Promises (48 page)

W
illie and Ernie’s East Side house was alight from bottom to top. The Christmas setting was still there in the window of the shop on the ground floor; the wing chair at the fireplace, the golden candles on the antique mantel, and the dried flowers in a great brass bowl came straight out of a hearty nineteenth-century novel.

This was the last night of 1995. On three floors above there was a lively celebration. Up and down the white marble stairs and through the private quarters—which their owners were only too happy to display—the guests paraded in their clothes and jewels, greeted friends, were introduced, examined paintings, stopped at the buffet table, and drank champagne. Over all, was the sound of music.

“Quite a spectacle,” remarked Stephen, enjoying it.

“Can you believe it?” said Margaret. “All this white marble, even the walls, and yet, somehow, it’s not too much.”

“I suppose that’s why they’re famous. Did you go
into the small red library on the second floor? I can see myself some cold night, stretched out on the sofa under the Winslow Homer with a book or a brandy.”

“I wish I could stay and talk to you,” Nina said, “but since I’ve been promoted and given a raise, I feel terribly responsible. Willie and Ernie have some customers here tonight, or possible customers, who positively need to be stroked. But it has been a wonderful vacation week for me, just having you here. It’s been a vacation and a celebration. I wish I could be at your big day next month.”

“It’s going to be a very simple big day,” Margaret said. “No wedding finery. We’ll be too busy moving into the house.”

“No more grabbing a night at a hotel midway between us anymore,” Stephen said.

“I’ll come out and decorate your house for you,” Nina offered.

“No marble walls, please. But a Winslow Homer would be nice,” Stephen said.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Seriously, it’s a nice house, not far either from my work or from the university for Margaret. We’re almost all moved in. Julie’s piano arrived last week, all tuned and ready to work again.”

“Yes,” Margaret added, “and it’s so wonderful, Nina, we’ve got Rufus back. A neighbor is dog-sitting for him right now.”

“Oh, I’m glad. My heart was broken for Dan’s sake. Listen, I have to go downstairs. Save a place for me at supper.”

In the long hallway a young man was standing alone examining a cabinet filled with antique silver. Having a
feeling that he might be a customer, Nina stopped to introduce herself.

“I’m Willie and Ernie’s woman Friday. If you have any questions about the silver, maybe I can help.”

“Thanks, but I was just looking. Actually, I am interested in silver, but mostly in nineteenth-century stuff, old Tiffany pieces. I like more decoration than you find in the Georgian period.”

He was immediately interesting, an obviously cultured man who knew something besides finance and sports.

“The shop will be open after the holiday. If you’re a collector—”

“Not really. I only pick up a piece now and then if I happen to fall over one.”

He had a nice smile and looked as though he laughed easily. His direct manner, his quiet, pleasing voice, appealed to Nina, too, so that when he asked her to have a drink with him, she accepted.

“I’m here alone,” he explained. “I came with a friend, but he left for another party, and I was about to leave soon myself, just lingering and looking around when you came over. Now I am definitely not going to leave.”

For a while they stood holding their drinks, and then, finding an unoccupied love seat, sat down.

“So you work here, Nina?”

“Yes, and I love it. I love being around all these beautiful objects.”

“You’re a rather beautiful object yourself.”

There was nothing bold or cheap about the compliment, because there was nothing bold or cheap about the man. They talked for quite a while; she learned that
he was a coffee importer and knew South America with its art, its crime, and its politics very well.

“How about dinner some night this week?” he asked. “You name the night.”

“Any night, really?” she responded. “Wednesday, maybe?”

“That’s the one night I can’t. We have theater tickets. My wife—”

She took a long breath. Hold on, she said silently to herself, and aloud, “Your wife? I think I may know her.”

“Oh, I don’t believe so. She’s really”—he gave a slight, deprecating frown—“she’s really not your—”

“Not my type? Of course not. She’s old as God and homely too. And you haven’t had sex with her in years. I know all about her.”

He stared as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Then, believing, he was outraged. “Well, excuse
me
! You really are something, you are, you little—”

But she was already ten steps away. “Yes,” she called back. “I’m something, all right. But one thing I’m not is a married man’s little pickup.”

She was angry, but she was also laughing when she went back upstairs. They were all sitting at the table waiting for her.

“I went looking for you,” Margaret said, “but you seemed to be involved, so I didn’t interfere. Was he nice?”

“Very nice. And his nice wife is probably very nice too.”

“Oh,” said Margaret.

The two women’s glances met, and both smiled.
Memories, Margaret thought. We have them, Nina and I.

And she looked around the table, as had always been her habit when the family was assembled at a table.

There was Megan, already a sophomore and a scholar, but a recluse no longer; she had a serious boy who also wanted to be a doctor, but Margaret must not worry, she had no plans to promise anything, not yet, not nearly so soon. She knew better.

There was Julie in her vivacious blue dress, telling Nina now about her music teacher, “My new one, where we’re moving soon. She said I haven’t lost much time. I might even go to a conservatory after college.”

Dan had a heaping plate and a mouthful of food. “What’s this stuff?” he demanded.

“Caviar,” Stephen told him.

“I never had it before. It’s great stuff.”

“You’re a gourmet,” Stephen said. “This is the best ever.”

“I thought it was gourmand.”

“No, a gourmand is somebody who eats too much.”

“I fall into that category too,” Danny said, laughing at himself.

Then all at once, laughter left him, and he said soberly, “Dad was a gourmet, wasn’t he, Mom?”

“Yes,” Margaret answered, meeting Stephen’s eyes.

“Dad knew a lot of things.”

“Yes, he did.”

This was hardly an appropriate subject for the occasion. But what could you expect? The boy was only fifteen, and the hurt was still with him.

I suppose, she thought, it really is like a wound. People say that for the rest of your life, in certain weathers
or simply from time to time, it will come back, and you will feel it.

Under the table Stephen seized her hand and clasped it. His eyes were smiling. Don’t be afraid of anything, they said. I love you and I will be with you always.

BELVA PLAIN is the internationally acclaimed author of seventeen bestselling novels. She lives in northern New Jersey.