Unwilling Wife Page 11

  Heaving a timorous sigh, Paul nodded.

  The bathroom door opened and Gina appeared, dressed in a terry robe, her hair wrapped in a towel. Looking contrite, she asked, “Is it lunchtime?”

  David regarded her wryly as he leaned against the doorjamb. “Are you dead already?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll die later. Right now, I’m starved.” She managed a sick smile. “Everything all right?”

  Paul cast a quick glance toward David for encouragement.

  “Everything’s fine,” David assured them both. But there was a hard, unfamiliar sheen in his eyes.

  She clasped her hands before her for want of any better thing to do with them. “Paul? How about me frying us up a batch of chicken?”

  Paul looked uneasy. “I think I’ll have salad with David. Actually my stomach can’t take too much greasy food,” he admitted, his gaze plummeting to his feet.

  She grimaced, unable to tell if that was the truth or if Paul had decided to appease David. She was put out with him for deserting her team. Surely Paul wasn’t afraid of David! Though Paul wasn’t as tall, he was stockier and younger.

  Still, although Paul might not believe it, David was a fraud as far as becoming violent was concerned. She’d never seen him do more than flare his nostrils at a person, let alone hit one. Irritated, she planted her hands on her hips and admonished, “You two are jellyfish, that’s what you are.”

  “But health-conscious jellyfish,” David corrected, turning toward the kitchen. “Why don’t you change and then join me in the kitchen, brother jellyfish,” he suggested over his shoulder.

  “Be a minute,” Paul called back. Passing Gina one last, forlorn look, he disappeared into the bathroom.

  WHEN GINA HEARD the shower running, she decided she’d better hurry and dress if she didn’t want Paul to step out of the bathroom and catch her in her underwear. Rushing to change, she opted to continue to wear her bra—especially considering what had happened in the ocean. That had come out of the blue.

  She donned an oversize fluorescent orange T-shirt and a faded-black pair of baggy sweatpants. She had no intention of sexually arousing either of the horny men she was having to contend with! As she combed through her hair, she found herself thinking about David—and Paul. What would she have done if they’d gotten into a fight over her? She hoped she would be appalled. She should be happy they had settled their differences in an adult, nonviolent way. So, why was she feeling so depressed? Would she have wanted David to haul off and smash Paul in the teeth, defending her honor? What sort of man did she want, anyway? An immature thug? Or, maybe just a human being?

  Barefoot, and with worries nagging her, she ambled out to the kitchen so that Paul would have privacy to dress. David was mixing something in a bowl. Four tomatoes were sitting on the counter beside him. She didn’t speak as she rummaged through the refrigerator, looking for her package of chicken legs—the only part of a chicken she could abide.

  David continued to stir, not acknowledging her. She had to get on his side of the kitchen to cook the chicken, so she decided to proceed without asking his permission. After dumping a heaping cup of shortening into a skillet, she stepped back across to her own side. With nothing to do but wait until the shortening was melted, she leaned against the sink, watching David’s tensed back as he worked.

  A thought kept nagging her and she decided she had to know the answer, even if it meant speaking to David. She cleared her throat. “What would it take to make you mad enough to hit someone?”

  He stopped stirring and passed her a dubious glance over his shoulder. “You mean some poor slob like Paul?”

  She shook her head. “No. I mean—like, anyone?”

  He turned to face her, his expression closed, leaning back against the countertop, too. They looked like a couple of very serious bookends. He took in her attire and shook his head. “Why are you dressed like a Halloween pumpkin?”

  “Because I feel like it,” she observed dryly. “Answer my question.”

  He allowed a broad shoulder to rise and fall. “I won’t hit anyone, Gina. Not for any reason.”

  “Not even if he was trying to kill me?” she blurted, stunned.

  He half smiled. “You’re the self-defense expert. What could I do that you couldn’t?”

  She sniffed scornfully. “You could crush him when you fainted.”

  Crossing his arms, he grew serious again. “If someone were trying to kill you, I would do my best to defend you. I’m not sure that hitting the culprit would be wise. I’d have to know the exact scenario.”

