And Be My Love

by Joyce C. Ware

  He gave a wry smile. "No, they didn't. No reason why they should, really."

  "It might have been nice if—"

  "Ah, nice. We're a long way past niceness here, Beth. If you ask me, they sense what's going on between us better than we do."

  Beth looked away. "Yes," she whispered. "Maybe they do. Your family, too." She slanted a glance at him. "I saw Amity there tonight."

  He grunted, but didn't volunteer why he had sought his daughter out.

  "Would you like to come for lunch tomorrow, Karim? To swim? To talk, perhaps?"

  "I should like that very much, but tomorrow is moving day—didn't I tell you?" She shook her head. "I returned to find the renovations completed—on time, can you believe it?—and that my secretary had already lined up some local slave labor."

  He chuckled. "We decided to foster community goodwill by allowing Eastbury teens to use our athletic facilities this summer, and I suspect some of them figured that volunteering to help me move would give them a leg up on the college admissions process. After all, what could be better than a recommendation from Peabody's top dog? So how about supper instead?"

  "Can't. Sunday is the evening I have dinner with my mother. Just the two of us." She smiled regretfully. "It's inviolable, I'm afraid."

  "Unless you were with someone other than me. Preferably Ralph."

  "Oh, Karim."

  "I'm sorry, Beth. I know that was petty of me, but it's true."

  "Be that as it may," she said brightly, "you're always welcome to use the pool."

  "Ignoring the situation won't make it go away."

  "Maybe not," she whispered, "but don't you see? I haven't quite gotten a handle on what I'm facing. In the meantime, can't we just—"

  She broke off, recalling the applause that greeted her when she joined Andy at the podium. Admit it, being Mrs. Ralph Volmar has its virtues: no family dissension, no town gossip...am I really ready to give it up?

  Beth searched Karim's face. The shadows cast by the post light emphasized its lines and planes. He looked remote, almost forbidding. "Please, Karim, can't we just go on as we are?"

  "Go on as we are," he repeated. She couldn't tell what he was thinking. He slid his arm around her shoulders, drew her close, sighed, and rested his dark head on hers. "Of course. And maybe I'll take you up on your offer of the pool. Thank you."

  "And tomorrow, I'll bring supper to you in your new apartment. You can give me a grand tour. You won't want to go out after a day spent shuffling furniture around, not to mention all those books."

  He groaned. "I'd forgotten my books."

  "And if Mrs. La-di-da shows up, you can just give her her walking papers."

  He grinned. "Speaking of showing up, if a broker arrives while I'm in the pool, what should I say?"

  "Whatever comes to mind." She reached up, kissed him, and opened the car door. "I can assure you that anything you think up has already been thought."

  "Some grapevine."

  Beth got out, closed the door and leaned in the window. "Eastbury's a small pond; we're big frogs."

  "I've never been a big frog before," he said. "I'm not sure I want to be."

  "You'll manage." She laughed softly. "But as Kermit says, it's not always easy being green."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Beth's Sunday suppers with her mother were a weekly ritual established long before Ralph's death. The first Sunday after his funeral, Muriel laid his place at the head of her Hepplewhite table out of habit. She never made that painful mistake again, but Beth suspected her mother of always seeing it there, in her mind's eye.

  The two women sat, as usual, opposite one another; Beth, as usual, welcomed the subtle visual barrier afforded by the customary bowl of prettily arranged flowers on the polished cherry surface between them. The events of the night before promised a longer than usual exchange of neutral pleasantries.

  Over a delicious new grape-garnished version of Muriel Tomlinson's famous curried chicken salad, they expressed their pride about Andy's well-deserved award for his accomplishments at River Haven. They agreed that the shortness and bright purple color of Marilyn Springer's satin dress had done her no favor; Muriel faulted the Pomperaug Inn for replacing cubed sugar with "those dreadful little paper packets." Beth received without comment a fuller version of the reason her daughter had given for her late arrival.

  "Dana lunched at the Plaza with that man she's been seeing in New York. She said she left the city in plenty of time, but an accident on the West Side Drive stalled traffic for a couple of hours." Interpreting her daughter's silence as doubt, Muriel peered over the daisies. "There was nothing she could do about it, Beth," she added.

