Pot of gold : a novel

by Michael, Judith

  "You. And Brix. And I think you knew that."

  The attendant brought the car, its air-conditioning already on against the heat of the July night, and held the door for Claire. Once past the parking lot, Quentin picked up speed on the empty road, his hands relaxed on the wheel. "Lorraine talks a lot with very little information," he said. "Did she tell you she wasn't sure of the details.'^"

  Involuntarily, Claire smiled. "A few times."

  "And that she'd stand by you, as your friend.^"

  "Yes."

  "She meant it. But you can't trust her." He sighed. "I always have to clean up after Lorraine." He drove in silence, brooding at the beam of his headlights sweeping past a forest preserve and the startled, shining eyes of a deer. The only sound was the faint hiss of the fan blowing cool air through the car, Quentin reached out and took Claire's hand. "I'm taking you home with me."

  He loomed large and commanding in the cool, speeding car; Claire felt overwhelmed by him. She had been watching the needle of the speedometer move steadily past all the numbers she thought safe; now, hurtling through the darkness, she found it hard to breathe. In the ballroom, all she had wanted was to go home and talk to Emma, but by now Emma would be asleep. Anyway, Brix had not called her since they returned from Anchorage; probably there was no need for Claire to try to talk to Emma about him at all. And she did not want to leave Quentin. She wanted to be with him. She wanted to ask him about everything Lorraine had said, she wanted to try to understand him, but more than that, over everything else, she ached with desire for him. Her body, so long alone and on edge since the evening in Quentin's stateroom in Valdez, leaned slightly toward him, languorous but jumpy, heavy with longing. Her breathing was short and rapid; she could barely sit still.

  They were silent as he turned into the driveway of a red-brick, Georgian mansion with white pillars, white dormers, rounded wings at each side, and tall, paned windows. They were in Daricn, a town Claire's parents had talked about as if it were on another planet, far beyond their means. Quentin held her hand as they

  walked through the hot, dark stillness to the white front door, lit by a lantern with insects fluttering against the glass. Inside, the air felt cold and Claire involuntarily shivered as he let the door swing closed and, still holding her hand, led her up the curved staircase, through a large sitting room lit by a floor lamp beside a marble fireplace, and into his bedroom.

  Claire saw it briefly and registered the fact that it was furnished in dark browns and blacks, but Quentin's arms were around her, blocking everything out. He pulled the long zipper down the back of her dress and it fell open. In a moment she was naked in his arms, and he paused only long enough to take off his own clothes before his hands were moving over her body, hard and sure, as if he were molding her.

  Neither of them spoke. Claire was rediscovering her body in the arms of a man, how it felt to let herself be open to a flood of desire and pleasure, and when Quentin led her to his bed, whatever he did she followed without thought. He lay above her, then brought her to lie on him, then stretched over her again, and his hands moved over her as he moved inside her, bringing her to a peak, then letting her slip back, then bringing her up again until Claire felt she had dissolved into the dark room, the hard posses-siveness of Quentin's hands and mouth, and his thrusts within her. A faint thread of thought tried to keep her for herself, separate from him, but she could not hold on to it; she was too open to him. He filled her; she was all rhythm and response, and she followed wherever he led until all thoughts had been left behind.

  Then he brought them both up together, and they came together, and slowly quieted. Their breathing slowed and they lay still. Quentin reached down to pull the sheet over them, then lay on his side, facing her, his hand cupped over Claire's breast. "There's a dinner party tomorrow night," he said, as if continuing a conversation. "I want you with me."

  Claire stretched, feeling loose-limbed, lazy, confident. "I should be with Emma tomorrow."

  "You can be with Emma all day. And the next night and the next, if you want. Tomorrow is an important dinner. I need you."

  In the midst of her languor, Claire felt a small prick of annoyance. Did he have to control everything, even the time she spent with her daughter.^ But she pushed it aside. It was too soon to start asking questions; she was feeling too good. There's plenty of time

  for arguing, she thought wryly; let me have this pleasure at least for one evening.

