The Carousel (14 page)

“Am I supposed to ask? All right, tell me about her.”

“She’s five years old, and she already loves horses.”

Roxanne asked where the horses stayed.

“The stables are at Father’s place. You can’t see from here, but it’s only a two-minute walk. Come, I’ll show you.”

The narrow path led over an abrupt, leafy rise. Obliquely, not wanting to be caught staring too eagerly, he watched her. In jeans and shirt, as in riding breeches, she was even more appealing than she had been last night in her red satin dress. It, after all, had been fairly awful. He found himself thinking about her potential. With the right teaching, she would learn about simplicity. He
found himself thinking that he had never seen a human being so joyously alive—except perhaps his brother.

At the top of the rise, the land spread out, a vast, level circle rimmed by forest. There stood the compound, stables, servants’ house, and, at the end of a well-tended, oblong flower garden, the main house, built of logs, yet undeniably a mansion, a small mansion.

Roxanne was overwhelmed. “Say! What about this!”

“So you like it.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“If you want to know, I prefer the house I’m building.”

She shook her head. “Uh-uh. I’ll take this any time.”

“Fair enough. I understand.”

He understood everything, her entirely natural awe of wealth, as well as her willingness to be here with him today. Read history: Old, ugly kings have beautiful young women around them. It was as simple as that.

“If you’ve seen enough, shall we take a ride?”

“Horseback?”

“No, car. I thought maybe you’d like to go up past Mount Bliss and have dinner at a little country hotel. It’s a nice place.”

“Good grief, the way I look?”

“You’re dressed just right for it. Take my word.”

“Okay, then. It sounds great.”

He thought, I suppose if I said let’s go parachute jumping, she’d say that would be great, too. When the thought brought forth a laugh—a damned nervous giggle—she asked him what was funny.

“You’re funny,” she said when he told her. “Funny nice. I can tell you have a great sense of humor.”

That he had. But it was sardonic and silent, kept inside himself.

“I laugh inside,” he said. “Can you understand that?”

She looked all of a sudden almost sad. “Oh, yes. It’s the way I feel sometimes when we’re at supper and everybody’s arguing about something stupid, and somebody gets excited and knocks over the catsup bottle. I have to laugh at them all, they’re so ridiculous. But I keep it inside because they’d never understand how stupid they are. I guess that’s why I like to be out with people, away from home.”

“It’s different for me. There are just Father and me in the house now, and we get along fine. He’s a wonderful man, my father.”

“Then why are you building this separate house?”

“One wants one’s privacy sometimes.”

Roxanne said, “When you told me yesterday that you feel you’ve known me for a long time, I thought it’s the same with me. I fell asleep last night thinking about it.”

He felt so happy. He had never before had such
revealing, intimate conversation with a woman or with a man, either, for that matter. Revealing yourself to people, you became vulnerable. Or, he should say, more vulnerable. He was already that every time he walked into a crowded room: tall, well-dressed women stared for half an instant at him and at once put on their correct social masks. As if he were some freak … Of course he was no freak; he was merely a person not to be desired. But amazingly, this girl didn’t make him feel that way. Her honesty was natural, kind and blunt.
Napoleon was short.
He felt so happy.

The restaurant was empty except for two or three old couples dining at the other end of the room. The gingham tablecloth, the bottle of inexpensive California red set out on the table, and the display of homemade pies were cozy. This was their second dinner together, two in a row. It gave him a free-and-easy feeling. He let himself imagine that this happened every night.

Between them they finished an enormous order of spaghetti carbonara, all cream and bacon.

“To hell with cholesterol,” Roxanne said.

Between them they finished the bottle. Her face was hot pink, and she had a laughing fit. “First thing tomorrow morning, Alcoholics Anonymous. Here. Have the last in my glass. I’m finished.”

Laughter, catching in Clive’s throat along with those last few drops, brought on a coughing spell.
Oh Lord, don’t let it be one of those choking ones,
sputtering and disgusting, making a spectacle of myself in front of her.

His luck was with him. He got through briefly with minimal noise, and Roxanne did not give him a lecture about smoking. So, relaxing after the exertion, he lit a cigarette.

The low sun, now visible through the trees at the window where she sat, put copper lights in her hair, and when she moved her neck, made a blinding dazzle of the rhinestone pendant. Clive was hardly a man to pay much attention to women’s jewelry, although last night he had noticed her bracelets, handsome ones in gold and diamonds. Of course, they could not have been real, but they were at least tasteful. This thing was gaudy, particularly out of place with a T-shirt in daylight. And he was moved unexpectedly to a kind of tenderness. It was probably her special treasure, the best she had, poor young thing.

An elderly couple on their way out seemed as they passed to be smiling at Roxanne, illuminated by the sun’s last glow. The man’s glance seemed to last a moment too long. And so it should; a thing of beauty was to be admired. If Ian could see me now, Clive thought, he with his women …

There were deck chairs on the lawn, a pleasant place to sit in the quiet dusk. No cars passed on the road. Even the birds’ late twitterings were dying away.

He ventured to say, “I don’t suppose you’re in any hurry to get back?”

“Not at all. I leave it to you.”

The chairs were so close that the wooden arms touched, and the human arms that rested on them could, if anyone wished, touch too. When Clive moved his, she did not move hers away. After a minute, he slid his hand down and took hold of her hand. Their fingers interlaced, hers guiding his, quickening his heartbeat.

Could he? Would she? A false move might drive her away. He wondered whether he dared risk it. It had never been much of a risk at other times because he had always been sure that the woman was desperate. But a woman like this one was hardly desperate! He wished he knew what to do. The vivacious mood at the dinner table, with her tipsy, pretty laughter, was now silenced. He was afraid she was bored.

