And Be My Love

by Joyce C. Ware

  Andy's face reddened. Bewildered by his curt nod, Karim turned to Beth. "Did I say something wrong?" he whispered.

  "Later," she promised. "I think we're being asked to take our places."

  Beth, seeing Georgina's yellow-sheathed form heading for a table at the other end of the room, longed to accompany her. She had wanted this to be an evening all of them would remember; now she feared it would be, for all the wrong reasons.

  Chapter Twelve

  The roar of the cocktail hour conversation subsided to a hum as harried girls in mobcaps and calico slid soup plates onto the white ironstone serving plates.

  "I guess I should have had someone check the menu with an eye to cholesterol," Andy muttered to his mother between spoonfuls of the cream-rich chilled cucumber soup. "Dad would have had a fit."

  "Please, Andy. We're allowed so few pleasures these days."

  "Is Merrill Longyear still around?" the pretty young woman seated on Andy's other side asked. Beth recognized her as the wife of one of Andy's partners.

  "No, Laura," Beth said. "Karim Donovan—the man talking to Andy's grandmother—is Peabody's president now."

  Laura leaned forward to eye him appraisingly. "Hm-mm-m, not bad! Maybe I'll enroll this fall for those courses Pete keeps nagging me about."

  "You're interested in childhood education, aren't you Laura?" Housa, two seats down, asked.

  "Yeah, I am. I always wanted to start a day care center for working mothers, and now that my own kids are out of the house.…"

  The two young mothers' spirited discussion of the pros and cons of pre-school caretaking left Andy and Beth to fend for themselves again. They watched in silence as the soup bowls were whisked away.

  "Shouldn't your sister be here by now?" Beth blurted.

  "What do you suppose has happened to Dana?" Andy said at the same time.

  They stared at each other, then grinned.

  "The old Volmar ESP at work, huh?" Andy said.

  "Well our ESP, anyway. I'm not sure your father appreciated it."

  Andy laughed. "Or Dana. Remember when I was kid and we used to work the Ouija board together? She was so sure we were cheating."

  Beth shook her head. "She felt left out, poor child."

  "Speaking of poor," Andy said, "here she comes now, looking like a million dollars."

  They watched Dana thread her way through the tables, stopping here and there to exchange a word of greeting. As they waited, Beth heard her mother's voice raised beside her, icy with disdain.

  "I suppose you know Georgina DeLuca was one of Merrill Longyear's recruits, Mr. Donovan."

  "Yes, I do," Karim replied, "but considering how good she is at her job, don't you think it would be unfair of me to hold that against her?"

  Dana's arrival at the table rendered a reply unnecessary.

  "Dana, darling!" her grandmother cried.

  "Your brother was just saying you looked like a million dollars," Beth said, "but I'm upping the ante. Two million at the very least."

  Dana attempted a curtsy, but was foiled by the lack of leeway allowed by her pencil-slim black linen skirt. Candlelight winked from the diamond and gold studs in her ears and the swirl of gold pinned to the lapel of her impeccably cut matching jacket. The cloud of artfully frizzed blonde hair framing her delicate features softened her smart, mannish look.

  "Andy always was a cheapskate," Dana said, leaning to deposit pecks on her family's cheeks. "Sorry I'm late—did I miss much?"

  "Only the soup," Beth said. "Cream of cucumber—you never did like cucumbers."

  Dana made a face. "No, and I can certainly do without the cream. You look terrific, Murry."

  "Have you met Karim Donovan, Peabody's new president?" Muriel Tomlinson rose from her chair before Karim could assist her. "I'm sure he'd appreciate having a pretty young dinner companion like you. I'll just take your seat over there."

  It was an unmistakable snub. As her grandmother made her away around the table, Dana stared after her, open-mouthed. She soon recovered, however, and turned to her mother's companion with a bright smile.

  "I'm a loyal member of the class of 1986, Mr. Donovan. Ante-Longyear."

  Karim, who had had his fill of Longyear references on his recent trip, eyed her warily. "Your mother tells me you're a stockbroker, Miss Volmar."

  "Yes, I am. Her advisor, too. I'm very proud to have gained her trust."

