My Love Betrayed (18 page)

I had been in love before. But never with such
intensity-an intensity that frightened me. It was
love that demanded I throw away all caution and trust a man I knew almost nothing about. I knew
now that it was because of this intensity that I had
run so hard from Charles, found so many excuses
to be angry with him, often without real cause. I’ve
said that I hate the feeling of helplessness, and that
it frightens me. Love, the kind I felt for Charles, is
a kind of helplessness, also. And there is no way to
escape it. But I had tried. Well, the fight was over. I
knew that when Charles returned, if Charles
returned, if Charles still said he loved me, there
would be no more running no more games of
hide and seek. Because love, wherever one finds it,
is too precious to waste. Better to be hurt because
it ends, than never to feel love because of fear.

Fear. There was so much of it around me these
days. I wasn’t a woman who sought adventure. I
had no need to court danger to prove I was as good
as a man. I already knew it. And, although I had
never run from shadows, or spiders, or snakes, or
bullies (of either sex), I would have run now if I
could. But it wasn’t that easy.

I tried to consider Mr. Iveson’s suggestion that
Rick might have somehow used me, and that the
attacks were not random, or revenge, but an
attempt to get something from me. But the only
answer I could find was the one from the night
before. So I climbed out of the chair and began to
get dressed.

I was ready long before the maid tapped at my
door, but I waited until the usual time before I
went down to breakfast. I still felt awkward,
although safe, as the houseguest of a couple I
barely knew, and I wanted to impose as little as possible. As usual, both Ivesons were already
seated when I arrived. It was a beautiful morning,
and Greg and Edna both seemed in a good mood.
“Good morning, dear,” Edna greeted me, as usual.

Greg simply nodded. I murmured a “Good
morning” as I slid into my chair.

“Well,” Greg said, a little too heartily, “I’ll miss
driving to work with you, Ellen. But my loss is
Edna’s gain. And I assure you, she knows it!”

“Don’t embarrass the girl,” Edna told him. Then
she turned to me. “Are you very tired, Ellen? Do
you feel as if you need to rest? Because, if not, I
wondered if you would like to go to Cuernavaca
with me today. It’s close enough to Xochicalco
that we could stop to see the pyramids, if you’d
like. Two hours down, and two hours back, but
I’ve often done it in one day.”

She paused, then explained, “In any case, I have
to go down there today. A couple of years ago, I
officially became an importer, with a partner in
New York. Said partner has just sent me a
telegram saying she urgently needs a new shipment
of silver jewelry and artwork. And Cuernavaca is
very good for that sort of thing.”

“Frankly, it sounds like a lovely idea!” I said.

“Good. We’ll leave right after breakfast.”

In spite of our plans, however, we ate an
unusually leisurely meal. Once, Greg looked at me
speculatively, and I wondered if he were thinking
about our conversation the night before. Without
intending to, I barely shook my head. Perhaps I
guessed right, because Greg didn’t seem surprised.
He just sighed and turned to discuss details of the trip with Edna. Obviously, this was a common
jaunt for her.

But, finally, we climbed into a VW van, Edna
and I, and were on our way. “Why an importer?” I
asked, when we were out of the city and she had
time for something other than watching traffic.

Edna smiled. “It’s really very simple, Ellen. I
love to buy nice things, just to buy them. But there
is a limit to how much any one person can use, or
even truly appreciate owning. So, the solution
seemed obvious. I would incorporate, as an
importer. And I had a good friend in New York
who was sure she could sell anything I could send
her. Soon, we were in business. It’s been
marvelous! There are so many beautiful examples
of Mexican work that I, personally, could never
have found a place for. And yet the temptation to
buy them is overwhelming. This is the perfect
compromise.”

“Do you ever ship out archaeological pieces?” I
asked, knowing her interests.

Edna shook her head emphatically. “No.
Absolutely not. It’s forbidden by the Mexican
government. And, frankly, I can’t blame them.
Why shouldn’t Mexico preserve her treasures? All
of them. They belong to the Mexican people. No, I
never ship archaeological work. But, occasionally,
I find an artist who specializes in reproducing
ancient work. When that happens, if he-or
she is good enough, then I commission several
pieces some for myself, some for New York.”

