Now and Forever (1978)

by Steel, Danielle

  "Fuck it. Go in wearing a bikini tomorrow. By now the jury deserves something to look at."

  "You know, I thought the trial would be a lot more dramatic. It's funny that it isn't."

  "The case isn't all that dramatic. Her word against mine as to who screwed whom and why, where, and for what. By now, I don't even feel uncomfortable with you there, listening to the testimony." Now that Margaret Burton was no longer in court.

  "It doesn't bother me much either, except I want to laugh every time someone says 'an infamous crime against nature.' It seems so overdone." They laughed easily for the first time in a long time. As they relaxed in the familiar charm of their living room, the trial seemed like a bad joke. Somebody else's bad joke.

  "Want to go to a movie, Jessie?"

  "You know something? I'd love to." The tension was beginning to drain away. They had decided that they had it made, even without solid proof that Margaret Burton was a freak looking for revenge on a man who had been dead for almost twenty years. So what? Ian was innocent. In the end, it was as simple as that. "Want to take Astrid with us, darling?"

  "Sure. Why not?" He smiled and leaned over to kiss her. "But don't call her for another half hour." Jessie returned the smile and ran a finger slowly up his arm.

  Astrid was delighted with the invitation and the three went to a movie that had them in tears, they all laughed so hard. It was just what Jessie and Ian needed.

  "I was beginning to think I'd never see you two again. It's been weeks! What have you been up to? Still working on the book?" They nodded in unison, changed the subject, and went out for coffee.

  It was a pleasant evening that did them all good. And Astrid felt better now that she had seen them. Ian looked haggard and Jessica looked tired, but they looked happy again. Maybe whatever problem had been bothering them had been worked out.

  Astrid reported having been in the boutique almost every day, and the fashion show had been a smash. Katsuko had done a great job. Astrid had even bought four or five things from the show, which Jessie told her was silly.

  "That's ridiculous. Don't buy anymore when I'm not there. I'll give you a discount when I'm in. Wholesale at least. And on some things I can sell to you at cost."

  "That's crazy, Jessica. Why should you sell things any cheaper to me? You might as well share the wealth!" She threw her arms wide in a flash of jewelry and the three of them laughed.

  They drove her home in the Volvo, and when she asked about the Morgan, Jessica claimed that the engine had needed too much work. They all agreed that it was a shame.

  "What a fabulous evening!" Jessica slid into bed with a smile, and Ian yawned, nodding happily. "I'm glad we went out."

  "So am I."

  She rubbed his back for him and they chatted about nothing in particular; it was the kind of talk they had always shared late at night. Casual mentions of the movie, thoughts about Astrid, Jessie noticed a small bruise on his leg and asked him how he'd gotten it, he told her never to cut her hair. Night talk. As though nothing untoward had ever happened to them. For once they even got some sleep, which was remarkable since Ian was to take the stand the next day.

  Chapter 17

  Ian's testimony under direct examination lasted two hours. The jury looked a little more interested than they had in the previous days, but not much. And it was only during the last half hour that they actually seemed to wake up. It was Matilda Howard-Spencer's turn to question him. She seemed to pace in front of Ian, as though thinking of something else, while all eyes in the courtroom stayed on her, particularly Ian's. And at last she stopped, directly in front of him, crossed her arms, and tilted her head to one side.

  "You're from the East?" The question surprised him, as did the friendly look on her face.

  "Yes. New York."

  "Where did you go to college?"

  "Yale."

  "Good school." She smiled at him, and he returned the smile. "I tried to get into their law school, but I'm afraid I didn't quite make it." She had gone to Stanford instead, but Ian couldn't know that, and was suddenly baffled as to whether he was supposed to offer sympathy, silence, or a smile. "Did you do any graduate work?" She didn't call him Ian, and she didn't call him Mr. Clarke. She talked to him as though she knew him, or honestly wanted to. An interested dinner partner at a pleasant soiree.

  "Yes. I got my master's."

  "Where did you do that?" She tilted her head again with an expression of interest. This was not at all the line of questioning Martin had prepared him for. This was lots easier to deal with.

