Pot of gold : a novel

by Michael, Judith

"I don't think she'd sneak out and meet him," Claire mused, "but she might if he suggested it, or insisted. And that would be the worst of all, because then I wouldn't know about what she was doing. And she'd see me as her enemy, and I couldn't stand that."

  Hannah buttered the toast and put two slices on a plate in front of Claire.

  "I could ask Quentin to tell Brix not to— No, I couldn't do that. Anyway, it could be that I'm getting all worked up over nothing. I can't know for sure what really happened to Brix in college, but whatever it was, it was a couple of years ago, and he's working now, and he's close to his father; Quentin seems very proud of him. And he's a long way from a child tormenting nannies. I'm sure he's changed a lot since then."

  Hannah put two jars of jam next to Claire's plate, with a small spoon in each.

  "I suppose I'll let her go out with him and see what happens," Claire said, "That way at least we won't be at war around here; I want us to stay close, the way we've always been." She picked up a piece of toast. "How nice; I'm really hungry. Thank you, Hannah. And thank you for helping me with Emma; it's wonderful to have someone to talk things out with."

  They looked at each other and burst out laughing. "Well, I am good at listening now and then," Hannah said. She put her hand on Claire's. "Emma's going to need you, you know, and you'll be here when she does. You're doing fine."

  Hannah's praise stayed with Claire all day. She felt taken care of, the way she remembered feeling when her mother had praised her. I guess I still need a mother, she thought ruefully. But her mother had always praised her for being good and quiet and never

  Pot of Gold Ml

  any trouble; she preferred Hannah's praise, for something she had done that Hannah thought was good.

  What makes Emma feel good? she wondered. What kind of a mother does she want.^ She asked it again that evening as she watched Emma leave, to go out with Brix. Her eyes bright, her body taut with eagerness, she gave Claire a quick kiss and ran from the house as soon as Brix's car pulled up in front. She doesn't want a mother, Claire thought; she wants someone to listen, someone to agree, someone to help her create a myth. I can't do that. So we're going to have trouble.

  She stood at the window for a long time after Emma and Brix left. There's nothing wrong with him, she told herself. He had a difficult childhood and maybe he had a terrible experience in college, but that's all behind him. He's older, he's Quentin's son, he's a responsible young man. And Emma will leave for college in two months. It may not even last that long; he may get tired of her sooner than that.

  She turned to go upstairs to dress for Quentin's dinner party. Hannah was on the landing, wearing a gray suit and white blouse with a lace collar. A cameo was pinned to her lapel and she carried a small gray handbag. "You're going out.''" Claire asked in surprise.

  "Why, yes, didn't I tell you.^ I thought sure I did . . ." Hannah fussed with the clasp on her handbag. "I may have forgotten," she mumbled.

  "Hannah," Claire said, and waited until Hannah looked up. "I don't mean to pry, but I didn't know you'd made friends here; I mean, we haven't lived here that long, and most of the time we were in Alaska."

  Hannah nodded slowly. There was a small, almost sheepish smile on her face. "It's that young man I met on the ship. Forrest. He's spending some time in Stamford and he's taking me to dinner. I did mean to tell you."

  "Forrest.^"

  "You met him. Forrest Exeter. He's very pleasant and has so many things to talk about, especially poetry. He's a very interesting young man."

  "How young.''" Claire asked. "You don't have to tell me," she added quickly. "I just wondered."

  "I told you, this isn't a romance," Hannah said firmly. "He's

  much too young for that sort of thing. We just enjoy each other's company, and as long as he's in the vicinity, I thought, why not?" There was a pause. "Forty-eight. But I think he may be padding it. I'd guess he's closer to forty." There was another pause. "So I'll wait for him on the porch; he's a little embarrassed about coming in. He said you'd wonder about us."

  "I do," Claire said frankly.

  "Well, I understand that. But friendship doesn't depend on age, do you think.^ I think we can find good companions at any age." She walked around Claire and down the stairs. "I hope you have a lovely evening. I'm sure I'll be home before you; if you feel like talking, I'll be in my room."