“Sounds ideal,” I agreed.

Edna glanced at me, then laughed. “And here I’ve been thinking how ideal it would be to have
your job!”

I laughed with Edna. Her easy humor was
impossible to resist. She asked me about my
childhood and I found myself telling her a great
deal more than I intended. Even things I had long
forgotten. In turn, she told me about growing up in
Boston.

It was late morning when we reached
Cuernavaca. We headed straight for a musuem
that turned out to be closed. Our real goal,
however, was the nearby market.

Apparently, Edna was a well-known figure here.
She was greeted by several sellers, who called out,
“Senora Iveson! Senora Iveson!”

A conversation in Spanish would usually
follow, and Edna would smile and consider
various goods. Now and then, she frowned, shook
her head, and then shrugged. Although my
Spanish was totally inadequate to follow what was
said, I gathered these were the preliminaries to
bargaining. The seller would name a price, then
Edna would name hers.

Back and forth it would go, until both would be
smiling. Then the seller would carefully wrap the
purchase as Edna counted out pesos. Occasionally, we took charge of the package. More often, it
was set to one side, tagged with Edna’s name. At
one point, I asked, “How on earth are we ever
going to carry all this?”

Edna laughed. “Oh, but we won’t, Ellen! You’ll
see. When we’re ready to leave, several boys will
suddenly appear and carry the packages for us.
And, I assure you, they will be delighted to do so!”

That didn’t surprise me in the least, considering
how much Edna was buying. I had the feeling that
the merchants would have been delighted to carry
her to the car if she had asked them! At any rate, I
was enjoying myself.

Once or twice, I stopped and bought something
on my own. But the real fun was watching Edna
bargain. Only once did she pay the full price for
something. It was at a small stall, tucked away in a
corner. The seller was an old man, who sat in the
back, carving an animal from wood. The piece that
Edna wanted, however, was the head of a
woman-the hard, dark wood, polished smooth.
It was beautiful. One couldn’t look at the face
without wanting to stroke it.

Involuntarily, Edna and I both did. She looked
at the man and, drawing in her breath, asked the
price. The old man hesitated, and I had the strange
feeling that he didn’t want to sell the piece. At least
not to us. He tried to interest Edna in other carved
pieces, but she was adamant. Finally, he asked her
why she wanted it. I gathered that Edna explained
about her partner in New York and shipping it
there.

I don’t know why, but I felt as if her answer
came as a relief to the old man. At any rate, he
stopped objecting and named a price. Edna agreed
at once, apparently not taking any chances that the
old man would change his mind.

I don’t know how much Edna had come to
Cuernavaca prepared to spend, but she met the
exorbitant price in cash. Lovingly, the carver
wrapped his work. It was then that he looked at
me, and I shivered under his gaze. I don’t know why, but he seemed to be looking at me with pity
and anger.

Even Edna seemed affected. As we turned away
from the stall, she squared her shoulders and said
briskly, “Well, I think that will have to do for
today.” She glanced at her watch. “We should
have time for the museum before lunch. The Diego
Rivera murals are marvelous!”

“What about all the packages?” I asked as she
started to walk ahead of me, and out of the
marketplace.

Over her shoulder, she said carelessly, “Oh,
they’ll hold them for me until after lunch.”

Oh, well, I thought, it’s hardly my worry. So I
relaxed and let Edna take me on a tour of the
museum. Strangely, I remember very little about
the place, except that there were endless rooms of
artifacts and I spent most of the time feeling lost. I
suppose that I saw the murals, but I have no
memory of them at all. Perhaps because Edna
allotted only half an hour for the whole thing. The
pace irritated me, and I began to wonder if it was
going to be such a marvelous trip, after all. But,
over lunch, Edna apologized.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t spend more time, Ellen,
on the museum. But we’ll have to start back, to
Mexico City, fairly early. I can’t stand driving
after dark. And I do want you to have plenty of
time at Xochicalco. I only hope lunch doesn’t take
forever!”

Well it did-take forever, that is. Not that we ate
a large lunch; neither of us was so foolish when we
knew we would be doing a fair amount of walking
that afternoon.

