Possessions

by Judith Michael

  "All right. Fine. Jennifer and Todd are up and down, either happy with friends and school, or dragging around, blaming me for everything; we always seem to be arguing or making up. But otherwise we're . . . fme. Do you know about the money that's come? From Craig?"

  "Yes." He'd kept up with her, he knew she was managing, even putting away most of the money that came in the mail. And he knew how she spent some of her evenings.

  "I thought they'd tell you," Katherine said. "Did they say anything else?"

  "No. How is your job?"

  She hesitated, and he knew it was because of his distant politeness. "I guess it's getting better. Now and then Gil even asks for my suggestions. A couple of weeks ago he used my ideas to change a ski window after I'd gone home, and took credit for it when the president of the store liked it. Is that progress?"

  "Of a sort," he said, smiling. "I understand you've seen Victoria a few times."

  'Twice. For tea. It's wonderful, being with her; I always go home wanting more."

  Ross felt a nish of pity at the wistfulness in her voice. "What about your jewelry?" he asked. "Weren't you going to try to sell some?"

  "I've been studying . . ."He listened as she told him about her instnictor, who was loaning her the tools and equipment she could not afford to buy. But he was thinking about her voice, lovelier than he remembered: low and clear, with a lilt that had not been there before. So she had changed, probably more than the others had told him. He recalled the frightened, bewildered woman he'd seen in Vancouver and at Victoria's dinner—how much he'd liked her and admired the spirit she'd shown even though her familiar life was crumbling around her.

  But damn it, he thought, hearing her animation as she talked about meeting Herman Mettler, how the hell could she be sleeping with Derek? Of all the men she might have found to

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  ward off loneliness while she waited for Craig, how could she choose a bastard who didn't know the meaning of sympathy or friendship?

  And why was Derek interested in her? He never did anything without a reason and never paid attention to any but the most beautiful women. Yet gossips reported them all over town, from the Peruvian exhibit to Marrakech, where Melanie said she'd seen them when she was there with a group from her tennis club. So for some reason, he'd turned his charm on Katherine and she'd been taken in—not the first woman to think Derek Hayward was offering her the world. That was it, of course. Ross didn't know what his brother was up to, but he could understand how a lonely woman who thought she had few options could respond to a wealthy man whose options seemed limitless.

  I might have helped her find some of her own, he thought. But too much had intervened: Melanie, his preoccupation with what was happening to their marriage, his work, and Kather-ine's place in the family as Craig's wife. Derek had no such concerns; Derek reached out and took whatever piqued his interest.

  He became aware that Katherine had stopped talking. "You've made a good start," he said. "You can't do better than Mettler's."

  "If he likes what I have. He didn't promise anything and I'm trying to keep my hopes down." She paused. "Ross, I want to ask you something. Last Friday, Derek told me the story of the sailing accident. There's so much I don't understand—that doesn't seem right—I wanted to ask you about it . . ."

  Ross was silent. He didn't want to talk about the accident. He and Derek still had a score to settle from the events of that day, but they would do it between themselves, not by talking through Katherine. There was nothing he could tell her, anyway, that would make Craig a hero. It was better to remain silent.

  In fact, there was nothing much at all he could do for her. She was building her own life; she'd made Derek a part of it; and Ross was in no position to interfere. Or compete, he reflected. "I think you should let Derek explain," he said at last. "I don't think I could add anything helpful." He felt a stab of

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  regret, liking her, wishing there had been no obstacles between them. "I'm sorry," he added. "Maybe sometime—"

  He looked up as one of his staff members appeared in the doorway, pointing to his watch. Ross nodded. "I'm sorry," he said again, to Katherinel "I'm late for a meeting. Good luck with Metder, I'm sure I'll hear all about it from Victoria."

  "Ross—?"

  "I really am late. Goodbye, Katherine."

