Riverside Park (13 page)

Cassy shook her head. “No. I'm not even sure why I kept it. Because I hated keeping it.” She looked at Alexandra. “And I wrote a lot of things that weren't even true. So it was stupid for me to hold on to it.”

Alexandra rested her drink on the chair arm. “I wish I could have read it. Because then maybe I'd finally know what had really been going on in your head.”

“You know what was in my head at the time.”

“No, Cassy, I don't.” She took another sip of her drink. “I thought you were head over heels in love with me. And then one day—” she snapped her fingers “—it vanished. Gone. It was like nothing had ever happened between us.”

“It wasn't like that.”

“Oh, yes, it was,” she insisted, nodding.

“That's not how I felt.”

“Oh, no? So tell me what you wrote in the journal.”

“I told you, I wrote some things that weren't true.”

“Then what did you write that
was
true?” She brought her drink up to her mouth again. “Hmm?” And then she drank the rest of her drink down, the ice falling against her mouth.

Cassy took her time answering. “I wrote about how wonderful you were as a friend, and then later I wrote about how wonderful you were as a lover.” She swallowed. “That was true.”

A little color appeared in Alexandra's face. Then she launched herself out of the chair, heading for the bar. “And what did you write that wasn't true?”

Cassy didn't answer. She watched Alexandra pour herself another drink. A hefty one. To see her doing this astounded Cassy. And unnerved her. Alexandra was the kind of all or
nothing person for whom adding alcohol might not be such a good idea. Particularly when for years Alexandra had always said she didn't drink. Cassy wondered what other habits Alexandra might have acquired while being with Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres.

“I think I have a right to know what Sally Harrington read about me.” Alexandra sat down again, this time holding her glass in her lap. “Well?”

“I wrote that I cared about you, but I knew I was not in love with you. I wrote I was heterosexual and I was very sorry I was going to have to hurt you. Because I had to. Not only for my family's sake, but for your sake.”

“Yes, well, I knew all that,” she said, sipping her new drink.

“I should hope you know what parts of that weren't true, but were lies to myself to prepare me for ending it,” Cassy said. “I was in love with you, Alexandra. And clearly I was not heterosexual.”

“That much I did notice,” Alexandra said under her breath, putting her glass down in a crystal coaster on the coffee table with a distinct clink. “So what did you tell Sally?”

“I didn't tell her anything. I just thanked her.”

Alexandra had rubbed her eyes for a moment and then dropped her hand. “So Sally Harrington thinks we had an affair, but you turned out to be heterosexual and I turned out to be gay. So now you're happily married to Jackson and I'm happily attached to Georgiana.”

Cassy nodded. “That's about it.”

Alexandra thought for a long while. “So we lucked out,” she summarized.

“We lucked out,” Cassy echoed.

Alexandra let her head fall back against the chair to look up at the ceiling. “So the story is, once upon a time, somewhere
in the universe, two planets collided before continuing to the orbits God had intended.”

Cassy couldn't help but smile. “Only to collide again a couple of times.”

“Yes. Yes, they did,” Alexandra said. She put her elbow down on the chair arm and dropped her face into her hand. “I can't stand how things are between us.” She lowered her hand. “I don't know how things got so messed up.”

“It got messed up because you deserved a full-fledged partner, Alexandra.”

“The problem has always been,” Alexandra said with sudden animation, shifting in the chair to more directly face Cassy, “that the part of you that has always cared for me is the part of yourself you've never liked.”

“That's not true.”

“Or the part you've never respected.” She pointed at Cassy. “You've always viewed your feelings for me as a defect in your otherwise perfect character.”

Cassy cringed. Then she shook her head. “No. Maybe way back in the beginning, Alexandra, but I haven't felt that way for a very long time. I know, I've always had that good-girl syndrome. But it's that wanting to be a perfectionist, it's
that
which comes from my self-loathing. My feelings for you, my love for you, Alexandra, has always come from that part of me that
loves
me, if that makes any sense. It's the healthiest part of me. Unfortunately, I've always hated myself a lot more than I've loved myself. And that's why I have always messed it up.”

Alexandra got up out of her chair, turned away from Cassy and looked up at the ceiling again, her hair falling back over her shoulders. “I can't believe you tell me this now. When I'm with Georgiana.”

