Possessions

by Judith Michael

  She picked up a piece of polished lucite and closed her hand around its cool surface. The tightness inside her began to ease. This was where she was happiest. The frustrating weeks of April, when she could not draw a sketch or begin a piece of jewelry, had ended, astonishingly, almost as soon as she walked away from Derek in Ghirardelli Square, seven weeks ago. It was as if in escaping from the web of his charm and cruelty, the dominance of his power and sexual magnetism, she suddenly discovered herself. By freeing herself of needing Derek, she had freed her own energy and inventiveness, and since that

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  night, her imagination had soared. Images came to her: bold shapes and vivid colors, exotic combinations and fantastic designs too complicated for jewelry, but containing some single idea that she could use—and those were the ones she put on paper. Sketches flowed from her pencil as fast as her hand could move, followed by watercolor paintings of the best of them and, finally, models of the twelve she chose for the collection she would take to Mettler.

  The hours and days had passed in silent absorption, in the same circle of contentment Katherine had felt when she made her first gold bracelet. She was satisfied to be alone. Now and then she thought of Derek, but only fleetingly and always with relief that it was over. Leslie stopped by occasionally, to share a quick supper or cup of coffee, but she always left, with an indulgent laugh and a kiss, when Katherine's attention wandered to her worktable. At dinner one night Victoria and Tobias told Katherine that Ross and Melanie had separated, but she felt only casual interest and a flicker of regret that she and Ross had never become friends. She was caught up in the excitement of her work; it tugged at her demandingly, making everything else seem distant and faint. And so she spent most of her time alone or with Jennifer and Todd in their small apartment until eleven pieces of jewelry lay nestled in individual boxes and the twelfth, almost finished, was in her hand: a necklace of clear lucite ovals alternating with small, irregularly shaped chunks of lucite in deep shades of burnt orange, like small pieces of the setting sun.

  "Sensuous and aloof," Mettler said admiringly soon after Katherine arrived on Friday morning. Leaning far back in his chair, he let the necklace slip slowly through his fingers and glanced across his desk at the boxes lined up in front of Katherine.

  He had reached for them when she first came in, but after shaking hands, she had moved away and sat down even before he invited her to. Gone were the days when Katherine would give over her jewehy or sketches to be viewed at the whim of someone else while she clenched her hands and waited for criticism. She had learned from watching Derek manage encounters so that they included only the subjects he wanted, and lasted only as long as he wanted. She had learned from Derek how to withhold something—a conmient, a smile, a hand-

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  shake, a piece of information—until the time when it could be used to control.

  She had never put his tricks into practice until Herman Mettler reached for her jewelry boxes. Smiling, she shook her head. "I'd rather show them to you," she said softly and casually rested her arm along the gleaming surface of his desk, the sleeve of her suit jacket pulled back just enough to reveal two bracelets on her wrist.

  Mettler frowned with sudden concentration. "I'd like to see those."

  "Of course." Removing them slowly, making him wait, she laid the two bracelets in the palm of his hand. He picked up one of them—strands of ivory beads twisted with strands of red and dove-gray stones in different sizes and shapes, fastened with a silver clasp like a small palette embedded with three red stones. "Bone, camelian, and gray agate," Katherine said as Mettler examined the strands. 'The clasp is silver, set with camelian. It could be gold, if a customer wished, though in that case I would replace the gray agate with black onyx." He gave her a piercing look and she returned it calmly, one hand clenched so tightly in her lap it was numb. He turned back and picked up the other bracelet, a smoothly curved band. "Gold," Katherine said, though of course he knew it. "Bisected by a strip of onyx marble."

  Mettler slipped the bracelets over the upraised fingers of his hands, and examined them. "Why did you wear them together?"

  'To get your attention."

  He began to smile. They both knew the bracelets—one flamboyant, the other exquisitely restrained—should not be worn together. "You succeeded. What else did you bring me?"

  "Do you have any other questions about these?"

  He sighed—amused, annoyed, curious—and let her run the interview. "Not at the moment."

