Now and Forever (1978)

by Steel, Danielle

  On the way home, they stopped outside the yacht club near the bridge and turned off the fights and the motor. It was nice to sit and watch the water lap at a small lip of beach while the foghorns bleated softly in the distance. They were both oddly tired, as though each day were an endless journey. Their few days of trauma had taken a heavy toll. She noticed it in the heavy way he slept now, and she herself felt tired all the time, no matter how happy she was again. There was a new passion, too. A new need, a new hunger for each other, as though they must stock up for a long empty winter. They had rough times ahead. This was just the beginning.

  "Want to go out for an ice cream cone?" There was a restless look around his eyes.

  "Honestly? No. I'm bushed."

  "Yeah. Me too. And I want to do some reading tonight. The chapter I just finished."

  "Can I read some too?"

  "Sure." He looked pleased as he started the car and headed for home. It was funny how neither of them wanted to go home. The stop near the yacht club, the offer of an ice cream cone--what was the lurking demon they feared at home? Jessica wondered; but she knew who her private demon was. Inspector Houghton. She constantly expected him to jump out at her and take Ian back into custody. She had thought about it all day at the beach, wondering if he would spring from behind a dune and try to spirit Ian away. She hadn't said anything to Ian. Neither of them ever spoke of his arrest now. It was all either of them could think of, and the only thing they wouldn't talk about.

  He was stretched out in front of the fire reading his manuscript when she decided that she had to remind him. She hated to bring it up, but somebody had to.

  "Don't forget about tomorrow, love." She said it softly, regretfully.

  "Huh?" He had been deep into his work.

  "I said don't forget about tomorrow."

  "What's tomorrow?" He looked blank.

  "We have a ten o'clock appointment with Martin Schwartz." She tried to make it sound like a double appointment with the hairdresser, but it didn't come off like that Ian looked up at her and didn't say a word. His eyes said it all.

  Chapter 10

  The meeting with Martin Schwartz was sobering. Sitting there with him, having to discuss the charges, they couldn't hide from it anymore. Jessica felt sick as she sat and listened. It was real now. She even felt sick thinking of the security she had put up. It came home to her now. She had put everything on the line. The house. The shop's profits. Even the emerald ring. Everything ... Jesus ... and what if Ian panicked and ran? What if ... my God ... she'd lose it all. She looked at him, feeling a lump rise in her throat, and tried to concentrate on what was being said. She almost couldn't hear. She just kept thinking of the fact that she needed one man so desperately that she had given all for him. And now what would happen?

  Martin explained the preliminary hearing to them, and they agreed to hire an investigator to see what could be learned of the "victim." Plenty, they hoped, and all of it unsavory. They were not going to be kind to Miss Margaret Burton. Destroying her was Ian's only way out.

  "There's got to be a reason for it though, Ian. Think about it Carefully. Did you rough her up in some way? Sexually? Verbally? Humiliate her? Hurt her?" Martin looked at Ian pointedly, and Jessie looked away. She hated the uncomfortable look on Ian's face. "Ian?" And then Martin looked at her. "Jessie, maybe you ought to let us have this out alone for a few moments."

  "Sure." It was a relief to leave the room. Ian didn't look up as she left. They were down to the nitty-gritty now. Of who had done what to whom, where, how, for how long, and how often. He died thinking of what Jessie would hear in court at the trial.

  She wandered the carpeted halls, looking at prints on the wall, smoking, alone with her own thoughts, until she found a small love seat placed near a window with the same splendid view as the one from Martin's office. She had a lot to think about.

  A secretary came to get her half an hour later and escorted her back to Martin's office. Ian looked harassed and Martin was scowling. Jessie tried to make light of it.

  "Did I miss all the good parts?" But her smile was forced and they didn't try to return it.

  "According to Ian, there were no 'good' parts. It must have something to do with a personal grudge."

  "Against Ian? Why? Did you know her?" She turned to her husband with a look of surprise. She had understood that the woman was a stranger to him.

