Another Eden (9 page)

"Oh yes, give everyone my best wishes." She settled back against the chaise and opened her book, using her good hand.

A few days later, Sara sat in her tiny study, penning a menu for the cook in preparation for Friday's dinner three nights hence. The casement window was open and a soft breeze that smelled more of summer than spring fluttered the papers on her desk. Behind her in the blue parlor, she heard Tasha set her coffee cup down and turn a page of the
Evening News
. Her spirits seemed better lately; she was still quiet and kept most of her thoughts to herself, but her natural curiosity was beginning to return. Everything about the Cochrane household interested her—as Sara imagined the living conditions of a Rumanian family would interest
her
as something completely new and unknown—and she was alternately amused and touched by the girl's artless questions. Now if she could only overcome her tiresome guilt feelings and the need to express near-constant gratitude because she believed she was a "burden," she might even be happy for the time she was here.

A thumping noise out in the hall made Sara lay her pen down and listen. Michael had been in bed for an hour, so who—? "Well, well, who might you be?"

Sara jumped up and hurried into the parlor. "Ben! What a surprise—I wasn't expecting you for two more days." She smiled to hide her dismay; she could guess his reaction to Tasha's presence and had wanted some time to prepare him for it before they met. She went to him and offered her cheek—something she never did and found herself doing now purely for Tasha's benefit, because it seemed the sort of gesture a wife would make to a husband she hadn't seen in over a week. Tasha had stood up and was clutching her hands at her waist. "Tasha, this is my husband," she said casually. "Ben, I don't think you've met my friend, Natasha Eminescu. Tasha has been staying with me for a while."

They shook hands. "It is so much a pleasure to meet you," Tasha said sincerely. "Your house is very, very beautiful, and your wife has been an angel of great kindness to me, Mr. Cochrane. I am so honored to be allowed to visit with you these last days."

Ben frowned to hide his perplexity. "Well, that's fine," he muttered, studying her narrowly. Sara watched them, trying to see Tasha through Ben's eyes—her still, watchful face, the black eyes that seemed to know secrets. Her voice was soft and smoky, intriguingly foreign, and sometimes she had a fascinating quality of stillness, the capacity to be physically motionless, like an exotic statue.

"Well," Ben rumbled, dropping Tasha's hand and turning brusque. "You ladies excuse me, I've got work to do."

"Did you have dinner?" Sara wondered. "I can ring—"

"Yeah, I ate on the train," he answered on his way out, not turning around.

She went to the sofa and picked up Ben's topcoat where he'd thrown it, folding and refolding it across her arm to cover her awkwardness. She was aware that Tasha was watching her in her silent, assessing way. What an odd couple they must seem to her. "Will you excuse me?" she said brightly. "I have to—I'd like to check on Michael. I'll be right back." Tasha nodded and watched her go.

She found Ben in his office. She visited him there as infrequently as possible because the room oppressed her with its dead, staring animals and cruel-looking weapons, displayed as proudly as fine art. Already he was on the telephone, booming into it to some underling about stock quotations and market shares and what he wanted bought and sold first thing in the morning. He looked tired. He needed a haircut, and his dark eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue or harassment. The blunt fingers drummed monotonously on the desk while he spoke. She was thinking how much she hated his hands when he hung up abruptly and looked at her. "Well?"

"I'd like to speak to you about Tasha."

"Who is she?"

"I'd like her to stay with us for a while, Ben. She's had a misfortune, an—accident, and she needs our help."

"Who is she, I said?"

"She's someone I've known for quite a while. She's not employed right now, but I've spoken to Mr. Lockhart—he's a
very
fashionable couturier on Fifth Avenue, everyone goes either to him or to Worth's—and although he doesn't need anyone right now, he says in a month or two—"

"She's one of your goddamn immigrants, isn't she?" he exclaimed wonderingly. "Well, I'll be goddamned."

"She's foreign, yes—"

"I want her out of here."

"But why?" Her hands behind her back balled into fists. "She has no place to go. She's not hurting anyone here—"

"It doesn't look right, having a foreigner staying with us. She's probably even Jewish. Is she?"

"I have no idea, I never—"

"Well, I want her out. Give her some money if you have to, but get rid of her."

She fought to keep her voice calm. "Listen to me, no one even knows she's here—it's not as if she makes social calls with me. She needs a place to rest for a while, a safe harbor until—"

"I don't have time for this," he warned, coarse fingers drumming again.

"She's an aristocrat." He looked up sharply, and even though there was suspicion in his eyes, she knew her impulsive comment was inspired. "She comes from old European royalty; her father was a count." No point in mentioning her mother was a gypsy and never
married
the count. If the count even existed. She could see Ben wavering, and it almost made her laugh. But her contempt for him was too strong for laughter.

"Aristocrat? Blue blood, ha. Yeah, but what kind of blue blood, blue Jewish blood?" She shrugged. "Blue Rumanian blood."

"Rumanian." He reached for a sheaf of papers and spread them out in front of him. "Leave me alone. I'll think about it when I get time."

