Going Home

by Danielle Steel

  “I’d love to.”

  “Good. I’ll give you a call in the morning and let you know what time. I have a meeting with John at five, so I doubt if it will be much before eight.”

  “Suits me. Thank you, Gordon. And thanks for the lift home. Goodnight.”

  I could hardly wait till dinner the next evening, and as I rode up in the elevator I made a mental note to buy a new dress.

  21

  Where are you going, Mommy?”

  “Out to dinner, love.”

  “Again?” Ouch. Oh, Sam. . . .

  “Yes. But I promise to be home this weekend.” Meager compromise.

  “Is that a new dress?”

  “What is this? The inquisition?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re asking a lot of questions, Sam.”

  “Well, is it a new dress?”

  “Yes.”

  “I like it.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Thank you.” She was sprawled on the couch and checking me out with a critical eye.

  “You know, you’re getting fatter in the middle, Mom. You don’t look skinny like you used to.”

  “What do you mean fatter?” My heart sank. I didn’t think I showed yet.

  “Just a little. Don’t worry.” The phone rang then and I kissed Sam on the top of her head.

  “I won’t. Now you go take your bath and I’ll answer the phone. Scram.” She took off, and for a sad instant I thought it might be Gordon calling off our plans. He would be held over at the office, or had been poisoned at lunch, or had broken an ankle, something . . . like cold feet maybe, or another date . . . That’s okay, Gordon . . . I understand . . . but what about my new dress?

  “Hello? . . . Yes, Operator, this is she. . . . Hello, Chris. . . . Yes. . . . What’s up? . . . No, I am not uptight . . . no . . . no . . . I’m alone. . . . Okay, okay. . . . I was just getting ready to go out to dinner. . . . What the hell do you mean ‘it didn’t take me long’? . . . Just dinner with a friend of Hilary’s (why did I have to put it that way?) . . . No, he is not a greasy Italian count, he works at the magazine Woman’s Life. . . . You know, I think you could really hold off on those remarks. For someone who’s living with a girl, you’re awfully touchy, dearest. . . . Oh really? . . . And why is that so different? . . . Would you like me to tell you why? . . . Hardly. I’m still pregnant, or have you forgotten that little detail? . . . It’s not too late for what? . . . Forget it, that’s out of the question. . . . How’s Marilyn? Okay, I don’t want to hear about it. . . . Don’t explain, Christopher. It’s very clear as it is. . . . Leaving? . . . When? . . . I’ll believe it when I see it. . . . Look, Chris, will you please get off my back about tonight. . . . I’m here because you wanted me here, it wasn’t my idea. . . . All right we’ll talk about something else. . . . Wouldn’t want to get Uncle Chris upset, would we? . . . She’s fine. . . . Yes, she still asks for you. . . . Concerned with our little family tonight aren’t we? . . . Why? . . . Marilyn giving you a rough time???? . . . Look, Chris, I think it’d be better if you didn’t call for a while. I can’t take it. It just makes things worse. You’ve got Marilyn, you don’t need me, and I can’t handle it. I’ll call you. . . . Oh, I see, fine. . . . Look, go to hell, you’ve got her, so just get off my back, please. . . . Write to me then. . . . No, I’m seeing the doctor next week. I guess everything’s okay, I don’t know. . . . A little tired, but okay. . . . Chris, how are you really? . . . I miss you so goddam much I can’t stand it. . . . No, that is not why I’m going out with Hilary’s friend. . . .” The doorbell rang then, and I panicked. “Look, Chris, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you . . . Okay, okay, fine. . . . No, don’t call . . . all right then, call. . . . Not till Monday? . . . Oh that’s right, the weekend . . . I forgot. . . . Look, I have to get off the goddam phone. I love you. . . . Chris? . . . Yeah, baby, I know. . . .” It was quite a phone call, with Gordon waiting at the door.

