by Stone, Jean
She tossed her purse onto the ivory settee in the foyer and called out, “Grant? I’m here.”
She was greeted by silence. He was late. Again. She blinked away the reality that he had been coming later and later each week, as she quickly moved past the wet bar, through the large living room, into the white-on-white garden bath. She turned on the spigots of the deep, oversize whirlpool tub, took a crystal decanter from the deck, and poured in a generous amount of foaming oil. Then Alissa went to the dressing room to change.
Grant was not the first. For three years after Alissa had discovered Robert’s infidelity, she’d remained faithful. Faithful. Stupid. Then, five years ago, she’d found out how easy it was to have an affair, how free it made one feel, how desirable, how in control. She’d started with a stable boy at the club—trite, she realized now, the kind of thing usually confined to a bad paperback novel. But the sex had been great. Lustful, daring, exciting. And with the sweaty, muscular, stable boy Alissa had experienced orgasm for the first time in years. It made her want more.
She slipped out of her lace teddy, regretting that Grant wasn’t there to take it off for her. It had taken a half-dozen or so other trysts before Alissa had allowed herself to graduate to sleeping with a member of her own circle. There was a certain daring in this, too, a forbidden fruit. She’d ended each affair when it had begun to get complicated—and, damn, they always did. But while they were good, they were very, very good. And they helped shut out the pain of her husband’s rejection.
Rejection was a despairingly familiar feeling for Alissa. When she was six years old, her parents were killed in a plane crash. Her twin brothers, aged eleven, were sent to live with their maternal grandparents in London. But the old couple didn’t want to raise a little girl, so Alissa was taken in by her father’s reluctant brother and his wife, a childless, middle-aged couple who spoiled her with material things but never quite knew how to love her. It wasn’t long before the little girl began equating ponies and yachts and shopping and parties with a sense of stability, a wedge of emotional security. In these later years she’d merely added sexual liaisons to her list of things to do, things to have. They were not trophies; they were life preservers.
She returned to the bath and slid beneath the warm bubbles, then heard the door slam. Good, she thought. He’s not too late, after all. There’d be plenty of time before she’d have to be home at six. Robert would be home then, and there was the gallery opening to attend.
“Alissa?”
She heard him call her name. God, she loved hearing the sound of his voice. It was so strong, so commanding. “In the bath,” she responded. “Come join me.” She pulled a swirl of foam over her breasts, leaving the dark circles of her nipples exposed to the cool air. The thought of his leaning down to kiss them made them harden to aching points.
Grant appeared in the doorway, his large, lean frame clad in a pale-gray hand-tailored suit, his soft white hair and just-enough tan setting off his light-blue eyes. Those lust-filled eyes.
“Get out of the tub,” he said. “We have to talk.”
There was an edge to his voice Alissa hadn’t heard before. She ignored it and licked the tip of her finger. Then she slowly touched her nipple. “We can talk in here,” she said. “Take off your clothes.”
He buttoned his suit jacket. “We will talk in the living room. Dry yourself off. I’ll wait for you there.” He turned and started out the door.
“Grant?”
He stopped. “What?”
She slid partway out of the water and leaned her elbows against the side of the tub. “I’ve waited all day to suck you.”
He stood still, his back toward her.
“Please?” she added. “You know how I love to suck you.” Whatever it was that was on Grant’s mind, Alissa was damned if he was going to cheat her out of her Tuesday fuck.
He still hadn’t moved, but she could see him run his hand through his hair. She heard him sigh.
“Alissa, sex is not the answer to everything.”
She swished the bubbles and said nothing. He remained in the doorway. Then, quietly, she said again, “Please.”
He put his hands on his hips, hesitated a moment, then walked from the room. “I said we’ll talk in the living room.”
Alissa felt heat rise into her cheeks. He had no right to treat her this way. No right to treat her like a whore. Didn’t he know how lucky he was to have her? She’d like to know the last time that frigid-faced wife of his had given him a blow job. Tears stung her eyes. Damn him. Damn him. What the hell did he think he was doing?
