The Heart's Victory (17 page)

“No.” Lance interrupted her flatly. “I won't be held responsible for what your brother chooses to do with his life.”

Foxy swallowed hard, struggling not to cry. “No, you don't want the responsibility, I can understand that, too.” Bitterness spilled over and colored her words. In the dimming light, her eyes glittered both with anger and despair. “All you have to do is draw some lines on paper, balance some equations, order some parts. You don't have to risk your life, just your money. You've plenty of that to spare.” Her mind began to spin with a cascade of thoughts and accusations. “On a different level, it's a bit like the casino in Monte Carlo.” Foxy raked her hands through her hair again, then gripped them together, furious that they were trembling. “You could just sit back and watch the action, like some . . . some overlord. Money doesn't mean very much to someone who's always had it. Is that how you get your satisfaction?” she demanded, too incensed to realize that his very silence was ominous. “By paying someone to take the risks while you sit back in safety and watch?”

“That's enough!” He moved like lightning, giving her no chance to evade him. In an instant, he had pulled her from behind the chair until he towered over her. “I don't have to take that from you. I did my time on the grid and quit because it was what I wanted to do.” Temper was sharp in his voice, hard in the fingers that gripped her arms. “I retired because I chose to retire. I'll race again if I choose to race again. I don't justify my life to anyone. I pay no one to take risks for me.”

Fear over the thought of Lance taking the wheel again coated her anger. Her voice trembled as she fought to suppress even the possibility from her brain. “But you're not going to race again. You're not—”

“Don't tell me what I'm going to do.” The words were clipped and final.

Foxy swallowed her terror and spoke with a desolate calm. Once again, she felt herself being shifted to the backseat. With Kirk, she had accepted the position without thought, but now, waves of anger, frustration, and pain spilled through her. “How foolish of me to have thought my feelings would be important enough to matter to you.” She started to move past him, but he stopped her by placing his hands on her shoulders. The gesture itself was familiar enough to bring an ache to the pit of her stomach.

“Foxy, listen to me.” There were hints of patience in Lance's voice again, but they were strained. “Kirk is a grown man, he makes his own decisions. Your brother's profession has nothing to do with you anymore. My profession has nothing to do with us.”

“No.” Calmly she lifted her eyes to meet his. “That's simply not true, Lance. But regardless of that, Kirk will drive your car next season, and you'll do precisely what you want to do. There's nothing I can do to change any of it. There never has been with Kirk, and now my position's been made clear with you. I'm going upstairs now,” she told him quietly. “I'm tired.”

The room was dark now. For some moments he studied her in complete silence before taking his hands from her shoulders. Without speaking, she took a step back, then moved around him and walked from the room. Her footsteps were soundless as she climbed the stairs.

Chapter 13

Morning came as a surprise to Foxy. She had lain awake for hours, alone and unhappy. Her conversation with Pam played over in her mind, and the argument with Lance came back to haunt her. Now she awoke, unaware of having fallen asleep, and the morning sun was streaming onto the bed. Lance's side of the bed was empty. Foxy's hand automatically reached out to touch the sheets where he would have slept. Some warmth still lingered on the spot, but it brought her no comfort. For the first time since their wedding night, they might have slept in separate beds. They had not woken tangled together, to drift into morning as they had drifted into night.

The heaviness that lay on Foxy did not come from sleep but from dejection. Arguing with Lance was certainly not a novel occupation to her, but this time Foxy felt the effects more deeply.
Perhaps,
she thought as she stared at the ceiling,
it's because now that I have more, I have more to lose. He's probably still downstairs. I could go down and . . . No.
Foxy interrupted her own train of thought with a shake of her head. No, there was too much here to be resolved over morning coffee with Mrs. Trilby hanging over his shoulder.
In any case, I could use the day to sort things out.

Mechanically Foxy rose and showered. She took her time dressing, though her choice of cords and a rag sweater were simple. As she dressed, she mentally outlined her schedule. She would work on the racing prints until eleven, then she would walk to the public gardens and continue on her new project. Satisfied with her agenda, she moved downstairs. There was no sign of Lance, and though she told herself it was for the best, she lingered by the hall phone a moment, undecided. No, she told herself firmly.
I will not call him. We can't discuss anything rationally over the telephone. Is there anything to discuss?
she wondered and frowned at the phone as if it annoyed her. Lance seemed clear enough on his opinion of our positions last night.
I won't accept it,
she told herself staunchly, still staring at the phone.
I will not accept it. He can't go back to racing.
She swallowed the iron taste of fear that had risen to her throat. He couldn't have meant that. Squeezing her eyes tight, Foxy shook her head.
Don't think about it now. Go to work and don't think about it.
She took a deep breath and turned her back on the phone.

