Paradise Burning (13 page)

Mandy walked through the French doors
onto the rear deck and simply stopped and stared. Hard to stay
angry, or even feel put-upon, in a place like this. Stepping onto
Peter’s deck was like stepping into life among the treetops, with
the Calusa lapping at their feet. The late afternoon sun added to
the panoply, peeking through the leaves and casting dancing shadows
on the deck. The world around them even smelled . . .
green
—a combination of leaves, sap,
sandy soil, leaf mold, and jungle river. And of more pungent
calling cards left by birds and other Florida critters. It was
heaven. Lucky Peter, to have discovered a place of such pristine
beauty. Wise Peter, to have taken full advantage of it.

The soft breeze flowing over the deck seemed
to have picked up a cooling tang from the dark water below. And
adding to the feeling of comfort, Mandy noticed, was a roof that
extended over the first six feet of the twelve-foot deck,
protecting the gallery from the worst of the day’s heat. Abandoning
the nuts on a low table in front of a cluster of all-weather
furniture, Mandy walked to the railing and gazed down toward the
river.

Peace. That’s what she wanted. She’d had
harsh reality up to the eyeballs. She didn’t want to think about
those three sad women in Manatee Bay. She didn’t want to wonder
about the mystery of the long-haired blonde across the river or the
barely leashed tiger in the man behind the chain link fence. She
had enough problems of her own, thank you very much.

“
Lovely, isn’t it?” Peter breathed in
her ear.

He was warm and solid . . . pulsating with a
mating call as old as time. Her legs threatened to buckle. Only the
sudden tightening of a well-muscled arm around her shoulders kept
her from tumbling over the railing. “Sorry,” Peter murmured into
her hair. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Time to pull away, reestablish her
independence. Instead, Mandy turned her head into Peter’s shoulder
and slowly allowed her body to melt into the comfort of his
oh-so-solid chest.

She felt the sigh that shuddered
through him. One of his hands came up to cup the back of her head
while the other splayed against her back, tucking her tight against
his instant arousal.
Dear God, she really
was a fool!
She slid her hands to the small of his
back and snuggled in.

“
Mandy? Mouse?” Peter, tentative and
wary.

Hopeful.

Almost as if he actually cared, Mandy
thought. But it was just pride. Pride of possession. While at the
moment she had no pride at all. If he realized he didn’t have to
ask . . . that all he had to do was take. Yet an hour in bed . . .
a whole damn night—no matter how satisfying—would be like applying
a Band-aid to a mortal wound. It just wouldn’t work.

But what a Band-aid.

“
I’m thirsty,” Mandy declared,
summoning her mother’s autocratic voice as she pulled out of
Peter’s embrace. “And we should discuss our impressions of the
interviews before I go.”

Poker-faced, Peter stepped back. With a
mocking bow and a grandiose sweep of his hand, he invited her to
sit on a couch that was set back against the wall of the house. The
gaping canyon between husband and wife was firmly back in
place.

Had she hurt his feelings? Mandy wondered.
His masculine ego? Well, too damned bad. She flounced down onto the
couch’s blue and white striped cushions. And let out an
all-too-mouse-like squeak as the couch swung back, hit the house
with a thump, then settled into a series of wild swings. Mandy had
to plant her feet firmly on the deck, her hand hard on the couch’s
outside arm to bring the motion to a halt.

“
You might have warned me,” she
snapped, as she watched Peter carefully lower himself into a chair
that matched the couch, including the platform rocker in its
base.

Peter put his palms together and
sketched an elaborate salaam. “
Mea
culpa
. I bought the couch just to torture you.” He
thrust a gin and tonic at Mandy, then passed the cashew
nuts.

Mandy kept her eyes on the cashews to prevent
Peter from seeing her twitching lips. She must have looked so-o-o
ridiculous. “How about a truce?” she suggested. “We do the
author-research assistant routine, maybe toss off a few friendly
remarks here and there. But keep it professional, at least until we
get our sea legs, so to speak.”

