Rhapsody

by Gould, Judith

  Manny quickly backpedaled. "Oh, yes, I know. I didn't mean to belittle her obvious talents, old boy. She's a whiz at all those things."

  "I'm going to see her tonight," Misha said, suddenly distracted. "Listen, Manny, why don't you run along? We can talk later. I have a lot to do. Getting ready for Berlin. Scheduling Copenhagen. And going over to Vera's new apartment tonight."

  Manny was already on his feet and headed toward the door, grateful that this conversation was at an end. The less he and Misha discussed Brighton Beach Recordings, the better, as far as he was concerned. He was also glad for the opportunity to steer Misha clear of Vera. She was, he thought, far too overprotective of Misha and smart as hell. He didn't need her nosing into the business. He would be glad to see the back side of her one day soon.

  Manny left the apartment, resolving that he would certainly do everything in his power to promote Serena Gibbons' star in Misha's galaxy. Yes, he thought, she was just exactly the sort of girlfriend Misha needed. She would never give a thought to Misha's career.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  After toiling in her overheated, closet-size kitchen, Vera rushed into her tiny bathroom to repair her makeup. Misha would soon be here, and she wanted to look her best for him. She quickly brushed her pale blond hair, then pulled it back and tied it with a ribbon at the base of her neck. Nothing could be simpler, she thought, but she knew it showed off her fine-boned features to perfection. She put on a dab of palest pink lipstick, blotted it, then brushed on the merest hint of blusher.

  She stood back and eyed her reflection critically. She really didn't particularly like wearing makeup and resented taking the time to apply it, but with her natural coloring being so pale, she thought that she looked ghostly without a bit of added color. Giving her face a final inspection in the mottled mirror, she decided that she looked fine. Considering that she'd been up since six o'clock, gone to the gym, put in a hectic day at the auction house, grocery shopped, and cooked.

  Cooking in her minute kitchen was a trial, and she hoped that Misha would appreciate her efforts. She had poached a salmon and made a fresh dill sauce to go with it. She would serve it with tiny new potatoes roasted with fresh rosemary, fresh green beans with mushrooms, and a mesclun salad with a garlic vinaigrette. For dessert she had bought homemade ginger ice cream and fresh strawberries.

  It was, she realized, a simple, straightforward meal, uncomplicated and not too rich. She knew that Misha grew tired of the calorie-laden, fancy foods served at so many of the hotels and at the dinner parties he was required to attend. She quickly strode about her apartment to make certain that everything looked neat and clean, stopping to rearrange the fresh flowers she'd placed in the living room and on the dining room table, then stood, surveying her realm with pride. She had moved out of her parents' palatial thirty-six rooms on Fifth Avenue and taken this apartment on East Seventy- fifth Street. Her father had bought the apartment for her, but Vera had insisted on signing a note, promising to pay him back in full, plus the going interest rate, as she rose in the ranks and her professional career became more rewarding financially. She was determined to stand on her own two feet as much as possible.

  The apartment had once been the parlor floor of a beautiful limestone town house, now split up into five floor-through apartments. Hers was not enormous, but she loved the proportions of its large living and dining rooms with their high ceilings, elaborately carved moldings, and fireplaces. The single bedroom was small but cozy, and the kitchen and bath were tiny but serviceable.

  She had lavished attention on the apartment's decoration, and it now resembled the pied-a-terre of an eccentric but wealthy collector with its mixture of furniture, art, and bibelots of various styles and periods. With the exception of her most prized books, she had brought almost nothing here from her parents' apartment. She had purchased nearly everything herself, some of it from the auction house, where she was always on the lookout for treasures that others bypassed, and some of it from auctions and antique stores out in the country.

  Much of the furniture was worn, with chips and nicks, and ancient fabric, and some of the paintings desperately needed restoration. Vera, however, liked the lived-in look of faded grandeur. She wanted to avoid the museum look, in which everything was glowing perfection, like the apartment she had grown up in. Here, you weren't afraid to put your feet up, and spilling a glass of wine wasn't a tragedy. Comfort ruled.

