It crossed her mind to wonder if there was someone else. Constance made no bones about the fact that she considered him a delectable man. The two of them had been comfortable together on the gallery when she came in. Nevertheless, she didn’t think Dante had stopped just now to say good-bye to Noel’s ex-wife. The sound of his car driving off had come too soon for that.
Frowning in thought, Riva moved down the hall and into her bedroom where she pulled off her suit jacket and threw it on the bed. With a tired sigh, she reached up to unfasten the back neck button of her silk charmeuse blouse.
She supposed she could have let Dante help her. Depending only on herself, however, meant she need not be troubled by anyone else’s opinion of her conduct. If she didn’t ask for their help, they had no right to try to tell her what to do. She had grown to like it that way. What she didn’t like was needing someone. More often than not, the ones she needed had deserted her, by death and otherwise. It was less painful to depend on herself alone.
There was also the fact that by being independent, she need not impose on anyone else. She hated to think that she might take advantage of whatever feeling Dante had for her. She thought sometimes that he wished she would. She could not; it wouldn’t be fair. The only trouble was that Dante seemed to think it was unfair of her to do without him.
She took off her blouse and slipped out of her skirt, then moved to the closet to hang them up. She stepped out of her shoes and bent to place them over the shoe trees on the rack. Annoyance crossed her face. There was a pair of her shoes lying on their sides on the floor and on top of them was a dress. Margaret had been in her closet again. There was black grease on the dress. It had come, she saw, from the soles of the shoes.
Riva hated that kind of sloppiness. She might not always put her own things away, though she tried, but at least she draped them over a chair to prevent creases. Sometimes she wondered if her sister deliberately mistreated the clothes she borrowed. It was as if she needed to express how little she was impressed by their cost, though at other times Riva suspected it might be to get back at her for daring to own them in the first place. It was not possible to speak to Margaret about it now, anyway. Her sister was upset enough already. Still, she should go and talk to her, find out how she felt this evening, if her heart was giving her problems.
Riva found her sister sitting alone in the dimness of the front parlor. She was drawn up in the corner of the sofa with her arms wrapped around her knees. She gave Riva a wan smile as she greeted her.
Riva sat down beside Margaret. “What are you doing holed up in here by yourself?”
“I’m not fit company for anything else.”
Fit how? Riva wondered at the choice of words but saw no point in adding to whatever species of depression it was that had Margaret in its grip by dwelling on it. “You should be out there with the others, anyway. Moping isn’t going to help.”
“Much you know about it,” Margaret answered, tight-lipped, then covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Riva, what will I do if Boots leaves me? He’s all I’ve got. I’ll die, I just know I will.”
“You’ll go on, just as the rest of us do when we lose someone important to us. It isn’t so easy to die of grief.”
Margaret looked at her sharply, as if caught by the lack of expression in Riva’s voice, a lack that hinted at denied pain. But the moment of arousal from her self-absorption was brief.
“But I love Boots,” she cried.
Riva wondered if her sister thought she herself had never loved her child, her husband. There were other losses Margaret knew nothing about, but she was not interested in learning about them. For Riva, the sense of isolation in her own past griefs was still profound.
“Have you told him you love him?” she asked.
“I couldn’t. That is, we don’t—”
“Then don’t expect him to know it or for it to make a difference.”
“It’s all Edison’s fault. The man’s an animal, a rabid beast who ruined my life. He didn’t care a thing about me, only about what he wanted, what he needed. To him, I was just a body, another conquest to puff up his male ego!”
The familiar litany of blame was suddenly one excuse too many. Riva could feel the pressure of anger growing inside her. She tried to control it but could not.
“Edison behaved like an animal, yes. But he didn’t come to you, Margaret; you went to him. What happened was, in part, your own fault. But it isn’t the end of the world. We all make mistakes. Admit it and forget it. It’s all right. It’s allowed, so long as we learn something from it.”
