Keeping Secrets (3 page)

He ran his finger around my chin then kissed my neck, igniting me. “You tricked me,” I said with a gulp.

“You're absolutely right,” he answered, then pulled me against him and kissed me hard, and it was good, so good to kiss him back and feel his hand move up and loosen the bow around the neck of my blouse, then, one by one, to fiddle the buttons loose. He picked me up and carried me to the bedroom, which I had darkened earlier for my own protection, and we shed each other's garments easily, naturally as though we had done this many times before. He was dealing the cards now, and could have had it any way he liked but he took it slowly and gently, caressing my neck, stroking my hair, fondling my breasts, moving his hard thighs between my legs and still going slowly, slowly, giving me time to find my own joy with him first, over and over again, before I felt the final deep thrust, the quick rush, flowing warm inside, which left his body spent and limp above mine. We held on to each other for a long time afterward. It seemed almost as though the years had not come between, and I was doing the thing I had so ardently wished to do the day I watched him walk away … to hold him.

Much later in the evening, when finally he rose, he said, “I'll keep no key to these rooms. Think it over for as long as you like, and when you've decided, give me a call at my office downtown. I'll leave my card on the dresser.”

At the door he added, “My man Hope has been told a woman—a widow named Mrs. Dexter—is visiting the city. She's an old friend of mine. Should she call while I'm out, he is to find me immediately.”

This was my first acquaintance with Emory's style: no bouquets, no bended knees or anxious eyes awaiting the reply; yet I had to smile at his thoroughness. When he was gone I fell asleep and didn't awake until very late the following morning.

3

One week later we were married in a tiny chapel hidden within the confines of a monstrous cathedral. My decision had not been without reservations, which I openly discussed with Emory beforehand. First, there was to be no mention of what he knew of my past. Ever. Neither was he to question me about the parts he did not know.

Secondly, there was the matter of children. I felt a man so well established would expect offspring from a marriage, so when I explained I was barren I watched his expression carefully for signs of disappointment. To my surprise he said quickly, “I got a bellyful of squawling brats growing up. I have no desire for any of my own.”

“And you're certain you won't ever change your mind, come to resent me?”

“You can count on it.”

Once we had that businesslike conversation behind us, I felt more confident. Somehow this tying up of loose ends helped me to accept the fact that for the first time in twenty years I was truly letting my heart rule my actions. Emory had awakkened something in me that I had thought long since dead. Perhaps I'd loved him through the years as he claimed he'd loved me. Yet if so that feeling for him certainly lay dormant until he appeared in my life again. From the morning I awoke in the hotel suite, I missed him terribly.

I tried cold reasoning. I tried mentally listing all the risks that lay at the altar for me. I tried not thinking about him. I tried to convince myself that I would get over him; after all, what were a few hours compared with all the time I'd managed to survive without him? But through it all I kept going back to the day so long ago when he'd walked away from me in Childers, and how it hurt, and somehow that quickly closed the chasm which had widened between us with the years, and I knew that I would be a fool to let the only man I ever cared about walk away again.

On the day before the wedding Emory drove me through a pouring rain to see a house he wanted to buy for us, located a few blocks from downtown. He preferred convenience to his office over living farther out in the newer suburbs. On the way he explained that the neighborhood was fairly old but exclusive—merchants and professional people lived there—and so full of German families and traditions that some called it “Sauerkraut Bend.”

I was excited at the prospect of inspecting the house, though the blinding rain ruined my chance of seeing the neighborhood. As it turned out the realtor's car flooded out and therefore he failed to meet us with a key. All I could learn was that the house stood on a large lot backing up to the river, at the corner of Beauregard and Washington streets.

One look at the tall structure convinced me I was going to like it, so I asked Emory, “How soon can we move in?”

A little hesitantly, he said, “I'm pretty sure they'll take my offer, but there's just one thing. I want Nathan to move in with us. He can remodel so that his quarters seem almost completely apart from ours.”

“But why? I'd rather have total privacy—”

“I travel some, and I don't like the idea of leaving you alone while I'm away.”

“But you don't mind leaving me with another man?”

“Nathan's different. You can trust him implicitly. He'll do anything you ask. I've already made that clear to him.”

“I see … well, I suppose we can give it a try.”

“It's important to me,” he said, then changed the subject.

Emory drove a Cole Six automobile, with wide comfortable seats and armrests that must have made it a special luxury for a man of his build. When I remarked on this as we rode to the wedding, he replied, “I get enough horseback riding in Mexico. When I'm in town I want to ride around in something that keeps the rain off and doesn't rub blisters.”

“Mexico?” I repeated, beset with visions of a barbaric country crawling with bloodthirsty bandits. “Surely you don't go down there often … do you?”

“Only three or four times a year at this point. But I'll explain more about that later.”

I slumped in my seat. Following a few moments of silence, Emory asked, “Something wrong?”

“You might have mentioned earlier your travels included Mexico.”

“I'm sorry, Electra. There hasn't been a lot of time to give you all the details of my life, and remember, I didn't flinch when you spoke your mind about conditions important to you.”

“Yes, but I gave you some forewarning.”

“You can still back out. We haven't reached the church yet.”

I watched him for a while then, as he faced the street ahead, frowning and puffing on a big cigar. How little I knew about the molding of the character and personality of the man sitting next to me. In a way Emory was like an old picture puzzle you find in a forgotten place one rainy day, and though some pieces have been lost, enough remains for you to complete most of the picture, and fill in the empty, oddly shaped contours with your imagination. The missing pieces may turn up someday, but are of no concern at the moment.…

Nathan was the sole witness to our brief ceremony, and proved the biggest surprise thus far. From the time Emory mentioned his name, I had pictured him as someone about the same age, big and burly, maybe a bit crude and boisterous—a good companion for a single man who led an impetuous, adventurous life, matching Emory drink for drink on lonely nights, and keeping secrets when called upon.