  Beth agreed that there wasn't. She saw no point in expressing her hurt about being once again by-passed. Her mother's role as go-between was as long established as the ritual Sunday night supper.

  After clearing the table and loading the dishwasher, they strolled together out into the garden with a basket and pruning shears to take advantage of the late light. The longest day of the year was only just past. Recalling her childhood anticipation of summers stretching wondrously, limitlessly ahead, Beth regretted the compression forced by age and routine upon life's increasingly precious hours. So much routine; precious little wonder.

  Beth watched her mother snip the spent flowers from the lemon daylilies, the earliest to bloom in her carefully planned array.

  "They were the first hemerocallis your father and I planted," she said. "The corals and crimsons and bi-colors were unknown then. I love the longer season of bloom the new hybrids give me, but these—" she stooped to inhale their fragrance—"are still my favorites." She deposited the wilted twists of petals in the basket Beth held out to her. "If only the blossoms lasted longer."

  She straightened, wincing at the pain felt in muscles no longer easily stretched. "Did I tell you Sarah and Elsie have decided to move to Valley Fields?"

  What at first seemed to Beth a non-sequitur made, on reflection, perfect sense. "I knew Elsie's arthritis was giving her increasing trouble, but Sarah appeared to be in good health last time I saw her."

  Her mother sniffed. "With Sarah it's not a matter of health. Her trouble is that she's too trusting. That Vietnamese girl she had cleaning for her? Waltzed off with that garnet and gold brooch that's been in Sarah's family since heaven knows when."

  Beth, who knew the girl, suspected the old lady had misplaced it.

  "And last spring, some fly-by-night salesman just about convinced her to put aluminum siding on that lovely old house of hers. The Historic District Commission soon put a stop to that bit of foolishness. Sarah phoned Wally out in Nevada to complain about it, of course, but he told her to thank her lucky stars because the price she was quoted was at least twice the going rate."

  Beth suspected Wally's mother of substituting 'lucky stars' for the more colorful expression her burly son would have used. A college drop-out—like me, Beth reminded herself—he had progressed from carpenter's helper to a hugely successful developer of wide open western spaces.

  "How is Wally these days?" she asked. "He had five children last time I heard, but they must be grown by now."

  "He's had two more—twins—since he divorced and remarried, like you young people do these days. It must be very confusing having brothers and sisters old enough to be your parents. Wally asked Sarah to come out and live with them, but she doesn't like the desert and she likes his new wife even less. She used to deal cards in one of those Las Vegas casinos."

  "Considering how much Sarah likes her bridge, I would think that might come in handy."

  Her mother frowned. "I don't appreciate your making light of it, Elizabeth. The old values are still the best. I used to think we shared them."

  "We still do. Mother."

  "Do we? I wonder. I never thought the day would come when.…" Her words faltered. "I suppose you'll tell me it's none of my business."

  Beth sighed and led her mother to the grouping of lawn chairs under th
e grape arbor. "Maybe I shall, Mother," she said, putting the basket on the lawn beside her. "But I won't know until you tell me, will I?"

  "It's that man you've been seeing, that Colin Donovan—"

  "Karim, not Colin."

  "Kar-eemm" Muriel repeated, grimacing as if the unfamiliar syllables left a nasty taste in her mouth. "I couldn't help noticing the way you whispered together last night, smiling and...and touching, with dear Ralph hardly cold in his grave."

  "It's been two years, Mother, and he was cremated."

  "That's exactly what I mean! That tone in your voice. You never used to be snippy with me. Besides, that's not the point!"

  Her voice was thin and high, her mouth pinched, but Beth was too rattled to pay proper notice.

  "Then what, in heaven's name, is?"

  Her mouth trembled; she began to cry. "I haven't found much joy in life since Ralph left us." She paused, pulled a tissue from the pocket of her gardening apron and dabbed her eyes. "He valued me." She lifted her chin, throwing the cords in her neck into sharp relief. "He did, you know," she added, as if expecting Beth to contradict her. "But now I feel about as useful as those wilted daylilies," she said, gesturing towards the basket.

