Now and Forever (1978)

by Steel, Danielle

  "Want to come up for a drink?"

  He knew from the look in her eyes that she'd be hurt if he didn't. And, hell, he was in no shape to go home and work. And he still had nine and a half hours to kill before driving out to the airport. But he also knew what might happen if he accepted Maggie's invitation. And letting that happen seemed like a rotten thing to do to Jessie the day she was coming home. He had held out for three weeks. Why not one more afternoon? ...

  But this girl looked so lonely, so unloved, and the gin and the sun were spinning in his brain. He knew he didn't want to go back to the house. Nothing in it was his, not really his, except five file drawers of his writing and the new Olivetti typewriter Jessie had given him. The gigolo king. Jessie's consort.

  "Sure. I've got time for a drink. As long as you make it coffee. What'll I do with the car?"

  "I think you can park it in front of the door. It's a white zone, they won't tow you away."

  He parked the car in front of the hotel, and Maggie carefully watched the back of the car as he pulled in to the curb. It was an easy plate to remember. It spelled what she thought was his name. Jessie.

  Chapter 2

  Jessica heard the landing gear grind out of the plane's belly and smiled. Her seat belt was in place, her overhead light was out, and she felt her heart begin to beat faster as the plane circled the runway for the last time. She had a clear view of the lights below.

  She looked at her watch. She knew him so well. Right now he would be frantically looking for a parking space in the airport garage, terrified that he was late and might miss her at the gate. He'd find a space then, and run like hell for the terminal, and would be panting and smiling, nerves jangled, when he reached her. But he'd get mere in time. He always did. It made coming home something special.

  She felt as though she had been away for a year, but she'd bought such good things. The spring line would be lovely. Soft pastels, gentle wools cut on the bias, creamy plaids, silk shirts with full sleeves, and some marvelous suedes. She could never resist the suedes. It would be a great spring at the boutique. The goodies she had ordered wouldn't begin to arrive for another three or four months, but she was already excited thinking about them. She had them all memorized. The spring line was set. She liked to plan ahead like that. Liked knowing what was coming. Liked knowing that she had her life, and her work, all mapped out. Some people might find that boring, but it never bothered Jessie.

  She and Ian were planning a trip to Carmel in October. Thanksgiving would be spent with friends. Maybe Christmas skiing at Lake Tahoe, and then a quick hop to Mexico for some sun after the New Year. And then the spring line would start to come in. It was all perfectly planned. Like her trips, like her meals, like her wardrobe. She had what it took to make plans--a business that worked, a husband she loved and could always count on, and reliable people around her. Very little was variable, and she liked it that way. She wondered if that was why she had never wanted a baby: it would be a variable. Something she couldn't totally plan. She didn't know how it would look or act, or exactly when it might be born, or what she would do with it once she had it. The idea of a baby unnerved her. And life was so much simpler like this. Just Jessie and Ian. Alone. And that way there were no rivals for Ian's affection. Jessie didn't like to compete, not for Ian. He was all she had now.

  The wheels touched the runway, and she closed her eyes ... Ian ... she had longed for him over the past weeks. The days had been full and the nights busy, yet she had usually called him when she'd reached the hotel in the evening. But she hadn't been able to reach out and touch him, or be held. She hadn't been able to laugh into his eyes, or tickle his feet, or stand next to him under the shower, chasing drops of water past the freckles on his back with her tongue. She stretched her long legs ahead of her as she waited for the plane to come to a halt.

  It was hard to be patient. She wanted the trip to be over. She wanted to run out and see him. Right now. There had never been other men. It was hard to believe, but there hadn't. She had given it some thought, once or twice, but it had never seemed worth it. Ian was so much better than anyone else, in her eyes. Sexier and smarter and kinder and more loving. Ian understood so well what she needed, and fulfilled so many needs. In the seven years they'd been married, she had lost track of most of her close women friends in New York, and hadn't replaced them with others in San Francisco. She didn't need women friends, a confidante, a "best" friend. She had Ian. He was her best friend, her lover, even her brother, now that Jake was dead. And so what if now and then Ian had a "fling"? It didn't happen often, and he was discreet. It didn't bother her. Men did those things when they had to, when their wives were away. He didn't use it, or flaunt it, or grind it into her heart. She just suspected that he did it. That was all. She understood. As long as she didn't have to know. She assumed, which was different from knowing.

