Another Eden (25 page)

Cold and unfeminine, her husband called her. Alex dragged his mouth down her soft throat, feeling the surge of her pulse. He found her breast and suckled her slowly and steadily while she moaned and her nails dug into his back—a delicious pain she stopped inflicting, abashed, when he lifted his head and said appreciatively, "Ow." The skin on the inside of her thighs was softer than an infant's. "Sara," he whispered, "beautiful Sara. Have you ever made love outside, darling?"

She couldn't stop shaking. That was odd, because everywhere he touched she was burning. "I've never made love anywhere until tonight."

He kissed her eyes closed, her mouth open. Pulling her other leg across his lap, he bent over her until she felt the cold solidity of the rock on her shoulder blades. "I know just the place."

His hand stroking between her legs caused her to squeeze her eyes shut and sigh, "Do you ever."

He gave a throaty laugh. "No, on the sand—over there." He moved his head vaguely. "It'll be softer than this rock on your lovely backside."

"Are we on a rock? I thought it was a cloud."

He gathered her in his arms and stood up, suddenly out of patience and finished with finesse. She clung to him, in instant sympathy with his need for haste. She didn't care where he took her; it made her dizzy, but it was lovely to close her eyes, press her face to his neck, and let him carry her wherever he liked.

He didn't go far. The sand leveled off a few feet above the tide line; he sank to his knees and laid her in a soft-looking place, lit silver by moonlight. A feverish urgency seized him when the loose folds of robe and shirt slipped open, uncovering her intoxicating nakedness. But his hands on her face were gentle, his voice steady when he told her, "I'm in love with you, Sara. This won't end tonight, it can't. You must know that. Say it."

She'd told him one He already; her spirit rebelled at the thought of another. "
Alex
—"

"Say it."

She caught his caressing hands and held them tight. "I will always, always love you. That won't end. Ever."

He understood the distinction. But he was too lost in her now to continue the fight. Waves of desperate, debilitating passion stormed through him. He took her with fierce, nearly violent need, and surrendered.

"Give me my blouse, Alex. I can't argue with you with no clothes on."

"I haven't got—oh." He'd been sitting on it, on the edge of the bed. He pulled it out from under his leg and handed it to her—reluctantly. Since it was impossible to believe she was going to walk out of his life forever in a few minutes, he'd been enjoying watching her get dressed, not construing the charming spectacle as the end of anything. "I'm not arguing, Sara, I'm simply asking when I'm going to see you again."

She stooped to pick up her skirt, which lay in a dark blue heap beside the bed, and shook at the wrinkles ineffectually before stepping into it and doing the hooks up at the back. "This is either going to be very difficult or else it's going to be impossible, so—"

"I vote for impossible." She put her hands on her hips. "Alex."

"What?" Her serious eyes sobered him; he stood up and went to her. "Missed a button here," he murmured, unbuttoning the one between her breasts. She looked down, then up, then smiled. But when he tried to slip his hands inside her blouse, she stepped away quickly.

"Listen to me," she pleaded. "Please help me to do this. It's so hard now—if you fight me it'll be a hundred times worse."

"Sara, why are you doing this? What's the point? Darling, if your conscience bothers you, I'm truly sorry, but you'll have to find a way to live with it. You can't leave me and you know it."

"You don't understand at all. This has nothing to do with guilt, it never has. From the day we met—no, I didn't like you then—from the
second
day we met I've wanted to be with you, be your lover. You're wrong if you think
I
think we've committed a sin together. What happened last night was—perfect. If there's a God, He was smiling at us. He
wanted
us to be happy."

"What's changed, then? Why doesn't he want us to be happy now?"

"Will you please just try to be—"

"
Leave
him, Sara," he broke in, exasperated. "Divorce him. Come and live with me, you and Michael. You won't be rich anymore, but you won't be exactly poor, either."

"God—Alex, if you think—"

"No, I
don't
think it's money that makes you stay with him."

"What, then?" He said it gently. "Fear. Timidity. Fear of the unknown. I don't blame you, sweetheart, but you have to—"

"No!" She should
let
him think that of her, it was safer, much less risky. But she found she was too proud; she couldn't bear it that her beloved thought her a coward. "It's Michael I'm trying to protect, not myself You've never understood about Ben. I tried to tell you once, but you wouldn't believe me. No one would, it's too beastly. Alex, he'll take him from me, I'll never see Michael again."

