“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, Heppelwhite, 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 wonderful 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.”
“Want to come see the Joffrey with us next week?”
“No … I …” There was a moment of sadness in her eyes.
“Come on, don’t be a drag. Ian would love to take us both. God, what that would do to his ego!” She laughed, and Astrid seemed to hesitate. Then she nodded with a small girl’s grin.
“I can’t resist. I hate to be the fifth wheel—I went through that after Tom died, and it’s the loneliest thing in the world. It’s actually much easier to be alone. But I’d love to go with you, if Ian won’t mind.”
They left each other like two new school friends who have the good fortune to find that they live across the street from each other. And Jessie ran home to tell Ian about the house.
He was going to love it, and Astrid. She reminded Jessie of herself, as she would have liked to be. All the poise in the world, and so gentle, so open and sunny. She might be uncertain about the course her life would take, but she had long since come to terms with herself, and it showed. She radiated loving and peace, no longer grabbing at life like Jessie. But Jessie didn’t really envy her. She still had Ian, and Astrid no longer had Tom. And, as she drove home, Jessica found herself speeding the car into the driveway, anxious to see Ian, not just his portrait.
As she approached their front door she saw a man walking away from the house toward an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway. He gave her a long examining glance and then nodded. And Jessie felt terror wash over her. Police … the police were back … what were they doing now? The terror reached her eyes as she stood there, rooted to the spot. The nightmare was back again. At least he wasn’t Inspector Houghton. And where was Ian? She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. The neighbors might hear.
“I’m Harvey Green. Mrs. Clarke?” She nodded and stood there, still eyeing him with horror. “I’m the investigator Martin Schwartz referred to your case.”
“Oh. I see. Have you spoken to my husband?” She suddenly felt the cool breeze on her face, but it would take a while for her heart to stop pounding.
“Yes, I’ve spoken to him.”
“Is there anything you want me to add?” Other than money …
“No. We have everything under control. I’ll be in touch.” He made a gesture of mock salute toward his colorless hair and walked on toward his car. It was beige or pale blue, Jessie wasn’t even sure in the twilight. Maybe it was white. Or light green. Like him, it was totally nondescript. He had unpleasant eyes and a forgettable face. He would blend well in a crowd. He looked ageless, and his clothes would have been out of style in any decade. He was perfect for his role.
“Darling, I’m home!” But her voice had a nervous lilt to it now, as his did when he spoke. “Darling? … We’ve been invited to dinner tomorrow.” Not that either of them cared. Suddenly Harvey Green seemed much more of the present than Astrid.
“Invited? By whom?” Ian was pouring himself a drink in the kitchen. And not the usual white wine either. It was bourbon or Scotch, which he rarely drank, except when they had guests from back east.
“That new customer I met at the shop. Astrid Bonner. She’s lovely; I think you’ll like her.”
“Who?”
“You know. I told you. The widow who lives in the brick palazzo on the corner.”
“All right.” He tried to muster a smile, but it was rough going. “Did you see Green on your way in?”
She nodded. “I thought he was a cop. I jumped about four feet in the air.”
“So did I. Fun, isn’t it, living like this?”
She tried to pass over the remark and sat down in her usual chair.
“Could you make me one too?”
“Scotch and water?”
“Why not?” It would be her third.
“Okay. That must be some place the widow’s got herself.” But he didn’t sound as though he really cared. He dropped ice cubes in another glass.
“You’ll see it tomorrow. And Ian … I invited her to join us at the ballet. Do you mind?” It was a moment and two sips before he looked into her eyes and answered, and when he did, she didn’t like what she saw.
“Baby, at this point, I really don’t give a damn.”
They tried to make love that night after dinner, and for the first time since they’d met, Ian couldn’t. He didn’t give a damn about that either. It felt like the beginning of the end.
Chapter 11
“Are you dressed yet?” Jessica could hear Ian rattling around in the room where he worked, and she had just finished brushing her hair. She was wearing white silk slacks and a turquoise crocheted sweater, and she still wasn’t sure if she looked right. Astrid was liable to be wearing something fabulous, and it sounded as though Ian had stayed submerged in the studio. “Ian! Are you ready?” The rattling stopped and she heard footsteps.
“More or less.” He smiled at her from the bedroom doorway, and she looked into his eyes as she walked toward him.
“Mr. Clarke, you look absolutely beautiful.”
“So do you.” He was wearing the new dark blue Cardin blazer she’d brought him from New York, a cream-colored shirt, and a wine-colored paisley tie with beige gabardine slacks she had found in France. They sculpted his long graceful legs.
“You look terribly proper and terribly handsome, and I think I’m terribly in love with you, darling.”
He swept her a neat bow and put his arms around her as she reached him.
“In that case, how about if we stay home instead?” He had a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
“Ian, don’t you touch me! Astrid would be so disappointed if we didn’t make it. And you’ll love her.”
“Promises, promises.” But he offered her his arm as she picked up the white silk jacket she’d left on the chair in the hall. He was going to the dinner to humor her. He had other things on his mind.
They walked the half block to the brick house on the corner, and it was the first night there had been a chill in the air. Autumn was coming, in its own gentle fashion. San Francisco in the fall was nothing like that season in New York. It was part of the reason they’d both fallen in love with San Francisco in the first place. They loved the easy, temperate weather.
Jessica rang the bell, and they waited. For a moment there was no answer.
“Maybe she’s decided she doesn’t want us.”
“Oh, shut up. You just want to go home and work on your book.” But she smiled at him and then they heard footsteps.
The door opened a second later and there was Astrid, resplendent in a floor-length black knit dress and a long rope of pearls. Her hair was loosely swept
up in the back and her eyes sparkled as she led them inside. She looked even more beautiful than Jessica had found her before. And Ian was obviously stunned. He had been expecting a middle-aged widow, and had agreed to the evening mostly as a concession to Jessie. He had had no hint of this vision in black with the Dresden-doll waist and long, elegantly arched neck—and that face. He liked the face. And the look in her eyes. This was no dowager. This was a woman.
The two women embraced, and Ian stood back for a moment, watching them, intrigued by the older woman he did not yet know, and by the formidable home he was beginning to glimpse over her shoulder. It was impossible not to stare, whether he looked at her or at the house.
“And this is Ian.” He obeyed the summons, feeling like a small boy being introduced by his mother—“Say good evening to the nice lady, darling”—and held out his hand.
“How do you do.” He was suddenly glad he had worn the new Cardin jacket and tie. This was not going to be just any old dinner. And she was probably a roaring snob. She had to be, in a setup like that. And widowed, yet. Nouveau riche as all hell … but somehow a murmuring suspicion told him that that wasn’t the case either. She didn’t have the dead-fish eyes of a snob, or the overworked eyebrows. She had nice eyes, in a nice face. She looked like a person.
Astrid laughed gaily as she led them upstairs to the library, and Ian and Jessica exchanged glances as they passed delicate sketches and etchings on the stairs … Picasso … Renoir … Renoir again … Manet … Klimt … Goya … Cassatt … He wanted to whistle, and Jessie grinned at him like a conspirator who had assisted in getting him into the neighborhood haunted house. He raised both eyebrows and she stuck out her tongue. Astrid was ahead of them and already down the hall. He wanted to whisper, and Jessie wanted to giggle, but they couldn’t. Not till they got home. But she was thoroughly enjoying the look on his face; it made her feel suddenly mischievous. She pinched him delicately on the behind as she passed in front of him to enter the library.
Now and Forever Page 11