  "Her children serve her well: doctor, banker—"

  "But no baker, candlestick maker, much less Indian chief. Have you any money you'd like me to invest for you, Mr. Donovan?" Her tone was light, almost playful, but unlike Housa, she did not urge the use of her first name.

  He smiled politely. "I'm afraid not. The only profit I stand to realize is tied up in antiquities."

  "Oh, my. Risky stuff."

  "My father excavated them in Turkey decades ago. He brought them back openly and legally."

  "What I meant was, investments like that lack liquidity."

  He shrugged. "My needs are simple."

  "So I've been told. My mother has already assured me you're a straightforward kind of man," she added.

  Karim looked at her levelly. "I wouldn't have thought that necessary in the absence of evidence to the contrary."

  Dana dropped her eyes. "Yes. Of course. I'm sorry, that was crass of me."

  They fell silent as their salads were placed before them.

  "This dressing's quite distinctive," Karim said. "Your mother told me you worked here one summer—is it made in-house?"

  Dana sampled hers before replying. "I wanted to be sure if it was the same," she said, smiling. "It is, and the answer is yes and no: it's an olive oil based commercial blend to which the inn adds its own mix of seasonings."

  "Wouldn't it be cheaper for the chef to make it from scratch?"

  "Not if he gets a rake-off from the manufacturer," Dana suggested.

  Karim looked pained. "One could wish people conducted themselves less...less—”

  "Opportunistically ?''

  "Yes."

  The flat monosyllable fell between them like a period at the end of a sentence. They exchanged bland smiles before turning their attention back to their salads.

  Beth touched Karim's arm.

  "I couldn't help overhearing some of that." Her whisper was anxious. "I'm sorry if—"

  "Nothing to be sorry about, Beth. Besides, your children are adults; you're no longer responsible for them." He gave a little whuff of incredulity. "I can't believe I said that," he muttered.

  "Could you repeat that, please?"

  "Not worth repeating, Beth. Talking to myself again, I'm afraid. A sure sign of senility."

  "You shouldn't say that! If you'd seen what I saw..."

  Beth recounted Mrs. Balkin's terrorization of the clinic. She told it well, and Karim laughed at her description of the normally calm Horace William's frustration, but he could tell it had troubled her. "You're a good woman, Beth Volmar."

  "Good heavens." Flustered, she leaned back, allowing a waitress to snatch her salad plate away and replace it with the entree. "I really don't know what to say."

  "A simple 'thank you' will do." She looked at him, blue eyes wide, her parted lips trembling like the beginning of a child's yawn.

  "Dear Beth, I was just teasing," he whispered. "But considering that delicious reaction, maybe I should do it more often." His hand reached towards her as if to cup her cheek, then remembering where they were, he pulled it back. He looked at his plate. "What have we here?" he asked briskly, not really caring.

  "It looks like roast tenderloin of pork," Beth said.

  "It is," Andy confirmed. "At least I got that right. No fat to speak of; Dad would be proud of me. There should be two sauces: one honey and soy; the other mustard and ginger."

  A tricorn-hatted waiter made space on the table for a couple of baskets of hot rolls and bowls of iced butter pats. "Are those popovers I see?" Karim asked.

  "A Pomperaug Inn specialty," Andy
said. He leaned toward Karim. "Mom's never popped properly—what is it Dad used to call them?"

  Beth eyed her son sharply. He knows perfectly well. "Popunders." All these references to his father—who does he think he's fooling?

  "That's essentially what Yorkshire pudding is, isn't it?" Karim said.

  "Why, yes...yes, it is," Beth said. "I never thought of it that way, did you, Andy?"

  Andy, looking sheepish, agreed he had not. It must be hard, Beth decided, to keep thinking ill of a man ready to discuss recipes.

  "Dr. Volmar?" said a Boston-accented voice behind them. Andy introduced the representative from the Frankenthaler Foundation. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I thought I'd better delay the presentation until after the dessert plates are removed. The acoustics here.…" He smiled ruefully.

  "They leave a lot to be desired, I know," Andy admitted, "but in Eastbury it's unthinkable to schedule an event of local importance any place else."

  The man laughed. "Ah, small town politics. 'Twas ever thus."

  "Is everything all right otherwise?" Andy asked.

