Five Brides (35 page)

Frank peered at her. “Are you all right, darling?”

She nodded, eyes filled with water. “The spices,” she managed to eke out.

“Middle Easterners love good spices,” he whispered. “The payoff is worth it, I promise. The food here is amazing. The best I’ve had since London.”

“Good evening, Mr. Martindale,” the handsome, olive-skinned host said.

Frank shook his hand. “Good evening, Gabir,” Frank returned. “May I introduce you to my date, Miss Inga Christenson.”

Gabir shook a finger at Frank as he chuckled, the light from the chandelier glistening in his black eyes. “Such a lovely lady,” he said, followed by, “Please, please.” He beckoned them to enter into the heart of the room, leading them past the few patrons who remained from the dinner hour, one or two who enjoyed smoking from a hookah.

Inga held her breath as they walked through a veil of fruity-scented tobacco smoke to a U-shaped booth angled into the back corner.

Once they were seated, she looked up at Gabir and asked, “Excuse me, Gabir, but do you have hot tea?”

Gabir smiled down at her. “We have a marvelous Moroccan green tea.”

Green. Much like her face, she felt certain. If God were trying to further punish her for her bad decision from a few weeks back, he was doing a good job of it.

“Please,” she said, then swallowed. “And the sooner the better.”

Frank raised his hand. “Tell you what, Gabir, let me order for us now.”

Inga closed her eyes and attempted to concentrate more on what she might say next than on the foods he rattled off as if he, himself, were Middle Eastern—grape leaves,
harira
, and baked
kibbi
.

“Inga?”

Inga opened her eyes slowly, then blinked in an effort to force Frank into focus.

“Darling, are you sure you’re all right? You look positively ill.”

She shook her head quickly. Too quickly. Her hand gripped the edge of the table to keep herself from falling to the floor. “I’m not ill,” she said. “I’m pregnant.”

Frank slid away from her, putting at least two feet between them. His lips parted as though he wanted to say something but had lost the ability to speak. Then he blinked. Once. Twice. And he swallowed. Hard.

Inga blinked as well, her nausea suddenly dissipating, replaced by the near humor associated with the shocked look on her baby’s father’s face. “Frank?”

A whoosh of air left his lungs. He cleared his throat, then looked up as an exotic creature approached carrying a tray cluttered by a hot tea service for two. They sat in strained silence as she placed the service on the table, then bowed slightly. “Your appetizers will be here soon,” she said.

Inga waited for Frank to speak. When he didn’t, she said, “Thank you.” She set about pouring their tea into miniature cups, inhaling the relaxing fragrance of it.

“Here you go,” she said, setting Frank’s cup in front of him. “Although you look like you could use something stronger.”

He took a long swallow before looking at her, his jaw flexing. “Why are you telling me this?”

She managed half a sip of the tea before returning the cup to the table. “I think you know why. The baby is yours.”

He chuckled. “How would I know that, Inga?”

She stared at him as she took slow, shallow breaths.
In. Out. In. Out.
“Because you are the only man I’ve been with. You
know
that.”

He poured another cup of tea, drinking it down. “I know no such thing,” he said into the cup; then he turned his face toward hers. “And you can’t prove it, you know.”

The nausea returned. She took a slow sip of her tea, buying time. Finally, she giggled. “This isn’t going at all the way I thought it would.”

Her eyes found his; they were rock hard. Cruel and icy.

“I suppose you thought I would ask you to marry me. That we’d live happily ever after.”

Of course she had. She’d not even considered the alternative—that he’d suspect she’d been with another man . . .

“I’ve only slept with one man, Frank, and that’s you.” She shrugged. “You’re right, though. I have no way to prove it.” She squared her shoulders, fighting the tears she knew would surface soon enough. “I’m also not well enough or mature enough to sit here another minute,” she said, sliding out of the booth. “Make my excuses to Gabir—I’m sure his food is wonderful.” Inga inhaled sharply. “And you know how to find me once you’ve had a chance to think this through. Once you come to your senses.”

He looked toward the wall, and when she realized he would say nothing in response, she turned and walked away, feeling his eyes on her every step.

Magda’s early morning routine now included watering the poinsettias Barry’s mother-in-law had brought into the office. She suspected the gesture had been more about checking in on
her
than it was about making the office more festive. Not that Magda
minded. When she and Barry were at work, they were nothing more than Miss Christenson and Mr. Cole. He had never, not once, closed his office door behind her, gathered her in his arms, and kissed her.

She wished he would at times, but he never had.

Even so, they both knew a time would soon come when they could no longer hide their feelings for each other, nor would they want to. Barry had made inquiries into openings in other offices throughout the building, but—as he told her during dinner one evening—the end of the year was not when people typically
quit
their jobs.

“Santa Claus must be paid off,” he said with a wink.

