Now and Forever

by Danielle Steel

  “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!”

  “Overruled!”

  “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 fancy.” 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?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Good.” She slipped on quiet black kid pumps, clipped pearl earrings on her ears, picked up her bag, and headed for the closet to get out her black coat. Ian truly did think she looked gorgeous. He was so damn proud of her. Not just of how she looked, but of how she was taking this.

  Martin was not quite as pleased, though, when they walked into the courtroom. He noticed Jessica’s black coat and the glimpse of gray silk. It was just what he didn’t want. Everything about her looked expensive. It was as though she had set out to prove everything Matilda Howard-Spencer had suggested. Jesus. Where were their heads? Crazy kids, they didn’t realize what was happening. They had an unnerving assurance about them as they took their seats, as though they had arranged everything and there was nothing more to worry about. It was a bad time for them to make a show of strength, however subtle. And yet, maybe it was just as well that they felt a little more confident. They had both looked so beaten after the morning.

  This new look of confidence underlined the bond between them. One was always aware of that, of them as a pair, not just Ian or Jessie, but both. It was frightening to think what would happen to them both if someone tried to sever that bond. If they lost.

  Jessica looked remarkably calm as she walked up to the witness stand. The gray dress moved gracefully with her, the full sleeves gentling her impressive stature. She took the oath and looked at Ian for one tiny instant before turning her attention to Martin.

  His questions bu
ilt up a picture of a devoted couple and of a wife who respected her husband too much to doubt that he was telling the truth. He was pleased with Jessica’s quiet, dignified manner, and when he relinquished his witness to the prosecutor, he had to repress a smile. He would have liked to see these two women roll up their sleeves and stalk each other around the room. They were evenly matched. At least he hoped so.

  With Jessica, Matilda Howard-Spencer was not going to waste time. “Tell us, Mrs. Clarke, were you aware that your husband had cheated on you before this?”

  “Indirectly.”

  “What do you mean by that?” The attorney looked puzzled.

  “I mean that I assumed that was a possibility, but that it was nothing serious.”

  “I see. Just a little lighthearted fun?” She was back on that track again, but Jessie had seen it coming.

  “No. Nothing like that. Ian isn’t flip about anything. He’s a sensitive man. But I travel quite a bit. And what happens, happens.”

  “Does it happen to you as well?” Now the attorney’s eyes were glittering again. Gotcha!

  “No, it does not.”

  “You’re under oath, Mrs. Clarke.”

  “I’m aware of that. The answer is no.”

  She looked surprised. “But you don’t mind if your husband fools around?”

  “Not necessarily. It depends on the circumstances.” Jessica looked every inch a lady, and Ian was incredibly proud of her.

  “And these particular circumstances, Mrs. Clarke, how do you feel about them?”

  “Confident.”

  “Confident?” Jessica’s interrogator looked taken aback, and Martin fidgeted. “How can you be confident, and what about?”

  “I’m confident that the truth about this matter will come out, and that my husband will be acquitted.” Martin watched the jury. They liked her. But they had to like Ian too. And more than that, they had to believe him.

  “I admire your optimism. Are you footing the bill for the expense of this?”

  “No, not really.” Ian almost cringed. She was lying under oath. “My husband made a very wise investment after he sold his last book. He put the investment in my care, and we decided to sell it to cover the expense of the trial. So I can’t say I’m footing the bill.” Bravo! The Morgan! And she was telling the truth! He wanted to jump up and hug her.