"That's not true," he said flatly.

"It is true."

"Sara, that's just not reasonable."

"
Reasonable—
"

"Will you listen to me?"

"No, I won't, I can't! I already know everything you're going to say—that I've allowed my husband to terrorize me for so long, I've lost sight of reality, that he's only a man, that he can't keep my son from me on a whim, that I'm hysterical. Why can't you trust me?"

"I do—"

"No, that's not fair, I'm sorry. I haven't told you what he's capable of."

"Then tell me now."

But the task was too monumental. She felt helpless and inarticulate. She'd countered Ben's cruelty with stoicism for too long; her reticence was too ingrained. "I'll tell you this. When Michael was three years old, Ben took him away."

"What do you mean, 'took him away'?"

"I mean he disappeared with him for twenty-seven days. Twenty-seven days, Alex! I didn't know where they were, or if I'd ever see my son again. Do you know why he did it? To teach me a lesson. I'd committed the unpardonable sin Of threatening to leave him, and he wanted me to know what would happen and what it would feel like if I did."

"God, Sara, it must've been awful."

"It was more than that, it was—" But she didn't know any words to describe that time. "Almost from the beginning Michael's been the only weapon he could use against me. But it's a potent one and he knows it. He hoards it, hides it, lulling me—and then he strikes. It's true, Alex, you can't know! Sometimes he takes him away on sudden, unannounced trips—to taunt me and torment me, not because he wants to be with him. Or he talks about sending him to school in Europe—or last year it was New England. He's hired a nanny he knows I distrust and detest. But always the ultimate threat is to take him from me and never let me see him again if I try to divorce him. Because, believe it or not, in spite of everything, Ben still thinks that one day New York society is going to let him in. Pathetic, isn't it? But that makes divorce out of the question because the scandal would destroy him."

Alex reached for her, gripping her elbows. She'd already discounted everything he wanted to say—that she was letting her fear take over her rational mind, that Ben was a man, not some diabolical fiend who could spirit her son away whenever he liked. "Then we'll fight him," he said calmly. "You tell me he's been unfaithful. Unless you're afraid of scandal for yourself or for Michael, why not charge him with adultery?"

"Because he'd win. He's too smart to let that happen. I know, I know, it sounds crazy. But, Alex, don't you think I've thought of that? I could never prove adultery because he's always been too careful. And if I tried and failed, then there would be nothing to stop him from doing his worst. I can't take such a chance." Alex shook his head impatiently and started to speak. His disbelief finally unleashed her temper. "It doesn't matter what you think, I know what I know! Alex, let me go, I'm begging you, don't do this to me."

"What am I doing?"

"Whether you believe it or not, you're asking me to choose between you and my son."

"I would never do that," he denied hotly. "Never."

"But you are. And that leaves me no choice at all." She hugged herself, despairing. "Oh God, I was mad to come here. I'm sorry now. This was a mistake."

"A mistake?" he repeated, stiff-lipped.

"Yes, yes. I've only made it worse." She reached for him, touched his chest. "But I wanted to—"

"Mistakes can be corrected," he said jerkily, backing away. "This one fairly easily. Don't worry, Sara, I won't inconvenience you any further."

"Alex—"

"Hurry and finish dressing, it'll be light soon. I'll show you a shortcut through the woods. No one will see you." He pivoted, yanked the door open, and stomped out.

She wanted to lie down on the bed and sob. But there would be time for that later. Nothing but time, later. What kept her dry-eyed and upright was the knowledge of the absolute futility of tears or emotional storms now. They might afford a temporary relief—Alex might even come back and comfort her—but afterward nothing would change. She still had to get through the next half-hour of her life: she still had to leave him.

She found her jacket, slung over the post at the foot of the bed. After a long search, she located one earring under the pillow, along with a quantity of hair pins; the other earring was nowhere to be found. She went to the mirror over the dresser and pinned her hair up, standing on tiptoe, using Alex's comb. His clothes, his cologne, a laquered box containing his jewelry, a faded miniature of a pretty girl with a sad smile—his mother?—all the intimate objects of his life filled her with a poignant, desolating sorrow. If she could have known him, discovered his tastes and habits and quirks, been with him for just a little longer—but that bittersweet pleasure was denied her, and who could say it wouldn't have made this parting even more intolerable?

