It Stings So Sweet

by Stephanie Draven

  Old Mr. Aster chuckles until his belly jiggles. “A miner, she says. And I suppose your mother was a kitchen maid. Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes, girl. I’ve seen you here before.”

  Robert intercedes. “Sophie works in the hotel boutique.”

  The ambassador’s expression goes sour as spoiled milk. He glares at his son as if he’d arranged my presence just to humiliate him. “Of course she does. Yes, I remember now.”

  Robert doesn’t shrink under his sire’s withering glare. “I hope you have a good time tonight, Father. Sophie and I intend to.”

  With that, he whisks me away to the dance floor.

  We dance. We flirt. We sit close together.

  But Robert doesn’t drink. Not one drop.

  And the next morning, he’s up and ready for work at eight o’clock sharp.

  I know because I see him in the elegant lobby when Clara and Leo sweep out, promising to return in a few weeks on their way back from Cape Cod. Embracing in fond farewell, Clara takes Robert’s face in her hands, telling him something I can’t hear from so far away. Then Leo shakes Robert’s hand and leans in close to whisper something in his ear.

  They love him, I realize. They love him. Not in any way that there’s a name for. But it is love. Deep and abiding. It ought to make me jealous, but I find myself strangely grateful that two people in the world besides me know how special Robert is.

  Something has changed.

  In the days that follow, Robert actually works at his desk all day. He doesn’t laugh as much as he used to and I begin to think that I’ve done something to ruin his love for me …

  Maybe that’s why I’m so relieved the night he asks me to join him in his suite. When he opens the doors to the balcony, my heart starts to gallop as I remember the fantasy I wrote about the girl who makes love outside, high above the street where anyone might look up and see her. If Robert shares my instant, eager arousal, he controls it and simply lays a card on the balustrade for me.

  Oh, good. Our game. Smiling, I tear the card open. Then my smile fades away …

  Marry Me.

  The words seem so stark on the pale paper. I’m suddenly dizzied, hypnotized by the faraway sounds of the car horns from the city below. I turn the card over, as if to see if there is anything more written on the back. I must stare at the card for a very long time, because Robert noisily clears his throat.

  I look up to see him grinning at me like a mischievous boy, glee shining in his eyes.

  He’s very proud of himself and he probably expects a much different reaction than the one he’s getting. Knowing how very long he’s dodged husband hunters, I’m moved. What woman wouldn’t be? But I back away from the railing, suddenly afraid of the height. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a marriage proposal, Sophie. It isn’t very complicated.”

  “But I don’t understand what you mean by it.”

  “I mean to take you as my wife.”

  A summer’s night breeze catches my hair. “Why?”

  He leans dangerously over the rail. “Because it would make everything so much better, don’t you think? For one, we could stop using French letters. Wouldn’t you like to feel me bare inside you? Hot pulses jetting up into your womb?”

  The thought does make me a little weak in the knees, at least until I consider all the children that might follow. “You said you wanted to become a respectable businessman and move into the family mansion …”

  The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’ll take you with me, of course.”

  The idea makes me slightly ill. “And what would we do? Take the train into the city for work every day or be chauffeured by your driver?”

  A flicker of confusion passes over his face. “You wouldn’t have to work, Sophie. Not another day in your life.”

  My anxiety blossoms into full-blown panic. “What if I wanted to?”

  “Why the devil would you want to? Why would anyone want to work if they didn’t have to for money or the sake of appearance?”

  My lips press together to hold back barbed words that nearly fly off my tongue. I take a deep breath and try to remain calm. “I don’t plan to be a shopgirl forever and there are a great number of causes I care about.”

  “You’ve made that clear, Comrade. But as my wife, you’ll need to be more careful about which ones you lend my name to.”

