Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (137 page)

A half hour ago he hit me.

Then at last a sound did come. It was footsteps crunching over the gravel. I perked up a little. I thought I knew what his intention was. He was going to walk around to the window, look in, and then smile his slow, easy Hal Holbrook smile and …

I’ll forgive him, I decided instantly. He was sorry, of course he was sorry, and I would forgive him.

A tremulous smile stole over my face.

And then I heard a car door slam.

Transfixed, I heard a motor start, then a spinning up of the gravel, and finally the zoom of a car racing away.

I moved rapidly, sprinting out of the bedroom to the front door, just in time to see Eric’s Porsche turning into the road in a cloud of dust and whirling gravel.

Eric, of course, would return. He was driving around somewhere, having it out with himself. And before long, he would drive up again, hurry inside, and say he was sorry, that he had been goaded beyond endurance, but he was sorry, terribly sorry.

Maybe he’d go to town, have a few beers, and cool off. Talk to the bartender, who would say, “If you love her, go back with flowers, women like flowers. Get some perfume from the drug store. Women love perfume.”

That was the way it would happen.

The first couple of hours crawled by. I sat on the window seat in the living room and looked outside, at the glowing sunset, at all pinks and purples and gold. And then the first hints of cobalt as the Turner colors faded and the austerity of night came on.

It was still day, though. Blackness was a long way off. And while there was still light, there was still hope. Not merely hope, but certainty.

Because of course Eric would be back.

I never in my life had wanted to hear something as much as I wanted to hear the sound of Eric’s car pulling up on the gravel. My ears were aching, listening so hard.

I tried to hold away the dark. I tried to push it back. Not yet, I kept saying to myself. Not yet. I don’t want it to be dark.

But it grew dark.

At nine, cramped and stiff from sitting for so long, I got up and went to the kitchen. When Eric came back dinner would be ready for him. I even felt regretful that, because of the mosquitos, we wouldn’t be able to have it outdoors, on the patio.

The casserole was ready at ten.

I looked at the clock and pulled the steaming dish out of the oven. He really had better walk in that door within the next few minutes, I thought anxiously as I set the table. So we can have it while it’s hot.

And then I sat down in one of the kitchen chairs and knew he wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t coming back in time to eat this casserole, at any rate.

Further than that, I didn’t allow myself to think.

After awhile I put the casserole, now cool, into the refrigerator. Then I looked at the brandy bottle — and then looked away.

If I had so much as one snifter of it I would finish the bottle. I didn’t want Eric to come back and find me blind drunk. I would not add insult to injury.

I sat with a book in the living room, jumping at every sound. It might as well have been upside down: I didn’t see a word of it. It was something to pretend to do, that was all.

I got up and stretched elaborately, as if I were on stage, performing in a play. I stretched for the benefit of an unseen audience, and in the same way I went lightly into the bathroom, where I brushed my teeth and washed my face.

Then I went to the bedroom, pulled down the covers, got into a nightgown, and climbed in. I slept lightly at first, listening for the sound of Eric’s key in the lock. I would want to greet him lovingly, say I was sorry too, and then hold him in my arms.

I had to stay awake for that.

• • •

The next thing I knew it was a bright morning, and the other side of the bed was empty.

I was alone, and I had to face it. Eric had not come back, and he was not going to come back.

I was still in bed, not wanting to get up, not wanting to get up ever again, when the front doorbell rang.

Hope springs eternal … I sprang up and raced to the door.

On the doorstep was a young kid, about seventeen, standing on one foot and looking impatient, as if I had taken forever to answer, which was far from the case. I said, “Yes?” and then caught sight of Eric’s Porsche.

He had an accident and he’s dead, my mind went, and I felt faint. Eric was dead … he’d had an accident.

“Miss Stewart?” the kid asked.

“Yes, what happened?” I asked, with everything gone whirly and dark around me, and a taste of brass in my mouth. “What’s happened?”

“There’s the car,” he said, pointing. Then he handed me a scrap of paper. “There’s the car,” he repeated, “and this is for you. You don’t have to tip me, he did.”

