Free Keeping Secrets by Suzanne Morris Page B

to be done, he was at work on it immediately, even when there was obviously no hurry necessary. One morning I told him I’d noticed a charming little summerhouse in one of the yards on King William.
    â€œI could build you one even finer than that,” he offered at once.
    â€œOh, I don’t know whether Emory would like—”
    â€œHe wouldn’t mind, as long as it was for you. I’ll work on some plans tonight, and when I get them to suit you, I’ll go down to Steves Lumber and buy the wood. Maybe we could situate it in front of the Spanish oak in the side yard, between those two big magnolias. That way you’d have plenty of shade on it.”
    â€œYes, and I could plant roses around it. Let’s paint it white, to match the trim on the house,” I said, infected by his enthusiasm.
    As a matter of fact, while the summer of 1914 wore on, I was eager for something new to occupy my mind and demand my energies. I found myself constantly expecting Emory’s announcement that he was bound again for Mexico, and would brace myself for the worst each time he broached a new subject in conversation. He spoke little at first about his plans with Barrista, and as he was often preoccupied I didn’t urge him to discuss them (I wished more than once that something might happen to make the Mexican troubles dissolve).
    Only the daily newspapers kept the situation near. In mid-July Huerta finally gave up under Wilson’s pressure and left the country, friendless, and reportedly “subtle and bitter” in his denunciation of the United States. Reading the Huerta story—assuming then it was an epilogue—I could not help but wonder why Fernando Barrista wanted the weight of Mexican troubles on his shoulders. And Emory—how much wealth or personal gratification could possibly be worth the strain and pressure of involving himself in matters he needn’t even bother with? His insatiable thirst for winning went back, of course, to the indignities he suffered in his bringing-up.
    Sadly, as much as I loved and understood him, my presence in his life could not completely fill his sense of need. In a way I was even a part of what drove him: as his wife, I could always be referred to as the “reason” he had to make good. How badly it would reflect on him if I did not have a big home and lots of expensive clothes to wear … and, several years hence, what a failure for him if I did not have even a second home, a staff of servants for each, and a substantial amount of the year spent traveling to one place then another. That I wanted none of this did not matter to him in the least. And I couldn’t tell him why I had every reason to remain modest about wealth.…
    Emory was spending fewer and fower evenings at home, and I was certain he was putting up Nathan to lie for him about the reasons. The young man never looked me in the eye when he told me another, then another excuse about why Emory would be arriving home late.
    Yet this concern was pushed aside by something far more ominous.

9
    One morning as I was picking over fruits and vegetables at Haymarket Plaza, enjoying the sunshine and the pleasant sounds of chatter and general hustle-bustle of the market, I suddenly had the feeling someone was watching me from behind. I turned around, expecting to see a familiar face approaching. By now I knew enough of the vendors and patrons to exchange a greeting now and then or discuss a good find among the produce. Yet there was no one I recognized, though I shaded my eyes and looked both ways.
    Imagination, I decided.
    I began comparing the color and texture of fresh peaches, and was soon lost again in the business at hand. I selected several, and moved along to the next table. My basket was growing heavy by now so I stopped to reverse it with my handbag in the other hand, and in doing this I looked about, an uneasy feeling taking hold of me though I couldn’t say exactly