by Brenda Joyce
He straightened abruptly, regarding her in the mirror, which covered the entire wall. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She bit her lip. “Things have changed, haven’t they? I don’t think we’ve made love in months. Do you remember when we made love four or five times a week?”
He turned to face her. “That was eight or nine years ago!”
Had it been that long ago? “We don’t talk anymore, David,” she said softly, sadly.
“No, we don’t.” His words were flat.
They stared at each other, the realization unspoken but hanging between them. They didn’t make love anymore, they didn’t talk anymore, they didn’t care anymore.
Claire felt another stab, this one of panic. Was this it, then?
She inhaled and walked away, fighting to recover her composure. It was so hard—her mind seemed to be spinning uselessly now. And Claire suddenly realized what it was that was bothering her about their argument that morning. He had made some crack about earning a living. Claire seized upon the odd statement the way a terrier might a bone.
David had a six-figure income. Claire’s income was much lower, obviously—she made nothing working for her charities, and the Humane Society paid little. Still, they were in the highest tax bracket. They had savings and investments, much of which had come from a small trust fund she had come into at the age of twenty-five. Now Claire caught his gaze again. “Are we having money problems, David?” This was a much easier subject, she thought with relief.
His expression was impossible to read. “Things could be better.”
She felt her eyes widen. “What does that mean? We have savings, investments, our incomes—”
“I’ve made some bad investments. We’ve taken a fucking hit. And I do not want to discuss our finances now,” he said flatly.
Claire was stunned, but she knew that monetary problems could be fixed. Clearly, though, this was not the time to raise the subject, an hour before their first guests would arrive. She mustered a smile. “I’m sorry.” She touched his cheek. “I want you to have a good time tonight, David. It’s your birthday. I want you to be happy and worry-free.”
He didn’t hesitate. “I am happy. I’m just very pressured right now.”
Claire was the one to hesitate. “Are—you sure?”
He paused before saying, “Yeah, I’m sure,” and avoided her gaze.
She knew he was lying to her. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what’s bothering you?” she asked with sympathy.
He turned away. “It’s just the usual business crap.”
She didn’t believe him. She said to his back, “David, no matter what is happening with us, we do have a history and I am your wife. I am here for you. You know that.” She meant every word. At the very least, she owed him her loyalty.
He slowly turned back. “Actually, Claire, I have screwed up. Royally.” There was fear in his eyes.
Claire felt an answering fear. She had never seen him this way. She remained outwardly calm. “What happened?”
He hesitated. “I can’t tell you. But I may be in trouble,” he said, as he turned away again. “Big trouble.”
Claire stared after him. What in God’s name did “big trouble” mean?
The first guests were just arriving, and everything was as it should be. The decorations were fabulous—a combination of peach-hued rose petals strewn everywhere, even on the furniture, and hundreds of natural-colored candles in various shapes and sizes and clusters on every conceivable surface, all burning softly and giving the entire house a warm, ethereal glow. The bar had been set up in the closest corner of the living area to the entryway, with the flower petals strewn artfully over the table, amid the bottles and glasses, and over the floor. A tuxedoed waiter stood at the door with a tray of champagne flutes; another waiter stood beside him to take wraps. The deejay had set up in the back of the living room, and soulful jazz softly filtered through the house.
Claire began greeting guests. Her home quickly filled with some of San Francisco’s most renowned and wealthy residents; there was also a scattering of Los Angeles media moguls and New York businessmen, mostly high-finance types. Claire knew almost everybody, through either David’s business or her charities. Her real friends she could count on one hand, but she socialized frequently, and she genuinely liked many of the people she dealt with.
Claire saw her father enter the house. A mental image of the Courbet hanging on her bedroom wall flashed through her mind.
