Pot of gold : a novel

by Michael, Judith

  "Poetrs%" Quentin snorted.

  "It means something to me," Claire said quietly. "But I did mean what I said about being grateful, and about being friends. I hope we will be. I just don't want us to be lovers."

  "You've made that abundandy clear." He walked to the door. "What about the last four designs.'^"

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, Quentin, you'll have them, of course. I don't see hov/ you can even question that. I'll bring them to you within the next few days."

  He nodded. "You know, Claire, there was a time when I would have argued with you. But this childishness about rules and joy and spontaneity and . . . what was the other one.'' Oh, yes, sensitivity. You're crying because you want fairy tales. But that's not the way men and women come together. Of course I had expectations for you; you had your own, for me. We all look for someone to be what we want, and when we find people who seem right for us, we grab them before they disappear. I thought I'd found such a person in you. I was wrong. You'll regret this, you know. And I don't give people second chances." He turned and left.

  Claire heard the front door open and shut. She stood beside her chair, listening to the silence. The library felt empty, as if a storm had swept through it and left it bare. For a brief moment she felt Quentin's body against hers, heavy, solid, a bulwark against unpredictability and uncertainty. He was like the money she had won: protection and security. But I still have the money, Claire thought; I don't need any other security than that.

  In the hushed emptiness of the library, she felt a slow wave of regret. But even as it rose, it began to fade. She looked about the

  room and saw it slowly grow familiar again. It returned to its normal size; the books shone brightly with their enticing colors and titles; the furniture assumed its natural proportions. The lights brightened. Claire stood in the center of the room, the solid floor and enduring Oriental rug beneath her feet, and once again felt it was hers.

  I'll miss him, she thought. He filled such a large space in my life. But I am so glad he's gone.

  FOURTEEN

  (.(.

  w

  ▼ THERE'S Mother?" Emma asked, coming in to breai^fast. "Did she stay out all—"

  "No," Hannah said firmly. "She had dinner with Alex, as a matter of fact, and when she came home—"

  "She had dinner with Alex?''

  "Yes, and she had a nice time, but it was ver' short because she was anxious to get back to work. And when she came home, she went straight to her studio and worked for a few hours, and then we had tea and talked. You were very late."

  "I know. Brix likes late nights. Where is she.''"

  "Taking the Eiger drawings to the lab. She finished the whole project, all day yesterday, right up to dinner, and then when she got home, till about one o'clock. I never saw anybody work so hard to get something done and out of here." Hannah put a bowl of oatmeal in front of Emma, sprinkled it with cinnamon and sugar, and poured milk over it. "Eat this; no arguments. She finished with the owner, too."

  Emma looked up, her eyes wide. "Quentin.^ She's not going to see him anymore.''"

  "That's what I said. That happened night before last. Emma, you should be in bed."

  "Why.''" Emma demanded.

  Hannah sat across the table. "Your eyes are red and puffy, from lack of sleep or who knows what; your hands are shaking, and you're pale as a ghost. You're exhausted and you're getting

  the flu or a cold or something, and you belong in bed with me bringing you tea and soup. Why don't you go up there now?"

  Emma shook her head. "I'm just a little tired. I have a lot to do today."

  "Like what.'' They're not doing any photo shoots, you said; what else do you have.^"

  "Christmas shopping. I haven't done any."

  "You can do it tomorrow. You still have a few days."

  Emma sat stubbornly, looking at her untouched oatmeal. "Did Mother really break off with him.^"

  "Yes. You can ask her yourself when she gets back."

  "For good.?"

  "Of course for good. What a nuisance to have to go through something like that twice." Hannah watched Emma stare at her oatmeal. "You know, I understand that oatmeal may not be the peppiest remedy when you're feeling gloomy. I promise something more lively for lunch. Shall I make you a pizza.?"

  Emma shook her head, but she was smiling. "I'm just not very hungry, Hannah, I can't help it."