Santa Claus and Harriet Nielson,
Magda reflected now as she tipped the water spout into one of the gold-foiled pots in Barry’s office. The woman had all but ignored her at every get-together in the past two weeks, encouraging little Deanne to do the same.

Douglas
, on the other hand, let everyone know in full volume that he liked Magda. That he thought she was as pretty as a peach. Magda couldn’t help but giggle at the memory of him giving his father a playful slug and saying, “Way to go, Daddy-O.”

“Good morning.” Barry’s voice sounded from behind her.

Magda turned, bringing the chrome watering can to her midsection, resting it on the palm of one hand. “Good morning.” She walked toward him. “You have a meeting with—”

Barry raised one hand as he set his briefcase on his desk. “I know.” He released a long and heavy sigh as he unfastened the top button of his overcoat.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, stopping in front of him. “You look awful.” She jutted her thumb toward the opposite side of the room. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

He shrugged out of the coat, smiling in appreciation. “I would
love
a cup of coffee. And pour one for yourself while you’re at it. I have something to talk to you about.”

Magda crossed the room to the bar, where she set down the watering can, then poured two cups of hot coffee.

“Here you go.” She placed the cup directly in front of him, then took a seat and a long swallow from her own. “What’s wrong? You look like you didn’t sleep a wink last night. Is it something with the kids? Deanne?”

He grasped his coffee cup with the fingertips of both hands, then hunched his shoulders as he brought it to his lips. After swallowing, he looked up and said, “We’ve been found out.”

Her cup rattled in its saucer and she immediately set both on the edge of the desk nearest her to keep it from spilling.
“How?”
she whispered. “We’ve been so careful.” Barry shook his head. Magda noticed then the flame of anger in his eyes. “You’re upset,” she said.

“Wouldn’t
you
be?” He blinked. “
Shouldn’t
you be?”

Magda breathed out. “I don’t suppose it’s hit me yet. What . . . what does it mean? For us?”

“For
us
, nothing. For
you
. . .”

Realization hit like a wrecking ball. “My job . . .”

“I’m afraid so.”

Her heart squeezed inside her chest. “When did you . . . when did you find out?”

“Last night. I got a visit from Mr. VanMichaels after you left.”

Magda glanced over to the door between their offices, noting for the first time that he’d closed it. She hadn’t noticed it earlier—had he done it after walking in? When she was watering the poinsettia? Or later, when she’d walked across the room for coffee?

“And did he . . . did he say how he found out?”

“No. He just walked in and asked me, point blank, if you and
I were having . . .” His voice trailed before he took another long swallow of coffee.

“An
affair
?” Magda gripped the arms of the chair, squeezing them until she worried she’d done permanent damage to her hands. “I hope you set him straight.”

Barry stood, walked around the desk and squatted in front of her, bringing both hands to her face. “Of course, darling. He asked if we were having an affair. I told him no. He asked then if we saw each other personally. Outside the office.” He sighed. “I told him yes. I told him—”

Magda waited, and when it became obvious he would not finish his thoughts, she asked, “Told him what?”

But he waved the question away. “I
did
tell him that I’d tried to find you another position within the company, but—”

“There aren’t any.”

“No.”

When he fell silent, Magda felt the room spin around, and her hands squeezed the thin leather cushion at her knees. “What am I going to do?” she asked, staring at them. “I have to have a job to stay here. In Chicago.”

Barry crossed the room, sitting next to her. “I spent all night thinking about that. You remember Harlan Procter?”

Magda jerked around to face him. “What about him?”

“He’s a full-time writer. I called him last night—”

“You
didn’t
.”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

Magda’s breath caught in her throat. The last thing she wanted was for Barry to know she had dated Harlan.“No. No, of course not.”

“I told him you have amazing talent.”

“And what did he say to that?”

Barry smiled. “He said he’d be interested in reading some of
your work.” His hand rested on hers. “Mainly, darling, I talked to him about how we might find enough work for you in freelance to make a living.” He shifted. “I can tell you now that I will personally see to it that at least one of your stories is published monthly. I can also put in a call to some friends of mine at other publications.
And
. . . I also want you to continue to work at weeding out some of the submissions that come across my desk. I think between all of that, you’ll do fine.”

Magda slid her hand out from under Barry’s, placing it in her lap where she knew he wouldn’t reach for it. “Is that all Har—Mr. Procter said?”

“No.”

She cut her eyes to his.

“He said that if I believed in your talent, then you must be quite gifted.”

“Did you . . . did you tell him about . . . us?”

“No. No, of course not.”

Magda took in a breath through her nose, exhaling slowly. She forced a smile and turned to him more fully. “So, when do I start this new career of mine?”

“Today, I’m afraid. Right now.” He stood, extending a hand, which she took, allowing him to help her stand. “But do you know what that means?”

She shook her head.

Barry wrapped his arms around her, bringing his lips to hers. “It means I can do this from now on, right here in this office, and it will be no one’s business but our own.”