Too Much Too Soon

by Jacqueline Briskin

  “Welcome to beautiful Nevada,” Curt said, sarcasm cutting through the weariness in his voice.

  Honora touched his cheek. “It looks lovely to me.”

  Curt swerved into the gravel.

  The bell was answered by a man with a napkin tucked into his open shirt. Large splotches marked his skin, and his cheeks were hollow so that he appeared whittled from the surrounding sugar pines. “You folks want to tie the knot?” he asked with a practiced glance at the large convertible. “Ten bucks.”

  “Fine,” Curt said.

  Not bothering to remove his napkin, the justice of the peace called in his buxom daughter and shapeless wife, who both exuded underarm odors and the aroma of fried chicken. Hastily he gabbled the minimum questions required by the State of Nevada to legitimize a union, everybody scrawled on the wedding certificate and the threesome returned to the kitchen to finish their chicken before it got cold.

  “Christ,” Curt said as they walked through the pine-scented night to the Buick convertible. “Well, one thing’s for certain. The marriage has got to go uphill from here.”

  “Unless you kiss the bride it’s not legal and binding,” Honora murmured, her arm reaching around him.

  He halted. The near-full moon and a glitter of mountain stars looked down as he cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her eyes, the tip of her nose, and her lips.

  14

  Earlier that same day, at around eleven thirty, Crystal was in her dressing room trying on the mist-blue silk faille suit that she’d had sent home on approval from Ransohoff’s, dispiritedly turning to gauge her reflection in the mirrored closet doors. A long, almost sleepless night had laid siege to her pragmatism. Certainly she was frayed with misery about poor Honora’s banishment—and would do all in her power to remind Gideon of the Christian virtues of charity and forgiveness—but she would have to be a mental case to sacrifice a Pacific Heights mansion and Chargaplate privileges in the best Debutante departments in San Francisco for the abstraction of sisterly unity.

  “Crystal?” Mrs. Ekberg was a narrow sliver of darkness in the sunlit doorway between bedroom and dressing room. “Mr. Talbott would like a word with you, dear. He’s downstairs in the Turkish room.”

  “Gideon? Home? On a Monday morning?”

  “It is odd, isn’t it? But then everything’s topsy-turvy today. Honora back with your father. And little Joss refusing to go to school.” Mrs. Ekberg buried a nervous belch in her hand. She was maintaining a façade of chirpy ignorance that she hoped would allow her to remain employed in the Talbott ménage. “Poor mite, she’s beside herself.”

  “Tell Gideon I’ll be right down.”

  Crystal folded the suit and carefully placed it back in its tissue before turning to her appearance. Her hair took forever. Last night, in her unhappy emotional chaos, she had not put it up in pin curls, and two recalcitrant wisps kept escaping from the shining golden mass.

  It was thirty minutes before she went into the round little room.

  Gideon showed no sign of the previous night’s disintegrating grief. As he set down his Wall Street Journal, his hard mouth was clamped in a tight line.

  Crystal seldom gave much thought to those who awaited her spectacular, perennially tardy entrances, but now a tiny shiver of anxiety went down her spine. “Sorry I took so long.” She formed her most winsome smile. “You caught me in my bath. But what’s going on? Has Talbott’s declared a national holiday?”

  At the glint of affectionate amusement in his eyes, she sat.

  “Have you forgotten last night?” he asked. “Remember what I said about our talking?”

  “Gideon, you darling, you’ve changed your mind about Honora, haven’t you?” She leaned forward eagerly. As a small child she had learned that it was best to attack, thus placing the burden of nay-saying on the opponent.

  His lips again pressed into that line. “I followed your advice. This morning I gave Ivory a buzz to hear his side. The phone was answered by your sister.”

  Crystal had never felt more protective of Honora—or more irritated with her. This was her sister to a T, the same unreasoning generosity as taking that waitress job. After last night couldn’t she have had the sense to let Curt wallow in his own unhappiness, to stay out of his apartment? Now Gideon was her disapproving enemy.

  “I shouldn’t have been so blunt,” Gideon said gently.

