What is Love?

by Saks, Tessa

  But after filling the prescriptions for the powder, the secret fixes, Ellen realized how wrong it was, how completely deplorable and absurd to even consider such an act. After she picked up the prescription from the doctor’s office and stared at the colored powder in the vials, she gave the powder to Patty to hang onto. She didn’t want to be tempted in any way with such a depraved attempt to get his love. Ellen watched the shadows moving across the walls as trees danced in front of the window, in the hazy moonlight. Her thoughts turned to Samantha Miller. She was the problem. If anyone should suffer, it should be her. She thought of Patty’s other solution and laughed. Nice try! I could never pull off a murder, never in a million years.

  But she wanted to hurt her. Deep down inside the dark recesses of her heart, Ellen knew she wanted to hurt Samantha Miller in ways she never wanted to hurt a living soul. It was an evil place where these thoughts resided and Ellen tried to resist them. But they were there, deep inside and growing.

  ***

  Ellen woke to the morning light, her body exhausted, but her thoughts immediately turned to Jonathan. She jumped quickly out of bed to check his room and discovered his untouched bed. Her disappointment only adding to her misery. She went downstairs and ate breakfast, then showered and headed to church.

  The old stone church stood on a corner, lined on both sides with Japanese Stewartia trees. Ellen reached up and touched the frilly white blossoms, shaped like tiny camellias, that covered their branches. She climbed the limestone steps in the warm June sunshine and as she entered, she saw Father Michael standing beside the confessionals.

  Ellen sat inside and closed the tiny door. In the darkened space, she felt her heart open to the truth. “I’m trying to keep my marriage from failing. I’ve tried everything and nothing is working. The counseling isn’t working …” Ellen paused, mindlessly lost in the safety of the darkness. “He wants to leave me, leave our marriage,” Ellen choked on the words.

  “And you, what do you want?”

  “I want him to stay. I’ve prayed. I’ve prayed and begged. I’ve told God I will do anything, if only to get him to stay, to have our marriage stay together.”

  “That is all anyone can do,” Father Michael said.

  “Well, there’s more. He thinks he’s in love with someone else and—well—I’ve been told—” Ellen stopped. She couldn’t say the words. She couldn’t admit even thinking about such a horrible act. She tried to say what she truly wanted to do, what she needed to do, but it was too hard to admit even to herself. Ellen said quietly. “Forgive me Father, I want to sin …”

  Ellen sat unable to speak further. She was trying to find the courage to say what she was actually thinking of doing, what she really wanted to try, what was now consuming her thoughts—but she couldn’t. She just couldn’t admit wanting to hurt Samantha, wanting to do something she knew in her heart was wrong. She couldn’t admit wanting to pretend to have a terminal illness. Somehow, she thought, I might make it actually happen by confessing.

  Ellen looked up at Father Michael through the dimly lit mesh divider. She had lost track of what he said. “I’m sorry,” she interrupted. “What was that?”

  “I bless your marriage.” He recited the “Hail Mary” and finished with an “Our Father.”

  Ellen spoke with him, reciting every line in unison. When they got to the part ‘as we forgive those who trespass against us’ her heart grew cold. She had no forgiveness for Samantha Miller. Here, before God, she couldn’t do it; she couldn’t forgive or agree to any of it. Deep inside, she still wanted to destroy Samantha Miller in any way she could, and no God could eliminate that feeling. As the priest said, “Now and at the hour of our death, Amen.” Ellen looked up at the cross and made a pact with God—a contract.

  I will forgive her when you bring him back to me. I will not wish harm to her if you make him love me again. Only then, Lord … only then, will I forgive her. Ellen made the sign of the cross. “Amen,” she said aloud. “Thy will be done. Now, and at the hour of our death, Amen.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Ellen glanced at her watch as the elevator climbed to the fourteenth floor penthouse of 920 Fifth Avenue. She was late, and keeping Mrs. Z waiting would be a social disaster. She took a deep breath and calmed her nerves. The irony, Ellen believed, was that had Jonathan actually left her after the gala, had he separated from her, she would not be riding up this elegant elevator to be part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art acquisitions committee. Nor would anyone have invited her to any social event—not that she would have wanted to go, not under those circumstances.