After confiscating a cup of coffee from the kitchen, Foxy closeted herself in her darkroom. The prints still hung on the line as she had left them. Without consciously planning to do so, she pulled the print of Kirk's racer down and studied it.
A comet,
she thought, remembering.
Yes, he is a comet, but doesn't even a comet have to burn out sometime? There'll be other pictures of him next year, but someone else will have to take them. Maybe Lance will arrange for that, too.
A sharp, frustrated sound escaped her.
I can't think about all of this anymore.
She pulled down the dry prints, then began to work on a fresh roll of film. Time passed swiftly and in such absolute silence that she was jolted when a knock sounded on the door. Foxy frowned as she went to answer it. Mrs. Trilby had never ventured into her territory.

“Melissa!” she exclaimed as her frown flew into a smile. “What a nice surprise.”

“It's not dark,” Melissa said with a small pout as she moved past Foxy and into the room. “Why is it called a darkroom if it isn't dark? I'm disillusioned.”

“You came at the wrong time,” Foxy explained. “I promise it was quite dark in here a couple of hours ago.”

“I suppose I'll have to take your word for it.” Melissa slowly walked down the line of new prints Foxy had hanging. “My, my, you really are a professional, aren't you?”

“I like to think so,” Foxy answered wryly.

“All so technical,” Melissa mused as she wandered around the room and scowled at bottles and timers. “I suppose this is what you studied in college.”

“I majored in photography at USC. Not Smith,” she added with a lift of brow. “Not Radcliffe, not Vassar, but at that little-known institution, the state college.”

“Oh, dear.” Melissa bit her lip but a small portion of the smile escaped. “Some of the ladies have been giving you a bad time, I take it.”

“You take it right,” Foxy agreed, then wrinkled her nose. “Well, I suppose I'm just a nine-days wonder. They'll forget about me soon enough.”

“Such sweet naïveté,” Melissa murmured as she patted Foxy's cheek. “I'll let you hold on to that little dream for a while. In any case,” she continued, briskly brushing a speck from her pale blue angora sweater. “There's a dance at the country club Saturday. You and Lance are coming, aren't you?”

“Yes.” Foxy didn't bother to suppress her sigh. “We'll be there.”

“Buck up, darling. The obligations will taper off in a few months. Lance had never been one to socialize more than is absolutely necessary. And”—she smiled her singularly charming smile—“it's such a marvelous excuse to go shopping.” Melissa gave the room another sweeping glance. “Are you all done in here?”

“Yes, I've just finished.” Foxy glanced at her watch and gave a satisfied nod. “And right on schedule.”

“Well then, let's go shopping and buy something fabulous to wear Saturday night.” She linked her arm with Foxy's and began to lead her from the room.

“Oh no.” She stopped long enough to close the darkroom door behind her. “I went on one of your little shopping safaris last week. You invaded every shop on Newbury Street. I haven't taken my vitamins today, and anyway, I have a dress for Saturday. I don't need anything.”

“Good grief, do you have to
need
it before you buy it?” Melissa turned back from her journey to the stairs and gaped. “You only bought one little blouse when we went shopping before. What do you think Lance has all that lovely money for?”

“For a multitude of things, I'm sure,” Foxy replied gravely. Still, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “But hardly for me to spend on clothes I have no need for. In any case, I use my own money for personal things.”

Melissa folded her arms and studied Foxy with care. “Why, you're serious, aren't you, pet?” She looked puzzled as she lifted her shoulders. “But Lance has simply hordes of money.”

“I know that. I often wish he didn't.” As she started to climb the stairs to the first floor Melissa took her arm.

“Wait a minute.” Her voice had altered from its brisk good humor. It was quiet now, and serious. “They really are giving you a bad time, aren't they?”

“It doesn't matter,” Foxy began, using a shrug to toss off the question.

“Oh, but I think it does.” Melissa's hand was surprisingly firm on Foxy's arm. She kept Foxy facing her on the narrow stairway. “Listen to me a minute now. I'm going to be perfectly serious for a change. This business about you marrying Lance for his money is just typical nonsense, Foxy. It doesn't mean anything. And not everyone is saying it or thinking it. There are some morons who carry on about status and bloodlines, of course, but I never pay much attention to morons.” She smiled when she paused for breath, but her eyes remained grave. “You've already won over a great many people, people like Grandmother, who's no pushover. And you've done that by simply being yourself. Surely Lance has told you how many people are pleased with his taste in wives.”

“We don't discuss it.” Foxy dragged her hand through her hair with a sound of frustration. “That is, to be more exact, I haven't said anything about his less friendly relations. It hardly seems fair to hound him with complaints.”

“Is it fair for you to stand quiet while a scattered few toss rocks at you?” Melissa countered, lifting a brow uncannily as Lance did. “Martyrdom is depressing, Foxy.”

Foxy grimaced at the title. “I don't think I care much for that.” Shaking her head, she gave Melissa a rueful smile. “I suppose I'm being too sensitive. There've been so many changes all at once, and I'm having a hard time juggling everything.”

Melissa linked her arm with Foxy's again as they mounted the stairs. “Now, what else is there?”

“Does it show?”

“I'm very perceptive,” Melissa told her carelessly. “Didn't you know? My guess is that you and Lance had a tiff.”

“Your term is a bit mild,” Foxy murmured as she pushed open the door to the first floor. “But we'll go with it.”