  "No. I didn't know her. But Martin means that she was out to hurt someone, anyone, maybe just a man, and I came along at the wrong time."

  "You can say that again."

  "I just hope we can prove it, Ian. Green ought to come up with something on her."

  "He'd better, at twenty bucks an hour." Ian frowned again and looked at Jessie, as she nodded almost imperceptibly. This was no time to get tight with money. They'd find it wherever they had to, but they couldn't skimp on this.

  Martin explained the preliminary to them once more to make sure it was clear. It was a sort of mini-trial at which the plaintiff/victim and the defendant would state their sides of the story, and the judge would decide if the matter should be dropped, or go on to a higher court for an ultimate decision--in this case, to trial. Martin held out no hope that the matter would be dropped. The opposing stories were equally vehement, the circumstances cloudy. No judge would take it upon himself to decide a case like that at the preliminary stage. It didn't help that the woman had maintained the same job for years and was respected where she worked. And there were certain psychological aspects of the case that made Martin Schwartz exceedingly uncomfortable: the fact that Ian was being virtually supported by his wife and hadn't had a successful book in a number of years, though he'd been writing for almost six, could have produced a certain resentment against women; at least, a good prosecutor could make it look that way. The investigator would be out to talk to Ian that afternoon or the following morning.

  Jessie and Ian rode down in the elevator in silence, and Jessie finally spoke as they reached the street.

  "Well, babe, what do you think?"

  "Nothing good. Sounds like if we don't dig up some dirt on her, she's got me by the balls. And according to Schwartz, the courts frown on that kind of character assassination these days. But in this case, it's our only hope. It's her version against mine, and of course the medical testimony too, but that sounds pretty weak. They can tell that there was intercourse, but no one can tell if it was rape. The assault charge has already been dropped. Now we're just down to the nitty-gritty and my 'sexual aberrations.' " Jessica nodded and said nothing.

  It was a quiet drive to the boutique. She was thinking about the hearing with dread. She didn't want to see that woman, but there was no way to escape it. She had to see her, had to listen, had to hold up her end, if only for Ian's sake, no matter how ugly the whole thing got.

  "Want me to leave you the car, love? I can walk home." Ian prepared to get out after he drove her to the shop.

  "No, darling, I ... actually, come to think of it, I'm going to need it today. Does that louse you up?" She was trying to sound pleasant, but she had just had a thought. She needed the car today, and there were no maybe's about it, whether it loused him up or not.

  "No sweat. I've got the Swedish sex bomb if I need it." He was referring to his Volvo, and she grinned.

  "Want to come in for a cup of coffee?" But neither of them felt talkative. The morning's interview had left them feeling pensive and distant from each other.

  "No, I'll let you get to work. I want to spend a little time by myself." It was pointless to ask him if he was upset. They both were.

  "Okay, love. I'll see you later." At the door to the boutique they parted with a quick kiss.

  She rapidly took refuge in her office and made an appointment for one-thirty. It was the only thing she could think of. Ian would be crushed, but what choice did she have? And he was in no position to object.

  "Well, what do you think?"

  She hated the man's looks and resented him already. He was
fat and oily and sly.

  "Not bad. Pretty slinky little number. How's it look under the hood?"

  "Impeccable." He was examining the little red Morgan as if it were a piece of meat in a supermarket or a hooker in a bordello. Jessie's skin crawled; this felt like selling their child into white slavery. To this fat nauseating man.

  "You in a hurry to sell her?"

  "No. Just curious about the price I might get for it."

  "Why do you want to sell her? Need the bread?" He looked Jessie over carefully.

  "No. I need a larger car." But it was all very painful. She still remembered her astonishment and delight the day Ian had driven up in the Morgan and handed her the keys, with a broad grin on his face. Victory. And now it would be like selling her heart. Or his.

  "Tell you what, I'll make you an offer."

  "How much?"

  "Four thousand ... nah ... maybe, as a favor to you, forty-five hundred." The dealer looked her over and waited.