  Now, after three months of counseling and publicly displaying their mended relationship, most of the gossip had died down. All the incidents were behind them as they continued to mend their marriage and support each other. Appearing together at events, including the opera and the Emmy Awards Gala, certainly quieted most inquiring minds and stalled the loose tongues. In fact, she had risen to a new level, certainly higher than she had ever anticipated, given the present circumstances.

  The time spent with Mildred Zeigler in Barbados was crucial in assisting her rise in status. What a lucky break to have spent that much time with her and receive an invitation to join her committee planning acquisitions for the new Lila Acheson Wallace Wing of Twentieth Century Art. Except now. Late. Her heart sped up, causing her silk blouse to stick to her under the bouclé Chanel jacket. Relax. Relax. Relax.

  The bell announced the arrival to the penthouse floor and Ellen smoothed her hair as the engraved brass doors opened wide.

  “Ellen darling, where have you been?” Greta called out as she walked across the white Carrare marble foyer to embrace Ellen. They air kissed each other. “We were getting worried …”

  “Not too worried, I hope.” Ellen forced a grin, masking her concern.

  “Relax.” Greta placed her hand on Ellen’s arm and leaned close. “But we are all on our best behavior waiting for her. Cocktail?” She signaled a passing waiter.

  They sipped their drinks in the foyer, which opened into a grand-scale living room where sixteen-foot-high ceilings and elaborate moldings on creamy yellow walls created an elegant French chateau effect, much like Mrs. Z’s Paris home, which Ellen read about in French Vogue two years ago.

  Ellen stepped into the living room and admired its wall of deep windows overlooking Central Park, the ten-million-dollar view that everyone who was anyone had. With eighteenth century parquet de Versailles oak flooring and multiple ornate marble fireplaces, it was sheer luxury. No expense had been spared when the building was originally built, prewar of course. Mrs. Z and her husband occupied the entire fourteenth and fifteenth floors, resulting in eight corners of enviable, sunny exposure.

  Who could compete with this kind of light-filled square footage? Certainly not anyone on the west side of Manhattan. Ellen couldn’t even imagine what their other homes were like. She had seen pictures of the Tuscan villa featured in Architectural Digest and the place in Aspen, but Ellen dreamed of an invitation to one day view those houses for herself. All that would come.

  Ellen surveyed the room. Each woman was an important philanthropist, and all of them now her friends. She had earned her way in here, the epicenter of society, and it felt marvelous.

  “So tell me,” Patty whispered, as she pulled Ellen into a corner for privacy. “How are things?”

  “Everything is better.” Ellen smiled. “Much better. He’s home every night. We talk just like before, and we are going out again. We have been so busy this past month, going to every event I choose, no arguments, no complaints.”

  “Jonathan?”

  “I know.” Ellen beamed. “It’s amazing to see the change in him. He’s even coming with me to mass sometimes. I can’t believe I actually filled that absurd prescription. I should have had more faith in Jonathan.”

  “What about the …” Patty leaned in closer. “Passion? How’s the sex?” She winked.

  “Patty!”

  “Come on. Is
it better?”

  Ellen blushed and turned away. “Not now, not here, I’ll tell you later.” A knot twisted in her stomach. She wanted to tell Patty a lie. The truth was, the subject of sex was so shameful, she couldn’t give it any further thought. Ellen noticed Greta glide past them and wondered if she overheard anything. The clatter of voices abruptly halted with the arrival of Mrs. Z.

  “Come,” Mrs. Z clapped her hands several times. “Let’s get this luncheon started.” She motioned to the dining room, its vast table set for a formal lunch.

  Mrs. Z sat at the head of the table, while all the women filed in, sitting in their respected places. Ellen was halfway down the table, while Greta sat on Mrs. Z’s right and Lady Sutherland to her left. Ellen was only four spots away from those coveted positions.