  "You'll want the price list." Katherine slid a blue folder across the desk. "You'll find photographs and descriptions of each piece. Now, for the necklaces ..." Opening one of the boxes, she took out the strand of clear lucite alternating with burnt orange, slipped it over her head so he could see it against her black turtleneck sweater, then removed it and handed it to him.

  He slipped it through his fingers. "Brilliantly simple. And 270

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  a different medium from the others. Have you mastered them aU?"

  "Not precious stones; I won't be working with them. I like semiprecious stones, glass, gold, and silver. And lucite now and then, for relaxation."

  "Indeed. Relaxation."

  Katherine had stopped trembling. Bringing out her other pieces one at a time, she described them in a voice that grew increasingly confident as she saw Mettler lower his eyes like a poker player to hide their gleam of excitement. But he gave in to emotion when Katherine held up her last piece: a necklace of gold segments, roughly shaped, hammered to an antique finish and fastened together with short double strands of tiny, geometric, bezel-set stones in amber, blue, and deep green.

  "Magnificent!" he burst out, almost snatching the necklace from her. He turned it in his hands, murmuring to himself. 'Totally new, yet almost ancient. Modem, but echoing of the past. Katherine." He looked up and for the first time his voice was without pomposity. "I salute you. An extraordinary collection, free of the commonplace, free of other influences. Excellent throughout."

  Katherine flushed, her heart pounding. She had sometimes been alarmed by the flights of her imagination, but she had trusted them, and, combining them with the techniques she had mastered in Tony's studio, had done what she dreamed of: created pieces that were completely new and beautiful.

  "We'll feature you, of course," Mettler was saying. "In the showcases at the front of the store. A full frontal attack," he added, chuckling with satisfaction. "We can't market you to a specific clientele, since you fit in no narrow category, but we'll make that a virtue and introduce you as a designer for all our customers—the same way we handle Marc Landau and Angela Cummings and Paloma Picasso. And the publicity—! My God, I can get stories on these designs wherever I want. Spectacular photos, and your own story, of course: human interest. Divorced, are you? Beautiful woman, children—you do have children?—they help. Struggling night and day to support your young children with the work of your hands—and such work! Such talent! We'll get you in Vogue, Cosmo, Savvy —different markets—and I'll take full-page ads . . . 'Jewelry by Katherine Fraser—exclusive at Mettler's.'"

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  Katherine looked up sharply from the torrent of his praise and heady plans. "We never discussed that."

  "True. But obviously you understand it is to your benefit to be connected with one store where you are well-treated, where customers know they will always find your work, where your newest pieces will get immediate exposure. I'll have a contract drawn up and of course you'll want to read it; if you want a lawyer to look it over, let me recommend—"

  "Just a minute, please." Katherine tried to imagine how Derek would regain control of a conversation after he had lost it. "I'm afraid this is a little too fast for me. We haven't discussed the price list I gave you."

  "Katherine. I am offering you a showplace. I won't quibble over prices and you won't try to rob me. After all, I know what the market will bear. We'll get along, never fear. But I want you exclusiv
ely. The same thing you want: security."

  "I just don't know." It might be all right, but it bothered her. It's like a marriage, she thought wryly; locked into one person, whatever happens . . . And Mettier was pressing her— all business, no jokes—which probably meant he knew others would want her, too. Would it increase her value, or decrease it, to sell only through one store? I've never had to cope with success, she thought, and said, "I can't decide this minute. I never even thought of an exclusive contract; I wasn't that far along. If you won't wait for me to get some advice, periiaps I should go somewhere else."

  "My dear Katherine," said Mettier hastily. "You shock me. I never give ultimatums. But if you reflect a bit, you'll see that it is to your advantage. In fact, I can't imagine why you would refuse. Unless" —he frowned at a sudden thought— "is it possible these are not actually your own designs? I would have to be privy to that infonnation. Tell me, Katherine, is all this truly yours? It is quite amazing, you know, for someone to create highly original designs only a few months after making a collection that was quite ordinary. A transformation, you might say. I could not, of course, advertise the line as Katherine Eraser's if you used other—Katherine!"

