Crossroads

by Belva Plain

  Dad was doing nothing more than saying out loud exactly what Jeff had been thinking privately, but hearing his own objections coming out of his father’s mouth made Jeff realize how incredibly shallow, mean-spirited, and unimportant they were. He should beg Jewel to marry him—he should do it this very day!

  And yet . . . and yet. When he was alone with Jewel in his car, taking her back to Wrightstown, he still didn’t do it.Why is that? he asked himself as they drove alongside the shining river. She’s good for me, this darling creature with the wide, warm smile. She lightened the burden of guilt he carried. She washed away his doubts. And she was so incredibly beautiful. And yet . . . and yet. They reached Wrights town, and he still hadn’t spoken. He pulled up in front of the deli where Jewel lived and leaned over for the good-night kiss that would end with them tangled like teenagers in the front seat of his car. Since Jewel had never asked him to come upstairs to her apartment, and she’d always refused to visit his suite in the hotel, they were left with the front seat of his car. But tonight when he leaned in, Jewel did not turn to him. He sat back.

  “You’ve been awfully quiet,” he said.

  “Obviously, I don’t have a lot to say. Not about the things that are important to you, like artists and writers and all of that.”

  So she had realized what Dad was doing. “Hey, don’t confuse my old man with me,” he said. “I’m the one who bought a Lamborghini.”

  It wasn’t much of a joke but he thought it would at least win him a smile. Instead, she turned to him and said, “Yes, and your father is the one who thinks I’m not good enough for you.” Then before he could protest, she asked, “Would you like to come upstairs tonight?”

  They both knew what she was really saying, and for a moment the thought ran through his mind: I won! But then he looked at her. There was weariness in her eyes, and defeat. And he knew that was not what he wanted. Not at all.

  “No,” he said gently. “I won’t go upstairs with you tonight, Jewel, my darling. But I have a question to ask you.” And he took her hands in his. This is right, what I am about to do, he told himself. This is so right!

  “Jewel Fairchild, will you marry me?” he asked.

  He thought the neighbors up and down the block could probably hear her shriek of joy.

  * * *

  Jewel Fairchild, now Jewel Henry, was on her honeymoon! She stood on the terrace outside the mansion-sized “cottage” her husband had rented—on a private Caribbean island, if you please—and looked out at the beach of sugary white sand below. She still couldn’t believe it had actually happened. After that awful visit to Jeff ’s father—the mean old goat—she’d been sure she’d lost Jeff for good. Even though Jeff thought he didn’t care about his father’s opinion, any fool could see that he still did, and every time the old goat had tripped her up with a question about one of those dead people with a name you couldn’t pronounce who had painted or written something, she’d been sure it was the end of her. Because the old man’s message couldn’t have been clearer: This girl isn’t your kind, Jeffie—his father actually called him that—get rid of her.

  Even now, with her three-carat yellow diamond ring safely in place on the fourth finger of her left hand, the thought of losing Jeff made her shudder. Not just because he was rich enough to give her the life she’d wanted so desperately—although that was the biggest part of it, she never tried to lie to herself about that. But she would also miss the man. Because in spite of all his success, Jeff needed her. She gave him permission to ignore his father’s influence and be ambitious and driven and, yes, to be as greedy as he wanted to be. He needed her for that permission, and no one had needed Jewel since her mother died. She felt important again for the first time in years. She never wanted to lose that feeling.

  And she could have lost everything so easily. Jewel shuddered again as she thought of those uncertain months before Jeff had finally popped the question. Refusing to go to bed with him had been a calculated risk; it could have turned him off so easily. But her instincts told her that underneath the hard-nosed businessman was a dreamy boy, and wooing an innocent virgin would stir him far more than another easy conquest. And she was still a virgin, although she was not exactly an innocent one.

