And then Barbara died and everything just seemed to fall apart. Whether it was because both Barbara and Jackson were lost to the Petersons; or whether it was Belinda’s increasing despair over her apparent inability to conceive; or whether it was because Langley had to run Darenbrook Communications for the next eighteen months (while Jackson was falling apart in Hilleanderville), so that he spent precious little time with Belinda; or whether it was because Belinda started traveling by herself, then buying houses and co-ops in which to live parts of the year away from him—whatever it was (and maybe it was a combination of all these things), it or they had started the decline in their marriage and had also started the decline in Belinda’s mental health.
“Make love to me, darling,” Belinda whispered in his ear.
Langley started, looking around them in the studio. The show was over and Lilly was giving the all-clear signal. He turned to look at Belinda, fearing the worst—that she was about to “go off.” But no, she did not look that way at all. She looked like his Belinda, his Belinda the one who used to love him. The one he had been so very much in love with.
Belinda smiled, slowly. “There must be somewhere,” she whispered.
Could this be real? he wondered. Could his Belinda be back?
“We’ll have to hurry if you want to,” she whispered, smiling still. “It would be like the old days, remember?”
Of course he remembered. How could anyone forget the days when they were in love?
Her eyes were searching his, anxious, but eager too. Funny—that old spark seemed to be there. Her eyes were twinkling like they used to, too.
“I love you,” she whispered, but looking down then, looking acutely embarrassed.
Oh, God, he had hurt her feelings. She thought he didn’t want her.
“Come on,” Langley said, taking her hand and standing up. “This way.” He led her out of the studio, down the corridor and the halls, nodding at people but making sure it was understood that he did not wish to stop and talk. He took Belinda upstairs, to the third floor, and led over the carpeted hallway to his office. He sent Belinda into his office, told Adele that he was not to be disturbed for any reason, went into his office, closed and locked the door, turned off the light, and then went over to the connecting door to Jackson’s office and locked that too.
Belinda was sitting on the couch. “The curtains?” she said, smiling, tossing her purse on the coffee table.
“Can’t see in with this glass,” he murmured, taking off his jacket. He walked over to the couch, throwing the jacket over a chair. He sat down, taking Belinda’s hand. “Honey, are you sure?”
She smiled. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”
“Never,” he said.
“Then why don’t you touch me?” she asked him.
He felt shy, and he didn’t know why. Maybe it was because it had been so long since he felt as though he were really talking to Belinda, face to face. He put his arms around her and pulled her close. Then he really hugged her, tight. “I love you,” he whispered.
“Then show me, tough guy,” she said, laughing.
Tough guy? She hadn’t called him that in years.
He sat back, looking at her again.
“Oh, God, Langley,” Belinda sighed, taking his face into her hands, “must the South initiate everything?” And she kissed him, the way she used to kiss him—not frantically, not harshly, but expertly in her quest to “mess him up.” They could be right back in his old office in Richmond right now.
“Adele’s right outside,” he whispered.
“Goody,” she whispered back, sliding her hand down between his legs and stroking him. “As I recall, her proximity used to enhance the experience. Remember?”
“Uh-huh,” he murmured, kissing her neck.
“Oh, my, Mr. Peterson,” she whispered, feeling him; “if Adele could see this, you’d give her heart failure.”
“Uh-huh,” he said into the base of her neck, thinking this felt so good he could die.
Belinda was undoing his belt now. As he felt her mouth on his ear, she unzipped his pants and then he could feel her hand sliding down to touch him. She stopped licking his ear to murmur, “Gorgeous, darling,” and then she used both her hands to tug his pants and shorts down further. Then she took a gentle, firm hold on him and began stroking him. In a minute she sat back to look at him, her hand still stroking. “Not with your glasses,” she whispered, laughing, kissing him on the nose.