  "You don't need me," she said. "We just met; everything you've done, you've done without me."

  "So far. But now I want you." He sat up, his broad chest and shoulders blocking the light from the next room. "You don't understand what you have, Claire. You have simplicity; you're not a complicated woman. You're a cool breeze over the dung of the people I spend my time with." He paused. "Sometimes I get so tired." His face froze in a look of surprise. "I don't know why I said that. It doesn't mean anything."

  "Dung.^" Claire repeated. "How can you fill your life with people when you think that of them.^"

  He shrugged. "I don't fill my life with people." He ran a fingertip around her breast. "Though I'd like to fill it with you."

  "Why.^ Because you think I'm simple.'' Lorraine said I wasn't as innocent as I seemed. You're all trying to find labels for me."

  "I don't think you're simple, I know it; I'm never wrong about people. And you are innocent, in ways that Lorraine can't understand. It's as if a good part of the modern world passed you by, and when you walk through it, you're like an observer, quieter and more ingenuous than the rest of us. I find you immensely attractive, I think about you when I'm not with you; I've wanted you since we met. And you've wanted me. We're good together, you know that. Just now we were perfect together. I can give you whatever you want, show you whatever you want; bring you into my world. We could be good for each other."

  Claire felt a long, slow surge of anticipation. He was saying what she already knew: that she had money and time but no experience. But he was offering her his, and his authority; she would learn what it meant to have power. Inhere was no love in his voice, but that was best, she thought; she did not love him, or want to. She wanted him to open doors for her. She wanted him to help her, with all her money, truly begin a new life.

  "Beginning tomorrow night," Quentin went on, startling her because he seemed to be finishing her thought. "I'm having dinner with some people who can help mc launch a new product line, the most important one I've made, and 1 want you with me."

  "Anti-wrinkle, anti-drying, anti-sag, anti-old," said Claire with a smile.

  He frowned. "Lorraine gave you that?"

  "She was telling me how impressive you are."

  "She doesn't know that any more than she knows anything else. She's quoting Ozzie."

  "She said you'd managed to protect Brix, when he was in college."

  "She doesn't know that either."

  "Then you didn't.^"

  "I did. But she doesn't know the details. As, of course, she told you more than once."

  Claire sat up, pulling the sheet with her. "There was a boy who almost died.'' Or was paralyzed.^"

  "Neither. He was injured. He was removing a screen from his window and he leaned out too far and fell."

  Claire waited for him to go on. When he did not, she asked, "Then what was the problem with Brix.'"'

  "Some people had seen him in the boy's room earlier that day, near the window. They knew he and the boy had had words, and they jumped to the conclusion that Brix had weakened the latch on the screen so that it came loose with just a touch. Brix denied it and I made sure he wasn't railroaded. He transferred to another school and got his degree, and that was the end of it."

  There was another pause. "Did you believe him.''" Claire asked.

  "I would have done the same things for him whether I believed him or not. I wouldn't allow the newspapers to have a field day with Brix Eiger, or anyone to pass judgment on him; we would have lived under that shadow all our lives. And
I wouldn't tolerate his being prevented from getting his degree. Those were the important points and I took care of them."

  Claire gazed at him, trying to make out his features. He had called her simple, not understanding anything about her. What really was simple, she reflected, was the way he dealt with the world: to identify a goal and to reach it, whatever it took, without a sideward glance or a second thought. To master events, to dominate, to bend to his will whatever and whomever he encountered. His huge body dominated his bedroom; he towered over others when he walked down the street; he brought maitre d's, salesclerks, and service people running, simply by standing still and waiting to be served. Claire had never known anyone like

  him, she had never had the chance to see what the world could be like at the side of someone who had so thoroughly mastered it.

