Operation Mail-Order Bride (4 page)

“But she wasn’t. She was crying. She nearly lost control.”

“Sure. I know that now, but when it happened, I … if she ever hurts Trent, I’ll never forgive her.”

“I don’t know why she would. She’s so in love with him she wept for joy during their wedding.”

“But if she ever should betray him, I’m not sure you or she knows what it would do to Trent.”

I spat the plum pit I was sucking onto the ground.

“Why are you talking about this? You’re making up this wild speculation about something that will probably never happen.”

He frowned, turning a nectarine over in his fingers. “Rose is marrying ‘up,’ isn’t she? She didn’t go to college. I think it’s possible she may find herself out of her depth in the social circles she’ll be moving in, thanks to Trent.”

“Which will be exactly the same social circles she’s been moving in since she got her job at the lab.”

He did not respond and I let the silence continue as I rose and began to tidy up the table. Blair seemed bent on insulting my best friend. I didn’t want to argue with him, but I didn’t want to let him pass judgment on her unfairly. I knew he was wrong about Rose. And what had he meant by the remark that she hadn’t gone to college? Last time I checked, you didn’t need a degree to love and be loyal. I hadn’t gone to college either. Did that mean he considered me second-string material? If our relationship continued to the point where we decided to marry and have children, would he always think of it as “marrying down?”

I knew if I let this train of thought continue, the result would be an explosion. I gathered our trash in the tablecloth and carried it to a barrel.

I stood there, taking deep breaths and counting in a whisper as I tossed the trash in one handful at a time, dodging the yellow jackets I disturbed. I didn’t hear Blair as he approached from behind.

“Cassie.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry I said those things about Rose. You’re right: I was making an assumption about her based on a mistake.” I continued to feed the trash barrel with my back to him as he stumbled on. “I don’t know Rose—we’re barely acquainted. But if Trent lov
es her, I should trust his judgment.” He moved around me so he could see my face. I shook the tablecloth above the barrel to get rid of crumbs, then finally met his eyes. “Will you forgive me, Cassie?”

I nodded and handed him an edge of the cloth so he could help me fold it. Though I was still annoyed by what he had said and puzzled as to his reasons for speaking so, his attempt to make amends convinced me he regretted it.

The final fold of the cloth brought us face-to-face and inches apart. Blair’s hands closed on mine.

“I won’t be able to enjoy the concert if I think you’re still angry with me.”

“I’m not angry. I’m a little hurt, though.”

Concern clouded his face as he replayed his words. Then he got it.

“The remark about college. Oh, Cassie, you are now a victim of my worst fault. I still haven’t learned to think before I open my big mouth.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, taking the cloth and flattening it against me, “that’s a problem.”

“It was a stupid thing to say. I am sorry. I think you’re smart and interesting, and I think Rose is as well. I … I guess that’s a prejudice I didn’t know I had.” He looked genuinely ashamed now. “I need to work on that.”

“Okay. I believe you, Blair.” I tucked the cloth under one arm and took his hand with my free one. Upon arriving at the table, I was pleased to find the cooler loaded with empty containers, ready to drop at the car.

The amphitheater, sparsely populated when we arrived, filled quickly. Soon the orchestra members took their places, tuned and the music began.

As always, the musicians were in top form and the audience was enthusiastic. Near the stage was a group of grey-haired people who
formed a cheering section. After a selection from Greig’s
Peer Gynt Suite,
several of them held up cigarette lighters, as if they were fans at a ’70s rock concert. Before long, the rest of the audience—those carrying lighters, at any rate—followed suit.

The second half of the concert featured dance numbers. A concrete dance floor at the foot of the amphitheater was floodlit and the rowdy part of the crowd pocketed their lighters and took to it. After a few lively numbers, the orchestra began to play slow dance tunes, featuring languid solos by its lead saxophone and trumpet players.

“They’re so versatile!” Blair whispered, then took my hand. “Cassie, may I have this dance?”

We picked our way to the dance floor by moonlight. Once there, he swung me in among the others and held me close as we moved to the music.

It didn’t take long for me to succumb to the evening’s magic. Around us were older couples, obviously long-married, who were still very much in love. As we danced, I could see the stars and moon through the leaves of the towering trees that ringed the stage. Somewhere nearby a mimosa bloomed and a fitful breeze washed us in its fragrance from time to time.

I was intensely aware of Blair’s strong, square hands when he moved them from the formal ballroom dance position down the skin my sundress bared to hold my waist. I responded by circling his neck with my arms and moving closer. As a saxophone lamented the lonely lot of far too many people, we began to kiss as our steps slowed.

We tasted and tested each other for a time as my awareness of my surroundings dimmed. Blair’s mouth on mine was tender, yet questing, and my lips parted hungrily. Impatient, I realized that I was tired of holding high standards and becoming more lonely every year. He had shown that he wasn’t perfect—had shown me less than two hours ago, in fact. Well, who was? Not me! It was time to take risks if I wanted my life to change.

When we neared the edge of the dance floor, I took Blair’s hands in mine and pulled him out of the light. In the dark at the side of the stage, we kissed passionately, our hands exploring as they caressed. One of his hands slipped beneath the smocked fabric around my waist and he was stroking the dimples at the small of my back—one of my favorite places to be touched.