  I think of all the times he’s indulged me with a wink and a nod. The reality of what he’s suggesting sinks in with horrible clarity. He sees me as the kind of woman who will marry a man and become an extension of him, a possession he can control. Perhaps the spankings aroused him because he always thought of me as a child. I’ve let him think that. Until now, I enjoyed his mastery of me as love play. I’ve dismissed his Victorianism as quaint and charming. But maybe it was deadly earnest. Maybe it was a thing meant to transform me into a wife.

  And if I become his wife, that’s all I’ll ever be.

  How foolish I’ve been to believe desire wasn’t dangerous to someone like me, someone who took precautions. Someone who doesn’t care what society thinks. It never occurred to me that desire might be more dangerous to me than anyone else. “You shouldn’t have put this on a card, Robert.”

  He looks shell-shocked. “Why not? You’re not turning me down, are you?”

  Tears fill my eyes. “I was never angling to land the most eligible bachelor in America. I’m my own person. I love you but that doesn’t mean I want to be Mrs. Robert Aster.”

  He takes me by the arms, as if trying to understand. “Is this because of Clara and Leo? I can’t promise to cut them out of my life, Sophie, but I can promise you they won’t be more than friends.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m crazy about Clara and Leo. I would never want to cut them out of our lives.”

  He brightens. “You wouldn’t?”

  “Of course not. Robert, I think I first fell in love with you when I realized you could find it in yourself to form such tender attachments to them, without regard to convention … but I should have taken a warning. You couldn’t make your relationship with Clara and Leo fit into what was expected, so you left them. Well, you can’t make me fit, either. I’m not a substitute for them that you can mold into a more convenient shape.”

  “You were never, ever a substitute, Sophie. Don’t you know that I love you?”

  “I want you to respect me and to respect yourself, too … and I don’t think you do.”

  A look of pure pain flashes across his face. “Are you saying you don’t want to be with me?”

  The question makes me hiccup with bitter, near-hysterical laughter. “I want to be with you all the time. I want you more than I thought anyone could want another person. More than reason or good sense would allow, and that’s the problem.”

  A hint of a smile returns to his lips. “I don’t see how that’s a problem.”

  “It’s a problem because I’m not sure I like who I become with you.”

  His smile evaporates.

  Then he pales. “I think I need to sit down.” He reaches behind him and finds a delicately wrought iron chair, lowers himself onto it, straightens his hair, and gives me a look of pure devastation. “What the devil are you saying?”

  “I’ve been telling myself all the things we do together are play. That when I bent over your knee for a spanking it was harmless. But maybe those fantasies should have stayed secret and then I’d never know this about myself. I’d never know how much I crave in the bedroom all the very same evils that I fight against outside of it.”

  Wiping the sweat from his brow with a monogrammed pocket square, he seems to get ahold of himself. Then he gingerly reaches for the card in my hand. “Let’s forget this, Sophie. This clearly isn’t the right time. Sometimes I forget how young you are. You haven’t seen or done enough yet. We’ll go back to the way it was until you’re ready.”

  He’s patronizing me now. Likely he always will. He knows how I feel about marriage; I told him from the start. T
he very first day I ever met him. But he obviously dismissed it, just like he’s dismissed everything else I’ve had to say that didn’t involve being bedded.

  “Too late, Robert. You made the rules. Either I obey you or it’s over.”

  He crumples the card. “We’re not playing anymore, Sophie.”

  Tears slip down my cheeks. “But I’m afraid it is over.”

  He angers. “Why are you doing this? I know you want to be with me.”

  I’m grateful for the sensualist he’s helped me discover inside myself but not enough to betray the woman I’ve always been and the woman I want to be. “You’re right. I want to be with you but I also want to be someone people look up to one day. And I can’t be both.”

  The words come out before I realize the extent of the damage they will do. My hands fly to my mouth as if I could catch what I’ve said and take it back. But I know that my words twist inside him with all the hurtful things his father has ever said over the years. With all his insecurities and perceived failures. Even now, he doesn’t guard those angelic hazel eyes against me, so I can see the toll it takes.

  He stands up, his face a mask of pain. “I see.”

