An Inconvenient Husband (21 page)

But now she swallowed
the words and a painful yearning lodged in her throat. It was his turn to say
the words. It was his turn to tell her how he felt, that he wanted her, that he
loved her, that he dreamed of her at night. She squeezed her eyes tightly,
willing him, from across miles of ocean, to say the words.

"Nicky?"
came his voice. "Everything all right? Are Sophie and the baby doing
okay?"

"Yes, yes,
everything is fine." Disappointment tasted bitter in her mouth and she
struggled for control. "What about you? How are you doing?"

"I'm having my
usual struggles with the bureaucracy. If ever I take a desk job, tie me up and
call a psychiatrist."

In spite of everything
she found herself smiling. "I'll do that." "I've got to go. We
have another crisis on our hands and I have to calm some distressed souls. Did
you call for any particular reason?" His voice was more businesslike now,
his mind set on going back to work already.

Her throat closed.
Yes,
she answered silently.
Your wife's in crisis, too. What about her distressed
soul?
Tears burned behind her eyes. "No," she said into
the phone. "No particular reason."
Please tell me you love me. Please
tell me you miss me.

"Say hello to
Sophie for me," he said. "And I'll see
you...
next month, after I get back from
Guatemala."

She closed her eyes,
seeing in her mind his face, the calm eyes, the strong chin. He'd be wearing a
business suit, a tie, looking tall and dynamic, emanating confidence. She knew
the way the women would look at him in the office and she felt a hot stab of
jealousy. She fought against it, her body rigid.

"Yes. 'Bye,
Blake."

Sophie came back into
the room. "He called you," she stated.

"Yes."

"Everything all
right?"

"He's not dead or
in the hospital," Nicky said with a grimace of self-derision.

"That's a very
good thing." Sophie's tone was dry. "Did he tell you where he was
last night?"

Nicky shook her head.
"No."

"Didn't you
ask?"

"No."

Sophie bit her lip and
studied her for a long moment. "You know," she said slowly,
"there could be all kinds of explanations."

"I know."
She forced a smile. "I'm probably just overreacting."

Three days later she
found it hard to still believe she was overreacting. During business hours
Blake was at the office, although she would hang up the phone or make an excuse
before he'd come on the line. She'd called their home number at all hours of
the night three nights in a row. He was never there.

Nicky sat amid the
ravages of her breakfast and fought the tears as she remembered the agonizing
nights spent dialing her home phone number. Furious, humiliating tears. She
looked at Blake, seeing nothing but a blur. "You weren't in our bed, so
whose bed were you sleeping in?" Her voice was thick with tears. Her
throat ached.

His jaw tensed into
steel. There was an icy silence. "Perhaps," he said slowly,
ominously, "I'm the one who should ask
you
the same thing! Who
were you sleeping with when you didn't come home to be with me?"

She thought her heart
would stop. Anger and anguish flooded her. She wiped at her tears. "How
dare you!" she whispered fiercely. "I didn't sleep with anybody! How
dare
you think I cheated on you!"

"Considering the
circumstances, sweetheart, it was really easy." His mouth twisted
bitterly. "Obviously, you were not at all interested in sleeping with me
anymore, or you would have managed to come home."

The next thing she saw
was his back, then the door slammed closed behind him. She stared at the
destruction on the bed—coffee soaking into the sheets and blanket, papaw
splattered on the floor, honey dripping from the upturned tray. A picture of
her life, her love— everything sweet and lovely, wasted, spoiled.

She was trembling
uncontrollably. She curled up into a ball and sobbed.

It took her a long
time to put herself back together again, to clean up the mess, to put clean
sheets on the bed.

Ramyah had enough to
do; she could at least clean up the destruction she had caused herself.

She went back to her
own room and tried to write. She felt sick, then remembered she hadn't had
breakfast. In the kitchen she found something to eat. Blake was on the veranda,
reading a computer printout, writing in the margins. Her eyes filled with tears
again. Oh, God, she couldn't stand being here alone with him. She loved him,
but it wasn't enough.

He came suddenly to
his feet, and a moment later he was in the kitchen. The dark flash in his eyes
gave away that he had not expected to see her there. Without a word he reached
for the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. He picked up the mug, then set it
down again. He put both hands on the counter, as if for support, as if his
shoulders carried an enormous burden. He lowered his head and stared straight
down at the countertop.

"For what's it's
worth," he said tightly, the words coming with difficulty, "I was
never,
never
unfaithful to you."

Her mouth went dry. He
straightened his back, picked up the coffee cup and left the kitchen without looking
at her again.

The dinner party at
Ghita's house was that evening. Nicky wore the long
batek
dress again; it
was the best she could do under the circumstances. The few things Blake had
brought back from her father's house were just simple day clothes, and anything
Lisette might have would be too big.

Ghita wore a
wine-colored silk dress that could have come straight from a Rome or Paris
boutique, and next to her Nicky felt quite the tourist in her
batek
print dress. Ghita's mother was resplendent in a gorgeous, shimmering silk
sari. She was a charming woman and made Nicky feel comfortable and welcome, and
before long

Nicky was talking to
her about Indian curries and chutneys and all manner of Indian kitchen lore.

There were several
other guests present and it was a relief to be among people again. The
conversation was interesting, the food wonderful, and she was grateful for the
diversion.