  "I went to Columbia. School of journalism."

  "And then?"

  "I went into advertising."

  "With whom?" He named a big firm in New York. "Well, we certainly all know who they are." She smiled at him again, and looked pensively out the window.

  "Did you go out with anybody special in college?" Aha, here it came, but she still sounded gently inquiring.

  "A few people."

  "Like who?"

  "Just girls."

  "From neighboring schools? Who? How about some names?" This was ridiculous. Ian couldn't see the reason for it.

  "Viveca Harreford. Maddie Whelan. Fifi Estabrook." She wouldn't know them. Why ask?

  "Estabrook? As in Estabrook and Lloyd? They're the biggest stockbrokers on Wall Street, aren't they?" She actually looked pleased for him, as though he had done something wonderful.

  "I wouldn't know." Her remark had made him uncomfortable. Of course they were the Estabrooks of Estabrook and Lloyd, but that wasn't why he'd gone out with Fifi, for Chrissake.

  "And it seems to me that Maddie Whelan has kind of a familiar ring too. Something tells me she was somebody important. Let's see, Whelan ... oh, I know, the department store in Phoenix, isn't it?" Ian was actually blushing, but Matilda Howard-Spencer was still smiling angelically, seeming to enjoy the social pleasantries.

  "I can't remember."

  "Sure you can. Anyone else?"

  "Not that I can recall." This was a ridiculous line of questioning, and he couldn't see where she was going, except making him look like a fool. Was it really as simple as that?

  "All right. When did you first meet your wife?"

  "About eight years ago. In New York."

  "And she has a lot of money, doesn't she?" The prosecutor's tone was almost embarrassed, as if she'd asked an indiscreet question.

  "Objection!" Martin was livid; he knew exactly where she was going, whether Ian did or not. But Ian was beginning to; he had been led right into her trap.

  "Sustained. Rephrase the question."

  "Sorry, Your Honor. All right, then, I understand that your wife has a wonderfully successful boutique here in San Francisco. Did she have one in New York too?"

  "No. When I met her, she was the fashion coordinator and stylist at the ad agency where I worked."

  "She did that for fun?" Now there was an edge to her tone.

  "No. For money." Ian was getting annoyed.

  "But she didn't have to work, did she?"

  "I never asked."

  "And she doesn't have to work now, does she?"

  "I don't ..." He looked to Martin for help, but there was none forthcoming.

  "Answer the question. Does she have to work now, or is her income sufficient to support her, and you, in a very luxurious style?"

  "Not luxurious, no." Christ. Jessie and Martin cringed simultaneously. What an answer. But the questions were coming at him like gumballs from a machine, and there was no time to dodge them.

  "But her income is adequate to support you both?"

  "Yes." He was very pale now. And very angry.

  "Do you work?"

  "Yes." But he said it too softly, and she smiled.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't hear your answer. Do you work?"

  "Yes!"

  "At a job?"

  "No. At home. But it's work. I'm a writer." Poor, poor Ian. Jessie wanted to run up and hold him. Why did he have to go through all that? The bitch
.

  "Do you sell much of what you write?"

  "Enough."

  "Enough for what? Enough to support yourself on?"

  "Not at the moment" There was no hiding from her.

  "Does that make you angry?" The question was almost a caress. The woman was a viper.

  "No, it doesn't make me angry. It's just one of the facts of life, for the moment. Jessica understands."

  "But you do cheat on her. Does she understand that?"

  "Objection!"

  "Overrulled!"

  "Does she understand that?"

  "I don't cheat on her."

  "Come, come. You yourself claim that you willingly went to bed with Ms. Burton. Is that a normal occurrence in your life?"

  "No."

  "This was the first time?"

  His eyes were glued to his knees. "I can't remember."

  "You're under oath; answer the question." Her voice slithered like a cobra threatening to strike.

  "No."

  "What?"

  "No. This was not the first time."

  "Do you cheat on your wife often?"

  "No."

  "How often?"

  "I don't know."