She pulled herself from the tub, stepped down the marble stairs, and stalked into the living room naked, foamy soap glistening on her breasts, her legs, her pubic hair.
He was standing at the wet bar, fixing himself a Scotch. He glanced at Alissa. “I want you to get dressed. Then I want you to get out of here.”
Alissa put her hands on her hips. Water began to form a sad puddle beneath her on the Aubusson carpet. “Grant,” she demanded, “what is going on?” She was amazed at the control in her voice. It didn’t even sound as though her heart was thudding as hard as it was, as though her stomach was lurching the way that it was.
He took a sip from his glass, then held it to his chest. “On your way out please leave the key.”
Alissa reached over, grabbed the glass from his hand, and hurled it against the wall. Splinters of crystal flew in all directions.
Grant glared at her. “I wouldn’t have anticipated histrionics from you.”
Alissa’s mind raced. The words spilled out haphazardly, without prethought. “What in hell is happening here? I come here the same way I have for four months. We both come here for the same thing, in case you’ve forgotten. Now, what the hell is happening? I want an answer, and I want it now. And I’m not leaving until you give me one.”
He calmly poured himself another drink. “If you think about it, I’m sure you know the answer, Alissa.”
A chill enveloped her body. She wanted to put something on—the terry robe she’d bought at Neiman’s, which hung in the dressing room, Grant’s velvet Dior smoking jacket—she wanted to put something on, something, anything. But she was afraid to let Grant out of her sight, afraid that once she did, he’d be gone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
He took a long sip and tipped his head back as he swallowed. Alissa could almost feel the Scotch burn his throat. “It was most inappropriate of you to name my wife to chair your little committee.”
Alissa laughed. “Is that what this is all about? Come on, Grant, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? The way I see it, you wanted to get close to her. To taunt her, perhaps? To tell her about us at some point?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
He took another swallow. “You’re the one who’s being ridiculous. The last thing I want is a scandal. You’re a bitter woman, Alissa. Vengeful. But just because you have a, shall we say, ‘bored’ husband, you need to know that I’m not going to leave my wife.”
Alissa resisted the urge to grab the new glass from his hand. “I’ve got a news flash for you, you son of a bitch. I don’t want you to leave your wife. God forbid you give up your throne as king of her family’s fortune. Christ. I can’t even believe how predictable you are. But I’ll tell you one thing. I may not want you to leave her, but I do want you to tell your son to stop fucking my daughter. Or so help me, I’ll have him up on charges for rape of a minor.” She hoped Grant wouldn’t realize the last part was a lie. She hoped he wouldn’t know she would never subject her daughter—or her family—to the stain of scandal. Besides, she knew that in Georgia a sixteen-year-old girl was not considered a “minor” when it came to consensual sex.
Grant froze, his glass poised in midair. “Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said. Tell your pimply-faced son to stop fucking my daughter.”
Grant blinked. The light-blue eyes had lost their lu
st. “I had no idea …”
“I’ll bet. You probably told him how hot the Page women must be. You’ve probably been cheering him on.”
He set down his drink and looked at Alissa. “I will speak to John,” he said. “Now, Please. Get dressed and leave.”
Alissa stormed into the dressing room. Tears welled in her eyes. She couldn’t believe he was ending it all. She couldn’t believe it was over. This was to have been the one special affair, the one that would last, the one that would give her the peaceful escape she needed.
As she pulled on her silk suit, one morose thought came into her mind: What the hell was she going to do now on Tuesday afternoons?
She stood in the wardrobe room, aimlessly poking through cocktail dresses, halfheartedly trying to decide what to wear to the gallery opening that night. As much as Alissa didn’t feel like going, she knew she must. Not to put on a smiling face as one of the patrons of the artist, or even to be seen mingling in the right place at the right time. No, tonight Alissa must go to keep herself busy, to take her mind off the past twenty-four hours: Robert coming home reeking of sex; Michele’s photo in Town & Country; Natalie’s escapade on the library sofa. And Grant Wentworth.