  "Mother, please—"

  Muriel shook her head. "Too many changes, Beth. I can't keep it all straight in my mind. So many changes.…"

  Her mother's bewildered sense of betrayal by time touched Beth's heart. "Valley Fields isn't a prison, darling," she said gently. "You can go there for your bridge games with Sarah and Elsie, just like always."

  "It won't be the same. They'll make new friends, and I—" She waved her hand in front of her eyes as if to blot out a future she had no wish to face.

  Beth reached over to take her hand. "I know, I know," she murmured, gently squeezing her mother's small hand. The blue veins, prominent above her soft white flesh, seemed frighteningly vulnerable. "Tell me, have you considered—"

  Muriel straightened and pulled her hand away. "I have no intention of leaving my home! I suppose this man you're seeing thinks it would be for the best."

  Beth took a deep breath. "I have no idea what he thinks. Mother. We've had no reason to discuss it."

  "Ralph used to ask for my advice." She brightened, remembering. "He said he would have courted me if I were younger, and asked if I would help him win you instead. This Karim person would never do that."

  The thought of Karim soliciting her mother's advice was so preposterous, Beth couldn't help laughing. "Good Lord, Mother, Karim Donovan is fifty-five years old!" She sobered as she considered the rest of what her mother had said. "Are you saying Ralph consulted you before proposing to me?"

  Muriel looked flustered. "It's just—you were very young, dear. He was just being...prudent." She smiled. "Ralph said he could generally tell how a girl would age by looking at her mother. Apparently I passed the test." Her mouth rounded in a little moue as her fingers rose unconsciously to pat back the tendrils of fine white hair on her temples. Her blue eyes, sadly faded now, were alight with remembered pleasure.

  Beth was stunned. A picture of her mother waltzing in Ralph's arms flashed through her mind, those blue eyes looking up at him, alight with something more than pleasure. "You were in love with him, weren't you?" she blurted.

  "Elizabeth!" Her mouth went slack with shock. "I was fond of Ralph. Yes, I was very fond of him, and I thought he would be good for you, but in love with him? What an idea! I don't know what's come over you! I truly don't."

  Seeing the frantic look in her mother's eyes, Beth felt as Pandora must have when she opened that cursed box. Her words, spoken in thoughtless haste, could never be recalled, and she knew they would never be forgotten.

  "I loved your father until the day he died," Muriel Tomlinson said in quiet, measured tones. Her dignity appeared to deny the frailty Beth had sensed earlier.

  "I know that, Mother, and so did he."

  Muriel Tomlinson smiled, apparently appeased, but Beth knew nothing would ever be quite the same between them again.

  She had spoken the truth when she confirmed her mother's love for her father, but suppose his business had not taken him away from home as much as it had? Suppose his populist maxims and jokes and hearty laughter had pervaded the elegant old house day in, day out? How well would their marriage have fared then? She loved him, yes, but Ralph had been her beau ideal. Perhaps that explained her special closeness to Dana, who was so like him.

  * * * *

  Beth, in crimson cotton, carrying a large basket and a foil-wrapped bottle of champagne, arrived Monday evening at Karim's new quarters on the Peabody campus.

  "Come in! Come in!" he said. "Here, let me take that basket. Good Lord!" he exclaimed, hefting it. "How many were you expecting to feed?"

  "Well, I figured you could use any leftovers. It always takes longer to settle in than one expects. In your case, much longer," she added upon entering the living room, wondering how best to negotiate the piles of books placed helter-skelter upon a trio of worn but colorful oriental rugs.

  "It's not as bad as it looks. Those books have already been separated out into categories; tomorrow I have more adolescent slaves coming in to shelve them."

  "Ah, the perks of privilege."

  "Yes, indeedy," he agreed. "In fact, I'm beginning to feel sorry for Merrill Longyear. It must have been hard to give all this up."

  "He didn't give it up," Beth reminded him, "it was taken from him. Served him right, too, I guess.”

  Karim's head popped out around the door leading, Beth supposed, into his kitchen. "You guess?"

  "No, not really. It's just...I'm a bit tired of people jumping to judgment."

