Rich Man, Poor Bride. Линда Гуднайт

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СКАЧАТЬ them, sat in a chair next to the bed, her eyes closed. Lips moving silently, her fingers weakly prayed the rosary beads lying in her lap.

      “Ah, Ruthie. It is you.”

      Ruthie laughed softly. “And who else were you expecting? Prince Charming?”

      “Maybe. Wasn’t he a native of Florida?” Naomi’s brown eyes still snapped with warmth and humor, though since Jason’s death, her sixty-eight-year-old body had grown frailer with each passing week. Lately, she’d been frighteningly ill on several occasions, suffering from blinding headaches, nausea and eye pain.

      Naomi’s doctors back in Texas believed her vague transient symptoms were psychosomatic brought on by the tragic loss of her only child. Ruthie knew better. Which was exactly why she’d requested the transfer from her hotel in Texas to La Torchere, its sister resort. She’d been lucky to talk by telephone to Alexander Rochelle himself, the owner of both hotels. The kind and generous man had made the transfer arrangements as soon as she’d explained her dilemma. The only doctor who’d given them hope for a cure was a ferry ride across the water on the mainland of Florida. She’d hated leaving Texas and the only real home she’d ever known, but she would have moved to the moon if that’s where Naomi could find health again.

      Someday her mother-in-law would be well. Then Ruthie could think about the home and family and roots she’d always wanted.

      Kneeling in front of her mother-in-law, Ruthie grasped one soft, thin hand between her own water-cooled ones.

      “How are you?”

      “Better now that my daughter is here.” Naomi gently cupped Ruthie’s cheek. “You are gone half of last night and again today since the morning. Even the young must rest.”

      Ruthie’s chest filled with love for this gentle Mexican woman who’d become more of a mother than her own had ever been. Working to earn money for Naomi’s medical care was a privilege, a labor of love, though she could never make Naomi understand that. The older woman had tenderly taught a twenty-two-year-old military brat to be a wife, to cook, to make a real home. But, most important, she’d welcomed her son’s wife into her life with open arms and a loving heart. No matter how much Ruthie might do, she could never give as much as Naomi had.

      “Have you eaten anything?” Ruthie knew the answer before Naomi shook her head. Most days her mother-in-law barely mustered the strength to move from room to room. And the cup of prepackaged peaches Ruthie had left on the bedside stand remained untouched.

      “Mama,” she scolded gently. “You didn’t touch that fruit.”

      “Later, chica.”

      “Did you see what I brought you from that banquet I worked last night?” Ruthie pumped her eyebrows for emphasis, hoping to generate interest in a special treat. “Chocolate cheesecake. Your favorite.”

      “My favorite? Ha. No one loves cheesecake like my Ruthie. You eat it.”

      “Mama, look at me.” She tilted back on her knees and pooched out her belly. “One more pound and I won’t fit into this bathing suit. Besides I don’t like cheesecake as much as I once did. And we can’t let it go to waste. You’ll be doing me a favor if you eat it. Please.”

      “How is it you bring these sweets and fancy foods from your work and do not like any of them? I know you, Ruthie Fernandez. You buy nothing for yourself. You work, work, work, saving pennies, doing without, all for a sick old lady who is not even your kin.”

      “Don’t ever say that, Mama. You are my kin.” Ruthie tapped her heart. “Right here, where it matters most.”

      “Always in Texas you say how much you love having a home and a husband. Roots, you say. Yet you are in Florida, living in a hotel. You are a good wife to my Jason, but he is gone now—” she crossed herself “—God rest his sweet soul. This place is full of rich, handsome men. You should be finding a new husband, not spending every minute working or caring for me.”

      Ruthie’s heart pinched to hear her mother-in-law talk this way. She wasn’t looking for a husband, especially among the snobbish rich and famous. And even if she were, she couldn’t expect a man to care for Naomi the way she did.

      “This is only temporary until you’re well. Remember when you first started seeing Dr. Attenburg? Remember how much better you felt for a while?”

      They’d had such hope for those few weeks until the money ran out.

      A soft smile creased the wrinkled brown face. “Yes. So much better. I believed Dr. Attenburg was going to cure me.”

      “And he will. As soon as we can start the treatments again. I’ve saved up the money for the next round.” Almost. Every day Naomi grew weaker, and Ruthie was terrified of losing her. She had to start those treatments again soon.

      “Already?”

      Ruthie faked a jaunty grin. “Tomorrow I’ll call for an appointment.” Somehow, some way, she’d manage the expense. “And in no time you will be on your feet making me the world’s best tamales.”

      “Better than Mrs. Sanchez’s, sí?”

      “Sí, Mama. The best.” Ruthie fought a smile. Naomi and their former neighbor Mrs. Sanchez had a good-natured battle over who was the best cook. In the past two years, the battle had been on hold as Mama’s condition worsened.

      Her print dress, once snug on a rounded body, now draped limply over her knees. Ruthie hugged those bony knees and stood. Leaning down, she kissed Naomi’s soft cheek. “Let me grab a shower to wash off this chlorine, and I’ll fix you something good to eat. Okay?”

      “Rest, child.” Naomi’s fragile eyelids drooped.

      “You rest, Mama,” she said, swallowing the lump that formed in her throat every time she looked at the woman who’d been so vital, so energetic before this strange illness took over. “I’m not the least bit tired.”

      As Ruthie showered and dressed, she justified the tiny untruth with the knowledge that more work meant more money. Because of the experimental nature of Naomi’s expensive treatments, Dr. Attenburg required cash—a commodity in short supply in the Fernandez coffers. And now the good doctor said Naomi needed more intensive—and more expensive—therapy, a fact she wouldn’t share with her mother-in-law. The money was her problem to solve. Naomi had to concentrate on getting well.

      Gnawing on her bottom lip, Ruthie yanked her hair into a loose knot on her head and headed into the kitchen area. If only there was some faster way to earn more…Or perhaps Dr. Attenburg would consider extending a little credit.

      Fretting, planning and mentally counting her pennies, she rummaged through the refrigerator trying to hustle up a healthy meal to tempt Naomi’s decreased appetite. She sprinkled cheese on a simple noodle casserole and was sliding it into the microwave when her pager went off.

      A glance revealed Merry Montrose’s phone number. Ruthie tapped the number into her telephone. Holding the receiver between her shoulder and chin, she tossed together a green salad while listening to the manager’s voice.

      “One of the waiters can’t make it in. He claims to be sick, though I have my doubts about that unless laziness is now a recognized malady. So I need you down here. Six sharp.”

      “The СКАЧАТЬ