He tossed them and kissed her, running his hands over her dress, over her breasts, running his hands down her, pulling up her dress, and then sliding his hand up over her stockings, up between her legs, and then stroking her, massaging her as best he could. In a minute she broke away and stood up, hiking her dress to get rid of her stockings and panties. “There,” she whispered, dropping down again, kissing him. “There, honey,” she murmured, lowering her head to kiss his neck. Her mouth continued down, down over his chest, and she gave his tie a playful tug as she continued on down, down, down, over his stomach, and then, holding him gently in her hand, she went down, sinking her mouth over him.
He inhaled, slowly, bringing his hands to the side of her head, trying to restrain himself from pushing down on it.
Jesus but this was good.
“Oh, honey,” he sighed, feeling her work him, perfectly, down and then up, down and then up, feeling her mouth, sinking and rising, sinking and rising, her hand moving in tandem, her tongue swirling at play, down and then up, down and then up, the warmth growing hot, the sounds getting messy; down and then up, down and then up—
He gently tried to bring her head up. She wanted to do a little more, and he let her, closing his eyes, thinking there was no other feeling like this.
And then he felt her kissing him and he smiled, opening his eyes and bringing his face up to hers, kissing her lips, kissing all around her mouth, and then really kissing her, shifting around to ease Belinda back down on the couch. He broke their kiss, giving her one last quick one, and then quickly stood, just long enough to pull his pants down making her smile, reaching out to touch him—and then he crawled down on top of her, both of them laughing, softly, but anxious too, as he tried to maneuver with the back of the couch, his tie and shirttails and her dress everywhere, but then she drew her outside leg up and out, trying to give him room, and then he managed to get himself up against her and then—in a moment—he was inside of Belinda and he was moving.
The couch was not the greatest, but she was.
It was nothing really, nothing but making love to his wife on the couch in his office while Adele typed letters outside and West End produced television shows and Belinda kept saying, in his ear, over and over, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” and he thought about moving to the floor so he could do this a little better, but they squirmed a little so that Belinda was a little bit on her side, so then he could move into her better, around her and into her, around her and into her, around her and into her, the way she used to love it and, apparently, still did, because she stopped saying, “I love you,” because she was coming, he knew she was, because in the old days she had always talked her head off until she came, at which time she became deadly silent, frozen, when inside her body, she used to say, everything would be going absolutely crazy, so violently, wonderfully berserk she couldn’t speak. And she could not speak now, he knew, his beautiful, beautiful girl, because she was coming, he knew she was, and she was not crazy, she was just his Belinda, his-his-his-his—
Belinda he was coming inside of right now—
Just-right-in-there-oh-God-yeah. Jesus.
“Yeah,” he sighed, collapsing, then swallowing, catching his breath. “Oh, Belinda,” he said into the side of her neck. “Oh, baby, I love you. I love you,” he said. “I always have, I always will.”
“Shhh,” she said, stroking his hair. “Shhh.”
They lay there for a minute, and Langley became more aware of the noise on the floor. People were around. In droves th
ey were around and getting louder by the minute. “I bet they’re all coming up into the cafeteria,” he whispered.
“We better get up,” she said.
He pulled out of her and slid, slowly, to the floor, laughing. He got up, pulled his pants up and walked over to his jacket, pulled out his handkerchief, came back to the couch and offered it to her, which she accepted. They helped each other pull their clothes together, smooth their hair, get Langley’s glasses back on, and then they sat for a moment more on the couch, holding each other. Langley kissed her once more, for a long time, thinking that he might never have loved her more.
Langley turned the lights on, while Belinda, giggling, sprayed a little cologne around. Then he called Adele on the intercom and asked her if she could go downstairs and get a copy of the story line up for “DBS News America Tonight,” waited a minute, and then peeked outside to make sure she was gone. She was. So Langley and Belinda sneaked out and across the hall, where he dropped her off at the ladies’ room and he went on to the men’s.
