Authors: Donna Fletcher Crow
“Oh!” She turned to him in delight, but could say no more.
Tom gently lifted the caftan over her head and kissed her smooth white shoulders. “Enjoy.” He turned and closed the door softly behind him, leaving her to luxuriate in her personal spa.
Taking the fat bath sponge and new bar of country English soap Tom had left on the edge of the tub for her, Laura rubbed her arms and neck with the silkiness of its lather, feeling like the bride of an Eastern potentate being prepared for her marriage bed.
Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse! … How fair is thy love … how much better is thy love than wine! and the smell of thine ointments than all spices!
Laura smiled softly, trying to convince herself this was really happening. Since the moment she entered their suite it had been as if she had crossed the threshold into a fantasy world. That Tom could have prepared this extravagant romance for her was unbelievable. She had never even written such a scene in a book. It was a world beyond her dreams, and she was living in it.
If this be a dream, but let me slumber on.
Even as she reveled, she knew that fantasies came to an end, that one wakened from dreams. The harsh light of day would soon enough intrude itself. But tonight would be theirs.
She dried herself with a thick, peach towel, used just a light dusting of powder, and slipped into her ivory satin gown. When she emerged, soft and rosy from her bath, Tom, clad in a deep blue velour robe, was waiting for her.
He held his arms open for her, and she glided across the room to him …
But she never reached the shelter of his embrace. The telephone’s shrill shattered their romantic seclusion like an alien invader from a distant star.
It’s too soon,
Laura protested. She knew the light of day was coming. But surely not yet.
“Hello … Yes … Phil told you about the new deal? …”
Laura stopped breathing. Not even a flickering eyelash interrupted her concentration on Tom’s words.
“… Of course. I thought you’d want to invest … Very successful—it looks like a go … Sure, I’ve got the figures right here …” He snapped on the desk lamp, obliterating the final shreds of the atmosphere he had so carefully created. “… project A has 20 single-family homes and 60 townhouses, at a market value of—”
Laura shivered and realized the room had chilled as the candles flickered and died. She turned to go up the steps to the bedroom alone. She would wait for Tom there.
She was momentarily warmed anew by the sight that met her: The coverlet turned down, the sheet folded back, and on her pillow—a single, long-stemmed red rose. She twirled it between her fingers, smelling it absently. Red rose for true love. She didn’t really doubt it. Tom loved her. Truly. His love for her came right after his passion for developing investments. Marla’s investments.
She slipped between the sheets, still holding the rose. And still listening to the statistical conversation from the next room … The room around her began melting like the wax on the candles, Tom’s voice grew distant and furry …
She jerked awake. She
would
wait for him. Tom’s words broke and floated away … Helplessly she glided back, as if her body were weighted.
Once again she fought her way up to the surface. But this time the candles were all guttered and the rose wilted.
Tom came to bed sometime during the night. Laura knew because when she rolled over once her hand brushed his back. She quickly rolled as far as she could to her side of the bed. She wakened again when he got up in the morning, but she lay with her eyes tightly closed. It seemed like hours before she heard the lock on the hall door click shut as Tom left.
She considered calling room service for breakfast, but even a pot of tea sounded disgusting. Thank goodness she had one escape that never failed. Wrapping the hotel-provided terry cloth robe around herself she pulled out her laptop computer. Kyle and Glenda seemed caught in a hopeless situation, her own romance had smashed on the rocks of high finance, but there was one love story she could control:
At last the day arrived. The day Gwendolyn had feared would never come. She twirled in front of her mirror, admiring the turn-of-the-century lines of the ivory muslin and handmade lace of her grandmother’s wedding gown. Lanette, her matron of honor, came in and helped her adjust the tulle trim on her widebrimmed straw hat.
“Come on, Gwen, the guests are all seated. The chamber group has finished the Water Music, the Trumpet Voluntary is next.” Lanette led her from the house to the hedge behind the rose garden and delivered the radiant bride to the arm of Ted, who was to give her away.