  "That's ridiculous. My husband paid seven for it, and it's in better condition now than when he bought it."

  "Best I can do. And I think it's the best you'll get on short notice. It needs a little work." It didn't, and they both knew it, but he was right about the short notice. A Morgan was a beautiful car, but very few people wanted to own one, or could afford to.

  "I'll let you know. Thank you for your time." Without further comment she got back in the car and drove off. Damn. What a miserable thing to even consider. But she had the rest of Schwartz's fee to pay, and now the investigator, the business and the house were already tied up by Yorktowne Bonding, and she already had a loan out on the car. She'd be lucky if the bank would even let her sell it. But they knew her well enough. They just might let her. And despite Ian's flourish about going out and getting a job, he had done nothing. He was knee deep in the book and going nowhere except to his studio with a pencil stuck behind his ear. Artistic, but hardly lucrative at this point. And even if he did get a job, how much money could he make in the month or two before the trial, waiting on tables or tending bar while he wrote at night? Maybe the book would sell. There was always that to hope for. But Jessie knew from experience that that took time, and too often they had teased themselves with that slim hope. She knew better now. It would have to be the Morgan. Sooner or later.

  She kept to herself for the rest of the day, and it was a pleasant surprise when Astrid Bonner walked into the shop shortly before five. She might bring relief from the day's tensions.

  "Well, Jessica, you certainly are hard to get hold of!" But she was in high spirits. She had just bought a new topaz ring, a handsome piece of work, thirty-two karats' worth encased in a small fortune in gold, and she "hadn't been able to resist it." On anyone else it would have been vulgar; on Astrid it had style. But it made Jessie's heart ache again over the Morgan. The topaz with the narrow diamond baguettes had probably cost Astrid twice the amount she needed so badly.

  "Life has been pretty crazy ever since I got back from New York. And that's some ring, Astrid!"

  "If I get tired of it, I can always use it as a doorknob. I can't quite decide if it's gorgeous or ghastly, and I know no one will ever tell me the truth."

  "It's gorgeous."

  "Truth?" She looked at Jessie teasingly.

  "So much so I've been green with envy since you walked in."

  "Goody! It really was a shockingly self-indulgent thing to do. Amazing what a little ennui will do to a girl." She laughed coquettishly and Jessie smiled. Such simple problems. Ennui.

  "Want a lift home, or did you come to do some shopping?"

  "No shopping, and I have the car, thanks. I came by on my way home to invite you and your husband to dinner." The girls had told her that Jessie was married.

  "What a sweet thought. We'd love it. When do you want us?"

  "How about tomorrow?"

  "You're on." They exchanged a smile of pleasure and Astrid walked comfortably around Jessie's small, cheerful office.

  "You know, Jessica, I'm falling in love with this place. I might have to con you out of it one of these days." She laughed mischievously and watched Jessica's eyes.

  "Don't waste your energies conning me. I might just give it to you. Right about now, I might even gift wrap it!"

  "You're making me drool."

  "Spare your saliva. Can I talk you into a drink? I don't know about you, but I could use a stiff one."

  "Still those problems you mentioned the other day?"

  "More or less."

  "Which means mind my own business. Fair enough." She smiled easily; she didn't know that Jessica had spent the day trying to forget that Barry York had a lien on her business. It made Jessica sick to think about it, and all the while Ian was out of touch with the world, working on that bloody book night and day. Jesus. She needed someone to talk to. And why did he have to start tuning out right now? He always got that way when he was into a book. But now?

  "I have an idea, Jessica."

  Jessie looked up, startled. For a moment she had totally forgotten Astrid.

  "How about having that drink at my place?"

  "You know what? I'd love that. You're sure it's not too much trouble?"

  "It's no trouble; it would be fun. Come on, let's get going."

  Jessie bid a rapid good night to the girls and found herself relieved to leave the boutique. It hadn't used to be like that. She'd used to feel good just walking in the door in the morning, and pleased with herself and her life as she walked out at night. Now she hated to think of the place. It was shocking how things could change in so little time.