She stayed where she was. She supposed she had won, but she felt little elation. Once it had exhilarated her to defeat him in petty domestic battles, but anger was the only pure emotion he evoked in her anymore. "Michael's stomachache is better," she said softly. "In case you were worried about him."

"I told you on the 'phone it was nothing."

"That's right, you did. Well. I'll let you get back to your work." She walked out, feeling his cold eyes on her. At least now he was angry too. That was something.

"Here, McKie, have a drink."

"Thanks." He almost added, "I can use it," but that might have tipped Cochrane to the fact that he'd found the second tour of this pretentious, relentless, overbearing domestic museum of a house even more oppressive than the first. And this time he'd had to listen to a long, self-important story about every Egyptian water bottle, Japanese vase, Thuringian cup, and cloisonné paperweight in sight. Constance had ooh'd and ah'd incessantly, but she was good at social subterfuge, and Alex looked forward to hearing later what she really thought of the place. The Donovans, Harry and Lucille, were simply floored; they'd run out of superlatives early, suffering the bulk of the tour in silent and apparently genuine awe.

Now that they were all back in the "crimson drawing room," as Ben called it—Alex thought of it as the "bullfighting room" because of the blood-red leather walls and the Mexican saddle-cloth draperies—he wanted to know where the hell Mrs. Cochrane was. He could understand if she'd had the good sense to absent herself at tour time; no sane person could hold that against her. But he'd thought about her every day for two weeks, and now he wanted to see her. Badly. Wanted it so much, in fact, that he hadn't yet taken the simple expedient of asking Cochrane where she was, because to do so might give too much away. That was extraordinary in itself, considering that he was a past master at counterfeiting innocence for the benefit of potentially suspicious husbands and lovers.

"So, McKie, how's everything going up in Newport?"

"Things are going well, Ben. We've worked out a delivery schedule for the materials and equipment that we can live with, and the contractor's all set for a June start. I've setup abase of operations in—"

"I want a June third groundbreaking."

"June third? Well, I'm—"

"That's a Saturday. I'm throwing a party, every swell in Newport's invited, and it's on the third. Doesn't matter if you're ready or not, we can just stick a shovel in the ground for the ceremony. The party'll be at that Casino place afterward."

The
ceremony
? "I see. Well, that shouldn't be a pr—"

"You'll be there, of course, and Ogden says he's going to try to make it. He damn well
should
try, shouldn't he? It'll be good advertising for his company, and I told him so."

Alex nodded, imagining his employer's reaction to being told that Draper, Snow and Ogden needed Ben Cochrane's "advertising."

"Yes, I can be there. It sounds like—"

"Say, Harry, what's this about you guys voting to send inspectors into the slaughterhouses to check up on kosher killing? What the hell is that?"

Alex gritted his teeth and clenched the glass in his hand harder as Cochrane turned his back on him and walked over to where Donovan was sitting with his fat wife. Donovan was a city alderman; rumor whispered he was comfortably nestled in Cochrane's pocket, as well as those of a lot of other New York real estate moguls. "Ben, we had no choice, the butchers on the East Side—"

"What do you mean, no choice? That's the Jews' job, the rabbis take care of that. They're strict, too, you wouldn't believe the rules they've got." His voice got louder, signaling he wanted Constance and Mrs. Donovan to stop talking and listen. "They call it
shechitah
, the way they do it, and the guy who does it is the
shochet
. He sticks a knife into the steer's throat and it bleeds to death. But if he doesn't do it exactly right, say if he tears loose the windpipe or the gullet, or even if the knife has a little knick in it, the rabbi who's sitting there watching everything says it's not kosher and they throw away the whole animal. Then it's only fit for us Gentiles."

"But there were complaints, Ben," Donovan protested, "people were saying the meat wasn't always kosher even though—"

"Well, Jesus, Harry, who the hell cares? Do you think a Jew sitting down to a nice Porterhouse steak knows whether the steer bled to death or got his skull smashed in? It's just another example of the government trying to horn in on the natural conduct of business. Let the buyer beware, that's what this country's—Well, well, look who decided to show up."

"Hello. I'm awfully sorry to be late, you must think I'm terribly rude. My son didn't want to have his bath tonight. Mrs. Donovan, so good to see you again, and Mr. Donovan. You must be Mrs. Cheyney. How do you do. I'm Sara Cochrane."

Alex set his glass down and moved toward her, some instinct making him want to put himself between her and Cochrane. Christ, she was beautiful, slim and elegant, fashionably chic in a gown of midnight blue silk, her bright hair swept up in some neo-Greek style he'd never seen before. But there was tension in her face as she smiled and greeted her guests, the kind of strain that had been absent two weeks ago when he'd had her to himself A dozen times he'd thought of calling her on some trumped-up pretext, but he never had. Had she thought of him, too? It was impossible to tell; her expression held nothing but cool friendliness as she gave him her hand and said his name.

Her husband handed her a glass of sherry, demanding to know, in what was for him a discreet tone of voice, what the hell had kept her. She murmured something Ben didn't like and Alex couldn't hear, then moved away to talk to the ladies.