  “Gideon, I know how her mind works. Sometimes she’s so tenderhearted that she’s wacky. She felt sorry for Curt, losing his job, and didn’t like leaving him alone . . . .” The tightening around Gideon’s small brown eyes told Crystal she wasn’t helping her sister, and she was rousing his bonnetful of ridiculous, antiquated bees. “At least that’s how I see it.”

  “You’re the one with the tender heart.”

  “Gideon, whatever she’s done she’s our sister.”

  “That’s exactly what I expected you to think,” he said. “But she’s proved herself no fit companion for a girl like you or little Joscelyn.”

  “Maybe Curt’ll marry her.”

  “Him?” Gideon gave a negating snort. “Crystal, I told her in no uncertain terms that she’s not to bother you or Joscelyn. And to make sure of it I’ve hired a detective agency.”

  “A detective agency!” Crystal couldn’t control her outburst. “How rotten!”

  Gideon’s fists clenched. “She’s already pulled the wool over my eyes once.”

  “You’ve been so fabulous to us, Gideon, and I certainly do see how we’ve disappointed you. But isn’t this going a bit far? A detective agency?”

  “The very last thing I care to do, ever, is hurt you,” he said. “I want the world to be a paradise for you. Crystal, surely you realize that.”

  The heavy, deep-lined face softened into an incongruous, boyishly adoring smile.

  Crystal’s shock was so overwhelming that she felt as if an enormous rock were squashing the breath from her lungs. I don’t believe it, she thought wildly. Gideon making a pass?

  A fraction of a moment later it hit her.

  Lord God Jesus, she thought. He’s talking about marriage! Marrying me!

  A strange, breathy giggle escaped her.

  He was saying, “You’re so very young, but you have extraordinary astuteness about people. My feelings can’t come as a complete surprise.”

  “Gideon, how could I guess?” Another peculiar giggle. “You’re my uncle.”

  “I was married to your aunt. You and I aren’t related by blood. But certainly I am aware—overly aware—of the huge age difference between us.” He pulled back his thick shoulders, sitting at attention. “You’re the dearest, loveliest, daintiest girl alive, and you can have any younger man you want. But there’s nobody who could give you more of a true and loving heart.”

  He made this Victorian speech with awkward bluffness, yet there was no escaping his sincerity. He was staring tenderly at her. Incapable of speech, Crystal clasped her shaking hands together.

  “While I know that the financial angle isn’t important to you, Crystal, still it’s part of marriage. You’ve probably seen that old photograph of my father in my office?”

  She nodded. Gideon Talbott Number One had a wen above his nose and the busy white beard of an Old Testament prophet.

  “Dad came out to California with a team of ten mules and went into business hauling fill for the Southern Pacific Railroad. He wasn’t a graduate engineer, yet after a year he was awarded subcontracts to drill the railroad’s tunnels. He earned himself a top-notch reputation in the state, then in the west. I was his only child, but I started at the bottom. Summers I worked in the construction camps. After I graduated from MIT he put me in charge of a project for the Oregon Irrigation District. While I was there, he died. Crystal, I was twenty-two, and I had inherited Talbott’s. It was a tremendous responsibility. But I’ve built on what Dad started. Talbott’s was part of the Six Companies in thirty-one—we built the Hoover–Boulder Dam. Though we didn’t make much on the job, it me
ans a lot to me. And so does my part in the two San Francisco bridges.”

  Gideon, even in the throes of love for a gorgeous teenager, was no fool. Like a wily merchant at an Oriental bazaar, he was spreading the glitter of his assets—power, an impeccable reputation, great wealth.

  “And Talbott’s has been profitable, especially since the war.” The sad brooding lines around his lips made Crystal guess he was thinking of Curt’s contributions. “My personal fortune is well over ten million.”

  Crystal couldn’t prevent her gasp. “Ten million!”

  “Even before her illness it was Matilda’s inclination to live quietly, so I’ve never really enjoyed my money. But you, dearest girl, you have the joy in life, the expansiveness. We could share a great many good years.”

  He reached for her hands to pull her to her feet. The slightly damp toughness of his large palms sent unpleasant tingles up Crystal’s arms.

  She jerked away, retreating to the door. “You brought us to live in your house,” she panted.

  “So you wouldn’t have to do menial work, like her.”

