Capital Wives (22 page)

Her expression brightened. “You know, you're right.” She sobered again. “I'm going to ask a favor from you.”

“What is it?”

“I'd like to be godmother for your baby.”

Deanna saw the violet eyes filling with tears. Suddenly, she knew Bethany Paxton. She was an insecure woman who still wasn't certain of her rightful place in the D.C. social arena.

“What if you share godmother duties with Marisol?”

Pushing back her chair, Bethany came over and hugged Deanna until she claimed she was choking her. “Thank you.”

M
arisol lay in bed, tossing and turning restlessly. It was her second night in Puerto Rico, and Bryce hadn't called or returned her calls. She'd called his office phone, leaving a voice mail for him to call her back. Twelve hours later she called his cell, believing he could've left D.C. to visit a candidate, but again he hadn't called. Now she'd taken to placing the cell on the pillow beside her so she would hear it when it rang.

Rolling over on her back, she threw an arm over her forehead. Her imagination was beginning to go into overdrive when she wondered if he'd fallen and couldn't get to the phone, or he'd been involved in an auto accident…

“
¡Párelo,
Mari!” she whispered in the darkened, silent space. Agonizing over something over which she had no control was certain to trigger a headache. She turned again, this time to peer at the travel clock on the floor beside the bed. It was after one in the morning.

Marisol knew sleep had become her enemy, so she left the bed, walked to the casement window, opened it and stepped
out onto the balcony. Minute lights under the roof tiles illuminated the balcony. The distinctive croaking whistle of a
coquí,
the small tree frog found only on the island, shattered the stillness of the night.

She stood with her arms resting on the wrought-iron enclosure enjoying the solitude and the smell of salt water. Within minutes her anxiety lessened as she closed her eyes and breathed in the essence of the island that had been home to her ancestors.

Marisol had understood why some of her relatives had opted to leave a place that resembled an emerald paradise for the mainland because they'd felt there were better economic opportunities, but each time she came for a visit and left Marisol felt as if she'd left a little piece of herself behind. Perhaps, she mused, she should buy a two-bedroom condo in San Juan she could share with her mother.

Every year Pilar complained that it was going to be her last winter in New York, but then come spring she would change her mind. Maybe having a place of her own—a place where she wouldn't have to pay rent or a mortgage—would motivate Pilar to consider early retirement.

Marisol had argued with her mother because she hadn't left the old neighborhood. Pilar had moved out of public housing and into a one-bedroom apartment in a five-story walk-up two blocks from their old housing project, and although West Harlem was undergoing rapid gentrification it had been slower in El Barrio.

Stepping away from the railing, she lay on the chaise outside the bedroom. Millions of stars littered the nighttime sky, and a near-full moon, silvering the landscape, appeared close enough to reach out and touch.

“What's the matter? Can't sleep?”

Marisol sat up as if she'd been stuck with a sharp
instrument. Wesley stood outside the adjoining bedroom, arms crossed over his bare chest. He wore a pair of white pajama pants and nothing else. The first night he'd slept in one of the bedrooms on the first floor.

“Why are you up?”

Closing the distance between them, Wesley sat at the foot of the chaise, almost tipping it over until he shifted his weight. “I could ask you the same thing. Cute nightgown,” he crooned, running a finger along the ruffled hem of her white cotton gown with a revealing neckline.

Marisol swiped at his hand. “Don't do that.”

“Don't do that. Don't call me that. You're just full of don'ts, aren't you?”

She stared at the man who'd added to her anxiety. Spending time with Wesley Sheridan hadn't made it easier for her to see how to right the wrongs when it came to her marriage. It was as if Wesley had had a bird's-eye view of everything that had gone on in her home from the time she woke until she went to bed. Had he been that perceptive, or were she and Bryce that transparent? Except for the fact that she hadn't gotten pregnant after trying for two years, Marisol had always thought her marriage was on good footing. However, a man who was interested in her for more than business had made it apparent all wasn't as well as she'd believed.

“If your intent is to harass me, then I'm going back inside.”