  Her parents had had a marriage like that, and they had been happy for years. Watching them, Jessie had understood about the things you didn't talk about, didn't hurt each other with, didn't use. A good marriage relied on consideration, and sometimes keeping your mouth shut and just letting the other guy be was consideration ... love. Her parents were dead now; they hadn't been young when she'd been born. Her mother had been in her late thirties, her father just past forty-five. And Jessie had been four when Jake was born. But marrying late, they had respected each other more than most couples did. They were not inclined to make changes in each other. It had taught Jessie a lot.

  But they were all gone now. It had already been three years. Almost exactly. Her parents had died within months of each other. Jake had died a year before that, in Vietnam, at the crest of his twenties. Gone. Jessica was the only one left. But she had Ian. Thank God there was Ian. It sent little tremors up her spine when she thought of it that way ... what would she do without Ian? Die ... the way her father had done without her mother ... die ... she couldn't live without Ian. He was her all now. He held her late at night when she was afraid. He made her laugh when something touched too deep and made her sad. He remembered the moments that mattered, knew the things that she loved, understood her private language, laughed at all her worst jokes. He knew. She was his woman, and his little girl. That was what she needed. Ian. So what did it matter if there were occasional indiscretions she didn't really know about? As long as he was there when it counted. And he always was.

  She heard the doors slide open; the people began to press into the aisles. The five-hour flight was over. It was time to go home. Jessie brushed the creases from her slacks with one hand and reached for her coat with the other. It was a bright orange suede that she wore over beige suede pants and a print silk shirt in shades of caramel. Her green eyes glowed in her suntanned face, and her blond hair swung thick and free past her shoulders. Ian loved her in orange, and the had bought the coat in New York. She smiled to herself, thinking how he'd love it--almost as much as the Pierre Cardin blazer she'd brought him. It was fun to spoil Ian.

  Three businessmen and a gaggle of women pressed out before her, but she was tall enough to see over the chattering women's heads. He was there at the gate, and she waved as he grinned broadly, waving back, and then he moved swiftly toward her, gently weaving his way through the people ahead of her. Then he had reached her and was taking her in his arms.

  "It's about time you came home ... and looking like that, you'll be lucky if I don't rape you right here." He looked so pleased. And then he kissed her. She was home.

  "Go ahead. Rape me. I dare you." But they stood where they were, drinking each other in, saying it all with their eyes. Jessie couldn't keep a smile from her lips, or her hands from his face. "You feel so good." She loved the softness and spiced lemon smell of his skin.

  "Jessie, if you knew how I missed you ..." She nodded, knowing. She had missed him at least as much.

  "How's the book?"

  "Nice." They spoke in the brief banalities of those who know each other better than well. They didn't need many words. "Really
nice." He picked up her large brown leather tote from the floor where she'd dropped it to kiss him. "Come on, sexy lady, let's go home." She looped her arm into his, and together they walked in long even strides, her hair brushing his shoulder, her every move a complement to his.

  "I brought you a present."

  He smiled. She always did.

  "Bought yourself one too, I see. That's some coat."

  "Do you like it? Or is it awful? I was afraid it was a little too loud." It was a burnt caramel bordering on flame.

  "On you it looks good. Everything does."

  "Jesus, you're being nice to me! What did you do? Smash up the car?"

  "Now, is that a nice thing to say? I ask you. Is that nice?"

  "Did you?" But she was laughing and so was he.

  "No, I traded it for a Honda motorcycle. I thought you might like that better."

  "What a nice thought! Gee, darling, I'm just thrilled. Now come on, tell the truth. How bad is the car?"