  "And what kind of women do you use--your own kind, or other kinds, 'lesser' women, lower-class women, whores, poor girls, whatever?"

  "Objection!"

  "Overruled!"

  "I don't 'use' anyone."

  "I see. Would you cheat on your wife with Fifi Estabrook, or is she a nice girl?"

  "I haven't seen her in years. Ten, eleven years. I wasn't married when I went out with her."

  "I mean, would you cheat on your wife with someone like her, or do you just sleep with 'cheap' women, women you aren't liable to run across in your own social circle? It could be embarrassing, after all. It might be a lot simpler just to keep your playing as far from home as possible."

  "I do." Oh, God. No, Ian ... no ... Martin was staring at the wall, trying to let nothing show on his face, and Jessie had sensed that disaster was near.

  "I see. You do sleep with 'cheap women, to keep it as far as possible from home? Did you consider Ms. Burton a 'cheap' woman?"

  "No." But he had, and his "no" was a weak one.

  "She wasn't of your social set, though, was she?"

  "I don't know."

  "Was she?" The words closed in on him now.

  "No."

  "Did you think she'd call the police?"

  "No." And then as an afterthought, he looked up, panic-stricken, and added "She had no reason to." But it was too late. The damage was done.

  She excused Ian from the stand with the proviso that she might want to recall him later. But she had all but killed him as it was.

  Ian left the stand quietly and sat down heavily next to Martin. And five minutes later, the judge called a recess for lunch.

  They left the courtroom slowly, with Ian shaking his head and looking somber until the threesome reached the street.

  "I really blew it." Jessie had never seen him look worse.

  "You couldn't help it. That's how she works. The woman is lethal." Martin heaved a sigh and gave them a small, wintry smile. "But the jury sees that too. And the jury's not all that lily pure either." There was no point making Ian feel even worse, but Martin was worried. The cheating didn't bother him nearly as much as the class conflict. "I'm going to put Jessica on the stand this afternoon. At least this way, it'll be over with."

  "Yeah, she can massacre us both on the same day." Ian looked tired and beaten, and Jessica looked tense.

  "Don't be an ass."

  "You consider yourself a match for her?" Ian looked sarcastic and bitter.

  "Why not?"

  "I'll tell you why not. Because if you pit yourself against her, Ian'll lose," Martin was quick to interject. "You have to be the gentlest, sweetest, calmest wife in the world. You come on like a hellion, and she'll break you in two right on the stand. We went over everything this weekend. You know what you have to do." Jessica nodded somberly, and Ian sighed. Martin had gone over everything with him too, but that damn woman hadn't asked any of the right questions. And God only knew what she'd ask Jessie. "All right?"

  "All right." Jessica smiled softly, and they dropped Martin off near City Hall. He had to go back to his office, and they had decided to go home to unwind. Jessica wanted a little time to take care of Ian. He needed it after the morning, and it kept her mind off what she'd have to say that afternoon.

  When they got home, she made him lie down on the couch, took off his shoes, loosened his tie, and ran a soft hand through his hair. He lay there for a few minutes, just looking at her.

  "Jess ..." He didn't even know how to say it, but she knew.

  "None of that. Just lie there and relax. I'll go make some lunch." For once he didn't argue; he was too tired to do anything more than just lie there.

  When she came back with a covered bowl of steaming soup and a plate piled high with sandwiches, he was asleep. He had the exhausted look of tragedy. The pale rumpled look one got when someone has died, when a child is terribly ill, when one's business had failed. Those times when schedules were disrupted, and one was suddenly at home, in seldom-worn clothes, looking terribly tired and afraid. She stood looking down at him for a moment and felt a wave of pity for him rush up inside her. Why did she feel so protective of him? Why did she feel as though he couldn't cope with it all, but she could? Why wasn't she angry? Why didn't she look like that now? She had when he was in jail, but he was here now, she could touch him and hold him and take care of him. The rest wasn't real. It was awful, but it wouldn't last. It would hurt, and it would rock him and humiliate him and do all sorts of grim things, but it wouldn't kill him. And it wouldn't take him away. As she sat quietly next to him and lifted his hand onto her lap, she knew that nothing would ever take him away from her. No Margaret Burton, no district attorney, no court, not even a jail. Margaret Burton would fade, Matilda Howard-Spencer would go on to some other case, as would Martin and the judge, and it would all be over. It was just a question of keeping themselves afloat until the storm passed. And she needed Ian too desperately to let anything, even her own feelings, jeopardize what they had. She wouldn't let herself get angry. She couldn't afford to.

