The Carousel (15 page)

Then he thought, in his bed at one o’clock in the morning, and at two, with his mind still weaving and planning, that there must also be considerable feeling for him on her part. Surely no woman could be so passionate if she did not mean it! And in addition, she was so tenderly loving. In this short time, she already remembered that he would not eat cauliflower, that he liked steak done medium rare, and that he did not want to be warned against smoking.

Oh, she was a treasure, and he must not lose her, must hurry before something happened, some
younger man came along. And this possibility—no, the probability—sent him into a panic.

In war a successful general concentrates all his forces into one quick surprise attack. So he would present her, in a single hour, with a total plan for living: wedding date, ring, and house.

The date was to be immediate. The ceremony was to be a simple one in front of a justice of the peace, and secret. There was no sense in preparing Father. For loving, prudent, and wise as he was, he would inevitably try to talk his son out of taking such a drastic step.

“The girl is twenty-two and you are past thirty-eight. That’s a big difference, Clive. And you’ve known her less than a month. It makes no sense for you, Clive, and none for her, either.”

They would be sitting in the library after dinner. Father would listen, nod, and in his grave, kind way, would reason with his son. Since the effort would only be wasted, it made more sense to bypass it. Save energy.

“Because my mind is made up,” Clive said aloud. “Now for the ring.”

In all of Scythia there was no jeweler who was able to supply him with what he wanted. He had never paid attention to women’s jewels any more than to their fashions; nevertheless, he was aware that Happy and Sally each wore a ring that winked and shimmered as they moved their hands at the dinner table. By dint of inquiry and comparisons at Scythia’s various jewelers, he learned that the diamond he had in mind weighed probably six or
seven carats. Such stones were not kept in stock but could be ordered on approval. He would have to wait about ten days.

Haste was driving him. He walked faster and faster and talked faster; he was in a fever of fear. He kept reminding himself that the delay might lose the prize. So he telephoned to a Fifth Avenue jeweler and, to the barely concealed astonishment of the salesman who took his call, ordered a ring.

“Pick out for me what you would buy. Your taste is certainly better than mine.”

“Well, a round setting’s especially brilliant, I always think.”

The price was staggering; he had had no idea what such baubles cost. But it was also rather thrilling to be spending so much and to be able to spend it. For all his working life, having so few expenses, he had only been saving. The most costly gift he had ever made was Tina’s pony.

“I suppose the credit card people will hold this up to investigate before they accept it,” he said. “Just fax my bank, please, and they will accept. Then can you have it sent by overnight mail? I’m in a hurry.”

It amused him to think that the salesman was wondering whether this customer was a maniac. Well, he would find out otherwise when he spoke to the bank.

“May I ask, sir, whether this is an engagement ring?”

“Yes, yes, it is.”

“Then may I suggest—perhaps the wedding band?”

“Oh good Lord, yes, I forgot it. Yes, send that, too. Whatever you select.”

“It should be very simple. The simplest, so as not to detract from a ring like this.”

“I leave it to you.”

“Thank you very much, sir. Congratulations to you and the lady.”

The lady. Oh my God, what would she say, what would she do, when he handed her the treasure in its little velvet box? She would be stunned. It was funny, what a fuss women, and some men, made over what was after all a piece of ancient carbon. Funny. But it was the convention, a symbol of permanence, to wear one.

And then he had an old flash of memory, of his father’s removing the velvet boxes from the wall safe in the bedroom after his mother died. For a moment, sorrow pierced through his jubilation. Yet sorrow told you something, too; it told you to grab hold of joy wherever you found it and hold on to it.

So he would hold Roxanne. He would fasten her to him, root her in one place, and nurture her like some rare, gorgeous specimen tree in a garden. And for that, a house was needed. It would be no little hideout like the one he was building at Red Hill, but a simple family house, for probably there would be children. It would be a dignified home, not as elaborate as the one Ian had chosen and Happy very likely had not wanted, but something
tasteful like Sally and Dan’s. While this house took shape in his head, he was already searching in the telephone book for a real estate agent.

“What is your price range?” the woman inquired.

“That’s not the first consideration. The first is that I have to like it, and the second is that I want to move in no later than two months from now.”

“That will be difficult—Mr.—”

“Grey. Clive Grey. You can reach me at Hawthorne when you have something to show me. I’m assuming you’ll get busy on it right away.”

“Oh. I’ll do my best, Mr. Grey.”

Never in his life had he spoken to anyone with so much authority. And he leaned back in his desk chair, chuckling: “Hey, Clive, you don’t even recognize yourself, do you?”

For two days he rode around the area with the agent, considering this house and dismissing that one. Some he even refused to enter. This, his first foray into ownership and domesticity, must be nothing less than perfect. Here the grounds were too small to fit the house. There the architecture was a hodgepodge. Another house was ostentatious. Still another was cold and unfriendly. Finally, he made his choice, a classic Georgian, old, rosy brick trimmed in white. It was neither too large nor too small, with spacious grounds. There was a splendid stand of full-grown blue spruce. He went through once, finding it all delightful, especially the master bedroom, where the bed would
face a fireplace. On winter evenings they would go early to bed and watch the dreamy flickering …

“I’ll take it,” he told the agent.

She looked a little doubtful. “That’s a quick decision, Mr. Grey. Are you quite sure?”

“Quite sure, provided I can have it in a month. I’m going away, and I want to move in as soon as I return.”

She still looked doubtful. “I have to see whether they’re willing. The closing and the moving don’t go that fast. But I’ll ask.”

The first asking was unsatisfactory, but as soon as the owners learned there would be no haggling over the price, that, indeed, Mr. Grey was prepared to pay even more if they should insist, a satisfactory answer was given, and Clive would have his house on time.

