by Saks, Tessa
“Who the hell cares?” Patty grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the crowd gathered nearby. “Let them say what they want. Screw ’em.”
“What will they say?” Ellen’s stomach cramped at the gossip this would create. A feeding frenzy! Jonathan was right. “What should I do? I can’t go out without him. I should leave, but I can’t … this is my event.” She turned away. “Oh, why? Why Jonathan? Why tonight?” She turned away. “Oh, why? Why Jonathan? Why tonight?”
“What made him upset?”
“He … he …” Ellen dabbed her eyes again. “He said he’s leaving me, that it’s over.”
Patty grabbed a chair and sat close, put her arm around Ellen’s shoulder and hugged her.
“—that he can’t pretend any longer.” Ellen took a deep breath. They sat in silence for a moment. “But, he’d been drinking.”
“Of course—he was drunk,” Patty said, sounding relieved as she sat back. “That’s all it is. He’ll feel terrible about being such an ass tomorrow.”
“Yes … tomorrow. He’ll realize …” Ellen tried to register this possibility. “But what if he wasn’t drunk? He said he loves that tramp he’s been seeing and wants to be with her, that he wants to marry her.” Ellen sobbed as the words came out. “What if he means it?”
“They all say that at one time or another. I’m surprised. I thought you were the only couple not to have an interloper.”
“I wish.” She grabbed more tissues. “He’s had … it’s happened before, but never serious.”
Patty shook her head and hesitated. “Is she young?”
Ellen nodded, “She can’t be more than twenty-six, maybe twenty-eight.”
“Damn it. Aren’t they all?” Patty shouted and raised her arms as if pleading for sympathy. She leaned forward. “Do you know how long they’ve been …?”
Ellen inhaled a deep breath and held it. “I don’t know. I stopped paying attention to his liaisons a long time ago. I mean, as long as he stayed, what did it matter?”
“My dear, you need to take charge and do your homework.”
“What?”
“You need a private investigator. Get the details. Could be all kinds of dirt on her.”
“You’re joking? I could never—”
“No. Listen, this might be just a false alarm, you know, drunken talk. But I say where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire. It could be just a smoldering campfire, but those little suckers can rage into a bloody forest fire. So get on it, just in case.”
“Oh no,” Ellen cried as a sharp rush of nausea hit. “You think he will actually leave me?”
“No.” Patty put her hands on Ellen’s shoulders. “No, I just think it’s better—”
“Patty, I would die if he left me.” Ellen tore at the tissue in her hands. “I can’t be alone …”
“Then you need to do something. Come on.” Patty grabbed the shredded tissues and tossed them on the table. “Let’s stop all this worrying and try to have a bit of fun. This is still a fabulous party and you planned it. Let’s not let him ruin the night completely. Besides, this may turn out to be a big to-do about nothing.”
“But what will I say?” Ellen asked. She opened her compact again and tried touching up her eyes in the dim light. “I can’t face this … but I have to say something.”
“That he was behaving like a jackass, so you sent him home?”
“Maybe I can say he got sick.” Ellen looked out toward the incoming crowd.
“Atta girl! Now, we need a cocktail, get some reinforcement.” Patty jumped to her feet.
Ellen stood and nodded in agreement, but it still felt like someone had shredded her insides with a steel grater. She forced her cheeks into a smile as Lady Sutherland and Greta approached. You can do this, she told herself. Be strong. Don’t let them see. Be strong!
“Ellen, where’s Jonathan?”
“He got sick,” Ellen replied, trying to sound casual. “He’s having trouble with his—”
“Mrs. Z thought he was yelling at you.”
“And someone said he stormed out and got a cab, did you have a fight?”
Ellen bit her lip, fighting back tears. This was going to be a very long night.
CHAPTER 2
After the gala, a broken Ellen returned home, alone. The evening had been unbearable—acting strong while everyone around her gossiped. Jonathan had taken a cab home that night to pack. He left a message with their housekeeper, Maria, saying he would be away on business and gave no return date. By the time Ellen came home and checked his room, he was gone. Judging by the empty hangers, he planned to be away a long time.