  “I trusted you as if you were my father!”

  “Crystal—”

  “You’re old, old, old!”

  She fled from the dim, Moorish room and the thick-shouldered, short-legged man inadequately hiding his hurt.

  She locked her door and fell facedown on her canopied bed, for once careless of lipstick and Maybelline mascara on the pristine, dotted Swiss spread.

  “Old, old,” she whispered.

  Memories jumped simultaneously. Gideon putting her poor, sweating City College dates through the grinder. Gideon’s increasing generosity as her phone calls ceased, Gideon popping for the convertible after she had admired it, Gideon’s unquestioning payment of charge accounts.

  That first Saturday she had come to Clay Street she had speculated to Honora about the possibility of his having a mistress: coming to know him better, though, she had concluded him far too stuffy. Since then she had seen Gideon Talbott as a venerable banking institution, not a man.

  She heard the purr of the Cadillac pulling away from the driveway. Gideon was returning to Maiden Lane.

  “Old,” she muttered. “Never, never, never.”

  After a while there was a timorous rap on the locked door.

  “Lunchtime, Crystal dear,” Mrs. Ekberg trilled. “It’s that delicious chicken salad you like so much.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Crystal said in a subdued voice.

  “Yes, it’s awfully hot.”

  “Go ahead without me.”

  Mrs. Ekberg coughed anxiously. “I’ve brought up a package for you.”

  Crystal wiped her tear-streaked face. Maybe Gideon had seen how ridiculous he was being and sent her long-stemmed roses as an apology. She unlocked the door.

  Mrs. Ekberg handed her a brown-and-beige-striped Magnin’s box. In it was the black velvet she’d sent home to size up against the mist-blue faille.

  Seeing the two boxes, she was returned to everyday reality.

  Gideon setting the detectives on Honora was ominous proof that the opposite side of his coin of generosity was a cold, uncharitable head. If she left this house there would be an end to such delightful choice in clothing, an end to elegantly served lunches, there would only be marriage to some boy going to school on the GI bill.

  . . . my personal fortune is well over ten million. . . .

  * * *

  At six, when the Cadillac parked under the porte cochere, Crystal squeezed the bulb of her cologne bottle, spraying Tabu over her throat and behind her ears, then leaned forward into the mirror, peering at her eyes to make certain that the witch hazel had erased the puffiness caused by the weeping jag.

  She ran downstairs. Gideon was setting his bulging briefcase on the hall table. His face was red and sweat-glossed.

  “It’s broiling out, isn’t it?” she said with a charmingly pert smile. “Let me fix your drink for you.”

  Gideon nodded and without comment strode across the hall to the rear living room, where a long silver cocktail tray was routinely set on the sofa table.

  Crystal, suddenly fearing that her painful decision had been reached tardily—Gideon never gave second chances—poured the jigger of J&B that Gideon enjoyed before dinner, dropping in two ice cubes, spraying in the soda water, carrying the gold-etched bar glass to him in both hands like a chalice, returning to splash a few companionable drops of sherry for herself.

  “Gideon, you took me by surprise, I must say.” Her voice was pitched high, her English accent had reappeared.

  He gave her a long, unreadable look then raised his glass to his mouth.

  Crystal’s alarm increased. What a mortally tough business opponent he must be, concealed behind this patina of emotionlessness! Yet despite this—or maybe because of it—she experienced a genuine leap of esteem for him.

  And out of this newfound admiration came an unsettling realization. Cold cash was not her only motive in accepting his proposal.

  True, her frivolous instincts hungered for mink, sable, diamonds, French designer clothes, mansions, servants, lavish entertaining, the fat life, but there was another side that paid homage to the strength of this ugly, elderly multimillionaire. Overcome by this unexpected revelation, she was unable to give the sticky little recitative she had rehearsed.

  “I’m very fond of you, Gideon,” she said, wishing it didn’t sound so lame.

  “Fond?”

  “You gave Daddy a job when he had nowhere else to turn, you took us in and treated us like princesses.”

  “Then you’re grateful, is that it?” he asked gruffly.

  She knew a flattering prevarication was called for, yet she heard herself speak with slow candor. “I’m not sure what I do feel for you beyond gratitude and tremendous admiration. But that’s more than I’ve ever felt for any other man.”