She swept the room with a last glance. Her cloak hung over his wardrobe door; she took it down and threw it across her shoulders. If only she had something to give him—a gift he could find later that would make him think of her. But she had nothing.

Outside, she paused at the top of the porch steps to look at him. He had his back to her, hands in his pockets, facing the sea. The sky before him had paled to gray and the moon was gone; the stars were winking out one by one. "I'm ready," she said, quiet-voiced. He turned. His face was indistinct, but she could see his pain and his lingering disbelief "I didn't mean it was a mistake. You know I didn't mean that. I only meant—"

"Sara."

He came toward her, holding out his hand. She lifted her skirts and ran to him. Their embrace was joyful and sad and tinged with desperation. "Oh, my love. Please believe me," she begged, holding him close, "this isn't fear or willfulness, it's real. If I leave him, he'll ruin me."

But he still couldn't accept it. "If I talked to him—"

"
No. No
. My God—
Phase
, Alex, promise me you won't."

"Sara—"

"Promise!"

She was shaking with the violence of her emotion. He buried his face in her hair, defeated. "All right. I promise."

Even though it was what she wanted, even though his words made her go limp with relief, they echoed in the hollow of her empty heart like a heavy door closing. Now there truly was no hope.

"Will you go home now, back to New York?"

"Yes. Otherwise—"

"I know. It's all right."

"Ben will be furious with me, but it's just too hard. Knowing you're here."

"Will you let me write to you?"

She shook her head, not trusting her voice. "Too dangerous," she whispered. "You could write to me."

"Better not. I think it's better—" Her throat closed.

He could think of nothing to do but hold her. "I won't try to see you. If I hear we've been invited to the same party, the same lecture, I'll stay away. But it's bound to happen—eventually we'll see each other."

"I know it."

"I used to think that would be hell, the worst punishment of all. But, Sara—now I can't wait for the day when I look up and you're there, and it doesn't even matter anymore if you're holding Ben's arm or Michael's hand, because the real hell is going to be the time between now and then. I love you, Sara. I wish I could rescue you."

"You have. I love you."

"Try to be happy. If you ever need me—"

"Yes. And you. Alex, kiss me and then let me go, I can't stand this."

"No, I'm coming with you. But I'll kiss you." He did, with such sweet, aching tenderness that he almost wept with her. "What a pair," he whispered. Her face was slippery with tears. He took out his handkerchief and blotted her cheeks gently. Then he had to kiss her again.

She clung to him for as long as she dared. But then it was time to go, and no amount of wishing or wanting could change that. "The sky, Alex…"

"Yes."

"You don't need to come with me."

"I'm coming." He led her around his house to the path he knew that would keep her out of sight until she was only a few blocks from home. Behind them, past the waves swatting the shore on the in-running tide, the fiery tip of the sun flamed through a pale haze on the horizon. It would be a beautiful day.

Four weeks later to the day, at Rector's lobster palace on Broadway and Forty-third Street, Sara saw Alex again.

The day began, as so many of them did lately, with the nerve-wracking sound of Ben shouting. Since it was Saturday and he was working at home, the shouting erupted intermittently all morning, ensuring that the whole household stayed in a near-constant state of anxiety. Sara, who was trying to read Lauren's latest letter, got up from the desk in her own tiny office and closed the door to muffle the irregular outbursts of fury and frustration that had her nerves stretched tight. Better. She sat back down and continued reading.

"I'm aware that you tried to warn me, in the kindest possible way. Now I wish you'd been brutal. No—I don't, not really. It would not have done any good, for one thing. And for another, in spite of all that's happened, Sara, I don't regret any of it. I'm sure you think I'm mad, and perhaps I am, but I loved him deeply and with my whole soul—how can I regret that? You will say that he wasn't worthy of such feelings, but it hardly matters now. I felt what I felt, it's over, and I am changed irrevocably. I'm left to thank God that our affair had no
consequences
beyond my broken heart."