  Gordon and I had a wonderful evening. He took me to a tiny Italian restaurant somewhere in the east twenties and then we went uptown to a penthouse restaurant on Central Park South for a drink. The restaurant was housed in a faceless little office building and the moment we stepped off the elevator it was like entering another world. The decor was East Indian. A girl in a gold sari greeted us and parted richly embroidered curtains to lead us into the rooms beyond. There was a heavy aroma of incense in the air, the tables were long and low, and the room seemed to pulsate with a music I didn’t understand but couldn’t help but respond to. It made me want to sway and close my eyes, in rhythm to the sensual sounds of the East. There was a single rose on each table, and the waiters were tall and dark, many of them had beards, and some wore turbans.

  We drank exotic drinks and I looked at the view in silence. It seemed as though everywhere one went in New York there was a new vista to be seen. This one from yet another angle, facing north, Central Park lying below like a child’s toy bedecked with Christmas lights, and framed by the buildings on three sides of the park. I felt a million miles from anywhere I’d ever been, and the scenery beyond the windows was merely a skillfully achieved decor, meant to remind one of New York, and nothing more.

  Gordon ordered a delicate white wine and rose cakes, and after the waiter served us and proceeded to disappear Gordon held my eyes for what seemed an interminable time. It was as though he were asking questions without using words, and perhaps finding his own answers.

  “Why didn’t you stay out West, Gillian?” He looked as though he already knew, but his gaze continued to hold mine as he waited for me to answer.

  “I wanted to come back.”

  “That is not the truth. All right then, did you run away? I imagine that you’d be capable of that.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean. But, no, I didn’t run away. I just came back.”

  “Because of a man?” I hesitated for a long moment and then nodded.

  “And you? Why did you leave Spain?” Tit for tat.

  “I was hungry.”

  “Now you’re not telling the truth.” I smiled at him and pulled the rose from its vase to finger the petals.

  “Well, let’s just say that the time for me to be there was past.”

  “Did you run away? Or did she?” It seemed the right question to ask in view of what he had asked me.

  “Neither and both. She committed suicide, and after that I ran away.” His face held a quiet sadness, but none of the shock I felt. He was the most incredibly direct man I’d ever met.

  “I’m sorry, Gordon.” I looked away, sorry we had begun the questioning. It was a dangerous game to play. We both had our painful pasts.

  He looked away, a sad, serious look on his face. And I couldn’t see his eyes. “That’s all right, it was a long time ago. Her name was Juanita. She was the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known. Good and pure. Like a child. I found out that she had been a prostitute in Malaga. So she killed herself. The funny thing is that I wouldn’t have cared. I didn’t care, it didn’t change anything, and I had suspected something like that anyway. But she never knew that. The man who told me, told her, and before I got home she was dead. And after that I left. I couldn’t handle it there anymore. I never really belonged in the first place, but I had loved it.” I nodded again. There seemed to be nothing to add to what he had said. “And your man, Gillian, who was he?”

  “Just a man.” I didn’t want to talk about Chris because I couldn’t give Gordon the kind of honesty he was giving me. Chris was not as far back for me as Juanita was for him, I hadn’t come to terms with it yet, and whereas his story was narrative, mine was more likely to sound like true confessions.

  “Is it still a going thing?”

  “No . . . well, not really. We still talk. But I think it’s over.” I knew deep in my heart that I was lying, because I didn’t think it was over. I thought it might be, but I didn’t really believe that.

  “What was he like?”

  “My father.”

&
nbsp; “And what was your father like?”

  “In a word . . . a bastard.” I looked up with a grin. There was a nice feeling of relief in saying it.

  “And what does that tell you, Gillian?”

  “Bad things. But I didn’t see the similarity until just recently.”

  “Were you happy with this man?”

  “For a while. Yes, very happy. He has some good points after all, or I wouldn’t have stayed around as long as I did. But I think, underneath it all, he’s a bastard just like my father. Not a nice man. I don’t think so anyway. He’s incapable of a lot of things I need. I knew that, but I didn’t want to know it.” It felt so strange to be talking about Chris as though he were a thing of the past.

