Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  'Girl? You sure about that?'

  'Of course I am,' Dorothy-Anne whispered. 'Now off with you!'

  'Ciao,' Venetia sang. 'Just remember'—she held out a limp hand and waggled her fingers, multiple gold rings flashing—'he's wearing a wedding band!' she stage-whispered. 'I checked.'

  And off she sailed in a swirl of Issey Miyake, smiling and plucking a glass of champagne out of Hunt's hand without even slowing.

  The party was in full swing. Drinks and champagne had loosened tongues and inhibitions. The noise level had risen markedly, and the sumptuous spreads on the buffet tables were being ravaged.

  Waiters stood behind the guests, helping to serve beluga caviar, gravlax, truffled pate in port aspic, and smoked trout salad. The toqued chefs were busy carving paper-thin slices from racks of lamb, baked hams, turkeys, and smoked salmon. Busboys were constantly replenishing the chafing dishes with escargot stew, grilled duck livers, and beef bourguignon.

  The seats in the lobby were occupied by guests eating from their laps when Venetia saw Dorothy-Anne coming up the spiral stairs from the Cave Club. Venetia caught her eye, then nodded toward one of the thick marble columns.

  Dorothy-Anne followed her gaze.

  A woman was slumped against the marble, highball glass in hand.

  She should have been beautiful. She was high-fashion thin and groomed to the nines. With just the right amount of makeup, subdued and expertly applied. Very tasteful. Her hair was straight and dark and shoulder-length, and she had a fortune on her back: a full-skirted Oscar de la Renta ball gown of sapphire blue silk taffeta, which matched the real sapphires at her neck, wrists, and ears. But for all her efforts, nothing could hide the dissipation of a hard boozer.

  Dorothy-Anne looked back at Venetia, nodded that she would take care of it, and approached the woman. 'Hello,' she greeted in a friendly voice. 'I don't believe we've met.'

  The woman's face came up slowly. She peered suspiciously at Dorothy-Anne through glassy, startlingly sapphire eyes. 'Wha' you want?' came the loud, slurred reply.

  Uh-oh. Should have left well enough alone.

  'Can I get you anything?'

  'Why'd you wanna do that?' The woman lifted her glass to her lips, but it was empty. She held it up in front of her eyes. 'Shit,' she mumbled. 'Need 'nother one.' Her look turned sly. 'Whyn't you get it for me?'

  'Perhaps you'd like something to eat?' Dorothy-Anne suggested tactfully.

  'Fuck eatin'!' the woman snarled insolently. Her eyes were suddenly wild, and her lips sneered ferociously, like a rabid dog's. 'What I need's 'nother vodka!' She started to walk away, swaying slightly and moving with the careful, exaggerated steps of a drunk. Before she'd gone two steps, she stumbled.

  'Whoa, there.' Dorothy-Anne held out a hand to steady her.

  The woman recovered her balance and shook Dorothy-Anne's hand off. 'Don' wan' your help!' she shouted belligerently, causing heads to turn and conversations in the vicinity to halt in midsentence. 'Don' need it. 'Specially not from some bitch tryin' to steal my husban'!'

  More than a little shaken, Dorothy-Anne stood there, staring after her with revulsion as she weaved off in the direction of the nearest bar.

  'I'm awfully sorry,' a familiar voice said from beside her.

  She turned to him. It was Hunt Winslow, and his face was wearing a fixed expression that was a peculiar mixture of weariness and embarrassment.

  Dorothy-Anne laughed. 'You don't have to be sorry,' she said with genuine amusement. 'Really, Hunt. You're not responsible for your entire constituency, you know.'

  His lips tightened. 'Oh, but I am,' he said quietly. There was a catch in his voice. 'At least for that particular constituent. That's my wife. Gloria.'

  Dorothy-Anne stared at him. 'Oh, God, Hunt. I didn't know. Otherwise I'd never have put my foot in my—'

  'How were you to know? You're new here.' He smiled sadly. 'Not that it's any secret in this town. 'Poor Gloria.' ' His voice was soft, and a pained look came into his eyes. 'That's how everyone refers to her: 'Poor Gloria.' It wouldn't surprise me if they started calling me 'Poor Hunt'—or worse yet, 'Poor long-suffering Hunt'!—behind my back!'

  Dorothy-Anne was surprised by his attitude of patience, considering the situation. She wished she knew how to respond. What can one say in these circumstances? She really had no clue.

