The White Rose (42 page)

“No!” she says brightly. “I'm not mad. You told me. I mean, you were honest.”

“Sophie, listen, that's…I wanted…” His voice trails off.

“Things are pretty busy here. With the wedding,” she says evenly.

“No! Sophie, listen to me, it's going to be all right.”

She nods, as if he can see her. “Thank you for…everything, Oliver. I mean it. And I'm glad you called, because…I mean, about the flowers. Maybe, under the circumstances, I should let Millbrook Floral do this.” She hears herself actually laugh, a strained, strange sound. “Maybe they have enough poinsettias left.”

“
Sophie
…,” she hears him say.

“And Oliver, I'm sorry to be abrupt, but we've got kind of a crisis going on here, so I need the phone.”

“Jesus Christ, Sophie. Will you
listen
to me?”

It is the aural equivalent of a slap. She grips the phone, staring down at the legal pad on the table in front of her.

“Sophie,” says Oliver, “I wish…I wish so much that you hadn't seen that. But you did, and it means I'm going to have to tell you some things I didn't want to tell you.” He pauses. She can hear him breathe. “Not right now, though. That's not why I'm phoning you. This is about the call you just got. From Valerie Annis.”

Sophie stiffens. She can feel rage surging through her, shooting to her extremities. “How do you know about that?” Her voice comes out hissing. “Oliver, did you have something to do with that? Did you give her this number?”

“Don't worry about Valerie,” Oliver says. “In a few hours she won't have a source.”

“
What?
” Sophie says, still furious but now unsteady, too.

“Sophie,” she hears him say, “do you trust me?”

Then the anger just leaves, gone the way it came, in a flash of heat, and she finds herself sitting there at her own kitchen table with a white plastic phone mashed to her ear, listening for his voice. She trusts him. She doesn't want to, particularly, but she does. There seems to be no helping that.

“Oliver?” Sophie says. “Is this for me?”

“Yes,” says Oliver. “For you.”

She nods to the legal pad, the kitchen table. “Okay.”

“Go back to where your father is. Tell him you've just gotten off the phone with Barton, and Barton wants to meet with him. It's very urgent.”

She frowns at the legal pad. “Barton's at home. He's setting things up for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night.”

“No. He won't be at home. At six-fifteen he'll be in the Cavalier Suite at the Black Horse Inn, in Stanfordville.”

She shakes her head, horribly confused. “No, it isn't there. It was going to be there, but he moved it.”

“Don't worry about any of that,” Oliver says. “Just say it all back to me.”

And she does, surprising herself with the flat, efficient way it comes out.
Barton wants to see him. Urgent. Six-fifteen. The Black Horse Inn. Cavalier Suite
.

“One more thing, Sophie. The timing is really important. He has to get here after six-fifteen, not before.”

It's the “here” that wakes her up. Maybe the thought of what she doesn't know. Maybe just the notion that he isn't so far away, as far as she'd imagined. “Oliver?” Sophie says. “Where are you calling from?”

He says nothing, but she can hear him there, wherever he is.

“Are you…somewhere close?”

“I love you,” he tells her, and then the line clicks shut.

O
liver sits by the phone, his head between his knees. For hours, his most pressing physical wish has been to throw up whatever lingers of his lunch at the Millbrook Diner. (
STOP! TIME TO EAT!
said a sign over the clock on the diner's storefront, and Oliver, who had arrived hours in advance of his own schedule, unfortunately did just that.) Relief not forthcoming, he sits this way in his chair, listening to his own shallow breathing and willing the minutes to pass. It's 5:30. Not long before it begins. Not long, he fervently hopes, until it ends.

The inn is so private and lovely—every bit as “restrained” as Barton suggested—that he almost regrets bringing such a sordid pantomime to its elegant rooms. It looks, thinks Oliver, like somebody's private country home, but so opulently maintained that it's ready at all times in case twenty- or thirty-odd dear friends happened by, needing haven. Those friends might be elsewhere on this particular night, but unfortunately the inn is not quite so vacant as the man who took his reservation had indicated a few days before. Across the landing, with its long comfortable couch and stately chairs, a tasseled
DO NOT DISTURB
sign hangs from a gilded doorknob. One other traveler, then. Not ideal, but better than an inn full of wedding guests.
Just stay where you are
, Oliver silently instructs the occupant.
Whoever you are, whatever you might hear, it's none of your concern
.