  “Why did you stay with him then, since you can’t tell me why you left, because the fact that he was a ‘bastard’ doesn’t explain anything. You liked him that way.” Ouch. Gordon was right, I think I did.

  “All right. I left because he forced me to. I stayed because . . . because I loved him, I needed him, I wanted it to work. As long as I stayed on his terms, it was okay. Oh, and I stayed because there were other things. It’s sort of a complicated story.”

  “And not over yet, is it, Gillian?”

  “Yes, and no. Oh hell, Gordon. There’s a lot to this thing.” I looked up and let my eyes take hold of his. “It’s over because I don’t believe he loves me, and it’s not over because I’m having his child. In that sense, it’ll never be over.” And then panic at what I’d just said.

  “Does anyone know?” He looked perfectly unruffled.

  “Only one friend. And he knows, of course. But it doesn’t seem to make much difference.”

  “Have you thought of having an abortion? I suppose you have.”

  “Yes. I’ve thought of it. But I want to have the child. I’m going to bring an awful lot down on my head, but this is how I want to do it. I’m sure.”

  “Then you’re doing the right thing. But I wouldn’t tell anyone, Gillian. However much I admire your determination, it isn’t the accepted lifestyle for someone like you, after all.”

  “I know. And I had planned to keep it to myself. I don’t know what happened tonight. It just slipped out.” I tried to smile without looking at him, and felt him take my hand in his.

  “Don’t look so sad, Gillian. You’re going to make it through.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. . . . Once in a while I need it.” I tried to smile at him. And it was strange. It was almost as though we were on a carousel of revelations. In less than an hour we were covering every inch of each others’ scars and markings. As though we both felt we had to know what had come before. And then, almost unconsciously, I hurled the ball into his court again.

  “What about your marriage?”

  “In a sense it never existed, Gillian.”

  “But you said. . . .” I was puzzled. He seemed too honest to lie about something like that.

  “For Heaven’s sake, don’t look at me like that, child! I was married. What I meant was that it might as well not have existed. It was brief, painful, and devoid of all emotion.”

  “How in hell did you ever get married then?” It seemed so unlike him.

  “Easy. I had to. Or felt I had to. That was twenty-five years ago, and I had seen a young lady briefly, and . . . well . . .”

  “She got pregnant.”

  “Right. She refused to have an abortion, so I decided to do the noble thing. I married her. But it was untenable. As soon as Greg was born we got a divorce, and that was it.”

  “Well, at least you got Greg out of it. Are you two close?” His eyes hardened at the question and took on a strange kind of bitterness.

  “Hardly, my dear. Greg is a charming young man. Intelligent, witty, independent. And a stranger. When I left, I cut him out of my mind and tried to forget he existed. I never saw him as a small child, and you forget, I was in Spain for ten years. When I came back he was fifteen. It’s difficult to become a father to a fifteen-year-old boy you don’t even know.”

  “Perhaps one day you will.”

  “Perhaps. But unlikely. He thinks me a dreadful materialist. And he’s quite right, I am. To earn his respect, I’d have to do something grandiose. Like become an artist for a cause in Afghanistan, or something of the sort. And that’s not in my plans. And now, young lady, we have both talked long enough about our grisly pasts. Let’s get you home, it’s late.” He signaled to the turbaned waiter, and it was clear that the confidences had come to a close. Gordon Harte had the evening well in control. And then he looked at me and the brief tenseness left his face.

  “You must have a strange power over me, my dear. I haven’t talked like this in years.” It was a nice compliment, and he reached for my hand as we rose from the cushions we had been sitting on. His hold was gentle but firm, and he kept my hand in his as we rode down in the elevator and stepped outside. It was a lovely night, the air was warm and there was a slight breeze, and the horses tethered to the hansom cabs neighed softly from across the street.

  “This city looks like a movie set to me. So unreal.” I looked around again and saw Gordon watching me.

  “Come, Gillian. Let’s walk back to the hotel.” It was only three blocks to the Regency and his arm around my shoulders felt just right. We said nothing on the brief walk, and at the hotel he stood outside the revolving door and looked down at me with a small smile.

