A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [45]
“Is that true?”
“No,” Sean said.
“My church…my church telling me to spend my entire life with a lie. My priest, my uncle saying murder it.”
Quinn walked out without looking back.
A sense of urgency, a need for clear thinking, enveloped Quinn as he sped back to Boulder. The idea of fatherhood swelled up in him like Billy Bigelow in Carousel: my little boy…my little girl…. This kid will know love. This precious little life will not be wasted by human haggling over commas and semicolons. “No nightmares for you, honey.”
He arrived at the apartment knowing what he must do. Whatever, however, she would carry the baby to term. Whatever, however! The door was unlocked. He flung it open.
“Greer!”
He saw her cap and sunglasses on the table. “Where the hell are you?” He flung open closet doors, tried the bathroom. Empty. A faint sniffle caught his ear. She was curled up against the wall beneath a long worktable.
“Baby, come out of there, come on.”
She crawled out, fell into him, and became hysterical.
“I had it taken care of!” she screamed.
All one could hear was painful breathing and a sudden return to calm. “The minute I had it done, I realized what I’d done. I love you, man. I can’t leave you! To hell with New York, Quinn. I’ll stay. Marry me and we’ll make another baby!”
He provided comfort and shelter and soft, sad smiles. Their time had passed. And every night as he held her he felt her pain growing smaller and smaller and then the urge to be Greer again, fly away Greer, took over.
And she left.
Chapter 12
TROUBLESOME MESA, 1973
It had been a long time since Carlos Martinez had come home. On the last occasion, they’d had his graduation from the University of Texas and he took night school in law. He had been taken by a prestigious law firm in Houston which handled masses of Mexican business.
Although very much of a junior partner, Carlos quickly established he would earn his salt. He spent much of his time in legal work below the border and often in many places in South America and the Caribbean.
Carlos wore the best. In a short time he knew he would be driving the best, sailing the best, and perhaps even flying the best. He was clever and brilliant and forceful, a rare combination for one so young.
Coming back to the ranch was a mixed blessing. His father and mother, Pedro and Consuelo, had reduced their workloads and enjoyed the comforts of coming age.
Juan, the youngest of his brothers, was the rancher. Under the watch and direction of his father, Juan evolved to take over as foreman.
The Martinez family was a twenty-five-percent partner in the ranch, so the generations were doing their proper thing. At least one son in the Martinez family would remain.
The O’Connells? Quinn was gone, out of contact with everyone except Reynaldo Maldonado and his daughter, Rita. A permanent pall of dusk had fallen over Dan and Siobhan.
Fiesta!
The entire valley, including Mormons, came for the spice and feast. Carlos devoured the female attention as well as the awe of the ranchers’ boys. “See who I am!” his manner said. “I will drive a Corvette next year! You didn’t think Carlos would be so great, did you?”
The valley girls seemed rather heavy and frumpy to him. Their best clothing was drab. Ranch girls were for ranch boys, who were not so particular.
It was all a great victory for Carlos, the return of the triumphant son!
And then he saw Rita Maldonado and her father wending their way through the crowd to him.
“Jesus,” he whispered to himself.
How old would she be now? Seventeen. Reynaldo had never painted or sculpted a woman as beautiful as his daughter. She was Aphrodite with dark hair and just enough of her mother’s Nordic genes to refine her features.
“Carlos,” she cried, throwing her arms about him.
“You’ve grown up.”
That included an observation of her bosom and everything else. They remained standing and looking at one another until people around