  But he could not shake the memory of her voice. All through the meeting he heard the lilt of her first words and her bewilderment as she said his name the last time, sliding up in a question he had not allowed her to finish. Because I didn't want to talk about the accident, he thought, knowing that what he really meant was he hadn't wanted to talk about Derek and Katherine.

  "We're putting together a schedule for the Macklin Building," he said to his senior staff. "I just got Macklin's lease cancellation; he'll be out in sixty days. That takes us to mid-February, which means if we get moving, we can begin work on it by spring or early summer. But we have to coordinate it with our schedules for the rest of BayBridge."

  They knew he had owned the building for five years but hadn't been able to do anything with it because Ivan Macklin had insisted on a six-year lease before agreeing to sell. What he had never explained to them was why he bought it: a single, rather ordinary building in a decaying neighborhood where no one was talking about redevelopment; where the fu^t thoughts of BayBridge were more than twelve months in the future. By now, with BayBridge a reality, his staff might consider him a wizard for knowing where to buy, and when, and how to negotiate with the developers to keep the building, leasing it to BayBridge Plaza. Well, let them believe it, he thought humorously. Who wouldn't like his staff to think he's got superhuman powers?

  "We're responsible for the renovation, but the more we can use crews as they arrive for BayBridge, the less expensive it will be. What I need is a firm schedule. When can we have the building inspected? When can we get final schematics for the arcade and the renovation of the upper floors? How soon can we bring in a contractor? There's a problem—yes. Donna?"

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  "Ross, I can't find an engineer's report on that building." *That's what I was about to say. There isn't one." "But didn't you get one before you bought it?" 'This building doesn't fit the regular pattern." He looked at them: coworkers, friends, men and women he trusted. "I don't know what happened to the engineer's report; it's missing. But I think there's a chance the foundation is weak. It's only a guess, but if I'm right, it will have to be strengthened, and that means we'll need plans for both repairs and renovation."

  "Well, we'll check the original plans," said Donna practically.

  Ross shook his head. 'That's part of the problem. I'm not sure the building and the plans agree. If they don't, and if there are problems in the foundation, I want them corrected as part of the renovation."

  No one asked why Ross suspected a problem in the building. They had a job to do; they trusted him; and they knew he trusted them. Donna gathered up her notes. "OK; we need a foundation engineer to check the support columns, and the soil they're in. Do you have some favorite engineers, Ross?"

  "I'll give you a couple of names. Now, can we work out a schedule for the Macklin Building and what the rest of you are doing on BayBridge?"

  They settled down to woric. They were the original group Ross had assembled when he opened his firm six years before and they were comfortable together, knowing one another's strengths and weaknesses. Like a family, Ross thought as they left an hour later. But then, as he locked the office door for the night, he contradicted himself. Ross Hay ward Associates was not like a family, because he had chosen its members to balance and respect one another and woric harmoniously as a group. Not like a family, he amended. Not, anyway, like mine.

  Melanie was waiting in the living room when he came in. Her back was to the sliding glass doors that led to the deck and the starry ring of lights encircling the bay—that magnificent scene that made buyers flock to the Tiburon hills, thinking all their problems would
fade away in an atmosphere of such beauty. But Ross knew they didn't. We carry our baggage with

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  US, he thought—the accumulated grievances and tensions of years—and no scenery in the world can even begin to evaporate them.

  Melanie was not looking at the view. She was dropping ice cubes into a martini, concentrating on how much liquid each cube splashed on the Bokhara rug. "You didn't call to say you'd be late. I've been waiting for an hour."

  "I'm sorry. We had a meeting and I lost track of the time. Macklin's moving out, Melanie; I'll finally be able to get into the building." He watched her examine an ice cube and let it fall into her glass; a splash of gin landed on the toe of her alligator shoe. Stubbornly, calling himself a fool, he went on. "We talked about this, remember? The night I brought you the pin from Mettler's and we went to dinner—"

  "The Wildings' party is tonight. I was going to it."

  They stood a few feet apart in the blue-and-gold living room, but the space between them was immeasurable. "Why don't you go, then?" Ross asked.