He said nothing about it to anybody. One evening, though, he found an excuse to stop in at Dan and Sally’s with the real intention of examining their furnishings.

In the broad entrance hall and all up the staircase, the walls were hung with Sally’s photographs, not the professional portraits, but assorted subjects that had appealed to her in the ordinary round of life: two horses out on a field in the rain, a close-up of a bee in the cup of a honeysuckle flower, an old man, bearded like some medieval scholar, gazing out of a tenement house window.

“You’re an artist, Sally,” Clive said, meaning it
wholly. Yet at the same time, he had been absorbed in the elements of the house’s style.

Light, plenty of light from unencumbered windows and pastel walls. Fresh flowers, books, and comfortable spaces among objects.

“That’s a handsome cabinet,” he observed.

“It was my grandmother’s,” Sally said. “Half the things in this house are hers, antique or good reproductions. The modern stuff is what we added.”

“That would take skill, I imagine.”

She nodded. “Oh, yes. Thank goodness for Lila Burns. We had plenty of help. She’s a marvelous decorator who knew how to put the whole thing together in almost no time and saved us money in the long run. I surely couldn’t have done it alone.”

“Is she from around here?”

“Why, yes.” Sally stopped and regarded Clive with curiosity. “Since when are you, Clive Grey, so interested in decorators?”

“I’m not. I was only admiring.”

“Well, thank you. By the way, you haven’t been riding lately. Tina’s missed you.”

“I know. I’ve missed her, too. Things have picked up in the office. I had a head cold, and—” Faltering absurdly, he stopped, then added, “But I’ll get back on track.”

“Good. We’ve put her in a beginners’ class at the academy, anyway. It seems to help her shyness.” Now Sally hesitated. He was wondering why when she continued, “I know Dan mentioned once that we were having problems with
her. Of course, they’re just the usual upsets when a new baby comes into the family.”

“Of course,” he agreed, and wondered why she was so earnest, so emphatic.

Presently, Dan brought cold drinks. They sat awhile in pleasant conversation about nothing in particular until Dan brought up the matter of the consortium, Amanda, and Grey’s Woods.

“I still can’t see why Uncle Oliver doesn’t take a stand,” he complained. “That land is his spiritual treasure. Hell, I grew up knowing it was part of his religion. The preservation of the wilderness—now he leaves it to us to squabble over it. And we’re heading nowhere except into trouble.”

To Clive on this evening, nothing could have mattered less than the wilderness, the consortium, or Amanda. So as soon as he decently could, he said good night and departed. Once in the car, before he could forget, he scribbled the name of Lila Burns. The minute the house was in his hands, he would call her with instructions to do the entire place, using Dan’s house not to copy but for inspiration. He was certainly not capable of doing it himself. Nor, he thought with his usual tenderness, was Roxanne. Not yet. For she would learn.

And he thought of Pygmalion. He would show her many things that she had had no chance to see or hear. How bright, how quick she was!

They would have their honeymoon in the Greek islands. He scribbled another note:
travel agent, deluxe suite on upper deck.
They would dine,
dance, and make love. They would sail the blue waters and he would explain the islands’ history, tell her about Ulysses and Athena, and—He scribbled another note:
Replace scuffed luggage for self.
New set for Roxanne. She would need clothes, too. He would take a whole day for that. With her figure, she was surely a perfect size. A day would be sufficient to outfit her.

Today was Tuesday. Let’s see, he thought. By Friday, everything will have fallen into place. The ring is already here, the ticket reservations will be complete, and I’ll get permission to show her the house. So Friday is our day.

He had no doubts and no qualms. He was supremely confident, supremely happy.

Late June 1990

T
he heavy red silk curtains that were protective on a winter’s night now merely concealed the glorious noon outside. From above the mantel Lucille Grey in her white gown and pearl choker cast her melancholy, lovely eyes upon the luncheon table. Conversation, courteous as always, was desultory in spite of Oliver’s brisk efforts to create a warm “family” atmosphere.

Every one of us here, Sally was thinking, would rather be someplace else on a summer afternoon, reading the paper, taking a swim, or having a nap in the hammock. Certainly Tina had been convinced to come only by Uncle Oliver’s announcement that he had a Japanese doll to give her. Now, sullen and silent, she sat between her parents eating cake while clutching the yellow silk doll in the other hand.

It was, however, hardly nice of them all to feel
put-upon. To Oliver it was important to keep the ritual of midday dinner on Sunday, a ritual that like so many others in the last half of this century most people had long abandoned. But it made him so happy to see them all gathered at his table. It didn’t take much to please him, after all.

She hoped he wasn’t noticing the barely perceptible coolness that had existed between Ian and Dan ever since the time Ian had hung up on Dan. At the office, Dan reported, work was going on as usual. Ian’s mood was still dark, but they had avoided their dispute. Or, to be more accurate, postponed it. Happy was probably aware of what had happened, but neither she nor Sally would ever think of mentioning it. They were friends. Let the men fight it out by themselves.

As it was, the two men were letting the women take the conversational initiative. Happy, always garrulous and cheerful, wondered aloud whether Clive was out riding so early today.

“I mean, he’s always here at dinner.”

“He wasn’t home last night,” Oliver said.

“Out with the girls again,” Ian said, grinning.

“Why not?” Dan countered. “He’s not married.”

Ian changed the subject. “This new cook of yours is something else, Father. You can’t get better pastry in Paris.”

Oliver was pleased. “My sons with their sweet teeth! Your mother had a sweet tooth, too, thin as she was. Well, shall we have our coffee on the porch?”