  "Wow," she heard him say. "Dom Perignon. "You sure know how treat a guy right. Is this whole bottle for us?" He stepped out into the doorway brandishing it.

  "Yes, it is." He seemed so pleased Beth decided not to admit it was from a case that a grateful, well-heeled patient had given Ralph. "Unless, of course, you have a recipe for leftover champagne you were hoping to try."

  "Happily not, so I'll just stick the bottle in a bucket of ice before giving you the grand tour."

  He emerged to find her inspecting the artifacts on the shelf above the simple, classically proportioned mantel framing the brick fireplace. She looked at him questioningly as she fingered the long, intertwined horns on a small pair of elegant bronze stags.

  "Nice, aren't they? They're Hittite, 1600 B.C., give or take a couple of hundred years. My father brought them back from Turkey many years ago." He nodded toward her caressing fingers. "Whenever I'm near them, I find myself doing that, too," he said.

  Beth snatched her hand from the patinated surface.

  He laughed, "It's all right, Beth. From the look of them, human hands have been doing that for centuries—I think they were meant to. My will directs that they be donated to the Museum of Anatolian Cultures in Ankara. I probably should do it now, but.…" He shrugged. "I can't part with them. I remember them from my earliest years, sitting on my father's oak desk in his study. I guess they're an anchor of sorts, to him, to my mother, to my roots..." He smiled. "I don't have any Celtic crosses, though."

  "I suppose my mother's house serves somewhat the same purpose in my life,” Beth said. “It's a bit big for a keepsake, though."

  They fell silent. Karim cleared a pile of books from a pair of leather lounge chairs. The worn brown hides glowed with a handsome patina. He invited her to sit.

  "It's your mother, isn't it?"

  "My mother? I don't know what—" Beth broke off, embarrassed. She knew what he meant, what was the point in pretending otherwise?

  "Dana, too," he added. "They don't like me much. I can't tell about your son ."

  "It's not as simple as liking, Karim—"

  "... But his wife went out of her way to be cordial. What an astonishing-looking woman she is!"

  "Isn't she? She wants to see me happy—in her case, it is that simple. Besides, Ralph scared her to death."

 
"Isn't that a function of gods? To be feared as well as worshipped?"

  Beth frowned. "All I meant was that she knew he thought her poor housekeeping was a sign of general irresponsibility. I told him it wasn't that simple, too."

  But Karim wasn't listening. He walked to the window and stared out, hands in pockets. "Your Ralph is a hard act to follow, you know," he muttered.

  Beth rose and went to him. She placed her hands on his rigid shoulders. "Not as far as I'm concerned," she said. Her fingers moved across the smooth surface of his shirt, kneading the muscles she could feel tensing underneath it. "It's like apples and oranges."

  He gave a bitter little laugh. "But don't you see? I don't know which you prefer."

  "You're missing the point, Karim."

  He turned to her and placed gentle hands on either side of her head. His hazel eyes searched hers. "Am I?" he murmured. "Am I really?"

  "Oh, yes," she whispered. Removing his hands from beside her face with deliberate care, first one then the other, she reached up to cover his lips with hers. Through half-closed lids she saw his eyes widen, glinting green, before his arms folded warmly around her. She leaned back, laughing, exulting in the power she felt, for the first time in her life, as a woman.

  He pulled her to him. His mouth pressed hers, his tongue demanding entrance. Its urgent exploration sent tremors of sweet heat through her body. One of his hands traced the curve from her waist to the swell of her hip, across and down to her buttock, cupping, squeezing.…

  Beth gasped.

  He turned her, revolving slowly as if in a waltz. "I think it's time for the grand tour," he murmured. She allowed him to lead her back across the room, down a short wide hall. They paused at the entrance to a bedroom. Beth had the impression of lightness and airiness, but all she really saw was the tall-posted, quilt-covered bed facing them, its arched tester frame swathed in cream netting. It seemed enormous.

  Beth's thoughts were blurred by emotion. Desire and anxiety warred for supremacy, but in the end a sudden, unexpected and unwanted sense of the ridiculous—I feel like a character in a French farce— gained the field.