Holding on to her ankles, Wesley held them fast. “I'm sorry. Is there something wrong with your bed?”

Marisol tried making out his features, but from where he sat his face was in the shadows. She couldn't help but notice his muscled pectorals and incredibly flat stomach. Wesley Sheridan was an extraordinarily handsome male specimen.

“No. It's very comfortable.”

“More comfortable than this chaise?”

“I came out because I couldn't sleep.”

“Do you want me to make you a hot tea?” Wesley asked, his thumbs making soothing motions over the arch of her foot.

“No, thank you.” Smiling, Marisol closed her eyes when Wesley massaged her instep and ankles. “That feels wonderful. Didn't I promise to give you a massage?”

“You did, but right now it's my turn. Talk to me, Marisol.”

“What about?”

“About what's bothering you.”

She wanted to lie and say nothing, but realized there were few things she could slip past Wesley. It was as if he was so attuned to her Marisol felt as if he could read her mind. She told him about Bryce not returning her calls, the words tumbling over each other as she tried not breaking down.

Wesley's hands stilled. “Do you think something happened to him?”

“I don't know. I can't call his parents because they're out of the country and I don't get along that well with my sisters-in-law.”

“What if I have someone from my office call him tomorrow under the pretext that I need some statistics from him? If he answers his phone, then you'll know he's all right.”

“Thank you, Wes. When I do get to talk to Bryce I'm going to give him a piece of my mind for making me worry about him.”

“Maybe he's busy.”

“Too busy to call his wife?”

“Sometimes we dudes aren't too smart.”

“Don't make excuses for him, Wesley.”

“Just try not to be too hard on him until you find out why he hasn't returned your calls.”

If Bryce wasn't in bed with a fever or lying in a ditch
unconscious, then Marisol would know for certain why he hadn't called. He was jealous, jealous that she'd left the country with a man he saw as his rival and/or competition. Lately, Bryce had shown her a side of his personality she'd found more and more repugnant. He'd become a spoiled child, acting out when he couldn't get his way. She knew he was against her going to Puerto Rico with Wesley because he hadn't bothered to walk her to the car and wait until it pulled away from the curb. He resented her not using his accountant, resented her insistence they not file a joint tax return and he resented her struggle to maintain her independence.

Marisol may have unconsciously permitted him to select the clothes she would wear whenever they were out together, but now that she'd been made aware of it, that, too, would change.

“Why do guys always stick together?”

“And you gals don't?”

“Not like men.”

“Did you ever see
The First Wives Club
?”

Marisol chuckled softly. “Talk about revenge is a dish best served cold. I loved it!”

“That's what I'm talking about. Guys stick together and women get together to plot revenge.”

The topic segued from the inequality between the sexes to her preliminary decorating ideas. She'd spent most of yesterday photographing each room, then uploading the images into her laptop. Each room would have a design floor plan where Marisol would map out the room as a whole.

“You're going to have to determine which season you want for this house.”

Releasing her feet, Wesley moved up the chaise and lay on his side next to Marisol. “I don't understand.”

“Homes, like people, have personalities. It can be decorated
to imbue all the seasons or one or two. Spring signals the melting of snow, warmer days, longer daylight and the emergence of green shoots and the glossy petals of tulips. The mood is light, the air fresh and rooms uncluttered. It also means flowers—inside and out, on walls and fabrics. Because this house is in a tropical climate I'm going to recommend you decorate it in two seasons: spring and summer. It can be romantic, whimsical and uninhibited.

“And because there are going to be children underfoot, you should have furniture that can be easily moved. Tables shouldn't have sharp edges, and if you're going to do a lot of entertaining, then multiple seating arrangements in separate areas offer plenty of room for your guests to mix and mingle. I'll show you what I'm talking about when I design your master bedroom. After I set up the floor plans, then you're going to have to select the furniture styles.”

Wesley smothered a yawn with his hand. “I don't want to be rude, but can we discuss this in the morning?”

“Sure.”

He stood up, staring down at her. “Aren't you going in?”

“Not yet. Good night.”

Wesley held her gaze for a full minute. “Good night.”

