Keeping Secrets (8 page)

His hard glance shot through my words. “But I could … I could imagine more than you think.”

“Well then, just tell me, was there ever anything between Emory and Aegina Barrista? My suspicions are based on more than what I overheard today.”

“Why don't you ask him?”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I just can't, that's all,” I said. I could not tell him the true reason was that, since I had forbade Emory to mention my past, I had no right to trespass on his unless I was certain he had failed to leave part of it behind.

As I hesitated, Nathan studied me, then queried earnestly, “You're afraid to ask him, aren't you?”

“Of course not … I just … don't want to bring on a confrontation that would make me look foolish, that's all. If you'd rather not say, it's all right.”

“Well, if it will ease your mind I'll tell you what I know, but you must give me your word you will never tell Cabot what I said.”

“I already have.”

He relaxed somewhat and leaned back. “They courted when Cabot first came to know Barrista, but he stepped in as things became serious.”

“Why?”

“Several reasons, from what I gathered.… Aegina was only twenty-one years old, and her father felt Cabot was too old for her. Also, I think he wanted Aegina to marry a Mexican
caballero
—one of his choice, probably.

“But mainly Barrista didn't want his daughter marrying out of the Catholic faith.”

“I see. How long ago did all this happen?”

“About a year before you came here, it was over and done.”

I swallowed hard, realizing for the first time I may have been second choice, our marriage one of rebound for Emory. “Knowing Emory as you do, would you be willing to wager a guess about the two of them now?”

He considered. “I suppose he could be seeing her. She was—is—a beautiful young woman, with dark eyes and hair. He was taken with her, all right. They used to throw big parties at the ranch in Mexico when Cabot was there, and he and Aegina would dance all night—” He stopped abruptly and blinked. “I never saw them do the tango.”

I nodded, and he continued, “Next day they'd be off to the bull fights together. They both enjoyed the bloodthirsty sport. She had a wild streak in her, just like him.”

“I see.”

“But she couldn't stand next to you, Electra, not by any stretch of the imagination. Finally a man—even one like Cabot—likes to settle down to a fine lady, and live respectably,” he said, then leaned forward and added, “Listen, you probably don't realize what a different man he was before you came. He has straightened up a lot, by comparison.” He rose from his chair. “That's all I know.”

“Thank you. And don't worry, Nathan. This will work itself out.” I watched him leave the kitchen, his steps quick and jerky, and wondered again at his fear of Emory. He was at times like a figure of spun glass, resting precariously on the open palm of an unpredictable hand.

I retired early and lay in bed thinking. It was just possible that even if nothing were now between Emory and Aegina, the fact that there once was might make for discomfort between Emory and her father. Perhaps it was a subject that had once brought them almost to blows, and now that so much depended upon the friendship of the two men, they took extra care to avoid conversation about Aegina. That would explain a great deal. The man seen with her at the Menger may have only resembled Emory.…

A couple of hours later Emory came in and I pretended to be asleep. I heard his hat plop on the bureau, his pants being shimmied off, and smelled the strong odor of his cigar. He didn't bother me, although he lay for a long time awake.

Finally I could stand it no longer and framed the question that would be the quickest, easiest stab at the truth: “Emory, is there someone else?”

He didn't answer. I decided, with relief, he was asleep. The question had sounded disgustingly superficial. At daybreak I awoke to the feel of his fingers stroking my hair, and turned to him.

I believe from that time on Nathan took it upon himself to try and make up for any way he felt Emory was letting me down. He was always offering to drive me to one place or another, though it was easy to see he was reluctant to get behind the wheel of Emory's automobile because he drove as though there were a traffic officer breathing down his neck all the time.

Should I make the slightest suggestion or just hint at something needing to be done, he was at work on it immediately, even when there was obviously no hurry necessary. One morning I told him I'd noticed a charming little summerhouse in one of the yards on King William.

“I could build you one even finer than that,” he offered at once.

