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Dreams Are Not Enough

Page 49

by Jacqueline Briskin


  The phones in the house hadn’t been connected, so she went with PD and Barry to take her turn at the one in PD’s Rolls as they canceled appointments and lunch dates.

  Maxim stayed on the patio, one bony leg over the other, the foot jiggling nervously. “Why did you really come back?” he asked.

  “Two reasons. Alice wants to sell the house. I wanted to see you—and the others.”

  “You’re obviously aware that we knew your, uhh, death was no accident, but Lang threatened us out of an investigation.”

  “Yes, Alice told me. So you and the others can stop walking on eggs as if I’m about to detonate.”

  “And you haven’t voiced a single recrimination? You really are cut out to wear the long robes.”

  “Believe me, Maxim, I was plenty bitter at first. As a matter of fact, it took me nearly a year before I could think about you or the others without hot, murderous urges.” He shrugged. “Today it’s just good being here with you guys.”

  “I’d have liked to see Lang get his, Hap. Believe me, I’d have loved to see him rot in jail for several concurrent lifetimes. But I was chicken . . . chicken.” The cloud had passed, and the remorseless December light carved hollows into Maxim’s angular face.

  “Don’t you think I have my own guilts, Maxim? God, how I wanted to come back for Dad’s funeral—and Mother’s, too.”

  “She at least went in her sleep.”

  Hap held his fingers on his forehead, using his hand to shield his expression of misery.

  After a minute’s silence, Maxim said, “So you finally snagged Alyssia—Alice.” Then he sighed deeply. “Another black mark against me. I wasn’t invariably the soul of kindness to her. She knew too much for me to be kind. Did she tell you about . . . me?”

  “Yes,” Hap said, leaning forward to grip his brother’s thin arm at the elbow. “Maxim, it doesn’t mean a damn to me and never would have—except I’m sorry you went to such lengths to hide.”

  • • •

  The plump black cook, who had been hired from an agency for the day, was busy preparing the meal, so Alice asked Beth to help her set the table. As they took pottery from the butler’s pantry shelves, Alice asked, “How’s Jonathon?”

  Beth’s hands trembled, and fearing the brightly glazed cups would fall, she clasped them against her gray silk blouse. This was the moment that she had dreaded and steeled herself against. “He’s in school,” she said coldly. “And if you’ve come back here to take him away from me, you might as well know that I’ll spend every penny Irving left me to keep him.”

  “Beth, when I signed that paper giving him to you, I wanted to die. But I felt it was the right decision. I still feel that way.”

  Beth darted a suspicious glance at her former sister-in-law.

  Alice pushed open the swinging door to the dining room. “Do you really think I want to destroy his life?” she asked quietly. “I’m interested in what he’s doing, Bethie, that’s all.”

  Beth set the cups on the built-in sideboard. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. But ever since I got your letter this morning, I’ve been afraid, so afraid.”

  “There was no need. You’re his mother.” Alice was smiling, but small lines of sadness were visible below the blue eyes.

  • • •

  As they ate the creamy chicken salad and raspberry tarts, Our Own Gang found themselves reminiscing about their childhood in the so-called golden age of Hollywood: parties with Judy Garland, Bogey and Baby, Edward G. Robinson, Harry James playing his horn; they recollected the eternal studio intrigues that had seemed life and death at the time but now were quaintly humorous; they mythologized their own group mischief. Ross, thoroughly bored, disappeared to watch television in Barry’s old study. The adults lingered over their coffee, prefacing each remark, “Do you remember . . .?” The laughter was no longer forced, the courtesy toward Hap had given way to good-natured digs.

  By four thirty, when the guests rose to leave, the long family rift was well on its way to being healed.

  “I haven’t had a better time in forever,” Beth said emotionally. “Let’s all have dinner at my house tomorrow.”

  There was a chorus of acceptances.

  “Alice, you and Hap must bring Ross,” Beth said, smiling euphorically. “I do so want him to meet his cousin Jonathon.”

  Hap saw his family to their cars. The group stood talking and laughing for another fifteen minutes before they were able to break apart until the following evening, hugging one another goodbye with a warmth utterly different from the constraint of a few hours earlier. Hap stood waving on the front step as one by one the cars disappeared down the steep, curving driveway.

  Alice hadn’t come out. The falsetto voices assigned to cartoon characters came from the study, but she didn’t go in with Ross. Instead, she sat on the couch, watching the dusk fall over the canyon walls.

  Hap returned, sitting in the gloom near her. “It is okay with you, Beth’s dinner tomorrow? You won’t be too upset, seeing Jonathon?”

  “I’ll be plenty shook. But on the other hand, it’d be worse not seeing him.”

  “At lunch you kept looking around at us.”

  “I was thinking about the wedding lunch at the Fabulador. You people glittered like gods.”

  He smiled. “Aren’t you overromanticizing?”

  “Not a shred. There’s no other way to describe how glamorous you were to me. Maxim, and your father was head of Magnum, PD’s a famous director, Barry and Beth were hotshot college students. I felt like dirt in my good red dress.”

  He smiled. “That dress. God, love, that dress!”

  “I’d never owned anything so beautiful. But somehow I knew it was all wrong to wear with divinities. Hap, all the years I was married to Barry I never once got over the feeling I was in the family on probation.”

  “Even after you’d made it big?”

  “Not until today did I feel like a genuine Cordiner.”

  “You glittered more than any of us.” He reached out for her hand and their fingers twined. “Now that Lang’s gone, if you want you can be Alyssia del Mar again.”

  “The wench is dead.” Alice paused, adding pensively, “But I’m not saying I never miss her.”

  “At odd moments I regret the passing of the old Harvard Cordiner, hotshot director, too.” He fumbled toward the lightswitch behind him.

  As the lights came on they blinked, then smiled contentedly at each other. They were both thinking about the day after tomorrow, when they would return to their shared life, leaving behind everything of the past except the intangibles—family affection, memories, old dreams.

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