Free A Thorn in the Bush by Frank Herbert Page A

I’ve sold beauty!
    “Perhaps you should go inside and rest for a while,” said Dr. Herrera. “Your illness …”
    “I’m fully recovered,” said Mrs. Ross. “You run along now and take care of that young man. There must be no complications. See that he gets everything he requires. And put it all on my bill.”
    “Well … if you’re sure you feel all right,” said Dr. Herrera. “But do not stand too long in the sun of noonday. And call me immediately if you feel dizzy, eh? Or any pains of the stomach?”
    “I will call you, Doctor.”
    “I’m sure you will.” He executed a little bow, gave her his English notice of departure: “Goodbye now.”
    Mrs. Ross watched until he rounded the corner. A shudder passed through her. I might have killed that young man! she thought. And there was in the thought a touch of the same feeling she experienced at the possibility of waste or mis-handling in any of her financial empire. She took a deep, relieved breath. Well … this will shake down in time.
    A metallic gleam in the dirt at her feet caught Mrs. Ross’s attention. She stopped, removed a crude model wheelchair from a hole left by a missing cobblestone. The model appeared undamaged, preserved from trampling feet by the hole in which it had lodged. She shook off the debris of parsley and dirt that had partially concealed it, stared at the model: a pathetic little thing, the kind used in window displays.
    How can I face Paulita? she wondered. After what she saw.
    Mrs. Ross glanced across the street where both door and window remained closed, bolted. She felt old, ashamed: the shame much more involved in Hoblitt’s indictment of her than in her error of judgment about the artist.
    I’ve been an old fool , she thought. Then: Well … we’re never too old to learn.
    Don Jaime’s lank form skirted the corner ahead of Mrs. Ross. The mayor bore down on her almost at a trot. His narrow face was drawn downward in a look of dog-eyed melancholy. His severe black suit looked just a little disheveled. He pulled up in front of Mrs. Ross, wiped perspiration from his forehead with a white handkerchief which he returned to a side pocket.
    “Good morning, Jaime,” said Mrs. Ross.
    “Emma,” pleaded Don Jaime. “What have you done?”
    “It was an accident,” said Mrs. Ross. She felt stirrings of anger at Don Jaime, thought: Why does he have to intrude just now?
    “Aiiii!” wailed Don Jaime. “Another accident!” He stretched out both hands, palms up. “Emma, I asked you not to do this! I knew in my heart the young man was harmless. From the moment I first began dealing with him, I knew he was a good young man, very sympathetic, very …”
    “Jaime, please,” she said. “Not now.”
    “There will be another letter from the Turismo,” he accused. “And what can I tell them?”
    Mrs. Ross took a deep breath, hefted the model in her hand. I’ll have Serena wash this off before I take it over, she thought. Yes! And I will tell Paulita what Hoblitt said about marrying her! That will take her mind off anything else.
    She felt the entire situation settling into place. And abrupt insight struck her as she recalled what Hoblitt’s painting had revealed about Paulita: the latent coldness, the cruelty, the pride. Serve him right if he does marry her!
    “What am I to tell Turismo?” insisted Don Jaime. He wrung his thin hands.
    Mrs. Ross half turned away, stopped, looked back at the mayor. To think that I could have married him once, she thought. God watches over women and fools.
    Inspiration filled Mrs. Ross. “Tell Turismo,” she said, “… tell them that San Juan is the fairest flower in all of Mexico’s tourist attractions. But tell them that every such blossom must have around it a bush of thorns. Everything of beauty must have at least one flaw in it. Otherwise people do not realize how beautiful it truly is. That is what you must tell them. Tell them that I—Emma Ross—I am the thorn in San Juan. Tell