The Bewildered Wife. Vivian Leiber

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      Wiley looked up from his sleep, arching one eyebrow in an imitation of alertness.

      Dean Radcliffe climbed up the last landing up to the children’s wing and appeared at the doorway, a tall shadow backlit by the hall light.

      “Oh, Daddy,” Henry said, poised between happiness and uncertainty about his father’s mood.

      “You missed Susan’s birthday,” Chelsea said accusingly.

      “Now, Chelsea,” Susan warned.

      As Dean stood in the doorway, all Susan’s sensible thoughts about him being out of reach flew out the window.

      She loved him—and could kick herself for loving him.

      And he, she reminded herself sternly, barely noticed her. His mind, as always, was on his work.

      His only concession to the lateness of the hour was that his burgundy silk tie was pulled a bare inch away from the white Oxford shirt collar. His suit was severely, but most expensively, cut. His eyelids were sooty but, though he had left the house at six that morning, his emerald eyes were as piercing and quick as if he had just awakened.

      He raked his fingers through his hair in a gesture that Susan recognized as meaning his head ached.

      It should—his days were long, his work was grueling and he came home every day to children who reminded him of the wife he lost. With their blond hair, their freckles, their blue eyes so much like the wife who had died so tragically, so prematurely.

      Susan was sure he must have loved his wife very much and mourned her deeply.

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Radcliffe,” Susan said, easing off of Chelsea’s bed while managing to hold Baby Edward in a comfortable sleeping position. “Children, give your father a kiss good-night. Then to bed. Henry, pick up your pillow—”

      “No, it’s all right. I’m interrupting,” Dean said, raising his hand. “But I do want to talk to you in the study when you’ve put the children to bed.”

      Chelsea and Henry fell back onto the comforter in a mixture of relief and disappointment.

      “Goody gum drops, we get to finish the story,” Henry said.

      “Daddy, I really do want to give you a goodnight kiss,” Chelsea said.

      But Dean Radcliffe was already halfway down the hall to his study, followed by the ponderously slow but very loyal Wiley.

      Ten minutes later, she went downstairs to the study with a tray piled high with two hot dogs, chips and the salad she had made earlier in the evening.

      The steak was burnt beyond recognition and the baked potato shriveled like a piece of wadded-up paper. The martini pitcher was already washed, dried and put away in the bar armoire. Besides, she didn’t want to remind him of the promise he had made—and broken.

      “Susan, please sit down,” Dean said as she came into the room. He looked at her with the wary but gracious expectancy he no doubt gave to all business associates, secretaries and clerks. “How kind of you to bring me dinner. I could have made something for myself.”

      “Actually, I just made a little more of what I made the kids,” Susan said, conceding nothing about her hopes and dreams and efforts. She put the tray down on the only corner of the desk not covered with papers, and sat on the edge of one of the leather wing chairs opposite him. “You didn’t eat yet?”

      “No, I guess I didn’t,” he said. “I was too busy working out the details on the Eastman Toy deal. There’s a lot of money riding on it.”

      He reached for a hot dog.

      “How is it you always guess correctly the nights I don’t have a business dinner and the ones when I’m able to come home in time for dinner?”

      “Just intuition, I guess,” she said. She didn’t add that appearing at nine o’clock was hardly coming home in time for dinner.

      She slipped Wiley a dog biscuit from her jeans pocket.

      “I’m sorry about your birthday,” he said stiffly, clearly not very practiced in apologies.

      “It’s all right,” Susan said, shrugging.

      “I wanted to talk to you about the children,” Dean continued, showing his relief that she was understanding, that she knew her place in the household. “Tell me about how they’re doing.”

      Susan swallowed the dryness in her mouth. She wondered if she was turning red—she did that when she was nervous. It was always this way with him, being around him. He made her excited and anxious and delighted all at the same time.

      It was a crush. Just a stupid crush.

      A crush she had rationalized and dissected and fought against so long and finally surrendered to so that it was now just a part of her personality, like her soft spot for children, weakness for chocolate and love of Audrey Hepburn movies.

      Having a crush meant that whenever he was near, she noticed everything about him. Whether he was tired, whether he was sad. If he needed a haircut, if he was happy about some business deal.

      She even noticed that he didn’t notice her.

      So she could have her dry mouth, could shake with the jitters, could feel her excitement, her face could have a bright crimson blush—and she never had to worry that he would embarrass her by even suspecting that he was the object of her adoration.

      All he wanted was an update on the kids. All she wanted was the chance to be near him.

      “Baby Edward pointed to the picture of a brachiosaurus in a book this morning and he could sort of say the name of it,” she reported. “And Chelsea won the second-grade calla tournament today. She’s very proud of her—”

      “What’s calla?”

      “It’s a board game. Uses numbers and counting. The second graders have been playing it.”

      “Strategy?”

      “Yes, it uses strategy. Sort of like checkers.”

      “Good. Chelsea’s got a good head for scoping out the competition.”

      Actually, Susan just thought Chelsea was a bright, sweet little girl who had played a lot of calla games with her friends.

      “Henry’s teacher told me when I picked him up that he’s doing much better with sounding out blends. And he got invited to Michael’s house for a play date this afternoon.”

      “Excellent. He must begin making those vital connections.”

      “You mean friendships?”

      “Yes, of course, friendships.”

      As Susan continued the update of domestic events, she was amazed again at how, even as busy, as distant as he was, Dean Radcliffe knew every detail of his children’s life. He puzzled over Henry’s phonics problems, asked about whether Chelsea’s СКАЧАТЬ