by Saks, Tessa
What is Love?
Tessa Saks
A Paper Modern Paperback
Text Copyright © 2012 Tessa Saks
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
ISBN 978-0-9919282-1-7
Printed in the United Sates
“We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love,
never so forlornly unhappy
as when we have lost our love object
or its love.”
Sigmund Freud
CHAPTER 1
The glass clouded with iridescent sediment as the spoon swirled and blended the poison into a drinkable mixture. Ellen stared at the toxic mixture and wondered how she could even think about killing herself. She knew it was wrong for so many reasons. Yet, here, now, she couldn’t come up with any other solution. She had run out of options.
She pulled the glass close, lifted it to her lips, and hesitated. Should she have put on a nightgown? Would that be more appropriate? Strange how no one mentions what people wear when they commit suicide. Except Marilyn. Everyone knew she was found completely nude. Well, one thing was certain, Ellen Horvath would not be found naked. It was bad enough when she had to strip down for doctors, in the privacy of their offices. But to let her husband see her … and the paramedics or worse, her staff. Not a chance. She stood to change into her peach silk negligee, the one she bought for their fortieth anniversary. She caught her reflection in the mirror. It didn’t matter now. None of it mattered now.
She sank back into the chair. The only thing that mattered was that this crazy plan worked. Jonathan’s face flashed before her—the face she’d loved these past forty years. The face she couldn’t live without. She picked up the glass and stared at the murky liquid. It had been a difficult journey, convincing him to stay. She had certainly tried. No one could fault her for trying. But she had failed. And failure meant she would lose everything.
How could she live with herself if that happened? How could anyone?
She set the glass down and thought about what had brought her to this, the fateful day that had started it all. Valentine’s Day. A ridiculous day filled with love and lies. They say more divorces are started on Valentine’s Day than any other time of year.
***
It was Friday, February fourteenth, 1986, and Jonathan Horvath stood in the middle of the Hallmark store, pulling out valentine after valentine. None expressed his feelings for his wife:
To my wife, I will always love you.
I will love you forever.
You are my eternal love.
His stomach soured. The truth was that he didn’t love her. Not anymore. In all the years of tangled living, something had been lost. Whatever it was they had once shared, they had each taken back. Without awareness, they had each reined in their passion. Now, with all the hearts and frills in front of him, it was real. So many lies, told for so many years. Heartache. Pain. Deception. That’s all that remained. She wasn’t the girl he had married. Who she was now—what she was—he couldn’t say.
A familiar voice called out beside him. “‘To my wife, I love you forever …’ guess that one’s not for me … not yet anyway.”
“Oh, Samantha—darling.” He quickly stuffed the offending card back into a slot in the display rack. “This is a surprise. What are you doing here?” He reached out, gently touching her arm, the softness of her skin teasing his fingertips.
“You still give her a valentine? That’s so sweet.” Sam’s mouth lit into a fake smile. Her body pressed against his arm, taunting him.
He cleared his throat. “Now, darling, I am still married.”
“Yeah, I know.” She crossed her arms in defiance. “And I hate it.”
So do I, he thought, fighting his desire to take her in his arms and kiss her.
“Here, let me help you,” Sam said with a mischievous grin while Jonathan reluctantly shifted back to reality. She fingered the cards on the rack, peeking inside a few, pulling out others and reading them, shaking her head in disapproval. He stared as her buoyant cleavage surfaced with every forward movement.
“Oooh, here. This is good.” She touched his arm as she read aloud, her voice rising in melody. “To my darling wife, I love you for the warm sweet affection in your eyes, the gentle caress in your touch, your kiss, your smile, I yearn to be with you … I love you for more reasons than this card can ever say, our love is the eternal kind—”
“Stop!” He ripped the card from her hand. “I don’t think so,” he said as he shoved the card into the rack.
“Oh? You don’t feel love like that?” She refolded her arms across her chest and studied his face. “Not the everlasting kind?”
“No, damn it—and you know I don’t.”