  “Will you make me a promise?”

  “Promise?”

  “That no matter what, you’ll always be this honest with me.”

  An exquisite relief drenched her and she smiled. “Oh, I will, Gideon, I will.”

  Ice cubes rattled as he set down his drink. As he came to the window where she stood, she saw that he was shaking.

  “Crystal, don’t worry about love. I have more than enough for both of us,” he said thickly. “I worship you.”

  This time her body did not recoil when he took her hands in his. She kissed his cheek, and then his dry, chapped mouth.

  The light pressure of his lips roused nothing whatsoever in her.

  15

  At five past five in the rain-hushed predawn of December 12, Crystal’s wedding day, Joscelyn was already awake.

  The umber glow of the night-light, which quelled the fiercest of her terrors, showed the pale blur of her bridesmaid’s gown hanging on the closet door. She loathed the powder blue concoction and was positive that the dearly beloved assembled today at Grace Cathedral would snicker openly at the contrasting sisters, gorgeous-bride-Crystal and ugly-Joscelyn submerged in a tide of tulle ruffles.

  Even after three months Joscelyn found the engagement unsettling and unnerving. That her sister was going to do “it” with somebody older than their father stirred unpleasant sensations in the pit of her stomach. Gideon, formerly reliable in his decorous, broad-shouldered business suits, had turned into a flightless penguin, executing an elaborate mating ritual, preening on his short, tuxedo-clad legs before whisking Crystal off to the parties given in their honor. To avoid unpleasant gossip he had moved into the Pacific Union Club, and a tall, overperfumed Parisian with the unlikely name of Madame McCloskey had taken over his downstairs office, strewing the broad expanse of his desk with creamy invitations, fabric swatches, manila files. Madame McCloskey consulted by the hour with a stream of shrill-voiced florists and caterers, she kept track of the gifts that United Parcel trucks disgorged, she entered Crystal’s engagements on the large calendar that hung on the window wall, and in general behaved with the
controlled hysteria that befitted staging a production at the Comédie-Française rather than a wedding.

  Crystal still bickered with Joscelyn, but otherwise had moved into a new pattern, sleeping until eleven, breakfasting in bed before disappearing in a cloud of perfume and vivacious laughter. She whirled between luncheons, teas, showers, cocktail parties and shopping expeditions with Imogene Burdetts. One of the guest rooms was inundated with her purchases, which included a silvery gray mink coat.

  The rain was coming down harder and Joscelyn began worrying about puddles outside the cathedral. What if she slipped as she went in? What if her skirt blotted up mud? What if the car skidded on the way?

  Her alarms swelled until she felt itchy all over.

  Fumbling for her glasses, she tiptoed to the door, peering both ways into the silent, graveyard darkness of the hall. Closing the door, panting softly, she dived for the bedside light. At the bureau, she shoved aside her no longer used English underwear, fraying Liberty bodices and yellowed combinations, uncovering a scuffed, red morocco jewelry case. Darting back to bed with it, she reached in the bedside table drawer for a tiny, round key. The case held a grubby envelope addressed to Miss J Sylvander, c/o Mr L Sylvander, Esq, with the return address of Mrs Curt Ivory/ Apt 12/ 1415 Cherokee Avenue/ Hollywood/ California.

  Joscelyn extracted the three sheets. Not that she needed them; she had committed Honora’s loosely flowing handwriting to memory. Her thumb rubbed the cheap, dog-eared paper as if it were a rabbit’s foot.

  September 10

  Dearest Joss,

  I would give the world to be saying this in person, but Gideon warned me not to communicate with you and Crystal. (What a way to start a letter with such momentous news.)

  Curt and I are married.

  The day after I left Clay Street we drove up to Lake Tahoe to a Nevada town called Stateline. The wedding chapel had the funniest painted-on front, like at an amusement park. Joss, how I wished that you and Crystal and Daddy could have been there—but then it wouldn’t have been an elopement. We live in Hollywood. It’s warmer down here, and outside our window is a grapefruit tree that smells wondrously Californian. Every night we move the coffee table to let down the bed from the wall—a Murphy bed it’s called.