“I love you, Alexandra. I always will,” Cassy heard herself say. “But I also know that at my age I'll never be able to change enough to make you happy. Georgiana was the right decision. She loves you for you, she's your age, she can even give you children—”

“Stop it,” Alexandra said, wheeling around. “Just stop—
stop it!
”

“But it's true,” Cassy told her.

“What is the
matter
with you, Cassy?” Alexandra said, coming toward her. “You know I love you! Georgiana wasn't a
decision
. She was a
reaction
. She was a reaction to you wanting to stay in that hideous marriage instead of trying to figure out a way to make a life with
me
.”

“I think we're saying the same thing but in different ways,” Cassy told her.

“No, we're not,” Alexandra said, straightening up and throwing her shoulders back. “You're telling me that I'm better off with Georgiana. And I'm telling you, take me away from Georgiana before it's too late.”

At first Cassy thought she hadn't heard Alexandra correctly. But she had. She looked down. “I can't.”

Alexandra walked over, sat down next to her and took Cassy's hands in her hands. “Look at me.”

Cassy raised her head. Alexandra's eyes were searching hers. Over all this time, regardless of the situation, Alexandra's eyes had always held the same question.
How much do you care?
“This really will be goodbye,” she murmured. “You know that.”

Cassy nodded.

Alexandra kissed her.
There is no use to this
, Cassy thought as familiar sensations began to register, of Alexandra's mouth,
of Alexandra's hands moving over her arms, her back, her waist, her breasts. Alexandra fell back across the couch, pulling Cassy on top of her.

 

“All set, Mr. Tarnucci?” the receptionist asked. The big man had come out but there was still no sign of Mrs. Goldblum.

Cassy took a breath, crossed her legs in the other direction, and offered the man a polite smile on his way out.

THE ELEVEN-HUNDRED
page outline of
The Royal Court of Catherine the Great
was finished and Amanda was trying to figure out how she might clear a period of time to transform it into the first draft of the book. Only through an intensely focused period of days and weeks would she be able to achieve the brief omniscient view of the masses of material to flesh out the book into a whole. After that it would be back to mere mortal paperwork, checking and rechecking and cross-referencing the working manuscript, page by page, line by line, stitching everything into place. Then she would take another intensely focused period to revise the book straight through, taking care to remove those stitches in an effort to make it appear seamless.

Amanda's biography of Catherine the Great, which had been published over a decade before, had taken ten years to write. This book, about her court, made use of research from that first book but it was still taking another ten years to write.
Why was it taking her so long? The answer was simple: Emily and Teddy. And the minute Amanda had thought she was really free to write full-time again—hello, Grace!

Now, with Madame Moliere here, Amanda had a chance to work again, but she balked at the idea of emotionally withdrawing from her children at a time when their father seemed so distant. And, too, because Madame Moliere had not warmed to her older children the way she had hoped.

Amanda glanced up at the kitchen clock, called to Madame Moliere that she was going out, put on her coat and went outside to meet the school bus. There had been a time in her life when Amanda had feared she could never be a good wife or mother; now she only worried about the wife part, which was the part that for years had felt like her most successful venture.

Howard wasn't happy. The children complained he wasn't fun anymore, that Daddy was always tired and always cranky. Over Thanksgiving weekend Howard had only looked at Amanda oddly when she made a romantic overture. She could have been a hooker trailing after him down the street for all the welcome she had received. Then he apologized, saying he was wiped out. That was not what had bothered her, though, that their sex life seemed to have utterly disappeared. What bothered Amanda was that instead of holding her as they fell asleep, as he had done for years and years, he had turned the other way and balled himself up around a pillow, mumbling something about being used to sleeping alone now.

And yet Amanda's parents were shaking a warning finger at her! She understood why they had said what they did; they knew the only person whose behavior they might possibly affect could be Amanda's, so they had fired a warning shot over her bow to provoke her into changing course. Amanda had
also come to realize over the years that her mother had been far more aware of Amanda's sexual lifestyle after Christopher, and before Howard, than Amanda had known at the time.

Her mother was also what was once demurely referred to as a “warm-blooded creature.” As a child Amanda had been dimly aware that her parents were hopeless romantics but when she herself had become more sensually inclined she refused to consider her parents in that light at all. Amanda still could not endure thinking about her parents in that way but evidently her parents
did
view
her
in that way.