  Then came that horrible visit to Horaceville, and she’d been afraid it was all over. The drive home had been one of the low points of her life—it had been as bad as the day her mother died. But her instincts had come to the rescue once again—and oh, she would trust them from now on! Without thinking about it or analyzing it, she had asked him to come upstairs to her horrid little apartment. They had both known what she was really doing was offering herself to him. That had touched a chord of chivalry in her dreamy boy, and the rest was—as they used to say—history.

  Jeff said she could have the biggest, fanciest wedding she wanted. But he seemed pleased when she said she didn’t want a fuss. She didn’t bother to tell him that there was no one she wanted to invite. She hadn’t kept in touch with her brothers or her sisters since she’d left home, and she didn’t even know where Pop was anymore. She didn’t have any friends, unless you counted Patsy Allen. On Jeff ’s side, there was his father, and Jewel certainly didn’t want to invite the old goat.

  So they were married by a judge Jeff knew, and they flew to their private island the next day. And now Jewel had a chef, a maid, and a butler to wait on her. She woke each morning to watch the sun rise over a turquoise ocean, and flowers she’d never seen before perfumed the air outside her windows.

  And at night, she went into a bedroom where the bed was piled high with white linen pillows and the sheets were trimmed with lace and Jeff took her in his arms and undressed her, and she lay down on the big beautiful bed and she . . . pretended. She pretended she loved the things Jeff did, pretended his caresses brought her to ecstasy, pretended to a passion she knew she would never feel. Then he fell asleep with his body wrapped around hers and she stifled the wish that she could have this big beautiful bed all to herself so she could really enjoy it. But that thought only lasted a second. Because Jeff was the reason why she was in this palace, and she certainly owed him a little playacting.

  There was a breeze on the terrace, and the diaphanous robe Jewel had worn over her bathing suit wasn’t warm. And, face it, she could only look at sand and water and flowers for so long, before she started going out of her mind with boredom. Unlike Jeff, who was happily walking along the beach right now. She went back inside the cottage.

  Jeff said he could stay here forever, but she couldn’t wait to get home. That was when her new life would really begin. He had promised that when they were back in Wrightstown, he’d throw away the blueprints for the home he’d wanted to build and let her start planning one to suit her taste with the architect. He was going to buy her a car, whatever make and model she wanted. He was going to spoil her rotten, he said.

  There were times in bed at night when Jeff’s body was wound around her too tightly for her to go to sleep, when it was only the thought of all the spoiling to come that helped her finally drift off. Then there were other nights, when her last thought would be about Gwen Wright—introverted, timid Gwen, who had complained about being forced to go to Paris. Gwen, who had thrown herself away on a man who worked with his hands. If Gwen could see me now, Jewel would think.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The air in Stan’s apartment was heavy this morning. It was funny how Gwen always thought of it as his apartment in spite of the fact that it had been her home since she’d married him four years ago. She sat up in their bed. It was late; Stan had already left for work, moving quietly so he wouldn’t disturb her. But she’d been awake; she’d just pretended to sleep so she wouldn’t have to talk. Now she looked around the bedroom which had been hers for four years. Had it really been such a long time? Such a short time? She’d lost track. The doctor said that confusion was normal, it was a part of the grieving process. She must give herself time.

  Gwen got out of bed and walked to th
e bedroom window. If she looked directly below she could see a little piece of the courtyard behind the apartment building. This little patch of anemic grass and concrete was supposed to provide the residents with an outdoor oasis. Their other option for fresh air was the roof, where the management put out deck chairs in the summertime. But you couldn’t get much of a tan up on the roof because across the street was a big office building called The Amber, which blocked the sunshine for the greater part of the day. Not that Gwen ever went up to the roof. She hadn’t done that even before the tragedy . . . but she wasn’t going to think that. She wasn’t going to let herself dwell on the loss that had turned her into a woman who pretended to sleep because she didn’t want to talk. Not today. Today she was going to get dressed. And she was going out. Even though she was longing to crawl back to her bed and stay there. Get dressed, Gwen, it’s a start.