  "Bad? I'll have you know that it happens to be not only in impeccable condition, but clean, a condition it was not in when you left. That poor little car was filthy!"

  "Yeah, I know." She hung her head and he grinned.

  "You're a disgrace, Mrs. Clarke, but I love you." He kissed the tip of her nose and she slid her arms around his neck.

  "Guess what?"

  "How many guesses do I get?"

  "One."

  "You love me?"

  "You guessed it!" She giggled and kissed his neck.

  "What do I get as a prize for guessing?"

  "Me."

  "Terrific. I'll take it."

  "Boy, I'm glad to be home." She heaved a small sigh and stood in the circle of his arms as they waited for her bags to appear on the turntable. He could see the relief in her eyes. She hated going away, hated flying, was afraid to die, was afraid he'd die in a car wreck while she was gone. Ever since her parents and her brother... so many terrors. It wasn't as if they had died violently. Her mother had just been old. Old enough. Sixty-eight. And her father in his seventies. He had died of grief less than a year later. But Jessie hadn't been ready for the double loss and it was incredible to see what it had done to her. She had never fully recovered from her brother's death, but after her parents ... At times Ian wondered if she'd make it. The terrors, the hysteria, the nightmares. She felt so alone and so frightened. At times she wasn't even someone he knew. She was suddenly so dependent on him, so unlike the old Jessie. And it seemed as though she wanted to be sure he was equally dependent on her ... That was when he had let her talk him into quitting his job and writing full-time. She could afford it. But in some ways he wasn't sure he could. It suited both of them though, most of the time. And supporting him made Jessie feel more secure. He really was all she had now.

  She looked up at him again and smiled.

  "Just wait till I get you home, Mrs. Clarke."

  "Lech."

  "Yep. And you love it."

  "Yes. I do."

  People were watching them, but they didn't notice. They gave people something pretty to look at, something to smile at, to feel good about, to wish for. And something to enjoy as well. They were two beautiful people who had it all. That usually aroused an interesting medley of emotions in those who watched them.

  They walked to the garage to reclaim the Morgan and Jessie grinned with pride when she saw it.

  "Christ, it looks good. What did you do to it?"

  "Have it washed. You should try it sometime. You'll love the effect."

  "Oh, shut up." She swung at him playfully, and he ducked, catching her arm as she laughed.

  "Before you beat me up, Amazon, get in the car." He slapped her on the behind and unlocked the door.

  "Don't call me an Amazon, you miserable creep! Masher!"

  "Masher? Did I hear you call me a masher?" He looked shocked and walked back to where she stood. "Lady, how dare you call me a name like that?" And with that he swung her off her feet and slid her onto the seat of the car. "There. And let me tell you, with a broad your size, that's no mean feat!"

  "Ian, you're a shit." But he knew she wasn't sensitive about her height. They both liked it. "Besides, I think I'm shrinking."

  "Oh? Down to six-one now, are you?" He chuckled as he finished strapping her bag to the luggage rack in the back. He still had the top down on the car, and she was watching him with a smile.

  "Go to hell. You know perfectly well I'm only five-eleven, but I measured myself the other day and I was only five-ten-and-a-half."

  "You must have been sitting down."

  He slid in beside her and turned to look into her eyes. "Hello, Mrs. Clarke. Welcome home."

  "Hello, my love. It's so good to be back." They shared a long smile as he started the car, and she shrugged out of the new coat and rolled up the sleeves of her blouse. "Was it hot here today? It still feels warm now."

  "It was boiling and gorgeous and sunny. And if it's anything like that tomorrow, you can call the boutique and tell them you're snowed in in Chicago. We're going to the beach."

  "Snowed in, in September? You're crazy. And, darling, I really can't." But she liked the idea and he knew it.

  "Oh, yes you can. I'll kidnap you if I have to."

  "Maybe I could go in late."

  "Now you've got the idea." He smiled victoriously as he pulled the choke.

  "Was it really that nice today?"

  "Nicer. And it would have been better yet if you had been home. I got crocked at lunch at Enrico's, and I didn't know what to do with myself all day."