She tried not to
notice how Ghita was keeping Blake entertained, and how he certainly seemed
comfortable with her attentions. He was laughing. It made him look less hard,
smoothing the sharp edges of his face and lightening the tarnished look in his
eyes. Nicky felt a painful twist in her chest. She'd hardly seen him laugh in
the days they had been together.

She could not deny a
sense of irritation every time her gaze caught the two of them. Irritation...
was that what it was? Ghita was in love with him, she knew that, and the
knowledge gave her a queasy feeling in her stomach, in spite of her rational
thoughts about the subject: If Blake loved Ghita, he'd have made his moves a
long time ago.

Over the years she'd
thought of Blake, wondering where he was, and with whom, visualizing him with
another woman. But the image was always so excruciatingly painful that she'd
push it out of her consciousness immediately. Now, in front of her very eyes,
was a real-life woman wanting him, fawning over him, and it made her feel sick
with misery.

She needed some air
and she slipped away into the garden. The air was fragrant with jasmine and the
sky was studded with stars and a silvery crescent moon.

A perfect setting for
romance. Her chest hurt as if someone was squeezing the life out of her.
Despair settled like wet cement in her stomach. She loved Blake and it was
useless. She loved him and it was not enough.

Slowly, she made her
way back to the veranda, where an eccentric British professor claimed her
attention with a bizarre tale from Colonial times, until Blake told her it was
time to leave.

Earlier, the drive to
the Patels' house had been tense and silent, as had been the lunch they'd
shared that afternoon. The trip back home was not much different. They said
little apart from some casual comments and Nicky was glad when they finally
reached the house.

She wished Blake good
night, went into her room and crawled into bed. She felt exhausted, as if she'd
done heavy physical labor all day.

In spite of her
fatigue, she couldn't sleep. Her mind was in turmoil, her thoughts running
around in chaos. She tried to still her mind, thinking of peaceful scenes, but
it was useless. An hour later she got up in frustration, put on Lisette's robe
and went to the kitchen to make some tea.

She took it to the
veranda, smelling the burning mosquito coils as soon as she stepped outside.
Blake was sitting in the darkness, a glass in his hand.

"Couldn't
sleep?" he asked.

"No. I made some
tea."

He waved at a chair.
"Have a seat."

She swallowed.
"No, no. I don't want to disturb you if you want to be alone."

"I've been alone
enough." His voice was level, yet with a faint hint of something else—some
other, deeper meaning.

I've been alone
enough, too, she thought miserably.

"Sit down,
Nicky," he said quietly.

She sat down, knowing
that Blake's presence most likely was not going to calm her frayed nerves.
Drinking her tea, she stared out into the darkness, listening to the shrill,
frantic buzzing of cicadas in the forest. The sound grated on her nerves.

"You mentioned a
dream Friday night at dinner," Blake said a moment later. "I wonder
if you'd tell me about it."

She frowned.
"Why?"

He shrugged. "I
thought about what you said, and it struck me as...odd for you to have a dream
about being rescued."

"Odd? Why?"
She put the teacup on the table.

"It seems out of
character. You're not the type waiting around to be rescued. You've always been
so independent and self-reliant."

True enough, she had
to admit. She stared at the smoke of the mosquito coils spiraling lazily into
the air.

Blake shifted in his
chair, the rattan creaking under his weight. "So, tell me, why did you dream
about being rescued? An independent person like you?"

"I don't
know."

"Will you tell me
about it?"

She felt gripped by a
strange mood. It was a night filled with shadows—shadows and secrets and
sorrows.

"I dreamed that I
was alone in a big, empty house," she began. "I never knew whose it
was, but it was in a strange, cold place, far away. It was standing by itself
in a big, open space and I could see the horizon all around. I was looking out
the window and I was waiting for you, but I didn't think you'd find me because
you didn't know where I was."

"I always knew
where you were," he said softly.

"I know."
She swallowed. "But this was a dream. And in the dream I had forgotten to
tell you. And I was so afraid you wouldn't find me because it was such a strange
place and I didn't know where it was or how I had gotten there. It was so
barren and empty and there were no trees. Can you imagine a place without
trees?" She bit her lip, knowing nervous energy made her keep talking, as
if now that she had started, she wouldn't know how to stop.

"Anyway, I'd been
waiting for you for a long time, but I don't know how long, and then finally I
saw you riding up on a horse."

"A horse? I
haven't been on a horse since I was a kid at summer camp."

"Dreams are weird
sometimes."

"Then what
happened?"

She looked away, aware
of the nervous beating of her heart. "You... I went outside and you just
lifted me up with one arm and put me in front of you on the horse and off we
went."

He gave a half smile.
"Just like that?"

"No, yes. Sort
of."

"What else,
then?" His voice was low, the smile gone.

She hesitated.
"Nothing, I mean, I don't really remember."

This was a lie, of
course. But there was no way she could reveal to him now what he'd said to her
in the dream, or what had happened after. She came to her feet and moved to the
veranda railing and rested her arms on top of it.

She heard his chair
creak as he stood up and then he was behind her, turning her around to face
her. She had her back against the railing, and he was leaning close, his hand
resting on the railing on either side of her, caging her in.

She stiffened
instinctively. "Don't do this to me."

"Do what?"

"Make me feel
trapped!"

His mouth curved in
faint amusement. "But you are," he said meaningfully.

"Do you think
this is funny?"

"No, actually
it's not." His hands fell away from the railing, but he did not step away
from her.