“Maybe we ought to stay here.”
He laughed.
“I’ve grabbed a quick snack in garages before, but it would be more comfortable inside. Don’t worry. I’ll behave as long as you want me to.”
He did. There was no more touching on the way except a hand on the small of her back as he ushered her into his apartment. It was nothing like Rita’s, which had seemed the height of luxury. Jean had always thought of modern décor as cold. This was a painting, an integrated aesthetic unit, bisque walls matching wood floors, one copper wall, a few paintings, large and strongly colored abstracts, framed in silver or black. Most of the furniture was black leather with tables of glass and brushed silver metal of some kind, not the shiny chrome she was familiar with. The lighting was hidden, indirect, designed to illuminate the paintings and for reading. She hadn’t before realized the importance of lighting. This, she decided, must be the way the rich often decorated. The homes their office usually dealt with were more like the DeLuccas’, homey, often overcrowded with what she and Rita called simply “stuff.”
“I think you have good taste.”
“Think?”
Wayne was amused.
“No. You really have good taste. I love that huge bird in the corner. What is it?”
“An egret. Carved by a man in Gettysburg. John Schrock. Bass wood.”
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
But Wayne’s smile wasn’t directed at the egret. That was all right.
“This is you, isn’t it? You and your finer things in life.”
“And you are one of my finer things in life.” Wayne paused. It was the perfect time to make a standard move, but instead he turned, walked toward the kitchen, then stopped and looked back. “I’m sorry. That sounds like a line, doesn’t it? I don’t like cheap come-ons. I am who I am and I want you to know that person.”
Jean followed him as far as the kitchen door, eying an impressive chocolate cake on the counter.
He noticed her look.
“My favorite,” he said. Chocolate with fresh raspberry filling and mocha icing.”
He pushed the button to start the coffee.
“I want you to know me, too,” she said. “But that’s easy. Dad always said I was an open book.”
“That’s one of the things I like about you.” Wayne opened the refrigerator. “Just a touch of cream and sugar, right?”
She walked into the kitchen. It was a mistake. Without intending to, she seemed to walk right into his arms.
“The coffee,” she said into his ear. “It smells wonderful.”
“I put a little … unsweetened cocoa into it … makes it …” he was brushing little kisses on her face.
“Taste better?”
“Mmm.”
Jean pulled back, out of breath. “Wayne, I told you. I mean, I accept some of the responsibility here, but …”
“I know. You are a nice girl. A nice old fashioned girl. One of the reasons I want you so much. You’re what I want exactly. And so hard to find.”
Wayne leaned back a little and looked at her intently.
“Do you know how rare you are? Gentle, kind, curious, flexible, modest …”
She laughed.
“That’s not the list you gave me last time.”
“Last time? My God, you remember all that stuff?”
“It’s important to me.”
“Then that means I’m important to you. That’s good. That’s very good.”
She had been right to be intimidated by Wayne’s touch. It was so easy for him. Nothing like awkward Eddie. The cake was abandoned. On the slow walk to his bedroom, he removed each piece of her clothing in a series of caresses, easily, almost gracefully, until she stood naked in front of him. She didn’t quite understand why it wasn’t embarrassing. It helped that the drapes were drawn and he hadn’t turned on the light; there was only the indirect illumination from the hall. It also helped that her body looked good naked, smooth, unmarked and of a color that provided its own adequate covering. When they were both undressed, it was as it had been in the restaurant when their hands looked different but right together. He was not too tall to merge comfortably with her slim, small figure. His frequent, light touches had brought every nerve alive and wanting to be touched again.
And he knew exactly what to do about that.
Afterwards, she wondered if she had caved in too soon. Not too soon for the way Wayne felt about her or the way she felt about him it seemed. This was no casual encounter. Not too soon for it to feel right. Or did experience or a special talent account for that? Maybe both? Or a special sensitivity? Even better, maybe they were just a good match. Jean liked that thought. She lay with her head on Wayne’s shoulder. The light from the hall shone through the hair on his chest, making a gauzy halo in front of her eyes. She ran her fingers over the tops of the hairs, laughed for no particular reason and slowly, happily went to sleep.
Chapter 38
Jean was alone in the bed when she woke. First there was a warm, lazy feeling that made her smile. Its cause was obvious. Next came the pleasure of being in Wayne’s bedroom. The beige carried from the living room onto the walls of the bedroom, but the black and burgundy were replaced by dark walnut furniture with hunter green and touches of yellow. How could one man be so expert at so many things? And he wanted her. In his words, she was exactly what he wanted. She savored the word. She was rare, curious, flexible, kind. What were the others? How could I have forgotten? Oh yes, gentle. There was one other …
The reverie was broken rudely. This was Monday! Do I have office duty? Adrenaline flashed and subsided.
No. No chores to do for Wayne, either.
“Wayne?” she called.
There was no response. Nor was there any other sound from the apartment. The black agate clock beside her sent the surprising news that it was after nine. Her hours were irregular, but Wayne was conscientious about being at his office phone by nine.
