by Saks, Tessa
A cluster of bells jingled as she pushed open the heavy, reinforced door. Ellen surveyed the room. An old carpet, clearly never steam cleaned in its life, a long display case holding an assortment of old coins that were well-hidden beneath glass etched with scratches, a couple of mismatched chairs, faux wood paneling and, just to add to the odd clash, an antique Chippendale desk in desperate need of refinishing.
“Be right with you,” a voice called out from a back office.
Ellen looked to sit, but on seeing the stains on the chairs remained standing.
A tall, unshaven man appeared, wiping his mouth and chin as he read through a file. “Hi, I’m Morty—you Mrs. Jonathan Horvath?”
“Yes, I’m Mrs. Horvath.”
Confusion stretched across his face as he studied the file. “Your name’s Jonathan?”
“No, that’s my husband’s name.” Was this man a complete idiot?
“What’s yours … Joe?” he quipped, laughing at his cleverness and shaking his head.
“Ellen,” she answered, ignoring his bad manners. Heaven help me! She wanted to turn and dash out of this rank office, but curiosity held her. Curiosity mixed with desperation.
“Well, Ellen—”
“Mrs. Horvath, please.”
“Well, I looked into this a bit. There’s not much info on her, so I’ll need more money to do some legwork. You know, visit the town she grew up in, snoop around, that sorta stuff.”
“How much more?” Ellen stared at the rumpled man standing before her. His shirt looked like he found it scrunched in a laundry bag. His pants fit horribly, cinched at the waist with a well-worn belt, its notches moving progressively forward to accommodate the increasing girth.
Morty shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Depends on how long I search … how much time it takes. Let’s say no more than twenty K.”
“Twenty thousand dollars! That much?” Ellen studied him, trying to comprehend how he could possibly be worth that sum. She couldn’t imagine anyone paying him that much—except Charlene would have, and it worked for her, didn’t it? Patty assured her this had worked.
“Mrs. Horvath. You want this on the QT, right? That takes more time. I can’t just go out and ask around. I need to blend in, you know, warm up to people, otherwise the whole thing could be blown.”
“Well, that is a lot of money, just for one—”
“Listen, tell you what, ten K minimum, if I find anything out sooner, I won’t charge you anymore. I’m good. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Yes, Patty heard you were …” Ellen leaned close and whispered, “discreet and reliable.”
“You can count on it.” Morty nodded with a wink.
Ellen opened her purse and handed him an envelope. “Here is her information, and my husband’s, and your advance—two thousand dollars, right?” Ellen was about to leave, but instead stood staring at him. “I’m not sure this was such a good idea, maybe we could—”
“Listen doll, er, Mrs. Horvath, you ain’t the first wife to do this, in fact, should be a requirement of all divorces. You need to know who you’re up against—only way for a fair fight. But if you’re not comfortable, we could—”
“No,” Ellen said, remembering her desperation. “No, I need you to find something.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Horvath. We’ll get ‘em.”
“Yes.” Ellen smiled, turning toward the door. “I hope so.”
She pulled the door open, enjoying the brass bells as they chimed. As it shut behind her, she took a deep breath, basking in renewed optimism. He would find something to save her marriage, to bring Jonathan to his senses and then order could return to her life.
***
Ellen sat watching Dr. Morris, carefully reviewing his notes in the file.
“Well,” she demanded. “How is he? It’s been seven weeks. How are we?”
He took off his glasses and rested them on his notebook. He appeared much too young for reading glasses. “I would say your husband shows remarkable progress.”
“So, are we good?”
“In my opinion, yes, you are. I still think there are areas that we need to work on regarding your own sense of responsibility in the relationship. I need more sessions with you to discuss your views on where we are and what steps are needed.”
“I don’t see the point. I’m fine. He’s the one we need to be focused on.”
“Do you find yourself drawn to people with problems that need fixing?”