  Desire rippled through her, for everything Quentin Eiger was, for everything he could show her. Her life until now seemed drab and inconsequential; even winning the lottery seemed to be just a first step to meeting him. She knew, or thought she knew, that he was ruthless and self-centered, perhaps he might even be dangerous to some, but none of that was enough to make her turn away. She wanted him for as long as it took to experience everything he could bring her.

  Then she remembered Lorraine's warning. It doesn't matter, she thought. I can walk away anytime I want. I don't love him. Nothing that happens with Quentin will have any lasting effect at all.

  / have enough money to buy whatever I need; I dont depend on Quentin or anyone else for security or comfort or even pleasure. I can take care of myself . Vm perfectly safe.

  But she was still worried about Emma. And so when Quentin drove her home just before dawn, she did not go to sleep, but sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee, waiting to talk to her daughter.

  Hannah came in first, neat and trim in her gardening pants and a long-sleeved shirt. She carried a straw hat with a pink ribbon. "Good morning," she said, bending down to kiss Claire's cheek. "You were very late last night."

  For a second, Claire felt like a teenager. "Were you waiting up.?"

  "No, no, it was just that I couldn't sleep and I was reading when you came in. Close to daylight, wasn't it.'' It must have been a very pleasant—" She stopped as Emma wandered in. "Good morning," she said brightly.

  "You're up early," Emma said listlessly. She wore one of her new robes, a soft white chenille embroidered in large blue and pink flowers, and her hair tumbled about her face, shining red-gold in the morning sun, but her eyes were despairing and her slim body was bent like that of a very- old woman, almost too much to carry' around. Claire watched her pour a cup of coffee and carry it to the table. Her heart ached for Emma's pain, but part of her was glad, because it meant that, for w hatever reason, and after whatever had happened in Alaska, Brix had gone his own way. For him, it had been a casual shipboard romance and nothing more.

  So she changed what she had been going to say; there was no reason to mention Brix, but there was every reason to find a way to make Emma happy again, even if that meant Claire would have to go away from Quentin for a while. "I thought we'd go to the Cape tomorrow," she said. "We could rent a house in Wellfleet." That was something else they had never been able to afford before, but they had been there once, in a house owned by a friend of Gina's, and they had loved the stark beauty of the dunes and the tough, graceful grasses that grew on them, and the slow rolling ocean waves that left the beach glistening and spongy beneath their bare feet.

  Emma's eyes slid to the telephone and back. "I can't. You and Hannah go."

  "No, you go with your mother," Hannah said. "I'm very happy here; I'll work in the garden and make flower arrangements all day long. You go; you need to get away."

  "We were away," Emma said. "We just got back a week ago and I don't want to go anywhere else; I want to stay here!" W'ithout warning, she burst into tears.

  "Oh, my poor love," Claire said. She went to Emma and held her close. "You'll get past this," she said, knowing how inadequate those words were. "It was just a week out of a whole lifetime."

  "It was everything!" Emma cried. "You don't know!"

  What don't I knowP '' know how much it hurts," Claire said. "And I know that you'll forget it, even though you think now you never will. It won't even take as long as—" The telephone rang and Emma sprang from her arms to answer it.

  "Oh, yes," she cried, and Claire watched the transformation of her face from hopelessness to joy. "Well, that's what I thought, I mean, I know how busy you are, and you've been away and all. ... I knew you wouldn't have time to call right away. And anyway, it's only been a week that we've been home." She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the palm of her hand; her lips were trembling. "Oh, yes, tonight would be fine. . . . No, it's all right; I don't mind short notice; I mean, I'm not busy, so it doesn't matter. . . . Yes," she said, drawing out the word. "Yes, yes, yes." Her face was radiant as she turned back to Claire and Hannah. "We're going to dinner. He's been busy; his father's been leaning on him and a whole bunch of work piled up while they

  were in Alaska. He's missed me." Her voice broke on the word.

  Claire took a breath. "Emma, I don't want vou to go out with him."

  Emma stared at her. "What.'' Why not.^ Of course I'm going out with him. Why shouldn't I.''"

