But I will be, she thought. Things will be better. Brix said so.
She wished she could talk to her mother about it, but of course she couldn't. Her mother hadn't wanted her to spend so much time with Brix; she'd told her she didn't want her to go to bed with him. She'd be furious if she knew. And disappointed.^ Emma wondered, but she couldn't even think about her mother being disappointed in her; that hurt too much. Anyway, Emma wasn't sure how much her mother knew about men; she'd dated now and then, but Emma couldn't imagine her in bed with anyone, and she'd seemed sort of mesmerized by Brix's father that first night when they'd had drinks, as if she couldn't quite keep up with him. Shes shy and doesnt do very much; she doesnt look for new things to do.
So there's no way she could understand me, Emma thought. Even if she wasn't furious, she wouldn't know what to say. And I can't go to Hannah; she'd tell Mother. There isn't anybody I can talk to. I just have to figure it out by myself: how to be happy and make Brix happy and be happy forever.
She got up, feeling shaky, and picked up the bedspread from the floor and wrapped it around her again. When she sat on the bed, she saw the blood spots on the sheet. She stared at them and felt a pang of regret; she'd given it away. All through high school she had stayed a virgin while her friends recounted their adventures; now it was gone and she could never get it back. I guess I was waiting for Brix, she thought. And that meant it was all right; it would be all right; it would be fun and exciting and wonderful again. Forever.
Because they were in love.
Because it was meant to be.
SEVEN
T
H E house was warm and welcoming, filled with sunlight and fresh breezes, but everything seemed tame after the mountains and glaciers of Alaska. "Goodness, isn't it quiet," Hannah marveled, though birds were singing, and in the distance, a dog barked and the faint rush of traffic could be heafd. Claire was arranging flowers in a Baccarat vase she had bought that morning: the brilliant cosmos and dahlias and snapdragons of a hot, dr' July. She was glad to be home; a week of drama had been enough. Emma barely noticed either of them. She walked through the rooms of the house, hollow-eyed, waiting for the telephone to ring.
They had been home a week. On their third day back, Quen-tin had taken Claire to dinner at a small French bistro in West-port. "I bought it last year," he told her when she admired the beamed ceiling and lace curtains, and the pale green wash on the walls. "I've invested in a few companies—computers and clothing and biogenetics—and a couple of restaurants. I like to help young men getting started; it's like helping sons grow up."
"Not young women.^" Claire asked.
"Not so far. I haven't found anv who do business the wav I do."
Claire gazed at him. "What does that mean.'^"
"It means I expect a certain attitude, and women don't have it and don't seem interested in it. A kind of drive, a focused vision that doesn't allow side issues to interfere with whatever has to be
done. Women prefer families and good deeds, which I admire, but I don't invest in them."
"You mean ruthlessness."
"If you Hke the word. I prefer mine."
"And do these young men come to you for advice.''"
"Of course; I told you, they want to succeed. And I expect them to. When I invest, I expect to make money, not lose it."
Claire envisioned young men crowding around Quentin, sitting at his feet, taking dictation as he dispensed words of wisdom. "Do they resent it.''"
"Why would they.^ They know they'll go farther and faster with good advice. Claire, these aren't schoolboys' games; they're the most important business of life, and the young men I choose to invest in will do whatever it takes to succeed."
Whatever it takes. Whatever has to be done. The most important business of life. Claire felt a small chill. Was making money really the most important business of life.^ She wondered how he ran Eiger Labs, and what kind of a friend he was. And what kind of lover.
But then the waiter came with a special Armagnac saved for Quentin, and she let herself sink back into the cocoon of privilege that surrounded him wherever he went. No matter how much money she spent, she knew she did not hold herself as easily or walk with the same careless assurance as Quentin and his friends, and she had not mastered their air of faint boredom at the wonders of the world. She had not learned to take abundance for granted.
But when she was with Quentin and let him take charge, she felt a little bit of what it was to be rich and powerful and to accept without question everything that came her way.