  "There was a time when I didn't eat," Hannah said reflectively. "That was after my daughter died, when it was too much of an effort to do anything."

  Emma looked up. "You never told us how she died."

  "Well, it's hard to talk about. But maybe this is a good time to tell you about her. Her name was Ariel—did I tell you that.?"

  "Yes," Emma said. "It's a pretty name."

  "She was a pretty child. Lovely, really, with reddish hair, almost like yours, and brown eyes with long lashes and the sweetest smile. We lived with my mother in a small town in Pennsylvania; I've told you about that. My mother and I had managed to buy a little house with just enough room for the three of us. We shared a bedroom and Ariel had the other; it faced east and the morning sun touching her face was what woke her up each day. She always woke up happy; she'd kiss me, first thing, and say how much she loved me. Best of all, she said. She loved me best of all. People claw each other for money and possessions and power and fame, but those are poor substitutes for what we had."

  Emma had taken a few bites of her oatmeal; she held her spoon suspended. "What happened to her.?"

  "One December, when she was eight, mv mother and I took

  her to New York for a production of The Nutcracker. Ariel loved ballet. We took a bus there and stayed in a little hotel and ate in little restaurants that we could afford and saw the ballet. Ariel was so excited all she could say was, 'I'm so happy, so happy, I'm so happy.'

  She paused. "I can hear her still, her voice was so clear, and I can feel her hand in mine as we walked back to our hotel, after the ballet. She said she was going to be a dancer and dance in The Nutcracker and Sleeping Beauty, and she said she already could do some of the steps. She said, 'Stay there, I'll show you.' And she let go of my hand and walked a little way along the sidewalk and did a pirouette and tried to get up on her toes. We were laughing. So happy, so happy. And then ... it was all gone. As if a whirlwind came down and swept her away. A driver was speeding— they said he was going sixty miles an hour on Forty-second Street, can you imagine.^—and he lost control of his car and jumped the curb and . . . struck Ariel."

  "Oh, no." Emma put her hands over her face. "Oh, no, oh, no." She saw it so clearly in her mind: the careening car, the crumpled body . . . After a minute she walked around the table and sat next to Hannah and put her arms around her. "It's so awful, Hannah."

  "That was forty-seven years ago this month," Hannah said. "And it still hurts. I held her in my arms and kissed her and called her, I called her over and over, but Ariel didn't hear me. And her eyes were open but she didn't see me. I cuddled her in my lap to keep her warm, the way I did when she was a baby. There was blood all over her, and all over me, and I knew her bones were broken, I could feel them when I gathered her to me. The doctors told us later she died instantly. I think I was glad of that, because she would have hurt so much, you know."

  Emma was crying. "Poor little girl. Poor Hannah. Oh, Hannah, what a terrible thing."

  "But beside my grief there was anger: absolute, total fury. The driver was hardly hurt; cut up by smashing his head into the window, but nothing that couldn't be fixed. He was drunk, of course; and he didn't have a driver's license. But what drove me crazy was, why were we there, at that minuteP If we'd left the theater one minute earlier instead of staying until the last curtain call; if we'd walked a little more slowly or a little faster; if we'd

  stopped for a minute to look in a shop window . . . one minute one way or the other and Ariel would be alive. It drove me crazy; I kept saying, 'Please let me do that walk again and change just one little th
ing. Please, please, please.' Those were the days when I wasn't eating; I did a lot of walking around, feeling empty and angry and so sad I thought I would die of sadness. But after a while, I started eating again and went back to teaching and functioned quite well. That's what happens, you know: we recover from tragedy. Except that from then on there was always an unlit corner in my heart and no light could ever penetrate to it. It will always be dark."

  After a while, Emma's tears stopped. She realized that just as she was holding Hannah, Hannah's arms were around her waist; they were comforting each other. How did she stand it.^ Emma thought. I've never even known anybody who died. But to lose your little girl. . . She pictured her mother, weeping inconsolably if she died, never going out of the house, not eating, wearing black. She wouldn't see anybody, Emma thought, well, maybe Hannah, but Hannah would be mourning, too. They'd cry all day and go into Emma's empty bedroom and walk around it, looking at everything and remembering how much fun they used to have. . . .

