All right,” she agreed instantly. “I’m sure Barbara won’t mind being out a little late.”

  It was a beautiful night. The moon hung over the water, huge and silvery, trailing a wake of shimmering light in the dark ocean. Susan took off her high-heeled sandals and Ricardo took off his jacket and loosened his tie. They walked in silence for some time, Susan conscious with every nerve in her body of the man beside her. At first they saw a few other couples but then they came to a stretch of beach that was deserted. Ricardo stopped. Susan halted as well and turned to look at him. Barefoot in the sand, she had to look a very long way up. “Do you want to go back?” she asked.

  “Not yet.” He spread out his jacket. “Let’s sit down.”

  Without a word she dropped gracefully to the sand. She clasped her arms around her knees and gazed at the moon. “It’s so lovely,” she said dreamily.

  Then he moved, and the sky was blotted out. “So are you, querida,” he said, and started to kiss her. She slipped her arms around his neck and when he laid her back onto his jacket, she went willingly, kissing him back, caressing the back of his neck with loving fingers. His lips moved from her mouth to her throat and she looked up at the moon as she felt the warmth of his mouth against her bare skin. The huge silver globe shone serenely down on them and Susan smiled a little. “Diana, the moon goddess, is watching us,” she whispered softly. His mouth moved to her breast, and through the thin cotton of her dress her nipple stood up hard. She closed her eyes and slid her fingers into his hair, holding him against her. “Ricardo,” she breathed.

  “Mmm,” he answered, his voice muffled by her body. He slipped a hand under her skirt and began to caress her bare leg. For the first time Susan realized what he intended.

  “Ricardo!” she said in a very different tone, and trie
d to sit up. He moved easily so his body was across hers and, locking his mouth on hers, he stifled her protests. But Susan was horrified. They were lying right out in the open. Anyone could come along. “Ricardo,” she hissed when he finally took his mouth away, “stop this. Now. This instant.”

  “I don’t want to.” His mouth was moving along the curve of her throat. His hand slid up her leg to her thigh. “Love me,” he whispered and kissed her again, softly this time, gently, coaxingly.

  “Not here,” she muttered against his mouth. But her body was trembling, calling to him.

  He pushed her bodice down and his mouth found the fullness of her breasts. His hand moved further up her leg. Her body quivered, reveling in his touch. For a minute she swayed on the edge of surrender. “Susan,” he said, his mouth moving against her. “Amada.”

  “Ricardo,” she whispered unevenly, and the word was enough to tell him that he had won. She whimpered with pleasure as his weight pressed her back against the sand, her arms going up to hold him, her nostrils filled with the scent of him. Her body arched to the demanding urgency of his and they moved together in the shattering climax of passion while the silver moon looked down, silent, beautiful, and indifferent to human desires.

  After a long while Ricardo rolled over on his back and stretched. Slowly, reluctantly, Susan opened her eyes and came back to reality. She looked at her husband and felt weak with love. “Darling,” she said softly, tentatively. She longed, with every fiber of her body, to hear him say he loved her.

  The moonlight clearly showed her his face. It looked bright, triumphant. “I knew I could make you want to,” he said. “Little puritan.” He laughed.

  Susan felt struck to the heart. Was this all he was going to say to her? She sat up and rested her face on her knees, her hair swinging forward to hide her face. “We’d better get dressed,” he was saying. “No point in pushing our luck.”

  “No,” she replied numbly. “I suppose not.”

  He talked cheerfully as they returned along the beach, and when she shivered he hung his jacket around her bare shoulders. His good humor appeared to be completely restored by her surrender on the beach. It was Susan, who had surrendered because she loved him so helplessly, who was left feeling betrayed and forlorn.

  * * * *

  They returned to Connecticut at the beginning of April and on the sixth the Yankees opened the season at the stadium. Susan went to the game and sat in a box with a few of the other wives and children. It was a Sunday afternoon and the huge ball park was crowded. Out in center field the World Championship banner fluttered in the breeze and the sun was warm on her head.

  When Ricardo came to the plate, the whole stadium rose in ovation. He gave his famous, disarming grin, stepped up to the plate and cracked a single into left field. “God, but he makes it look easy.” It was Linda Fatato, wife of the Yankee pitcher speaking. “Sal always says one of the best things about being on the Yankees is that he doesn’t have to pitch to Rick.” Susan smiled in acknowledgment and looked at her husband as he took a lead off first base. There he was, she thought, the most conspicuous and most elusive of men. He performed with utter naturalness in front of thousands and yet his deepest self remained a mystery. Susan had no doubt that there were subterranean depths to Ricardo. She had met many people who were all on the surface; what you saw was all there was. Ricardo was not like that. He was like an iceberg—the important part of him remained submerged. She listened to the roar of the crowd as he jogged out to center field and thought that her husband was one of the most solitary persons she had ever known.

  * * * *

  With the beginning of the baseball season Susan’s life took on a more stable pattern. She had her room back to write in, and Maria was there to take Ricky off her hands for a few hours every morning. She found she was able to write and the book started to take on shape and depth.

  She would have been perfectly happy if her relationship with Ricardo had been more secure. As it was, there were times when she felt closer to him than she had ever felt to any other human, when it seemed they were together in a way she had never found with anyone else. It happened when they made love, of course. But it was there at other times as well. The evenings, for instance, when they would listen to music, she curled on the end of the sofa and Ricardo stretched out with his head in her lap. Then the utter perfection of Bach, so pure and so clear, seemed to be merely the echo of what there was between her and this man whom she loved.