Oliver wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and takes a final look around. The Cavalier Suite is not large, but it suits his needs perfectly. The sitting room has green striped silk on the walls, and green ticking on the armchairs flanking the fire, and even a pretty good still life above the mantelpiece. He takes a moment to assess his own still life, on the low table before him: two champagne flutes with a swallow left in each, the bottle emptied (down the sink, despite temptation) and on its side, a decimated box of Godiva chocolates.
Too obvious?
he worries suddenly.
Too patent?
Even so, this is a Norman Rockwell tableau compared to what lies behind the bedroom door, an installation worthy of the Whitney Biennial. With its once pristine sheets twisted to the ground, the bed is strewn with evidence of a variety of unwholesome acts. There are smudges of lipstick, patches of rubbed-in Vaseline, a leather belt studded with very scary metal points draped across the pillows and even a black riding crop Oliver plucked, in a moment of opportunistic improvisation, from the inn's own stand of whips and boots just inside the front door. On the bedside table lies a half-squeezed tube of K-Y jelly, an unsubtle product placement. Reviewing it all now, his nausea returns. Oliver leans forward again and closes his eyes.

The point, he thinks, trying to reassure himself, is that once he goes into the bathroom and changes into his clothes—into Olivia's clothes—there should be no trace of himself, of Oliver Stern, in sight. The only reality here must be the reality of Olivia and Barton and the hours they have evidently just spent, in these rooms, in each other's affectionate company. It is a reality of visual evidence: a billboard declaration to Mort Klein that the favored almost-son-in-law has been withholding certain critical facets of his character. This room—and the bedroom, of course—are the world Oliver has made, for the purpose of his purpose, and after the purpose has been served, the created world will dissolve before his eyes. If he is fortunate, thinks Oliver, Mort will stay just long enough to verify the content of Valerie Annis's phone call. If he is very, very fortunate, Mort will not linger long on Barton's correspondent, a young person of uncertain gender in a red cashmere sweater and a beige skirt. Then, after it's over, after they have all fled, Oliver will put on his jeans and boots and sweater, make a final phone call to Valerie Annis, and disappear back into his own life. His life, he can only hope, with Sophie.

Five forty-five. Oliver's head is pounding. He is falling behind, unable to think through the necessary plot points, the rehearsed material, losing the traction of his motivation. He understands, vaguely, that he should be ready by now, dressed already, his own clothes safely stashed in the under-sink cupboard in the bathroom, but he is having trouble getting up out of his chair, and it may no longer be possible to blame the Millbrook Diner. So, as a catalyst, he tries to summon back the thin ribbon of pleasure that attended Olivia's first appearance, the moment he left Marian's tiny office and walked, alive with anticipation, through her kitchen and dining room to the waiting audience of Barton Ochstein. He thinks of his walk through the Village, and the reflected Olivia in the window of Christopher Wines, in the stare of that tall man who purposely brushed against him in the crosswalk, in the warm interest of Valéry, the waiter.

Then he remembers Sophie, who was there, too.

Oliver shakes his head quickly. He can't think about that now. He can't let himself fall into self-recrimination, or wonder how he managed to miss her on that small and familiar street when he should have been paying attention. He can't worry about how he will explain Olivia to Sophie. He has to concentrate on now. Barton is en route to see Olivia, and Mort is en route to see Barton. Oliver gets one chance to do this right.

But even as he thinks this, it's too late. Outside, a car crunches heavily on the gravel behind the inn, followed by the smart slap of a car door. Barton is here, Oliver thinks. He claws at his wrist, pulling back his sweater and fumbling with his watch: 5:48. Barton is early, and Olivia is late. Oliver jolts to his feet, rigid with panic. He hates Barton for being early, for his eagerness, though this is no one's fault but Oliver's own. He stands in sick paralysis, listening.
At least
, he thinks,
the wig
. He can get to the wig if he moves now, but he still doesn't move. The inn's back door groans open, then shut. The stairs begin to creak. He will never forgive himself, Oliver thinks. He takes a pointless step, then stops again. The wooden floorboards are creaking, an atonal chamber piece. Someone comes to the door, and knocks.

Barton.

And Oliver is merely standing still, a man in man's clothing.

“I'm not quite ready, Barton!” he manages to say. “Can you wait just a minute?”

“Oliver?”

The voice knocks all other sound from the air. Oliver stares at the door. That must be wrong, he thinks. The nausea, the nerves. So why can't he move?

“Oliver, is it you?” She calls again, and this, at last, brings him reeling across the room. He takes hold of the doorknob, opens the door, and gazes at her, stricken. Sophie looks back at him. She appears pale and horribly tired, her hair pinned up at the back of her head, but without precision, so the coil of hair is off center and fraying, threatening disintegration. Oliver, too stunned to gather the meaning of her appearance, focuses instead on this detail. “I wasn't sure,” she says, finally. “I thought you might be here, but I also thought I might be coming to see Bart.”

“He's late,” Oliver says, unsteady on his feet. “Sophie, you have to leave.”

She gives him a look of dull forbearance. “No, not if Bart's on his way. I need to talk to him.”

“You don't understand!” Oliver says, and his voice comes out so strained and harsh, he flinches. “He's not coming to see you. Or me. He's…meeting someone.”