Then he trotted off, the smell of his adolescent sweat leaving a trail behind him. I saw him straddle a bike and take off, rounding the bend of the road and then vanishing.

I read the note still standing in the open doorway. It was from Eric, and it read:

There was a numbness in me, thankfully, and I did all the things people do when the sky falls on them. I simply got ready for the day, that was about it, and nothing hurt yet, really. I was too deadened for pain, or protestation.

I just had to accept that there was to be “an interim period” between Eric and me. The pain would come later: for now there was only a dumb acknowledgment of a schism I could never, in my wildest imaginings, have believed possible.

I didn’t think I was going to discuss it, but I did. I suppose it was all too much to keep locked inside: I was dreading that ride back home later in the day, and — even worse — leaving Eric’s car parked on his street. His apartment faced the front, and when I saw lights on inside, I knew it would be a strange and awful feeling simply to leave the car and walk away, go on to my own apartment.

So I talked it over with Caroline.

It was, after all, the best thing I could have done. She was very understanding. She said, “Look on it as a good thing, in one way, Jennie. No, don’t interrupt, just listen. You say you and he never had a knockdown, drag-out fight before.”

“Never,” I assured her. “Not about anything. No harsh words, never.”

“Well,” she said slowly, “I wouldn’t call that the best thing for either of you. My dear, men and women are natural adversaries. It’s the nature of the beast … beasts. The relationship between lovers isn’t supposed to be a gentle, kind, and passive one. A woman and a man, behaving like brother and sister, all sweetness and light — there’s no passion there. The sex act, after all, is a contest, two wrestlers, really. You show me a couple who never had harsh words, and I’ll show you a pallid union. All worthy relationships have a love-hate basis. This is
right
, Jennie. Love isn’t pussyfooting. Never to have to say you’re sorry. What hog-wash! Love — passionate love — is a thrilling duel of bodies, wits and emotions, and you don’t fall into agreement simply to keep the peace. You go to that bed two separate and separately-functioning entities, I
assure
you, Jennie. The sanctuary is merely in the fact of the two of you facing the world together, each a bulwark for the other. But you don’t face it pacifying each other. That’s a copout.”

She had a good deal to say on the subject, and if she didn’t convince me that it was really all for the best, at least she gave me some comfort, some hope. She asserted that Eric’s idea of an interim period would work in my favor, not against it. Absence does make the heart grow fonder. “It’s true,” she said, “as so many adages are.”

She also admitted that she had a new and much better picture of Eric, that she might have thought him my pawn, but was now convinced that he had a mind of his own.

“My pawn?” I repeated, shaken. “Why do you say
that?
”

“Because you’re very self-willed, very assured. And I assumed that he’d become henpecked.”

“Dear God,” I cried. “Is that what I’m like?”

“I think you’re adorable. But you need a good, strong man. And I guess he is.” She shook her head, smiling a little. “Imagine him dealing you a blow,” she said. “And then walking out on you. Fancy it!”

She wormed out of me the reason for Eric’s anger. I told her about Peter’s pursuit of me, and said that Eric apparently had sensed it.

“It would be difficult not to,” she agreed. “I saw it, why shouldn’t he?”

“But that wasn’t really it.”

“Oh?”

“It was Tony,” I said.

“Really? Suppose you elucidate, Jennie.”

I looked for some sign of censure, or displeasure from her. Something that would warn me that it was not wise to go on. But there was none. Her face was as open and candid as before. So I explained.

I said, “Eric, I think now, saw my reaction to Anthony from the begining. I think, you know, that he was aware of it before I was.”

“Aware of what?” she asked, looking closely at me.

“Why … why, that I had a gut reaction. Nothing serious, you understand. Simply that I responded to his attractiveness.”

She gave me a shrewd glance. “You’re not by far the first,” she commented. “For Tony, they fall like flies, as the saying goes.”

“I realize that.”

“Are you
very
attracted to him?”

“I was. I didn’t acknowledge it. Good heavens, you can respond to any number of men and not be serious about them.”