  Satisfied that everything looked warm and inviting, she went to her bedroom to change clothes. She discarded

  her jeans and sweatshirt, and put on a pale fawn cashmere sweater and matching cashmere trousers, then slipped into pale pink ballerina slippers. They were so comfortable after heels all days. She still wore the single strand of pearls around her neck and pearl studs in her ears, and decided they looked perfect with her casual outfit.

  The buzzer sounded, and she quickly dabbed perfume at her ears, throat, and wrists. A concoction Caron in Paris had made especially for her, it had distinctive but subtle notes of tuberose. She hurried to the kitchen and pressed the talk button on the intercom.

  "Who is it?" she asked.

  "Misha."

  She took a deep breath and pushed the button to release the outside door lock. She rushed to her door and opened it. He stood there, his dark eyes dancing, his raven hair shining, his sensuous lips set in that irresistible smile.

  "You look beautiful," he said, kissing her on the cheek.

  "And you look better than ever," Vera replied, inhaling his masculine scent. She ushered him from the small entry foyer into the living room.

  Misha stopped and stood in the large, gracious room and looked around him. "My God, Vera," he said with awe in his voice. "This looks fantastic."

  "It's a beginning," Vera said modestly.

  He turned and looked at her. "You know better than that," he said. "It's really fantastic. Really special."

  "Thanks, Misha," she said.

  "I should have known," he said, "especially after all the help you gave me."

  "Have a look around at the rest, if you want to, and I'll get us something to drink. White wine okay?"

  "Yes," he replied. "That'd be great."

  Vera went to the kitchen while Misha slowly toured the living and dining rooms, then the bedroom, examining the furniture and paintings, the bibelots and photographs, the books and drawings. He noticed a photograph of himself clustered with several family pictures on a desk in the bedroom.

  "Cheers," Vera said from the bedroom doorway, holding their wineglasses.

  Misha turned around and looked at her. She looked so ethereally beautiful, like the very first time he had seen her, all those years ago. He took the wine from her, and they clinked glasses.

  "Cheers," he said, taking a sip.

  "Let's sit in the living room," Vera said.

  Misha followed her out, and they both sat on the big, comfortable couch in front of the fireplace.

  "It's strange," Misha said, looking about him, "how much our tastes are alike. I mean, this place is lighter and airier than mine, but in many ways it's the same. We both like Old World art and antiques, worn-out stuff a lot of people laugh at."

  "I know," Vera said, smiling, "but I think yours is much more dramatic and interesting."

  "Maybe more dramatic with all the color," Misha conceded, "but not more interesting."

  They discussed his upcoming concert dates and her work at the auction house, his family and hers, their mutual friends, and finally ate dinner by candlelight in the dining room.

  "I can't believe you did all this yourself," Misha declared after finishing the last of his dessert. "It was really wonderful, Vera. Do you have any idea what a treat this was after all the fancy, rich stuff that's forced on me?"

  "I'm glad you liked it," she said. Her heart soared, and she felt foolish at being so pleased by his compliment. "Would you like coffee?" she asked.

  "Sure," he said, "if you're going to have some."

  "Why don't
we have it in the living room?" Vera said. "Go get comfortable, and I'll bring it in."

  Misha kicked off his shoes and sprawled on the couch, feeling contented. The apartment was just right, he thought. And the food. Everything done to just the right turn. So civilized yet homey.

  Vera came through the dining room with their coffee on a small tray. Misha started to sit up when he saw her.

  "No," she said. "Spread back out and make yourself comfortable." She put the tray down on the coffee table, and sat on the floor next to the couch, then handed Misha his cup of coffee.

  "Thanks," he said, taking a sip, then putting the cup back down. He propped his head up on pillows, and lay there looking at Vera.

  She sipped quietly at her coffee and looked over at him. "What is it?" she asked.

  Misha smiled. "Nothing," he said. "I was just thinking how wonderful you look, how great this evening's been."

