Sandra Marton - A Proper Wife

Tonight would surely be worse. Bettina was up to something—the signs were all there. If only she’d devote half that much energy to looking for a job.

A job, Devon thought. Lord, a job!

This morning, she’d been employed. Now, barely four hours later, she wasn’t.

Here she was, in a strange city, with no money and a mother who thought work was something invented for fools. And now, thanks to that insulting creep at Montano’s, she was out of a job.

At least she’d gotten back some of her own. That punch had really rocked him. She couldn’t believe she’d done such a thing, she, who never so much as stepped on an ant if she could help it, but he had deserved it.

A smile tilted across Devon’s lips. What satisfaction there’d been in feeling her fist connect with his smug, square-jawed face.

Her smile wobbled, then disappeared.

“Damn him,” she said shakily. “Damn him to hell!”

“Damn who?” Bettina said brightly, slamming the door after her.

Devon ran her hands quickly over her eyes. “Hello, Mother. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I was out shopping,” Bettina said, tossing packages on the bed. “I want to look my best tonight, Devon. So should you.”

“I don’t know why we’re going at all,” Devon muttered. “I don’t even know why we came to this city.”

“Because we have family here, that’s why. And family helps family, when the chips are down.”

“We have no ‘family’ here, and you know it.”

“What a terrible mood you’re in, Devon. I hope you’re not going to sit around glowering tonight.”

Devon took a breath. “I lost my job,” she said.

“Really,” Bettina said without much interest. “How do you like this dress? Too dull, do you think?”

Devon winced at the magenta silk her mother had taken from one of the boxes.

“It’s...it’s fine, Mother. Did you hear what I said? I had a run-in with a rude customer and—”

“Well, it’s no loss. Selling perfume is no better than selling sweaters the way you did at Saks back home.”

“Selling isn’t glamorous, but it’s honest work.”

“Don’t you dare take that holier-than-thou tone with me!” Bettina swung toward her daughter, eyes flashing. “I worked hard to support us and don’t you forget it. Waiting on tables, cleaning up after people who thought they were better than me, scraping pennies to give you all the benefits so you could have the life that I’d dreamed of—and long before Gordon Kincaid came along to pay the bills, in case you’ve forgotten, miss.”

There had been more to it than that, Devon thought savagely. There’d been an endless string of men. Uncle Harry, and Uncle John, and Uncle Phil....

“I did what I had to do,” Bettina said, as if she’d read Devon’s thoughts, “and it was all for you.”

“I never asked for anything,” Devon said tightly.

“The sacrifices,” Bettina said, “the struggle...”

Devon shut her eyes. I won’t listen, she told herself fiercely, I won’t. She’d grown up on this litany, hearing about her mother’s hardships, of how she’d all but given up her own life for her daughter’s...

“Next, you’ll turn your back on me, same as your father did.”

The bitter accusation twisted, sharp as the blade of a knife, in Devon’s heart.

“You know I’d never do that, Mother.”

Bettina smiled. “Good girl!” She bent down, gave Devon a kiss that was actually a cheek-to-cheek caress, and then she looked at her watch. “Oh, look at the time! Come along, darling. Grandfather Kincaid is sending his car for us and we don’t want to be late. Put on something bright and pretty, for a change. And use some of my drops in your eyes, will you? You look as if you’ve been crying, for heaven’s sakes!”

It was better than looking as if you’d been socked in the jaw, Devon thought.

What on earth had made her think of that?

Whatever the reason, she was glad of it.

For the first time in hours, Devon smiled.

CHAPTER TWO

AT A few minutes past four every Friday afternoon, end-of-week celebrants from Wall Street’s financial offices began pouring out into the streets. Lounges and bars filled up with regulars intent on getting the weekend off to a quick start.

Ryan and Frank, who had made a ritual of toasting the week’s end together since their university days, snagged the last pair of empty leather stools at the mahogany bar at The Watering Hole and exchanged friendly greetings with Harry, the bartender.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Harry said. “The usual?”

“Yes,” Frank answered, but Ryan shook his head.

“I’ll have a Coke.”

“A Coke?” Frank said, lifting his eyebrows. “What’s the matter, pal? Did that dame’s right hook rattle your brain?”

Ryan touched his hand gingerly to his jaw. “It was a good shot,” he said grumpily. “Is there a mark?”

“A little shadow, maybe, right there—”

“Ouch!” Ryan drew a sharp breath just as the bartender put an ice-filled glass and an open bottle of Coke in front of him. He took an ice cube from the glass, wrapped it in his handkerchief and held it gently against his jaw. “Maybe this will help. I don’t really feel like trying to explain a lump on my jaw to my grandfather.”

“Ah,” Frank said, “now I get it. No booze because you’re making the long drive out to see the old man, right?”

“You’ve got it.” Ryan waggled his jaw carefully from side to side. “Can you believe that dame? She walks around, shows off damned near everything she’s got, then gets ticked off when a guy notices. Whatever happened to decorum?”

“Decorum?”

“Yes. Decorum. You know, less cleavage, less leg, less of everything on display.”

Frank’s brows rose just a little. “This from the man who once dated Miss November?”

True enough, Ryan thought with some surprise. When had he ever cared how much a woman showed? If she was good-looking, the more, the better.

His eyes met Frank’s. “It was Miss December,” he said, smiling. “Don’t you remember those little bells?”

Frank chuckled. “Man, do I ever!” Frowning, he peered at Ryan’s jaw. “That bruise is turning color. You’d better run up a tale Grandpa will buy.”

Ryan sighed. “The hell with it. If he asks, I’ll tell him the truth. He’ll probably tell me the girl gave me exactly what I deserved.”

“The old man hasn’t changed, huh?”

“Unlike the female of the species,” Ryan said with a fond smile, “my grandfather is always predictable.”

So was an evening in the Kincaid house, Ryan thought as Frank excused himself and headed for the lavatory.

Drinks first, in the old-fashioned sitting room. Bourbon for Ryan, seltzer for James since he’d given up whiskey on orders of his doctors. Then Agnes Brimley, his grandfather’s prune-faced housekeeper would call them into the dining room for a medically approved dinner of gritty brown rice, mushy vegetables and stringy chicken. Dessert would have the look, smell and texture of pulverized soap.

Then the old man would shut the door on both logic and the disapproving Miss Brimley, light up one of the ropy cigars that were his sole remaining vice, fix Ryan with a rheumy eye and deliver The Lecture of the Month.

The World and How Much Better it Had Been Seventy Years Ago was always the choice opener. Second would come Advice on How to Manage Kincaid, Incorporated—even though in the five years Ryan had been running the development firm his grandfather had founded, he’d built it from being an east coast success to a national conglomerate.

But those were only warm-ups to James’s favorite lecture, which always began with the words, “Time is passing, my boy,” and ended with the admonition that Ryan was going to be thirty-two soon and that it was time he settled down.