  She groaned melodramatically. “Oh, there’s just no impulsiveness in you at all, is there!”

  His solemn eyes searched her face. “Not as far as violence goes. I don’t care to dwell on the subject.”

  “Well, dwell on it for a minute.”

  His frown deepened. “Why?”

  “Oh, never mind. You’re hopeless!” It occurred to her that because of her mental turmoil she’d forgotten to make her special secret batter to coat her chicken. Shaking her head at David, she began to gather ingredients.

  “What are you looking for in a man, Gina? Do you want someone who breaks legs for the mob?”

  With her arms full of prepackaged pancake batter, eggs, cream and salt, she twirled around to eye him with ill temper. “I don’t know a single woman in the world who would ask her husband if he’d hit a man to save her life and have that man reply that he’d have to know the entire scenario, David. I give up!”

  She dumped her supplies on the counter and turned her back on him.

  “Would you have been happy if Paul and I had bloodied each other’s noses over you?”

  “Forget it!” she spat, dumping pancake batter into a mixing bowl.

  “We still could, you know. I’ll go get him and we can mix it up a little before lunch. Would that satisfy your blood-lust?” Under his breath, he muttered, “What do you want to be, Helen of Troy?”

  She dropped the pancake-batter box with a loud thunk that lifted a cloud of flour into the air. Coughing, she spun to confront him again, declaring, “Leave it alone. I don’t want a thing. Especially from you. I was wondering if you had any spirit in you at all. Are you made of blood and bone or—cold, sterile computer chips?”

  Wounded by her suggestion that he was without all the passion allowable to any one human being, he asked darkly, “You can say that to me? After what we’ve shared?”

  She colored, even beneath the dusting of flour that covered her face. “We weren’t discussing our sex life.”

  “Speaking of that,” he cut in, “what do you suppose would have happened in that bedroom if Paul hadn’t blundered in?”

  She pulled her lips between her teeth, tasting the batter and grimacing, but more at the disturbing memory than the doughy flavor. They both knew what would have happened on that bedroom floor. She turned away and pressed her hands on the countertop, feeling dejected. Weak! Weak and stupid, that was what she was. Fighting for control, she managed tiredly, “Nothing would have happened.” It was a bitter lie, but she was so overwrought, she couldn’t deal with the truth. In self-defense, she embellished on the lie. “I’m over you, David. You’re inflexible and manipulative. Why can’t you just go back to Boston?”

  “Possibly because I’m inflexible and manipulative,” he growled.

  She sagged further, moaning tiredly, “Oh—hell…”

  “Gina—”

  “What!” she cried, spinning back, completely at the end of her emotional rope. “What momentous, earth-shattering revelation must you relate to me now? Do enlighten me! I doubt if I can go on one more instant without the genius of your verbosity! Go ahead! Dazzle me with your brilliant insights, damn you!”

  Her gaze shot across the space, hit his, and was gripped as if in a vise. His taut stance gave her nothing, but the torment in his eyes was debilitating. “I just thought you should know,” he began, his lips curling sardonically, “that your grease is burning.”
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br />   Her eyes widened and she scurried to douse the flaming mess by dumping the bowl of batter over it. With the fire successfully smothered, Gina’s mind was freed to sense a hideous, gnawing guilt about how she’d just treated David. She’d been rude and unfair. When she turned to apologize, she was startled to find that he had gone.

  8

  Then she heard it. The phone was ringing. Gina rushed to the kitchen door in time to see David pick up the receiver. Leaning against the doorjamb, she wondered who might be calling. Maybe there was some news about the bridge.

  “Why, hello, Quentin,” David began, and Gina suddenly felt sick. “What a surprise,” David was saying. “The connection is quite good. Oh? You’re not in Boston? Los Angeles?” He turned to face Gina and frowned at her obvious distaste before he added, “Of course, we’d love to have you drop by. When?”

