Pot of gold : a novel

by Michael, Judith

  Simone and her assistant appeared carrsing clothing, which they spread on the armchairs and hung on a rod along one of the

  mirrored walls. Then they stood back, letting Claire and Emma gaze at the brilliant fabrics and colors flung with seeming carelessness before them. Claire felt as if she had walked into a kaleidoscope. She was surrounded by swirls of color and texture, the frail scent of silk and linen and wool, the deep shadows of velvet and satin, the gleam of buttons, the delicate curves of ruffles, and the sharp edges of perfectly pressed collars and cuffs. She had done their sewing for so many years that she knew fabrics, and she knew, without even touching them, how fine were the wools and chiffons, the silks with their slight nubby accents, and the crisp linens, woven of the finest threads. A soft sigh broke from her. She had often picked up bolts of fabrics such as these, but she had always set them down again, gently, reluctantly, never able to afford them. She put out her hand and lifted the sleeve of a blouse, as soft as a cloud.

  "Ah, Madame appreciates fine fabric," said Simone. "Now, if Madame and Mademoiselle will care to try on those which please them, there is a second dressing room next to this one."

  Claire and Emma exchanged a quick, startled glance. Was that what wealthy women did, go off into their own dressing rooms so that no one would see them undress.^ Didn't they like to share with their daughters.'' Oh, the hell with it, Claire thought; I can't help it if Simone doesn't approve of everything we do. "We'll stay here," she said casually. "We like to try on clothes together."

  Emma drew a sharp, astonished breath at the prices, but Claire forced herself to ignore them. She tried on dresses and suits, blouses, sweaters, skirts and pants, and never looked at a price tag. It doesn't matter, she told herself; I can afford whatever I want. But once, when Simone was out of the room looking for a particular belt for a particular pair of pants, she could not help herself; trying on a midnight blue dress with a beaded jacket, she took a quick glance at the price tag and saw that the number was over five thousand dollars. She felt faint. What am I doing.^ she thought wildly. I can't buy this; it takes me two months to earn that much at work.

  But she did not work anymore. And every year for twenty years she would receive a check for four hundred times the price of this dress. She turned in place, looking at her many reflections. The beaded jacket sparkled as she turned. She looked different; there seemed to be a new lift to her head. The dress set off her

  shoulders and long, narrow waist and showed off her legs. Her eyes were bright. And she was smiling. "I'll take it," she murmured to herself.

  "Mother, how about this.^" Emma posed before the mirror, swirling a short chiffon skirt topped by a gold metallic sweater. Her red-gold hair fell in long waves down her back, tendrils curled over her forehead, and her face was flushed with excitement. She was tall and slim and vibrantly beautiful. "You look like a model," Claire said.

  "I feel like one. Oh, this is fantastic; what a fantastic day. Shall we buy this.^"

  "Yes, of course." The words came easily. Yes, of course. It was so simple; after years of saying We can't ajford it, everything was possible. Exhilaration leaped within her: she could do whatever she wanted for Emma, for herself, for their friends, for anyone and anything she pleased. "And all the other things you tried on; they were all perfect on you."

  "You, too," Emma said. "You look so incredible. Are you buying everything.''"

  "I don't think so." Claire looked around. "There were a few things I didn't like. Not many, though; I can't believe how good most things looked on me."

  "Do you think she's psychic.^'" Emma asked. "How does she know what's going to be right for us.^"

  "It's her job. And she's very' good at it."

  Simone came back, carrying the belt and also cashmere sweaters and matching scarves in a spectrum of colors. "Madame wanted something like this.'"'

  "Yes, that's exactly what I wanted." Claire ran her hand over the soft, silky sweaters. "I'll take the black and the red and the white. Can you put them in gift boxes.''"

  "Of course," said Simone, faintly reproving.

  Flushing slightly, Claire said, "And necklaces and earrings; we'll need those, too."

  "I have only a few," Simone said. "For the rest, I will send you to a friend; you know Elfin Elias, in Westport.' My favorite jeweler in the country-. Now I bring the little bit I have."

