Judith Michael
"Something funny. With a happy ending."
She leaned over him and kissed him, holding her lips against his bristly cheek for a long moment. "I'll take care of you and you'll get well and strong. I promise. I love you."
Slowly, Owen raised his hand and rested it on her head. "Dear Laura. Lay here thinking—can't die yet; too many things to do. And Laura will help me." His eyes closed and his hand slipped back to the bed. "Read. I might sleep. You don't mind?"
Laura smiled, blinking back hot tears. "I don't mind."
"You'll be here, though. When I wake up."
"I'll always be here, as long as you want me," She bent her head and a tear splashed on the book in her lap. Carefully she wiped it away with her fingertip. "Thank you for caring about me," she whispered. And then she leafed through the book, looking for a happy ending.
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art II
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I
Chapter 6
AT eight in the morning the other courts were empty and the only sound in the huge, high-ceilinged room was the hollow bounce of the tennis ball in the long, steady volleys Laura and Allison played before one or the other scored a point. "Danm!" Allison exclaimed as her shot landed outside the baseline. "What was I thinking of when I taught you to play this game?"
"You were thinking youM improve me," said Laura. "And you did."
They played in concentrated silence, well matched, both of them hard, fast players; but it was Allison who finally scored the winning point by making a cross-court drop shot beyond Laura's reach. "Haven't lost it all," she said breathlessly, touching Laura's arm affectionately as they changed sides. "But I will if I don't watch it. I can't believe you never played until three years ago; are you sure that wasn't a put-on?"
"You know it wasn't; I never held a racket until you taught me. It's because I love it. Don't you always learn faster when you love something?"
"Probably. But you're a natural athlete, you know. I never saw anyone move the way you do, like a cat."
A shadow seemed to touch Laura's face, then it was gone. "I learned it all from you," she said smoothly. "One more game?"
Allison nodded and served, and from above, in the glass-
Judith Michael
walled restaurant overlooking the courts, Paul Janssen watched the fast play, admiring his cousin Allison but drawn again and again to watch Laura Fairchild, whom he hadn't seen in almost a year. That had been the summer before, when he'd come home for a week after traveling through the West with friends. It had been obvious then that she'd become a part of his family, but he had given her no more than passing attention. He remembered noticing that she was growing up: no longer the brusque, uncomfortable girl he'd met at the Cape, or the elusive one who kept to herself when she arrived in Boston, spending her time with Owen, or at Rosa's side in the kitchen, or at the university. But she was still rough-edged then; pretty, but self-conscious and withdrawn, with none of the beauty and confidence Paul Janssen required before he was attracted to a woman.
He was twenty-eight years old, and experts had told him he had a brilliant eye and a future as a great photographer if he concentrated on it. But he'd never stayed in any one place long enough to concentrate on anything or anyone. "You're young," his mother said. "You'll settle down when you're ready." "You'll regret these years," his great-uncle Owen said. 'They could be your most creative ones, and you're frittering them away." But his aunt Leni told him not to hurry: "It's better to go slowly and make no mistakes." His father said only, "You'll find your own way," frustrating Paul, who occasionally still looked to him for advice. And his uncle Felix snorted contemptuously, "He's spoiled"; and Paul, though he had no fondness for his cold, rigid uncle, in this case had to admit that Felix was probably right: he was spoiled by wealth. Earning money wasn't urgent, and so it was easier to drift, dabbling in photography and other agreeable pastimes and avoiding commitments, whether to a job or a woman or even to a particular country, as he wandered from one playground for the wealthy to another.
The trouble with that, and the reason he had come back to Boston, was that he was finding it harder to get absorbed in anything: after a while, casinos and clubs and chic restaurants all began to look alike. He was bored; he needed to figure out what to do next. Now, watching Laura, he felt his interest stir. He wondered at the change that had occurred in her, giving
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her poise and grace and a distinctive quality for which beautiful was too weak a word. Striking, he thought, and not easy to categorize. His artist's eye studied her slender face: her broad forehead and enormous long-lashed eyes, her high cheekbones with delicate shadows beneath, and her wide, expressive mouth, free of makeup, lips parted in the excitement of the game. Her thick chestnut hair was no longer tied back, though she had restrained it, for tennis, with a band around her forehead; still, the loose waves fell below her shoulders, and damp tendrils escaped the band, framing her flushed face, making it seem smaller and somehow vulnerable.