  "Oh, yes." He leaned closer. "I appreciate the seating arrangement."

  "What arrangement is that?" Beth asked after the man left.

  "Murry put him with the major donors," Andy said. "You know how it is, Mom. Money talks to money."

  '"Twas ever thus,'" Karim repeated with a wry smile.

  "You have your notes?" Beth asked, suddenly anxious.

  He grinned at her. "Yes, Mother, and a clean handkerchief, too. But I left my umbrella at home."

  "I might have nagged Dana about taking an umbrella, but never you! I have enough sense about the ways of little boys to have spared you that."

  "Little boys, yes."

  Beth suppressed the sharp retort that sprang to her lips. This is his night; don't spoil it. She sampled the caramel crusted custard placed before her. It tasted like paste.

  "It's very good, isn't it?" Karim said.

  "It's another of the inn's specialties." Her next spoonful tasted better.

  "Just think, it could have been Indian pudding." He grimaced.

  "You too? Not liking it has always made me feel unpatriotic."

  "Liking it would make you undiscriminating. Take your pick."

  Sensing purpose in his silliness, and grateful for the distraction, Beth smiled at him. She wondered how much of her exchange with Andy he overheard.

  "Ladies and gentleman?" A voice boomed through the speaker system followed by a feedback screech that made Beth, and everyone else, wince. Two young men in the inn's prescribed uniform rushed to the podium to adjust the sound levels. The sight of them crouched in breeches and buckled shoes in front of the twentieth-century electronic equipment, tri-corns shoved back on white wigs the better to read the settings, brought a laugh.

  "Ladies and gentleman?" the speaker repeated. He nodded, satisfied. "Dr. Volmar, honored guests, ladies and gentlemen. My name is David Klein, and I'm here tonight in my capacity as a trustee of the Frankenthaler Foundation. As you know, the Foundation chose the River Haven Hospice here in Eastbury to receive its award as this year's outstanding example of service to a community in the New England region.

  "New England people are generous people, and the many worthy nominations we receive each year makes it difficult to choose one to honor above the rest. This year, you made it easy. River Haven is not only the newest member of the growing hospice network, but its founder. Dr. Andrew Volmar, is by far the youngest. So young, in fact, I feel as if I should be awarding him an Eagle Scout badge for community service instead of this plaque"—he raised his hand to still the burst of appreciative laughter— "and this check for $25,000 to buy the hospice a few of the items he and his wonderful, caring staff have told us they need.

  "Please, ladies and gentleman—" the speaker made a sweeping welcoming gesture to still the applause— "Dr. Ralph Volmar!"

  Beth, sensing her son's sudden desperate wish to slide under the table, poked him hard. "Andrew!" she hissed. "Time to rally!"

  How many times over the years did I say that, she wondered as Andy obediently extricated his legs from the table's and rose to his considerable height. Growing up, the energy demands of his accumulating inches had, by the end of a busy school day, often left him limp and distracted. Now, no matter how tired he sometimes looked, he seemed to be inexhaustible.

  Andy gained the podium, and after the plaque and check were awarded by the Foundation's Mr. Klein, the roomful of friends, colleagues and well-wishers rose in a standing ovation. As he looked out over the applauding crowd, he directed a smiling nod at his wife, whose beautiful face was so bright with love and pride, Beth's vision blurred. Sentimental idiot! Pretending to wipe her mouth, she sneaked up a corner of the napkin to catch the tears threatening to overflow.

  "My dear friends... and, of course, my dear family, although I like to think of them as friends, too." He paused, as if searching for words, then threw his arms wide. "I'm overwhelmed. The truth is, I'm an imposter. You see, unlike most people, I was never troubled with doubts about what I wanted to be. From as far back as I can remember, I wanted to be a doctor. Most of you here tonight knew my father. You know of his dedication to his profession; some of you benefited from his surgical skill. As his son, I also knew the satisfaction, the joy, his work brought him, and that, I decided was good enough for me."

  He held up his long, slim-fingered hands. "I inherited my father's hands," he said, twiddling them to demonstrate their agility, "but unfortunately, I never got over feeling queasy at the sight of blood." He pulled a comically long face. "For a surgeon, that's a real handicap."