  “Robert, wait,” I say, as he walks to the door. “Robert!”

  But he’s gone.

  I hate myself.

  I hate myself for hurting him. I hate myself for wanting him. I hate myself for all the immoral thoughts that give me pleasure and for not knowing which part of myself is a fraud.

  Am I the girl who loves strong hands holding her down or am I the girl who can hold herself up?

  I tell myself that heartbreak is just a growing pain and that when I finally emerge from it, I’ll be something different. Something better. But in the meantime, I can’t even bear to be alone with myself.

  I throw myself back into my causes, attending meetings at the Civics League every night. It’s the hottest part of summer. Tempers are high in the city and people idle about on fire escapes in a state of overheated torpor, but I’m cold all the time. Day after day, a chill seeps into me and I feel like I’m never going to be warm again. Perhaps I’ve burned so hot with Robert that it’s all ashes now, nothing left inside me but cold, hard reason.

  I should be glad of it. I’ve always wanted to be that kind of no-nonsense woman who makes an impact on the world.

  Irene and Ethel try to keep my spirits up but I cry myself to sleep at night, snuffling back my sobs underneath the blankets so I don’t wake them. The days are even worse, because I spend them in the Aster Hotel, where everything reminds me of him, and everything is stamped with his name.

  One afternoon, we get a shipment of peach-colored lingerie with rosettes for the display counter and I burst into tears, so violently sad that even Mrs. Mortimer pats me on the back and sends me home for the day.

  It’s two weeks before I see Robert again. I’m shakier now than I was the first time he summoned me to his office, and when I see him at his desk, piled high with papers and other evidence of diligence, I realize I have more reason to be. There’s no dazzling smile for me, no witty repartee, no evidence of his boyish charm. Instead of a silver flask of liquor, he takes a gulp from a teacup and finishes signing his name to some paper before reluctantly meeting my eyes.

  “Miss O’Brien,” he says coolly, setting the tone for our reunion. “I wanted to return this to you.”

  He hands me my journal, fastened with twine. It’s just a little book, but the weight of it seems too much to bear alone. It doesn’t seem right that I should have it. When he took it, it was more mine than anything else in the world. But it’s become ours now. And maybe it’s so heavy because the end has been written.

  I try to make him look at me. “Robert—”

  “Miss O’Brien, I want you to know that I’ve read your list of the hotel staff’s complaints and I found most of them to be reasonable, well-considered, and articulately presented. You are still a very persuasive woman.”

  How can he compliment me when he is so obviously angry? A ray of hope warms my breast. “Then you’re going to make changes here in the hotel?”

  His mouth turns down at the corners. “No. You see my father owns this hotel. He always did. I’m merely a figurehead, put here to pretend I’m not a complete disgrace to the family … or to any woman who might find herself in my company. At any rate, the ambassador has heard rumor of a strike and you should know he’s hired some men to intimidate the agitators in the coming weeks.”

  He’s warning me. He’s giving us a chance to strike, to act together before we’re singled out. I don’t know if he does it out of spite for his father or love for me. Either way, standing here, so close, unable to touch him—it’s crushingly painful, and it’s all I can do to banish the tears that spring to the corners of my eyes.

  I thought I knew Robert, but what if he’s a stranger to me? Straightening my spine, I ask a question that’s been niggling at me. “What happened to Mr. Underwood? He wasn’t on duty in the elevator when I came up and he ought to have been.”

  “I saw to it that he accepted a job elsewhere,” Robert says, frostily. “Somewhere I won’t have to look at him every day.”

  “But you swore to me that you wouldn’t take any action against him when I told you that he was the one who knocked Gertie up. You gave your word.”

  “What do you think, Miss O’Brien? Do you think that I grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and tossed him out? Because I wanted to. Trust me, I did. But for your sake, I secured him a promotion. I believe I’ve satisfied the requirements of honor.”

  “A promotion?”

