Change of Heart (2 page)

“I beg your pardon?” she said, puzzled.

“Every other word out of Jennifer’s mouth lately has been ‘Cecelia says,’ “ he explained with deepening amusement. “I have been quite anxious to meet you.”

Cecelia smiled. “Oh dear, I certainly didn’t mean to be a disruptive influence.”

He shook his head. “Far from it, Miss Vargas. In fact, I am grateful to you. You have been very good for Jennifer.”

“I like her,” Cecelia said simply.

He looked at her for a moment in silence, a small line between his brows. Then he said, rather abruptly, “I wonder if I might talk to you for a few minutes.”

“Certainly,” Cecelia responded courteously. “Jenny will be a half hour at least doing the tack and the pony. If you’d care to come up to the house with me, I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”

“That would be very nice.” He fell into step with her as she walked up the path that led to the house.

Cecelia took him in the back door, which opened directly into the kitchen. She kicked off her rubber moccasins at the door and went in stocking feet over to the stove. As she lit the gas under the kettle she said over her shoulder, “Have a seat, Mr. Archer. I’m just going to throw a log on the stove to warm the room up.”

Gilbert Archer sat down at the kitchen table and watched her slim jean-clad figure bending to the iron stove that stood in the corner of the kitchen. As she came back to the table he remarked, “Ever since I’ve moved to Connecticut I’ve seen more wood-burning stoves!”

She laughed and sat down. “It’s New England’s only natural resource.” She unsnapped her blue down vest. “I’d introduce you to my father but he’s out at a meeting of the AHSA,” she said, as if some explanation on the subject of her father were due.

“What is the AHSA?” he asked. She thought he had one of the most pleasant voices she had ever heard.

“The American Horse Shows Association,” she answered. “Daddy is a director.”

“I see.” He raised an eyebrow. “It sounds like an important position.”

“Well, it is rather. The AHSA is the governing body of the sport in the United States, you see.”

The kettle began to whistle and she rose to make the coffee. The kitchen had begun to get warmer and Gilbert Archer took off his golf jacket and hung it over the back of the kitchen chair. Cecelia noticed with approval the color of his smoky green crew-neck sweater. She put a mug of coffee in front of him and went to the refrigerator for milk, then reseated herself and added both milk and sugar to her cup. He took his black, she noticed. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked.

Cecelia hated to be asked that question. She did mind but politeness forbade her saying so. “Of course not,” she said a little woodenly. “I’ll find you an ashtray.”

He put the pack away. “Never mind.” His gray eyes regarded her gravely. “I have been very worried about Jennifer,” he began. “She’s so quiet. It isn’t natural for a little girl to be as quiet as she is.”

“I know. But she’s starting to come out of her shell. She was actually giggling in the tack room with the other kids yesterday.”

“Coming here has been very good for her,” he said. She looked down at his hand, cupped now around the coffee mug. It was a slender hand, with beautiful long fingers, yet it looked as hard as iron.

“She has a natural aptitude for riding,” Cecelia said, raising her eyes to his face. “Even Daddy remarked on it the other day—and he doesn’t usually notice the beginners much. And she loves the horses.”

“It isn’t just the horses she loves,” returned Gilbert Archer. “As I said earlier, you have been very good to her.”

Cecelia’s cheeks flushed a delicate rose. “It’s been my pleasure,” she said formally.

His gray eyes were steady on her face. “She told me you went in to see her school play this week.”

“Yes, well, all the other children had mothers who would be going,” Cecelia explained. “I had fun. The kids did a terrific job.” A thought struck her. “I hope you don’t object? I certainly don’t want to push my way into Jenny’s life if you don’t like it.”

There was a pause and then he gave her an absolutely charming smile. “But I do like it,” he said softly. “I like it very much indeed. In fact, one of the reasons I came by today was to ask if you’d care to have dinner with Jennifer and me tomorrow evening.” Cecelia hesitated, strangely affected by that smile and uneasy because of it. “Jennifer will be so disappointed if you can’t make it,” he added.

“I’d love to,” said Cecelia.

“Wonderful. We’ll pick you up at seven?”

“Fine.”

He grinned, looking suddenly very young. “It will probably be that hamburger place in town— the one that has popcorn on the table. Jennifer loves it.”