  He shook his head wearily. 'Well, I'd better go and exercise damage control,' he said, giving a little smile. 'Have to baby-sit. Perhaps we can talk later?'

  'Yes, perhaps,' Dorothy-Anne said. Her heart went out to him as she watched him follow his wife. She couldn't begin to imagine the hell he was going through.

  Venetia came up to her. 'Sugar?' she said solemnly. 'Can we go somewhere quiet and talk?'

  Dorothy-Anne stared at her. She had a terrible premonition of what was coming. 'Freddie!' she gasped, the color draining from her face. She felt suddenly dizzy and she clutched Venetia's arm with a fierce, claw like grip. 'Something's happened to him!'

  'Why don't we use one of the offices?' Venetia suggested compassionately.

  'No.' Dorothy-Anne shook her head. 'Tell me now!'

  Venetia took a deep breath. She wished there was some gentler way to break the news. She said, 'It is about Freddie.'

  Dorothy-Anne's pupils dilated wildly. 'There's been an accident. Is he—?'

  'We don't know, sugar.'

  'But . . .' Dorothy-Anne let go of her and stood there, frozen, her hand scrabbling at her breast like a pet crab. 'What happened?' she whispered.

  'No one's sure. His plane disappeared off the radar screens.'

  Dorothy-Anne shut her eyes, and she could feel herself spinning down, down, down into the bottomless whirlpool of despair. She tried to breathe, but steel bands seemed to encircle her chest. After a moment she opened her eyes.

  'They lost radio contact,' Venetia said.

  'Where did it happen?'

  'Somewhere over the Rockies.'

  'But they're not sure the plane'—Dorothy-Anne couldn't verbalize the word crashed—'went down?'

  'No, they're not. But every indica—'

  'Search parties. They've sent them out already?'

  Venetia held her by both arms. 'They can't, sugar. Not until daybreak. And even then . . .' Her voice trailed off and she sighed. 'A two- day blizzard's just begun,' she explained. 'It'll be impossible to mount a search until the snow stops. I'm so sorry, sugar.'

  Dorothy-Anne suddenly smiled, and her eyes shone with unnatural brightness. 'Don't worry so much, Venetia. Let's go have something to eat. Freddie's fine. He's just delayed, that's all. Perhaps you could use a drink? A shot of brandy, maybe?'

  'Sugar . . . '

  'That's right. I forgot. You don't drink alcohol. How thoughtless of me.'

  Venetia stared at her, thinking, Oh, God. She's in shock. I'd better go get help. She looked around in desperation. Where's Derek when I need him?

  Then Dorothy-Anne's eyelids fluttered and her body went limp. Venetia caught her just as she fainted.

  4

  Dorothy-Anne came to in the penthouse suite. She was lying under the covers, and Venetia was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her hand. That's funny, she thought. I don't remember getting undressed.

  'How did I get up here?' she asked in a strained whisper.

  'We carried you into the elevator. You'd passed out.'

  Dorothy-Anne frowned, and then it all came rushing back to her. Freddie. His plane disappeared off the radar screens.

  She stared at Venetia's concerned face. 'He's only missing!' she said vehemently. 'Freddie's only missing.'

  Venetia tried to smile. 'I know that, sugar,' she soothed, wiping a cool washrag across Dorothy-Anne's forehead. 'I know that.' Venetia turned and nodded to the man standing at the foot of the bed, who drew closer.

  Dorothy-Anne frowned up at him. I've never seen him before.

  'Who's . . . he?'

  'That's Dr. Nouri. He's our house doctor and he's going to give y
ou a sedative. You need to conserve your strength and try to sleep.'

  Dorothy-Anne turned her head away. I'm not the one who needs a doctor, she thought bleakly, visualizing Freddie's battered, broken body lying in some ravine in the blizzard.

  She barely felt the prick of the hypodermic needle puncturing her arm. She turned to Venetia. 'The party—'

  'Shhhhh,' Venetia lulled softly, dabbing the washrag on Dorothy- Anne's face. 'Everything's fine. Derek's downstairs filling in for you.'

  'I've ruined the grand opening.'

  'Girl! Will you stop!'

  Dorothy-Anne could feel the sedative beginning to work. Her eyelids suddenly felt like lead weights, and it was all she could do to hold them open.