  "Because I'm ashamed to show my face! Everyone there knows about my party; how can I tell them I'm not having it after all?"

  "Which party?"

  "Which party! You know damn well which party! The one you canceled!"

  "I didn't cancel the party. Only the garden and the ballroom."

  "Only! Only! That was where I planned it! Where would you like me to put three hundred and fifty people? In our cozy living room? In your precious Macklin Building? It was going to be the party of the year—and if you had any sense you'd know that would help your business, too! I've been working on it for weeks—the decorations, the food, the invitations— and you decided, without telling me, you bastard—you didn't want it, so you made one telephone call and canceled everything I'd done. You humiliated me with the Fairmont and with my friends—these things never stay secret!—you had no right to treat me that way!"

  Ross walked to the bar and poured a straight Scotch. "You're right, 1 apologize."

  "You what?"

  "I apologize. It was a cruel thing to do and I'm sorry." 172

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  *Then you'll call them back!"

  "No." He downed his drink and poured another and walked toward Melanie. "I didn't apologize for canceling the Fairmont; I apologized for the way I did it. You've already given two parties this year at fifteen thousand dollars apiece. You've spent almost forty thousand dollars in the past six months on clothes and entertaining and trips. We can't afford your Fairmont party. Does it occur to you that I work for a living, that I do not enjoy an infinitely expanding income— Come back here; I'm talking to you!"

  Ignoring Ross, Melanie went to the bar and filled her glass from the martini pitcher. Watching her, Ross realized suddenly she'd never worn that pin he'd brought from Mettler's. But they hadn't talked that night, either, as he'd hoped they would; Melanie had accepted the gift with a brief kiss and then talked nonstop all through dinner, amusingly, as she could when she tried; mainly about the children.

  She was not trying to amuse him now; her face was stony as she dropped ice cubes into her drink, listening to him. "We're going to change a few things," he told her. "From now on you'll have two thousand dollars a month for household expenses. That includes your lipsticks and lace stockings and Godiva caramels. When you want to buy out Wilma's designer clothes or give parties, you'll have to come to me so we can share those decisions. Is that clear? I'm sick of writing checks for a greedy child who gives me nothing as a woman: no companionship, no sex, not even friendship—"

  "You mean you'll write the checks if I earn them, is that it? You'll buy my services. What do I get for one screw? A pair of shoes? Does a blow job get me a matching purse? What do I have to do to give a party at the— "'

  "Be quiet!" he roared. "You don't have the faintest idea what I'm talking about. Do you know—I thought of going to Victoria this evening, to talk about my day, but I decided instead I'd come home to my wife and share with her the things that are hugely important to me. I thought I'd give it one more—"

  *Then you're a fool."

  **Oh, yes; that's quite true. But now that we both know that, I think it's time I stopped being one. Are you clear on how we're going to handle our finances from now on?"

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  "I will not come to you for permission to spend money."

  "You will come to me for every major expenditure over your monthly budget."

  With a scream, Melanie flung her glass at him. Ross jerked to the side and watched the glass shatter against an oil painting he had bought in New York the year they were married.

  "When you calm down," he said, his voice like steel, "we will talk about money and anything else that needs settling."

  "I don't want to talk to you!" she screamed. "You bastard, you're only doing this because Derek was helping me plan that party—"

  "Derek?"

  "You knew that!"

  "No. I didn't. But Derek had nothing to do with—"

  "You're lying. Why else would you cancel my party? You never did anything like that before!" Her voice rose higher. "You're always worse when your brother's involved; you're jealous of him because Curt always liked him better—poor little Ross, his daddy loved his brother best—you even ran away to New York to get away from him. And now you're making my life miserable because he's my friend. Everybody thinks you're so nice. My God, if they only knew!"

