What I Did for Love

by Tessa Dane

  “You say that now,” he challenged, “but why should you go through with it?”

  “I don’t know.” And I really didn’t know. “Maybe for pride, to prove that I keep my word.” He was right, no one could say for sure what they would have done. But I was pretty sure I would have come here anyway.

  What he still didn’t seem to grasp was the fact that, with all the spanking and all the frantic ways in which he thought he was using me without regard for my pleasure or feelings, I had been hot for his body, his penis thrusting, his tongue in every secret place, that sexual cloud of sensation that wiped out all other thought. Yes, I was sore, and I would have memories of tonight in my body all through the coming week at least. I regretted none of that. My regret was that I could not love him back, that we had not been able to play, to recapture the joys and the sweetness of the first day we had met.

  I pulled the rain cape over me and went to open the door. He was sitting by the fireplace, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, not looking at me as I quietly slipped out. I knew he would pull himself together enough to open the gate, and sure enough, the latch disengaged as I approached. To my surprise, his car was waiting. Tom was talking on the phone, about to hang up, and I practically ran around the block, onto the side street, out of sight of him.

  The car was parked facing north, to take me home, and I wanted no witness, even Tom, to my leaving Rand’s house at that hour. I was still paranoid, wanting no one to find out what I had done. I had a little time until Tom would phone Rand to ask where I was. Rand would probably tell him to cruise the streets to look for me.

  In the little time I had, I ran toward a doorman and asked, please, can you call a cab for me? I made myself look nervous and naïve, and the doorman whistled a cab as it crossed the avenue, helping me into the car to my repeated thanks.

  I knew Tom would drive to my apartment, and wait there if necessary to ensure my arrival. I had no intention of being there. I phoned one of the boutique hotels where we sometimes held college parties, and booked a room. St. Mary’s was right down the block, a happy irony, yet one that comforted my heart.

  Paying the cabdriver in cash, giving him a huge tip that had him thanking me as many times as I had thanked the doorman, I ran out of the cab and to the desk, signing in as Mary Cole. The concierge signaled a porter to show me my room, and I gave him a large bill, closed the door and bolted it, pulled off my clothes, and fell into bed into what I had as a child jokingly called “the sleep of death” – an expression I never used again after our parents had been killed.

  I got back home late Saturday night to find my message light flashing. “Pls. call when home. R.”

  So my eluding Tom had worried him. Good. I quickly swallowed the Plan B first pill, and stored my tote with its Balthus girl costume in the secret closet. I would have to find a way to be sure it was burned in the incinerator. Stowing my Mary Cole credit card with other account material in the locked safe drawer inside the closet, I swung the door back and it became a wall again.

  I sent the text, “Home,” made sure all the ringers on my phones were off, and ran a soothing oatmeal tub to soak my stillsore body. Tomorrow I would call Ren, tell him I had broken up with my boyfriend, and ask him to check me out for everything. I said an urgent prayer, addressing of all the heavenly beings I could think of, that Ren find nothing after blood tests and smears. If my body still looked sore to him, I hoped he would assume that that was the reason for the breakup.

  I was exhausted with my own web of lies and subterfuge, and after soaking in the tub and feeling soothed, I lay in bed and watched comedies on television, reading in snatches from the Saturday/Sunday Times sections that I had set on the floor next to my bed. I hoped I would have the energy to go to church tomorrow. There was much to be thankful for: the Business section had large headlines with the news of Bredon’s triumph in a first-of-its-kind multi-national financial deal. I felt hot tears of relief as I read the story, then turned out the lights, and prayed that the bargain and the fearfulness of these past weeks became a soon-forgotten dream.