She smiled back. “I know it well. Daddy always took me there too. I loved the funny mirrors.”

“The food isn’t bad,” he said ruefully. “It’s the smell of the popcorn that gets to me.”

She laughed. “Do they still show cartoons?”

“They do. And they’ve added video games as well.”

“It sounds like fun,” she said.

A smile fleetingly appeared in his eyes. “I should infinitely prefer Gaston’s. I must be getting old,” he said.

Cecelia looked back at him, the smile on her lips not matched by the gravity of her eyes. He wasn’t old at all, she thought. He was in fact disconcertingly young and good-looking. She stood up. “The children should be finished with the ponies by now.”

He rose as well. “I’ll go and collect Jennifer then. And we’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it, Mr. Archer.”

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Please, won’t you call me Gil? I’m afraid I can’t think of you as anything but Cecelia.”

She grinned mischievously. “As in ‘Cecelia says’ ... I see your point. , . Gil.”

He raised a hand in brief farewell, then stepped through the door and closed it firmly behind him.

Gil and Jennifer picked her up promptly at seven, with Gil coming to the front door while Jennifer remained in the car. Cecelia answered his ring, waved at Jennifer and said, “I’m all ready, but won’t you come in for a minute and meet my father?”

“I’d like to,” he replied easily and followed her into a large, high-ceilinged living room that had a roaring fire going in the huge brick fireplace. Ricardo Vargas rose from his armchair by the fire and came across the room to shake hands.

“Daddy, this is Gilbert Archer, Jennifer’s father,” said Cecelia. “My father, Ricardo Vargas.”

“How do you do, Mr. Archer,” said Ricardo gravely and looked assessingly at the other man out of eyes as dark as Cecelia’s.

Gil realized with a flash of amusement that he was being sized up as to his suitability as an escort. With sudden insight he realized that all Cecelia’s dates must first have to “meet Daddy.” And if Ricardo Vargas didn’t approve, he had a suspicion that that was the end of that particular date. “How do you do, Señor Vargas,” he said. “Jennifer and I are delighted that Cecelia consented to have dinner with us this evening. She has been so good for my daughter. I am very grateful.”

Ricardo Vargas’s rather hard aquiline features softened, “She has a tenderness for children, Cecelia,” he said. “I am glad she has helped your daughter.”

“Well, we’d better get going, Daddy,” Cecelia said cheerfully, not at all discomposed at being spoken about as if she were not present. “Jenny is in the car.”

“Of course. You must not keep the child waiting.” He took Cecelia’s coat, helped her on with it, and then accompanied them to the door. “Enjoy your dinner,” he said.

“Thank you, Señor Vargas,” replied Gil.

“We will, Daddy,” said Cecelia.

They both walked down the steps to the waiting car and Jennifer.

* * * *

Cecelia did enjoy her dinner. It was fun being part of a family group, gratifying to see Jenny’s blue eyes sparkle with happiness, and extremely pleasant to find herself the object of Gilbert Archer’s attention. The two adults had steak; Jenny had a specialty hamburger and mountains of popcorn. Over the hamburger she conducted an inquisition of Cecelia.

“Did you go to Central Grammar too when you were a little girl, Cecelia?” she asked with unabashed curiosity.

Cecelia slowly cut herself another piece of steak. “Yes, Jenny, I did.”

“Where did you go after that? My mother always said I would go away to school. Did
you
go away?”

“No. I went to Notre Dame High School in the next town. I took a bus there and back each day.”

“I don’t want to go away to school either,” Jenny said defiantly and stared at her father. “I like living at home.”

“Well, we have a few years before we have to worry about your next school,” Gil said diplomatically. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Everybody has to leave home at some point, Jenny,” Cecelia said gently.

“You
haven’t,” Jenny pointed out.

Cecelia laughed. “That’s true. But I’m an unusual case. And I
did
spend a year in Colombia when I was in college.”

“That must have been interesting,” murmured Gil.

“It was. Very. It was part of an exchange program run by the Spanish Department of my college. The nuns who run Mount St. Mary’s also have a college in Bogota. I spent my junior year there.”

“You were a Spanish major in college?”