As the contrapuntal chords of the baroque masterpiece played at royal weddings since the days of Charles II filled the air, a lump rose in Gwen’s throat, causing her eyes to mist with joy. On the other side of that hedge, at the end of the rosestrewn garden path, Kevin was waiting for her. Waiting for her as she had waited for him all her life. She lifted her face and smiled, hoping her smile would reach him as a kiss.
She matched her step to the lyrical, yet solemn music, and every step took her closer to her beloved. The scent of the rose trees lining the way came to her as an invocation—entreating their future happiness, and as a benediction—bestowing a blessing on their life together.
Kevin stepped forward.
As their hands touched she looked into his eyes and said yes to their whole future.
Laura looked around the room, dazed, with a sense of jetlag. It was so satisfying when the scenes would come like that—as fully developed pictures in her mind. She read back through her last chapter. Something had happened to her writing. It had always been adequate, but maybe a little stiff. Now it was singing.
Funny, all she had worked through in the past weeks with Tom might have fallen short of her goal to reach Tom, but at least it was having an effect on her creativity. Maybe if that aspect of her life was changing, she would eventually see more concrete changes. But it was hard to keep hoping. If last night had failed, she couldn’t imagine anything that would produce success.
And she could think of nothing else either of them could do. Of course, Kyle had said it would take time, had counseled continued therapy, but how much good would more of the same do? She had thought that Tom’s accepting help would be the key. But that last hope had failed too. And not for lack of trying.
Laura glanced at her hand holding the manuscript pages. Then blinked to be sure it was her own. Fingernails. Almost. She had never grown fingernails in her life. But now each finger ended with a tiny white rim. Not enough to require filing, certainly. But someday … When was the last time she had chewed them?
New life. A sign of new life right at her fingertips.
She jumped when the door opened. “Ready for tea? Just time to make our reservations.” Tom could have been asking the bank teller about their business hours.
Was it a grasping at hope, mere force of habit, or the fact that she was starving that made her jump up and rush to her closet? “It seems so early.”
“Yes, we asked for first sitting, remember. But then, I never knew you to turn down tea.”
“Certainly not now.” She emerged in her uniform—skirt, turtleneck, and blazer. “My stomach was in a decidedly bad mood over something this morning, but I’m starving now.”
“Nervous over the hearing, were you?”
“I guess so.” It was easiest to agree. Actually she had forgotten all about the hearing. And the idea of talking to Janelle’s mother. The thought of having to talk about Mr. Sanders—and her mother’s denial, which had put her into almost 20 years of stifling denial …
“Watch out.” Tom took her arm just in time to prevent her collision with a white-jacketed waiter. Tom guided her across the well-mannered lobby where they were seated in overstuffed chairs with a small round table between them.
Laura leaned back and looked up at the ornate ceiling supported by ionic columns and hung with scrolled brass Edwardian chandeliers. She sighed. Maybe this atmosphere that never lost touch with its era of romantic elegance and gracious living would help her sort things out. Maybe here, with Tom beside her, she could think what else—if anything—they could attempt to make this the honeymoon they had set out seeking. Professional counseling had done much: Laura had broken through her long-standing denial, grieved over her losses with her mother, sought new paths with Tom. And Tom had tried to do his part. That almost made it worse. Such an all-out attempt as last night’s having failed left one thinking, “If that wouldn’t work, what would?”
The waiter placed tiny round salvers before them and removed the little domed covers to reveal spongy English crumpets, steeped in honey and aswim in butter. In spite of using her fork, Laura still wound up licking her fingers.
And then her thoughts turned inward again. They had even worshiped together. Everyone said that was important. It had once been important in their lives, an importance she would like to recapture. But that, too, had come to nothing.
And now she had this unlikely notion that there might be some therapy in trying to help Janelle …
A waitress placed footed silver dishes of fruit salad and a selection of finger sandwiches before them. Laura looked up and saw Tom regarding her. Uh-ho, she knew how he hated it when she went off on her own thoughts. She scrambled around in her mental notes. Then surprised herself with a giggle. “Oh, I just remembered—I read the other day that when streaking was in vogue the Empress lobby came in for its share, but the streakers had the good taste to wear neckties.”