  XV

  Bredon’s wedding was announced for late summer, heavy vellum and rag paper invitations with their raised black lettering:

  “Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Maxwell Cleves request the honor of your presence at the wedding of their daughter, Ariana Arden Cleves, to Mr. Bredon Matthews Cooper…”

  There were love stamps on the invitation and reply envelopes, a concession Mrs. Cleves had made with impatient resignation after sitting with stamp dealers to find stamps that pictured at least one of their many distinguished ancestors. There were such stamps, but of such low denominations that she would have had to put stamps across the tops of the envelopes in two rows. The dealers persuaded her to use the love stamps as the best solution. They benefitted anyway, because Mrs. Cleves ordered three special albums of all the stamps with pictures of anyone related to her in American history. Many of the stamps were costly, and the order was unusual and profitable.

  Robin, Dina and I had taken a week to trek around Paris, but I had to get back to be a bridesmaid for Ree. I had thought to resist, or outright decline, but Bredon looked so happy at the thought, and Ree so gracious, there was no way out except graciousness in return. Seeing Bredon’s joy, I was sincere when I thanked Ree for asking me. Still, the fittings and rehearsals and the short time of preparation would make for craziness. I told Robin and Dina to stay close and help me maintain distance and sanity. They were glad to do it, to be close to what was going to be a highlight of the season, the stir, rush, and designer luxury already causing chatter in fashion and financial circles.

  Thank heaven, Ree’s mother was a paragon of organization and authority, a take-charge personality, but too well-bred to grate or rasp. I actually grew fond of Mrs. Cleves, who looked like a parody of an old-fashioned opera singer, all bosom and voice, insisting on her way, not to be denied. Ree’s slender figure must have come from some genetic swerve, her stocky father a match for her mother’s substantial presence.

  Her mother’s kind but insistent arrangements were actually a relief for Ree, and for all of us. Ree was spared the endless details of planning that I also would have hated. She continued her work with a high-end publisher of fine art books and scholarly books on arcane subjects, such as the life of the Beguines in Belgium, a group of non-religious celibate women whose order endured even today. The publishing company was run by an old, wealthy family who saw these sorts of books as a family cultural mission. Ree would escape to work when her own fittings were done, her gown of course a major secret, to be revealed only when she began her bridal procession.

  Her mother made sure that all the women in the bridal party had closed shoes and only moderate heels, because the wedding would take place outdoors at the Cleves estate in the Hamptons, on a beautiful rise overlooking the water. Great open-sided tents were being set up for the luncheon, their sides able to be lowered and closed, and air conditioning fed into the tents if the ocean breezes failed. Emergency tents for the whole area were at the ready if it dared to rain.

  The guest list was small, maybe fifty people, only closest family and friends. Parties would be given for wider circles of friends and acquaintances when Ree and Bredon returned from their honeymoon. I thought the whole idea was wonderful.

  So we were relieved from the fashion books, sketches, debates, and meetings with designers. Mrs. Cleves surveyed the bridesmaids: me, and Ree’s oldest brother’s daughter, Charlotte; one married sister who would be matron of honor; and Ree’s best friend Suzanne, who would be maid of honor. That double “honor” was a family compromise, the one thing Ree insisted on. Mrs. Cleves chose a gown that managed to flatter all our figures, and Mr. Cleves and Bredon arranged the men’s formal wear.

  I did not care what I wore and went to fittings as instructed, Robin and Dina with me to tease and praise, and we roamed about the city afterward. I had only made one request of Mrs. Cleves, that the gown she chose would actually c
over me, showing less skin and more silk. The almost-bare wedding fashions for women made me uncomfortable. I did not understand how bridegrooms could be in such gorgeous formal dress, all covered and manly, and the brides half naked, their gowns straight across the top of their breasts, dipping to show their backs almost to their waists. I had been so admiring of the wedding gown that Kate Middleton wore, for its lacy modesty. To my relief, Ree and her mother shared my views, which made Dina and Robin cheer when I told them.

  Were we throwbacks? I didn’t care. We would come to Ree’s house to have lunch after the fittings, and Ree’s father seemed to love our presence, a trio of chatter and youth, distracting him from the wedding frenzy. Bredon reported that when we were not around, Mr. Cleves found ways to hide out, going to his office to read the paper in peace, or taking Bredon and Ren to lunch, or finding civic obligations to fulfill. I saw Ree’s character in his quiet sweetness. She was so like her father. My brother was going to have great in-laws, and my only tearfulness was in my solitary times when I thought of how my parents would have loved to see my brother married. That ache in my heart made me cry when I was alone. Three years an orphan. An eternity of loss.