Indeed. Sara imagined Lauren's lack of contrition for giving herself to a faithless, hypocritical bastard might very well reverse itself in the event of a tiny
consequence
. She folded the letter and sat back, staring out the window at the yellowing leaves of the ginko tree. She was like Lauren, she supposed, because in every way but technically she'd gone to her lover a virgin. Unlike her friend, though, there were moments, such as now, when she deeply regretted it.

Each morning she awoke as if floating in a black, baffling fog of misery, wondering,
What is this grief
? And always she remembered, and always the blackness deepened. Except for duty, she might have let it smother her; but duty forced her to get up and to get through the days. She understood now, too late, that she would not hurt this badly if she had left Alex alone. By opening her heart and body to him, she'd exposed nerve and flesh and bone and spirit to a ruthless, toothed weapon that would not stop tormenting her, not for a second. When would it cease? When would this wound scar over and give her ease? To be able to live through a whole hour of time without thinking of him and so without suffering the biting pain of his loss, truly that would be a miracle. Surely the day would come—it must! no one could go on like this forever—but until it did, all she could do was endure.

The telephone startled her out of her dreary reverie. It was Paren Matthews, cool and abrupt as usual. "Have you finished the draft for my speech to the settlement council yet, Sara?"

"Yes, I finished it last night."

"Oh, good." He let a hint of unflattering surprise color his tone. "I'm glad your social obligations didn't conflict this time with your professional ones. When can I have it?"

Sara traced a stiff finger around the black circle of the mouthpiece. "I can bring it to you on Tuesday," she said evenly, "since I have to come in anyway for the history class. Or if you like, I can drop it in the mail. That way you'll have it on Monday." She ought to be used to his sarcasm by now. She didn't even blame him for it much; he had good reason not to trust her—she'd abandoned her settlement house work twice last summer, once without warning and both times for reasons that must seem contemptibly frivolous to him. Still, it hurt, because once they'd been friends.

"Yes, mail it. Who knows, something might come up on Tuesday to keep you away—a shop-ping trip, or a tea party."

"Damn it," she burst out, "that's not fair, Par en, and you know it."

First there was silence, then a sigh. But she would not discover today if it was meant to preface an apology, because at that moment there was a sharp click in her ear and then Ben's voice booming, "Hello? Hello!"

"Ben? I'm on the—"

"Sara? Get off the line."

"I'm speaking to—"

"Hang up, I said, I'm on the 'phone. Jesus Christ, this is
business
."

The bang of the earpiece made her jump. Redfaced, she tried an apologetic laugh for Paren's benefit. "I'm sorry, I'd better go. Ben's working at home today and he—"

"Right," Paren said shortly. "Mail the speech, Sara. Thanks for your time." He hung up on her almost as violently as Ben had. She could have cried. She missed Paren's friendship. And Lauren's. And she missed Alex so much, she wanted to die.

She found her handkerchief and blew her nose, blinking of Ben to distract herself Something was the matter with him these days. After weeks of nagging, she'd finally been allowed to make a doctor's appointment for him. The doctor couldn't find anything wrong, but in her opinion worry and overwork were making Ben sick. The precise nature of his problems was a secret, though, and whenever she tried to pry into it he exploded. Money and labor troubles, that was all she knew.

On Thursday, things had come to a head. She might not even have known why if she hadn't read about it in the newspaper on Friday. Without warning, all his bake shop employees had gone on strike—along with every other bakery worker in the city, over nine thousand men, women, and children—for the cause of shorter hours, higher wages, and healthier working conditions. What had enraged him and sent him storming around the house like a rampaging bull wasn't the workers' demands, though; it was an editorial accompanied by a cartoon in the
Evening Post
—a conservative paper, notoriously unsympathetic to strikers—condemning the working conditions in all the city's bakeries and naming Cochrane bake shops in particular as shameless examples of exploitation of the labor force by a rapacious capitalist looter. Ben's anger had been so terrible that Michael had hidden in his room with the door closed, for his father's fury terrified him; he reacted to it the way other children reacted to thunderstorms.

Now, even through the closed door of her study, she heard a fresh bellow of outrage. She stood up, angry herself Really, this was too much. If she found Michael cowering again, she would confront Ben herself and put a stop to it. Somehow.