Even an evening in Robert’s company would help. Then maybe she would think about going to the Golden Key Spa for a couple of weeks. Maybe it was time for a vacation. A rejuvenation.
A short black faille dress caught her eye. She removed it from the rack and held it out for inspection. It was backless. No, she decided. Too sexy. She pulled out the one next to it. Red. Short. Plunging neckline. She shoved them back onto the pole and stared at the rows of dresses. Was this the way she’d been dressing lately? Like a hooker?
She moved up and down the aisles. Stopping. Looking. Rejecting. Then she spotted a chocolate dress. It was street length, with long sleeves and a high collar. The perfect outfit for someone feeling old, undesirable, depressed. Perfect for tonight. She’d bought it after she’d broken off with her last lover; she’d taken up with Grant the following week, so she never had a chance to wear it.
“Mother, are you in here?” Michele’s voice called.
Alissa unzipped the protective plastic that covered the dress. “In the back.”
Michele rounded the corner with her usual lightness. Michele was the mirror image of Alissa when Alissa had been young, both in looks and in personality, even though she was now dressed in saggy jeans and an oversize sweatshirt, her blond hair tossed in a careless ponytail. But Alissa knew that an hour at her vanity table would transform her daughter into a beauty queen.
“Is there anything in here I can wear tonight?” she asked.
“Where are you going?”
Michele started pushing back hangers, frowning at each dress. “To the gallery opening.”
Alissa felt her temple begin to throb. “I didn’t realize you were going.”
Michele looked at the dress in her mother’s hand. “You’re wearing that? God, Mom, that’s gross.”
Alissa clutched it to her protectively. “When did you decide to go?”
Her daughter shrugged. “Last night. David talked me into it.” David Johnston was her boyfriend—this month. “Are you and Daddy going with anyone?”
Alissa shook her head, trying to decide how long it was going to take her to get used to the idea of her daughter attending the same social events as she. Her daughter. Glamorous. Young. Not at all like her mother, after all. Not anymore. Alissa’s vision blurred with envy.
“Hey, Mom, can I wear this?”
Alissa looked over at the white body dress Michele was holding up. Alissa had bought it last year when she and Robert had gone to the America’s Cup. The yacht parties had been fabulous, and her photo had appeared everywhere. God, she thought now, was that only last year?
“Sure,” she finally answered, “if you want your next picture to appear in Playboy.”
“Mom …”
“I just think it’s a little old for you.”
“Mother, I’m eighteen. It’s perfect for me.”
And not for me, Alissa wanted to scream. Never again for me. She marched to the racks of shoes and rummaged through the plastic boxes. The chocolate satin pumps, she knew, had to be there somewhere. She scattered the boxes across the floor. The shoes have gold clips. She ripped off another lid. White leather. She tossed the box aside. I’ll wear the gold-and-topaz earrings with the matching brooch. She jerked at another box. Black high-heeled sandals. She threw the box behind her. I’ll use the bronze eyeshadow to accentuate my amber eyes. Amber. Gold. The color of wealth. The color of power.
“Mother, what on earth are you doing?”
Alissa dropped a box beside her. “I can’t find my shoes. Did you take them?”
“No. You know your feet are smaller than mine.”
“Yes. Yes, well, they must be here somewhere.”
“Let me help.” Michele squatted beside her and started looking through the boxes.
“I don’t need your help.”
Michele stopped. “Oh.”
“Go get dressed. Fix yourself up. You look like hell.”
Michele sat on the floor. “Mother. What’s wrong?”
Alissa pulled another box from the rack, peeked inside, then threw it down. “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. I just can’t find those damned shoes.”
“If you really don’t want me to wear the dress, I won’t.”
“Wear the damned dress. I don’t care. Now, would you please leave me alone?”
Michele stood up. “Sure. I’ll go get dressed.”
“Fine. Go.”