  The one secret note through all the summer was Rand. He had never apologized for his roughness in our bargain, but a week after our parting he had sent me a text: “Can you have lunch with me today?” Just like that, as though all had always been normal and friendly between us.

  The text made me flush with remembrance, but I did not want to risk anyone noticing a familiarity between us. Not until more time had passed, and I had again set clear terms with Rand about never giving away what we had done.

  I texted back, “Can’t.”

  The next day he phoned. “We can have lunch,” he said, saying nothing that would give anything away. He distrusted electronic communication as much as I did.

  “Maybe after the wedding,” I lied, having no intention of seeing him.

  There had been so much activity after our last meeting, our Paris trek, the wedding, the stir over Bredon’s success in the international deal, my relief that he was now bought out of it, as was Rand. I had had no time to sort out my feelings about Rand, or to figure out anything about the two weekends with him. I only knew I was glad I had done it, for my own ridiculous passion for his body, and for Bredon above all.

  Then a note came that Marilisa delivered to me. I think she thought I had an old-fashioned secret admirer, though she neither pried nor changed expression when she gave it to me. The note said, “I will be at the wedding. One dance?”

  I had forgotten that of course he would be there. Would he bring a woman with him? Earlier in the summer, when Robin had returned and said his name, I had simply shaken my head, and treasure that she was, she did not raise the subject again. But I couldn’t ask her now to listen for the gossip. Whoever he brought, I determined not to care. And I would not have a date per se. My escort was the groomsman who would be my partner in the wedding procession, a handsome fellow, Ree’s cousin. His name was Andrew Fortier, twenty-three, in graduate school, an economics major. I would learn more about him later, but Ree gave me a rundown and a picture, and I happily nodded at the prospect of a normal, nice, regular young man to dance with and sit with and maybe get to know better after the wedding.

  There would be many family members from Ree’s side, few from ours. Our great-aunt Caroline Hartfield would be there, her son Holt, and his son Charles Efram. We were great-cousins, second and third cousins, but we all just called each other “cousin.” There were too few of us to worry about degrees of connection. Connection itself was all that mattered. Cousin Holt’s wife and daughter would be in Europe on a long-planned trip that Mrs. Cleves urged them not to cancel, reassuring them that the post-honeymoon parties would be plenty of time for all the family members to be together.

  In the midst of the preparations, we took the time to attend a party for Robin’s cousin, Stuart van Dehn, who had just landed a job with a hedge fund, a short path to wealth. The party was at the private club used by old money and some new money, for social functions. Stuart’s father had a membership, and therefore the right to reserve the club’s “events room.” When the room was set up for a young people’s party such as we were having, the effect would be a nightclub atmosphere, and it had a flashing retro neon sign that said “Escapes.” Robin and I thought it was a perfectly good name to describe the bankers and hedge fund managers who had escaped prison and fines in the great crash some years before.

  Robin had shyly invited Bredon and Ree, to thank them for being so open to our college girl trio during the wedding preparations. They had been charmed but had gently declined, telling Robin that “the young people should celebrate.” As though they were so ancient, though I must confess, I sometimes felt so old compared to my age peers, my life filled with too many powerful events compressed into three short years.

  I determined to be the young person that I was, though, and with Robin’s encouragement to find some nice young guys for the party, I invited my cousin Charles, along with Andrew Fortier, my groomsman partner. There must have been thirty of us at the party, including Stuart’s former classmates and longtime friends, and their dates and friends. Because Stuart was in his twenties, as were most of the guests, no one paid attention to the underage status of three young women. It was no problem anyway, because Dina and Robin and I had decided in advance not to drink, just in case something or someone made trouble at a time so close to Bredon’s wedding. None of us was that interested in drinking anyway, Robin practically never having even wine, and Dina from a family of conservative Protestants whose old traditions held alcohol to be sinful.