“How philosophical. I hope you can remember all that when it’s your turn with Edison. You’re the one he’s really after.”
“I’ve had my turn,” Riva said.
“You’ll have another one if he isn’t stopped.”
“That’s what you wanted not so long ago, for me to have another turn, for me to give Edison whatever he wanted. Have you decided it isn’t so easy to do that, after all?”
“I’ve decided you should do something about him. You’re Riva Staulet. That should be worth something!”
“What are you suggesting?”
Margaret made a helpless gesture. “I don’t know, that’s your department. You know all sorts of people, have all sorts of powerful friends. Call somebody. Don’t sit around waiting for what Edison will do next; you do something instead.”
There came the sound of a car outside. Riva turned to look through the lace curtain that covered the windows under the old silk drapes. Her voice laconic, she said, “It appears to be a bit late to get ahead of Edison.”
“What do you mean?” Alarm edged Margaret’s voice.
“He’s coming up the drive.”
Her sister’s face grew white and her grip on her knees tightened. “What does he want? I can’t see him, I just can’t! Where can I hide?”
“Don’t be foolish,” Riva said sharply, then went on more soothingly. “There’s no need to hide, certainly no reason for you to see him or he, you. Stay where you are. Abraham will find out why he’s here.”
Margaret did not look convinced, but she sat still in her seat. The two of them listened while the butler moved with an unhurried tread to answer the pealing doorbell. They heard the elderly man ask Edison to step into the library. A few seconds later, there came a tap on the parlor door and Abraham put his head inside.
“There’s a gentleman to see you, Miss Riva,” he said, stressing the word gentleman in the way older servants in the South do when a man’s status is in doubt.
“Thank you, Abraham,” she said. She glanced at Margaret, but her sister was huddled in her chair as if she could hide in its depths. Straightening her shoulders, Riva got to her feet and moved toward the door.
The old man cocked his head. “Shall I tell Mr. Noel to come? He got home just a while ago.”
“That’s all right, thanks. I’ll take care of it.”
Abraham looked doubtful but stepped back to let her pass, then moved to open the library door for her. As she went inside, he closed it carefully behind her.
Edison was standing with a book in his hand, Cosmo’s first edition of The Sun Also Rises. He shoved the book back on its shelf as he spoke. “Very nice. My taste in investments runs more toward racehorses and risk stocks, but each to his own.”
Riva stood there hearing the disparaging tone of Edison’s voice, watching the careless way he handled a valuable book that had given Cosmo much joy to own, watching his assumption of ease in the room that was most central to all that Bonne Vie stood for, and she was consumed with rage. She wanted, quite literally, to kill him. If she had had a weapon in her hand, he would have been dead. It was frightening, and exhilarating.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “How can you show your face after what you did to Margaret?”
“To Margaret? I didn’t do anything she didn’t want.”
His smile was so self-satisfied she wanted to wipe it off his face. Permanently. �
�That’s a lie.”
“Is it? I don’t see her screaming for the police.”
“Is that your criterion for judging whether a woman wants sex with you, if she does or doesn’t scream for the police when you lay hands on her?”
“You always did have a nasty tongue in your head,” he answered, his smile a shade dimmer.
“And you always had an incredible ego. I’m surprised you aren’t afraid you might meet Boots.”
“Old Boots? Now why should I be afraid of him? He’s about half convinced himself that his wife was asking for it.”
“You mean you convinced him of it.”
“What if I did?”
“Did making Boots think the worst of Margaret help you feel better about yourself?” she demanded. “Never mind. Whatever your answer, I’m sure it will be self-serving. What do you want here?”
He put his hands on his hips as a flush stained his face.
“All right. If that’s the way it’s going to be, why should I be civil? I’m here to tell you one thing. Bring your ass to my bed like your sister or I tell Erin who her mother really is.”
She had known it was coming; it could be no other way, given the way Edison thought. “Tell Erin? An excellent idea, really, one I’ve been giving some thought myself.”