“Do I?” She moved away and studied him. How can such successful men also be so stupid? Of course she knows he’s damn lucky that someone young and beautiful like her is willing to be with him. As Mom would say: “Prey on their weakness.” Sam had yet to meet a rich powerful man whose weakness wasn’t between his legs. That part was easy. And yes, she knew he no longer loves his uptight, boring wife. How could anyone love her? But what she didn’t know was when in the hell he would finally pull the plug and dump her. Because then she could start her own plans. And what plans! All that money! Her body tingled just imagining the things she would soon buy.
She smiled at him. He looked like a great big piece of silly putty waiting for her hands. Time to apply Mom’s second rule: Men with big toys don’t like to share with others in the sandbox. But even worse is when their toy is taken from them.
“Am I just a plaything to you?” She planted her hands on her hips. “You know—a little side dish.” Sam raised her hand to her cheek. “I wonder if you actually expect me to wait around forever.”
“No, darling.” His voice became soft and apologetic. “I don’t.” He reached out to take her hand.
She pulled it back and leaned close, her breasts tight against his chest. “Well, just remember, there are plenty of other men out there.” Her other hand grabbed his lapel and her lips grazed his neck. She kissed his cheek, and turned abruptly and marched out of the store.
He watched her hips swaying in her tight red dress until she disappeared into the crowd of lunchtime shoppers swarming the corridors of the Rockefeller Center concourse in midtown Manhattan. As he imagined her thin naked body stretched out before him, he couldn’t stop comparing her to Ellen. Sam’s body was unlike Ellen’s in so many ways. Ellen’s body reflected her age. He knew it wasn’t a fair comparison, for it wasn’t her fault she had aged so much, but he had to admit she had let herself go these past years. She used to work out, play tennis and swim. Not anymore.
But the more important difference was the lack of excitement in her body. The lack of sensuality or any form of eroticism in the way she behaved or moved, as if her body served no other purpose than utility. Ellen wasn’t sexy. Her body wasn’t repulsive, but was unappealing, in a bland way. The simple fact was, Ellen looked better clothed than naked—not that he had seen her naked much these past twenty years. She carefully covered herself in yards of chiffon or lace. No walking around naked, as Sam liked to do. In fact, Ellen never did that. Even in her youth, when she was fit, she shielded herself and hid discreetly between the sheets, as if ashamed by the very idea of being nude.
It wasn’t just their physical appearance that were so opposite. Sam was playful where Ellen was serious. She was spontaneous where Ellen was controlled. She found the fun in everything. Ellen found only flaws. Jonathan grinned, remembering Sam getting caught i
n the rain and splashing about with joy. Ellen would be furious that her hair was getting wet. They couldn’t be more opposite.
And Sam looked past his age and saw the young man trapped inside his old man’s body. Ellen constantly reminded him of his age and his responsibilities. She was oblivious to how much he needed to be free. It was as if Ellen wanted to preserve him, conserve him like an artifact and keep him old and weak. He was still young, still energetic and daring, like a tiger in the wild—not in a cage. Why couldn’t Ellen see this? Sam could. In fact, she encouraged it.
He sighed and returned to his futile task. Forty years together. Would the next forty be just the same? A heaviness pressed down on him as he stared at those endless hearts.
End it. End it now. Yes—he would do that. He had to. He knew leaving would destroy her, but he was destroying himself by living a lie. He would stop pretending. No more lies. No more deception. They were finished and he knew it. And so he chose, as countless men have done before him, the safest card he could find to carry him through his last Valentine’s Day with her:
To my Wife
Happy Valentine’s Day
He smiled as he stood relieved by the knowledge that it was now time and he was ready. Then with a lighter heart, he chose another card for Sam.
To the love of my life, the light in my soul, the reason I live, my forever love.
I will love you beyond eternity.
***
Ellen held her breath as Maria, her dependable housekeeper for the past fifteen years, strained to coax the corset smaller. A sudden sharpness pinched her ribs. “Stop! That’s quite enough.”
