Secrets (27 page)

 

And the situation was shocking.

The houseboy let her in. Regina blinked. The hallway was so dark in shadow that she could barely see.

“Mista Slade no heah,” the boy said.

“I know,” Regina said, moving forward and snapping on a wall-mounted lamp. “That's much better.”
She looked around her carefully. The house was dark and drab; looking at the floor, she saw that it was also dirty. The hallway needed brightening, but that could be done with a framed painting or two and the addition of another mounted lamp. The floor was not just smudged but tired and worn. A good waxing would fix that. She began to smile.

She poked her head into the parlor. The furnishings were new but garish and the room itself was stuffy and dark. Regina swiftly moved to the lime-colored drapes and opened them. She was glad to see the street below and not the brick wall of a neighboring residence. She opened the window, letting in the fresh air.

“I can hep?” the small boy asked eagerly.

“You most certainly can. Does Slade use this room?”

He shook his head. “Nevah.”

Regina was not surprised. The dust was an inch thick on all of the furniture, except for the small table in front of the sofa, where two unfinished glasses of whiskey sat. “Someone was here recently,” she remarked.

“Mista Slade and fatha'.”

“Mr. Mann?”

“No, Mista Rick.”

Regina was surprised. Then she briskly moved forward. She pulled all the drapes and opened the other two windows. The room underwent a remarkable transformation, brightening considerably, but she was far from through. Eventually she would have to get rid of that horrid sofa, which she would not even contemplate moving to the Henessy place, but for now a few pleasing throw pillows would distract one's eye from the too brightly patterned green-and-gold fabric. The floor here also needed polishing, and the rug needed a good beating. She was cheerful. She could not, as Slade's lawful wedded wife, ignore this situation.

She strode down the hall and paused in the doorway of Slade's study. The desk was covered with papers and half a dozen glass paperweights. Books lined the shelves on one wall although several were on the floor, open, probably because there was no room for them on
his desk. The houseboy hovered behind her. He said uneasily, “Mista Slade tell me nevah touch in heah. Nevah,” he emphasized.

“Hmm, thank you for the warning. What is your name, child?”

“Kim.”

“And you are Mr. Delanza's houseboy?”

Kim nodded as Regina shut the door of the study firmly behind them.

“I should like to meet the staff.”

“Staff?”

“Yes, the staff. Especially the maids. If they wish to remain employed, they are going to start working immediately.”

Kim looked uncomfortable. “No maids.”

“There are no maids?”

“I clean.”

“You clean?”

He nodded.

Regina was not pleased. Houseboys did not clean. Frugality had its limitations. Slade was taking advantage of the situation. She moved down the hall and glanced into the dining room. It was dark and stuffy, but Regina quickly drew the drapes and opened all of the windows. Obviously her husband never used his dining room, either. But where did he eat?

As they walked down the hall, Kim on her heels, it occurred to her that Kim might be expected to clean, but he apparently did not do his duty. And Slade apparently did not care.

“Is the cook in the kitchen?” she asked, already suspecting the answer.

Kim trotted after her. “No cook.”

Regina paused. “Are you going to tell me that you do the cooking too?” She would be very angry with Slade if that was the case.

Kim shook his head. “No can cook.”

“So how does Mr. Delanza dine?”

“Mista no eat heah.”

“I see.” She was beginning to get the picture. She
could just imagine what the kitchen must be like. She would not succumb to fear. She entered bravely.

And was relieved. There were only two dirty glasses in the sink. She soon saw why the kitchen was not a shambles. The icebox was empty. The pantry was empty. The cupboards were bare too, except for two plates, two bowls, two cups, and two saucers. She turned to Kim in amazement. “Don't you eat here?”

“Mista Slade bring me food from restaurants.” He grinned. “No can cook,” he reminded her.

“Might I presume that Mr. Delanza has only you in his employ?”

“What?”

“Are you the only one working for Mr. Delanza?”

He nodded eagerly.