"You and Quentin look good together," Lorraine said two nights later. She and Claire were bending their heads to each other to make themselves heard amid the din of four hundred people and a dance band in a gilt and marble hotel ballroom in Stamford. "I wasn't sure, on the ship; you seemed up and down the whole week. But you've worked it out, whatever it was.-*"
"I don't know," Claire said. "We haven't talked about it."
"Talked about it.'' With Quentin.-* I can't imagine that you'd get verv' far trying to talk something out with Quentin."
"Whv not.-*"
"Because, sweetie, he doesn't debate; he just does. And the rest of us follow along."
"And that's all right with you?"
Lorraine shrugged. "Them's the rules," she said lightly. She contemplated Claire's white satin sheath embroidered across the strapless top with small rhinestones. "You look terrific; I like that dress. You could use more jewelry, but Quentin will take care of that. What's wrong,'^ You made a face."
"Sorry."
"Well, but what's wrong.''"
"I'm just not used to talking about intimate things. I don't know what you expect me to say."
"Intimate.^ What did I say.-^"
"Well, whether Quentin and I quarreled on the ship, whether he'll buy me jewelry . . ."
"Good Lord, sweetie, that isn't intimate. Intimate is how much money you made or lost last week. We're a bunch of happy campers here and we sort of keep track of each other. You'll get used to it; you might even like it. It's not bad, having people keep track of you; it keeps you from feeling like you're hanging out there with nobody to catch you if you fall. What's the use of knowing jillions of people if at least a few of them won't be on tap when you need them, is what I always say. You're a lot quieter than most of the women Quentin's gone out with; maybe he's mellowing. Though I wouldn't count on it. But you're definitely quieter, you don't make a splash; you don't //^n/j'/yourself."
"My God, I hope not."
"W^ell, it may not sound lovely, but it's the quickest way to climb, other than being a tennis star or royalty. You have to make people think their parties won't be complete without you because you're sort of glittery, or in with a lot of famous people, or you do major conspicuous spending, whatever. If you make them think that, it won't matter whether they like you or not; they'll invite you to everything."
Claire contemplated her for a long minute. "I haven't any idea what you're talking about."
"I know you don't, my sweet innocent." Lorraine snatched a glass of champagne and a miniature quiche from waiters passing by. Claire looked at the crowd. All the women wore black or
white, the men wore white tie, and as she watched them bob and weave, drinking, talking, shding sideways through the crowd, dancing beneath flashing strobe lights, Claire thought they looked like a movie from the thirties and wished she had a pencil, to sketch them.
Quentin and Ozzie were talking to a group of men near the bar. "It happens all the time," Lorraine told Claire. "It isn't really abandonment because it never lasts more than half the evening. They're just making good use of their time by doing some business, since they have to be here anyway. Quentin is on the board of whatever cause we're raising money for tonight, and wherever Quentin goes, we, of course, go also. Let's sit down; I want to talk to you."
A stranger, tall and rangy with unruly dark hair flecked with gray, came up to Claire. "Alex Jarrell," he said. His voice was deep and quie
t but somehow cut clearly through the din. "I'd like to dance with you."
"Oh, not now, do you mind.^" Lorraine protested to Claire. "This is my first chance to see you since we got back and I really do want to talk to you."
Claire liked his looks and the way he seemed to stand apart from the crowd. She wondered what he was doing there; he seemed more an observer than someone who had come to socialize. "I'd like to," she said to him. "Perhaps later." She and Lorraine found red velvet chairs away from the dance band and Lorraine leaned close. "I like you, Claire, and we're going to be friends. So this may sound intimate, but what are friends for, I always say, if you can't let down something and be intimate now and then. Anyway, he's a difficult man, Quentin; of course I'm very fond of him, but the fact is, he likes to . . . well, maybe that's not the best way to put it. He isn't always careful about whether he hurts people or not."
Claire's eyebrows rose. "You're saying he likes to hurt women."
"No, no, no, I said—"
"You started to say that he likes to hurt people. But I think you meant women."
