Texas Heat (37 page)

When room service arrived, Cary tipped the waiter and carried the tray into Eileen's room. As she was taking her first sip, there was another knock on the door.

Cary ushered the doctor into Eileen's room and quietly withdrew to the sitting room. He was sipping at a Scotch and water when the phone rang. He picked it up on the third ring. “Hello.” There was no response, and after a moment he hung up.

The doctor emerged ten minutes later. He was a round, pudgy man with a no-nonsense demeanor. “The young lady has a good case of bronchitis. I gave her a shot and left some antibiotics. She'll be asleep in a few minutes. I'd like you to get her a small vaporizer from the pharmacy; it will help her to breathe easier. She's to take the capsules four times a day. She'll be fine in a few days. I'll leave my bill at the desk. If you like, I can stop at the pharmacy and have them send up the vaporizer.”

“I'd appreciate that,” Cary said.

Cary waited around for another thirty minutes until the vaporizer arrived. He hooked it up on the dresser, checked Eileen again to be sure she was all right. He turned the lights off, leaving only the bathroom light on in case she woke and was disoriented. He made sure the water pitcher was full and placed a glass on the night table next to the packet of pills.

Now it was time for his wife. He could hardly wait.

 

Amelia ended her all-too-short visit to Billie after the second day and arrived at Kennedy International Airport late in the afternoon. She entered a cocktail lounge, trying to make up her mind whether to join Cary at the Hyatt Hotel or take the five-o'clock flight back to Texas. She knew she was being stubborn, even stupid. She trusted Cary; she really did. It was Eileen she didn't trust. Eileen would have to go before she would ever feel safe again.

“And what happens to all the Eileens after that?” Billie had asked her. “You can't insulate him from women, Amelia. If—and this is a big if, because I don't think Cary would ever stray—but if it does happen, you won't have anyone to blame but yourself. You'll be the one who drove him to it.”

Billie was right, Amelia thought as she sipped at her brandy Alexander. But Billie hadn't seen Eileen Farrell. Even Thad's head would turn for a second look. Now, Thad was one man who would never stray; he might look, but he'd never touch. She hadn't known Cary for a lifetime the way Billie knew Thad.

Amelia ordered a second drink, glancing at the departure monitor from her seat at the bar. She had twenty minutes to make her flight to Austin, if that was what she wanted to do. She had the rest of the day to hail a taxi that would take her to the Hyatt. She gulped her drink, paid the check, and hurried to the check-in counter, where she was told there would be a ten-minute delay. Just enough time to call the Hyatt and leave a message for Cary. Let him eat his heart out.

Information gave her the number. She dropped coins into the slot, got the Hyatt, and asked for Cary Assante. The phone rang and rang. Finally she hung up and dialed the Hyatt a second time, this time asking for Eileen Farrell's room. The phone was picked up on the third ring, and she heard her husband say hello. Her gloved fingers felt numb when she replaced the receiver.

Her change purse yielded enough coins to make a third call. The message she left was brief: Mrs. Assante is returning to Austin.

 

Cary looked around at the beautiful flowers. His watch told him Amelia was two hours late. Somehow, in his gut, he knew she wouldn't be here. Suddenly he thought to call the desk and ask if there were any messages.

“Yes, sir, there is a message. The boy is on his way up to your room right now. We've been terribly busy, and couldn't get to it before now; I'm sorry.”

Cary opened the door, tipped the bellhop, and read his message before he closed the door. It had been Amelia on Eileen's phone. He felt like crying.

At nine o'clock room service knocked on the door, and Cary didn't have the nerve to tell the man to take the food away. He watched as everything was carried in. How Amelia would have loved this, he thought. He reached for the magnum of champagne in its silver bucket. Why the hell not? Who cared?

Amelia Coleman Nelson Assante slept on the floor of her mother's house that night, wrapped in her sable coat. It was a deep, soundless sleep of defeat.