“Don’t give me that. If you were going to take that way out, you’d have done it long ago.”
“Possibly. Then again, possibly not.” She moved across to the window, turning to place her back to it. The light of the semitropical summer dusk gleamed beyond the lace curtains, casting its glow into the room. In that clear light, she studied Edison’s face. It looked bloated, lined with dissipation, not at all handsome. His hair was thinning visibly. It made him look weak. Finally she said, “I wonder if you realize what you are losing by refusing me the small favor I ask. Someone I know was talking about influential friends and men with money this evening. Maybe I should remind you that just as I can help you if you cooperate, I can also harm you if you don’t.”
He laughed. “That’s the weakest threat I’ve ever heard!”
“Don’t mistake the words for the deed.”
“Neither one scares me. I’m on my way, lady, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I don’t need your money and I don’t need your friends because I have plenty of both. What I do need, though, is you under me. I want it and I’m going to get it because you’re going to give it to me. You’re going to give it to me for the same reason that you aren’t going to go around blabbing about what happened years ago or trying to ruin my chances with the money men, and that’s because you’re afraid. You’re afraid you’ll lose what you’ve got. You like being Aunt Riva and Mrs. Staulet of Bonne Vie and Staulet Corporation. I’ve got you by the short hairs, lady, and the sooner you admit it, the happier we’ll both be.”
There was enough truth in his words to turn her rage into cold defiance. Quietly she said, “I’d rather die first.”
“That can be arranged, too.”
The threat was there. She heard it, felt it invade her body through the very pores of her skin. She didn’t think, however, that he had meant to say it, for she saw his narrowed eyes suddenly widen, as if he recognized a mistake.
So intent was she on the man in front of her that she didn’t hear the door to the hallway open.
“I seem to have a habit,” Noel said, “of arriving in the middle of your quarrels.”
Her relief and disquiet at having him appear were so mixed and so intense that it was a moment before she could summon words. Finally she said, “There’s no quarrel. Edison and I were straightening out a small difference. Since we have just come to an understanding, he was on the point of leaving.”
Noel looked at the other man. “Were you?”
The words were smooth, but they carried all the quiet challenge of generations of Southern gentlemen intent on protecting their property and those who lived within its boundaries. That Edison recognized it was obvious from the murderous look he gave Noel. He squared up to him with his feet spread wide and his fists on his hips. “I’ll leave when I get good and damn ready!”
Noel moved with the sudden and powerful release of coiled-steel muscles. He caught Edison’s wrist and spun him around, twisting his hand up and pressing it into the middle of his back. At the same time, he clamped a tight grip on Edison’s neck that pushed it back at a strained angle. The candidate for governor was shoved, gasping curses and with his eyes glazing, out of the room and into the hall.
Abraham, who hovered there, moved smartly forward to open the door. Noel ejected Edison from the house and sent him staggering across the gallery to the steps. The butler closed the door with a sharp slam and dusted his hands. Whistling tunelessly, the elderly man nodded in satisfaction to Noel, winked at Riva where she stood in the doorway of the study, then moved away down the hall.
From outside came the sound of Edison’s car as it started with a muted rumble, then was slammed into gear and driven away. Noel swung to look at Riva and began to move toward her. Riva, disturbed by the grim light in his face, stepped back into the study, turning toward the far side of the room.
Over her shoulder, she said, almost at random, “I suppose Abraham brought you.”
“He seemed to think I might be interested.”
“Did he?” How much had Noel heard? How much had he understood? It was impossible for her to tell from the hard impassivity of his voice.
Noel didn’t answer as he stared at her. The last pink light of the evening falling through the windows made a rose-colored nimbus around her as she stood outlined against the lace of the curtains. In her cream caftan and with her hair brushed out across her shoulders, she appeared ethereal, not quite flesh and blood. He had heard Edison threaten her and had come through the door looking for an excuse to lay hands on the other man. The urge to compound the error by taking hold of Riva and demanding answers was near irresistible.