  "I'm glad you've enjoyed it," she said. "I have. It's not often we can get together these days."

  "No," Misha said, "it's not." He looked at her again, thoughtfully, then asked: "Are you seeing anybody now?"

  Vera put her coffee down. "Not really, Misha," she said. "I go out a lot, socialize a lot. You know. See friends. Go to work functions, a few society parties, things like that. But I'm not really seeing anybody."

  "Then who are these guys I see you coupled up with in the social columns?" he asked lightly.

  Vera laughed. "This is like old times," she said, "when we used to compare notes about who the press reported we'd been seen with."

  "You don't have any secrets anymore, then?" he asked, teasing her about Simon Hampton.

  "No," Vera said emphatically. She shivered involuntarily and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. "And that's not funny, Misha," she said.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have been so flippant about it."

  "That's okay," she said.

  "Still," he said, "I find it hard to believe that you're not seeing somebody at least half seriously."

  Vera looked at him and shrugged. "Well, I'm not."

  "How's that possible, Vera?" he asked. "I mean, you have everything in the world to offer some guy."

  She looked away, feeling very uncomfortable. How could she tell him that no other man on earth interested her? How could she tell him that she had no desire to become involved with those men who had been genuinely interested in her over the years?

  "I just haven't met the right person, Misha," she finally said.

  He reached out a hand and stroked her hair gently. "You will, Vera," he said. "I'm sure of it." Then he leaned over and kissed her forehead.

  Vera looked into his eyes, and Misha saw the sadness and the desire there in their pale watery blueness. Inexplicably, he would afterward think, he pulled her to him, caressing her, tenderly peppering her face and neck and ears with kisses, inhaling her sweet fragrance.

  Vera held onto him as if for dear life, before abruptly pulling back. "No, Misha," she whispered. "Please, I don't want your pity."

  He drew her to him with a much more considerable force, kissing her more passionately, his tongue darting between her lips hungrily, his hands stroking her hair, her back, her shoulders, then, inevitably, her breasts.

  Vera gasped and began to shake her head from side to side.

  "Shhh," he whispered, moving his lips to her ear. "This has nothing to do with pity, Vera. Nothing at all. It's me, Misha. Remember? Just let yourself enjoy it. Let us both enjoy it."

  He began again, gently, tenderly, lovingly, until they were both swept up in a tide of passion, of need, of urgency, that ultimately led them to her bedroom and sweet, sweet release.

  Jesus! he later thought, getting dressed. I wanted to tell her about Serena, and look at what's happened. He experienced a strange sensation, unlike guilt, unlike shame, but unfamiliar and worrisome. He didn't feel that what he'd done with Vera was wrong. How could it be? he asked himself. It had somehow felt so right. It was a coupling, he thought, of familiarity, between friends.

  Vera was like a safe harbor, a very loving one, and very exciting in her own way. What then was Serena? And why was he so drawn to her? Could he love them both, in different ways? He didn't know, and was genuinely confused. Only a short time ago he had been convinced that Serena was the only woman in the world who mattered to him. And now?

  What's wrong with me? he wondered. What am I going to do?

  Vera let him out, then returned to her bedroom. The evening couldn't have worked out more perfectly, she thought, even if she hadn't planned it that way. She was glad that she hadn't tried to seduce Misha, for she knew with dead certainty that that would be the worst mistake she could possibly make.

  She shut her eyes and hugged her arms around herself tightly. Maybe ...just maybe, she thought, he'll finally realize that no one else can possibly love him like I do. And maybe someday, he'll come to love me, too.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Misha rolled over in bed and put his hands behind his head. He sighed with postcoital contentment and stared up at the bedroom's white ceiling and the ugly exposed pipes. Even in the bedroom's dim lighting, he could see them crisscrossing above him. When he'd first seen Serena's loft in SoHo, he'd been enthralled with its vast proportions, its high ceilings and huge windows, the drama of its cutting-edge modernity and minimal decoration. Over the last few weeks he had spent many nights here—every night when they'd both been in New York City—yet by now he found that his initial enthusiasm had changed to a kind of boredom, if not active dislike.