  W hen she was gone, Emma stroked the sweaters Simone had left on a chair. "The blue is stunning, isn't it.'"

  "Yes, and it's a good color for you," Claire said. "Add it to your other things."

  "Really.^ Oh, sensational. I'll wear it with that necklace we found at the flea market, remember.'^"

  "We'll buy a new necklace. I like that name, don't you.^ Elfin Elias. It sounds like someone who lives in the woods and chants all day. Do you think Gina will like these.'' The red and black are for her; I thought the white would look good on Molly."

  "They'll love them, you know they will. I guess they don't have a lot of cashmere. If any."

  "Probably not. I can't wait to see their faces when they open the boxes. Oh, we ought to take a few of these scarves, too. There are some people at work who've been so nice to me; I'd like to give them something. And maybe a couple of extras, just to have." Claire wished she had more people to buy presents for. But she couldn't exactly pass silk scarves out to the grocery and pharmacy clerks who always waited on her, or the mailman or the newspaper delivery boy or the friendly crossing guard near her office who always wanted to chat as she held back traffic for the children on their way to school. "I guess I have everything," she said reluctantly.

  When the seamstress had finished pinning the clothes that needed altering, and the assistant had hung everything else in garment bags printed with Simone's name in bold calligraphy, Claire took out her checkbook. Simone, apologizing and waving her hands as if trying to brush away all regulations, had to call Claire's bank, to verify her account for the total sum. In a blissful three hours, Claire had spent on herself and Emma what it would have taken her two years to earn at Danbury Graphics. "Mother, we can't carry all this," Emma whispered.

  "No, no!" Simone cried. "Mademoiselle does not carry from Simone's! All will be delivered to your home by late afternoon, even those which need alterations. You need not worry; I will see to it myself."

  When there was proven wealth, Claire thought, Simone handled a young woman's ignorance gently. Had there been no money, she would have treated Emma's naivete with contempt, if she would have deigned to respond to it at all. Emma's beauty and sweetness made no impression on Simone: all her ideas about

  the world were based on who had money and how much they had.

  "She kind of oozes, doesn't she?" Emma asked as they walked to their car a block away. "Like her voice is coated in honey and it sort of slithers all over you. She's got a weird smile, too, like she practices in front of a mirror. But she's got the most incredible clothes; I can't believe what we bought. It must have cost a fortune."

  "Not quite; we still have a little bit left," said Claire, and they laughed, because in this unreal world they knew they could never run out of money again.

  They stopped for lunch in a restaurant famous for its escargot and starched waiters, and then they met the realtor Claire had called and drove with him to look at three houses. "No, no, no," Claire said as they stood in front of the third house. "I told you on the telephone: it has to be light and bright, with big rooms and at least two fireplaces—I want one in my bedroom—and lots of closets and a big yard; I've never had a garden."

  "You didn't give me a price range, you know," the realtor said, "and I thought . . . something modest . . ."

  "I don't want anything modest," said Claire. "I told you what I wanted when I called you: something large and bright and absolutely wonderful."

  The realtor contemplated her, trsing to figure out what she was worth and how seriously he should treat her. "Perhaps you'd like to build a house, to get exactly what you want," he said.

/>   "I don't have time," Claire replied. "I want it now. All of it. Now that—"

  ''Claire Goddard,^' the realtor burst out, suddenly making the connection with the stor he had read in the Danbury Times. "That was your picture, wasn't it.'' You should have told me ... I would have . . . my goodness, there are so many houses that are perfect for . . . this is very exciting for me, just to meet you . . . you should have told me who you were!"

  "And then you would have taken me seriously.^" (Claire asked coldly. She got in her car. "Never mind; I'll find someone else to show us some houses." And with Hmma staring, she started the car.

  "Mrs. Goddard, please!" the realtor cried. He put his hands on (>laire's open window. "I have a house in \ ikon to show you. right now. i^lcasc take a few minutes; it's exactlv what vou want.

  I didn't fully understand ... I apologize for that. . . but I promise you'll be delighted with this house; if you'll let me drive you there, I even have the key, from an earlier showing. Please, please let me show it to you and your daughter."

