Whatever Comes

With his steady eyes on Amabel, Tris commented, “Another thing we have in common—honor. Our good names. Ezekiel had to clear his books of his theft. Did he also pay for the Chinese girl he stole? He did marry her?”

She thought Tris looked rather stern. He had a hard chin. She would hate to cross him. But there was that strange quivering deep inside her. And now even the surface of her skin seemed to feel him.

She blinked back into focus and replied readily enough. “According to the family Bible, they married soon after the seventh child was born. The family never mentioned the delay in Ezekiel’s marriage. I discovered the fact one rainy day, in browsing through the names and dates, and called my mother’s attention to it.

“She said preachers weren’t always available for the niceties and, on occasion, emotions could get entirely out of hand—and these weren’t those days and I should behave myself! To remember Ezekiel’s stolen wife.”

Amabel smiled a little before she continued, “I used to wonder about Ezekiel’s wife. She probably didn’t have any idea what in the world was going on when he snatched her and jumped ship. Then to be in a strange land, with a great bear of a bearded man whose voice rumbled sounds she couldn’t comprehend. Did she want to be with him? He was obviously friendly...fourteen children! But what about her?”

With no hesitation, Tris explained it all. “In olden days most captive women were chosen by the men, and women adjust well to captivity.” He slowly licked his lower lip as he glanced down her still-damp body.

“Spoken like a Viking.” She shook her head chidingly. “Why are you brown-eyed and dark-haired? And not even six feet tall? You must lack a whole portion of an inch!” She smiled sassily.

“We ranged far and wide, and differences have always intrigued men.” He reminded her, “Ezekiel chose a Chinese girl.”

“You think he gave her much thought?”

“A man that bold wouldn’t just take what was handy. It would be his choice. Any man who would—borrow—such reading material would be a sensitive, romantic, loving man.”

“How nice of you to soothe my worry about My Ling.”

“That was her name?”

“We aren’t sure. He always called her that and spelled it M Y. Her name could very well have just been Ling. And it was the possessiveness of a thief which made him call her his.”

“I like Ezekiel.”

“Men would. He forced his own life to be as he chose it. And dragged that little Chinese girl along. He was a formidable man from the stories handed down. But women shiver a little over being stolen. Women are very vulnerable. Men have directed our lives for all time. We are just getting to the place where we have a toehold in guiding our own fates.”

He dismissed her words. “It’s only natural for men to control women. My dad used to remember about the olden days when men had it all. I never thought things would get back to normal in my lifetime.”

She watched the wicked, golden glints of humor that betrayed him, and she smothered a smile in turn. “I’m going to run for an office in NOW.”

“Now? This year? Here in L.A.?”

“In the National Organization for Women.”

He gasped with some flair. “National? It’s spread that far? That sounds serious!”

She shook her head and sighed, gustily patient. “I believe we need to talk.”

He smiled. “Anytime. I’ll be glad to instruct you on the woman’s place in the overall scheme of world affairs. And yours in particular. I have a car, may I take you home?”

“Now what is the great-granddaughter of a captive Chinese girl supposed to reply to a descendant of a Viking under such circumstances?” She laughed as if it was cocktail chatter.

He replied easily, “Chance is a great determining factor in our lives. Each thing that happens nudges people into actions they wouldn’t have taken. Like my being here. It’s exactly the reason Simon Quint named his magazine Adam’s Roots.”

“You believe in fate?”

“You can call it fate, or kismet, or destiny or revenge.”

“I can’t believe you read horoscopes.”

“My life is self-determined. I do as I choose. I follow the paths I want to follow. May I take you home? I must leave now.”

“That’s a rash offer in this area. I could live fifty miles cross town. But you’re lucky—you don’t have to back down from your offer. I live just west of here in the Canyons.” She gave the address.

He said, “I’m staying at a house in that area. I believe you’re just on my way. Let’s go.” His smile was rather strange, and it did give her some pause, but she shrugged it off and they left.

As they walked from the room, he removed his tie and put it in his suit pocket. Then, using both hands, he ruffled his hair before he unbuttoned his shirt several buttons. He took off his suit jacket, unbuttoned and folded up his shirtsleeves, and slung the jacket over his shoulder very casually.

The photographer was there just outside the entrance to the hotel, and the pair looked up blankly as the pictures were snapped.