Yet there was toughness in the determined lift of her head, her powerful serve, and the muscles of her strong, lithe body uncoiling with explosive energy as she sprang across the court. Tough but delicate, Paul thought. Sultry but innocent— or, rather, untested; there was experience in that lovely face, though it was impossible to tell what kind without knowing her. His family told him she was cool but loving, private but grateful for affection, hot-tempered but quick to laugh. And watching her race across the court to scoop up and return a low-bouncing ball, he saw she was graceful but fiercely bent on winning. Of all the beautiful women waiting to hear from him in Europe and America, none, at the moment, intrigued him with so many contradictions.
He watched as Allison gained the advantage. Laura was pressing to tie the score when she returned a serve into the net. "Fuck it," she said, then swiftly looked on all sides to see if anyone was close enough to hear. Paul, reading her lips, laughed aloud. A gamine, he thought, and also very much a woman. He opened a nearby door and stepped out onto a balcony just above the court.
"Paul!" Allison called as the movement caught her eye. "When did you get here? Doesn't Laura play wonderfully? Would you like a game?"
He shook his head, trying to catch Laura's eye, but she had turned away and was putting a towel over her shoulders.
*Then come to a party," Allison said. "Tonight. Laura, do you mind if I invite Paul to your party?"
Laura said something Paul could not hear.
"Well, I know it's my party," Allison said, "but you're giv-
Judith Michael
ing it." She looked up at Paul. "Laura's throwing a gala in honor of my engagement to the most eminent Thad Wolcott the Third. I didn't know you'd be in town, so I didn't invite ■ you. But you will come, won't you?" '
Paul looked at Laura until, as if forced by his steady gaze, she raised her eyes and met his. They looked at each other across the space between them. "Yes," Paul said to Laura. 1 "I'd like very much to be there." g|
The guests arrived at seven, taking the small mahogany-paneled elevator to Laura's fourth-floor apartment in Owen's Beacon Hill town house. The windows were open to the soft June night, and the sounds of the party reached the quiet orderliness of Mount Vernon Street as old and new acquaintances mingled in small shifting clusters like jeweled fragments in a turning kaleidoscope. Piano music came from the stereo; Rosa's nephew Albert tended bar; her other nephew, Ferdy, took silver trays of hors d'oeuvres from the dumbwaiter on which Rosa sent them up from the kitchen, and carried them around to the guests. *The place looks terrific," Thad Wolcott said to Laura, his arm carelessly around her shoulder as he surveyed the living room. "You've transformed it."
"With Allison's help," Laura said, but her eyes were bright with pleasure in what she had done. For months she had worked on the three-room apartment to make it as softly glowing as a garden at sunrise. Oil and watercolor paintings by Nantucket artists hung on the walls; antique fire irons, restored wi
th hours of rubbing, stood by the fireplace; and silk shantung drapes framed the high windows. Once she had longed for a room of her own; now she had three, more beautiful than any she had ever dreamed of, and she had made them truly hers.
"I made a few suggestions," Allison said. "The rest Laura did by herself. Who'd ever guess my father and his brother grew up here? It was as dark as a bat's cave, with the walls covered with cork so they'd never run out of bulletin board. I j| love it now; don't you think she has an artist's eye?" U
"She has something special," said Thad appraisingly, "She's kept you friendly for three years, and you usually get bored with people long before that."
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As Allison's color rose, Laura said coolly, "Maybe we like each other. And Allison is much more than friendly; she's generous. You didn't admire my dress, Thad."
He stepped back and gazed at her. "By Carolina Herrera, from Martha at Trump Tower, worn, to great applause, by Miss Allison Salinger at last year's Thanksgiving Ball."
*Thad never forgets a dress," Allison commented drily.