“Oh, I don't know whether Emory would like—”

“He wouldn't mind, as long as it was for you. I'll work on some plans tonight, and when I get them to suit you, I'll go down to Steves Lumber and buy the wood. Maybe we could situate it in front of the Spanish oak in the side yard, between those two big magnolias. That way you'd have plenty of shade on it.”

“Yes, and I could plant roses around it. Let's paint it white, to match the trim on the house,” I said, infected by his enthusiasm.

As a matter of fact, while the summer of 1914 wore on, I was eager for something new to occupy my mind and demand my energies. I found myself constantly expecting Emory's announcement that he was bound again for Mexico, and would brace myself for the worst each time he broached a new subject in conversation. He spoke little at first about his plans with Barrista, and as he was often preoccupied I didn't urge him to discuss them (I wished more than once that something might happen to make the Mexican troubles dissolve).

Only the daily newspapers kept the situation near. In mid-July Huerta finally gave up under Wilson's pressure and left the country, friendless, and reportedly “subtle and bitter” in his denunciation of the United States. Reading the Huerta story—assuming then it was an epilogue—I could not help but wonder why Fernando Barrista wanted the weight of Mexican troubles on his shoulders. And Emory—how much wealth or personal gratification could possibly be worth the strain and pressure of involving himself in matters he needn't even bother with? His insatiable thirst for winning went back, of course, to the indignities he suffered in his bringing-up.

Sadly, as much as I loved and understood him, my presence in his life could not completely fill his sense of need. In a way I was even a part of what drove him: as his wife, I could always be referred to as the “reason” he had to make good. How badly it would reflect on him if I did not have a big home and lots of expensive clothes to wear … and, several years hence, what a failure for him if I did not have even a second home, a staff of servants for each, and a substantial amount of the year spent traveling to one place then another. That I wanted none of this did not matter to him in the least. And I couldn't tell him why I had every reason to remain modest about wealth.…

Emory was spending fewer and fower evenings at home, and I was certain he was putting up Nathan to lie for him about the reasons. The young man never looked me in the eye when he told me another, then another excuse about why Emory would be arriving home late.

Yet this concern was pushed aside by something far more ominous.

9

One morning as I was picking over fruits and vegetables at Haymarket Plaza, enjoying the sunshine and the pleasant sounds of chatter and general hustle-bustle of the market, I suddenly had the feeling someone was watching me from behind. I turned around, expecting to see a familiar face approaching. By now I knew enough of the vendors and patrons to exchange a greeting now and then or discuss a good find among the produce. Yet there was no one I recognized, though I shaded my eyes and looked both ways.

Imagination, I decided.

I began comparing the color and texture of fresh peaches, and was soon lost again in the business at hand. I selected several, and moved along to the next table. My basket was growing heavy by now so I stopped to reverse it with my handbag in the other hand, and in doing this I looked about, an uneasy feeling taking hold of me though I couldn't say exactly why. Then I thought of Lyla's warning about purse-snatchers and clutched my handbag tighter. I decided to call it a morning and head for home.

It is odd to recall how I fought off misgivings during the long walk. Several times I was tempted to board a trolley or hire a taxi. Yet I kept telling myself I was behaving foolishly, walking a little faster all the time, never daring to look back to see if anyone were following yet listening for the sound of footsteps.…

By the time I arrived at our door I was winded. I hurried inside, locked it, then went to a window and looked out. Nothing. Silly. Still, my nerves were unsettled so I sat down with a glass of cold fruit juice and tried to concentrate on a magazine. After an hour went by I was convinced my anxieties were groundless. Then I heard a knock at the front door.

“Who is it?” I asked. There was no view of the porch from our windows. Breathless, I repeated, “Who is it?”

“Oh, just an old friend. Hey, open up!”

I knew then, even before I opened the door, who I was about to face. I was only thankful neither Emory nor Nathan were around as I let him in.