“I’m not drawn to them, I’m surrounded by them.” Ellen sat back and folded her arms across her chest. “I’ve always been, they seem drawn to me—but my concern is with Jonathan.”
“Do these problems keep you from focusing on your own responsibilities?”
“My responsibility is with my husband and family.”
“Could you be using your obsession with your husband to avoid your own feelings of emptiness?”
“My obsession?” Ellen jumped to her feet. “For heaven’s sake, this is a forty-year marriage we’re talking about. You have barely been alive for forty years. Obsession!” Ellen’s eyes narrowed. “I do not have problems. I am happy. He is the one who needs fixing.”
“Mrs. Horvath, please sit.”
Ellen remained standing.
Dr. Morris stood, facing her, then leaned against the back of his desk. “Sometimes we can use our relationship as a type of drug to avoid experiencing what we would feel if we were alone. The more painful the interaction with someone, the greater the distraction that person provides us—”
“A distraction? You call my concern about my husband a distraction? Unbelievable.” Ellen turned to leave. She held the knob then turned toward Dr. Morris again. “One minute you say he’s fine and now you say that I’m screwed up? Don’t pin this one on me. I’m fine.”
“That’s good to hear. Please sit down, Mrs. Horvath. We still have twenty minutes. I’d like to discuss your relationship with Jonathan.” Dr. Morris extended his hand toward the sofa.
Ellen sat on the edge of the sofa, uncommitted to staying. “I do want to understand him.”
He returned to his chair. “Does being with Jonathan make you feel better? More loved?”
“Yes. I love him so much, and I know that he loves me.”
“How do you know?”
“You feel it. By the things that are said and unsaid. You just know.”
“Did you struggle to win your parents’ love?”
“Oh, so now it’s my parents’ fault?” Ellen leaned back in her seat. “I didn’t have parents, remember? That should be there in your notes somewhere. I guess we can’t blame them.”
“What happened?”
Ellen shifted in her seat. “Old news. I’ve put it all behind me.”
“Put what?”
Ellen pulled on her hem, looking into the distance. “The fact that I was never good enough for anyone. My mother sent me away to become something better. Then my aunt and uncle who raised me sent me away. That was fifty years ago, and this is a big waste of my time.”
“I think it’s valuable in helping both of you. It gives me a better window to see you.”
Ellen sat back and crossed her arms. “It’s funny. I spent my entire childhood trying to win my mother’s approval and love, and my aunt and uncle’s as well. I also tried hard to win friendship with the rich girls in boarding school, to be accepted, but I wasn’t good enough. Then I spent my entire marriage trying to keep my husband’s love. I’ve devoted myself to trying to win my children’s love. In fact … I don’t seem very … successful …” Ellen’s voice cracked as she spoke. “Now look what you’ve done.” She reached for a tissue and dabbed her tears. “All I want is to be loved. Why is it so difficult? Why must I be the one to put in all the effort? I try so hard to be loving, to be good and kind … and thoughtful. My children said I smothered them, Jonathan said I love too much.” Ellen glared at Dr. Morris. “Can you really love too much?”
Dr. Morris cleared his th
roat. “There are times when we love someone incapable of returning that love. We expect too much of them … and sometimes, we might actually enjoy the challenge.”
“How can anyone enjoy fighting for every thin morsel of love? Every crumb?”
“If Jonathan did leave, would you feel abandoned? Like you did after your father died and your mother gave you away?”
Ellen turned away. “But, that’s not going to happen now, is it, Doctor?”
“That depends on both of you.”
“No, Doctor. That depends on you. That is what I’m paying you for. I am concerned about Jonathan. I have no idea how he feels. You tell me he is making progress and then you ask me a bunch of absurd questions to change the subject. All I need to know is—is he finally cured? You haven’t told me anything that he tells you. I have a right to know. I am his wife.”
“Mrs. Horvath, you do understand I must respect your husband’s confidentiality. He cannot express himself openly and honestly if he thinks I will simply turn around and tell you everything. The same respect goes for you.”