Amabel asked Tris, “Why us?”

“They may know who you are.”

“I’m not newsworthy,” she scoffed.

“Your article created quite a stir. You’re probably doomed to a life as a camera-dodging celebrity.”

“Don’t be silly,” she replied easily.

“It happens to the best of us.”

Three

With perfectly ordinary courtesy, Tris drove her home. Their conversation was pleasant. He drove well. Her body watched his. She had never been so intensely aware of a man as being male to her female.

Almost shyly she asked him in for coffee. He declined with a fairly standard semblance of regret. He saw her to her door, said goodbye and left her standing there, rather pensively, as he drove away.

She was disappointed. She went inside the little house, which perched recklessly overlooking the gully below, and she prowled through her few rooms wondering why she would be just a little irritated with Tris Roald for being smart enough not to prolong the day’s visit.

He was wiser than she. Anything can be overdone. Much longer and they might find themselves wearing on one another.

But she really hadn’t had enough of him, and she felt a puzzling lack or vacuum with him not there. She didn’t encourage her brain to examine any reason for that feeling.

It would have been nice if they’d sat on her small terrace, looking out over the gully as they watched the sun setting on beyond the hills.

The problem was, he hadn’t mentioned the possibility of seeing her again. What if he went back to Indiana and never gave her another thought? And she remembered the misguided photographer who had taken their picture. She wondered who it was. She would like to have had a copy of it.

* * *

It was Wally who brought the advance copy of US magazine into Amabel’s office within the week. On the cover was the picture of Sean Morant and Amabel Clayton exiting what was obviously a hotel.

Their pose was the requisite one. He was on the left, casually dressed, his hair designer mussed, his face to the camera and his eyes blank. Next to him, on the right, was Amabel, her damp dress soft on her nice bosom, her face equally blank as she looked at the camera.

The tag line read, “Who’s next? It’s Amabel Clayton!”

At first glance, she thought it was a trick perpetrated by the staff there in L.A. on the order of a Harvard Lampoon. So it took a little while for her to realize it was an actual cover and one that was going to be on the stands for everyone to see.

While she remembered the cameraman outside the Hilton, she became vividly aware of the fact that Tris was Sean Morant. He’d deliberately set it up. She remembered the way he’d ruffled his hair, taken off his tie and shrugged out of his suit coat. And she remembered his talk about appearances being deceiving, and honor—and revenge.

Vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord. But this time Sean had helped.

He had his revenge. It was too bad he wasn’t there to witness it. All the kinds of comments and smiles sent Amabel’s way that weren’t particularly nice.

Jealous women smiled and their eyes were sly. But the men! It was as if Sean’s revenge gave each of them a little triumph over her.

He’d been so charming. So attentive...as he’d set her up for his revenge. She remembered her body’s reaction to his and how aware even her skin had been of him. It hadn’t been attraction; it had been a warning!

* * *

She endured. The magazine was distributed, and she had more copies of that picture than she’d ever dreamed when she’d wished for just one. They couldn’t just have the glee of the sassy cover and a poke at Adam’s Roots. No, there was a story.

Their interviews were with people on the street. Instead of replying to the interviewer’s question, most asked, “Who’s she?” And one said, “Not up to his usual standards.”

That hurt. Jamie was quoted as saying, “They’re just good friends.” Of all people, he knew she didn’t even know Sean Morant, whose real name was Tristan Roald.

So it was days before she even considered the courage it had required for Tris to walk into that maelstrom of publicists and reporters just to meet her and set up the photograph.

That had to have been the telephone call he’d made, and he’d timed it, saying he had to leave right then.

How could he have done that to her? What difference did the multipicture cover make to him? Why was he so angry with her that he would take such calculated revenge?

He’d actually been in all those pictures. She had interviewed all those tiresome women.

No one gave her any sympathy. More than one woman ignored the implied relationship, of the pair leaving a hotel, and expressed envy for her having met Sean—however and whatever.

Mab didn’t blab his real name. Although sorely tempted, she considered that sort of backlash as beneath her professionally. But she felt noble about not doing it. And she hated him.

* * *

Tris didn’t feel the satisfaction he’d expected and his conscience twinged. He’d wanted to teach her a lesson but he hadn’t expected such a reaction for her, to her, about her. He suspected he’d been too rough. He could have... Well, it was done.