“Yes. It was easy. I grew up speaking both Spanish and English—Daddy saw to that. So I was able to skip most of the language classes and concentrate on literature and history.”

“Is your father from Colombia?”

“No. Argentina.”

“How come he came to America?” asked Jennifer.

“He came to America when he married my mother,” Cecelia explained. “Mother was on one of the first civilian United States Equestrian Teams and Daddy rode for Argentina. They met on the European circuit in 1957 and were married shortly after that.”

“Your father was in the Argentine army?” asked Gil.

“Yes. He wanted to ride internationally, you see.”

“Has he been back to Argentina?”

Cecelia’s lovely face looked very somber. “He can’t go back. Not while this government is in power.”

“The army is in power. Surely if he was an army officer ...”

“He was not a very popular army officer,” Cecelia said and now she looked grim. “Nor was his family supportive of the military dictatorship. Two of my cousins were among the
desaparecidos.”

“I am very sorry,” Gil said quietly.

“What are
desaparecidos’?”
Jenny queried in puzzlement.

Cecelia did not answer and after a minute Gil said, “The word means ‘disappeared ones.’ In Argentina the people who spoke out against the government were often arrested by the army and never heard from again. They ‘disappeared.’ ”

“You mean nobody knows where they are?”

“The government knows,” Cecelia replied a little harshly. “They are probably dead. Considering what one knows about prison conditions in Argentina, one can only pray that they are dead.”

Jenny opened her mouth to ask another question, then stopped as she saw her father shaking his head at her. A little silence fell and then Gil said pleasantly, “Your father must be quite a horseman.”

The grim look faded from around Cecelia’s lovely mouth. “He is,” she replied proudly. “He won the Grand Prix of Aachen, the King George V Challenge Cup, and the Olympic Gold Medal for Best Individual Rider in Stockholm in 1956.”

“Very impressive.” Gil’s gray eyes were regarding her thoughtfully. “Do you have Olympic ambitions, Cecelia?”

She laughed and shook her head. “I’m not eligible. Only amateurs can qualify for the USET, and because I teach I’m regarded as a professional.”

“That’s too bad,” he said neutrally.

“Daddy feels badly about it,” she confided, “but I don’t, not really. Daddy has to have help to run the barn and the school. And I
do
compete in the Open Jumper division. In fact, Daddy just bought me a gorgeous new horse. He’s going to take everything in sight, I think.”

Gil looked at her appraisingly for a minute as they both sipped their wine. She was wearing a burgundy turtleneck sweater that beautifully set off her rose-olive complexion. Her dark brown hair, so heavy and soft and smooth, hung down her back in a shining mantle. Small gold earrings and a ring were all the jewelry she wore.

“You look like a Renaissance madonna,” he said coolly. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

She gave him a startled look. The sudden change of topic, the compliment delivered in that objective tone, disconcerted her. He sensed her confusion and moved smoothly to her assistance. “Do you do anything else besides ride horses and teach other people to ride them?”

“Well, that’s all I’ve done since I graduated last June,” she said in a relieved tone of voice. She wanted to get the conversation off herself and added, “It must sound very dull to you. I imagine editing a magazine like
News Report
is very exciting.”

“It’s very hectic,” he said. “When I started it eight years ago I didn’t know what I was getting into.”

“You must be very proud of it,” she said sincerely. “In my history courses at college the professors always cited it for honest and factual reporting.”

He looked pleased. “Did they? That’s nice to hear.”

“What made you want to publish a news magazine?” she asked curiously. She knew from her reading up on him that Gilbert Archer had been born to millions. The Archers were one of the old New York banking families and he was the only child. What had prompted such a man to ignore banking and turn his energies to a magazine like
News Report?
It had not been a decision at all popular with his father, or so she had read.

He had been asked that question often before, by women and by men, and he had a variety of answers to produce. To Cecelia he told part of the truth. She listened to him attentively, her eyes steady on his face. The wall sconce shone down on his thick hair, gilded to a gleaming silver in the soft light. There was no gray in it, she noticed. She watched his eyes, his ironic, humorous mouth, his firm chin indented by that fascinating cleft. “Itseemed to me that most of our news magazines had ‘sold out’ to popular culture,” he was saying. “At twenty-six one can be very arrogant.”