But she was not going to have an affair with anyone! The question was, when had Howard started one, or when was he going to? The guilt she sensed in him was unlike anything she had experienced before.

The other day Madame Moliere had been watching a talk show in the kitchen and when the show started talking about the signs to look for, to tell if your spouse was having an affair, Amanda stopped to listen: sudden new interest in improving his looks: a diet, working out, new clothes or a special new effort made with hair; a sudden change in routine or schedule; blocks of time unaccounted for; a sudden increase in sexual appetite at home. Howard didn't seem to have any of those signs (except hanging out in bars when Amanda was in Connecticut! She was still getting over that revelation), but all kinds of things were setting him off when he was not by nature an irritable man.

“What makes you think anything has to be going on?” he snapped. “Did it ever occur to you I'm just tired?”

Amanda walked down the hill to the bottom of the driveway. Ashette followed her to the barrier of the electric fence, barked a couple of times in protest, gave up and then sat down to wait for her return. Amanda checked the mailbox. A lot of bills,
none of which appeared terribly inviting. It was not even Christmas yet and look at all these bills: oil, electricity, telephone, Internet, satellite TV, satellite radio and credit card bills. Amanda had never owned a credit card before she met Howard. Now they seemed to have several. Or at least Howard did.

She heard honking and looked up to see a red pickup truck coming down the road. She smiled, holding her hand over her eyes, unsure who it was. As the truck bounced closer, squeaking on its springs, she saw it was Miklov. She had never seen him drive anything other than the league's van on occasion because he didn't own a car. He had come to the States with essentially the clothes on his back and Amanda knew he sent money home to his mother in the Czech Republic. The brakes of the truck gave an earsplitting screech as he pulled over and the engine shuddered a few times before shutting down. Miklov jumped down from the cab. “How do you like? It is mine!”

“You have your own truck?” Amanda said, clapping her hands together, wanting to appear excited because he so clearly was. The truck must represent a great deal to him, she knew. It represented Miklov's first opportunity to go when and where he pleased. There must be the feeling of accomplishment from having purchased it. (Did she dare make sure Miklov understood all the ins and outs of registration, insurance and emissions testing?) “Congratulations!”

“It is not new,” he noted with a hint of apology.

Amanda was not particularly aware of changing styles in trucks but she did know the rounded roof of this one reminded her of a pickup on her grandmother's farm thirty years ago. She also knew the paint should be shiny, not dusky, although she rather liked this textured brick color better than what might otherwise be an obtrusive red.

The school bus was coming. The driver slowed and stopped at the edge of their driveway and Teddy pushed past Emily to get down the stairs first. “Cool!” he declared with wide eyes, promptly running around to the back of the truck to climb up and look into the flatbed.

Shifting her backpack, Emily got up on her tiptoes to peek inside the driver's side window.

“Isn't it wonderful?” Amanda said. “Miklov has his own wheels now.”

Miklov grinned. “Do you like it, Emilee?”

“The seat's all torn up,” Emily observed.

“Em,” Amanda said under her breath.

“I put in new seats,”Miklov explained. “I only own for one hour.”

Emily caught her mother's expression while turning back to her coach. “I think your truck is very nice just the way it is, Mickey-Luck.”

He beamed.

“Trucks are supposed to be beat-up,” Teddy announced, elbowing his sister to try to see in through the window. “It's a guy thing. Can we go for a ride, Mickey-Luck?”

“I'm afraid you're going to have to go another time, Teddy,” Amanda said, looking at her watch. She wanted Howard to take a look at this truck before she allowed the children in it. “You've got homework and then dinner and then your father's calling to talk over your social studies project.”

“Blech,” Teddy said, “who needs social studies?” He looked up shyly at his coach. “I bet I could be a mechanic if Mickey-Luck would let me work on his truck with him.”

“At least seet in the seat, Teddee,” Miklov said.

Teddy dropped his backpack on the ground. He had to use two hands to press in the button on the door handle. With a
squeal and a bang the door opened. Miklov helped him up. The steering wheel was big and thin, and while Teddy couldn't turn it much, he pretended to with great dramatic flair and sound effects.

A piece was missing out of the truck's dashboard, Amanda noticed, or perhaps a piece of the dashboard remained and it was the rest of it that was missing. Amanda supposed it depended on one's perspective.