"And Laura Faiichild looks fabulous in midnight blue satin." He kissed Laura's hand. "It's your color, you should wear nothing else. Though"—he was still holding her hand—^"as I recall, you also look terrific in red. And emerald. And of course white. And—^"
"He never misses a chance to hold a lady's hand, either,** Allison said.
Laura pulled away, trying to think of a simple, sophisticated quip. As hard as she worked at it, she still wasn't as quick as Allison and her friends, who always seemed to have a sharp comment on the tips of their tongues. "Is everyone here?" she asked, looking around the room. "I should tell Rosa what time we'll want dinner." Why isn't he here? He said he'd be here. He said he'd like very much to be here.
"Everyone but Paul," Allison said. "But he's frequently late; he's known for it. And Rosa knows nobody expects dinner before nine. I'm going to take Thad away and introduce him to your college friends; do you mind?"
"No, of course not," Laura said automatically, wondering why someone would be late so often he would be known for it. "I should be circulating, too; I'm not acting like a hostess.**
It was the first time she had ever been a hostess. It was the first time she'd worn midnight blue satin, the first time she'd decorated an apartment, the first time she was waiting for a man who had looked at her with admiring eyes.
For a long time everything had been new, beginning with the moment three years before when she entered Owen's Beacon Hill house, walking beside his wheelchair as the chauffeur pushed it into the foyer. Owen held up a restraining hand and the chauffeur stopped halfway to the elevator that was tucked into the wall beside the branching stairway. "I thought I might never see this place again," Owen murmured, almost to himself. He looked up at Laura and a joyous smile lit his face. "But here I am, and I've brought you with me.'*
Judith Michael
He reached his hand toward her and she held it in hers. "How I love this house," he mused. "There was a time when I thought I hated it, when I even planned to sell it." He shook his head, his gaze moving past the marble statue in the center of the foyer to the French drum tables with huge arrangements of gladioli and roses. "So much laughter here, so long ago . . . And now I can share it. Have you noticed how we appreciate all the more what we have when we can give its pleasures to someone new? There's a selfishness in appreciating what we almost lost; there's a different kind of happiness in sharing it. I hope you are very happy here, Laura, and I bid you welcome."
"I will be," Laura said. "Happy, I mean." She bit her lip. Why couldn't she speak elegantly, as he did? 'Thank you," she burst out. He might think she was clumsy, but at least he'd know she was grateful.
Owen smiled and folded his hands in his lap. "Let Rosa take you around; she'll help you figure out the maze Iris and I created. Make yourself at home while I take a nap; then come to my room when I ring for you. My dear," he added as the chauffeur turned the wheelchair, "I am so very pleased to have you here." And then the elevator doors opened and closed behind him.
Rosa appeared in a doorway on the other side of the foyer. "Come on, my young miss, we'll have a fast tour and liien you can unpack. I'll take care of Clay when he gets here, after he finishes at Felix and Leni's." Rosa had never asked how it happened that Laura Fairchild, a summer kitchen assistant who had appeared from nowhere to apply for a job in mid-June was, in mid-September, moving into the Beacon Hill house as Owen Salinger's companion, and bringing her brother with her. Owen always did as he pleased, and his family had long since stopped telling him he was arbitrary, whimsical, foolish, or, far worse, vulnerable to clever people who could take advantage of him. Rosa knew they all thought it, but, because they were smart, they kept their mouths shut.
And so did she. But it was easy for Rosa; she had no stake in Owen's fortune. Besides, she was fond of Laura. "Don't put your hands all over the ftimiture," she said as they walked through the main salon on the second floor. "Fingerprints, you know."
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"I never leave fingerprints,*' Laura said hotly. "I was trained better than that."
"My, my," Rosa said mildly, wondering why the girl suddenly looked frightened. "I wasn't criticizing the way you were raised—^I'm not big on criticizing people—but how would you know that too much polish ruins fine woods and so we try to keep, fingerprints off the furniture?"
"Sorry," Laura muttered.
"No harm done. I should remember how people like to touch something they're seeing for the first time. Go ahead; I won't say a word."
