An Inconvenient Husband. Karen Van Der Zee
All she wanted was to go home and go to bed, fall asleep and forget she’d seen Blake.
Her father’s driver took her back to the house, which wasn’t too far away. The watchman came running to the gates and opened them to let the car through. She said good-night to the driver and he drove off again to go back to the party to wait for her father.
A small light was on in the entryway, but the rest of the house lay in darkness. The servants had gone home and the place seemed empty and deserted. An odd chill shivered down her back. The place was too big; she wasn’t used to all that empty space. Her own apartment in Washington was small and cozy. She’d moved into it after the divorce, not wanting to stay on in the historic Georgetown town house she and Blake had shared during their marriage. She’d wanted a new beginning with nothing to remind her of Blake. Such a silly illusion—as if it were possible to erase Blake from her life. A man like Blake Chandler tended to leave an indelible impression, marking you for life.
The moonlight shining through the palm trees outside threw moving shadows across the furniture and rugs. Beautiful carved teak furniture, exquisite Chinese rugs, silk draperies, ornate brass lamps. The house had been decorated professionally and lacked a personal touch. She knew what her mother would have thought of it: too opulent, too pretentious. Poor Daddy, she thought, you must miss her so. Her mother had died unexpectedly a year ago and her father had been at a loss ever since. He’d taken on a new job, moved to new, exotic surroundings, but it only seemed to accentuate his loneliness.
She turned on a couple of lamps as she found her way to her room which lay at the back of the house. Inside, she switched on the light. She dropped her bag onto a chair, noticing the French doors that opened into the garden were standing slightly ajar.
She had closed them before she left. Hadn’t she? She shrugged. Well, maybe not. She bit her lip, feeling uneasy. Something felt...wrong. Some ghostly awareness feathered across her skin, as if something unseen was right here with her—a presence, an energy in the air. She surveyed the room. There was nothing unusual. Everything was just the way she had left it.
She went into the adjoining bathroom, found some aspirin and swallowed it with a glass of water, making a face at herself in the mirror. “You are a nut case,” she said out loud.
There were no ghosts in her room; they were in her mind. She felt haunted by shadows from the past, that’s what it was. She’d been thrown off her equilibrium because she’d seen Blake again.
“You haven’t seen him in four years,” she told her reflection. “You’re divorced. So what’s the big deal?”
She took off her clothes and got ready for bed. She drifted off into a restless sleep, full of images of Blake-Blake sitting by a fire and reading a book. Blake pouring wine, giving her a secret smile. Blake sprawled on the bed, naked, asleep. She wanted to touch him, run her hand over his body, feel his warmth, his strength. She reached out, but her hand did not make contact, no matter how hard she tried, as if some force field protected him from her touch. She awoke, crying.
It took a long time to get back to sleep.
The next morning she was dragged into consciousness by the call to prayer broadcast from the mosque’s minaret. It was almost six, and the faint glimmer of dawn filtered through the thin curtains. She listened to the monotonous chanting, knowing the meaning, but not understanding the Arabic words.
She lay still in bed, until the sun washed the room in the bright light of a new day.
“You just disappeared,” Nazirah accused her an hour later as they were on their way to the Central Market in town. The chauffeur-driven. car was compliments of Nazirah’s father.
“I had a headache.”
“I saw you talking to that guy. Did he tell you who he is?”
“A consultant on a World Bank contract. He’s here only temporarily.” Nicky tried to sound bored. She did not want to discuss Blake. She did not even want to think of him.
“What else did he tell you?”
“He loves curry puffs,” she said with sudden inspiration. “And he’s crazy about satay with peanut sauce.” All of which was true, but it certainly was not newly garnered information.
“Is that what you talked about with an interesting man? Food?” Nazirah’s tone indicated a severe lack of admiration for this particular tactic.
“Food’s a great subject,” Nicky said brightly. “Everybody has to eat it. It’s uncontroversial, but everybody has an opinion.”
Nazirah rolled her eyes.
Nicky laughed. “You can learn a lot about people by finding out what kind of food they like. Whether they’re adventurous, have imagination, are conservative, romantic, boring stick-in-the-muds. I did an article about how to use food in character analysis last month. I think I did my readers a great service.”
“And what did you find out about him?” Nazirah asked doubtfully. “What kind of food does he like and what does it say about his character?”
“He likes everything,” Nicky said casually, which was basically the truth. “Which makes him a conservative, imaginative adventurer with stick-in-the-mud tendencies.”
Nazirah laughed. “And how does he do in the romance department?” Amusement glimmered in her blue eyes.
“Romance?”
“Is he a romantic?”
Nicky braced herself mentally. “He has his moments,” she stated in a businesslike tone. “Flowers, chocolates, jewelry, that sort of thing.” Sometimes luxury cookbooks, and odd knickknacks from exotic places in the world.
“Mmm. What about love letters and poetry? What about sexy phone calls?” Nazirah lowered her voice. “I love sexy phone calls.”
Nicky’s chest tightened and she swallowed at the sudden painful lump in her throat. She looked away. “Nope.”
“Is he a good lover?”
Her heart turned over. Good God, she had to change the subject. The last thing she wanted to think about was Blake’s talents in bed. “Listen,” she said impatiently, “there are limits to what you can find out about a man by knowing his food preferences. If you’re so interested in the man, go out with him, sleep with him and find out for yourself.” Good Lord! she thought in a panic. What am I saying?
Nazirah stared at her. “Why are you mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you.” Nicky bit her tongue. Oh, God, she was giving herself away.
“Sure seems like it. I was just making conversation, having a little fun with this idea of yours.”
“I’m sorry.”
Nazirah was silent for a moment. “I’m not trying to make you angry, but if you’re interested in him, I’ll stay clear of him.”
“I’m not interested in him. You can have him.” Nicky heard the snappish tone of her own voice, took a deep breath, and forced a smile. “Maybe your mother can ask him to dinner. He loves home-cooked meals.” She bit her lip. “He told me,” she added.
Confusion, hesitation chased each other across Nazirah’s face. “You know this man, don’t you?” she asked softly.
“No,” Nicky said, feeling herself turn cold. “I only thought I did.”
She’d been twenty-one when she’d met Blake at a party given by her parents in Washington, D.C. At the time Blake worked with her father at USAID and her father thought the world of him. One look at Blake and Nicky had thought the world of him, as well. Her heart had nearly stopped and she’d almost forgotten to breathe. The world around her had ceased to exist. The glass of wine she’d had in her hand had slipped and fallen to the floor, the