Every time Ellen imagined her Sunday luncheon, her resolve wilted until she finally canceled it. She refused to take any calls or get out of bed, telling the staff she was sick with a contagious flu. Evidently they believed her, for the house was a quiet morgue.
She spent Saturday crying and torturing herself with images of Jonathan in the arms of that evil, calculating tramp. She pictured him groping that young body. She imagined them so clearly, staring into each other’s eyes and gushing pathetic fake words of love, believing in every lie that crossed their treacherous lips. Then, for extra torture, she lay in bed reading all the cards and letters he had written during the first years of their marriage. Cards and letters filled with loving words and tender emotion, proving how much he had loved her in those early years.
Where was this affectionate man now? The banal valentine Jonathan left for her sat neglected on the front console table. Every time Ellen thought about it, she cried. She cried for all the words no longer spoken, for all the feelings he no longer had. Finally, in an act of self-preservation, she shoved it into the drawer, while her card to him lay on his dresser, unopened.
By Sunday, she was exhausted. Fool, she repeated through her tears. But who was the fool? Jonathan? Herself? Both perhaps. Haven’t I been through this nonsense of yours before? Haven’t I seen this so-called passion burn out and die as quickly as it started? Hasn’t my heart been damaged enough over the years to become immune to pain? It should have. Through all your mistresses, the failures and forgiveness, a bond emerged between us. A binding, silent agreement. Jonathan, have you forgotten? I followed the rules. I became everything you wanted in a wife. A perfect mother. How did I fail you? I gave you your freedom. I allowed your habits. Wasn’t that enough? It should have been.
Finally, after hours of lying in bed, feeling every bit as sad as the night of the gala, she got up and went to her bathroom and splashed cool water on her swollen eyes. Enough already, she scolded herself. You’re stronger than this. Do something. She thought of going to church. She had rarely missed Sunday morning mass. But seeing anyone would only remind her of what she was trying so hard to forget. She stared at her puffy face and tried to remember how it looked when she was young. Have I actually changed that much? Is fifty-eight really too old to be loved? If he can’t love an old me, who will? He at least knew I was once young and pretty. All any other man would notice today is a sad, wrinkled woman. Someone’s leftover.
She needed comfort. Anything. She went to the closets in the bedrooms, hauled out all the photographs and albums from the past forty years, and brought them to his bedroom. She amassed a substantial pile of shoeboxes and albums, all holding the record and proof of their love, an entire lifetime. She carefully spread them out over his bed.
As she sorted through the pile, every picture tore away little pieces of her heart, reminding her of the happiness they once shared. It hurt every time she tried to think of life without him. He was the only man in the entire collection of photos. The only man she ever loved. How could she live without him? She had not dated anyone before Jonathan. What did she know of men? And who would she be without him? Their lives had blended for so long, was there an Ellen without a Jonathan?
What if he did leave? She stared at the pile of memories. Would these albums be filled with pain and heartache? Would she ever be able to look with pleasure
at the past? Or would it be permanently ruined, eternally reminding her of what she had lost, what she once had? And forever after, every time she looked on these photos, would she experience the pain of never being able to recapture the happiness they once shared?
Even worse, would she eventually cut him out of all the photos, as other angry women have done, in a desperate attempt to enjoy viewing them again? Amputate him from every scene; erase him from the past forty years, as if he never existed. Would she erase the hurt and pain with the quick cut of a sharp pair of scissors, as if the stories spoken within each photo could somehow be retold without him present?
The irony of it was, if he died, all these photographs would be savored … cherished as an eternal tribute. No cutting or clipping. No damage inflicted. A collection of their love, a lifetime of their happiness, frozen and preserved forever. Immortalized. If he died. Yet, if he divorced her, the damage would be irreparable, the pictures forever ruined, forever tainted. Toxic reminders. Why so different?
Ellen looked at each memory of their life together and realized how much she needed to be his wife. She would always love him. She could never cut him out of the photographs. He had to stay. He was an essential part of her. Remaining his wife took precedence over everything else in her life and she would do anything to keep him; if only she knew how.
