Maria Lopez, who toiled intermittently in her vegetable garden and hung out great quantities of laundry every day, was almost unrecognizable in a suave cream pantsuit, blue eye makeup and a cloud of Chanel 19. In one hand she carried a small suitcase; cradled against the other shoulder was a mass of red-and-white plaid blanket, out of which Rosie’s small face peeked before she buried it again.
Amanda, who knew this to be a shy expression of pleasure, said, “I know you’re in there, Rosie Lopez,” and held out her arms, and the transfer was effected. Maria said rapidly, setting down the suitcase, “She’s had her dinner, of course. I brought her pajamas and her vitamins and a few other things. We wouldn’t do this to you, Amanda, what with your aunt and everything, but we’d never get seats tomorrow.”
Don’t worry about it,” said Amanda as a horn sounded outside.
“Oh, and a man called looking for you just before we left.”
Amanda suffered a certain stricture of breath while looking casual. ’Did he leave his name?”
“No. Well, I don’t think I gave him a chance,” said Maria, apologetic and edging toward the door at a second impatient blast of the horn. “I mean, I thought it was going to be you when the phone rang, and then when he asked if we knew where you were I went into this song and dance about having expected you back much earlier because of plane time and so on.”
She tickled her daughter under the chin, adjured her to be good, and stretched up to give Amanda a quick cheek kiss. “I can’t thank you enough. Merry Christmas and we’ll see you soon. . . .”
Justin, thought Amanda when she had closed the door after her own injunction to have a nice trip; who else, when she had shut herself into a self-imposed nunnery for a month? She carried her blanket-wrapped burden to the couch, plopped it down, said to its owl-eyed inhabitant, “I’m going to put you to bed in a minute, Rosie, but first I have to make a telephone call.” She had last seen Justin at a post-Thanksgiving party at her house, which might be a lazy way to repay a number of obligations but was also a convenient one. She couldn’t even remember who it was who had brought the Navy captain with whom she found herself closeted in a corner as the evening grew later.
She was astonished when she discovered that the hand she couldn’t see was toying with her right earring, sending it gently swinging—and across the room, Justin, who must have been regarding her for some time, lifted his glass to her in a salute, put it down, and went quietly out.
Amanda caught up with him in her front hall, decorated mostly with an old-fashioned coat rack and a chest now piled with overflow garments. “Weren’t you even going to say goodnight?”
“You were busy.” Only to someone who knew the perfect civility of his usually mobile face was Justin very angry indeed, almost angry enough to wear an approximate topcoat home if he couldn’t find his own in a hurry.
“Just because I spend fifteen minutes with a guest—”
“Fifty-five. Do you know what the trouble is, Amanda?” After some fairly ruthless treatment of overlapping sleeves, Justin had found his coat and was putting it on. “We’ve known each other too long, on and off. There are no more surprises—well, yes, there’s one, thanks to your maidenly upbringing, but you’ve gotten bored.”
He glanced past Amanda. “Here comes the fleet,” he said, and grazed her temple with a kiss and departed without another word.
Later, attempting sleep first on one side and then the other, Amanda had to acknowledge that there was a tiny element of truth in Justin’s accusation, except that it wasn’t boredom; it was a sense of ease and comfort. She had been catching occasional glimpses of him for a couple of years—he was the nephew of a friend of Mrs. Balsam’s—but although it was only within the last few weeks that they had actually discovered each other as independent entities, the groundwork of trust was there. Still, how would she have felt if Justin had spent an hour tête-à-tête with the female equivalent of a Navy captain?
She was not a teenager, to congratulate herself upon having provoked jealousy, and it was a question of manners as well. She tried to reach Justin the next day, without success, and like most frustrated apologies this one withered and died and was replaced with a little defensive anger of her own. He could have joined them in the corner, after all; he had a formidable presence when he chose, and there would have been no earring-twiddling going on under his stare. Moreover, he had dropped his bomb at a point where she had to go back and be hostess to six remaining guests.
But now, thought Amanda dialing, they could start all over again. She would ask lightly, “Were you looking for me, by any chance?” and then she would tell him about her aunt. No, she wouldn’t tell him anything. He wasn’t home.
Amanda put the receiver back. Her mind must have included the strong probability of Justin’s getting into his car at once and coming here, because she felt suddenly very flat—but there on the couch was Rosie, torn between sleep and a grave astonishment at these strange surroundings. She did not demur at all about being scooped up for bed, only asking in a breathy whisper against Amanda’s neck if she could have a banana, accepting a tangerine instead, and eating it with drowsy relish while, in the guest room, Amanda undressed her and put on the pajamas from the suitcase.
It was a pretty room, with white-painted furniture and chintz in marigold colors at the low-set windows. Rosie, whose crib was in much smaller quarters shared with her older sister, was bemused, and pointed at the other twin bed and gazed questioningly at Amanda.
Would she sleep there?