  Gina was making a sour face and shaking her head. There could be no mistaking the fact that she didn’t want Quentin Finchkelp to visit them. All she needed was the president of Albert Einstein Institute and Estelle, his dull wife, to drop by. She shook a warning fist at David, who was assuring Quentin, “We’d be delighted.”

  “The bridge is out,” she hissed under her breath. “They can’t get here.”

  “Next Wednesday would be wonderful. We’ll expect you for dinner.”

  Gina’s hopes were dashed. The sheriff’s office had told them the bridge would be repaired, or at least, crossable, by Monday. She pantomimed a gag by sticking her finger in her open mouth.

  David shook his head at her as he spoke into the phone. “Gina is right here. Yes, Quentin, tell Estelle she’s ecstatic.”

  Gina dramatized being hanged, sticking her tongue out and crossing her eyes.

  Paul, who had come out of the bedroom—showered and dressed in a pair of David’s brown slacks and a brown sweater—burst out laughing at Gina’s antics.

  David grimaced. “Laughter, Quentin? Yes, that was our houseguest. He was—er—reading a particularly humorous anecdote in Business Week. Yes. It is a witty magazine.”

  Paul had gotten himself under control, but Gina was making it difficult. She’d armed herself with wads of newspaper and was flinging them at David as he talked.

  Batting them away, David eyed her with dark admonition, but his voice was all charm. “Certainly, Quentin. I believe I do recall Estelle’s lactose intolerance—and her allergy to strawberries. We’ll look forward to seeing you then.”

  When he hung up, Gina let out a groan. “David, how could you invite Prune Face and Watermelon Butt here? This is my home. I left that world behind when I left you!”

  “What was I supposed to say? ‘No, I realize you traveled three thousand miles, but my mutinous wife is gagging and pelting me with spitwads at the very idea of seeing you?’”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted you to say.”

  His narrowed gaze raked her face, and he growled, “Gina, you must—”

  The ringing of the phone interrupted him. Picking it up, he controlled his voice and said, “Yes?” After a moment, his grim expression softened and he smiled.

  Gina grew suspicious, asiding to Paul, “I hope that’s a message that Quentin and Estelle have changed their minds about coming to dinner and have decided to join a lactose-scorning religious cult somewhere.”

  Paul grinned at her, but said nothing.

  “That’s good news, Sheriff. I’ll tell Paul.” When he hung up, he glanced at the younger man, his expression pleased. “They’ve got a temporary support across Mason’s Gulch. The sheriff said if you can get over there this afternoon, the construction crew can get you across. And we can get to town for supplies.”

  Paul’s grin faltered. Nodding, he said, “If one of you could give me a ride?”

  Gina took his arm and aimed him toward the kitchen. “We’ve got plenty of time, Paul. Have lunch first. How about baked chicken?”

  “Well…” He cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder in time to see a frigidness invade David’s eyes. “Uh—maybe just a quick bite.”

  AFTER PAUL LEFT on Sunday afternoon, the rest of that day was spent in tense silence, as was Monday and most of Tuesday. Gina tried to lose herself in working on her book. David, she noticed unhappily, once again became his unflappable self, either jogging, reading or working on what she guessed to be another in a long line of scholarly physics papers. It angered her that he was so stubbornly bent on remaining with her, attempting to wear her down, no matter how thoroughly she tried to ignore him.

  Tonight, she vowed, she was going to get out of the house and be free of her husband’s silent coercion. She was going in to Maryvale to try out for their musical. She didn’t even care what it was, as long as it got her away from David and involved in her new life and her new town. She’d show him that he was wasting his time, staying here. Becoming a part of the Maryvale community was going to be a fresh start for her. She was determined to get on with her life in spite of David Baron!

  At six o’clock, she flounced out of the bedroom wearing a battered Panama hat, a huge, striped turtleneck knotted at one hip, baggy twill trousers rolled up to mid-calf and Madras espadrille. She expected to draw a condemning remark from David—or, at least, that had been her plan. But when she whirled about to confront him, he wasn’t in his regular chair.