On Sunday afternoon, the phone rang. It had been ringing all day Saturday, mostly because of her canceled luncheon, but had been, today, oddly silent. With every ring, Ellen prayed that Jonathan had finally come to his senses. Her housekeeping staff, Carlos and Maria, had strict orders to take messages unless it was him, or an emergency. When Ellen heard Carlos’s footsteps on the stairs, her heart beat fast.
“Mrs. Wentworth is here,” Carlos announced through the closed door. “Shall I—”
“I’ll be right down,” Ellen said, then imagined the staff overhearing them. “Wait,” she called through the door. “Carlos, send her up here, to my bedroom.”
Ellen stood and smoothed the bedspread, then pushed the piles of photographs and albums into the center. She plumped the pillows, arranging them against the headboard.
She had first met Patty twenty years before, when Jonathan became a member of the business committee at the Met. Patty had been a member for several years and took it upon herself to initiate him. Through that successful partnership, Ellen also found a close friend. It helped that her husband Phil and Jonathan got along and liked the same music, Cuban cigars and single malt scotch.
Ellen knew Patty had been vaguely aware of Jonathan’s recent indiscretions, but there were still dark secrets Ellen would never reveal. In society, Ellen understood a friend can only be so close since the potential for backstabbing was always hovering in the background. Women gossip and hurt one another at the best of times, but when money and power are involved, nothing is off-limits.
Ellen put all the tissues into a wastebasket beside the nightstand and was about to head to her room to meet Patty.
“Knock, knock,” Patty said, opening the door and poking her head inside.
“Come in,” Ellen answered, wishing Carlos had sent Patty to her room instead.
“I come bearing comfort,” Patty said, putting her arm around Ellen’s waist.
Ellen returned the hug, unable to force a smile. “What exactly is your idea of comfort?”
“The new Escada catalog, a box of decadent chocolate truffles, and my personal favorite—a bottle of ’76 Tattinger Rosé … oh, and I tucked in a book on seducing your man.”
Ellen looked toward the window. “Bit hard to seduce a man when he’s not here.”
“Well, you can be ready for his return.” Patty set her bags down. “This, my dear, is war.”
“And I’m a one-woman army.” Ellen faced her. “I’ve been in battle for a long time.”
“Well, you were winning, if that’s any consolation,” Patty said with a laugh.
“Yes, I was, until guerrilla warfare sabotaged my efforts.” Ellen peeked in the bag and pulled out the truffles and champagne.
“Well, now you’re an army of two. I think I can help. I also have the name of a very good private eye to help find some dirt.”
“How very grand. I do need a plan. I can’t fight a battle when he’s not playing fair.” She hesitated. “When he won’t even talk about—” Tears broke through again and her eyes burned trying to hold them back. She reached for a tissue as Patty surveyed the room.
“I see you’ve been torturing yourself. How about a break from all this self-pity?”
“I don’t want a break,” Ellen said, dabbing her eyes. “I want to wallow in it and feel sorry for myself until he comes home.”
“Well, I’d hate to see you just rot away like this. Any idea how long that will be?”
“Who knows?”
“Well, this is a shitty position he’s put you in. He’s a complete ass.”
Ellen stared at the floor.
Patty touched her arm. “Sorry, but he’s being nasty.” Patty opened the box of truffles and helped herself. “Was he always this heartless?”
“No,” Ellen answered in a hushed voice and sat on the leather sofa next to the fireplace. She smoothed her hand across the cushion. “No, he used to be caring. He used to be kind.” She hesitated. “I don’t know who this man is.”
The room was quiet except the faint barking in the distance and the rhythmic tick of the clock on Jonathan’s mantel. “I don’t understand any of it,” Ellen continued. “He never complained before, always went along with everything. If there was a problem, if he was that unhappy, why am I the last person to know about it?”
Ellen mindlessly combed her fingers through fringe on the throw pillow beside her. “Of course we’ve had disagreements, everyone does. Of course we aren’t as affectionate as we once were … everyone loses that over the years. What we do have, what we always had, is friendship and support. We were always good friends.” Patty stood before Ellen and held out the truffles. Ellen picked out a dark powdered one as Patty sat beside her, resting the box on her lap. Ellen continued, “It seems impossible to me he’d just walk away; he knows I would do anything for him. At least he should know.”