  She managed to get in and out of the bathroom, but the closet defeated her. Picking out clothes to wear was beyond her. There was a little boudoir chair on her side of the bed. She sat in it and closed her eyes. And, as it so often did now, her mind went back. Back to the wild and happy days she and Stan had spent in Paris. The days when her marriage was fresh and new as a shiny penny.

  It had seemed so romantic, to be married in Paris. She was the one who had suggested it, and Stan had loved the idea. There had been a moment when she’d worried, because the only other time she’d seen the city she’d been with her mother and she didn’t want to be reminded of Cassandra on her honeymoon. It hadn’t happened that way, because Stan had insisted on paying for the trip. He had some money because he’d been saving up to buy the building that housed his shop, but even after they had raided his hard-earned savings they couldn’t travel in the style that Cassandra had afforded Gwen.

  There had been no first-class airline tickets, no VIP lounges, and no palatial hotel once they reached Paris. Lunch was usually bread and cheese, and maybe a salad purchased in a shop and eaten picnic style. There wasn’t any couture shopping. There weren’t any expensive sight-seeing trips. Gwen and Stan had the streets and parks of the city, the bread and cheese, and at night, in the bed that was a little lumpy but angled so they could see the Eiffel Tower out of their window, they had each other. They had all the sweetness and the ecstasy that two people who were in love could give each other and it had been enough . . . no, much more than enough . . . to make the heart sing. Then they had come home.

  * * *

  Gwen opened her eyes. The room was getting too warm. There were no cross breezes in the apartment, and the only remedy for the heat was to close all the windows and turn on what Stan referred to as “the AC.” Gwen hated air-conditioning; the stagnant artificially chilled air was suffocating to her. Despite all her best efforts, the little rosebush that Stan had given her had died after a few weeks in the apartment, and she’d blamed lack of sunshine and the horrid “AC.” Stan didn’t mind air conditioning because he’d lived with it all his life, although he’d been trying to use it as little as possible lately for her sake.

  But now Gwen had to turn it on or the bedroom would become unbearable. She’d get up and do it in a minute, she told herself. Right now, she was feeling a little tired. She’d rest her eyes for a few minutes first. And let her mind go back.

  * * *

  Gwen had seen Stan’s apartment for the first time when they came back from their honeymoon.

  “This is it,” he’d said beaming with pride. And he’d showed her the four boxlike rooms with low ceilings that made up his nest.

  Please God, don’t let him read on my face how I feel, she’d prayed, and she’d tried to smile. The apartment was so small!The walls were so thin!

  You shared a smaller space with him in the hotel in Paris, she told herself sternly. But that had been a temporary situation, like camping out without hot water and electricity. One did that for fun knowing that eventually one was going back home. But these four rooms were to be her home now. And she wasn’t sure how to live in them. She wanted to do it, she wanted to be blissfully happy just being with Stan. But she was used to space. And privacy. And while she loved the nearness of her new husband, loved sitting next to him, or across the table from him, she knew there would come a time when she would want to read quietly without hearing through the thin walls the sporting event he was watching on the television.

  To make matters worse, as she was trying to smile and nod enthusiastically, there came through the paper-thin walls the sound of their neighbors.

  “How dare you, you son of a bitch!” screeched a shrill soprano.

  “You don’t like it, get the hell out!” responded a furious bass. More curses and obscenities followed while Stan smiled ruefully.

  “That’s the Hunters. I’m afraid they do that quite a bit,” he said. “You’ll get used to it. They’re not as bad as our upstairs neighbors were when I was growing up. Every Friday Mr. Newton would get his paycheck and he’d have a couple on the way home and then the fight would start. My brother and I had a pool going on how long it would last each time.”

  He actually thought it was funny! And he was telling her to get used to it!

