Authors: Belva Plain
“Sunday brunch?” he said.
Opals, she thought. His eyes are opals. And then, seeing that the glasses were only empty frames, a joke, she laughed and nodded. “All right. Brunch, since you insist.”
“Don't eat any breakfast. I like a woman to have an appetite.”
“You're giving me orders already?”
“Of course. I'm the boss, executive vice president who's just bought you and paid plenty, too.”
“April. It's my favorite month,” Will said. “Do you know why?”
“Because May is still to come, and then the whole summer.”
“That's right!” he cried. “And how do you feel about September?”
“I don't like the fall that much. It's supposed to be beautiful, all red and gold, and I suppose it is. But still I
feel that everything is dying. I like winter, though. In fact, I love it. Can you guess why?”
“That's easy. Because spring's on the way. The snow is falling and they're selling daffodils in the supermarket. Am I right? Is it the same with you?”
“Yes. Yes, you are, and it is.”
They were walking slowly through the park. This was the fourth hour; the brunch had taken two, they had talked all through it, and now they were still talking, as random thoughts that would seem to be completely disconnected were mysteriously connecting.
“You disappeared. I couldn't find anybody who knew you except people in the store, and they had heard nothing. I looked everywhere. You have never even told the post office where to forward your mail. Why?”
He was looking at her, and the look was so intense that he seemed to see inside her head. He had made just that impression upon her at their first meeting.
“It was the divorce,” she said. “I had such bad feelings. I only wanted to get away, to forget everything and everybody connected with the place.” That much, at least, was entirely true.
“Understandable,” he said softly. “Funny thing, Hyacinth. I have a particular reason for wanting to see you. Two reasons, actually. I wanted to make another apology for the rather rough way I tried to get my point across that day. And the other reason was that while I was in Europe, I went to a Dufy exhibit and for the first time I learned that he had done fashion drawing. I was amazed, though why I should have been, I don't know. His sketches were little gems in themselves, watercolors
and pen and ink, for some famous Paris couturier back before the First World War. I thought immediately of you, and the connection between fashion and art.”
“So you really know more about art than you pretended.”
“I don't pretend. I really don't know much. I'm a learner.”
“So am I.”
All of a sudden, she became so intensely aware of his presence beside her that she had nothing to say. Now their approach to the museum gave her something.
“Would you like to go in?”
“Some other time. Today I only want to talk to you. Tell me about yourself.”
“There's very little to tell. I work hard, and I like it. I've been lucky. You gave me good advice.”
“I wasn't talking about work. I meant, about you. Are you feeling alone now that it's over? As bad as a marriage may have been, people tell me that they often feel alone in the world after a divorce.”
She said quickly, “I'm not alone. I have brothers, and my mother is only a few hours away. She's busy, a busy volunteer, and I'm busy, but we get together.”
He was not asking about her relatives, she knew that. In a roundabout way, he was asking whether she had a lover. And she knew, too, that if she were to say she had one he would, except for an occasional meeting at work, be gone.
She said only, “I have a few friends, but nobody really close. I haven't had time.”
“Nobody really close? I'm glad. No, that's selfish of me. I didn't mean it quite like that. Not quite.”
They walked on past a pond and through a mist, a bare hint, of arriving green. Nearing a bridle path, they stopped to let some riders go through. There were children among them, a little one riding a pony not much larger than a toy, and another, an older one, sitting proudly and earnestly on his high perch.
“Nice,” Will observed. “Shall we sit near the path and watch the horses for a while?”
They found a bench. For a minute or two, they were silent; she knew that his eyes were turned upon her with a smile in them. His face is passionate, she thought. It says everything and hides nothing. And this awareness was suddenly so troubling, contrasted to the secret that she carried, that her heart sank, even as she was compelled to speak.
“I have two children,” she said, very low; her voice sounded in her ears as though it was the voice of a stranger.
“You do? But why—” He was astonished.