“Maybe he’s forgotten.”
“Yes, I’m sure he has. He’s forgotten everything else, it seems.” Ellen examined the deep ebony truffle, then let the smooth chocolate dissolve on her tongue as she wiped her fingers on a tissue. She stood and went to wash her hands. “Every one of those photographs shows what we shared,” she called out from Jonathan’s bathroom. “I look through them and all I see is how happy we were,” she continued. “I see a man who loved his wife and children.”
She walked to the bed and stood beside Patty, who was leaning forward, studying the assortment. “I see a man who gave time and energy to make sure we had a great life together. We did so much over the years.” Patty sat and studied the pictures and picked up an album. “You? Fishing? I would never imagine you roughing it, my dear. Quite the rustic little trip, rubber boots and all.”
Ellen blushed at their poverty, pulling the album from Patty’s hands and closing it. She suddenly wanted Patty far away from all the photos of her past. “It was, but it was very romantic. I could never do it now—the bugs and sleeping on hard ground, waking with an aching back. Funny, when you’re young, you don’t care, none of that matters.”
“Yes, makeup and fashion don’t seem to matter either,” Patty said with a laugh. “And all that hunting plaid.” She opened the album again. “But you look beautiful. Natural beauty.”
“If only we could keep it forever. Come, let’s go sit by the window.”
Patty shook her head. “I wonder sometimes if we could just look young forever, would all these men still leave us? Would they need these playthings if we hung on to our youth?”
Ellen glanced away for a moment, weighing the truth in the statement. “He thinks he loves her. She’s not even thirty. How can she actually know about love?”
; “Infatuation—”
“She barely knows him. It’s not love, not the real love you share over a lifetime together. I get so angry. Angry at her. Angry at him. They are both so stupid.” Ellen’s voice grew loud. “They think they have something special. All she sees is a bag of money with a man attached.”
“It’s pathetic.”
“He’s preyed on by this conniving, evil tramp, who just wants a lifestyle and bank account and cares nothing about him. I bet she barely knows the first thing about him.”
“Perhaps that’s the attraction,” Patty said and took another truffle, “he can hide who he really is and become whatever he wants. He can live a fantasy with her, but with you, he can’t.”
“Absolutely. I know him too well. I also know what’s best for him. That twit has no idea.”
Patty opened another album and stopped at a picture of Ellen in a navy school uniform. “Look at you, so adorable in your smart little getup. But you don’t look too happy.”
“I wasn’t.” Ellen waited as Patty flipped past a few pages, then took the album from her. “I hated boarding school. I wanted to escape so badly. When I met Jonathan, I found my escape and my savior all in one.” Ellen paused, remembering how desperate she was to be with him, willing to do anything, and how far she went to ensure he would marry her.
She smiled at Patty. “He showed up at a church dance one evening in ‘45, on leave from the war, in his sharp uniform, so handsome … and that smile.” She blushed. She opened the album to a photo of Jonathan in uniform, his arm around Ellen’s waist. “He pulled me out of that horrible school and made me feel loved and safe, something I hadn’t felt since my father died.”
“I’m sorry,” Patty said. “I had no idea about your dad. I thought he helped you in the coat business.”
“My uncle did. My father died when I was nine. There’s a photo of him here.” Ellen flipped a few pages and the memory of her father appeared, the warm smile on his face. “I missed him so much. I felt like dying after he passed away. He’d give me giant bear hugs and remind me how special I was, how I was the best part of his life. After he died, my mother had no money and couldn’t take care of me properly. She believed rural life in Iowa wasn’t good enough, so I was sent to Connecticut to live with my aunt and uncle for a few years, then off to Saint Agatha’s School for Girls in the Upper West Side …” she hesitated. “Finishing school, as Mother would say. But as an only child, I wanted to be part of a family, not sent away. I hated being alone at school, but I didn’t have a choice.”