  There was the briefest flash of bitterness as she looked out over the bay and thought of her father. He wouldn't have done something like this, and he wouldn't have let her mother go through it, either. He'd have protected his wife more than Ian was protecting her. But that was her father. And this was Ian. Comparisons served no purpose now. She had Ian. It was as simple as that. She demanded a lot of him, so she had to give a lot too. She was willing. And right now it was her turn to give.

  Looking down at him, as he slept there on her gray skirt, he looked like a very tired little boy. She smoothed his hair off his forehead and took a deep breath, thinking of that afternoon. It was her turn now. And she wasn't going to lose. She had decided that after the disastrous morning. The case was going to be won. And that was that. It was insane that it had gone this far. But it was not going much further. Jessie had had enough.

  Ian woke shortly before two and looked up in surprise.

  "Did I fall asleep?"

  "No. I hit you on the head with my shoe and you fainted."

  He smiled at her and yawned into her skirt. "You smell delicious. Did you know that every single item of clothing you own smells of your perfume?"

  "Want some soup?" She was smiling at the compliment. He'd gotten them into one hell of a mess, but one thing was certain, and that was how much she loved him. Not just needed him, loved him. How could she be angry? How dare she ask for his left arm when fate had already taken his right? They had suffered enough. Now it was time to finish it.

  "Christ, you look determined. What've you been up to?"

  "I haven't been up to a thing. Do you want soup?" She eyed him alluringly as she held a Limoges cup in one hand and her mother's best soup ladle in the other.

  "My, so fa
ncy." He sat up and kissed her and looked at the tray. "You know something, Jessica, you're the most remarkable woman I know. And the best." She wanted to tease him and ask if she was better than Fifi Estabrook, but she didn't dare. She suspected that the wounds of the morning were still raw.

  "For you, milord, nothing but the best." She carefully poured the asparagus soup into the cup and added two neat little roast-beef sandwiches to the plate. There was a fresh salad too.

  "You're the only woman I know who can make a sandwich lunch look like a dinner party."

  "I just love you." She put her arms around his neck and nibbled his ear, and then stretched and stood up.

  "Aren't you going to eat?"

  "I already did." She was lying, but she couldn't have eaten a thing before going on the stand in less than an hour. She looked at her watch and headed for the bedroom. "I'll straighten out my face. We have to leave in ten minutes." He waved happily from the midst of his lunch and she disappeared into the bedroom.

  "Ready?" He walked into the bedroom five minutes later, tightening his tie and glancing at his ruffled hair in the mirror. "Good lord, I look like I've been sleeping all day."

  "As a matter of fact, darling, you do." And she was pleased. The brief hour of sleep had done him good. The time they'd spent at home had done them both good. Jessie felt stronger than she had in weeks. Margaret Burton wasn't going to touch them. How could she? Jessie had decided to ignore her, to rob her of her powers. And it was as though Ian sensed the rebirth in his wife.

  "You know something? I feel better. I was really beat after this morning." And he hated to think of what Jessie would have to go through that afternoon, but she seemed ready for it. "You changed?"

  "I thought this looked more appropriate." It was a wonderfully ladylike dress, the kind she might wear to a tea. It was a soft gray silk with full feminine sleeves, and a belt of the same fabric. The whole line of the dress was gentle and easy, and without being fancy, it screamed "class." "As long as they're going to bill us as being so upper-class, we might as well look decent. I'm so sick of those fucking tweed skirts, I'm going to burn them all on the front steps the day this is over."

  "You look gorgeous."

  "Too dressed up?"