  Robert puts his pen down and leans back in his chair. “I don’t know if you were aware, but Mr. Underwood is a married man. He has a family on the outskirts of the city. His travel to and from work takes up more hours of his day than is ideal. He harbors a secret dream of being a professional golfer. There’s a green only a five-minute walk from his home. When I arranged for him to receive an offer of gainful employment at the country club, he seemed positively thrilled to accept it.”

  I blink. “How did you learn all that?”

  “I pay attention to what people want and need. It’s a skill I perfected in the war. The country club needs enthusiastic employees. Mr. Underwood obviously needs more time with his wife. It seemed an ideal situation.”

  Every sentence is clipped and professionally distant. And in each of those sentences is buried enormous hurt and a reflection of who he is. He thinks it’s a skill, but he’s wrong. His way of seeking out what people need and finding it for them is a talent. It’s a gift. He saw into me, found what I wanted, and gave it to me.

  It isn’t his fault that what I want is so wrong in every way.

  I can’t even beg him to take me back, because a woman ought not beg a man for anything. “I suppose that’s a very diplomatic way of handling everything,” I say. “Thank you. Maybe you should reconsider going into politics … I think you’d be awfully good at it.”

  “I’m not going to live my life for my father.”

  “You’re not living it for yourself, either, so why not?” I’m afraid this will be my last chance to ever speak so familiarly with him. He glares at me, but somehow I find the courage to go on. “When the ambassador says he wants you to make something of yourself, it doesn’t have to be the plan he’s mapped out for you or a rebellion against that plan, either.”

  “You’re the last person I ever thought might defend him.”

  “I don’t like his politics and I abhor his business practices, but he just wants his son to take advantage of the opportunities that he worked for. He’s not so different than anybody’s father that way. Where he went wrong is never telling you how proud of you he is, letting you think that you failed him because you didn’t kill enough people. He should have understood what a true hero you are. That’s why you love Leo Vanderberg. Because he knows the strength that’s deep down inside you. He knows the hero that you are, and I know it, too.”

  Robert c
loses his eyes. “Don’t, Sophie …”

  “I’m so sorry for what I said when I turned down your proposal. I know how it sounded—I never meant it that way. I only meant to comment on my worth, not yours.”

  “Your worth?” he snaps. “You don’t think I valued you? You were worth more to me than anything. More than my entire family’s fortune.”

  The sentiment is powerful but I notice he speaks in the past tense and that he still doesn’t understand. “I want my worth to be measured in more than money. I want to be measured by my actions, and not those in the bedroom.”

  There’s a long silence and then he says, “The first time I ever loved a woman, I lost her because I didn’t understand her. I thought I understood you, but I don’t. And it’s clear now that I never will.”

  “What don’t you understand? Do you think every woman wants to be cosseted and—”

  “Answer me this,” he says, jabbing a finger in my direction. “Are you really so inflexibly devoted to the principle of nonconformity that you can’t tolerate even a tiny bit of convention in your private affairs?”

  “Marriage isn’t a tiny thing. And I’d like to know how someone like you can break from what’s expected of you in the bedroom, then resign yourself to a life as a traditional businessman with a conventional marriage just like the father you pretend to despise.”

  “Convention isn’t always bad,” he insists, without answering my question. “You like that I take charge.”

  “Only in one way, but I shouldn’t, even then. I’m wrong to. The things I’ve exposed to you …”

  “Good Christ, do you think you’re the only one, Sophie? Do you think I was never terrified by what you bring out in me?”

  My voice wobbles. “Then maybe neither of us is very good for the other, are we?”

  CHAPTER

  Ten

  The next morning, I catch a glimpse of Clara in the lobby surrounded by an entourage of valets and porters carrying more shopping bags and hatboxes than any one woman should ever need. Having returned from her trip to Cape Cod, she’s ornamented with a glamorous wide-brimmed hat topped with a wild puff of yellow flowers. She sweeps right past me, then stops, causing several members of the hotel staff to crash into one another.