He proved instead a slight young man—four or five inches shorter than Emory—with closely cropped auburn hair and light brown eyes, big and round, behind spectacles. He peered down the aisle as we entered, ther uttered something to the minister. I didn't intend to stare at him, yet he was so different from my expectations I scarcely heard the brief explanation of the vows being given us, busy glancing toward Nathan as often as I dared. His narrow forehead was pale, his face smooth (was he no more than a boy, I wondered?), and later, as he handed over the gold wedding band during the ceremony, I noticed that his small hands, with meticulous nails, were shaking. In fact he fumbled and nearly dropped the ring, bringing a flash of contempt to Emory's eyes.

When the service was over, Nathan mopped his brow and drew a long sigh. “It's stuffy in here. Why don't we go on outside,” I suggested, and would have further invited Nathan to dine with us.

Emory cut in, however, and told Nathan, “Get back to the office and make sure that shipment is priced out right. We don't want any mix-ups now that we have it going again.”

Nathan looked at me, then at Emory, and said, “Of course.”

On the way out I told Emory, ‘You could have been less abrupt. I think he wanted to wish us well, or at least introduce himself to me.”

“He doesn't have time for that. I've got work for him to do.”

The curt exchange was my first glimpse at the strained relationship between Emory and Nathan, and I was both taken aback and filled with misgivings. I wouldn't have guessed the two men were at odds with each other before—if so, why would Emory keep Nathan on, and why would he stay?—yet that day they seemed like two animals of different species, mistrusting each other, at the least.…

Outside in the car, Emory's mood had switched again with lightning speed. He took my hand, looked across at me, and smiled. “Well, Mrs. Cabot, how about some dinner?”

“Oh, I do like the sound of that name … please feel free to call me that any time … and Emory, I'm going to try very hard to make you happy.”

“You already have,” he said triumphantly, then winked. “By the way, I'm glad you decided to accept the position after all.” Then he reached under the seat and brought out a small box, which held a stunning emerald dinner ring. He watched my awestruck expression, then said, “Look inside.” And there, engraved in fancy scroll, was the date of my arrival in San Antonio.

Across a candle-lit dinner table, Emory enlightened me on some of his business affairs. The vintage champagne served to the dreamy music of a stringed orchestra enhanced my romantic mood, but not, apparently, Emory's. Yet I was fast coming to know him as one who accomplished a project, only to vault headlong into another. I didn't really mind. In fact I loved listening to him speak on subjects that interested him so intensely, his eyes aglow when he mentioned high profits and shrewd deals. Once during a pause I tried to get him on the subject of Nathan.

He shrugged. “Why should Nathan surprise you? He knows record keeping; he can put up with details that I detest. What makes you think we don't get along?”

“Well, it's obvious you've won his loyalty, anyhow.”

“Loyalty?” He raised an eyebrow, then laughed shortly. “I never quite thought of it that way. Now I want to tell you something about Mexico—”

Another question had been nagging at me, so I interrupted, “Emory, did you ever find your mother?”

He paused and eyed me thoughtfully. “Why did you ask that?”

“I don't know … something left over from the past, I guess.”

“I found her, all right.”

I leaned forward, eyes wide. “Where? How is she?”

“Dead.”

“Oh … that's too bad … I mean, I guess—”

“It doesn't matter now …” he continued more slowly, “seems she made quite a habit of going about the country breaking up families. I discovered four husbands after my own father. Finally she—oh, well, it's all in the past as you say. My big brother was right about one thing—he always told me she wasn't worth looking for. I used to want to kill him for saying that. It was the beginning of many an argument between us, I can assure you.”

Before I had a chance to ask more questions, Emory said, “I've had some good luck in land deals over the past few years. I picked up some property in New Mexico because an acquaintance of mine swore there was water under it. I took a chance on him, and when it turned out he was right—the land was irrigable—the price went off like a bullet. I sold a lot of it before it peaked, and put my money down in South Texas before the big land boom really got going there.

“Late in 1908 I went down into Mexico, and bought some ranching acreage not too far from Vera Cruz. The land just happened to adjoin that of one of the richest families in Mexico—Fernando D. Barrista. You'll probably meet him before long because he comes through here occasionally.”

He told me then that he later borrowed money to buy mining properties in lower Sonora and Chihuahua and began Cabot Consolidated Copper, hiring one of the best American mining engineers down there to run things. But then in 1910, about the time he was ready to invest some more money in deepening the shafts, the biggest revolution in thirty years threw the whole country into chaos. “My mines closed down while I still had to meet the loan payments. I came close to pulling out, but Barrista convinced me to try and hang on because he felt things would get better under the new regime.”

“Did they?”

He laughed bitterly. “Hardly. The leader of the new regime was double-crossed and murdered by his star general—a son-of-a-bitch named Victoriano Huerta—before there was time to get the country together again, and from then on it has been divided into warring factions.”

“Is General Huerta still in charge?”

“Officially he is, but our government won't recognize him because of his underhandedness. And our recognition is all that counts because we've got more money invested down there than any other country.”

“Are your mines still closed?”

“They're operating for the moment. Pancho Villa is strong in that territory, and I'm paying him to keep an armed guard on my properties. But I'm producing only enough to meet payments on the original money I borrowed, so I'm having to empty some other pockets to keep going.”

“It sounds pretty hopeless,” I said, then, noticing his downcast expression, I added, “But surely the fighting can't go on forever.”

His eyes brightened. “Someday, when Mexico is a fit place to live again, we'll have a hacienda down there with a fine casa, stables and gardens, long drives—anything you want.”

I laughed. “I haven't even had a good look at our house in San Antonio.”