“Why have I made a secret of them? I don't know. I guess because I don't want to think about how hard it is… the divorce… children don't understand.”
“How old are they?”
“Almost eleven and almost eight. Jerry's the big brother, and Emma is seven. It happened just over three years ago.” And she remembered that night after Christmas dinner and how, up in their rooms, they had wept together. “It was awful for them,” she said.
“And awful for you. How are they now?”
“Better, as far as I can see. Still, you never know what's being suppressed, do you?”
“That's true. But having a strong mother like you, who's pulling herself up by what my grandfather used to call her own bootstraps, should be a big help.”
“I don't know about the bootstraps, but I hope you're right.” Hyacinth's voice began to shake, yet she continued, “That boy on horseback reminded me of Jerry. He's crazy about horses, and I'm glad. It helps, it's healthy to have an interest of some kind. It means there's one part of your life that's really happy.”
“Do they see their father?”
“Oh yes, they're with him now. It's spring vacation. They spend vacations with him.”
Even as she spoke, she was thinking: Why am I lying? I've never been a liar. But you do know very well why. It's the old story: It's because a mother who gives up custody is a marked woman, she is
unnatural
; there is something terribly wrong with her. Isn't that what people say?
Needing now to do something
natural,
she opened her handbag and, having subdued the quiver in her voice, showed him a snapshot of her children. Let him write her off as a conventional bore and never see her again.
“Forgive me for boring you,” she said. “Here they are.”
They were in riding clothes, standing in front of a paddock fence on the day that Emma had her first authentic lesson. Arnie had taken the picture.
Will was either interested or being polite enough to
seem so. She had a definite impression that the former was the case.
“You're not boring me at all. They're beautiful, both of them.”
“Thank you. Emma looks a lot like my mother, whose photo you saw at my house.”
“I remember. I told you she was beautiful but that I thought you were more so.”
If anyone were to have asked Hyacinth exactly what she was feeling at that moment, she would not have had an answer. “Confusion” might be the closest to the truth. Again she had nothing to say, and neither, apparently, had Will. She wondered afterward whether either of them would have spoken at all at that moment if the wind, which had been rising, had not abruptly exploded into a chill gust and a fierce burst of rain.
“We ought to get back before it pours more,” she said.
“Of course.”
As if to prolong the good-bye at the entrance of the apartment house, he paused and mused, “What a haphazard world it is. I caught a glimpse of you in the store that day and thought, ‘I like her looks, the long hair like a silk curtain, the way she strides off like a country girl walking on the road.’ Then I forgot you because one always sees interesting people whom one never sees again. But then I did see you again, crossing the square.”
She knew he was waiting to be invited upstairs. And again she lied, again she told herself that it was easier that way. It was better so.
“My mother's here with her friends, or else—”
“Another time,” he said, and looked at her as if, like her, he had been struck into dumb silence by the shock of knowing what was happening to them.
Riding up in the elevator, she repeated the tale he had begun. The package fell. He picked up the book. He quoted Stephen Spender…. Suppose he were to ask her to marry him? It's plausible to think that he might, but it must not happen. Already it's gone too far. I am carrying dangerous baggage, she thought, locked baggage that, like Pandora's box, must never be opened.
He wanted to see her, while she needed to keep him away. Therefore it became a question of being friendly in a cool way and of finding excuses both true and untrue, though mostly untrue. And so, whenever they met, she delivered the kind of message that every human being, especially the female human being, knows how to deliver: You are pleasant company and I like you, but only up to a point and no farther, in spite of anything that may seem to have passed between us that day in the park.
Almost always, Hyacinth was certain, the recipient of such a message becomes discouraged and is heard from no more. But Will Miller did not seem to be getting that message. It surprised her that so attractive a man was satisfied to accept a stroll through Chinatown or an evening at the movies, followed by a friendly goodnight on the doorstep, only to call a few days later. Surely, if he wanted to, in no time at all he could fill his address book with any number of young women.