  Shaking with shock and outrage, Katherine was sweeping the jewelry across his desk, letting it fall over the edge into her purse. "I cannot believe," she said icily, "you would jeop-

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  ardize a business relationship you were so anxious to make exclusive. It's a strange way to do business and I don't want to have anything to do with it. I'll find someone else to carry my jewelry. My . . . grandmother, whom I think you know, Victoria Hayward, says she frequently shops at Laykin Et Cie and Xavier's; it will be interesting to see what they think of my designs. My designs, Herman; Katherine Eraser originals. I'm sorry we wasted so much time this morning; it won't happen again."

  "Now Katherine, just a minute. Just a minute." Mettler walked around the desk, holding his splayed fingers in a small gesture of apology. "I regret seeming to impugn your integrity. But my integrity is on the line in every display case in my store and I must guard it religiously. If I say an item is an original, my customers believe me. Marc Landau is an original; unscrupulous manufacturers copy him—he expects it, in spite of the fact that jewelry designs are copyrighted—but Marc Landau copies no one; that is why his pieces command exorbitant prices. I am not interested in jewelry copied with minor variations from Marc Landau or Elsa Peretti or—as inevitably will happen—Katherine Eraser; I am interested only in originals. My customers trust me; I must be able to trust my designers. But come now; we mustn't get too excited."

  Pulling up an armchair, he sat close to Katherine. "Your work is superb. If you say it is yours, I accept that. I will not press you for an exclusive contract, but in the long run, you will do better with me if you have one. I'm making myself clear?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Now, I am buying these pieces, but I want at least a dozen more before I introduce you to the world. I'll wait until fall and feature you then. Is that acceptable?"

  "Yes."

  *Then we will shake hands. We have just begun the career of Katherine Eraser, jewelry designer extraordinaire."

  Holding back the excitement rushing through her, Katherine shook his hand. She would have to sort everything out, ask Claude what he thought about exclusive contracts, and Victoria and Tobias, too. But there was time for that. Eor the moment, even as she and Mettler talked about the pieces she would make

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  for September, she savored his words. Kathehne Fraser. Jewelry designer. Extraordinaire.

  "Katherine and I are celebrating at dinner," Leslie said, pouring coffee for Claude and herself. "Which gives us all day, but not the evening."

  "We'll be done by evening," he responded, settling back on the blue suede of Leslie's couch. "I'd invite myself, but I gather it will be just the two of you."

  "Just the two of us." She sat beside him. "We miss each other when we don't get together often."

  "I like that," he said. He was admiring her, thinking she was like a summer flower: white jeans, yellow shirt, bright red hair against the blue couch. "And I envy it. How many men can say, without embarrassment, that they miss each other when they're not together often enough?"

  "Maybe they don't miss each other."

  "I think they do. But it doesn't sound manly. Whatever that means."

  Leslie sliced coffee cake. "I made this. First time in years. Oddest thing." But what was truly odd, she knew, was that after six weeks of dinners with Claude, drives in the country and weekends at Tahoe, she was feeling domestic urges she hadn't felt since she was a romantic twenty, wondering which of a dozen handsome up-and-coming professionals she would marry. "Bruce!" she exclaimed as the front door opened, and she leaped up to hug her brother.

  Claude looked at the two flaming, curiy heads close together, and at the slice of spiraled coffee cake on his plate, and heard in his mind Leslie's warm voice, talking about her friendship with Katherine. My God, he thought, I'm in love with her. Tough, aggressive, beautiful, but with a sharp jaw, and an unladylike vocabulary—and thirty-seven this fall. A long way from fantasy. He laughed silently as he became aware of the relief surging through him: never again to have to keep up with a twenty-year-old.

  "Welcome home," Leslie said, her cheek against Bruce's. "I missed you. This is Claude Fleming—my brother Bruce McAlister. Have some cake and coffee. How was the vacation?"

  "Not vacation, sis, a sincere attempt to be a wild youth 274

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  again with my cohorts in Lx)s Angeles—only it failed. I kept thinking about Heath's and the bastard who stole my notes and ripped off the store—so here I am, ready to solve your whodunit, clear my name, and go back to work and by the way, when it's all finished, I want to be the new head of Data Processing."