Jean-Léon Ducasse was a tall Frenchman with a thick head of gray-white hair. He had fought in the Resistance during World War II, and although he had immigrated to the States in 1948, he still did not consider himself an American. Everything about him was very Old World. He smiled as he came to Claire and kissed her cheek. “You look wonderful,” he said. He had no accent. His nose was large and hooked, and his hair was iron gray, but he remained a handsome man. No one would guess that he was in his late seventies; he looked sixty, if a day. It never ceased to amaze Claire how many women found him attractive. His current girlfriend was an attractive, wealthy widow in her late fifties, but tonight he was alone.
Claire hoped that her worries were not reflected in her eyes. She smiled brightly. “You look great, too, Dad. Where is Elaine?”
“She’s in Paris. Shopping, I believe. I was invited to join her, but I did not want to miss David’s birthday party.” He smiled at her.
Claire thought he was being sardonic. She was almost certain he would not care if he had missed David’s birthday. But it was always hard to tell exactly what her father was thinking, or what he meant. Jean-Léon had raised Claire alone; Claire’s mother had died, a victim of breast cancer, when Claire was ten. He had been preoccupied with teaching and later, after retirement, with his gallery. And even when he was not teaching at Berkeley College, he was either traveling around the world in pursuit of another masterpiece or new talent, or lecturing at foreign institutions. Claire had been raised by a succession of nannies. She and her father could have been close after her mother’s death, but Claire had never sat on his lap as a child or been told stories at bedtime. “Well, I’m glad you could be here, Dad,” she said, still distracted. What kind of trouble could David be in? Surely it wasn’t serious.
She prayed it wasn’t something illegal.
Jean-Léon was glancing around, taking in every guest and decoration. “You have done a very nice job, Claire. As always.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Claire said softly.
An elderly couple came up to Claire, smiling widely. The woman, Elizabeth Duke, was tall and thin and quite regal in appearance, clad in a red Armani jersey dress, while her husband, who was in his early eighties and about her height, was somewhat stooped. William Duke embraced Claire first, followed by his wife. “Claire, the house looks amazing,” Elizabeth cried, smiling. “And that dress suits you to a T, dear.” She wore a large Cartier necklace set with diamonds. Somehow she carried the ostentatious piece well.
The Dukes were an English couple, with homes in Montecito, Sun Valley, New York, and East Hampton, as well as San Francisco. Claire had known them her entire life, or so it seemed. They were avid art collectors and close friends of her father’s. Elizabeth had adored Claire’s mother.
“Where is that handsome husband of yours?” William Duke asked jovially. He was retired, but the company he and Elizabeth had built from scratch in the fifties and sixties was a private one, with financial holdings and properties all over the world. He was fond of David and at one time had hoped to have him join his firm. The deal had never worked out. Claire had never known why.
“He’ll be down in a minute,” Claire said, hiding her concern. Where was he? What was taking so long? She already had a headache. She fervently hoped that David’s mood would have changed by the time he came downstairs—and that he would not drink too much. I’m in trouble, Claire. “He’s running a bit late.” She flashed what felt like a brittle smile.
Elizabeth Duke
stared at her. “Is anything wrong, Claire?”
Claire tensed, aware of her father and William regarding her. “It’s been a long day,” she said, giving what was quickly becoming the party line, but she took Elizabeth’s hand and they slipped away.
“I do know that,” Elizabeth said kindly. “But don’t worry, you know how to plan an event, Claire, as everyone who is anyone knows. I can already see that this evening will be a huge success.” She smiled and leaned close to whisper, “William and I thought long and hard about what to give David for his birthday. We decided that the two of you have been working far too hard. So we are offering you the house in East Hampton for a month over the summer, Claire.”
It was a magnificent, fully staffed home on Georgica Pond with a swimming pool and tennis court. Claire grasped Elizabeth’s hands, about to thank her. But she never got the two simple words out. Somehow, she knew that she and David were not going to spend a month together in the Dukes’ Hampton home. Neither one of them would want to. It would be a month of bickering and arguments.