“I rather threw you together.”

“Not intentionally.”

“I wonder. Perhaps it was intentional.”

“Oh,
no
, and for goodness’ sake, don’t blame poor Tony.”

“In many ways I do blame him.”

“But why? He’s done nothing!”

“I’m not all that sure.”

Coincidentally enough, Tony chose that moment to appear in the doorway. He gave me one of his dashing smiles. I looked away quickly; in spite of my troubled state, I had only to glimpse that wonderful smile to quake inwardly with an unwanted response. I marveled at the inconsistency of the human mind. You could at one and the same time be wretched with misery about one man, and tremble for another. I was furious with myself, sick at my involuntary duplicity. I took it out on him.

“What’s up, love?” he asked me. “You look exceeding cross.”

“I don’t think I want your diagnosis,” I said coldly. “I very much dislike someone’s categorizing my moods.”

“Yes,” Caroline said icily, backing me up. “Just do shut up,
if
you please.”

“I say, what?” he asked, wonderingly. “Are you cross too, Caroline? But then you are very often cross these days.”

He tried a brilliant smile. “I say, shall we go somewhere, the three of us? Get the cobwebs out of our brains?”

“God in heaven,” Caroline cried. “Men! Primitive to the core. Go away! Can’t you see Jennie and I are having a serious
talk?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Then something
is
wrong. Can’t I help?”

“Will
you leave us alone,” Caroline shouted. “I would think, Tony, that now you’re no longer a child, you’d have learned some savoir faire.”

I saw him pale. For an Englishman, being told he is lacking in savoir faire is like a slap in the face. His manner changed instantly. I had heretofore seen Anthony Cavendish — in the main — at his best.

“Sorry,” he said coldly, and then, cruelly, “I don’t suppose it has ever occurred to you, Caroline, that few men give large chunks of their time to lonely old ladies. Naturally, if even that isn’t enough — ”

He turned on his heel and walked out. Caroline’s face was bitter and angry. She didn’t say anything, and I imagine she was unable to at the moment. Anthony’s words had been too wounding.

I started to say something, but at a quick shake of her head decided not to. Nothing I could have uttered would have eased that verbal blow. Her throat, clearly, was tight.

Now, I thought, I — with my problems — had made everyone else miserable. I got up. “I’m sorry,” I said. “We’ll talk again. Please don’t worry. This is something I’ll have to deal with. Let’s just resume our pleasant summer. I’ll be heading for the city in a short time. But you know I have two weeks coming soon; I’ll be here the whole time. I’m looking forward to it, and I don’t want it spoiled.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said, “to make it lively and fun.”

“Thanks much. Caroline, I’ll skip lunch with you. I’ve decided to make tracks early. It’s better that way.”

I bent down and kissed her cheek.
“Adieu, cherie.”

“Adieu,”
she answered.
“Je t’aime.”

“Et moi aussi. Sois sage
, Caroline.”

“Naturellement, et tu.”

I started to walk away, but she called me back again. She said,
“Un moment.”

“Oui? Quoi, cherie?”

“Oh … nothing.” But she pulled my head down, and this time she kissed me. It was a heartfelt kiss, full on the mouth. I was very affected, and it brought back memories. My childhood, of course, when I was kissed that way by my father and mother. It was like a bond of solid friendship, and I thought about it during the long drive back to the city.

It made me feel protected, secure, cherished. And it made the miles to Manhattan seem shorter, less lonely.

• • •

When Eric hadn’t called me, either at work or at home, by the following Tuesday, I phoned him up at his office. His secretary put me through, after a, “Hi, Jan, how are you?”

And then his voice.

His voice sounded perfectly normal, no anger, no quavers, no chilliness. “Hello,” he said. “How are you?”

“All right, I suppose. You?”

“Busy as hell, but that’s nothing new. What’s up with you?”

I swallowed. “Are we on that kind of basis now?”

There was a short silence. Then, “I think for a while we are,” he said. “I think we both have a few things to mull over.”