“I do not need respect, Doctor. I need answers. Is he fixed? Is he better?”
He remained silent and unreadable.
“All right,” Ellen said and picked up her purse. “There are plenty of other good doctors out there quite happy to take my money. I can accept your failure to fix him, but I need to know before I waste any more time with you. You see, time, Doctor, is not on my side, now is it?”
Dr. Morris blushed. He shifted his notebook and glasses aside. “He is better. Remarkably better in fact.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t normally disclose personal information, naturally, but I do see that he is working through the challenges and accepting his role in all of this. And I am quite pleased with his progress. I still believe we should continue the sessions,” he added, taking Ellen’s hand. “And I think we are now ready to resume joint sessions.”
“Whatever is needed,” Ellen said and let go of his hand. “I will do whatever I can to make this work.”
“Yes, Mrs. Horvath, I can see just how determined you are.”
***
Sunlight poured into the glass walls and ceiling of the solarium, turning the deep, emerald green leaves a glowing and transparent lemon-lime. Ellen lay back in the chaise lounge and admired the plants and flowers spread across the tiled floor. This had always been her favorite room to relax and read in, sipping her tea. Even in the middle of winter, she would bask in the warmth of the sun, surrounded by beautiful flowers.
The gardenias were by far her favorites, for more than sentimental reasons. She had gardenias in her wedding bouquet, but she also loved them for their elegance and beauty. Gardenias are rose-like in their abundant petals and cupped shape form, but unlike roses in the thick, sculptural form of their petals and the purity of their virgin-white coloring, with never a trace of yellow, or a hint of pink or a cast of green. Gardenias are perfection. Chaste and pure.
As Ellen inhaled the sweet fragrance, she noticed her orchids against the far glass wall. Ultra-fragile, delicate, susceptible to any change in humidity and cold; in fact, one cold breeze and all the petals would fall off. Then a long period of dormancy with no show of flowers, no color or beauty. She had always thought of herself as a gardenia but now, as she glanced at her orchids, she felt more like one of them.
If Jonathan did divorce her, she would be even more vulnerable, more fragile. She couldn’t endure a season of dormancy. And what if there were endless seasons of desolation? She couldn’t imagine being with any other man. Besides, God had blessed their union; she couldn’t get an annulment, for that would mean admitting to the world Jonathan had been unfaithful and erasing forty years together as if they never existed; no longer Mrs. Horvath. Divorce would also mean she would never be able to remarry in the eyes of God.
She had to keep him. But how? How to remind him of the love we share? The counseling was helping. But was she wrong putting so much faith in the marriage counselor? Charlene Archer swore Dr. Morris could work miracles. Was that what she really needed? A miracle? You have to fight for what you believe in, she reminded herself. I’ll make him see. The private investigator will bring out Samantha’s past, and then he’ll see what a terrible mistake she is.
CHAPTER 7
Sam watched Rory sleeping beside her. As her hand brushed Rory’s cheek, he awoke. “What time is it?” he mumbled into his pillow.
“Four-thirty.”
He rolled on his back. “God, Sam—”
“I can’t sleep, I’m worried,” she whispered.
“About what?” He put his arm around her.
She lay silent, enjoying the comfort of his embrace, then turned in his arms and lay on her back. “Johnny. All of this.” Sam looked up at the ceiling. “He doesn’t have lots of money.”
“But I thought—”
“I know, so did I. He says I have to wait so he can make arrangements to secure more money and if she contests the divorce, it could take a couple of years before we can get married.”
“So wait a little longer.”
“I can’t. The longer he delays, the more … the more I worry. His wife is really determined—now they’re going to counseling. Can you believe it?”
“That sounds reasonable for someone who’s been married a long time,” Rory said, tracing a finger along Sam’s shoulder.
“Reasonable?” She brushed his hand away. “He’s stalling and I’m worried.”
“Sam, he loves you, right?”
“Yes … yes, he thinks he does.”