“Whose fault was it?”

Foxy opened her mouth to blame Lance, closed it again on the thought of blaming herself. She gave up with a sigh. “No one's, I suppose.”

“That's the usual kind,” Melissa said briskly. “The best cure is to go out and buy something fabulous to boost your ego. Then, if you want to make him suffer, you can be coolly polite when he gets home. Or”—she gestured fluidly with her hand—“if you want to make up, you send Mrs. Trilby home early and have on as little as possible when he gets here.”

“Melissa.” Foxy laughed as she watched her retrieve her coat and purse from the hall stand. “What a lovely way you have of simplifying things.”

“It's a gift,” she said modestly, studying her reflection in the antique mirror. “Are you going to be fun and come shopping with me, or are you going to be horribly industrious?”

“I think,” Foxy mused thoughtfully, “I've just been insulted.” On impulse, she leaned over and kissed Melissa's cheek. “You tempt me, but I'm very strong-willed.”

“You're actually going to work this afternoon?” The look she gave Foxy was filled with both admiration and puzzlement. “But you even worked this morning.”

“People have often been known to work an entire day,” Foxy pointed out, then grinned. “It can get to be a habit...like potato chips. I'm starting a series of photographs on children, so I'm off to the park.”

Melissa frowned as she slipped into her short fur jacket. “You make me feel quite the derelict.”

“You'll get over it,” Foxy comforted as she ran a curious finger down the soft white pelt.

“Of course.” Melissa swirled around and kissed both of Foxy's cheeks. “But for a moment, I feel guilty. Have a nice time, Foxy,” she said as she swung out the door.

“You, too,” Foxy called over the quick slam. With a laugh, she pulled her own suede jacket from the closet. In a lighter frame of mind, she swung her purse over one shoulder and her camera case over the other. As she turned she all but collided with Mrs. Trilby. “Oh, I'm sorry.”
Crepe-soled shoes,
Foxy thought with an inward sigh,
should be outlawed.

“Are you going out, Mrs. Matthews?” Mrs. Trilby stood stiffly in her gray uniform and white apron.

“Yes, I have some work planned this afternoon. I should be back around three.”

“Very good, ma'am.” Mrs. Trilby stood expressionless in the archway as Foxy moved to the front door.

“Mrs. Trilby, if Lance . . . if Mr. Matthews should call, tell him I . . . ” Foxy hesitated, and for a moment the unhappiness and indecision was reflected on her face.

“Yes, ma'am?” Mrs. Trilby prompted with the slightest softening of her tone.

“No,” Foxy shook her head, annoyed with herself. “No, nothing. Never mind.” She straightened her shoulders and sent the housekeeper a smile. “Goodbye, Mrs. Trilby.”

“Good day, Mrs. Matthews.”

Foxy stepped outside and breathed in the crisp autumn air. Though her MG had been shipped from Indiana and now sat waiting in the garage, Foxy opted to walk. The sky was piercingly blue, empty of clouds. Against the unrelieved color, the bare trees rose in stark supplication. Dry leaves whirled along the sidewalk and clung to the curbs. Now and then, the wind would whip them around Foxy's ankles until they fell again to be crunched underfoot. The crisp perfection of the day lifted her spirits higher, and she began to formulate an outline for the project she had in mind.

Mums were still stubbornly beautiful throughout the public gardens. There were flashes of rich color along the paths where rosy-cheeked children darted and played. The afternoon was fresh and sharp. Babies were rolled along in carriages or strollers by their mothers or uniformed nannies. Toddlers practiced the art of walking on the leaf-carpeted grass.

Foxy moved among them, sometimes shooting pictures, sometimes striking up a conversation with a parent, then charming her way into the shot she wanted. She had learned from experience that photography was more than knowing the workings of a camera or the speed of film. It was the ability to read and portray an image. It was patience, it was tenacity, it was luck.

She lay on her stomach on the cool grass, aiming her Nikon at a two-year-old girl who wrestled with a delighted bull terrier puppy. The child's blond, rosy beauty was the perfect foil for the dog's unabashed homeliness. A pool of sunlight surrounded them as they tussled, finding each other far more interesting than the woman who crawled and scooted around them snapping a camera. The dog yapped and rushed in circles, the child giggled and captured him. He escaped to be cheerfully captured again. At length, Foxy sat back on her heels and grinned at her models. After a quick exchange with the girl's mother, she stood, prepared to load a fresh roll of film.

“That was a fascinating performance.”

Glancing up, Foxy found herself facing Jonathan Fitzpatrick. “Oh, hello.” She tossed her hair behind her back, then brushed a stray leaf from her jacket.

“Hello, Mrs. Matthews. A lovely day for rolling in the grass.”

His smile was so blatantly charming, Foxy laughed. “Yes, it is. Nice to see you again, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

“Jonathan,” he corrected and plucked another leaf from her hair. “And I'll call you Foxy as Melissa does. It suits you. Now, may I ask what it is you're doing, or is it a government secret?”