  But come on, Gwen, isn’t this exactly the kind of snobbery and elitism you wanted to get away from? You made fun of your mother’s home that was so silent and ran like a well-oiled clock. Don’t you remember you liked visiting friends whose parents broke the dishes when they had a battle? But visiting was the operative word. She wasn’t visiting these small rooms, and she was going to be living with the Hunters’ ongoing battle.

  Gwen shifted in her chair—the upholstery was getting too warm; she was starting to sweat. Still, she stayed where she was. And remembered.

  After they were settled in, there had been the matter of housekeeping. She, who had never vacuumed a floor, or scrubbed a sink, had to try to keep their home clean.

  “Let me help you,” Stan said. “I’m very good at mopping and dusting. I’ve been doing it for a lot of years because I’ve been on my own.”

  “You’re working so hard—and you wouldn’t have to put in such long hours if you weren’t trying to make back the money you spent on the Paris trip—and I have nothing to do. It’s only fair that I do the mopping and the dusting,” she said. “Besides, you may be good at housework but I can’t believe you like it.”

  He grinned and took her in his arms. “I’m going to submit you for the Understanding Wife of the Year Award.”

  But she quickly discovered she had no talent for domesticity, and even less interest. Cooking was a special nightmare, and there was no one nearby she could ask how to go about it. She knew Stan was hoping she’d make friends with some of the young women in the building, but most of them were single and racing out every evening after work to go to the restaurants and bars where they would—hopefully—meet young men. Those who were married were juggling jobs and children. Gwen usually encountered them in the basement laundry room on Saturday mornings where they complained to each other about the high cost of day care and the unreliability of baby-sitters. Gwen tried to think of something to say and usually failed. At such times the loneliness would threaten to overtake her, and when she was back upstairs Stan would find her crying over the sheets she was trying to fold. “If only we could bring Missy or Hank here—just for a few days,” she said once. But the building had a rule against pets. All Stan could do was hold her and tell her he understood.

  But he didn’t understand—especially not about her longing for the outdoors. Stan had never had acres of woodland to tramp over; he’d never had his own refuge with a special stump to sit on hidden under the trees on the side of a hill.

  “There’s a public park not ten minutes away from here,” he told her when she moved into the apartment. “Everyone says it’s a little bit of country right here in the middle of the city.” Gwen had tried to go to the park. She’d tried to tell herself that she didn’t mind the blaring of other people’s music, tried to make herself believe that the overfed pigeons strutti
ng around were a satisfying substitute for the songbirds, chipmunks, and squirrels she’d loved watching. She just couldn’t do it.

  Once, when she was indulging in a bout of the blues, she’d tried to choose the season in which she missed the land the most. Was it springtime when the hill behind the Wright house was alive with the fresh green of new buds and early grass and the sun that was still warming the winter out of the earth? Or was it summer when the cicadas buzzed lazily in the heat and the roses gave off a heavy perfume as they drooped, waiting for the afternoon rain? Was it the autumn when the red maples burst into flame and the oaks, ashes, and poplars followed with gold and orange and the air was crisp like the inside of an apple? Or was it winter when the snow covered the earth with its magic blanket of softness and embroidered white lace on the trees and bushes? After a day of torturing herself with thoughts like that, she vowed never to give in to them again. But the hunger grew more and more intense. And after a year she began to be afraid that the time would come when her sense of loss would be so bad that even her nights with Stan in their bed could not heal her.

  * * *

  Then, at the moment when she had started to despair, Cassie had stepped in. When Stan and Gwen came home from France, Cassie was remarkably restrained. There had been no recriminations and no lectures—Gwen was pretty sure she could thank Walter for that—and even after Cassie had toured Gwen’s new home, she had not uttered a disapproving word . . . although her pursed lips and the frown between her eyes spoke volumes. She had kept her silence for a year. But then she had invited Stan and Gwen out to the house for Sunday brunch.

  “Why don’t you go without me?” Stan said.

  “Mother wants both of us to come,” Gwen replied. “She said she wanted to talk to us about something.”