Sunbridge took on an air of strain when Cary returned
from New York. Amelia was civil as she listened to his account of the trip, didn't bat an eyelash when she heard how sick Eileen was—so sick, said Cary, that he wanted her to fill in at the office if she could find the time. Secretly, Amelia was pleased, and she agreed to help out until Eileen was able to return to work.

“All you have to do, darling, is answer the phone. Eileen can catch up on the other stuff when she's back on her feet.”

Cary looked to miserable, so worn, that Amelia took pity on him ... for the moment. Maybe he was telling the truth. Time would tell. But she had no intention of going upstairs and making love with him as if nothing had happened. She still felt too raw and bruised for that.

Forcing a smile to her lips, she said cheerfully, “Go to bed, darling. You look tired. I have some papers and bills to go over. After all, I was away for three days. And I promised Susan we'd have a talk. She wants some input from me on little Jessie. I think she's considering forming some kind of organization or starting a little club for parents of children with spina bifida.”

Cary nodded like a schoolboy who was being punished for something he didn't understand. He went upstairs without another word.

Damn, she thought petulantly, he might have coaxed her a little! How quick the was to accept her reasons why she wasn't ready for bed. The truth of the matter was she herself was so tired and strung out, she couldn't see straight. If ever there was a time for a drink and a joint, this was it. The den would be dark and as welcome as her thoughts; she could hang out there till morning with no one the wiser.

She couldn't ever remember feeling so awful, so alone. This was her first serious rift with Cary since they'd been married. Maybe she should tell him
exactly
how she felt. Her fears might be foolish and unfounded, but they were damaging her relationship nevertheless. Wouldn't it be better to get everything out in the open?

Amelia lit the marijuana cigarette she'd purchased from one of the young workmen.

Good weed, the young man had said. Pure Colombian. Amelia dragged deeply on the joint and leaned back. She could feel the tension leave her body almost immediately. She felt almost giddy.... She giggled and wondered vaguely if she had shut the study door, not that it mattered. She was somewhere else now and enjoying every minute of it.

It was five o'clock when Amelia came down off her cloud. The room reeked of pot. She gulped her watered-down drink and opened the window a good two inches. Then she closed the door behind her and climbed the steps. A shower and fresh clothes would make her feel better. Today she was replacing Eileen Farrell.

Cary waited till after three for his wife to come to bed. He'd refused to seek her out and beg for her favors, however—they were married, for Christ's sake! When he finally heard her come into the room, he cracked one eye open to look at the clock on the night stand. Jesus, it was practically dawn. She went immediately into the shower. Then, just as he'd decided to join her, he heard the snick of the lock.

Two minutes after the alarm was turned off, Amelia opened the bathroom door. Cary noticed that her makeup was fresh but her eyes were lusterless. He felt rotten. They were going to be in real trouble if something wasn't done soon.

“Morning, babe,” he said softly. “I missed you last night.”

“I slept downstairs. I guess I dozed off. When I did wake, I thought I would disturb you, if I came up, so I finished out the night on the sofa.”

“Alone?”

“In a manner of speaking. I smoked a joint and had a couple of drinks.” Defiantly, she added, “I needed it.”

“What about Susan and the work you had to do?”

Amelia turned to face her husband. “I changed my mind. I decided I wanted to be alone. Surely you can understand that. I'm going to have some breakfast, so anytime you're ready to leave, I'll be ready.”

Cary blinked as the door closed behind his wife. By God, he thought, she's declared war! This room is the front, and I'm going to get caught in the cross fire if I don't take charge damn quick.

His shower was the shortest on record, the spray barely touching his body before he hopped out and dressed. Twice he nicked himself shaving and plastered bits of tissue over the bleeding spots. Now he not only felt like a war casualty; he looked like one, too.

Most mornings, Amelia filled his plate from the sideboard and buttered his toast. This morning, however, she remained seated, reading the
Crystal City Times
while she munched on an English muffin.