  Claire watched her open the front door and go onto the porch, closing it after her. Well, why not.^ she thought. That cruise has an amazing fallout. But, still, how strange.

  When Quentin arrived, she told him about Hannah. "Do you recall a Forrest Exeter on the ship.-^" she asked.

  He shook his head. "He's probably going to try to get money out of her; does she have any.^"

  "No. If that's what he's after, he's going to be disappointed. I hope it isn't, though. Hannah would be crushed."

  "I doubt it; she's probably way ahead of him," Quentin said, sounding bored, and they changed the subject. Claire said nothing about Brix and Emma, and neither did he. She was not sure he even knew the two of them were out together. Leave it alone, she thought. Whatever might need talking about in the future is between Emma and me.

  Quentin's dinner party was in a private dining room in a restaurant in Fairfield. The others were already there: seven men and women Claire did not recognize. But they recognized her from the dinner dance the night before, because she had been with Quentin, and because she was new.

  "Hello, Claire, good to see you again," said a man whose name Claire did not know. He held out his hand. "Jerry Emmons. And you remember my wife, Lucy. We didn't get to talk last night; too damn crowded. We were hoping you'd be able to get to our place at Southport one of these days; it would give us a chance to get acquainted. (>ome for a week, come as long as you want; we're pretty casual up there; no rules, no regulations."

  "You should know that is a definite honor, (Claire," said a tall

  woman wearing a green silk suit and diamonds. "Jerry usually doles out visiting times to the precise second. Only celebrities get invitations so wide open." She held out her hand. "Vera Malenka. I do heartily congratulate you on the lottery. I always was sure the winners were made up. You know, an out-of-work actor paid a pittance to play the winner for the television cameras, and then the state keeps all the money. I am so glad to know it's for real."

  "At least it was once," Claire smiled.

  "Ah. Yes, of course, you're absolutely right. There is no predicting about next time." Vera nodded approvingly. "We don't live so very far apart; perhaps we will lunch together, soon."

  "I'd like that," Claire said, wondering if this was all because she was supposed to be a celebrity. How odd, she thought; I don't feel like one. In fact, just as on the cruise, she felt out of her depth and nervous. She was wearing a short black silk dress with a red-and-black silk jacket, and jet-and-gold necklace and earrings she had bought the day before, and she knew she looked as good as any of the others—in fact, better than some—but when she saw them in animated chatter, close together, she felt like an outsider,

  "Hi, I'm Roz Yaeger," said a woman just behind her. Claire turned. "We met the other night but you don't remember because it was right before Lorraine started bending your ear. Quen-tin says you have a house in Wilton. I've got a farm about an hour from there; if you don't mind the drive, I'd love to have you come some afternoon, see the place, have a drink, whatever you feel like."

  "I'd like that," Claire said again. Roz Yaeger was deeply tanned; her skin had the hard, lined look of years in the sun. She wore black pants, a white ruffled shirt, a black blazer, and, perfectly straight on her head, a stiffly brimmed black hat. She looked like a toreador, Claire thought.

  "My husband, Hale," Roz said, introducing a small man with a bald head and ingenuous blue eyes. Claire would never have thought they were a couple.

  "Roz didn't mention riding," Hale said. "If you or your daughter want to ride sometime, she loves to show off the horses."

  "We don't
ride," Claire said. "I wish we did, but we never could afford—"

  "That's the point; you can learn at the farm," Roz said quickly, as if she could not bear to hear about anyone not being

  able to afford anything. "There's a young woman who works in the stables who's terrific at teaching. You could even stay a few days, you and your daughter; Hale's in New York all week, running the agency, and I'd love to help you and Emma learn to ride."

  Claire's eyebrows rose. They knew about the lottery, they knew where her house was, they knew her daughter's name. Thafs what happens when you re a celebrity; they know about me and I don t know anything about them. She glanced at Quentin and found him watching her with a brooding look that might have been desire or possessiveness. She caught her breath. Call it desire, she thought, wanting him again. But then she thought about Roz's offer. It would give Emma something new to do, something she could think about other than Brix. "We'd like to learn," she said. "Thank you." She looked at Hale. "You have an agency in New York.?"