What are we going to do, she asked herself, when we
have explored the whole city? Foolish question, she replied. The city's pleasures are endless. Then she was troubled; if only he would move, be transferred to some place far away! But no, he was firmly planted here; had he not even shown her with pride the enormous, muddy excavation from which the company's great new building was to arise? Had he not spoken of his ambition to live in an apartment with a view?
As if he were content to keep their companionship just as it was, he persisted. It was as if he had never said any of those intimate things about his search for her, or about poetry, or about a curtain of silk hair. Most probably, she concluded, he had an extensive collection of women, and she was merely one of them. Yet she did not entirely believe so.
In the middle of May, when Arnie came from Florida, she was truly glad to see him. Conversation with him was easy. There were no long silences to be filled with neutral, noncommittal subjects. Their central subject was, naturally, Emma and Jerry. Arnie always had plenty to say about himself, his new racehorse Diamond, and his business deals that apparently took him from Portland, Oregon, to Portland, Maine. In addition to these, he would have questions about her. It touched her that he was so proud and so encouraging about her success. So it was a blessing to relax with him, the one human being who knew her secret.
Still, even with Arnie there were complications. He didn't try very hard to hide what he wanted.
“I suppose you meet a lot of men now that you're out in the world, right?”
“Not many. I'm at Libretti's all day, and it's a long day.”
“But there are other designers there.”
“A lot of them don't like women, Arnie.”
Then, as if teasing but not really teasing, he would smile and tell her that he was still “available.”
“Better grab me before somebody else does, Hy. Take a look at me. Not bad, hey?”
The lively face and the strong, athletic body were not bad at all. Yet something was missing. And a small pain darted across her forehead.
On the first of July, Lina made a decision: It was time for Hyacinth to see the fabric houses of France. This would be a start, and the next visit abroad would be to Milan. In time she would need to see handwoven tweeds in Scotland and embroideries in India.
“Oh, glamour!” exclaimed Francine when Hyacinth reported all this. “French flowers, music, food, and of course the fashions—oh, lucky you.” She was in raptures. Then suddenly subdued, she added, “I'm so happy for you, darling. You deserve it.”
She meant, of course, after all the trouble you won't tell me about.
Arnie, as ever, was enthusiastic. “Great. If I didn't have appointments a month ahead in this office, damned if I wouldn't pick up and go along. Listen, have a ball. The kids are fine and you can have a nice visit when you get back, so go and have fun, Hy. But not too much fun, if you get my meaning.”
* * *
Ten days later Hyacinth settled into a window seat. As she looked out at the activities on the tarmac, her thoughts turned to the last time she had gone overseas. The four years might have been four centuries in another life, or they might have been four days ago, so vivid was her recollection.
From the first-class section, one had a view of every face as its owner slowly passed. And as always, with her innate curiosity, she wondered how much a face ever truly revealed. So she observed the passing file, thinking about each one, and then about herself, until gradually, after many minutes had passed and the plane was almost ready to take off, she had reached a conclusion: I am stronger now than I was on my last flight to Paris. I am more able to endure because I've had to. It was, and is still, a case of endure or founder.
Without intending to, she sat up straight and tall. The seat was comfortable. On the tray lay a book, a Miche-lin guide, and a cold drink. Below the dark blue cuff of her perfect suit, one of Lina's best, there shone the polished circle of Francine's gold gift. At her feet lay the perfect lizard handbag that matched the perfect shoes. And she smiled, recalling Lina's injunction: “You are a walking advertisement now, and you must never forget it.” A sense of well-being, long unfamiliar, crept over her.
The seat beside her was still vacant. And she was thinking that, with luck, she might even have the benefit of its added space, when a voice cried, “Well, imagine this!”
She looked up to see Will Miller preparing to take the vacant seat.
“I had no idea,” he said. “Did you?”
His amazement was so ineptly acted that the very absurdity of it increased her anger and dismay.