“What's new in Crystal City?” he asked heartily as he dug into his eggs.

“Not much. We're supposed to have a wet spring this year. The Cattleman's Association is meeting next week on some land bid. The Canterbury Club is sponsoring a St. Patrick's Day Dance. The tickets are a hundred dollars each.”

“Buy a block of them.”

“Why?” Amelia asked as she folded the paper in two. She passed it over to Cary, who ignored it.

“I'll give them to some of the workers. Don't you think it's a good idea?”

“No,” Amelia said shortly. “Your workers won't be welcome at the Canterbury Club. You don't want to embarrass them, do you?”

“You just said the tickets were on sale for a hundred dollars each. Don't they want to sell them?”

“Of course they want to sell them, but to the right people. They don't want riffraff. I don't make the rules; I'm just telling you the way it is.”

Cary put down his fork. “What you're telling me is some hardworking stiff who puts in fourteen hours a day to take care of his family and has dirt under his fingernails isn't going to be permitted to attend even if he has one of those expensive tickets.” Cary's face was grim, his eyes cold and hard. “Will they be turned away at the door?”

“Of course not. They'll feel ill at ease. I seriously doubt if any of your men would even take the tickets, much less attend.”

“Well, if that's the case, count me out. If some man who is out there busting his ass for me isn't good enough to go where I go, then I don't belong there, either. You make up your own mind, Amelia. I've had enough breakfast. I'm ready to leave.”

“You're just being stubborn. You know how they do things here. I've certainly told you enough times. You even laughed.”

“That was before I got involved. The next thing you'll be telling me is they burn crosses on lawns and go around in white sheets. Just because I married you doesn't make me one of you. I'm no different than those guys out there slogging away day after day. I've never asked anyone to do anything for me I wouldn't do myself. You knew that when you married me. I don't want to be a Coleman. You aren't a Coleman anymore, either.”

Amelia bristled as she buttoned her coat. “Right now you're feeling guilty, so don't take it out on me, okay? If you don't want to go to the dance, don't go. I'll buy myself a ticket. I am on the board, after all. If you want to argue, let's argue about the issues. Don't go throwing some stupid dance into the ring to divert me. We're a little too old to play games.”

“Guilty? Me? Come off it, Amelia. I told you the truth and I'm not going to go through that scene again. What you see is what you got. I've never lied to you, nor have I ever been unfaithful. And in your heart you know it. Whatever the hell your problem is, I hope you solve it before you bust up this marriage. Get the hell in the car, because I'm leaving.”

Amelia's back stiffened. “Don't talk to me like I'm one of your workers. I'm your wife. I won't stand for it, Cary.”

“If you're my wife, I wish to hell you'd act like it. I'm sick and tired of dancing around you, worrying about saying the right thing at the right time. You're the one who's screwing things up.”

They rode to the construction site in silence. Cary glowered all the way. Amelia sat in a pitiful huddle, angry with herself and with Cary.

Cary's face lost none of its grimness as he set about turning on the heaters and the lights. He waved his arm vaguely in the direction of the coffee machine. “It'll warm up soon. Make some coffee. Some of the men come in from time to time and may want something to warm them up. Keep it filled. Do you know how to work the phone system?”

“I know how it works.” She watched as his eyes looked up toward the fluorescent lights and then down at her hair. She felt a moment of panic. What was he seeing? She longed suddenly for the pale light bulbs in their bedroom. Go, her mind shrieked, so I can see what this is doing to me. God, go!

“I'll try to make it back for lunch,” Cary told her. “Order something around one o'clock.”

“I'll do that. Have a good day.”

He hesitated a moment. “You have a good day, too. I'll see you later.”

“I'll be here.”

The second the door closed behind him, Amelia had her compact open. She angled it this way and that, hoping to see whatever it was Cary had seen. Damn, it was too small. She removed the huge square bathroom mirror and carried it out to her desk, then sat down and inspected herself.