  The loft's vast whiteness now seemed sterile and somehow inhuman, its modernity uncomfortable, institutional even. Serena was too much on the go, he reflected, to do anything to make it more livable.

  The furniture was all horrendously expensive and beautifully designed but hard-edged and cold. On the walls hung a few pieces of contemporary art, most of it in varying shades of black and by artists he was unfamiliar with. None of it inspired him. A few of Serena's photographs hung in the only bedroom and a hallway— all high-fashion shots, very well done, but like the rest of the loft, cold and unfriendly. There were very few bibelots, almost nothing to indicate that she had traveled the world over in her work. Most peculiar of all, he thought, was that there was not a single photograph of family or friends.

  Even the kitchen, usually the coziest gathering place in these expensive downtown aeries, was a temple to the industrial. The industrial stoves and refrigerators, the cabinetry and counters—nearly everything glass and steel and granite—gave Misha more the impression of a surgery than a welcoming hearth where friends cooked and ate and drank together, talking and laughing. It looked as if it had never been used, and indeed Serena said that she almost never had.

  At first Misha thought that she was surely exaggerating, but he had come to believe her. Every night he'd come down after his daily piano practice, they'd ordered food in: Chinese, Japanese, Burmese, Thai, Vietnamese. The few times they'd gone out, Serena had insisted they go to chic, overpriced restaurants, the sort of fashionable and trendy restaurants where one went not for the food, but to see and be seen.

  Mornings at the loft were always the same: coffee. Period. Gulped down quickly as Serena geared up for the day's business, usually placing and receiving telephone calls as she made and drank the coffee, often on more than one line at a time. Stylists, models, publishers, photo editors, art directors, fashion designers, advertisers, ad agencies, assistants, and her agent—the telephone never seemed to stop. And his being there never stopped her from answering it.

  He smiled, thinking how adept Serena was amid this beehive of activity. How she handled a million details with such orderliness and aplomb. He would be half- crazed, he thought, if he lived in the incessant whirlwind she did. His own life was so different, so much more isolated, revolving as it did around the piano and the music in front of him.

  He realized that in some ways they hardly knew each other at all, despite their many nights of intimacy tog
ether. We both work such long, hard hours, he thought, and the work and travel make it very difficult to have a relationship that's more than sexual. Sometimes he felt they weren't a couple at all, but strangers repeating an erotically charged one-night stand over and over.

  Even sojourns, like their few hours in Copenhagen together a few weeks ago, as much fun as they had been, had begun to lose their luster. Perhaps, he thought, the novelty had simply worn off, but he suspected it was more than that.

  He heard Serena shut off the shower in the adjoining bathroom and waited for her to appear in the doorway as he knew she would, a towel wrapped around her head like a turban, her resplendent body blushed pink by the hot shower. When she did, surrounded by a halo of light, he looked at her intently, wondering who she really was, what lay beneath the beautiful, polished exterior.

  She saw the expression on his face and looked at him questioningly. "What is it?" she asked.

  He smiled. "I was just wondering about some things," he said.

  "What things?" she asked, walking over to the bed and sitting down on the side next to him.

  He reached a hand up and ran a finger down her spine. "Oh, about you. Who you are. Where you're from. Things like that."

  Serena expelled a sigh and turned to face him. "I'm Serena Gibbons," she said wearily. "I grew up in Florida. Can't that be enough for you?"

  Misha shook his head. "I can't help but be curious," he said. "You know everything about me, Serena, and I want to know everything there is to know about you."

  "I've told you before, Misha," Serena replied, a note of irritation in her voice. "I don't like to talk about the past. There's nothing to know." She began drying her hair with the towel, rubbing it slowly.

  "I find that hard to believe," Misha replied.

  "Try," she said, toweling her hair with more vigor.

  "I have," Misha said. "For several weeks. I think it's pretty amazing that so far I've found out more about you from an article in Vanity Fair magazine than you've ever told me."