But Michael wasn't in his room. Nor in hers, nor anywhere else on the second floor. At times like this she was almost sorry Mrs. Drum was gone, or at least sorry, she hadn't hired anyone to replace her. She'd left without notice while Sara was away in Newport. She had never completely understood why, beyond the fact that it had something to do with Tasha. But Tasha couldn't or wouldn't explain it to her, except to say, "She was a stupid woman. Stupid Mick."

She found Tasha in the red drawing room, reclining on the sofa and reading a fashion magazine. Her new hairstyle, Sara noticed uncomfortably, was an exact replica of her own. Tasha sent her a lazy smile, stretched like a panther, and resumed reading. Sara's jaw tightened; the languid spectacle released a spurt of hot irritation in her out of all proportion to the offense. "Have you seen Michael?" she asked sharply.

"Michael? No."

She was the only one in the house who seemed genuinely unaffected by Ben's rages, Sara realized. That annoyed her, too. "Will you please help me look for him?"

Tasha let her magazine slide to the floor. It was past eleven o'clock, but she still wore her
robe du matin
, as she called it, over a satin negligee. "I would like to, but it's time for me to go and dress or my tutor will arrive and find me in
dishabille
." She got up, stretched again, and walked leisurely past Sara to the door.

Sara whirled. "Tasha, I would like to speak to you."

Tasha paused in the threshold, striking an attitude. "But have I not just said? I am in a rush. We will talk later, Sara." And she was gone.

Sara felt as much amazement as anger. It was clear to her by now that she had done Tasha no favors by letting her stay so long with no employment and no usefulness. Now she must deal with the situation—Tasha got more impudent and impossible every day. But what an unpleasant task it would be, telling her she must leave and find a place of her own. Sara had no energy for the encounter. With a troubled sigh, she realized she had just made a decision to put it off a little longer.

"Sheila, have you seen Michael?"

"No, ma'am," said the maid, looking up from the mirror-like surface of the table she was polishing in the foyer. "I haven't seen him since breakfast."

"I can't find him, and I'm a little concerned. Help me look for him, will you?"

They searched the house; they even went outside, although it had begun to rain, walking to either end of the block and calling him. Sara knew there was no point in asking Ben; he wouldn't know anything, he would resent the interruption, and Michael wouldn't have gone anywhere near him anyway. Finally there was nowhere left to search but the basement.

She found him there, huddled on a piece of canvas beside the coal bin, fast asleep.

No wonder he was tired. Last night a nightmare had woken him—monsters chasing him through terrifying streets—and she'd stayed with him until he'd finally gone back to sleep. It had taken hours.

In the dim light from the lone bare bulb overhead, she could see he'd been crying; his face was smudged with coal dust and the tear tracks stood out like dirty trails through a field of mud. Beside him was a crumpled piece of paper. She knelt down and reached for it fearfully, dreading what she would see. Lately all his art work was black and violent and heartbreaking. His interest in school had declined in the last month, yet he still did his work well. He was such a dutiful child, he broke her heart. And she was riddled with guilt, for she knew who had taught him this terrible stoicism.

But the drawing wasn't bleak and disturbing, she saw with surprise; peering at it in the dimness, she made out a picture of a beach—Bailey's Beach?—in bright blues and yellows. A man, woman, and child stood in the center, beaming and holding hands, all wearing red-and-white striped bathing suits. A happy family. He'd even drawn a dog at the bottom—Gadget, she surmised, from its short legs and long tail.

With a pang, she set the drawing aside and gently stroked her hand through Michael's silvery blond hair. His eyes opened. "Hello, you," she said softly. "You've been sleeping."

"Hi, Mum." He smiled, and her heart twisted.

"Look at you, what a mess you are. Were you rolling in the coal bin?"

"No."

"No?" She rubbed a particularly black cheek with her thumb. "You look it. Come upstairs and have a bath."

"I don't want to."

"I'll run it for you myself, not Sheila. And you can play with your new battleship in the tub." A flicker of interest lit the blue-gray eyes, then died. "I don't want to go upstairs."

Sighing, heedless of the six rows of white braid at the hem of her red poplin skirt, she sat down beside him on the filthy concrete floor. "Daddy's not angry with
you
, you know." No answer. "Do you think he's angry with you?"

"I don't know."

"Of course he isn't."

"Why is he so mad, then?"

"He's angry with the way things are going right now with his work, that's all. And when he gets mad, he yells. That's the way some people are."