He washed his hands and face, retucked his shirt in, combed his hair and retied his tie. He smiled at himself in the mirror, thinking how very, very glad he was that he hadn’t cheated on Belinda. And how very, very happy it made him to think that maybe things were heading back on track now. He thought about going out to Greenwich with her tonight and how maybe they might make love by the pool. He thought maybe they should plan a trip—Europe, Paris maybe— or maybe they could go to London together when…
He smiled at himself in the mirror again. There were so many things they could do.
He walked out of the men’s room, his step as strong and as jaunty as he felt. (God, was this the greatest feeling, making love to his wife like this, or what? Just making love to the woman he loved, having fun, like kids, just going ahead and doing it wherever they felt like because it was so good?) He knocked on the ladies’ room door.
“Just a minute,” she called.
He smiled, pushing in the door. “Hi,” he whispered. “Can I come in?” He slipped inside and walked through the little dressing area. Belinda was standing at one of the sinks, holding a paper cup in one hand and holding out the other to him in a “stop” motion. She ducked her head slightly, swallowing, and then lowered her hand.
“I didn’t want you to make me laugh,” she said. “I was just taking some aspirin.”
Headache?” he said, coming over to stand behind her, sliding his arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck.
“A little one,” she said, closing her purse. She turned around and kissed him on the mouth. “Do you love me, Langley?” she whispered.
“More than anything,” he said, kissing her again and then releasing her. “Come on.” He took her hand, leading her to the door. “I want to take you on a tour of this place.” He held the door open for her. “I want everyone to see what a beautiful wife I have. I want everyone to see how lucky I am.”
And so Langley and Belinda Peterson, in love, went for a tour.
29
The Unveiling
Part V: Cassy
“Why, I’d be delighted to give Mr. Brobbent a tour,” Cassy said to Rookie Haskell, turning then to smile at their guest.
Mr. Rupert Brobbent, founder and president of KlapTrap Insecticides, Elrama, Pennsylvania, was just standing there, staring at her, entranced.
Oh, good, Cassy thought, we’ll get this guy to sign for life.
“Wonderful, wonderful,” Rookie said, slapping Mr. Brobbent on the back. “I see you’ll be in excellent hands. No one knows more about ‘DBS News America Tonight’ than Cassy here, and Cassy also happens to be quite an outdoor chef herself.”
Cassy looked at Rookie.
“Cooks in the backyard all summer long,” Rookie said, smiling at her. “So nobody knows better than Cassy that what KlapTrap says is true.”
Mr. Brobbent looked into Cassy’s eyes, eyebrows rising. “Only time flies in our backyard?”
“Yes, right,” Cassy said, nodding and smiling.
Mr. Brobbent was their very recent and very lucrative sponsor for the weather segment for the summer quarter, and so Cassy was quite happy to tell him most anything he wished to hear. Certainly, she would be happy to give him a tour of DBS News—particularly since she had a few other people waiting for the same thing: the station owner of their potential Little Rock affiliate, Ketton Harper; the daughter of some friends of Norbert and Noreen Darenbrook’s, Amelia Randsworth, who thought maybe she might like to be an anchorwoman (but who Kyle said was the type best beheaded to stave off revolt by the masses); and a very distinguished gentleman, about sixty or so, with immaculate silver-gray hair, dressed in a gray pinstripe suit, who arrived in the newsroom on the arm of Jackson’s assistant, Claire, and was introduced simply as Greg, a friend of the family’s who wished to sit quietly and watch, which he had.
Meanwhile, upstairs, the studio audience for “The Jessica Wright Show” was back in the cafeteria. The buses had been ready to take them away, but only nine people wanted to leave and one hundred and ninety-one wanted to stay and talk to Jessica. So nine people were sent back to the midtown drop-off point in radio cabs and one hundred ninety-one—plus the four guests from the show—were having wine with Jessica and, if the latest rumor was correct, Jackson had offered to roll TV sets in and call out for pizza and salad if they cared to stay and watch “DBS News America Tonight.”