After lunch, we returned to the marketplace to
collect Edna’s purchases. As predicted, several
small boys came running as soon as they saw us.
Edna laughed, and chose four boys to carry the
packages. A few minutes later, we were loading
them into the back of the van. And, as soon as
Edna had tipped the boys generously, we were on
our way.

It wasn’t far and, before long, we were pulling
off the highway and into a paved parking lot.

Edna stopped to ask one of the guards how late
the ruins would be open. Impatiently, I started
ahead. Edna soon caught up. This time she made
no attempt to hurry me. She seemed content to
show me the ball courts and peek into the entrance
to the caves, which were locked up. As we stood,
looking up at the pyramids, I commented, “This
place is in remarkable shape!”

Edna grinned. “What you mean, Ellen, is that
someone has done a good job of restoring things.”
She paused, stared at the most impressive
pyramid, the Pyramid of the Feathered Serpent,
and said, “I’m game, if you are!”

I grinned right back. “Need you ask?”

We ascended in easy stages and, by the time I
stood at the top, I couldn’t help remembering the
other time I had climbed a pyramid. With Rick. It
was absurd, but I even found myself looking over
at Edna to make sure she was still there. She
seemed to read my thoughts, asking, “Thinking of
Rick, Ellen?”

I nodded and tried to explain, “I’ve beenrunning-so hard from what happened. I
can’t run anymore.”

Edna patted my shoulder. “Go ahead and cry.
I’m sure you need to.”

Without wanting to, I found myself taking her
advice. But, still, I went on. “I don’t understand
cruelty. I never have. Why, Edna? Why does Rick
hate me so much?”

Her answer was a soothing string of sounds that
meant absolutely nothing. Finally, I had cried
myself out. Then, briskly, she said, “We’d better
get you down, out of the sun. I don’t care if it is
midwinter.”

I nodded. There hadn’t really been time to look
around much, but now I was too tired to care. Too
bad I hadn’t been able to save the tears for a time
when no one was around, and there was nothing
better to do. But I hadn’t. The grief over Rick that
I had been running from had finally caught up
with me.

Anyway, down we climbed. I felt a bit shaky and
was relieved when we reached the bottom, and I
could sit in a shady spot at the base of the pyramid.
Edna was still concerned. “Stay here, Ellen. I’ll go
get the thermos of ice water from the van.”

I was only too happy to see her go. I hate to have
people see me cry, and I needed the time to
recover. Deep breaths, I told myself. Think of
something else. Who cares about Rick? He was
just a creep. Cross him off and forget about it.
Think of Charles. Yes, Charles.

I was just starting to remember the first time
Charles had kissed me, when I felt something
shoved into the small of my back. Instinctively, I
started to turn. A sharp voice stopped me. “No! Is
a gun, senorita. No turn. No scream. No move.”

A black hood dropped over my head and I
gasped. Rough hands grabbed mine, jerking them
behind me and binding them with some abrasive
cord. Other hands jerked me to my feet. “March,
senorita!” a second voice ordered.

The first voice spoke again. “The gun, it is still
here, senorita. No foolishness, si?”

“Si!” I snapped back, determined to hide my
panic while I tried to think.

Edna. Where was Edna? Would she be back in
time to see us? There were guards at the gate. They
would surely help. Feet. Move the feet. Left.
Right. Going in circles? The ground was uneven
and, for all I could tell, we might have gone in
circles. A firm grip on my arm pulled me whatever
way my captors wanted. The guards! my thoughts
hammered. How did they expect to get me past the
guards? They’d have to take off my hood and untie
me to pass the guards. Keep your mind on the
guards.

I stumbled. Someone jerked me to my feet,
again. Up. Down. I still couldn’t guess which way
we went. Warm. Cool. Sun and shadows. Fat lot
of nothing that told me. We kept going. I felt panic
now. We should have reached the gates long ago.
Where were we going? Terror closing in, building
up the fear. Panic. Trembling, I couldn’t control.
The rough voice saying, “Apologies, senorita. No
policia. We must to use the back way.”

I fainted.