This was nice. She was alone in Wayne’s apartment, perhaps the apartment eventually to be her home. She got up and walked around, feeling pleasantly possessive. On the kitchen counter, there was a note in a sloppy scrawl telling her to make herself at home, coffee in the carafe, chocolate cake for breakfast, a key to the apartment and another for his car, his beautiful, always shiny, black Acura. He must have taken his BMW, the big car he used when chauffeuring investors.
Jean fixed her offbeat breakfast, grinning at the large gap where Wayne had cut his piece, cleaned up and got ready to leave, dishes in the dishwasher, coffee pot off and rinsed, the wet towel from her shower spread carefully across one of the many rods. Then a slow walk through the apartment, with a first look at the second bedroom, which Wayne used as an office, touching his things, admiring the neatness. There would be no cleaning up after Wayne as there had been with Ellie and her father.
After a final glance around the living room, she reluctantly closed the door, locked it and, clutching the keys tightly for fear of losing them, walked outside with a new confidence toward Wayne’s car. Their car? No. Too early to be thinking like that.
Chapter 39
Jean couldn’t wait to get to the office to maybe tell Rita about Wayne, but there was no Rita at the office, nor did she answer her phone. It was after ten at night when Jean gave up. An obviously sleepy Rita answered next morning.
“Wayne. It’s Wayne, right?”
Jean laughed.
“You are so into my head!”
“Sooooo?”
“Yeah.”
Rita recognized this immediately as an admission.
“When? Why didn’t you tell me? You sound damn—I can’t think of the word—you sound damn proud of yourself.”
“I am telling you. Just Sunday night. And I think the word is ‘smug’.”
“And?”
“The best.”
“How would you know?”
“Had to be.”
“Tell me.”
>
“No. Can’t do that. He’s just more than … just more, more, more, great, great, great! So loving! If I could write poetry, maybe I could tell you.”
“You caved.”
“I did. But he’s serious and so am I. It seemed right.”
“Seeming right can get easier and easier. But I’m glad for you. And it gives you some protection.”
“Protection?”
“You know, you’ll be with a man a lot, not tooting around alone. It’s safer with Harold on the prowl.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“You should.”
“Harold’s gone.”
“We don’t know Harold’s gone. And he might be just a tidge angry about being rejected, don’t you think? Especially with all that money he has to offer.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
“Okay, then that’s just one more good thing. Honestly, though, I never thought I’d have a man like this! He knows about, I swear, everything! Books, gourmet food, music, ballet! He cooks! Beautiful apartment, elegant!”
“It’s called having money. You grow up with all that stuff. And you’ve told me all this before, you know. All but the apartment. I’m suspicious, but I guess I’m happy for you. Maybe I’m going to hook up, too. Lousy market. Can’t survive without my extra income—”
“Rita!”
“I know. I really want to obey you, so I’m going to. I guess I’ll have to marry George.”
“Marry?” Jean gagged on her coffee.
“I can’t maintain in this market. I could rent my apartment as an investment. Then, if I left George, I would have my own asset and some kind of settlement from him.”
Rita sounded thoughtful, not at all like a soon-to-be bride.
“Who the hell is George?”
“You forgot you don’t swear. One of those buyers I told you about, remember? Crazy about me. Not much experience, never had anyone with my looks, excuse my ego. Proposed the minute I said we couldn’t see each other any more. Says I can have whatever I want, can be as free as I want. And he’s not really too homely. You might think about that. Much better to marry a man who isn’t hot like Wayne. Being adored is good. You can get away with murder. Oops! My bad. You aren’t still sensitive about Theresa, though, are you?”
“Not so much. Back to you. You totally do not love him.”
“No. Remember where I came from. Security is good. He has health insurance, which I’ve never had. I sold him a nice house, too.” Rita’s vigorous laugh came over the phone. “I picked it out because I liked it. I think he even bought it because I liked it. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Ironic.”
“Yeah, that.”
“So … What are you going to tell George? You know, about your …”
“I’m not going to tell George anything.”
“Doesn’t he deserve to know?”
“What ‘deserve to know’? That just means doesn’t he deserve to be made miserable. Why should I dump on him to make myself feel noble? It’s over. I feel guilty. But it’s my burden, not his, and I’m not going to make myself feel better by making him feel lousy!”
“That’s not the way most people look at it.”
“Then most people are wrong. They can confess to their priest or a friend, but not to the person it would hurt the most.”
“And if he finds out?”
“Then I tell him exactly what I’ve just told you. Maybe this is an idea I ought to bring up in general terms, maybe about somebody else, so he already knows the way I feel. Then, if confession time comes, he won’t feel quite so betrayed. I can remind him of that conversation.” Thought slowed Rita’s usually rapid verbal pace. “Yeah. That’s a good idea.”
“But—”
“You think George ought to have a chance to cancel the whole thing, right?
Jean’s silence answered for her.
“Makes sense to you, maybe, Jeannie. But I vote for the ‘why hurt the guy if you don’t have to’ because George would marry me anyway. He just wouldn’t be as happy.”
There was logic in what Rita said. It just didn’t sound quite right.