Nothing was going quite the way Cassy had expected today. She had thought Jessica would be fine, seeing that she had already done seven shows, but Jessica had arrived late and looking like a wreck. But then, when Cassy thought they might have to run one of the earlier tapes because Jessica was so obviously under the weather, Jessica turned around and produced not only one of her best shows but one of the most extraordinary pieces of television Cassy had seen in quite some time. (She had sat there, dumbfounded, in the control room. The topic of sex aside, Cassy decided that Jessica had missed her calling—there was an inexplicable streak of evangelical grace in this young woman.)
Instead of tired and nervous, Alexandra was the calmest and happiest Cassy had seen her in weeks. And she looked like a million healthy, radiant—and she said she had slept like a baby last night. (“My body doesn’t understand endless management and planning meetings,” she laughed, “but it does understand putting on a newscast.”)
Kyle, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck, his efficiency in hand but his usual calm nowhere to be found. And Langley, who Cassy thought would be fretting about everything, was spending the day drifting around West End with his wife. And then Jackson, who had always been so eager to feel included in the process, had come nowhere near Alexandra, the newsroom or anyone connected with DBS News today. And if Cassy hadn’t gone upstairs this afternoon to see how the luncheon was going, she wouldn’t have seen him at all.
And when she had seen Jackson, it was so strange because he barely spoke to her—he didn’t even look at her, really—choosing instead to focus his attention on Denny. But Cassy did not want to try and guess why this was so. Because not only did she not have the time to think about Jackson today, but it scared her to because it reminded her of how much she had been thinking about him all weekend. And about how exhausted she had been Friday night, but how she had not been able to sleep because her heart had started to pound every time she thought back over the events of the day—about how Jackson had held her in his office and the feelings it had triggered inside, and about how those feelings had increased sitting ‘outside in the square.
It was loneliness that was triggering these thoughts, these feelings, she felt sure. It was her defense against being too acutely aware of how alone she was in this apartment, sleeping in this big bed, so alone that she could be horribly ill and have no one to call out to. (Sleeping alone and dying in her sleep were somehow, irrevocably, connected in her mind of late.)
But was it loneliness that had brought on this surge of sexual desire? A kind of deep-seated ache that she had not felt in
years?
For Jackson?
Granted, he did have a wonderful body, just the kind Cassy had always been attracted to. But it was a body that also belonged to the type of man that drove her crazy—a man like her ex-husband-to-be, except this one didn’t even have to drink to cause trouble.
And the real killer—the thought that Cassy wished she could avoid acknowledging but couldn’t because it was true—was that her sexual feelings were rarely, if ever, disconnected from her emotions. And there was no denying it, standing there in Jackson’s office, looking up at him after he released her, she had looked into his eyes and thought, My God, he’s in love with me, and then there had been a decided change of emotion on her part. She had felt close to him; she had felt safe with him; she had felt inexplicably happy. He had not been a jerk; he had not been a loudmouth. He had been an earnest, deeply caring, deeply troubled, lonely person who was suddenly and inexplicably the most wildly attractive man she had ever met in her life.
Lying there, stretched across her bed Friday night, looking out at the night sky over the Hudson, Cassy had wondered if maybe she was losing her mind.
Jackson?
“What the hell is Jackson Darenbrook doing in my head?” she had cried to the bedroom then, flipping over and trying to hide underneath the pillows.
But Jackson Darenbrook had remained a guest in her head for the rest of the weekend anyway. In the rest of her body, too.
Cassy took Mr. Brobbent and the others through the newsroom to the conference room, closed the glass door against the noise and began a general overview of what went into their newscast. She pointed to the newsroom, explaining that news arrived at DBS in five basic ways: from their affiliate newsrooms, whose reporters and facilities operated as bureaus for DBS; from the wire services; from free-lance reporters and crews they hired as stringers; from foreign networks and news services they contracted with on special events, such as the coverage on President Reagan and the Moscow summit that they would be seeing tonight; and from (she laughed) monitoring CNN, CBS, NBC and ABC.
Alexandra Waring Page 39