When there was no reply, Mandy peeked. Peter
seemed to be sadly contemplating his deflated lap. “Just how long
do you think sea legs might take?” he inquired.

“
That was just an expression, a poor
one—”

“
A euphemism for the twelfth of
never?”

“
Ah . . . no.”
That was supposed to be yes!

“
Okay, I can live with that.” Peter
leaned back in his chair, stretched out his long legs. “So what did
you think about Jade’s situation. Her husband going to kill her one
of these days, or what?”

“
Don’t be absurd!”

Peter flipped a cashew nut, caught it,
narrowed his eyes at fingers frozen in mid-air. “If I found out you
had a nice little whoring business going on the side, I’d be
wa-ay
pissed.”

“
But that’s diff—“ Mandy broke off.
Score one for Peter.

“
You would have had the excuse of a
five-year separation, while Jade’s living with the guy, sharing his
bed, making children.”

“
But I never . . . ever—”

“
Not even once, Mouse?” Peter inquired
softly. “Just to get back at me?”

She wanted to lie. Tell him she’d worked her
way through the AKA staff or—as long as she’d be lying through her
teeth—the entire Red Sox roster. But she’d never lied to Peter and
wasn’t about to start now.

Mandy hugged her gin and tonic in both hands,
seeking any support she could find. “As much as it pains me to
admit it,” she responded calmly, “you’re my one and only. Not very
enterprising of me, was it?”

Oh, shit! Talk about a slice
to the juggler
. Not wanting Mandy to see his face,
Peter gazed blindly across the deck toward the trees. His Mouse,
his
wife
, had gone celibate
for five years, while he’d cut a swath through Europe, Asia, South
America, and Manhattan from the Village to the Upper West
Side.

So how hard had he tried to pry her away from
AKA? Truth was, his ego had taken such a blow when she hadn’t
instantly started packing that he’d let hurt feelings get in the
way of reality. If he’d been more understanding . . . If he’d said
the right words, made more of an effort to keep her by his side . .
.

“
If it helps,” Mandy said, “I finally
understood why you had to go. You’d had . . . I guess you could
call it fun in our world, but you needed to be your own boss, make
your own world. I’m truly sorry I couldn’t see my way clear to go
with you. But perhaps if I had, you wouldn’t have gone so far, done
so much. Become famous. No, don’t protest! We did what we did
because we each felt we had no choice.”

As she spoke, Peter gradually turned to face
her. Slowly, he shook his head. “Mouse, I—”

“
Look at you!” Mandy said with a
grandiose wave of her hand. “Women were bound to throw themselves
at you. And me, I was stuck in a cement bunker with a bunch of
nerds. And when I went on vacation—well, hey, you’re a pretty hard
act to follow.”

“
The fact remains,” Peter declared
grimly, “I’ve got to have the world’s mightiest case of chutzpah to
think you would come back to me.”

Mandy lifted her gin and tonic in salute to
the accuracy of his words. Her lips curled into a sardonic slant.
“I like your house,” she admitted. “Nice bait.”

Peter groaned, tossed off the rest of his
drink. “Chalk one up for trying harder.” He stood, held out his
hand. “Ready for a refill?”

Silently, Mandy handed him her
glass.
Idiot!
This was the
time to run away and live to fight another day. Another drink as
the sun sank lower, flirting with dusk, enhancing the lure of
proximity, could only lead to disaster.

Mandy followed Peter into the kitchen.
“I’d better get going. Tonight’s Movie Night at the campground, and
I promised to be there. My first participation in a group
activity.”
See, I have a life of my own.
Like preferring an old movie to schmoozing with Peter
Pennington
. “See you tomorrow.”

Without waiting for Peter’s reaction, Mandy
slipped out the kitchen door and down the ramp to her car, leaving
Peter looking after her, clutching half a lime and a paring
knife.

