An Inconvenient Husband. Karen Van Der Zee
with a man with whom she’d once shared a bed, whose body she knew intimately. She suppressed a hysterical little laugh and forced herself to smile politely.
“What a surprise to see you here,” she said. The understatement of the year. No mere surprise could cause such a tumultuous reaction in her mind and body. No, she wasn’t surprised. She was stunned.
He released her hand, but his eyes did not leave her face. “It’s a small world.”
Well, it was, of course. The expatriate communities in foreign countries were comparatively small. She nodded, not knowing what to say.
“It was good to run into your father again,” he said. “Hadn’t seen him for years. He told me he’d left USAID and joined the world of private business—a venture capital firm, no less.”
“Yes,” she said, hearing more the deep timbre of his voice than the words. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, as if she were hypnotized, or in some sort of trance.
He took a drink from his glass. “They’re involved in some interesting investment projects in China, I understand.”
“Yes: All over South East Asia, really. He’s just interested in China now that it’s opening up.” She spoke automatically, not even knowing if she was making sense, not caring. All she saw was the familiar face of the man she had once loved.
Blake looked the same, only a little older. And a little harder, a little rougher around the edges. There were a few strands of gray hair at his temples and his jaw had a steely set. He was thirty-seven now, she realized, ten years older than she. He still emanated the same dynamic vibrations, and he seemed to her more attractive than ever.
“Are you working in Malaysia?” she asked, remembering he’d always loved the Far East, ever since he’d spent two years in Malaysia as a Peace Corps volunteer in his early twenties, before she’d known him. The question came automatically, as if some part of her was going through the motions of making polite conversation while the rest of her was struggling with emotional chaos.
He nodded. “I’m doing research for the World Bank. Tropical fruit.”
“What about tropical fruit?”
“Production, processing, exporting—how to develop the business in Malaysia. I spent the last few weeks looking at farms and factories. There’s a growing demand for exotic fruit all over the western world.”
She nodded. “People want a change from, apples and pears. Here come the guavas and the mangos and the soursops.”
“I knew you’d understand,” he said dryly. He took another swallow from his Scotch. “You’re in Malaysia to visit your father?” His tone was polite. He might have been speaking to a total stranger. Something was different about his voice. It was rougher—the voice of someone who’d seen much and expected nothing.
She moistened her lips. “Yes. It’s a fascinating place and I thought I’d come for a while and do some writing. With my father living here it was a wonderful opportunity.”.
He studied her with what seemed detached interest.
“You haven’t changed.”
“Should I have? Did you expect me to?” Her heart was beating erratically. She wished it would calm down.
He shrugged. “I somehow just thought you would have.”
“Why?”
Something flickered briefly in his eyes. “I never could imagine you to still be the same person I once knew.” He shrugged. “But then, I can’t really judge, can I? I don’t know you now. I’m just looking at the externals.” He gave a polite little smile, but it did not reach his eyes. “And they’re as pleasant as they always were.”
Always the gentleman. “Thank you,” she said, wishing she had a drink. “And as for the rest of me, I imagine I’m pretty much the same person I always was, except older and wiser.”
“We grow and we learn,” he added casually. Nicky wondered if she heard an undertone of mockery. She found the unsmiling gray gaze disconcerting. But then, what could she expect? Surely not warmth or humor.
“You’re still consulting, then?” she commented. When she had met him, years ago, he had worked with her father for the U.S. Agency for International Development, but soon after he’d become an independent consultant working internationally in the field of agricultural economics, often contracting with the World Bank.
He nodded. “That’s what I do. I took a two-year teaching position at Cornell a few years ago, for a change of pace, but then decided to go back to consulting. I enjoy doing better than teaching. And how’s your career been coming along?”
How polite the conversation. It seemed unreal, as if it were happening on another plane. “I’m doing well.” Her articles sold to magazines and newspapers, and she was writing her second book, a hybrid mix of travelogue. and cookbook for the more adventurous readers, generously spiced with humor. She wished she could find some humor in the present situation, but it eluded her.
- He glanced at her left hand. “Not married again?”
Her heart contracted painfully. “No.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest, knowing it made her look defensive, not knowing what else to do with her hands.
One dark eyebrow arched slightly. “I thought you would have.”
“Who?”
He lifted his left shoulder fractionally. “You’re rather the marrying type, with all your domestic talents.” His voice gave nothing away. Once he had enjoyed her domestic talents. Her cooking, especially. She pushed away the memories.
“And you? Are you married again?” Somehow she managed to sound casual, but an odd terror tightened her chest, and she realized in a flash of insight that she didn’t want to hear the answer. That she didn’t want to know there was another woman in his life.
He gave a dry laugh. “I think I’ll save myself the effort.”
The terror vanished and she felt an upsurge of hot anger—unexpected, surprising. Effort? What effort had he ever put into their marriage? She clamped down on the feelings. “I wasn’t aware being married to me had been such a trial,” she commented, trying to sound coolly sophisticated, but knowing she wasn’t pulling it off. Her voice shook with emotion.
Because of his career there had been long absences in their short marriage, but when he’d been home between consulting trips, life surely had not been much struggle for him—she’d treated him like a king.
Because she’d loved him. Because she’d thought he was the most wonderful, sexy man she’d ever known. Because she’d been a romantic idiot.
He gave an indifferent shrug. “Let’s not go into this, shall we? It hardly matters now.” He tossed back the last of his drink.
As if a failed marriage were a mere triviality.
“You never did care, did you?” she said bitterly, feeling her body tense further with remembered pain.
His eyes glittered like cold crystal. “You never bothered to ask. How would you possibly know whether I cared or not?”
“As your wife, I had no trouble telling. I’m glad I got out when I did.” She clenched her hands, sorry she’d let the anger escape.
His body stiffened. He shoved his free hand into his pocket and she noticed it was balled into a fist. Anger burned in his eyes.
“You weren’t interested in having a discussion when you ended our marriage,” he said harshly. “Whether I cared or not was apparently irrelevant to you. Is there any point in having this discussion now, four years later?”
“No, there isn’t, you’re right,” she said frigidly. She whirled around and walked off, knowing she couldn’t stand being with him a moment longer, feeling terrified by the sudden