  “How about lunch in the country tomorrow? I’m going to see friends in Bedford. The country air would do you good.” Not “I’d like you to be with me,” but “the country air will do you good.” I would have liked him to say the words, but I could see that he meant them anyway as he waited for an answer.

  “I’d like to, Gordon.”

  “Would you like to bring your daughter?”

  “She has other plans. But thank you. She’s spending the day with a friend from school.”

  “Fine, I’ll pick you up at eleven then. And don’t be sorry about tonight, little one. You needed to talk . . . and so did I.” He made no move to kiss me then, but only touched my shoulder gently before he walked away.

  We waved at each other one last time as I went in, and I floated past the desk, wondering what lay in store, and fearing that the magic would be gone by the next day.

  “Would you mind getting the map out of the glove compartment for me, Gillian?” We were racing along the East River Drive with the top of his car down, and he had been cool when he picked me up. There was no reference to the confidences of the night before, and very little warmth.

  “Sure.” I snapped open the little door on the dashboard, pulled out the map, and handed it to him.

  “Open it, please.” I was a little surprised by his tone, but dutifully unfolded the map, and then laughed. There was a cartoon, showing a much caricatured portrait of myself and Mr. Gordon Harte, eating hot dogs under a lamppost outside the building that housed Woman’s Life, a Chihuahua and a St. Bernard were dutifully lifting their legs on the lamp post, and what looked like the entire magazine staff was leaning from the windows of the building. The caption read “Let’s get away from it all,” and when I looked up, Gordon was looking pleased by my obvious delight.

  “That means you owe me lunch this week.”

  “You’ve got a deal. This is super, Gordon.”

  “So are you.”

  The lunch in Bedford was pleasant, I liked his friends, and the afternoon sped by.

  By five o’clock I was back at the hotel, in time to meet Samantha.

  On Sunday, Sam and I moved back to our old apartment with Peg’s help, and the absence of the Regency was sorely felt, by me at least. As for Sam, she was ecstatic to be home. I was less so. Sunday night was spent scrubbing floors and scouring closets, and it seemed as though I hardly had time to go to bed before another work week began.

  “Samantha! . . . Breakfast! . . . Hurry up, you’ll be late for school!” And I for work. It was quite a major feat of organization to get the show on t
he road, Sam ready for school, and myself for work. I had lost the knack, and getting it all together at eight o’clock in the morning was like climbing an iceberg wearing roller skates. It had been easier to be up and dressed at six in San Francisco. Maybe it was the clothes.

  “Sam! Come on! . . . Where are you?”

  “Here I come, Mommy!” and she arrived in a burst of cowboy gear Chris had given her. “Here I am!”

  “Okay, love, eat the cornflakes. We’re in sort of a hurry.”

  “Cowboys don’t eat cornflakes.” She looked insulted.

  “Oh yes they do. Now come on, Sam. Eat!” I was trying to juggle coffee and the paper, while wondering if my shoes needed a shine.

  There were the usual thousand phone calls to make at work, shooting of the children’s rooms to be set up, the dining room assignment to be finalized, and John Templeton had a horde of minor things for me to attend to.

  Gordon and I had our promised lunch on Tuesday, and he invited me to a black tie press party at the Museum of Modem Art on Wednesday night.

  On Wednesday afternoon, I rushed home from the office, got out a black velvet dress and raspberry satin evening coat, and waited for him to pick me up at seven. I realized as I waited for him to arrive that mixed with the elation of going out with him again was a sagging feeling. Chris hadn’t called all week. And as usual, it hurt. I ached for Chris Matthews, for his arms around me, for his quiet voice, even for his indifference, anything.

  “Mommy! The doorbell is ringing!” Sam’s voice rang through the apartment.

  “Okay. I’ll get it.” I hadn’t even heard it. It was Gordon.

  “All set? My! Don’t you look smashing! You look just lovely, Gillian.” He studied me appreciatively and gave me a peck on the forehead.

  “Thank you, sir. How was your day?”