  Hiding a smile, Claude said, "It sounds like you think someone framed you,"

  "Bright fellow, got it in one." Bruce took a piece of cake. "Sis warned me not to talk; sounds like she talked to you."

  "Claude is my lawyer," Leslie said coolly. "Yours, too, if things get rough, so be polite."

  "I'm a gentleman, sis, you know that. Why a lawyer?"

  "Because everything pointed to Data Processing or store security—or both—and either one meant me. Rumors were flying and I was on the verge of being forced out—until Claude threatened to sue everyone including the mannequins if they broke my contract. Then my president piped up that he really believes in me, and nothing would be done until we have a storewide inventory after the June sale. So I'm being left alone. At least until July."

  "Most important," Claude put in, "the thefts have stopped."

  "Since when?" Bruce demanded.

  "Since the day someone brought your notes to Leslie.'*

  "Ah ha! You see, when they aimed the finger at me they had to stop their evil doings . . . what's wrong, sis?"

  "You don't seem to understand. The thefts stopped at the same time you stopped working there."

  Bruce gaped at her, his eyebrows moving as if on a spring. He looked from Claude to Leslie. "What half-assed son of a bitch would believe that?"

  "My fellow vice-presidents," Leslie said, thinking: And I nearly did, until Katherine talked to me about things like loyalty and trust.

  "Christ, sis," Bruce sputtered. "I did good woik there, doesn't my record count, how can they look at everything I've done for them and think—"

  "Cut it out," Claude snapped. "Everything points to you, and running off to Los Angeles didn't help. What are you going to do about it?"

  "Tough lawyer, sis." Bruce sighed deeply. "Well, I see it's

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  up to me. I have figured out that the villain is Dick Volpe, my boss, head of the department, and I'm the only one who can check it by going through his programs because I cracked his password one day when I was bored—"

  "Password?" Claude asked.

  "We each have our own, like
a code, that lets us work on our own programs; you can type all day and get nothing on the screen if you don't know the password—su{^x>sed to keep out spies and such—"

  "But you figiired out Volpe's."

  "I'm smarter than your average spy; so sis, how's about you give me your master key and I'll take a look around my old office." He held out his hand.

  "Bnice, you're out of your mind. I can't give keys to non-employees. I can't even take you into Data Processing."

  Qaude coughed. "If you'll excuse me . . . back in a minute."

  After a bewildered pause, Leslie burst out laughing. "You know where it is." As he went upstairs, she stood. "OK, let's go. Seems Claude tnists you and thinks you ought to take a look around but he doesn't want to know we're violating company pohcy. He'll wait for us here. Come on, damn it! How long do you think he can stay in the bathroom?"

  "Forty seconds, if he pees normally. How come he knew where it was?"

  "He's been there before."

  "How often?"

  "Often enough to keep a spare shaver in the cabinet. Are you being protective, Bruce?"

  "Hell, no, I'm l)eing approving—best choice in a long time— tough and cool and think of all that free legal advice." He kissed her loudly. "Good for you, sis."

  "Hey," she protested. "Nothing's settled."

  "Good vibes, though. OK, all is well; let's go solve this thing."

  With no children to keep him company in the morning, Ross began arriving at the office earlier each day. He liked the cool morning quiet of the streets as he drove down the hill from his house, everything hushed and still, like a painting about to burst into life. Only the joggers were out, their shoes slapping

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  the pavement. As they passed, Ross returned their exuberant greetings with a wave of his hand, sharing with them that private moment suspended in sunlight above the fog that obliterated the Golden Gate Bridge and the skyline of San Francisco. Others slept, but they savored the morning.

  Driving down the hill, Ross followed the boundary of the university campus with its smooth, sloping lawns and earth-tone buildings. Above it all rose the slender Campanile Tower, a white beacon visible for miles. In the afternoons, when Ross reversed the trip and the tower came into view, it beckoned, telhng him he was almost home.