Emily by now had lost interest and was running up the hill to see Ashette.

“Come on, Teddy, we need to get moving,” Amanda said. “Thank you for stopping by to show us your new truck, Miklov.”

Miklov bent over from the waist to pick up Teddy's backpack and when he came back up Amanda found his face significantly closer to hers. He was smiling, his eyes happy; she could smell mouthwash and some kind of aftershave. She thought of what her parents had said and, indeed, she could see genuine affection in Miklov's eyes, but not the love her parents had spoken of. She and Miklov were comrades in this distant outpost; theirs was a friendship that had developed after spending so many hours thrown together with the children. He was very lonely, but now with his truck Amanda imagined he would shortly have a girlfriend because now he could finally leave the herd of soccer moms to go where the eligible young women were.

“Pro-gress, you know,” he said.

“Yes, I do and you're doing very well,” she acknowledged, dropping her eyes to her son. “We are happy for you, aren't we, Teddy?”

“Mickey-Luck rocks,” he acknowledged. “I'm hungry.”

They said goodbye and started up the hill, Teddy running
ahead. Physically he took after Amanda and at eight looked somewhat like a colt. The doctor said he would be quite tall, perhaps as much as six-foot-three. Emily was sturdier, like her father, and unfortunately about as graceful. Ballet had helped with the latter, however, and it was her endurance that made her a valuable player on the soccer field.

Miklov honked as he drove away and they all turned to wave.

In the kitchen the children helped themselves to graham crackers and milk and settled down with their books at the kitchen table. Amanda went into the study to put Howard's mail unopened in his desk drawer. Then she picked up the phone to call him. Maybe he was in a better mood today.

Howard didn't pick up on his cell phone so she called the agency. “I don't know what to tell you, Amanda,” Gretchen, her husband's assistant, said to her, “because he's not here and I'm not sure where he is.”

“If he doesn't have anything on his schedule he could be touring bookstores.” Her husband was well-known to do this, to pause at the window of one bookstore and then spend hours touring bookstores all over midtown to check out what was selling, what was placed where in the store and, most importantly, to get a sense of how his authors' books were being sold and in what quantities. Amanda crossed her left arm to support the arm holding the telephone. “Is something wrong? You don't sound like yourself.”

“It's just been really crazy around here today.”

“It is always very crazy there,” Amanda reminded her, looking out the bay window. There were birds in the dogwood tree near the window. She hoped the cat didn't get them. “Is there anything I can possibly assist you with?”

Gretchen dropped her voice. “He'd kill me for talking to you. Kill me first and
then
fire me.”

Amanda's stomach tensed. “What is it?”

“I think there's some kind of trouble at the bank. They called and he got pretty upset. I think that's where he might be. At the bank.”

Howard was a fanatic about the agency books. He must be at the bank screaming from the rafters about some kind of error the bank made.

“I'm sure he'll sort out whatever it is,” Amanda said, thinking how upset Howard would be that Gretchen had spoken of it. She tried to turn the conversation into a neutral one again, half joking that Gretchen might want to get some Dove chocolate in anticipation of Howard's return because it tended to have a sedative effect on her husband. She compared notes on Christmas shopping and they speculated on the chances of snow.

“Are you talking to Daddy?” Emily asked from the doorway.

“No, darling,” she said, hanging up, “he's going to call us a little later.”

“I want to tell him about my math test.”

“You'll get a chance a little later,” Amanda said, steering her back into the kitchen.

“Why can't Dad live with us all the time?” Teddy asked. The remains of graham crackers floating around in the glass of milk in his hand was disgusting and Amanda couldn't look at it.

“I'm working on it,” she told her son.

“It's Mickey-Luck!” Teddy suddenly cried, slamming his glass down and bolting from the table.

The young Czech was standing at their back door, smiling through the glass, with Ashette barking and dancing around him in glee. When Teddy opened the door Miklov held out a large package wrapped in white paper and tape. “I forgot your
gift!” he called to Amanda. He laughed, moving the package high over his head so Ashette couldn't get it. “She knows it is steck!”

“I love steck!” Teddy declared.

The next thing Amanda knew Miklov was staying for dinner and she found herself smiling as she prepared it, pleased to have such a grateful and enthusiastic guest joining them.