Mark's husky frame had gone to fat; his face, once having had a boyish pudginess about it that made him seem younger, was by now graded with wrinkles, his chin lax. His color was unhealthy, and his brown eyes were puffy underneath. It was as though his looks, never attractive, had over the years become a badge of his character.

“Well, well,” he said with an insolent smile. “Looks like you done all right for yourself, Mrs. Cabot.” He walked through the foyer and poked his head into one room then another, as I stood rigid against the doorjamb. I already knew what he wanted. The thing was to deal with him as quickly as possible and get rid of him. I directed him to the sitting room and offered him a chair, then sat across from him and asked how long he had been out.

“Not as long as you, but long enough to do some looking around and take a little stock.” He propped a foot upon the table nearby and looked at me steadily, still smiling ever so little.

“How did you find me?”

“Oh, we had some real helpful friends down the line. It wasn't so hard. When I heard you'd come to San Antonio I came down and started hanging around one place then another. I knew it was only a matter of time till you'd turn up somewhere.”

“Were you at Haymarket Plaza this morning?”

He grinned. “You still got good instincts. But I was real curious as to where you might be living by now so I didn't want to reveal myself too quick.”

“How did you find out my name?”

“You got real accommodating neighbors. I must say I was surprised, Mrs. Emory Cabot,” he said, drawing the name out. His eyes circled the room again. “From the looks of things, you sure knew which coattail to hang on to this time. Maybe I ought to stay around awhile … when does your new husband get home? I might just—”

“He'd kill you if he found you here,” I interrupted.

“Now, now. I don't want you to think I came all this way just to cause trouble, now that you're wealthy and all. That might be fun but it wouldn't do no good. You just give me what I've got coming and I'll get out of your way. I never was one to hold grudges … not like some people.”

“Listen, it's not that simple,” I said quickly. “I can't get my hands on that kind of money. At least, not all at once.”

His expression hardened and the corners of his mouth turned down. “Come on, sister. Who are you trying to kid? You're Mrs. Rich-lady Cabot now, ain't you? Just ask for it. Tell him it's a little family obligation you got to take care of. I'm sure he'll understand that,” he said, and grinned again.

I just stared at him, my stomach churning. Soon he walked over and brushed a hand against my cheek. “Course, maybe you'd just like to come away with me … it shouldn't be too hard for us to come up with a solution to your problem if we worked together on it. After all, there was a time, you know …” His face was close now; I could smell his sickening breath. I pushed him away and stood up.

“Look, I've got a little money of my own in Colorado, about five thousand. I'll have to write a letter to get it. Leave me an address and I'll send it to you. Then as soon as I can get more, I'll forward it.”

“Hold on a minute. I'm not near as trusting as I used to be. I want it all now.”

“I just can't get it. Our money is not in cold cash. And even if it were—look, if you'll just give me time I'll figure out a way to get it all to you. But it won't do you any good to badger me.”

He seemed to consider that for a few moments, then walked over and took my face in his hand “No remorse? No apologies for double-crossing me?”

“Oh, I'm sorrier than you will ever know. But I didn't have good sense then. If I had, I wouldn't have taken up with you in the first place. Now leave an address and get out.”

He squeezed my face a little tighter. “Don't start giving orders, Mrs. Rich-lady. It may take me a little while, but I can prove a lot, and I got nothing to lose. If you don't want the truth to come out, we're going to have to keep in close contact. Supposing you rent a post-office box where I can send you a little note now and then, to remind you of your obligation in case you have another lapse of memory. Otherwise, I might have to come back and visit you again.”

“Yes … all right.”

“I'll be waiting in the lobby of the post office at ten o'clock in the morning, and we'll exchange addresses just like old friends who meet up again after a long spell. And if I don't get the first five within the month, I'll be knocking on your door again. Got it?” He pressed his mouth against mine and I lurched free and flung the back of my hand across his face. He stood there rubbing it for a minute, then started to laugh in that maniacal way I remembered so well, his voice starting low then pitching higher and higher.…