  Hannah, too, was looking at her with surprise, and Claire spoke carefully. "I don't think he's right for you. You're younger and less experienced than he is, and from what I've seen, he doesn't take relationships as seriously as you do; he's willing to hurt people. You're not like that, and if you keep seeing him, I think you'll be hurt a lot worse than you have been this week when he didn't call."

  "He's not like that! You don't know anything about him!"

  "I know what I've seen. Emma, he could have called you; he put you through this terrible week without caring about how you might be feeling—"

  "You don't know that! That's a terrible thing to say! His father kept him so busy he didn't have any time!"

  "He didn't have a couple of minutes when he took time to eat—probably three times a day.^ He didn't have a few minutes between all that hard work and bedtime, to reach for a telephone.'' He didn't have a minute or two in the morning, between putting on his socks and tying his tie.'' Emma, think about what you're saying."

  "I know what I'm saying! He didn't have time! I believe him! Why do you want to believe he's a liar.'' Does that make you happy.^"

  "None of this makes me happy. But I'm worried about you. I'm afraid you might suffer because of—"

  "Is it his father.''" Emma's eyes were wide. "Did his father tell you something about him.'' You've been out with him a lot; did you talk about Brix.'' What did he say.'' What did he tell youT^

  "It doesn't matter what his father said. He could have told me Brix was a saint and I still wouldn't want you to see him. I watched him on the ship and I watched you go through this past week and that was enough for me. Emma, you're leaving in a couple of months for college; you'll have new friends, a whole new life. This isn't the time for you to get involved with anyone, especially someone who could make you unhappy. I want you to go to college feeling good about yourself and about the world; if you're

  in mourning for a bad relationsliip, you won't be able to enjoy everything that's waiting for you there. Look," she added as Emma's face settled into stubborn anger, "we don't have to go to Wellfleet; we can go anywhere you want. Would you like to go to Europe for a few weeks.'' Maybe the whole summer. Or we could go to New York first and start looking for clothes for you for college, and you'll need a computer—"

  "It's all that money, isn't it.^" Emma flung at her. "You've got all those millions of dollars and you think you can buy anything. You think you can buy me! All I want is to be with Brix! I'm in love with him and he's in love with me and you can't stop us from being together, you're not going to ruin my life just when it's so perfect!" She was crying again and she ran from the kitchen, and in a minute Claire and Hannah heard her bedroom do
or slam shut.

  "Poor child," Hannah said. "Why didn't you tell her what her father told you about Brix.'"'

  Claire's eyebrows rose. "How do you know he told me anything.?"

  "Because you skidded around her question, instead of just denying it. Was it so terrible, what he said.''"

  "I think it was very bad." Claire hesitated, then told Hannah what Quentin had said.

  "And you don't think Emma should know that.'^" Hannah asked.

  "I can't tell her. If she doesn't see him again, she doesn't ever have to know it. If she does see him . . . well, there's always time to tell her. And maybe he was telling the truth, that he was absolutely innocent."

  "You don't believe that."

  "I'd rather Quentin had said he believed Brix. Anyway, whether Brix did it or not, I didn't want Emma to hear it from me." Claire picked up her coffee cup, found it empty, and set it down. "Whatever he did or didn't do, everything I hear about him says he's not a good person. Quentin tells me things as if they're nothing unusual—that Brix never had a lot of friends, that they couldn't keep nannies in the house because he drove them away with his temper and little tricks he'd play on them—well, his father called them little, but who knows.'' Quentin says Brix was acting out because he was insecure, never really knowing where his home was, and that mav be true, but I can't worrv about what

  caused his temper and the trap he set for that student, if he did set it; I have to think of Emma."

  Hannah refilled their coffee cups.

  "On the other hand," Claire said, "maybe if she goes out with him a few times she'll find out for herself what he's like and break off with him on her own. That would be better than her sulking at home and thinking her mother had stifled the great love of the century."

  Hannah put bread in the toaster and brought butter to the table.