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Authors: Carolyn G. Hart
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could.
She stood motionless for a long moment, then her cool, husky voice floated down. She spoke English with a German accent.
“How courageous of you, Miss Ramsay, to brave the dark. I hope Tony has managed to set your mind at rest.”
It wasn’t what she said that rankled; it was the way she said it. It did have the effect of bringing Tony Ortega quickly to my defense, but I still felt an inch and a half tall and wished I were anywhere else in the world at that moment. Even the warmth of his hand once again on my arm didn’t help.
I was in the midst of yet another apology when she yawned, delicately, like a cat. “It’s quite all right, Miss Ramsay. As Tony so eloquently says, you surely meant well. But it is late, isn’t it? I’m sure we’ll have a good laugh about it at breakfast. Good night, you two.”
Her parting words made it sound as if he and I planned an immediate tryst on the nearest couch. My face flamed again and I decided I would certainly move to a hotel tomorrow. Then my feelings of embarrassment and humiliation faded as I sensed Tony Ortega’s fury. He lowered his head and bunched his shoulders. I was afraid he was going to run up the stone steps after her. Instinctively, I reached out and caught his arm. I felt anger and outrage in its rigidity.
“Mr. Ortega,” I said sharply.
He took a deep breath and another. Slowly his arm relaxed. He looked down at my hand on the sleeve of his terrycloth robe.
I quickly pulled my hand away.
As quickly, he caught my hand but his touch was as gentle as a summer wind. “I beg your pardon,” he said simply.
They were not casual words, not the unthinking use of social formula. He meant every syllable.
I shook my head. “There’s no need.”
“There is every need. You have been made uncomfortable in my family’s house.”
“It’s all right now.” I meant every word.
He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. He smiled. “Very well, Sheila Ramsay. If you are sure.”
“Very sure.” I gathered up the skirt of my dressing gown to go up the stairs. “Good night, Mr. Ortega.”
He reached out to stop me. “Tony.”
“All right. Good night, Tony.”
He was still standing at the foot of the stairs, watching me, his face somber again, as I turned and hurried down the hall toward my room. I hurried because I wanted to take no chance of meeting my hostess.
In my room, I lay in bed and tried to sleep but sleep was long in coming. Like a litany, I kept saying over and over,
Tomorrow I’ll see Jerry, Tomorrow I’ll see Jerry
, but somehow, his sharp and bony face was indistinct, and clearer by far was another face, smooth and charming, then dark and angry. I fell into a troubled sleep where I searched and called for Jerry but at every turn saw Tony Ortega, and now his face was no longer charming or threatening but aloof, unreadable, and alien.
Chapter 5
Fear is spawned in the dark. Fear is a nocturnal creature, arrogant and assured in the folds of night. Fear dwindles, collapsing like a night-blooming flower, in the sharp, clear light of day.
I awoke early, heard the cooing of pigeons not far from my window. I followed the pattern on my wall where the sun slanted through the drilled window; it seemed absurd that I had confused the call of a peacock with a scream or that I had stumbled and fallen trying to run up steps, too frightened to face the darkness in the downstairs hall.
My fears seemed absurd on a beautiful, crisp morning. I stood for a long moment beside my window and knew that I had never seen a sky that particular soft shade of blue.
I was looking forward to a happy day. I would see Jerry. Everything was going to work out. I felt sure of it, absolutely certain. I would present the Styrofoam case with the enclosed manuscript to the Ortegas, thank them for their hospitality, gracefully gather up my suitcase, and leave. If anyone protested, saying I had been expected to remain a guest throughout my stay in Mexico
She stood motionless for a long moment, then her cool, husky voice floated down. She spoke English with a German accent.
“How courageous of you, Miss Ramsay, to brave the dark. I hope Tony has managed to set your mind at rest.”
It wasn’t what she said that rankled; it was the way she said it. It did have the effect of bringing Tony Ortega quickly to my defense, but I still felt an inch and a half tall and wished I were anywhere else in the world at that moment. Even the warmth of his hand once again on my arm didn’t help.
I was in the midst of yet another apology when she yawned, delicately, like a cat. “It’s quite all right, Miss Ramsay. As Tony so eloquently says, you surely meant well. But it is late, isn’t it? I’m sure we’ll have a good laugh about it at breakfast. Good night, you two.”
Her parting words made it sound as if he and I planned an immediate tryst on the nearest couch. My face flamed again and I decided I would certainly move to a hotel tomorrow. Then my feelings of embarrassment and humiliation faded as I sensed Tony Ortega’s fury. He lowered his head and bunched his shoulders. I was afraid he was going to run up the stone steps after her. Instinctively, I reached out and caught his arm. I felt anger and outrage in its rigidity.
“Mr. Ortega,” I said sharply.
He took a deep breath and another. Slowly his arm relaxed. He looked down at my hand on the sleeve of his terrycloth robe.
I quickly pulled my hand away.
As quickly, he caught my hand but his touch was as gentle as a summer wind. “I beg your pardon,” he said simply.
They were not casual words, not the unthinking use of social formula. He meant every syllable.
I shook my head. “There’s no need.”
“There is every need. You have been made uncomfortable in my family’s house.”
“It’s all right now.” I meant every word.
He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. He smiled. “Very well, Sheila Ramsay. If you are sure.”
“Very sure.” I gathered up the skirt of my dressing gown to go up the stairs. “Good night, Mr. Ortega.”
He reached out to stop me. “Tony.”
“All right. Good night, Tony.”
He was still standing at the foot of the stairs, watching me, his face somber again, as I turned and hurried down the hall toward my room. I hurried because I wanted to take no chance of meeting my hostess.
In my room, I lay in bed and tried to sleep but sleep was long in coming. Like a litany, I kept saying over and over,
Tomorrow I’ll see Jerry, Tomorrow I’ll see Jerry
, but somehow, his sharp and bony face was indistinct, and clearer by far was another face, smooth and charming, then dark and angry. I fell into a troubled sleep where I searched and called for Jerry but at every turn saw Tony Ortega, and now his face was no longer charming or threatening but aloof, unreadable, and alien.
Chapter 5
Fear is spawned in the dark. Fear is a nocturnal creature, arrogant and assured in the folds of night. Fear dwindles, collapsing like a night-blooming flower, in the sharp, clear light of day.
I awoke early, heard the cooing of pigeons not far from my window. I followed the pattern on my wall where the sun slanted through the drilled window; it seemed absurd that I had confused the call of a peacock with a scream or that I had stumbled and fallen trying to run up steps, too frightened to face the darkness in the downstairs hall.
My fears seemed absurd on a beautiful, crisp morning. I stood for a long moment beside my window and knew that I had never seen a sky that particular soft shade of blue.
I was looking forward to a happy day. I would see Jerry. Everything was going to work out. I felt sure of it, absolutely certain. I would present the Styrofoam case with the enclosed manuscript to the Ortegas, thank them for their hospitality, gracefully gather up my suitcase, and leave. If anyone protested, saying I had been expected to remain a guest throughout my stay in Mexico
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