She heard Michele’s footsteps fade away. Alissa slumped to the floor, put her face in her hands, and began to weep. This was so unfair. It was all so unfair. She looked around at the mess she’d made. The piles of material things. Possessions. It reminded her of when she’d been a child, playing in Aunt Helma’s dressing room, showing Polly and LuAnn—Alissa’s new private-school friends, her only friends—all of Aunt Helma’s dresses and fur coats, giggling as they modeled the huge number of Aunt Helma’s pillbox hats, like Jackie Kennedy’s, with the dyed-to-match elbow-length gloves. And when the little group of girls had played this same game at each of their houses, Alissa had known they secretly envied her, because none of them had a mother with a wardrobe as big or as fun as Aunt Helma’s. Somehow this seemed to compensate for the fact that her friends had mothers and she didn’t. Somehow it made her feel loved.
Until, of course, one day when Polly and LuAnn had decided they were too old to play dress-up, and that they didn’t like Alissa anymore, anyway. Alissa had told them to go to hell, that they were spoiled brats, and just because they had mothers and fathers didn’t make them anybody special. She’d told them off real good, and she’d even made them cry. But Alissa hadn’t cried. Not until they’d left and she’d gone back into Aunt Helma’s closet and closed the door behind her. Then she’d put on a pillbox hat and a pair of the elbow-length gloves and sat in the middle of the floor and cried and cried until she didn’t figure she’d have any more tears to cry with for the rest of her entire life.
Aunt Helma, however, had been glad to see Polly and LuAnn go. She’d said they weren’t good enough for Alissa, that their families, quite simply, were nobodies. Uncle Jack had told Alissa to ignore Aunt Helma, that she was just bitter because her life wasn’t as happy as she wanted it to be. Alissa hadn’t wanted to upset them, so she’d gone back to having no friends.
And now, if Grant Wentworth thought Alissa was the one who was bitter, well, maybe she had a damn good reason to be.
She picked up a peach-colored silk heel and threw it against a rack of clothes. Why was love such a big deal, anyway? No one had really ever loved her, and she seemed to be surviving just fine.
Then Alissa remembered Jay Stockwell. He had loved her. It had been long ago, in another life. But Jay Stockwell had loved her. She ran her hand across the shoes strewn about her. In place of her anger, sorrow crept in.
&
nbsp; And Robert. He had loved her once. Hadn’t he? Not the same way as Jay, no. Not passionately. Not totally. But he had loved her with a gentleness, a tolerance. Their romance had been based on the familiarity of their lives, the similarity of their values, their backgrounds. He had loved her as a partner, a comfortable mate.
When had that changed?
And why?
Alissa rubbed the soft suede of a navy flat. Was it too late for Robert and her?
She didn’t hate Robert. There was nothing to hate. He was still kind to her, patient, sensitive. He was simply cheating on her. Was that something she possibly could reverse, even after all this time?
She pulled herself from the floor and studied the remaining shoes on the rack. Maybe it wasn’t too late. It wouldn’t be long before the girls left home; maybe it was time to get to know her husband again, to try to salvage her marriage. Just because her elder daughter had come of age didn’t mean life was over for Alissa. She was still young—well, young enough—and there was still time to prove to Robert—and to the world—that Alissa Page was somebody better than any mistress Robert could find, better than all the young, clear-skinned beauties on the deb list that year.
She would win Robert back. She would start tonight.
She glanced at her watch. Four-fifteen. She would dress, then take his tuxedo to the lab for him. The employees would be gone. She could seduce him then and there. He would be able to shower and dress in plenty of time for them to make the opening.
Alissa felt a calm wash over her. She would go to Robert; she would surprise him. She would put some magic back into their marriage. They had too many years behind them, too many years ahead of them, to go on living like this. Or to throw those years away. She would be the woman he married again. She picked up the black high-heeled sandals and walked to the back of the closet to retrieve the short black faille dress. Then she reminded herself to instruct Dolores to clean up this god-awful mess tonight.