  For the first time, Claire knew what it was to have financial power over another person. He shouldn't plead, she thought; it makes him seem weak. But she could remember herself, in past years, pleading for a chance to prove herself in a new job. He is weak, she reflected; and so was I. It's money that makes us strong. She inclined her head. "We'll look at it. But we'll drive our own car; you can show us the way."

  The house was at the end of a long driveway that curved through a dense forest of towering oak and sycamore trees. It was pure white, with a steeply pitched roof and a high front door recessed behind a porch with a welcoming lantern. Large paned windows looked across a wide lawn bordered by a low stone wall, beyond which the trees stood tall, their branches entwined, keeping out the intruding world. Gardens bordered the front walk and spread in flowing beds around the sides of the house and to the back, where a small brook flowed.

  Inside, oak floors reflected the streaming sunlight, and pure white spindles supported a maple banister that swept up to the second floor, where four bedrooms, one of them with a fireplace, led off a broad landing. In a corner bedroom, Emma looked through the windows at the trees and the clear blue sky and the bubbling stream flowing through the early-summer gardens, filled with lilies, late irises, and the first roses, and sighed. "This is the most beautiful place in the world."

  The realtor led Claire through the house. "There's a lot of house here for a million and a quarter, a lot of house, Mrs. God-dard. A brand-new kitchen, as you see, granite and wood, a nice combination of modern and traditional, and all of it very efficient; and in here you see how the fireplace opens to both the library and the living room, and the library' doors open to make one large space; you and your daughter can entertain in grand style. And now the lower level: family room, laundry room, wine cellar, exercise room, cedar closets and storage areas, and the terrace off the kitchen and dining room, all in flagstones, of course, so very Wilton, you know; this is definitely a New England house but with all the special warmth of a—"

  "Yes," Claire said. "You were right; I lii^e it very much. I'll take it."

  The realtor stared at her. "You mean you're making an offer.?"

  "No, I don't want to bother with that. I'll take it. I want to move in as soon as possible."

  He cleared his throat. "The price is one million two hundred fifty thousand dollars."

  "Yes, I heard you say that."

  "Well, of course it's a perfect house for you and your daughter, a truly extraordinary house ..."

  Claire did not hear him go on; she was thinking about paying for the house. She had thought she would simply write a check, as she had for the cars, but she realized she could not do that. She had bought two very' expensive cars and a great many clothes, and now she had to furnish this house. And she only had two million dollars, or a little less after her recent purchases, to get her through the next eleven months and twenty-four days. Only two million dollars, she thought suddenly; only, only, only. What in heaven's name has happened to me that I'm talking about only two million dollars?

  She closed her eyes. This was crazy. One minute she had thought she would never be able to spend it all, and now she could not afford to write a check and was thinking only. A rueful laugh broke from her. She had a lot of sorting out to do.

  The realtor was talking about the title search and a mortgage—"unless," he added delicately, "vou're thinking of using cash."

  "No, I'll want a mortgage," she said. "We can speed that up, and I'm sure the title search won't take too long. Unless there's a problem . . . V The realtor shook his head. "Then, if you'll call my money manager"—she took Olivia d'Oro's card from her purse and gave it to him—"she'll arrange for the deposit and everything else."

  "Earnest money," the realtor said. He beamed at her. "You're buying a very special house, Mrs. Goddard. I know you'll be very-happy here."

  "Yes," Claire said. "We will be." She found Kmma still upstairs. "Where would vou like vour bed.'^" She was so excited bv

  what she had done, and amazed at herself, that her voice trembled.

  Emma swung around. "You bought \?. Already.^"

  "Yes, why not.^ Isn't it wonderful.^ I've always dreamt about a house just like this. You do like it, don't you.^"

  ''Like it.? Oh, Mother!"

  "Well, then ..."

  "But. . . oh, I don't know ... I guess I just thought. . . you know, a house . . , it's so dig. I thought you talked to lots of people before you bought anything so . . . well, but, you didn't, with the cars, so . . ."