  "I'm sure you found something." But there was no malice in her tone, and no expression on his face.

  "Nah. Nothing much."

  Chapter 3

  "Jessie, you are without a doubt the most beautiful woman I know."

  "It's entirely mutual." She lay on her stomach, smiling up at him, the scent of their bodies heavy in the air, their hair tousled. They had not been awake very long. Only long enough to make love.

  "It can't be mutual, silly. I'm not a beautiful woman."

  "No, but you're a magnificent man."

  "And you are adorably corny. You must live with a writer." She smiled again and he ran a finger gently up her spine.

  "You're going to get into trouble again, darling, if you do that." She accepted a puff on the cigarette they shared, and exhaled over his head before sitting up to kiss him again.

  "What time are we going to the beach, Jessie, my love?"

  "Who said we were going to the beach? Jesus, darling, I have to get to the shop. I've been gone for three weeks."

  "So be gone for another day. You said you were going to the beach with me today." He looked faintly like a pouting boy.

  "I did not."

  "You most certainly did. Well, almost. I told you I'd kidnap you, and you seemed to like the idea." She laughed, running a hand through his hair. He was impossible. A great big boy. But such a beautiful boy. She could never resist him.

  "You know something?"

  "What?" He looked pleased as he gazed down into her face. She was beautiful in the morning.

  "You're a pain in the ass, that's what. I have to work. How can I go to the beach?"

  "Easy. You call the girls, tell them you can't come in till tomorrow, and off we go. Simple. How can you waste a day like this, for Chrissake?"

  "By making a living."

  Those were the comments he didn't like. They implied that he didn't make a living.

  "How about if I go in this morning and cut the day short?"

  "Yeah. And leave the boutique just as the fog comes in. Jessica, you're a party pooper. Yep. Party pooper. A--l." But she was already on her way to make coffee, and answered him over her shoulder as she walked naked into the kitchen.

  "I promise I'll leave the shop by one. How's that?"

  "Better than nothing. Christ, I love your ass. And you lost weight." She smiled and blew him a kiss.

  "One o'clock, I promise. And we can have lunch here."


  "Does that mean what I think it does?" He was smiling again and she nodded. "Then I'll pick you up at twelve-thirty."

  "That's a deal."

  Lady J nestled on the ground floor of a well-tended Victorian house just off Union Street. The house was painted yellow with white trim, and a small brass plaque on the door was engraved with LADY J. Jessie had had a broad picture window put in, and she did the window display herself twice a month. It was simple and effective, and as she pulled the Morgan into the driveway she looked up to see what they'd done with the display while she was gone. A brown tweed skirt, a camel-colored stock shirt, amber beads, a trim knit hat, and a little fox jacket draped over a green velvet chair. It looked pretty damn good, and it was the right look for fall ... though not for Indian summer. But that didn't matter. No one bought for Indian summer. They bought for fall.

  The things she had ordered in New York flashed through her mind as she pulled her briefcase out of the car and ran up the few steps to their door. It was open; the girls had known she'd be in early.

  "Well, look who's home! Zina! Jessie's back!" A tiny, fine-featured Oriental girl clapped her hands and jumped to her feet, running toward Jessie with a look of delight. "You look fantastic!" The two were a striking pair. Jessie's fair, lanky beauty was in sharp contrast to the Japanese girl's delicate grace. Her hair "was shiny and black and hung in a well-shaped slant from the nape of her neck toward the point of her chin.

  "Kat! You cut your hair!" Jessie was momentarily taken aback. Only a month before the girl's hair had hung to her waist--when she hadn't worn it in a tight knot high on her head. Her name was Katsuko, which meant peace.

  "I got sick of wearing it up. How do you like it?" She pirouetted swiftly on one foot and let her hair swing around her head as she smiled. She was dressed in black, as she often was, and it accented her litheness. It was her catlike grace that had given her the nickname Jessie used.

  "I love it. Very chic." They smiled at each other and were rapidly interrupted by a war cry of glee.