  Fresh tears came to her eyes as she thought about their house without her in it. All the rooms with little things of hers scattered around—whatever book she was reading, her shoes that she always kicked off when she came home and then forgot when she went upstairs, a magazine that had just come in the mail, a blouse she'd brought downstairs to replace a missing button—poor Mother; she'd look at all those things and she wouldn't be able to stand it, Emma thought. She was glad she'd told her she loved her at Thanksgiving. She used to tell her that all the time, but lately she'd felt confused about her, loving her and not loving her at the same time, angry at her for not liking Brix, jealous of her because she always seemed to know what she was doing, wanting to talk to her and be comforted but afraid to because there was so much she could not tell her. But she knows I love her, Emma thought, and she'd be out of her mind if I died; she couldn't stand it. She might die, too. There's nothing worse in the whole world.

  Not even worrying about Brix when he doesn 7 seem to love me. The

  thought was crystal clear, and Emma raised her head as if she had heard the words spoken. Not even feeling empty when Vm sitting here waiting for him to call. Not even feeling like Vm nobody because there arent any more photo sessions and nobody wants me for anything right now.

  Nothing, she thought, nothing can be as bad as losing your little girl.

  She sat close to Hannah and thought, I've got to think about these things; I've got to think about everything. Then I'd feel better; I wouldn't be so confused. I have to think about Hannah and her little girl, and Mother and Brix and my work. I have so much to think about; my whole life needs to get organized.

  She rested her head on Hannah's shoulder. "I think maybe I will go to bed for a while. I really don't feel very good. And, Hannah, would you bring me some soup.^"

  Brix closed the last of his ledgers and put it on the pile on the floor beside his chair. He still sat forward, not ready to relax until his father had approved everything. "So we've had heavy reorders," he said, "probably because of the PK-20 advertising—it's made buyers interested in everything we make. And the hottest things are the makeup and personal care kits; it's like they've been walking out of the stores, they're going so fast. I didn't even know you'd asked Claire to redesign them, but she did a sensational job, you know, they really look like Christmas presents." He waited for his father to say something. "Well, anyway," he said into the silence, "like I said, we've had heavy reorders, but we've kept up, no problems with shipping, and the inventory's down to where we want it this time of year. And raw materials; I already gave you those figures, where we are, and we've got another shipment coming January fifteenth." This time he came to a complete stop. He had made his report and had nothing else to say.

  "And the March release for PK-20.^" Quentin asked.

  "It's on schedule," Brix said, taken by surprise. "I mean, I gave you the inventory figures; we're on target on those, and now that all the packaging is in production—well, some of it we've already got, the things Claire designed first—we'll keep up; we'll be right on target. We'll be shipping on March tenth, no problem. Is that what vou wanted to know.''"

  "We're interviewing for a new head of testing. I'd like you to sit in on those sessions."

  Brix's chest swelled. "Sure. Glad to."

  Quentin put down his pencil; he had made only a few notes on Brix's shipping and receiving report. "I'm very satisfied. You've done a good job."

  At last Brix could sit back, letting his spine curl with relief into the chair. "Kurt said a lot of the chemists and techs wanted to see the PK-20 test reports."

  Quentin's look sharpened. "Is that usual.^"

  "Oh." His spine began to tense again. "I didn't ask him that. I guess it must be; he didn't say he was surprised."

  "Didn't ask him," Quentin murmured. He shook his head slightly. "Did any of them comment on the reports.^"

  "Kurt said they all said they were terrific; they loved the numbers. I knew they would."

  "What does that mean.^"

  "I knew the numbers were good because I copied most of them from that cosmetics line you took over the first year you had the company. Narcissus, remember.^ I changed a couple percentages, but mostly I just lifted it because if it worked once, I figured it wouldn't give us any trouble now."