“We have to get together. This is too much for a phone call. Coming in to the office?” Jean asked.
“No way. You woke me up. I’m shot. Much bed, but not much sleep, if you get my drift. I’m going back to sleep.”
“Ah. You’re at George’s, He’s at work?”
“Not George’s. Stan’s. Gorgeous man. Seriously buff. Very young, very tiring. Up and gone to school already. And he’s not a buyer. This is not for money. I like him. Talk to you later, girlfriend.”
The line went dead.
That was good. Jean wouldn’t have known what to say.
Chapter 40
Life was different in many ways. The most obvious thing to Jean was that she felt different. Independence was comfortable now. If Theresa were at her desk, watching, she would have felt like a child still. Fear being arrested and of Harold never quite went away, but they were fading. Vivian was wise and encouraging, more a friend than a mother. They met for lunch often, talked a lot about all of the things Jean had never been able to discuss with Ellie, skated and worked together. Residence at the Brumms had turned out to be a comfortable situation for all of them. Guilt faded. There was always something to do for the Brumms and it had become clear they had no need for her space.
“We’re getting older, Jeannie,” Ed said one night at dinner. “Even with a girl coming in to clean a couple of hours every week, we can’t run the business and this house any more, not with my bad back and heart. You’ve been a terrific help. Please consider staying permanently.”
He was obviously sincere. Vivian was even more convincing.
“Maybe until I’m through college, if that’s all right. And I insist on paying a share of the utilities. You know I can afford that.”
They agreed.
Ellie called frequently, always short of money. It helped that Jean could honestly say she couldn’t invite her mother to stay with her current, unnamed, “roommates,” but she felt guilty about not helping her mother financially. Rita gave Jean a lecture on weak people.
“I know from experience they cause more trouble than evil people because there are far more of them and you can’t get them out of your life with a clear conscience. You feel responsible, you care, they need you! And they need all over you! They make you unhappy, mess up your plans, eat up your time and your money and your life and you can’t even get mad at them because they can’t help it! Helping people who really deserve help is okay. But don’t be an enabler. She’s the mother and there’s nothing wrong with her except she’s not very bright and is seriously irresponsible. She needs to be forced to think ahead instead of thinking she can always come to you. Time enough for that, maybe, when she’s a doddering eighty.”
Her times with Wayne were often wonderful beyond anything Jean had experienced, but when classes started, it became more and more difficult for them to find times they were both free outside the office. Wayne was always polite, but underneath the politeness, there gradually developed a noticeable irritation. He didn’t like adapting to her schedule and their private time together outside the office dwindled. Jean was grateful for all that Wayne was teaching her. She was beginning to see why classical music was classical. At concerts, he explained what to listen for, told her the names of steps in the ballet, which she found both beautiful and astonishing in its grace and control. They tried the opera and it was, as Wayne said, frustrating that it was in a different language, but it was also amazing that the music of a human voice could be so beautiful that tears stung her eyes. Rita was impressed with her ability to choose a good wine. Jean felt the need to assert herself more, but with so little time together, she hesitated to damage a relationship that had brought her much more than she had anticipated.
There had been no mention of her moving into Wayne’s elegant apartment.
Enrolling as a student
at the University of Maryland as a business major was an Olympic event, involving multiple trips to guidance counselors, the financial assistance department and many wrong turns, but it got done.
Marian never came back. She engaged a large suite at the Marriott Residence Inn on Wisconsin Avenue and found that her new life with her daughter and dating the many men attracted by the combination of beauty and money more appealing than anything the small real estate office had to offer. She stopped in rarely.
Rita did marry George. At his insistence, it had all the trimmings, wedding planner, fittings, tastings, endless selections, all of which interested Rita only mildly. George wanted everyone he knew to see his bride. Rita invited only a few neighbors in her apartment building and the office staff. Her relatives were in her past and needed to stay there, she said. Jean was her only attendant. There was nothing modest about the food and drink at the Sheraton afterwards or their extended honeymoon in Europe.
The marriage was not at all what Rita herself had predicted, freedom and continuing to work and playing around a bit. Rita was accustomed to admiration, to lust, but never before had she experienced the constant, caring love that George offered.
“He loves me more than he loves himself,” she said to Jean in Rita’s living room a few weeks after the honeymoon. “I never really believed in that before. He trusts me absolutely. I can’t break that trust.”
Rita laughed lightly, but it was clear there was no humor intended.
“And you think you can do that?”
“The life I’ve had? Where I came from? What I was doing?” Every phrase painted an unpleasant picture. “You think I don’t treasure what this man is giving me?” Rita paused for a deep breath. “I know millions of women take all this—” her hand swept the living room, now mostly furnished with Rita’s possessions “—and a good man, a faithful, nurturing man for granted.” She smiled, her eyes in the distance. “He’s sort of the mother I never had. And I will never, never risk hurting the one who gave me the life I have now.” Her eyes came back to her friend. “Whatever I am, Jean—and you know what I am—I’m not a fool. What you may not know is that I also know how to be grateful.” She closed her eyes and nodded slightly, as if assuring herself. “And maybe more.”
DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE Page 17