Their marriage was over. It was suddenly clear to her that neither one of them had any interest in salvaging it. It had been over for years.
Oh, God was her next single thought. She smiled at Elizabeth but did not even see her.
“Claire? I know you and David are struggling right now,” Elizabeth said kindly. “This might be good for you both.”
Claire was an expert at reining in her emotions. She worked hard to keep a sunny facade in place. Perhaps she had learned to do so when her mother had died so suddenly, leaving her, for all intents and purposes, alone. She had certainly felt alone when Cynthia passed away, because her father seemed like such a stranger. But maybe her father had taught her by example how to remain calm and composed no matter what; how to shove any feelings of a personal or emotional nature far, far away. Now Claire felt a sudden lump of grief rising up, hard and fast, impossibly potent. It was accompanied by a real and terrible fear.
“I’m sure it will,” Claire said automatically, not even aware what she was saying.
“Everything will work out,” Elizabeth said softly. “I am sure of it.”
Claire knew she was wrong. “Yes, it will.” She had to hold it together, to keep it all in. Divorce. The word loomed now in her mind. It was engraved there.
Elizabeth squeezed her hand. Claire watched her rejoin William, then found herself facing her father. She felt uncomfortable and hoped he hadn’t overheard them. He said, “I understand you are short a few VIPs for Summer Rescue Kids.”
This was a welcome subject. “I am.”
“I think I can help. I have a client who’s new in town. I’ll feel him out for you.”
“Thank you, Dad,” Claire said far too fervently.
He seemed to be looking right through her. No, he was looking past her. “And here’s your errant husband,” Jean-Léon added softly.
Claire’s gaze whipped to David, who was approaching, and then back to her father. What did that comment mean? But Jean-Léon only smiled at her, and Claire turned her attention back to David.
He was more than handsome and self-assured in his dark gray suit, and the pale blue shirt and yellow tie did amazing things for his leading-man good looks. More than a few women were craning their necks to see him more fully. As David paused to shake hands and accept congratulations, Claire stared. He was beaming as he accepted hearty backslaps from his male friends and soft kisses from their wives and girlfriends. Finally, he seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself.
David reached her father. His smile never faltered, but Claire knew it was a pretense. She watched them shake hands. “Happy birthday, David,” Jean-Léon said smoothly.
“Thank you.”
“Have you been enjoying my Courbet?”
David extracted his hand. “What can I say? That was so generous of you to give it to Claire.”
“She deserves it. So you do like it?” Jean-Léon’s tone never changed, but he seemed to be pressing, and Claire tensed.
“It’s a masterpiece. Who wouldn’t like it?” David returned, his smile frozen.
Claire stepped to his side, glancing anxiously from one to the other. Did they have to be hostile to one another now?
“Then I am very pleased. Where did you hang it?”
“In the bedroom,” David said.
“Hmm” was Jean-Léon’s response. “A shame. A painting like that should be on public display.” He turned his gaze on Claire. “You should hang it in the living room, Claire.”
She had the feeling that if she agreed with her father, she would be disagreeing with David, and that was the last thing she wished to do just then. “How about a drink, Dad?”
“Fine.” Jean-Léon ambled away into the crowd, greeting those he knew. David stared after him. So did Claire.
“Sometimes he really bugs me,” David said.
Claire jerked. “What is going on? How could you argue with him now?”
David just looked at her. “He can be a pompous ass.”
“That’s not fair,” she began.
“Oh, cut it out, Claire. You know that because he’s brilliant in the world of art, he thinks he’s smarter than everyone else—including you and me. But you know what? If it weren’t for your mother, he wouldn’t be where he is today. Her money bought him his success. It made him what he is today.”
“David!” Claire was aghast. “He’s my father! How can you say such things?”
He gave her a look. “Let’s do what we have to do. Smile, Claire. This party was your idea.” He walked away.