  The oversize formal dining room emanated timeless splendor with red lacquered walls and gold Rocco moldings. The table was set with rare Minton china; hand-painted gold embossed filigree set against deep crimson, fire-glazed enamel. Ellen had seen this quality on display at the museum, but never had she known anyone to use charger plates as valuable as these for a formal dinner, let alone a luncheon. Mrs. Z was truly the epicure of style.

  As Ellen sipped her water, she glanced up at the painting above the buffet—a rare Picasso, sought by major collectors around the world. She thought of the Sargent in the foyer and the Monet in the living room. Many consider the Zeigler’s art collection one of the best in the country. Laurence Zeigler spent the early thirties amassing his vast collection, while the rest of the world around him went bankrupt. By the sixties, he had accumulated an enviable collection of Impressionist and Cubist artwork, with most of their pieces on loan to museums around the globe.

  A pang of envy shot through Ellen at the abrupt awareness of their inequality. How could she ever invite Mrs. Z to her house, when the best piece they own is a Tamara de Lempicka? Most of the other pieces were landscapes that never rose significantly in value, certainly not the way the Impressionists’ works had. She wished that Jonathan had shown more interest in art when they were first married. Back in the fifties and sixties, you could buy a Monet or a Degas for next to nothing. Art was the great tell-all, silently saying just how deep your pockets truly were. And at that moment, Ellen was wishing theirs were much deeper.

  Lunch continued with discussions on the plans for the new wing and the recent acquisitions. When the last of the dessert plates had been cleared, Ellen wondered how everyone would perceive her relationship with Jonathan, now that they appeared publicly back on track. She realized how important it was that Mrs. Z not have any doubts about her continued status as Mrs. Jonathan Horvath II. The uneasy reflection of their lack of passion continued to assault her thoughts along with the worry that others may see through the facade she carefully created.

  She leaned over to Patty and said in a hushed voice, “The passion is back, better than ever. We’ve never been closer.” Ellen blushed at her deception as Greta raised an arched eyebrow, pretending not to hear.

  Patty gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “And the girl?”

  “A distant memory.” Ellen lied, hoping that by saying it aloud, it would be true.

  Patty picked up her glass, clinking it with Ellen’s. “Here’s to a bright future.”

  “Yes,” Ellen agreed. “A very bright future.” Ellen smiled.

  Greta grinned, sipping her wine, obviously having missed nothing.

  ***

  Three week had passed since the luncheon with Mrs. Z. Ellen was busy spending time with Jonathan and hadn’t had a lot of time for lunches and gossip. When Patty phoned and said she had some important news, Ellen was more than happy to adjust her schedule. She could use the fun of a juicy story about someone else’s misery now that her life was back on track.

  Ellen walked past the maitre’d at ‘21’ on West 52nd Street, nodding in recognition on her way to join Patty. From the empty glasses in front of her, she knew Patty had already dipped into several cocktails.

  “Starting a tad early, aren’t we?” Ellen asked as she set her purse and bags on the chair beside Patty.

  “It’s happy hour in Seattle,” Patty said, flashing a naughty pout.

  “At eleven a.m.?” Ellen leaned over to air kiss Patty’s cheek.

  “Okay, London then.” Ellen took off her coat as Patty pulled out the chair beside her. “Sit close,” Patty said. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  Ellen sat and noticed the expression on Patty’s face. “You look so serious,” she said. “Can it be that bad?”

  “Worse. I got it from a fly on the wall that your hubby has …” Patty sat back and took a deep breath. “He’s started divorce proceedings.” She reached for her cocktail and took a big sip.

  “No, that can’t be. There must be a mistake.” Ellen shook her head in assurance.

  “No mistake—I wish I were wrong.” Patty pulled the olive stick out of her martini and slid the olive into her mouth.

  “But that’s impossible. He’s assured me—our counseling has been great. We have dinner together almost every night and we talk about future plans …” Ellen’s voice trailed as she picked up the napkin and smoothed it onto her lap. “You’ve seen us, everything is so good now. And we have a cruise to Australia coming up in a few weeks. This must be a mistake. Who told you?”

  “Let’s just say someone who owes someone a favor.”