  “David?” she called, wondering if he was in the kitchen. Her only answer was a curious meow from Lumper, who was coming around the corner.

  Shrugging, Gina slipped on her sunglasses. “Too bad. He’d have hated this outfit.” With a disappointed sigh, she left, not wanting to be late for the tryouts. Feeling as though she looked terribly “show biz,” Gina decided there wasn’t an ounce of stodgy Dean’s Wife left in her anywhere! She had a feeling that being in this musical was going to be a vastly liberating experience for her.

  It surprised her to notice that David’s rented Mercedes wasn’t in the gravel parking area behind the lighthouse. He’d probably run out of wheat germ or something just as boring. She only hoped she didn’t meet him along the road; she didn’t care to become involved in a debate about her trying out for the Maryvale Players’ musical. David’s idea of entertainment was a reading of The Canterbury Tales, tediously recited in Middle English.

  Tryouts were being held in the community-activity center, located in the back section of Maryvale’s immense library. When Gina pulled up, she was surprised to see the lot teeming with cars. She’d had no idea what a big event Maryvale’s musicals were.

  Suddenly nervous, she walked into the old stone building and followed the hand-painted signs, taped up along the dank corridor. They read Tryouts This Way, and were accompanied by directional arrows.

  By the time she got to the second floor, she could hear the din of laughing voices and knew she must be close. Her heart hammered with anxiety. She hadn’t been in an amateur production since she was in high school. Her school, in rural Massachusetts, hadn’t been very big. She’d been the lead, but who knew how much of an honor that was in a school with only three hundred pupils—and a scant thirty students in the drama club?

  She shrugged off her fear. After all, this was a community project, not the dawning of a theatrical career. Just being a part of it would be fun, even if she ended up cleaning paintbrushes.

  A friendly-looking man with bushy eyebrows and a shock of lead-gray hair greeted her at the door. Introducing himself as Freddy Potter, local mortician and play director, he handed her a name tag and told her to “mill around and mingle.” Tryouts for Oklahoma would begin in twenty minutes.

  So the play would be Oklahoma. Gina was thrilled. She’d always liked that musical. And she loved Westerns. This was really going to be fun!

  A short while later, she saw the Norwells who owned the grocery store and the Vladimirs who ran the drugstore and soda fountain. Paul found her and pointed out Iduna Brand, who owned the beauty parlor, and Norris Costby, the bank’s only teller. There were other familiar faces, too, and soon Gina felt at ease�
��at least for a while.

  After noticing several times that a burly redheaded man seemed to be staring at her from across the room, she nudged Paul and indicated the stranger with an inconspicuous nod. “Who’s that?” she whispered. “He looks kind of familiar, but I can’t place him.”

  “Oh, Max?” He shook his head. “He works for American Parcel Delivery. If you’ve ever ordered anything by mail, most likely Max has del—”

  “Oh, good grief!” she cried under her breath, recalling vividly when and where she’d seen him before. She’d been naked!

  “Say, what’s the matter, Gina?” Paul asked. “You went pale, just then.”

  “Oh, nothing. Forget it.” Grimacing, she toyed with her hat brim, lowering it farther across her brow. But she was sure, by the crooked grin he’d been directing her way, that he recalled who she was and how they’d almost met.

  “Well, what I was about to tell you before was that Iduna has played the lead the last four years,” Paul whispered as they took their seats for the beginning of tryouts. “But I think you’re much prettier.”

  Gina shook her head at him, her eyes on Iduna. Her sleek black hair was pulled back into a long French braid. “She’s lovely. And I bet she sings like a bird.”

  Paul nodded. “Pretty good—except when she has to go for a real high note. Then—” he made a face“—cover your ears. But she’s the best we’ve had in Maryvale.”

  “Hi there,” came a cigarette-rough voice from behind Gina. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned, curious, then blanched. It was Max, leering openly at her from the row behind.

  She tried to look pleasant—pleasant but not interested. “Hello,” she offered without much enthusiasm.