  From behind her, Beth heard Howard Springer's laugh, a whiskey-roughened huh-huh-huh that set everyone else off.

  "Fortunately," Andy continued, "I was also blessed with my mother's warm heart."

  Unprepared, Beth's hand flew to hers. "As an intern, I was saddened to find doctors older than I, smarter than I, more skilled than I, thinking of their poor and elderly patients as society's discards. As one of them said to me on rounds one day, 'Their organs are even too worn to recycle'. Black humor? Maybe, but I didn't find that kind of thing funny then, and I still don't. Neither do the physicians I'm proud to have as partners in the Eastbury Geriatric Clinic, Peter Claymore and Daniel Leon—stand up please, guys?" They did, garnering a round of applause of their own.

  "River Haven was a logical outgrowth of a clinic like ours, but it was sparked by my visit to a pioneering hospice in England ten years ago—"

  "Nine, dear," Housa called out. Andy grinned. "Nine. Housa should know," he added in a stage whisper, "it was on our honeymoon. As I was saying, that visit was a turning point in my life. It was an extraordinary experience: the calm...the caring.… I'm sorry, words fail me. I suggest you visit River Haven and experience it for yourself. Physically, it's still a little rough around the edges, it's been only two and a half years in the making, but the spirit is as old as love itself.

  "So how did we do it? That's where my mother, Beth Volmar, comes in again. You've all heard the stories about Jewish mothers and chicken soup? Well, the equivalent given me by my Episcopalian mother's hard work and unfailing support would fill an ocean-size bowl. Mom, would you come up here please?"

  Beth mouthed "no" and crossed her hands in front of her face.

  "Mother?" Dana said.

  "Beth, please?" Housa coaxed.

  "For heaven's sake, Elizabeth!" her mother hissed from across the table.

  Karim leaned close. "Your son wants to honor you, Beth. Go to him."

  Startled by the urgency in his voice, she turned to look at him. Unprepared for the sadness she saw darkening his eyes, she hesitated.

  "Go!" he whispered.

  It was, as Georgina told Beth later, an evening to remember.

  "The sight of Andy's hand taking yours, then raising them clasped above your heads.… well, it was like a scene from one of those 'Rocky' movies. Guaranteed not to leave a dry eye in the house.
And if you ask me," she added, "our young Dr. Volmar is a lot sexier than that greased-up, over-developed Sly Stallone."

  Beth looked stunned. "Andy? Sexy? I've always thought he was very nice looking, but—”

  "You're his mother; moms know from diapers and baseball caps and adolescent acne. He's sexy. Take my word for it, okay?" She turned to smile at her white-haired companion. "Ready when you are, Reuben."

  "How about you, Beth?" Karim said, coming up beside her in time to hear Georgina's last words. "You look tired.. Have you said all your goodbyes?"

  "In a moment, I just want—Dana?" she called, seeing her daughter nearing the door. "Dana, could you wait a minute, please?" How lovely she is, Beth thought. "I just wanted to thank you for coming, dear. Murry told me just now that it wasn't particularly convenient for you."

  Dana laughed. "I'm not sure Merrill Lynch's newest vice president would appreciate being considered a convenience. Besides, there will be other weekends."

  Beth's smile was wan at best. Something about Dana's offhand manner—and she knew it was genuinely so, not calculated--told her there would not only be other weekends but other men to spend them with. If that doesn't make this one a convenience, I don't know what does.

  ".… and I'm glad I made the effort," Dana was saying. "Andy was very impressive. Just like Daddy."

  Beth couldn't believe what she was hearing. Andy's not the least like Ralph.

  Dana turned to Karim. "My father was an extraordinary man, Mr. Donovan."

  "I have no doubt of it. Miss Volmar."

  Beth's eyes darted from one to the other. Karim's calm acknowledgment may have blunted Dana's challenge, but her implacable expression showed no sign of softening. She knew then Dana would never accept him. Never. Oh, my poor daughter! Compared to her adored father, no man could ever be good enough: not for me; not for her.

  Beth asked Karim in for a nightcap, but his refusal didn't surprise her.

  "We're both tired, Beth, and I'm sure we both have a lot to think about."

  "Karim, my family.… I know they didn't make it easy for you tonight."