  “How does this someone know anything?”

  “She helped draw up the papers at Roger’s office last week.”

  Roger, of course it would be Roger. The one and only Roger Baumann helped men in divorces win more money than any other lawyer in the state. A known womanizer and, unfortunately for Ellen, a good friend of Jonathan’s. She never did like him and masterfully avoided inviting him to any of their social events.

  “Unbelievable!” She threw her napkin onto the table and sat for several minutes, then leaned closer to Patty. “It would be Roger, he’s pushing him,” she whispered. “Of course, he stands to make a lot of money in legal fees. He’s the one talking about such nonsense. Jonathan would never—”

  “I heard Jonathan called him and they met two months ago to get it started—”

  “Oh, well,” Ellen said with a smile, sitting back in relief. “That’s all it is then. That was before all of our counseling and the recent change in him.”

  Patty put her hand on Ellen’s. “I’m sorry, Ellen. He was in last week going over the financials and putting the final signatures on it. One month from now is the date on the paper.”

  “But we leave for our cruise in three weeks. He couldn’t possibly be planning—no, it’s not possible—it’s some kind of mistake.” Ellen turned away, hoping to end the discussion.

  “Listen …” Patty sat back in her chair and picked up her empty glass. “Where’s the damn waiter?” She turned her head and motioned for a refill. “Here’s the thing,” she said and leaned closer, “apparently he has been planning a ruse. He wants you both to be away while it’s filed, so there won’t be any trouble. Then when you get back, you’ll be served. He’s been making like everything is sweet and nice but secretly planning a big coup.”

  “That’s—that’s so callous—I don’t believe it. Besides, he doesn’t want to leave me, he’s assured me.”

  “Yes, but he is. I’m sorry, it’s not the news I want to deliver.” Patty put her hand on Ellen’s.

  “Your source is wrong. What if she’s lying?”

  “Why would she lie?” Patty shook her head. “She actually feels bad for you.”

  “That’s all very nice, but it doesn’t mean it’s actually going to happen.”

  “Why don’t you call his bluff and phone Roger and get confirmation?”

  “I don’t want confirmation,” Ellen snapped.

  “Then call up and learn that it’s not happening, that it’s a lie.” Patty took a full sip, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “Either way, at least you’ll know before …” Patty stopped.<
br />
  “Before?” Ellen went cold.

  “Before your cruise. At least you’ll know before you waste a month trying to please him, losing precious time, when he’s already out the door and his bags are packed, and I mean really packed!”

  Ellen looked up at the toy airplanes and model trains that lined the ceiling of the prestigious restaurant, noticing suddenly how foolish they seemed. Their historic significance seemed irrelevant. They were probably extremely dusty. She simmered for several minutes as Patty sat in silence.

  “Here,” Patty said, reaching into her purse. She handed Ellen two prescription bottles. “I think you should have these, just in case …”

  Ellen recognized the bottles and knew exactly what they were for. Her dreaded desperation cures. “I certainly don’t need those.” Ellen pushed them back but Patty slipped them into her purse.

  “I hope I’m wrong. I really do.” Patty said.

  Ellen stood to leave. “And I will show you just how wrong you are.”

  ***

  Ellen’s driver pulled the car in front of Tiffany and Co. on Fifth Avenue and stopped in front of the double stainless steel doors. Above the doors, the nine-foot figure of Atlas carrying the historic clock on his shoulders displayed one-thirty. Earlier today, she received a call that her order was ready for pickup. Since she hadn’t ordered anything recently, this must be a surprise from Jonathan. Patty was wrong. A ring would be a wonderful reminder of his commitment, especially before the upcoming voyage.

  She tried to imagine what he had chosen for her. She had mentioned wanting a pink sapphire ring, but that was a long time ago. In any case, it had been a long time since he showed any interest in gifts for her. Besides, today was a day to be enjoyed—in spite of Patty’s upsetting accusations—a beautiful cloudless day with warm, clear air. The city in June was glorious, with blue and pink hydrangeas bursting from planter boxes and a deepening of the vivid green leaves on the trees that lined the streets and parks.