  But there were the other times as well, the times when he seemed so far away, so inexplicable, so beyond the reach of her understanding. His initial tolerance of her writing had given way to barely concealed impatience. He did not attempt to infringe on her time, but she was aware, always, of his irritation, his disapproval. Consequently she was very careful not to overrun the time she had set for herself, even though there were times when she was caught up and working well and wanted very much to stay for another hour. But she didn’t. She would put down her pen and physically take herself downstairs even if her mind was still wrapped up in another world.

  One morning, at the end of May, for the first time, she let herself believe what she knew in her heart of hearts: she had something publishable. When she came downstairs to lunch she was still floating in a cloud. Ricardo had spent the morning mowing the lawn. He had a night game that evening and was leaving directly after it for a two-week road trip. Susan smiled at him a little absently and went to get Ricky from the playpen. She carried him out to the kitchen and put his jars of food in a baby dish to warm them up. Ricardo followed her and began to tell her something and she listened for a few minutes without really hearing him. She had an opening sentence for her next chapter forming in her mind.

  “Susan, are you listening to me?” The edge on his voice was what caught her attention.

  “I’m sorry, Ricardo.” She sounded contrite. “What were you saying?”

  “I was telling you that the men are coming to excavate for the pool this week.” His face was dark with annoyance. “I won’t be here, if you remember, and you must see to it.”

  “I’m sorry, darling,” she repeated. “I was thinking of something else. I’m paying attention now. What do you want me to do?”

  He proceeded to give her instructions and she listened carefully, but she could tell from the clipped tone of his voice that he was still irritated. “You’ve made out a list of your schedule for me, haven’t you?” she asked at the end of his lecture. “In case I have to get in touch with you?”

  “Susan.” He looked even more annoyed. “I have just told you, very clearly, what you must do.”

  “I know that, Ricardo,” she said with gentle dignity, “and I understand what you’ve said. But I just want to be sure I can get in touch with you. Suppose something happened to Ricky, for instance? You wouldn’t want to wait to find out until you called at night, would you?”

  “No.” He watched as she put a bib on Ricky and propped him up in the high chair. “I’ve left a schedule and a list of hotels and phone numbers on my desk,” he said.

  “Good.” She spooned some pureed vegetables into Ricky’s mouth. “I do wish you didn’t have to be away so much,” she said as she wiped Ricky’s chin with a cloth.

  “Do you?” he said. He was standing just behind her and she could feel his eyes on the back of her neck. “Don’t forget Miss Garfield will be in on Thursday,” he added. “She’s the woman I engaged to take Mrs. Noonan’s place.” Mrs. Noonan, the woman who handled Ricardo’s mail, had retired to Florida with her husband.

  Susan turned to look up at Ricardo. “Is there anything I need to tell her?”

  “Not really. Just make her feel at home. I went over everything with her the other day when she was here.”

  Ricky yelled and she turned back and fed him another spoonful. Ricardo smiled—she could hear it in his voice—and said, “I’m hungry, too. When is lunch? Where is Maria?”

  “Maria’s downstairs doing the laundry and lunch w
ill be ready in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll go shave first.” He walked to the kitchen door. “Have you packed for me yet?”

  “Not yet. I’ll do it after lunch, after Maria puts away the laundry.” She turned her head. “Oh, and Ricardo, if you’re going upstairs, will you please take your jacket with you?”

  “Of course,” he replied with absolute courtesy.

  Later, when she went upstairs after lunch to pack his suitcase, she saw that he had indeed carried his sweat jacket upstairs. He had also deposited it in a heap on the bed. Susan saw it, frowned and then laughed. “Oh well,” she said out loud, “I suppose I mustn’t expect miracles. It was upstairs. It wasn’t on the floor. It’ll probably take the rest of my married life to get him to hang it in the closet.”

  * * * *

  On Thursday the doorbell rang promptly at nine A.M. and Susan called, “I’ll get it, Maria!” and went to the door. She had been waiting to greet Miss Garfield and make sure she had everything she needed before disappearing upstairs to her desk. She opened the door and found herself confronting a tall, slim, gorgeous creature who couldn’t have been a day over twenty-five. The vision smiled and said, “I’m Vicky Garfield. I’ve come to work on Rick’s correspondence.”

  “Oh,” said Susan blankly. “Yes. Do come in.” She held the door open wider and the other girl walked over the threshold. “I’m Susan Montoya,” Susan added quickly. “My husband isn’t here, but I’ll be glad to show you around and help you get started.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Montoya.” Vicky Garfield smiled. She was at least five feet eight inches tall and she had pitch-black hair and violet eyes. She wore a slim, smart dress and elegant sandals. Next to her Susan felt small, insignificant and frumpy. “Rick explained he would be on the road,” Miss Garfield was going on, “and he showed me what he wanted and where to find things when I was here the other day.”

  That was the second lime she had called him Rick. Susan cleared her throat and glanced down at her own dungaree skirt and ancient espadrilles. Her hair needed a wash and she had put it into pigtails for the morning. She felt ridiculous. “Well, then, you know where the study is,” she said faintly.