He glanced down, making a pretense of adjusting his shirtsleeves, as he fought for self-control. At last he said abruptly, “If I embarrassed you by resorting to he-man tactics, I’m sorry. I didn’t much care for Gallant’s tone of voice, and this is my home.”
“So it is. I was forgetting.”
“I doubt that, but I only meant that I’m responsible for what happens under its roof. No matter how much or how little I may be involved in what’s going on between you and Gallant, he will not insult you here and get away with it. I won’t allow it.”
“I suppose I should thank you for that.”
“Don’t bother; I didn’t do it for you alone. I also did it for myself and, in a strange sort of way, for my father.”
The stiffness of anger was gone from his voice. She turned slowly to face him as she answered, “Regardless, I benefited—and I do appreciate it.”
“In that case, you’re welcome.”
It was an impasse. Riva rested her considering gaze on the taut angles and planes of his face, wondering if he had created it on purpose, and if so, whether it was to prevent further gratitude or just further stilted and painfully unproductive communication between them. In either case, it worked. They stood for long moments looking at each other until, mercifully, Abraham came to announce dinner.
***
Anne lay still with her face turned away and her eyes tightly closed as Edison grunted and labored above her. When he had finished and rolled off her and out of the bed to pad into the bathroom, she still did not move, did not close her legs or pull her nightgown back down. She lay in the early-morning darkness with her muscles stiff with anger and the engorgement of unsatisfied need, and she thought of adultery.
What would it be like to make love, instead of just be used because a man wanted to get rid of his tensions or ensure against needing a piece too badly before he got back from a political jaunt? What would it be like for a man to touch her in tenderness and genuine concern for her needs? She had tried in the few minutes just past to pretend that it was Dante Romoli who was mak
ing love to her. It had helped to make it easier but not appreciably more fulfilling.
She could have refused. She had actually thought of doing it, of shoving her husband away and demanding to be left alone. It had not seemed worth the certain bruises. Something had happened the evening before at Bonne Vie to put him in a rage, that much she had understood from his cursing. He had a violent need at the moment to dominate someone, and since it could not be Riva Staulet, it had been her. She could retaliate, however. The method was old and secret and most suitable.
It was not a new thought. For years it had occurred to her at intervals, sauce for the goose and so on. The idea had always seemed sordid and demeaning to everything she felt about love and the sacred nature of her wedding vows. That was before she had met Dante. Now it was just a question of courage. Did she have enough?
Anne had packed Edison’s suitcase the night before. It was only a suit bag, since he would be gone for no more than three days, four at the most. Regardless, Edison called a bellman to come up for it. Heaven forbid that such an important man, a gubernatorial candidate, be seen doing anything so menial as carrying his own luggage, even if it was five o’clock in the morning. Edison would have to carry it himself from the airport terminal out to the Beechcraft Bonanza he flew for these quick trips, but that was different since there would be no one to see him.
Anne pretended to be asleep as Edison paced impatiently up and down the room while he waited for the bellman to appear. When the man arrived, her husband left without a word. She was relieved. She did not want to have to say good-bye, either.
After a few minutes, she pushed herself up in bed and reached to turn on the lamp. She picked up the book she had begun the night before and tried to read. After a time she grew sleepy and turned out the light again. She stretched, enjoying the roominess of the bed with only herself to take up the space. When she woke again, it was nearly ten in the morning. She reached for the phone book and found Dante’s number. Taking a deep breath, she picked up the phone and punched the button for an outside line.
It was the middle of the morning, and Riva was deep in a discussion with a Staulet vice-president concerning an insurance claim on several thousand tons of bananas that could not be unloaded at an African port when her telephone rang. She was momentarily annoyed, though with herself; she had forgotten to tell her secretary to hold her calls.
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