That night after the campground movie, which
turned out to be an old-time farce with an acting team she
particularly disliked, Mandy sat on the edge of her bed and eyed
the alarm clock with loathing. She should have walked out on the
movie, which everyone else seemed to be enjoying immensely, but she
had told Peter she was going to be there and stay she would. Even
if the movie made her nauseous. Nor did she want to hurt anyone’s
feelings. Ed Cramer and his energetic right arm Glenda Garrison had
gone out of their way to make sure Mandy knew it was Movie Night.
Maybe if she could learn not to care about other people’s feelings?
Mandy mused. If she could acquire the ability to lie a little, be
more spontaneous. If, just for once, she dared do something
different than she had said she would. But that was a form of
deceit. And Amanda Armitage was never deceitful.

Except with herself.

Live a little
.
Isn’t that what her Grandmother Armitage had urged, even while
Peter was still a world traveler?
Go to
Peter, Mandy. Wherever he is. You’re still his wife. Move right
in.
But of course she hadn’t. Couldn’t. Peter
Pennington, free-lance journalist, was always in the thick of it.
From vicious wars to beautiful people, continent-hopping as easily
as some people commuted from suburbs to the city. Revolutions, polo
matches, a space launch at Baikonur, dog-sledding with Inuits, a
cattle ranch in the Pampas, the building of the great Yangtze River
dam. How could she have kept him from any of it? Or even wanted
to?

But it was so much easier to nurse her hurt,
to tell herself he’d abandoned her . . .

He had. That’s exactly what he’d done. No
sense letting truth get in the way of a good grievance.

Men were so . . . simple. Peter now had
time for a wife, so he built a house and figured she would
come.
Well, I’ve got news for you, Mr.
Egotistical Pennington. You’re going to have to work harder than
that to get me back
.

And, even then, it might not be enough.

Meanwhile, Mandy had other fish to fry. Like
making a mystery out of an anomaly, out of what was probably no
more than a random incident—a woman sitting on a log above a nut
brown river. By the dawn’s early light.

Mandy hated dawn. Despised dawn. No matter
how lovely, how dewy and pristine, she never wanted to see another
dawn as long as she lived. She glared at the alarm clock, then—face
set in grim determination—set it for a pre-dawn hour.

The mystery girl was there. Once again, she
was seated on the trunk of a palm downed in some long-forgotten
storm, hugging her voluminous dress tight around her knees, the
mist rising up before her like some shimmering fairy ring. Mandy,
unwilling to shatter the spell, neither called nor waved. The girl
might run off, as she had before.

Okay, she also might be an old woman with
long white hair. The picture of a beautiful fairy tale maiden in
distress was probably all in her own wistful, overactive
imagination. Her quest for a distraction from Peter was blowing an
improvised skit into an epic multi-million dollar production.

Mandy eyed the small aluminum boats tethered
to the dock with some misgiving. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t row.
Peter had taught her during their halcyon days at AKA. The good
years. But the river was so foreign, its dark water hiding who knew
what—gators, water moccasins, snapping turtles, piranhas.

Not quite, but three out of four was enough
to make a girl stop and think.

Mandy grabbed a pair of oars from the
oar rack, then stepped carefully into the outermost skiff. It had
been a while . . . did she face forward or back?
Back, silly. Remember, rowing is treacherous. You
can’t see where you’re going.

Mandy scrambled to the bow, slipped the
rope loop off the bollard, then settled onto the center bench,
facing the stern. One by one, she lifted the oars from the bottom
of the boat and fitted them into the oar locks.
Are you crazy?
sensible Mandy Mouse
hissed.
Alligators!
Snakes!

She was an Armitage. She could do this.

A tentative tug and the tiny boat moved
forward. Pale but triumphant, Mandy grinned. Turning her head, she
checked her goal.
Yes!
The
blonde still sat on the palm trunk. She appeared to be giving Mandy
her full attention.

The current was flowing upriver—a tidal
phenomenon, Ed Cramer had explained—so her little boat made good
time. Every once in a while Mandy turned and looked over her
shoulder to check her bearings. The woman was still there, clearly
visible above the waves of fog drifting up from the river.