Laura forced herself to smile, afraid to say anything. Be careful; be careful. Even now, even in Boston, be carefuL She found herself holding her breath and walking on tiptoe as they passed through rooms leading to more rooms; down long hallways lined with portraits of staid men and satin-gowned women; past nooks, closets, cupboards, unexpected stairways, and window seats. And then she began to relax beneath the spell of enfolding luxury, and soon she was reaching out and touching the silkiness of polished woods, the nap of gleaming velvets, the tightly woven wool of the French tapestries on the walls.
Something stirred within her and came awake: a longing for luxury and beauty she had kept locked away because the chance of having them was so remote. Her fingertips felt alive; she seemed to merge with everything she touched, as far away as she could be from the linoleum-covered kitchen table where Ben would sit, making marks with his thumbnail, while she cooked dinner and told him about her day at school.
"Mr. Owen bought the house as a wedding present the month he and Mrs. Iris were married," Rosa was saying. "All twenty-two rooms of it. They'd always dreamed of Uving on Beacon Hill and having a family and giving big parties m a balh-oom. And that's what they did. Here it is, the ballroom, closed up now; it has been since she died."
The ballroom, surrounded by dormer windows, took up the top floor. Below, on the fourth floor, was the apartment Felix and Asa had shared, as well as two extra rooms and baths for friends. Owen and Iris had a suite on the third floor with a guest suite across the hall; on the second floor a spacious
Judith Michael
salon stretched the width of the house, with the dining room and library behind it; and on the ground floor were the kitchen and pantry, Rosa's apartment, a receiving room, and the entrance foyer and an elevator leading to the upper floors. In the basement were a laundry room, a pantry lined with Rosa*s jams and preserves, and a paneled room with a billiard table, fireplace, leather furniture, and a fiill bar.
"Mr. Owen always said those were the ten happiest years of his life, when he lived here with Mrs. Iris. He was building his company in those years, going like a house afire, buying hotels and building new ones right and left—there must have been two a year, sometimes three. The company got so big they finally took up half the top floor of the Boston Salinger. You haven't seen it yet; it's on Arlington Street, just off the Public Gardens. And he and Mrs. Iris were at all the parties, their pictures in
the paper, their closets full of new clothes. . . . Then they started giving dinners, one a week, very intimate, just twelve people. Nobody else was doing it and pretty soon everybody was hinting for invitations. They had style, Mr. Owen and Mrs. Iris, and if I could have bottled and sold it I could have gotten rich. But style isn't something you can buy; either you have it or you don't."
ril have it, Laura vowed silently. Whatever it is, whatever it looks like, I'll figure out how to get it. And people will admire me and love me and beg to be invited to my parties.
"But then Mrs. Iris died," Rosa said as they took the elevator from the basement billiard room to the fourth floor. "Mr. Owen shut the door on their suite and never went in it again. Ht talked about selling the house but he couldn't bring himself to do it; he said the thought of someone else living in the rooms Mrs. Iris had made drove him crazy. So he stayed. He moved into the guest suite, and a couple of years later the housekeeper and I made the old master suite into guest rooms, even though there aren't any guests in this house and haven't been since Mrs. Iris died. Until you, that is."
"I'm not a guest, I work here," Laura said.
"Well, yes, that's true. It's just that we never had a companion in this house before."
But now you do. I'm here, I'm part of this. I don't have to climb out a window and leave it all behind. I belong.
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On the fourth floor Rosa opened the door to the three rooms where Felix and Asa had grown up. "This is yours."
Laura looked at her uncomprehendingly. "What is?*'
*The apartment. Not beautiful, by a long shot, but Mr. Owen said it*s to be yours."
The walls were covered in dark cork, the furniture was scarred walnut, everything was brown. "FeUx and Asa did the decorating, if you can call it that," Rosa said. "It's the only part of the house Mrs. Iris didn't touch. It was theirs, it was private, and we didn't go in until they'd both moved away." She gazed at it. "My oh my, it is definitely a dark and dreary place."
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