"No, it's everybody, and it isn't hurting so much as having power over them. Well, it might be true, or partly true, about women, about dominating them ..." She sighed. "You're er-
clever, even though you don't talk much. You'll probably be fine; you probably don't need my advice at all. But I did want to mention it, as a friend; that you should be careful about getting too involved, because you could get hurt. And I want you to know that I truly am your friend and I'm here if you ever need me."
A rebellious voice inside Claire said, oh, no, not again; I'm having a good time; I don't want any dire warnings. She looked across the dance floor again at the group of men. Quentin was the tallest; he was easy to pick out of a crowd. They had danced earlier, and she remembered the firm control of his arm around her, his hand enclosing hers, his mouth close to hers. As they swept around the dance floor, a perfect match, others paused to watch, and Claire had wanted him with a rush that made her miss a step. "Good," he had said, and pulled her closer, knowing exactly why she had stumbled.
And now Lorraine was warning her. Just as she had been warned a long time ago. You could get hurt. And I was hurt, she thought; oh, God, how I was hurt. But that was then. I'm older now and I have money. Whatever happens, this time I'm safe. I'm not so vulnerable, I'll be all right, because now I have money.
She looked around the room again, at the shifting patterns of black and white beneath crystal chandeliers, the silver and gold table settings with an orchid at each place, and waiters filling crystal goblets with water and champagne in preparation for dinner. I don't need any warnings, she thought. I'm not going to try to change Quentin; I just want to be with him, a lot, because I can't stop thinking about him, and I want him to make me part of this life that I don't know anything about yet. I can't do it myself—he was right about that—no matter how much money I have; I need him.
"Of course he's an amazing man," Lorraine went on, backtracking. "Ozzie says he's the absolutely perfect businessman because he knows exactly what he wants and how he's going to get it. Personally, I think that goes a long way past cosmetics. Ozzie does, too."
"To what.?"
"I don't know. I just don't see Quentin satisfied with one company, however big he makes it. I think he wants to run much bigger things, mingle with bigger people. International business.'*
Governments? Something like that. Anyway, he makes good cosmetics, the whole Narcissus line; I use all of it. You probably do, too, by now; nobody goes out with Quentin very long without using Narcissus. Of course I use all the others—you probably do, too—Estee Lauder and Chanel and Lancome and Clarins—I just can't pass them up when I'm shopping even though I know it's all make-believe. I mean, I know perfectly well nothing in the world is ever going to make me beautiful or glamorous, but I keep trying because they sound like magic, and magic is the only thing that actually might do it for me. And they do make me feel good, probably just because I'm (omg something. And now he's got this new one coming out, a whole new line Ozzie told me about, it's supposed to be secret, but you probably know already, anti-wrinkle, anti-drying, anti-sag, anti-o/r/—and I can't wait to try it, I mean it can't make me any worse so why not—"
Alex Jarrell was starting toward them, and Claire, bored and restless, stood up.
"And then there was all that trouble with Brix," Lorraine said.
"What.'"' Claire looked down at her. "What trouble.'"'
"W^ell, if you really want to know about Quentin, you have to know about Brix, because Quentin just took him over a few years ago." She looked up at Claire. "And he and your daughter were pretty tight on the ship, weren't they.'' And spent the night in Valdez. Maybe Brix told her all about it; I don't know whether he talks about it or not. Not that it's a secret; I mean, Ozzie knows all about it, I suppose because he was the lawyer Quentin called. And it does tell you something about Quentin, that he'd go to such lengths for his son."
Claire sat down again. She saw Alex hesitate, then turn away. "What happened.'*" she asked.
"Well, of course I don't know all the details, I could only squeeze so much out of Ozzie, and it was a while ago so it's kind of fuzzy in my mind, but it seems when Brix was a junior in college, he thought someone in his fraternity had stolen his wallet. I don't know why he thought that, but evidently he was absolutely convinced of it, and when the other boy denied it, Brix tried to get him kicked out of the fraternity, but no one would vote for that, so Brix took it into his own hands." Lorraine paused.
"To do what.-*" Claire asked.
"To get rid of him."