  'The children,' she mumbled sleepily, slurring her words. 'Have to call Nanny Florrie . . . mustn't learn about this from TV . . . or the papers . . .'

  'I'll take care of it.'

  Reality was slipping away. 'Have to tell them . . . come out here . . . first flight . . . '

  'Consider it done,' Venetia said, but it didn't register. The voice was muffled and seemed to be coming from underwater, and the lead weights were pressing Dorothy-Anne's eyelids shut.

  And as the sedative brought sleep, sleep brought her Freddie.

  Maybe it was a memory. Or just a dream. She had no idea. But they were writhing and bopping alone to a distant and steady rhythm, and then, as is the way of dreams, they were suddenly in the midst of a jam- packed dance floor, and the nonstop music blasted a torturous, mind- numbing beat.

  It was so densely packed the crowd seemed to hold them up. Overhead, a mirrored ball spun slowly, sending reflections floating all around, then colored gels blinked, and blinding strobe lights freeze-framed everyone like a stop-motion camera.

  It was a serious dance club, and she recognized the music as late seventies, early eighties. The DJ had his finger on the pulse of the crowd, and one catchy disco tune thundered seamlessly into the next.

  Everyone was lost to the beat, waving raised arms like orgiastic worshipers. The heat and sweat mingled with the overpowering stench of amyl nitrate and ethyl chloride, and from time to time she caught fleeting glimpses of a slender, bare-chested young man in a world all his own, dancing an enchanted solo with two giant Japanese paper fans.

  Dreams can blend the most fantastic sublimities with the oddest touches of the mundane. As she danced, Dorothy-Anne realized she was wearing the same prim navy business suit, white silk blouse, and lightweight wool coat she'd worn when she and Freddie had first met, on the windswept roof atop a construction site in Chicago. And he, absurdly, had on the same soiled T-shirt and 501s, which showed off his thick arms and tapered waist to perfection.

  Hardly club attire.

  No matter.

  The tempo sped up and the dancers all around pushed and pressed closer, squeezing them against each other. Freddie grinned at her, the laugh lines around his eyes crinkling, and he was mouthing something, but the din swallowed his words and made it impossible to hear.

  On they danced, and she could feel the growing erection in his jeans with each thrust of his pelvis. At first she glanced around in embarrassment, but everyone was too involved in their own business to notice.

  And so the eroticism of their moves increased. No longer was this a mere dance. This was sexuality incarnate. Their every motion suggested a carnal act, a frenzied, pornographic rite played out as choreography.

  She could feel the wetness flooding into her loins. They were all but making it right there, in the middle of the dance floor.

  Suddenly no one else seemed to exist. It was as if they were alone, and the others were indifferent witnesses.

  He pulled her close and held her there. Took her hand and guided it down to his groin.

  They continued their sexually charged dance even as she felt his rocklike shaft with her fingers. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she could barely breathe.

  'Take it out!' he mouthed, and although his words were lost in the concussive bass beat, she could read his lips.

  She stared at him, her eyes wide, and glanced around in protest.

  He shook his head. 'Forget them!' he mouthed fiercely. 'They won't notice!'

  For a moment she hesitated; then her fingers undid the metal buttons and she slipped her hand inside his fly.

  He was hot and ready, as evidenced by the thick length of his beautifully hard penis. She grasped it by the base and struggled to free it from its snug denim prison.

  It sprang out, into her hand.

  And again this dream dance did the impossible, for suddenly her skirt and slip were no longer a hindrance, and his phallus leaped at her like a striking snake. She gave a startled cry as he entered and impaled her.

  At first she felt paralyzed, numbed. And then her insides blazed like a furnace.

  Now their dance turned truly frenetic. She was lost in abandon, a heathen worshiping Priapus, connected to him by his mighty thrusting phallus.

  Never before had she experienced a consummation such as this. It was dizzying. It was bliss—at once exhilarating and agonizing, and her sexual hunger knew no bounds. No longer was she aware of the music, only of the rhythm of their bodies moving in perfect syncopation.

  When it came, the first orgasm sent her reeling into the outer limits. Somehow she jackknifed her legs around his waist; clung to him for dear life as she arched herself backward until her hair brushed the floor, their writhing pelvises joined as one.

  The force of his driving thrusts quickened and jolted and sent tremors throughout her body. She shut her eyes and cried out at each powerful impact. Already she could feel another tidal wave cresting toward her, swallowing her completely, and she thought she must surely die.