She made a rapid mental calculation. She would hire one permanent maid and two temporaries, one butler, and, of course, a chef. But when she entered his bedroom and saw the pile of dirty clothes on the floor, she added a laundress to her list. “Who does the laundry, Kim?”

“Me,” he squeaked. “But on Thu'sday. Today no Thu'sday.”

Regina nodded. “I see.” A smile wreathed her face. She must hire staff immediately. She had her work cut out for her!

“Missee mad?”

“No,” she said, eyeing the bed now. It was much too small. She blushed slightly at her thoughts. She would definitely make improvements in this room as well. Slade would hardly be able to complain. “Tell me, Kim,” she said as they returned downstairs, “how long have you worked for Mr. Delanza?”

“Four yeah,” he said.

Regina froze. “How old are you?”

“Soon e'even.”

She was indignant. “Why, that's sinful! Slade has robbed the cradle!” The boy was so clever she had thought him to be at least thirteen.

“No bad. Mista Slade ve'ey good.”

“You like him?”

“Can do!” He nodded enthusiastically.

“But what about your family? Don't you miss your mother, your father, your brothers and sisters?”

Kim said, “Motha' die of clap. Fatha' chop-chop. Sista' no-good whore. No brotha'. Slade fami'ey.”

She stared. “What is chop-chop?”

He made an imaginary gun with his hand and held it to his head. “Pow!”

She closed her eyes, moved. Kim was no ordinary houseboy; he was a homeless orphan Slade had taken in. She patted his head. “Are you happy, Kim?”

“Ve'ey!”

 

Slade stepped into his house and immediately wondered if he had somehow entered someone else's home.

The hall was brightly illuminated instead of lost in shadows. Two pretty floral paintings hung on the wall. The floors shone brightly, gleaming with wax. He sniffed suspiciously. There were strange odors emanating from the other end of the house. Someone was cooking beef, he thought, in his kitchen.

“What the hell?” he growled.

He prowled forward, past the parlor, then froze. He backed up a step, turning to face a vision in yellow.

Regina sat stiffly on the overstuffed sofa in a bright-yellow evening gown, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes on him.

Slade stared. For a moment he felt as if he were in a dream, a very sweet dream. After all, in reality he did not have a beautiful wife to come home to, or a decent meal, or a clean, cozy home. But he wasn't dreaming. His mouth curved in a slight, disbelieving smile. “Are you real?”

At his husky teasing tone, Regina collapsed against the pillows. “Yes.”

He set down his briefcase, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets. His heart was pounding. He looked around the room. The rug was brighter, the furniture free of dust; the drapes were pulled, revealing a foggy
night, illuminated by the gaslights on the street below. He glanced at his wife. She was lovely, breathtakingly lovely. The sofa no longer seemed so ugly with her sitting there upon it. Then he realized she had adorned it with dozens of pillows, covering the ugly print upholstery.

A man entered the room, startling him. Tall, thin, and grim, he carried a silver tray, and on it was one glass, which looked as if it contained his favorite spirits, bourbon. “Who the hell are you?” Slade asked mildly.

“Brinks, sir.” The man had a distinct British accent, a perfectly impassive expression, and an equally impassive intonation.

Regina was on her feet, wringing her hands. “Slade, this is Brinks.” She hesitated. “Your butler.”

“I see.” He took the glass. “Thank you, Brinks.”

Brinks said, “Will there be anything else, sir?”

Slade looked at Regina. “Ask my wife.”

Brinks said, “Madam?”

“No, thank you. Oh—” She swallowed. “Slade, will you be ready to eat in forty-five minutes?”

He gazed at her. “I can be ready in forty-five minutes.”

“Brinks, tell Monsieur Bertrand that Mr. Delanza is home and we shall dine at nine.”

“Very good, madam.” Brinks left.

Slade still gazed at his wife.

“I hope you are not too upset,” she said breathlessly.

“I've been upset all day.”

“You have been?”

He set his glass down. “I sent you a note but you didn't send a reply.”

Her eyes widened. “I didn't realize you expected one.”

“I did.”

“I'm sorry.”

“What's going on here, Regina?”