As with any exposure to public consideration, the incident quickly passed. In a few days it had faded. It was overlaid with all the other things about other people which went on in the rest of the world.

But it festered in Amabel. She spent a lot of time as she argued with a phantom Tris using reason and wide arm gestures.

“What’s going on with you?” Wally asked one day.

She looked up at him. “Nothing.”

Wally frowned at Mab. “You act unhappy. It’s not still that cover, is it?”

“No, of course not.”

“It’s funny, if you look at it right.”

Her responding, “Of course,” was rather dull.

“You don’t sound sincere.”

She gave him a look.

“Are you going to Indy next week?”

“You know I am. What’s the matter, are you running out of things to say?”

“Pretty much.” He bit thoughtfully into his lower lip and watched his feet shift and then he told her, “There’s a concert in Fort Wayne just about that time. I wonder if you’ve ever been to a Rock concert?”

She was cautious. “Rock concert?”

“Since you’re not a devotee, it might make a very interesting viewpoint.”

“Let me guess. It’s Sean’s?”

“Why, by George, it is!” His surprise wasn’t well done.

“Cute. I won’t do it.”

Wally mentioned casually, “I got the ticket from Sean.” He flipped it onto her desk.

She looked at the envelope as if it was a snake.

“It’s sealed. The courier said there’s a note inside. Read it.”

She wouldn’t touch it.

“Mab, you know I’m partial to you. Chris loves you and that by itself would be enough to influence me, but I admire your work and I believe you’re one of my best—”

“What sort of horror are you working up to?”

Wally was chiding. “Now, Mab! Whatever gave—”

“No!”

He waved his arms. “How can you refuse when you don’t even know what I’m going to...suggest?”

“I know what you’re going to suggest! And I will not!”

“Now, Mab, you can do it. This little exchange between US and us could develop into a nice Hope/Crosby kind of humorous conflict. It would be good for circulation. All you have to do is go to Fort Wayne and see the concert. Then you tell us what it’s like. See?”

“Sean’s.” Her look was deadly.

“Well, it just so happens you’ll be in Indianapolis anyway, and he’ll be up in Fort Wayne. It’s only a hundred miles. There are planes and airports out there in the wilds of Indiana and very excellent highways, if you’d want to drive.”

“I won’t do it.”

“Mr. Quint thought it a good idea.”

“He’s out in New York.”

“I know that.” Wally scowled at her.

“You suggested this, didn’t you.”

“With the US magazine cover we could bounce back with the article and have a neat little thing going here.” He smiled beguilingly.

“How can you ask it of me? I thought you were my friend.”

Wally observed critically, “The tremble in your voice is touching. You do that well.” But then he warned, “If you let a tear leak out, I will insist on a personal interview with Sean, if you have to pretend to be a bellhop!”

“Wally!”

“Even Chris is excited about this!”

“I’m going to apply for the space capsule.”

“Fine. Right after you do the concert. Then we can work in something about unrequited passion on your part and milk this dandy little incident as far as we can go.”

“I don’t see how you can do this to me.”

He shrugged and said the obvious, “Circulation.”

“You are a nasty man.” She glowered at him.

“Coming to dinner Friday?”

“I believe Chris should divorce you. I doubt she has ever suspected what you’re really like.”

He smiled. “You’re a reporter. You’ll do it because you know it’ll make good copy. We got a glossy of the picture. We’ll rerun a copy of the cover, then the US cover and then your story. Hot dog, this’ll be one for the books.”

She smiled in an icy manner. “I want a raise.”

“Mab, don’t get hostile on me.”

“Do you realize the reason I’m going to Indianapolis is to speak at a Women’s Seminar? Then I’m to go to Fort Wayne and witness a Rock concert! Tell me this can’t tarnish my credibility as a serious woman.”

“There are a great many serious people who enjoy Rock and heavy metal. There are people who enjoy jazz. Not everyone listens only to a single kind of approved music.”

He stood straight and looked at the wall as if he was seeing it for the first time. “This would make an interesting series! A spin-off from your Rock article!”

He turned back to Mab. “We could interview all sorts of people whose tastes vary...on the kinds of music... The ramifications of Sean’s cover story has Roots!