  Life, death, eternity! In the throes of passion, the wonders and secrets of the universe were revealed in all their splendor. The answers were right there, in the seeds of life he would sow inside her!

  This, she thought rapturously, this glorious timeless act could go on forever, without end.

  Please God, she prayed. Don't ever let him stop.

  But before the bellow could rise from Freddie's throat, he withdrew his phallus, gently but firmly unclamped her legs from around him, lifted her up, and set her carefully on her feet.

  She stared up at him with a mixture of hurt and confusion. She couldn't understand it. Why would he want to stop? And why so soon?

  'I have to go now,' he mouthed, gently pushing her away.

  She was stunned. She couldn't believe it. They'd barely begun!

  'Don't go,' she begged. Now that he was no longer inside her, a terrible, lacerating pain tore through her groin. 'Please, Freddie. Stay with me!'

  'I can't.' He was steadily receding backward, gliding into the crowd as though pulled by a force beyond his control.

  She stretched out both arms beseechingly. 'Freddie!' she cried desperately. 'Don't leave me!'

  As if in slow motion, he smiled, placed a hand to his lips, and threw her a kiss. Then the fan dancer, hitherto unnoticed, rose fluidly up directly in front of her. His face was a hideous Kabuki mask, and the colorful, mesmeric fans he wielded wove hypnotically, hiding Freddie from sight. When they parted again, she could see that Freddie was much farther away.

  Back and forth those fans waved, embroidering the air with kaleidoscopes of color and pattern.

  They parted once more.

  Freddie was gone.

  'Freddie!' she screamed. 'Freddie! Freddie!'

  She felt someone shaking her, and a voice reached deep down through thick, cottonlike layers of sleep: 'Wake up. Come on, sugar. You're having a bad dream.'

  'Freddie!' Dorothy-Anne sat bolt upright in bed. Her heart was pounding and she could feel the blood racing madly through her veins. She glanced around wildly. 'Where'd he go? He was here!'

  'It's all right,' Venetia said softly from the chair she'd pulled up to the bed, where she'd spent the night, her Issey Miyake none the worse for having slept in it. 'It was only a dr
eam.'

  Dorothy-Anne shook her head as if to clear it. 'But . . . it seemed so real.'

  Venetia laughed. 'It must have, from the way you were thrashing around. Girl! This is the first I ever heard of a woman having a wet dream!'

  Dorothy-Anne frowned at her. 'What . . . do you mean?'

  'The way you were tossing, it looked as if you were having sex. Oh, for God's sake. Will you stop looking so embarrassed? It's the sedative. Dr. Nouri warned me to expect strange behavior.'

  Suddenly an agonizing pain ripped through Dorothy-Anne's abdomen. Her face twisted in anguish. 'Oh, God!' she gasped.

  'Sugar?' Venetia was suddenly alarmed. 'What's wrong?'

  'I . . . I don't . . . '

  Dorothy-Anne's abdomen convulsed again, and she clasped her arms around herself, biting down hard on a scream.

  Swiftly Venetia jumped up and pulled back the covers. She lifted Dorothy-Anne's nightgown.

  One look was enough.

  Dorothy-Anne was bleeding badly.

  Venetia snatched up the bedside telephone and punched Dr. Nouri's home number, which he'd scribbled on his business card. Then she paced impatiently as far as the cord would permit as it rang at the other end.

  Come on, she willed. Answer it, somebody . . .

  It was picked up on the sixth ring. ' 'Lo?' a voice mumbled sleepily.

  'Dr. Nouri? Venetia Flood here.' She glanced at Dorothy-Anne, then turned away and cupped her hand around the receiver. 'You'd better get over here on the double. I think Ms. Cantwell is having a miscarriage.'

  Venetia stalked the waiting room like a tigress. She hated hospitals, even spacious modern ones like California Pacific Medical Center. By the time the surgeon came out she'd made dozens of calls on her cellular phone— all to no avail.

  Still no word about Freddie.

  And now this.

  Dr. Chalfin, the surgeon, hadn't changed from his OR greens, and she pounced on him before he was all the way through the swinging doors. 'How is she, Doctor?'

  'She's in post-op recovery. You can relax now. She'll be all right.'

  'Thank God.' Venetia let out a dizzying breath of relief. 'That's the first good news I've had in forever. Any problems?'