“Then be patient.”
“But what if, after all this—what if there’s little money? He said most of it belonged to his wife, from an inheritance, and that he has to change things so she can’t claim it’s all hers.”
“Sam, you told me you loved him.”
“Well, I do. He’s kind, and he spoils me so much. I feel important when I’m with him, like I’m somebody.” And safe, Sam admitted silently to herself. She felt protected from the world when she was with Jonathan. “I feel amazing around him. He goes crazy for me—says I make him feel young and alive again—and it’s fun going to all those fancy places. I can only imagine being his wife, with loads of money and trips and all the parties—”
“Ah yes!” Rory laughed and rolled onto his back. He strummed his hands across his stomach. “Well, well, well. I see your problem. He may not be rich enough for you—and a girl like you, well, you need an awful lot of money.”
“Very funny.” She slapped him on his chest and he grabbed her hand.
“It’s true, say so.” He tightened his grip and grinned.
“Okay, yes. I only want a very rich and powerful man.”
Rory let go of her hand. “Which is what he is right now, so really, it’s his wife getting all his money. She’s the problem.”
“Yes, the bitch. She can make it very hard for him. He’s done all this work building the company and she just sits around, playing queen of the parties and spending all that money.”
“A position you aspire to.”
“Of course.” Sam climbed on top of him. “I want it all, all the money, lots of it.”
“Choo want, I could erase her,” Rory said, attempting his lame mobster impression. “Rub her out. Cement boots?”
“Oh yes,” Sam laughed, “and hurry, before I get too old.”
“Too old to enjoy all that money?”
“Too old to spend it on fun things.” Sam pounded his abs with her fists. “It’s sick. They have so much money and they do such boring things. She is such a dud.”
“Well, she is old. How old is she?”
“Johnny says she’s fifty-eight, but acts more like she’s eighty-eight.” Sam started tracing hearts on Rory’s chest with her finger. “She doesn’t do anything fun. It’s like her plan is to bore her husband to death and then keep all the money.”
“Maybe he loves her and that’s why he’s stalling—”
“Love her?”
Sam stopped her tracing and bolted upright. “He hates her. She drives him crazy. She’s a control freak.” She climbed off Rory and sat on the edge of the bed. “She tells him what to do and criticizes him all the time.” She turned and plumped her pillow with her fist.
“Yet, he did stay for a long time—how long exactly?”
“Forty years.”
“Yeah, I’d be sick of my wife after forty years.” Rory laughed as he pulled Sam closer.
“Not if it were me,” Sam said as she pinched his cheeks.
Rory grabbed her hands and flipped her onto her back, then, sitting on her, pinned her hands above her head. “Don’t go getting all soft for me. I’m off limits, remember?”
“Come on,” Sam pleaded. “I wouldn’t be boring. Admit it.”
“No … forty years with you and I wouldn’t be bored, that’s for sure.” He kissed her and stopped. “Maybe they were like us once?”
“Hardly!”
“Well, to stay even thirty years, there must have been something.”
“Yeah … money.”
“Come on, think about it. Maybe he’s not just stalling. Maybe he really can’t leave her.”
Sam pushed him off and struggled to sit up. “You’re not helping.”
“Well, it’s possible. He may be just talk, can’t actually pull the plug, needs her nagging and all. There’s men like that, you know. They need a bitchy, bossy wife … like a bit of torture.”
“Don’t say that.” She reached across for her cigarettes.
“But it might be true …”
“I’ve invested almost two years in this. I am so damn close.” Sam sat up and leaned against the headboard. “I can see myself in that huge house. There I am, just sitting around in expensive designer clothes, visiting spas, telling my staff what to do and going to fancy parties—”
“Okay, okay. I get the picture. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Hurt?”
“In case it doesn’t work out.”
Sam looked away. “Oh, it will work out. It will damn well work out.” She faced him, shaking her lighter. “I will do whatever’s necessary to make this work. Whatever!”