Claire stared at her. "What are you saying? To kill him?"
"Well, or maybe only hurt him, or scare him, Ozzie wasn't clear on that; I don't really know the details. But supposedly Brix set some kind of trap, and the boy fell out of the window in his room in the fraternity house—it was the fourth floor, I think—and nearly died. He may have been paralyzed; I'm not sure; I don't know all the details. But Quentin was incredible; he did everything for Brix. He lined up big donors to the college to pressure the administration to keep it quiet, and then he took Brix out of there and got him into another college so he could graduate. And Ozzie said he paid a small fortune to the boy and his family; I don't know how much, I don't know the details, but obviously it was enough to keep them from filing charges and to take care of the boy while he recovered, and probably a lot more besides. Anyway, Quentin pulled it off: it all stayed quiet. No charges filed, no nothing. And then he just took charge of Brix. Totally. He kept him on a short leash, made sure he graduated with good grades, told him he was going to work at Eiger Labs, no two ways about it. And Brix seems to be doing fine; he's got Quentin's charm and you know how incredibly handsome he is, and he seems to like his work. Well, he doesn't love cosmetics, he doesn't think they're masculine, or whatever, he never went into details with me, but he must be doing all right because Quentin took him on that Alaska cruise, and he wouldn't have, if he wasn't satisfied with him. And Ozzie says Brix would do anything in the world to please his father, and that's always a good sign. I guess."
They were silent. The music rose to a crescendo, then abruptly stopped, and the dancers, caught unawares, did a few extra steps before they realized they were dancing to silence. "Excuse me," Claire said, wanting to get away, but when she turned, Quentin was there.
"I apologize for leaving you," he said. "I didn't want to be away from you for even ten minutes tonight. Shall we find our table? They're about to serve."
"I'm really not hungry," Claire said. "It's almost eleven; I'd like to go home."
He glanced at Lorraine, then took Claire's hand. "A good idea," he said. They walked across the dance floor and out to the hotel lobby where he told the attendant to bring his car. "Were you bored? I'm sorry about that; I had to talk to someone before
he leaves for Europe tomorrow. Did Lorraine talk your ear off? She'll shut up if you tell her firmly enough. What was
she talking about.^"
"You. And Brix. And I think you knew that."
The attendant brought the car, its air-conditioning already on against the heat of the July night, and held the door for Claire. Once past the parking lot, Quentin picked up speed on the empty road, his hands relaxed on the wheel. "Lorraine talks a lot with very little information," he said. "Did she tell you she wasn't sure of the details.'^"
Involuntarily, Claire smiled. "A few times."
"And that she'd stand by you, as your friend.^"
"Yes."
"She meant it. But you can't trust her." He sighed. "I always have to clean up after Lorraine." He drove in silence, brooding at the beam of his headlights sweeping past a forest preserve and the startled, shining eyes of a deer. The only sound was the faint hiss of the fan blowing cool air through the car, Quentin reached out and took Claire's hand. "I'm taking you home with me."
He loomed large and commanding in the cool, speeding car; Claire felt overwhelmed by him. She had been watching the needle of the speedometer move steadily past all the numbers she thought safe; now, hurtling through the darkness, she found it hard to breathe. In the ballroom, all she had wanted was to go home and talk to Emma, but by now Emma would be asleep. Anyway, Brix had not called her since they returned from Anchorage; probably there was no need for Claire to try to talk to Emma about him at all. And she did not want to leave Quentin. She wanted to be with him. She wanted to ask him about everything Lorraine had said, she wanted to try to understand him, but more than that, over everything else, she ached with desire for him. Her body, so long alone and on edge since the evening in Quentin's stateroom in Valdez, leaned slightly toward him, languorous but jumpy, heavy with longing. Her breathing was short and rapid; she could barely sit still.
They were silent as he turned into the driveway of a red-brick, Georgian mansion with white pillars, white dormers, rounded wings at each side, and tall, paned windows. They were in Daricn, a town Claire's parents had talked about as if it were on another planet, far beyond their means. Quentin held her hand as they
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