Leaning against the overwrought marble mantel, pretending he was listening to Cochrane and Donovan discuss utility investments, Alex contemplated the interesting spectacle of Constance and Sara together. What a contrast they made, one dark and one fair; one earthy, the other elegant. Coarse and refined. No, that wasn't really fair; Constance was not coarse. At least, not in comparison with any other woman. He hadn't wanted to bring her tonight, but when she'd discovered he meant to spend his first evening in town without her after a two-week separation, she'd made things so unpleasant that he'd had no choice.

He couldn't have said exactly
why
he hadn't wanted her along. She was a perfectly presentable dinner guest, after all—young, attractive, respectable. She'd been left exceedingly well off by the late Mr. Cheyney, a trial lawyer who had dropped dead in the New York Court of Appeals during closing arguments. His wife had been too much for him, Alex always theorized, not completely in jest. Hell, she'd seduced
him
not two hours ago—sent the maid out and had her way with him on the brocade sofa in her drawing room. She'd missed him, she said. She was a noisy, athletic bed partner, hot and responsive and uncomplicated. Everything a man could want.

Sara laughed at something Constance said then, and the unself-conscious sound pulled at him and made him smile. He wanted her very much, wanted to solve the mystery of her. With other women, he accomplished that by taking them to bed. But with Sara, he sensed that might not do it—the mystery might remain unexplained afterward. Still, a man had to start somewhere. What would she be like? Cool and quiet? Quiet—yes, perhaps, but he did not think she would be cool.

She turned around, and he followed her smiling gaze to the doorway, where Michael stood, wearing pajamas and a plaid nightrobe, hand-in-hand with the formidable Mrs. Drum.

"Darling, come in and say good night to everyone."

The boy advanced shyly, heading straight for his mother. There were admiring exclamations from everyone, which increased his embarrassment; when he reached Sara he ducked his golden head and hung onto her hand. She whispered something and he pulled himself together. Constance wanted to know how old he was. He told her in bashful, gentlemanly accents, calling her "Mrs. Cheyney" when his mother prompted him. Mrs. Donovan said she had a boy at home almost his age, he would have to come over and play with him sometime. He thanked her politely, his serious face indicating that he would take the suggestion under advisement.

He shook hands with the men next. When Alex's turn came, he reached into his pocket and handed Michael the Indian arrowhead he'd picked up on the site in Newport and wrapped in a piece of drawing paper. As the boy gazed down, bemused, at the rough piece of flint, Alex caught the clean smell of soap and sun-dried flannel, and had a most unexpected urge to put his arms around Michael and give him a hug. Instead he explained what the gift; was, to the child's highly gratifying amazement and delight. They were speculating on the age of the artifact and the tribe it might have come from when Cochrane interrupted with brusque, senseless seventy that it was past Michael's bedtime and he wanted him upstairs
now
.

Alex's
eyes flew to Sara's, surprising a quickly hidden look of distress. Instantly obedient, Michael spun around and ran to his father. Cochrane put his beefy arms around him in a bear hug that looked more like a punishment than a demonstration of affection. Alex looked away, reaching for his drink and pushing back dark, long-ago memories best left buried.

Michael went away with Mrs. Drum, and soon after Sara stood up and announced that dinner was ready. Alex put his glass down and moved toward Constance, but Cochrane beat him to her, offering his arm with a fatuous smile and leading her out of the room. The Donovans followed. Sara waited beside the door with her hands clasped together, smiling tensely. More than anything, he wanted to make the smile real. He said, "I almost called you. A number of times." Her gray-blue eyes softened, and he came closer. But then she asked, "Why?"

Three or four answers sprang to mind. All of them would change everything, alter for good the fragile friendship they were sharing. Tentative as it was, he found he didn't want to risk losing it. "I wondered how your friend is, and if the police found out anything."

"Ah." She turned aside before he could discover if the new look in her eyes was disappointment. The girl named Tasha was still living in the house, she told him, recovering slowly; she hoped to find her a job soon, sewing clothes for a New York couturier. The police had discovered nothing and had no clues.

He said something sympathetic. Then, "Have you been all right? I thought you might be looking a little tired."

"Oh no," she said quickly, "I'm quite all right. How did you find Newport?"

"A bit empty yet. Ben tells me you'll be spending most of the summer there."

"With Michael, yes. We're looking forward to it."

He studied her tense cheeks, the strain in the fine blue-white skin around her eyes. He didn't believe she was looking forward to it, nor that she was quite all right. But they didn't have the sort of relationship that would have allowed him to challenge her.

As if she sensed his skepticism but had no resources to deal with it, she turned aside, murmuring about dinner and the other guests, and slipped through the door. Following, he took her arm in a gentle clasp. They moved down the hall together without saying anything more.

Dinner was skillfully prepared, beautifully served, and as strained a meal as Alex had ever sat through. Later that night Constance would tell him how pleasant she'd found the evening—an amazing reaction until he considered that he was beginning to perceive things that went on in the Cochrane household through Sara's eyes and ears. He sat in uncharacteristic silence throughout most of the meal, but he watched and listened, and against his will he learned.