  Jessie followed Astrid home in her car. The older woman was driving a two-year-old black Jaguar sedan. It was perfect for her, as sleek and elegant as she was. This woman was surrounded by beautiful things. Including her home.

  It was a breathtaking mixture of delicate French and English antiques, Louis XV, Louis XVI, Heppel-white, Sheraton. But none of it was overwhelming. There was an airy quality to the house. Lots of yellow and white, delicate organdy curtains, eggshell silks, and, upstairs, bright flowered prints and a magnificent collection of paintings. Two Chagalls, a Picasso, a Renoir, and a Monet that lent a summer night's mood to the dining room.

  "Astrid, this is fabulous!"

  "I must admit, I love it. Tom had such marvelous things. And they're happy things to live with. We bought a few pieces together, but most of it was already his. I picked out the Monet, though."

  "It's a beauty." Astrid looked proud. She had every right to.

  Even the glasses she poured the Scotch into were lovely--paper-thin crystal, with a rainbow hue to them as they were held up to the late afternoon light. And there was an overpowering view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the bay from the library upstairs, where they settled down with their drinks.

  "God, what a magnificent house. I don't know what to say." It was splendid. The library was wood-paneled and lined with old books. There was a portrait of a serious-looking man on one wall, and a Cezanne over the small brown marble fireplace. The portrait was of Tom. Jessie could easily see them together, despite the broad difference in age. There was a warm light in his eyes; one sensed approaching laughter. As she looked at the portrait, Jessie suddenly realized how lonely Astrid must be now.

  "He was a fine-looking man."

  "Yes, and we suited each other so well. Losing him has been an awful blow. But we were lucky. Ten years is a lot, when they're ten years like the ones we had." But Jessie could tell that Astrid still hadn't decided what to do with her life. She was floating--into dress shops and jewelers, into furriers, off on trips. She had nothing to anchor her. She had the house, the money, the paintings, the clothes ... but no longer the man. And he was the key. Without Tom none of it really meant anything. Jessie could imagine what that might be like. It gave her chills thinking of it.

  "What's your husband like, Jessica?"

  Jessie smiled. "Terrific. He's a writer. And he ... well, he's my best friend. I think he's crazy and won
derful and brilliant and handsome. He's the only person I can really talk to. He's someone very special."

  "That says it all, doesn't it?" There was a gentle light in Astrid's eyes as she spoke, and Jessie suddenly felt guilty. How could she so blatantly rave about Ian to this woman who had lost the man who meant every bit as much to her as Ian meant to Jessie?

  "No, don't look like that, Jessica. I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong. You should feel that way. You should say it with just exactly that wonderful victorious look on your face. That's how I felt about Tom. Cherish it, flaunt it, enjoy it, don't ever apologize for it, and certainly not to me."

  Jessica nodded pensively over her drink, and then looked up at Astrid.

  "We're having some nasty problems right now."

  "With each other?" Astrid was surprised. It didn't show in Jessica's face. Something did, but not trouble with her husband--she had looked too happy when she described him. Maybe money problems. Young people had those. There was something, though. It surfaced at unexpected moments. A whisper of fear, almost terror. Sickness, perhaps? The loss of a breast? Astrid wondered, but didn't want to pry.

  "I guess you might call this a crisis. Maybe even a big one. But the problem isn't with each other, not in that sense." She looked out at the bay and fell silent.

  "I'm sure you'll work it out." Astrid knew. Jessie didn't want to talk about it.

  "I hope so."

  Their talk turned unexpectedly to business then, to how the shop was run and what sort of clients Jessie had. Astrid made her laugh telling her some of the stories from her days at Vogue in New York. It was almost seven before Jessie got up to go home. And she hated to leave.

  "See you tomorrow. At seven-thirty?"

  "We'll be here with bells on. I can't wait to show Ian the house." And then she had a thought. "Astrid, do you like the ballet?"

  "I adore it."