She looked awful. Her makeup was garish; her dark hair cast unflattering shadows on her face, the roots showing at the part line. All she needed was a red nose and she could pass for a clown.

Wobbling on the swivel chair, Amelia reached up to lift the ceiling block. She unscrewed not one but two of the bright lights. Immediately she felt better. Now that the glare was gone, she might be able to get through the day. She looked into the mirror again. It was better now, but she'd lost something in those few minutes under the glaring light. She was getting old and it was eating her alive.

By mid-morning Amelia was bored to tears. She called her house, spoke to the workmen, and was assured that everything was progressing on schedule. She went over her paperwork, made a few calls, rescheduled delivery of the upstairs carpeting, and watered Eileen's plants. She read two chapters of a Herman Wouk novel, got bored, and put it back in her bag.

One o'clock came and went. She ordered hamburgers and French fries from a diner down the road. The smell made her nauseous. At two o'clock she poked through the files to see what kind of system Eileen used.

An hour later, Amelia Assante's world crumbled around her. She sat in stunned disbelief, staring at the papers in her hand. One was the deed to a co-op apartment in Eileen Farrell's name; the other was the certificate of ownership for a new Ford Mustang. When the phone rang, she answered it automatically. She even managed to record messages.

Her movements were awkward and clumsy as she searched through the cabinets a second time. When she found what she was looking for, she sat down and fought her tears. The co-op had actually been purchased by Cary Assante, but a copy of a quitclaim deed said Cary had deeded the apartment to Eileen Farrell for the princely sum of one hundred dollars. The Mustang had been purchased outright; a photostat of the registration and bill of sale carried Cary's name.

At three-forty-five Amelia took the phone off the receiver and left the trailer. She drove home, packed her husband's bags, and brought them back to the office, placing them neatly by the door. She left the incriminating papers on the blue desk blotter. The receiver was still off the hook, pinging noisily. She replaced it and the light bulbs overhead.

She didn't look back. There were some things a person didn't need to see more than once.

 

Susan sat across the desk from Jessica's pediatrician. The metal plate on his desk read Ferris Armstrong, M.D. She liked him and the way he treated Jessie. He didn't mince words—he warned her what she was up against and what the future might hold for Jessie and herself. But he was always hopeful.

Now his cornflower-blue eyes twinkled when Jessie belched loudly. Susan flushed. “She hasn't learned her manners yet.”

He laughed, stretched backward on his swivel chair, and propped his foot up on the desk. In the time Susan had been bringing Jessie to him, he'd come to like her and had learned he could drop his professional demeanor after the baby's examination and relax. He enjoyed talking with her. Lacing his long fingers behind his head, he studied the tips of his shoes down the length of his long legs. “Do you plan to stay here in Texas or return to England?” he asked.

“I'll be staying on. I'm living at Sunbridge with my sister, as I've told you, but I'm planning to find my own place. Actually, I own a house that was given to me years ago, but it's being rented. I might consider moving there. I want a yard for Jessie and room for her to grow. She will grow, won't she?”

“I've told you everything there is to know, and I've given you pamphlets and books and articles to read. You know I'm not holding anything back. What you must understand is that spina bifida affects each child differently. The prognosis for Jessie is excellent. Why would you think I was holding back? I know how precious Jessie is to you; I want what's best for her as well as you.”

Susan sighed and relaxed in her chair. Jessie cuddled on her mother's shoulder. “I have no reason to think you're holding anything back. I just feel so lost sometimes, as though Jessie were the only baby in the world with this defect. My family tries to help, but they can't really share it with me.”

Ferris Armstrong looked at Susan compassionately. She had told him of the breakup of her marriage, and without even knowing the details, he had developed a strong dislike for Jerome de Moray. Jessie needed a father and Susan needed a husband, someone to share her worries and help with the burden of raising a child.