The reflection in the gilt mirror didn’t lie. Ellen frowned at the bulking form that oozed out the bottom and top of her body shaper—a cinched-in marshmallow with arms and legs. Well, at least she had a narrower waist.
“I can go tighter.” Maria braced her stand and reached for the laces.
“No more. I do need to breathe.” Ellen attempted another deep breath.
Maria backed away. “And eat. Poor Señora, you spend all day with hair and makeup people, you don’t eat.”
“I won’t be eating much tonight, not with this jittery stomach.”
“I get some—”
“No, I’m fine.” Ellen reached for the sparkling gown hanging on her armoire. “Just nerves.”
Maria raised her arms and dove up into the mass of metallic organdy and tulle, separating the layers into an opening. She lifted the giant puff over Ellen’s head, shifting and shimmying until it fastened.
Am I just nervous about tonight? About pulling this off? What if I fail? What if everyone sees me make a mistake? Ellen caught her image in the mirror. No. She’s Ellen Horvath. This is her big night. She wouldn’t fail. She’d never failed at anything. And tonight, after all her careful planning, this gala would show New York society her talents and prove her abilities to lead. To belong.
“Oh, you look so beautiful.” Maria crossed her arms over her heart.
Ellen faced her reflection and smiled at the shimmering aura of gold and crystal—eighteen thousand dollars for a couture gown was a small price to pay to look this radiant. For the first time in so many years, she felt beautiful. And Jonathan … he would see her beauty. He would take her in his arms and kiss her—a deep lingering kiss. Like they used to, like when they were first married all those forty years ago. Ellen glanced toward her bed. Her stomach flinched again.
“Maria, could you lay out my cream silk nightgown, the special one, with all the ruffles. It will need steaming. And chill a bottle of Dom … or whatever we have in the cellar. And glasses … leave two flutes in his bedroom.”
Maria nodded. The corners of her mouth turned up, creating a dubious smile.
Was it funny? Was Maria laughing at the thought of Ellen and Jonathan together for the night? Was it so absurd? So unlikely? Ellen looked at herself in the mirror again and shuddered. Could she really pull this off? This big night … the gala … society watching her every—What had she gotten herself into? She closed her eyes and slowly inhaled, pulling her shoulders back and elongating her spine. She couldn’t fail. Impossible. Come on. This night, and its success, is entirely up to you. Get in the game.
Ellen reached into her vanity drawer and glossed a deeper scarlet onto her lips. “Maria. I need heavier perfume.” She handed Maria the glass-cut bottle for an all-over spritzing. “And set some candles in Jonathan’s room—lots of beautiful candles. After all, it’s Valentine’s Day.”
***
The New York Hospital Foundation’s Valentine Gala has always been a top priority for New York’s social elite. The fact that Ellen was this year’s executive chairman and had meticulously planned the event over the last twelve months did little to calm her jumbled nerves—so much depended on its success. With that in mind, she and her seven committees and fifteen subcommittees had chosen the much loved Great Hall and Temple of Dendur at the Metropolitan Museum as this year’s location.
According to the gala tradition, the longest-married—and therefore oldest—couples would flaunt their decades of devotion by what they wore. Tradition required all women to wear red gowns, with the exception of those women in marriages of forty years or more. They are permitted to wear gold as a symbol of honor. Finally, Ellen had earned the right to wear a gold gown. She had worn red for the previous galas and now it was her night to shine and show off her successful marriage.
Ellen and Jonathan settled into their limousine, ready for the night ahead. Ellen turned to Jonathan and smiled, waiting for a response. He opened his newspaper, blocking her gaze. In the awkward stillness, she longed to have him caress her hand, to say, “I love you.” Why is it so difficult to be affectionate? Why the wall of tolerable formality? She sat back and readjusted the folds of her dress. But then, what couple is affectionate after forty years? Certainly not any that she knew.