  "Quentin didn't sing my praises.'' That's how he keeps us humble. Yaeger Advertising, Claire. Eiger Labs is our biggest client. And about to grow even bigger."

  "Hallelujah," said a tall, slouching man with thinning gray hair and a sparse beard. "Lloyd Petrosky," he said to Claire, holding her hand instead of shaking it. With his other hand, he drew to his side a small woman with curly blond hair and oversize, owllike glasses. "My wife and partner, Selma."

  "Partner.?" Claire asked Selma.

  "Lloyd's so good about that," Selma replied, "even though I hardly do any work anymore. We own Petrosky Drugs; don't say you haven't heard of us."

  "Of course I've heard of you; I've even spent a good part of my salary in your Danbury store," Claire said. "Petrosky's is the closest thing we have to an old-fashioned general store."

  Selma beamed. "That's the idea. I was thinking the other day we ought to put a few barrels in a back corner before the next election, so men can sit around and talk politics, the way they always did in the old days."

  "You'll need a potbellied stove," Claire said, smiling. "You'll probably become the social center of town. How many stores do you have.?"

  "Five hundred, and we're opening another six this week. And

  listen, that store in Danbury was one of our first and it's sort of dumpy; we want to remodel it. Maybe you'll give us some advice, since you're a designer."

  They knew she was a designer, too. Claire wondered what else Quentin or Lorraine or someone had told them. "Of course," she said, "though I don't know anything about designing stores."

  "It's the eye," Selma said. "Being able to see possibilities. We can't do that. Lloyd is the world's greatest businessman, and I'm a terrific buyer—well, I was, when we were starting out; we have a whole buying staff now, though I still go in and dabble now and then, you know, make a few suggestions, and then leave."

  "Like grandchildren," Claire murmured.

  Selma looked startled. "What.^"

  "You play with them but you don't have to have them full-time."

  "Oh." The others were chuckling and Selma laughed. "It is, isn't it. I never thought of that. And it's true; I like to work but I don't like to be locked into it the way I used to be. Well, anyway, Lloyd and I definitely do not have an eye for design, and you do, so we could use some help."

  "Yes," Claire said. "Of course." She was amazed to see her days filling up with lunches and shopping, cocktails and riding lessons. She had wondered what she would do with herself, now that she did not work. Now she knew. These wealthy women had it all figured out.

  "Tell us about your new house," Vera said. "I love new houses; that wonderful smell of fresh paint and varnish, and every room is pure, no bad memories."

  "Good heavens. Vera," Roz exclaimed. "What about good memories.^"

  "They fade. To a kind of pale, soupy mist." Vera finished her drink and took another from the bartender in the corner of the small room. "Good memories end up as sort of vague, nice feelings. It's the bad memories that stay sharp, like knives, and they keep hurting, every damn detail."

  "Oh, Vera," Lucy said sadly, "we thought you'd gotten over it." She caught Claire's eye. "Vera's second husband drank. Well, so did her first, actually, and she left him. Both of them, actually."

  "I told them to choose between the martinis and me," Vera said. "It is not good for a woman's ego to have two men choose the martinis."

  "It had nothing to do with you," Lucy protested. "It's a sickness. They were both sick."

  "Well, it does not make me feel good about myself to know that I fell in love with two men who were sick, and married them," said Vera. "And my father was, too. It follows me, like a demon."

  "But you know you'll get over it," Roz said. "It just hasn't been long enough."

  "What about you, Claire.'"' Vera asked. "What do you do with your demons.'*"

  "Lock them away, like clothes I've outgrown. I don't think we ever can make them disappear completely."

  "But after your husband was gone you didn't marry again, all those years. Was that because they didn't stay locked up.'*"

  Stunned, Claire did not answer. How did they know that.'* She had not told anyone but Quentin. Oh, but the reporter from the New York Times had found it out by interviewing someone at Danbury Graphics and had put it in her story. One small sentence in one small story. Claire had cringed when she read it, but she had been sure no one would notice it. But Vera did. And how many others.''

  "That's too personal. Vera," Roz said briskly. "We talk about everything, Claire; you'll get used to that after a while. There's nothing we love to talk about as much as ourselves."