  Terror struck Claire. From the heights of exhilaration she plunged into doubt. Of course she should have talked to someone. Gina or her money manager or someone from work who knew about buying houses. She should have gotten good advice and thought it over carefully and then, if it all seemed all right, gone ahead.

  But I don't want to be careful, she said to herself. I've been careful. I know all about that. Things are different now; everything is different now. And so am I and so is the way I do things, and I want this house.

  "Anyway, it is wonderful," Emma said dreamily, turning in place. "This incredible room. I can have friends over; there's plenty of room for two beds. And I can have parties in the family room—we could dance there, too—oh, wouldn't it be fantastic to have a jukebox.? No, they probably cost a fortune."

  "Of course we'll buy one," Claire said. "What a good idea."

  "Really.? We really can get one.? Mother, you're unbelievable. Every time I say / want you say it's all right." Emma whirled around the empty room. "I'll have lots of parties. I hate the way everybody hangs out at the mall all the time; they just vegetate and make out. It's so boring and stupid. But I could have everybody here, and we could do anything we want. That whole family room . . . it's like a private little club; it has a bar and everything."

  "Of course," said Claire again. She listened to Emma's bubbling voice and thought she sounded young and happy and innocent, but, often, in the past year, she had wondered just how innocent Emma really was. So many times she had wanted to ask

  her if she was still a virgin, but there never seemed to be a good time for it, or for the leisurely, probing kind of conversation between a mother and daughter that could lead to revelations about sex, drugs, alcohol, all the things that made news on television, but seemed to have nothing to do with them. Emma had told her once, almost casually, that she and her friends did not use drugs—in fact, that she had never even tried them—and Claire believed her, but she knew that could change; there were always experiments for young people to indulge in that never made it to conversations at home. Emma never seemed to be anxious for advice, so she did not ask the questions that would give Claire a chance to offer thoughtful, wise answers and in so doing perhaps find out how experienced her daughter was. She could not imagine Emma in bed with a man, but now she wondered what Emma meant by saying she and her friends could do anything they wanted in their private little club. What did they want to do.'' />
  "We'll have to see about the private club," she said. "We'll probably make some rules for it."

  Emma's mouth turned down at the corners. "You mean you don't trust me.''"

  "Of course I trust you." Instantly, Claire backed away from any possible confrontation. Emma's willfulness flared up and disappeared as swiftly as the sweep of a searchlight against the sky, but Claire always pretended it was not there. "We won't have any rules you can't be happy with, Emma. I'm not trying to make you unhappy, you know."

  "I know, I know, it's just that everything's sort of . . . wild, isn't it.'' I can't believe we'll be living here, moving out of . . . oh." Her face clouded over. "What about Toby.''W^hat if he comes home and we're gone.'"'

  "I don't know. I guess I haven't thought much about Toby the last few days."

  "Neither have I, isn't that awful.'' I've been so busy. . . . Could we leave a note on the door with our new address.-^ Then if anybody finds him, they could call us."

  "Of course," Claire said. "But you know, Emma, it doesn't seem likely that he'll come back. What do you think about buying another dog.^"

  Emma nodded. "I guess. I mean, sure. He's probably found a new family, anvwav. At least I hope he has." She stood for a

  moment, and then her brief melancholy was gone; too much was happening for her to be anything but exuberant. She turned and hugged her mother. "I'm so excited about all this . . . this room, this house, the cars, the clothes . . . can you imagine life being any more incredibly spectacular.'^"

  Claire watched Emma walk around the room, appraising spaces as if calculating them for furniture. How had she had such a daughter.'^ Emma had all the energy and volatilirs^ and strong will that Claire lacked. If someone painted Emma's portrait, it would be in vivid oils, while Claire's would be in watercolors. Well, maybe at my age that's all I can expect, Claire reflected, but she was not really sure she felt that way, not nearly as sure as she would have been a week ago. The thought came to her, still unformed but taking root for the first time, that maybe she had settled too easily for the life she had; maybe she should have gone after more.