Tom responded. “I heard one too. Seems there was a holdup attempt in the Garden Café. The cashier informed the miscreant that ‘this sort of thing is not done at the Empress.’ The gunman fired a shot into the ceiling and left.”
“Oh, I love it! I wonder if I could use that in my story somewhere?”
“I thought you finished.”
“Just the rough draft—an outline, some key scenes sketched—there’s months of work yet. But the hardest part is over.” She wished she could believe that about her other goals.
“Happy ending?”
“I hope so.”
No, Tom means the book, stupid.
“Oh, I mean, of course. Whoever heard of a romance with an unhappy ending?”
“Romeo and Juliet?”
Laura laughed and refilled their cups with Empress Blend Afternoon tea while the waitress served homemade scones with thick Jersey cream and strawberry jam. “You win. But somehow I don’t think drinking poison in a crypt would go over too well with my readers.”
The silence that fell between them became ominous. Was Tom, too, wondering if their own romance would end in similar tragedy?
A tray of pink and white cakes sat before them untouched as Laura watched two elderly ladies at a nearby table rise to leave. Laura was reminded of the little dollar dowagers, coming down from their garrets, but ordering only hot water with which they brewed their own, cheaper, tea bags. Would her life be equally empty without Tom? Would she have anything more significant to live for than an afternoon ritual?
She had to keep fighting for Tom. She couldn’t give up until every possible avenue had been explored. And they had come so close last night. Or had they? How much did Tom really care if a telephone call could wipe it all from his mind? Or was it not so much the call as the caller? Was it, as she suspected,
that woman?
Fear of Marla gripped her, so she leaned forward and clasped her jacket around her—a gesture she hadn’t used for weeks. What was Marla’s power over Tom? Was it romantic or financial? Could Tom separate the two?
If Marla would stay put in the business office, Laura might be able to cope—forget her most of the time, accept her when memory intruded. But when she insisted on forcing herself on their honeymoon, it was simply more than Laura could handle.
“Are you ready? We don’t want to be late for the hearing.” Laura blinked at Tom’s words, then forced herself to stand, shoulders back, head up, and walk from the room.
They gave their names to the bailiff at the courtroom door as juvenile proceedings were closed to all but those involved in the case. This would be somewhat informal, as it was just a preliminary hearing, not a full trial. Still, the judge presided with solemn dignity, emphasized by his mane of gray hair and heavy eyebrows. Darren sat at a table to the left with his counselor. Laura slipped into a seat next to Glenda, Tom beside her. “How’s it going?” she whispered to Glenda.
“The judge is very thorough. He’s going into every detail.”
“How are you?”
Glenda shook her head. “I’ll be glad when it’s over. I just want the best—for everybody. But I don’t know what that is.”
The judge dismissed Sgt. Monaghan, who gave Laura a shy smile as he walked past her. Next Janelle was asked to step forward. She gave a rather muddled account of her running away to her old boyfriend and of Darren’s attempts to take care of her. “He did it to help me,” was her one theme. “He cares about me. He believes me.”
Janelle’s mother jumped to her feet in the back of the room—a buxom woman with blond hair that had once probably been natural. “That’s not fair. I cared too. I was a good mother. It’s not easy—raising two kids alone. I did my best.”
Janelle tossed her long hair. “You never listened to me. You wouldn’t believe me.”
“No, I wouldn’t listen to smutty stories. Why should I?”
Laura couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Janelle could have been herself a few years ago. Or Mrs. Wilson could be her a few years hence. This had to stop. “Your Honor, could I say something?” Laura spoke without weighing the consequences.
The judge asked her to come forward and identify herself. She spelled her name for the court reporter and swore to tell the truth. Suddenly she had the floor. Now, what would she say? She was under oath to tell the truth. But what
was
the truth? She could tell the details of her experience—let it all hang out as people were so fond of doing on popular TV talk shows. But telling all wasn’t the point.