The limo pulled away, creeping along the extensive driveway heavily lined with oak trees that rose together forming a generous canopy, their allée as Ellen fondly referred to them. They approached the street as the filigree, wrought-iron security gates opened with the familiar clanking and screeching, releasing them from the confines of their twelve-acre estate.
They passed their neighbors’ equally expansive mansions, each one an elegant and enduring example of early twentieth century architecture. Most of the houses dated back to the twenties, when Sands Point and neighboring Manhasset had first become fashionable. Some of the homes lined the shore and hid reclusively behind tall, dense foliage and privacy gates while others sat exposed, high on wide-open hills, arrogantly shouting for all to take notice.
As they made the turn, Ellen noted their neighbor, Isadora, still hadn’t fixed the broken lights at her entrance or repainted the rusted gates. Poor Isadora. After her husband passed away, she fell apart. Complete madness—even rumors of her cats taking over the house. But Ellen detested rumors. Besides, Isadora had all his money to help her feel better. And close to a billion dollars would go a long way to make any woman feel better fast.
“Perhaps this summer Isadora will finally do something about that unsightly entrance.”
Jonathan mumbled a faint “Mmm-hmm” and continued his reading.
Too bad Isadora wouldn’t fix the gates before Ellen’s Sunday luncheon. The Nassau County Museum of Art fundraising committee was made up of the top tier of society, including her newest high-powered friends—Greta Rosenthal and Lady Sutherland. It also included Mrs. Laurence Ziegler, known affectionately to all as Mrs. Z, but Ellen had yet to prove worthy of Mrs. Z’s attention. Ellen craved inclusion into Mrs. Z’s tight inner circle. All in good time, she reminded herself.
As Ellen’s mother used to say, “Money doesn’t buy you class; that’s something you have to earn.” And she was right. It takes long periods of commitment before proving yourself worthy: years volunteering for the right committees, years donating vast sums to respectable causes and foundations, years forming bonds with impo
rtant members of society. No. Class can never be bought, at least not overnight.
As they neared the Long Island Expressway, the lower-income housing district appeared and a steady stream of suburban vignettes passed before her. Ellen thought about the sharp contrast between their lives and hers. Were they happy? She couldn’t imagine it. Her stomach tightened as her thoughts returned to the night ahead.
***
Sam caught her reflection in the mirror as she spun round and faced the bar. She tilted her head and leaned forward, allowing the bartender ample opportunity to take in her beauty. He dropped his rag and stole a cheating glance before turning away.
“Hey!” A clammy hand tapped her arm. “I know you.”
Sam leaned away from the direction of the slurry voice.
“You’re that model … the angel with the wings above Time Square.”
Sam smiled. She couldn’t help herself. After all, Rebecca and Sienna were running late. And besides, men were so stupidly easy. At least Jonathan was a challenge—especially trying to get him to leave his status-hungry wife. But, Sam always got what she wanted—and a filthy rich man married forty years would be no exception.
She turned to assess the attentive stranger hovering over her. Tall. Decent face. Good suit. Cuff links. Banker or stockbroker. He’ll be good for some drinks while she waited for her friends. She caught his Harvard ring and amped up her smile. “Sorry to disappoint. I have done some modeling … just not the sexy lacy stuff—”
“You sure could, you’re …” He drank her in. “You’re perfection.”
This was too damn easy. But it wasn’t her fault God blessed her with such talent. “I mostly do hand modeling. See?” Sam posed her hand dramatically against her chest.
His eyes locked onto her breasts before breaking away to her hand. “You do have such pretty … hands.”
Fool. A bottle or two of Dom for sure.
***
Twenty minutes had passed in silence, with Ellen preoccupied in her lists and Jonathan staring out the dark window. As they pulled up to the Met, long lines of glossy black limousines converged in multiple rows, swarming toward the entrance. Ellen pressed the intercom and gave their driver instructions on where to park. Pulling into the VIP lane, their car advanced and passed the other cars, stopping at the red carpet littered with Women’s Wear Daily and Vogue paparazzi.