I embraced him tightly, molding myself to him. I felt the crisp fabric of his shirt against the upper slopes of my breasts and resisted my urge to undo its buttons. Instead, I brought my mouth close to his ear and said two words: “My place.”

I straightened from examining my car’s engine, having learned nothing useful, and shaded my eyes as I gazed up, then down the road. At both ends, the arrow-straight line of asphalt disappeared into wobbling heat waves, empty of all moving creatures except for me. I looked around at the flat grassland that stretched to the horizon on both sides of the road. Not a house or barn; not a single tree. I had taken this route home from work before and I knew there was a convenience store along this stretch, but it was not yet in sight and I wondered how far I was going to have to walk.

“Oh, well,” I sighed, leaning into the open window to get my purse, “the sooner I get started….”

I kept my head down as I trudged along. It wasn’t the kind of landscape suitable for sightseeing and the glare was unbelievable. I had wanted a change, I reflected, and boy, had I gotten a change!
No weather I had experienced prior to this move had prepared me for a Texas summer. The heat and sun were ferocious. It was nearly October and summer showed no sign of being over. The dusty grass I scuffed through was like straw.

A quick movement caught my eye. I looked up in time to see a roadrunner sprinting away with a lizard in its beak. I smiled. So far, the wildlife was the best thing about my new life, I thought. My job certainly wasn’t and things with Blair seemed to be deteriorating.

I was working at a horse magazine. I thought Production Manager at a periodical would be a step up from prepress supervisor at a printing company. I was wrong. The job included numerous duties I disliked: answering the phone and running errands. The hours were worse than those at the job I had left. My pay was a dollar and a quarter an hour less—at least, that’s what it would have been if I had been paid hourly. Unfortunately, I was on salary now, and I could barely get my work done if I stayed at the office for sixty hours. Although my co-workers assured me the pace would let up as soon as the January issue was mailed, I was struggling to keep from being overwhelmed, and they also told me the heaviest production period was yet to come.

After the novelty of my presence wore off, Blair began to criticize me and my activities. At first it was little things. The first time I drove directly to his apartment from work, instead of stopping at my little cottage first to freshen up, he actually wrinkled his nose when he opened his door.

“Is that how you dress at the office?” he cried.

I looked down at the outfit I considered normal for the work I did: a blouse and lightweight
cardigan with jeans and penny loafers. It worked for everything from taking ad orders to filing mechanicals to picking up magazine bundles at the printer’s or dropping them off at the Post Office.

“Yes, and all the other women who work there dress a lot like this,” I replied. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Oh … nothing,” he said, standing aside so I could enter. “I thought you’d look … sharper, I guess. Looks like working at a publishing company isn’t as glamorous as you thought.”

“No, Blair, I think it’s not as glamorous as
you
thought,” I pointed out as I put my things on the table by the door. “I had a pretty good idea what kinds of activities I would be doing before I took this job. I dress to cover them all.”

“Well,” he said distractedly, as he picked up my
sweater and refolded it, “I imagine you know what you’re doing.”

That exchange, by itself, would not have bothered me, but it was only one off-note among many.

At a get-together with some of Blair’s friends, we were in the kitchen arranging a platter of snacks when one asked me what my job consisted of.

“I keep track of ad orders and I’m responsible for following through on them, from the layout and copy writing to publication and invoicing,” I explained.

Before my questioner could continue, Blair broke in, “But she’s really just a go-fer with an important-sounding title, right, Cassie?”

We both turned and stared at him. I was so surprised I almost stammered. “It’s true that I answer the phone and run errands, but those aren’t my main responsibilities.”

“You could have fooled me,” he retorted, his voice muffled as he plundered cans of beer from the refrigerator. “How many trips did you make to the city yesterday? Didn’t you tell me six? Or was it eight?”

He had reconsidered his opinion that my forthright personality was refreshing and desirable. This was made clear when he was being a jerk and I called him on it. We were planning to order a pizza and split it with his neighbors. We were trying to decide on toppings when Don from across the hall suggested jalape
ños. Blair began to rail against that choice at length, announcing loudly that “Jalapeño peppers aren’t fit for human consumption, Don. You oughta know better!”

Seeing Don’s stricken look, I recalled how young he was, and that he probably didn’t know Blair very well. I picked up the pizza menu and handed it to Blair.

“You pick the toppings, Blair.”

“Wha…? Why me?”

“Because you’re the pickiest person here. If the rest of us don’t object to your choices, we can order the pizza and be done with it. This will save time, and some of us are hungry.”

He shot me a look I can only describe as venomous. The others watched in silence. Blair turned his attention to the menu and the tense moment passed. Later I apologized for barking at him in front of others.

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Cassie,” he said, gathering me in his arms. “What annoyed me most was the fact that you were right.”

That admission was nice to hear, I thought, until I reflected that he waited until we were alone to make it.

His intolerance for behavior less than ideal in others was his worst fault. I learned of this when he flew into a rage about the behavior of the young daughter of a fellow graduate student. The parents failed to adequately explain her mother’s emergency surgery to Amy. When her mother disappeared for several days, then returned home too stiff and sore to pick Amy up or get down on the floor with her to play with blocks, the little girl was traumatized. She refused to sleep unless Janine lay down with her. If Janine rose from the little bed before Amy was sound asleep, Amy would cry out in fear. It wasn’t long before this problem interfered with Blair’s social plans.