  Very carefully, Ross put down his glass. "Melanie, listen to me. This has nothing to do with Derek. This is between us. I don't want to make your life miserable—I don't want to destroy anything—I want to find the way back to what we had a long time ago. There were so many wonderful things, especially in New York—"

  "Well there aren't any more! There haven't been for a long time!" She was breathless. "I've been a perfect wife, I've done everything you wanted—I even moved here from New York when I didn't want to—I left all my friends and my mother and daddy—and you treat me like a child—you're cold and . . . heartless!" Her arms outstretched, she stepped like a tightrope walker around the broken glass. "I'll tell you what you can do. Draw me one of your fancy blueprints about how you're going to make it up to me for humiliating me in front of everyone. I'll look it over when I get back. See if I like it or not." In a few steps she was at the front door, yanking it open and slamming it shut behind her.

  Ross stood in the silence of the living room, then slowly

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  walked to the broken glass and bent to pick up the pieces. As he did so, a sound made him glance up. At the top of the stairs, in frozen stillness, sat his children, listening.

  Thursday, December 10, was circled on Katherine's calendar. Eight A.M.; Mettler's. As the day approached, Jennifer and Todd grew as tense as their mother. "He'll think they're wonderful," Jennifer said, watching Katherine polish a pendant of blued steel, the closest she could come, on her budget, to silver.

  Todd jumped on the couch and intoned in a deep voice, "My dear Mrs. Fraser, these are so good they will be whizzed to England and given to the queen, and when she sees them she'll jump on the Concorde and fly to San Francisco and parachute to our doorstep—if she can find it in the lousy fog— and say here's a million dollars, please give me enough jewelry for my family and friends and every single person in the, what's it caUed, House of Something—"

  "Parliament," said Jennifer.

  "No, House of Ordinary, something like that—"

  Katherine burst out laughing. "Commons. Todd, you're wonderful, and I hope it all comes true."

  "Am I wonderful, Mom?"

  "Yes." She was concentrating on a curve in the steel.

  *Then how come I never get any attention around here?"

  "Oh, Lord." She put down the pendant. Swiveling on her stool, she held out her arms and Todd jumped down and came to her. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. There's so much to do before tomorrow morning."

  "Yeh, I know." He looked at her closel
y. "Mom—if this guy likes them, and buys a whole bunch, and you make a bunch of money ..."

  "Yes?"

  "You won't need Daddy anymore, will you?"

  Holding Todd, Katherine's arms tensed. She looked to Jennifer, standing watchfully nearby, and Jennifer came to her rescue.

  'That's really stupid, Todd. Do we only want Daddy back because he earns money or because we love him?"

  "Because we love him, but—" Todd frowned, trying to recapture his train of thought. But Jennifer had confused him

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  and, a little later, when they went to bed, he still had not puzzled it out.

  But Katherine knew he would, and would bring it up again. Because he and Jennifer were beginning to recognize that there were many kinds of need. We'll talk about it, she thought— one of these days. When I know what to say. When I know what I feel about Craig.

  He watched her. His picture stared at her over the jewelry samples and sketches she would take to Herman Mettler in the morning. Her chin in her hand, Katherine looked steadily back at him, recalling the small warm details of their life together. But when she tried to recapture her contentment, all the way back to the day Craig took her to their first apartment in Vancouver and made love to her on the floor while they waited for the furniture to be delivered, she could not do it. It was gone. And she had no time to try to retrieve it. In spite of herself, her eyes slid from Craig's picture to her jewelry and sketches, and her thoughts moved ahead, to her appointment and what more she could do that night to make it a success.

  "Ah, yes," rumbled Herman Mettler, arranging Katherine's four pieces like the points of a compass. They seemed small and insignificant beneath his splayed fingers on the polished emptiness of his desk. "Marc told me you were working in Tony's studio. A strong personality, Tony. Strong influence."

  'Those are my own designs." Katherine handed him her sketches, bound in a folder. "So are these."

  "No doubt, no doubt. But influence is like an aroma from a distant restaurant; you find yourself cooking onion soup for dinner without realizing that during the day you were inspired by inhaling its scent. However. Let's see what you have. Tony, after all, is better than onion soup."