She stared after him, his last nasty comment leaving her as angry as she had been earlier in their bedroom. She did not deserve such barbs. And he had no right to talk about her father that way. His accusations hurt, even though they were partially true. It was no secret that Jean-Léon had started both his gallery and his art collection with her mother’s generous support. But wasn’t that what spouses did for each other?
Claire watched David greeting the Dukes. He seemed a bit curt with them, she thought, before turning away. The night had only just begun, but she needed a moment to herself. She had a massive headache, and she was beginning to feel ill in the pit of her stomach. She hurried down the hall and into the sanctuary of the den.
The doors were open. It was a big room with the same smooth, pale oak floors as the rest of the house, but most of this room was done entirely in soft, natural earth tones. Claire plopped down on a rust-colored leather ottoman, cradling her face in her hands. Her marriage was a charade. There was just no point to it anymore.
And David wouldn’t care if she raised the subject of a divorce, Claire was certain. But she refused to abandon him if he was in the kind of trouble he claimed to be. They could always separate until the crisis—whatever it was—passed.
Claire began to tremble. She stared down at her shaking knees and realized she was finally losing it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was in here,” a man’s voice said.
Claire leaped to her feet in surprise. A man had walked into the middle of the room and was regarding her curiously.
Claire smiled immediately, wishing he would turn around and leave. She vaguely recalled greeting him a few minutes ago at the front door but did not have a clue who he was. Somehow she managed to walk over as if nothing were wrong, hand outstretched. To her horror, her hand was shaking. She slid it into his anyway, praying he would not notice. “I’m certain we met. I’m your hostess, Claire Hayden.”
He shook her hand, the contact briefly and vaguely surprising. “Yes, we did, Mrs. Hayden,” he said, no longer smiling. He was grave. “Ian Marshall. I’m a friend of your husband’s.”
Claire pulled her hand free, aware of flushing. It was too warm in the den. “Call me Claire.” She smiled automatically.
“I hope I’m not interrupting, Claire?” His gaze was searching.
Claire had the unwelcome notion that he knew she was crumbling bit by bit benea
th her immaculate exterior. “I was going to make a phone call. I’m with the Humane Society, and I wanted to check on a stray we picked up that was hit by a car,” Claire said lightly, hoping that he would take the hint and go.
He did not.
In fact, he just stood there, regarding her. He was a tall man, six feet or so, with dark hair that was neither too short nor too long. He was clad in an impeccable suit, as were most of the male guests. His shoulders were very broad, and Claire knew the suit had to be custom-made. She realized she was staring, but then so was he. She also realized that the room was too quiet. “Can I help you?” she tried.
“I have a feeling that you don’t like parties, Claire,” he said.
Claire felt her eyes widen as their gazes locked. His kind tone was like a hair trigger, and she turned away, even more shaken. “Of course I like parties.” But he was right. Parties were a part of her work. Rarely were they social events and a time to eat, drink, or be merry. Parties were an opportunity to raise badly needed funds for important causes, to pay back or laud those who had helped her in the past. Claire would never let anyone hold a party for her. Her last official birthday party had been when she was sixteen.
“Just not this one?” he prodded.
She turned away. “It’s my husband’s birthday,” she stressed. “It’s a wonderful evening for us both.” To her horror, her voice cracked on the last syllable.
“It’s okay. I know how tough these things can be.” His tone was kind, his gaze unwavering.
But their marriage was over. She had seen it in David’s eyes, and she felt it, too.
She had been alone her entire life. When she had married, she had thought that she would never be alone again.
But she was different now. She was a strong and successful woman, not a frightened, bereaved child.
“Here.”
Claire saw a tissue being dangled over her right shoulder. She accepted it gratefully, and while she was dabbing at her eyes, she heard him wander past her. He was giving her some space to compose herself, but he was not leaving her. Claire peeked at him out of the corner of her eye and saw him studying the seascape above the mantel. Her heart seemed to kick her in the chest.