  We danced and joked and met everyone, but pretty much managed to hold a table for the three of us, to which Charles and Andrew also gravitated after meeting this or that person. Stuart liked Dina, it was obvious, so he spent a lot of time talking with her and dancing with her and just hanging out at our table. And my cousin Charles was the surprise for Robin.

  “He’s gorgeous,” she whispered to me when he had gone for what must have been by now the hundredth bunch of glasses of seltzer with lime for our table. “I wish he were Jewish.”

  “Actually, he is,” I giggled, watching her grow big-eyed. “His mother is Jewish, so he is too, right?”

  “Your cousin Holt married a Jewish girl? Did they make her convert?”

  “No, don’t be ridiculous. This isn’t the middle ages.”

  “Oh my God, Dray, do you know you’ve pulled off a miracle for me; a guy I like who’s Jewish!”

  “Think of what your mother will say,” I commented drily, looking pleased with myself. She was speechless, so I said, “It’s like Hanukah in Israel. ‘A great miracle happened here’.”

  “Ooh, you’re really too much,” she laughingly growled at me, but looking only at my cousin Charles.

  He liked her too, and when she could maneuver to sit next to him, she told him as though casually that she was Jewish, and he said his mother was too, and he had been bar mitzvahed and also confirmed, so he was sure to find at least one way to get to heaven. Both of his ceremonies had been small events, not like the all-out blasts that Robin’s two older brothers had had. Robin had declined a big party for her bat mitzvah, preferring a trip with her parents and her younger brother. On they chatted. They say that weddings are places where future spouses meet, but maybe this party would do a similar magic for Robin.

  Andrew, meanwhile, was as courtly and gentle and funny as I could wish, with a sweet sense of humor, that graciousness about him that seemed to be everywhere in Ree’s family. He had me laughing, which delighted him, his eyes warm and bright, very deep brown. The band had started playing a set of standards, the band leader humorously challenging the young people to do their grandparents’ fox trot, so that we swarmed out onto the floor in laughing pairs.

  Andrew had taken my waist very tentatively and gently as we began, but I put a firm hand on his shoulder, enjoying his youth and sw
eetness and the happy disbelief in his eyes that we were so easy and comfortable together. We were just close enough that I could feel his hard, strong body under the formal suit he wore, and he could surely feel enough of my curves to know that I was feeling comfortably slinky in his arms. It felt so long since I had found this much joy in the still-innocent touch of a man, it was like a sweet breeze in my soul.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  “So are you,” I replied, and he laughed too, and said, “I’m glad you think so!”

  We danced on the crowded floor until the end of the set, maybe eight songs, each riffing into the next, then drifted back to the table. Robin had returned with Charles; Dina and Stuart were off somewhere.

  I was beginning to fade beyond my happiness to keep me awake. “Andrew, I’m a truly early-to-bed type, and I have to get home. But it’s been so nice, I hate to leave.”

  “Let me see you home,” he said eagerly.

  “Not necessary,” I replied, reaching into the tiny pocket for my phone.

  “Wow, it’s a small one,” he exclaimed, seeing me hit the numbers with one hand, and then the key signaling Bredon’s driver.

  “I hate big phones,” I told him.

  Robin added, “And she hates handbags and a long list of other things that most people can’t do without.” She said this with mock resignation, and Andrew, smiling at her, helped bring my shawl around my shoulders and led me through the crowd, attentive, happy.

  As we came into the lobby on our way to my car, my happiness and sleepiness competing with each other, Andrew said, “May I call you tomorrow?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “Ree will give you my number. Tell her I said you can even text.” That would be Ree’s signal that it was okay to tell him.

  As Andrew was handing me into the car, I saw another figure on the steps. Rand. He had a beautiful woman with him, willowy figure, both of them in formal attire. Andrew closed the door and stepped back, and I waved to him, but in a quick glance I saw Rand, turning abruptly toward me as he recognized me, his face darkly serious, angry, startling the woman beside him who evidently had been talking to him.