  "I don't have bad memories," said Jerry Emmons rumina-tively. "Maybe that's peculiar, but it's the way I am. I forget all the bad things that ever happened to me."

  "Well, Claire isn't going to forget the lottery," said Lucy, "or have it fade into some kind of soupy mist. It keeps coming forever, doesn't it.'"'

  "Twenty years," Claire said. "A little less than forever."

  "Well, you'll invest it, you'll do fine," said Hale Yaeger. "Buy a farm, the way we did. It's good security and a good place to get away from the city."

  "Who bought it.'*" Roz asked, looking at Hale.

  He flung out his hands. "Buy a farm, the way my wife did. She

  does let me come out on weekends, and it's a pretty place. You wouldn't want to stay there forever, but—"

  "Talk to me before you even think about buying one," Roz said to Claire. "I've never worked so hard in my life."

  "But you decided to run it yourself," said Vera. "Why, I cannot understand. You could hire a manager and relax a little bit instead of staying up nights worrying about a horse not looking healthy or the hay not growing as high as it should or whatever farmers worry about . . . and my God, you could stay indoors for a change instead of being out in the sun all the time, ruining your skin."

  "You keep telling me that," said Roz, "and I keep telling you I like what I'm doing. I love what I'm doing. That's my little world and I run it. And I don't worry about my skin; I'm counting on Quentin to take care of it. I let it go too long, that's the problem; I didn't start slathering fancy creams all over it, or even wearing a hat, until I was . . . well, somewhat past forty, and by then it was pretty far gone."

  "What's wrong with a lift.^" Lucy asked. "And a peel. You're about the only one we know who hasn't done it."

  Roz shrugged. "I'm scared to death of surgery. I'd rather have a magic potion."

  "Claire, what do you do.'"' Lucy asked. "You must have some secrets; you look like you're about thirty-five."

  "I am thirty-five."

  "Oh, dear," Lucy said as the others laughed. "Well, I meant you look really young. You look wonderful. And I know what you do: you use Quentin's Narcissus line, like the rest of us."

  "I don't think so," Quentin said. He was watching Claire and smiling.

  "i4 competitor^' Lloyd Petrosky asked.

  Claire hesitated, wonderin
g how to tell these worldly people she had gone to a salon in New York to learn how to use cosmetics and now used what she had bought from them. Well, if they think it's amusing, that's too damn bad, she thought, and stood a little straighter. "I only learned how to use makeup a few weeks ago; until then I never used any one brand; I always bought a few things on the rack at the drugstore. Petrosky's, as a matter of fact."

  There was a hush, as if someone had thrown a rock through a church window. "How refreshing," Vera said. "You didn't go to Petrosky's cosmetics section.'"'

  "Yes, of course, but not for everything. I just shopped around various places for whatever looked interesting. I never paid attention to brand names until I met Quentin." She thought the discussion was absurd and looked at the men, hoping one of them would change the subject.

  "You never paid attention—.''" said Hale Yaeger. "Good God, my life work out the window."

  "You don't read cosmetics ads.^" Selma asked. "All those women who look like every fantasy you've ever had about yourself.'^ Well, of course you're very beautiful, but even so, you never looked at them.''"

  Claire savored being called beautiful, but she felt she was getting deeper into a discussion that showed how different she was from the rest of them. She looked at Quentin, wondering what he expected of her, but he was talking to Jerry Emmons. I'll just have to do it my own way, she thought. "Of course I never looked at ads. I couldn't afford the cosmetics they were advertising, so why would I waste time reading them.'' I don't think people ever pay attention to ads that are about things that don't fit into their lives. Do you read ads for hiking boots.^"

  "No, of course not. But cosmetics . . . good heavens, every woman adores cosmetics."

  "Enough of them, fortunately, to keep us in business," said Quentin dryly. "I think dinner is about to be served." He led them to a round, damask-covered table in the corner, with nine velvet chairs spaced neatly around it. A cluster of candles in the center of the table flickered brightly over gold-rimmed china and a place card and pair of white roses at each plate.