“I…I came over to see if you needed anything.” She drew herself up defensively. “After all, I
am
your wife.”

“You're making that clearer by the minute,” he said.

She looked worried. “This place was such a…such a bachelor's suite.”

He had to smile. “I imagine you're putting it mildly.”

“Well, yes,” she confessed. “I could not turn my back on your home! So I hired a maid, a butler, and the chef. I stole Monsieur Bertrand from the Crockers.” She gave him a guilty but so-sweet smile. “But I believe he will be worth it.”

“If the smells coming out of that kitchen are any indication, I would say so.”

She looked at him hopefully. “Would you like to go upstairs and change into something more comfortable?”

He realized that she hadn't answered his question. What was going on? His gut was tight, even aching. Had she changed her mind about the divorce? It seemed so. It seemed as if she had come to his home and was there to stay. It appeared that she had taken the final step, made the final decision, absolving him of the responsibility to do so, ensuring their reconciliation. He was thrilled, he was dismayed. It was all happening so fast.

She was regarding him anxiously. The last thing he wanted to do was to disappoint her, or push her away. If she wanted him to go upstairs—and he imagined there were a few changes awaiting him there, too—he would. Impulsively he took her chin and kissed her softly on the lips. Then he wheeled abruptly and bounded up the stairs.

In his bedroom he paused on the threshold, wondering about her, about them. His utilitarian bed was gone. In its place was a king-sized brass bed, done up luxuriously in burgundy. How in hell could she have known that burgundy was one of his favorite colors?

He moved closer. As he tested it with his hand, imagining her there, in it, he saw the silk velvet-lapelled smoking jacket she had laid out for him. He never wore the garment, which had been a gift from Xandria a long time ago. He saw that she had put a similarly unused
pair of slippers on the floor beside it. His heart, which had been beating unsteadily ever since he had spotted her there in the parlor, seemed to flip hard.

Slowly removing his tie, shirt, and jacket, he inspected the room. She had put a lace cloth on the dreary wood table by the window and a vase of fresh-cut lilies in its center. Their scent permeated the room. The decanter on the bureau, which had been almost empty, was refilled. The glasses on the tray were clean; taking a closer glance, he realized that they were also new. In fact, he didn't recognize the silver tray, either.

Soberly he walked into the bathroom. He found all of his toiletries neatly laid out on another large, unfamiliar silver tray. She had placed a potted fern in the far corner, and snowy-white towels hung from a brass rack which he had never seen before. She had also changed the single set of curtains, which had been somewhat mildewed. The new curtains were striped in burgundy and white.

She had made a lot of changes in his home, changes that were for the better. But he was frowning. How had she paid for all of these changes? He couldn't and he wouldn't undo them, not for a few dollars, but he had just made the decision not to take her inheritance and here she was spending it recklessly on him. Yes, he was pleased by her thoughtfulness, more than pleased, thrilled—but dammit, he could just see where this was going to lead them. Into a tunnel without light.

“Slade?”

Slipping on the smoking jacket, he jerked at the sound of her voice. Her hesitant tones brought him to the bedroom doorway. “Are you angry?” she asked.

“No.”

She looked relieved.

He put his arms around her and held her hard. Already his body pulsed urgently. “This is like a dream, Regina,” he said quietly.

She looked up at him, blinking back tears. “You like it?”

“I like it,” he said hoarsely, wanting to say so much
more yet unable to. He took her mouth without warning, smothering her gasp of surprise.

Then she laughed happily, burrowing closer. “And…the bed?”

“Let's test it,” he whispered, shaking. “Let's test it now.”

“We can't!” She was aghast. “Monsieur Bertrand will quit before he has even started!”

“Regina, please,” Slade said, lifting her in his arms. “Let me make love to you now.”

She was silent, clinging to him.

“I need you,” he whispered. Laying her down on the bed, he caught her face in his hands. “How I need you!”

“I need you too, Slade,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. She started to speak and then bit her lip.

“No,” he cried, sliding his hands over her shoulders. “Say it! Don't hold back. Tell me. Tell me you love me—even if it's only for now.”