“So quiet,” he murmured, needing to say something. “They can’t be doing much business. They have rooms upstairs, you know.”

“Oh, have you ever stayed here?”

“Friends of mine have,” he lied. “They say it’s very comfortable, a plain country inn.”

“I love the country. I should have been a farmer’s daughter.”

“Really? I don’t see you like that.”

“How do you see me?”

“In a more lively place than a farm. Still, maybe I shouldn’t judge. I don’t know you well enough to judge.”

“Not yet. After you know me awhile, you’ll see I can be very happy anywhere. I’m not at all demanding.
You could set me down right here, and I’d love it.”

“You mean you’d enjoy a weekend here, for instance?”

“Anytime, long or short.”

By now his heart was pumping hard, and he could feel the pulse in his temples. The last couple out of the restaurant, and the last car drove away. It was almost totally dark. If he only knew whether he dared.

“It’s almost too late to drive home.” Roxanne’s voice came out of the summer night with a dreamy intonation.

“You sound sleepy,” Clive said.

“Not so much sleepy as just tired. I’d love to stretch out.”

He hesitated, and at last dared. “It’s a long drive back. I don’t mind staying till morning if you don’t mind.”

“I think that’s a great idea, Clive.”

Suddenly, as her fingers tightened, he realized that they had been holding hands all this time. And he jumped up, pulled her up, and said, “We’ll need an overnight bag. It won’t look right otherwise. I’ve got a small duffel in the car. It’s empty, though.”

Then it occurred to him that she might expect two rooms, although probably not. For God’s sake, this was 1990.

And that was what he said himself only a few minutes later, after the graying lady at the registration
desk had given them a look. Once in the room with the door shut, he laughed.

“Did you see her face? I was dying to say, ‘Hey, lady, this is 1990. You’re in the wrong century.’ ”

Only then did it come to him that the look had been one of curiosity.
The showgirl, the beauty, and me.

The room was neatly furnished with hooked scatter rugs, two rocking chairs, and a Victorian chest. The bed was freshly made, crisp and white. He looked at it for a moment and, overcome by a familiar, tingling hot embarrassment, sat down in one of the rocking chairs.

Roxanne broke out laughing, and then, glancing at Clive, quickly broke off to explain herself. “I’m laughing because I haven’t even got a toothbrush. Haven’t got a nightgown, haven’t got anything. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

Thinking that he understood her shyness, he offered to turn the light off.

“Only if it makes you more comfortable,” she said, ripping the T-shirt off. “As for me, I’m natural. Nothing to hide.”

She wore a black lace bra. And while he sat and stared, the jeans came off. Under them, there was a black lace bikini.

“Well,” she said, “this is the last. Here goes.”

He had never seen anything so beautiful, had never known that there could be a woman so beautiful. Words stuck in his throat.

When she lay down on the bed, the faint light from the worn-out bulb on the nightstand turned
her skin to dusty pink. All creamy rose, he thought, getting up from the chair. Camellia petals, moist like them, but not, like them, cool. No, warm. Hot. Burning hot. He reached over and turned out the light.

“Was it good?” he asked in the morning.

“Idiot!” she said. “You know it was.”

He liked that she called him “idiot” and tousled his hair. It was affectionate. First came passion, next affection, and then passion again.

“Shall we do it once more?”

“Idiot. Of course. What else?”

A marvelous day! Love in the morning, in the sunlight. He could not believe his happiness. He had won the Nobel prize, or been crowned king. He did not recognize himself.

On the way back in the car, he repeated, “Shall we do it again?”

“What? Now?” she answered, pretending, as he knew, to misunderstand.

“No, idiot,” he responded.

“Honey, I knew what you meant. And you know I’ll do it again. It was wonderful. But,” she said seriously, “you have to promise not to let anything accidentally slip. My father’s very religious. You wouldn’t think a man with such a mean temper could be religious, but he is. And he’s suspicious. I’ll say I was at a girlfriend’s house last night and hope to get away with it. I usually do.”

Clive had a moment of jealousy. How many
men had she had before him? But he had no right to look back. Now was what counted.

She spoke hesitantly. “You don’t—don’t confide in anybody at home, do you?”

“Me? Of course not. I’m the most close-mouthed man there could be.”

Relieved, she sighed. “That’s good. It’s nobody’s business but ours. Yours and mine.”

June 1990

H
e would give anything, anything in the world, to feel like that again. No matter what you might experience or read about or fantasize about, nothing could possibly describe the reality of what he had felt.

She has bewitched me, Clive thought, after that night and after the few that rapidly followed each other during the next two weeks. There was a weekend, two nights back at the first hotel, and then three short, quick evenings at an inn not far from town.

Roxanne had been worried about her father and about being too close to home. Clive had countered boldly, with a still unspoken idea beginning to form.

“I don’t give a damn who finds out. I’ll see that you’re protected whatever happens and no matter who objects.”

He would protect her.… In his bed, in his car, and at his desk, she filled his thoughts. Her image floated in front of his eyes; her face and her incomparable, life-giving body took shape in the empty air. He knew perfectly well that the name for this bewitchment was “infatuation,” but what difference did it make what you called it? There were myriad definitions of “love,” too, and love usually began with infatuation. People tended to disparage “love at first sight,” yet only recently he had come across a semi-learned article in which it said that love at first sight was very common indeed and had as much chance of lasting as love at hundredth’s sight.

He was almost certain that if he were to ask her to marry him, she would. And he told himself again, as he had on that day at Red Hill, that if money played a part in her decision, it would make no difference. That was merely the way of the world and always had been.