  Quentin's gaze was thoughtful. "A clever idea."

  Brix grinned. "I thought so, too."

  "And you destroyed the original reports.^"

  "No, I kept one, just to have. It's in my private file; nobody even knows it's there."

  "Get rid of it."

  Brix hesitated, then shrugged. "Okay."

  "And what else have vou picked up that thev're saving about the line.?"

  "They think it's terrific, great for the company and good for them, too. They'll be expecting bigger bonuses next year, you wait and see. I haven't heard anybody having problems with it; Kurt said everybody he's seen is happy as can be."

  "When is it that you're having these conversations with Kurt.'"'

  "The other day. He's still—"

  "When.?"

  "Day before yesterday. He's still living a couple doors from me, that didn't change just because he's not working here any-

  more, and we still go out drinking together." There was a pause. "Is there something wrong with that.^"

  "No. In fact, it's fine. I'd just as soon you kept an eye on him. But I want to hear about it if he ever says anything about the PK-20 line."

  "Christ, Dad, you know I'd tell you that."

  "And Emma.^ You're still seeing her.'^"

  "Right. She's a sweet kid."

  "That's not serious, is it.^"

  "No; with Emma.^ She's a kid. Anyway, I'm not about to tie myself down with anybody." Brix paused, wondering what was going on. His father never asked about the girls he dated. "Does it matter.^"

  "Your girls are your own business. I'm not sure I want that one around too much."

  Her or her mother.'' Brix thought, suddenly having an idea. Maybe his father had been tired of Claire for a long time, but hadn't wanted to break off with her until the designs were done. Maybe, now that they were, he'd done it. Brix couldn't ask because his father became enraged when he asked anything about the women he took out, but he'd bet that was it. And then he wondered, if it was all over with Claire, if she'd make it harder for Emma to go out with him. Well, I can get around that, he thought.

  "Now, what about the people in shipping and receiving.'"' Quentin asked. "Do you need any more, or do you want to get rid of any.?"

  "Well, we could use one more person in inventory ..." Brix settled farther into his chair, and he and his father talked for an hour about their work and the coming year. As he talked, Brix's voice deepened to match his father's; he rested an ankle on one knee as his father did and played with a ballpoint pen as his father did. They sat facing each other, two executives wearing dark gray suits, having an end-of-year conference about their company, and when Brix left, he thought he had never felt so goo
d in his life. His father had treated him as an equal.

  Pretty fucking good, he thought. Everything under control, everything going ahead, everybody happy. This is my year, the year I really make it. All I have to do is get this fucking PK-20 off the ground. If I do that, I can do anything. Whatever it takes, I can do it.

  On the Tuesday before Christmas, Claire and Emma went Christmas shopping in New York. They began with breakfast at Adrienne, in the Peninsula Hotel, going over their lists. It was one of Emma's favorite places to feel elegant: in pink and pale gray, with art nouveau furnishings and wall panels, a deep, flowered carpet, and mirrors everywhere. The tables were spaced far apart, so no conversation could be overheard . . . though who would be so crude, Emma wondered, to eavesdrop in such a place.'' She sighed. It felt good to sit close to her mother, sharing the morning. On the drive into the cit% they had talked about little things and laughed a lot, and Emma had loved it. It seemed to her it was the first time they had laughed together in a long time. "My list is awfully short," she said. "You and Hannah and Gina, and I guess Roz, and Brix."

  "What about all your friends from school.^ You always gave each other little things, and you had a party."

  The corners of Emma's mouth turned down, as if tightening against a painful memory. Then she shrugged. "They changed when they went to college. I guess I've changed, too. We didn't have a good time over Thanksgiving; we kept not having things to talk about and there would be these long silences and it was really awful. They were excited about seeing me in the Eiger ads when they first came out, and they asked me all about modeling, but they really just wanted to talk about their courses at school and their teachers and boys. Boys. They made me feel really out of it and sort of . . . old."