Marisol watched Wesley's retreat until he disappeared into the adjoining bedroom, silently admiring a pair of broad shoulders, straight spine and narrow waist. Talking to Wesley had temporarily taken her mind off Bryce. She had to believe he was all right, otherwise someone would've contacted her. She'd called Bryce twice and refused to call him again. The ball was now in his court.

Marisol felt her eyelids droop and she got up and went back into the bedroom, closed the windows to keep out the warm air and climbed into bed. This time when she did close her eyes it was to fall asleep.

 

It was the sound of rain and not sunlight pouring into the bedroom that Marisol woke to. Pulling the sheet over her head, she burrowed deeper into the pile of pillows under her head and shoulders. She didn't want to get up, but knew she had to because the sooner she completed the floor plans the sooner she could return to the States. Once Wesley approved the plan for positioning all of the furnishings he would have to approve the colors he wanted for each room. Her recommendations would include paint colors that were in keeping with the tropical climate: watermelon, pear, cantaloupe.

Sweeping off the sheet, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, her gaze going to the luggage on the floor in a far corner. Now she'd experienced what it meant to live out of a suitcase. The absence of furniture meant that she couldn't empty her bags and put away her clothes in a dresser or chest of drawers. Marisol had taken care not to leave her bags open because she didn't want to bring a creeping or crawling creature back to the States.

The wood floor was cool under her bare feet as she walked over to her Pullman and removed a change of clothes. Thankfully she'd been able to store her toiletries on a countertop in the en suite bath. Forty minutes later, after she'd showered, dressed and made the bed, Marisol walked down the staircase and made her way into the kitchen.

The intoxicating aroma of brewing coffee and the vision of Wesley sprawled on a chair in the kitchen greeted her. He'd rested his bare feet on another chair while flipping through a magazine. His damp hair stood up in tiny spikes from a recent shower and Marisol thought he looked incredibly virile in a pair of faded ripped jeans and white T.

“Buenos días.”

Wesley jumped up like a jack-in-the-box, his chair
clattering loudly as it hit the floor. “Good morning.” He picked up the chair, offering it to her. “Come and sit. The coffee should be ready in another minute.”

Marisol, wearing a pair of jeans with a long-sleeve cotton white top and sandals, folded her body down to the chair. “Thanks. You're up early.” It was minutes after seven.

“I'd planned to go for a swim, but I hadn't expected it to rain.”

“It'll probably clear up later.” She stared directly at Wesley. “I don't want you to call your staffer to ask him to check on Bryce.”

“Are you sure?”

She gave him a hint of a smile. “Very sure.”

Standing in the shower, it was as if she'd suddenly gotten an epiphany. Marisol had decided she wasn't going to chase after her husband. If he wanted to call her he would. If not, then he wouldn't. For Bryce, her need to remain independent meant they were living together but they were also living separate lives, and that was why he hadn't wanted to bring a child into their current lifestyle.

Well, she had no intention of giving up her career and sense of self to become someone like his mother, who'd waited on his father hand and foot and was available at his beck and call.

Wesley nodded. “It's your call, Mari. But if you change your mind I'm willing to do it.”

“I'm not going to change my mind. Today I'm going to do the cooking.”

“That's all right,” Wesley said in protest. “I didn't bring you here to cook.”

“But I want to. How would you like an authentic Puerto Rican meal with rice, beans, tostones and flan?”

Wesley stared, complete surprise on his face. “You cook like that?”

“Yes.”

“¡Maldito!”

“Damn is right. What if we compromise? I'll cook today and you can cook tomorrow.” Wesley extended his hand and she took it. “Do you have a blender or food processor?”

“I'm certain there is a food processor in one of the storage cabinets. Why?”

“I want to make
sofrito,
but I'm going to need cilantro, cachucha or
ajicitos,
bell pepper and cubanelle peppers.”

“I'll give you the number to the market and you can ask them to deliver whatever you need.”

“How far is it from here?”

Wesley smiled. “Too far to walk. I have an account with the store. I order what I want, then settle the bill before I leave the island.”