Sophie looks past him, and then, helplessly, he watches her take in the room: the champagne glasses and chocolates, the mercifully closed bedroom door…and then the open bathroom door, through which Olivia's clothes are clearly visible; they hang from a towel hook, the heels placed modestly together, beneath them on the tile floor. Olivia's wig sits waiting on the closed toilet seat. Oliver can almost hear the combination lock of her comprehension, clicking open. “That was you,” Sophie says in wonder. “On Commerce Street.”

He shakes his head, but it's pointless. He can't even look her in the eye. And in any case, another car is driving onto the gravel of the parking lot.

Oliver pulls her inside, and shuts the door behind her. “I'm sorry,” he tells her. “I'm so sorry. I told you I would take care of this.”

“I shouldn't have asked,” she says simply. “It was my responsibility. It was wrong of me to ask.”

“It wasn't wrong,” Oliver insists as the heavy inn door opens downstairs. “I wanted to. And I had…a plan,” he says stupidly. “It's all going wrong. But I didn't want you to have to see anything.”

Sophie nods, as if, Oliver thinks, she is actually following the disorderly progression of his logic. From downstairs comes the murmur of voices: Barton, being directed to Olivia Nemo's suite.

“I've told my father,” Sophie says quietly. “Now I'm going to tell Bart. Is that him?”

Oliver tries to glean the meaning of this, but the noises are distracting him—whining wood and human effort:
Barton Ochstein sounds upon the stair
. Undoubtedly Barton, now. That he could have taken Sophie's step for this heavy, eager tread seems thoroughly absurd.

“Oh-Liv-Vee-Yah,” Barton sings,
tap-tapping
with a knuckle.

Sophie seems to go still, intent on the sound.

“Is there a young lady at home?” Barton calls, sounding for all the world like a man who is
not
two days from his own wedding. They both stand where they are, listening.

Tap-tap
.

“Will you…,” Oliver whispers, feebly, “could you wait in the bathroom?”

She kisses him. It is not a passionate kiss, but resolute and lightning quick, on Oliver's open mouth. “No,” says Sophie, and she walks to the door and opens it.

Oliver can't see what she sees. He sees the open door, and Sophie's face in profile, the great knot of hair teetering at her nape. He sees her expression, not fond or angry or bereaved, but finally blank, as if she were looking not at her faithless fiancé but at some stranger on the subway. She has one hand on the doorknob still, and Oliver stares at it, riveted by the new information that she is no longer wearing her engagement ring. There is utter silence from the landing.

“Barton,” Sophie says at last, “I think you should come in.”

She steps back and he follows her, stumbling into the room, leaving the door ajar behind him. He is holding flowers, of course. Red carnations, commonest of the common, four days old and wrapped in…yes, cellophane. Barton notices Oliver and looks at him with incomprehension, then goes back to Sophie.

“Well,” he begins, gamely. “This is a surprise.”

“So I gather,” Sophie says. “Look, I suggest we skip over the part about what we're all doing here and go right to the content.”

Barton frowns. “Content,” he considers, perplexed.

“I want you to know,” she says, “that I bear you absolutely no ill will. I mean that, Barton.”

“Sophie!” Barton snaps to attention. “Please, don't say anything more.”

“There isn't much more to say,” she tells him. “But this is the important part. I've decided not to marry you, Bart. I'm very sorry, but I don't think I'd be happy as your wife. And actually, I don't really think I'm what you're looking for, either.”

“Sophie, now listen,” Barton counters anxiously. “This is all—”

“You're a kind man. I appreciate that. And my father has very warm feelings for you. I hope you'll want to see him, still. He would like that, Bart.”

Oliver watches her, stunned and moved. She seems to ascend in place as she speaks. She is, it comes to him, magnificent.

“Sophie!” Barton says sharply. “This is…someone called me to say…my…I have a cousin. Olivia. She is here for the wedding,” Barton announces. “I was coming over to see her. This is not at all what you evidently have decided it is.”

“
Bullshit
,” Oliver says, but under his breath, as if, having abdicated his role, he is reluctant to reenter the drama.

Barton seems to really notice Oliver this time. At first, he doesn't hold Oliver's eyes, but then, almost immediately, his gaze flickers back. Then back again. Then he begins to glare. “Who are you?” he says, finally. “Sophie, who is this?”

“It doesn't matter,” she says, shaking her head and sounding tired. “It isn't about him, really.”

“About…” Barton trails off. “Why is this man here?”

Sophie looks at Oliver. She seems, for a long moment, to need reminding about why he is here.

“He's here,” she says, “because I love him. And…” Then, unaccountably, she smiles. “Also, he's doing the flowers.”

“Flowers?” Barton says. “You.” He lifts the carnations in accusation. “Tell me your name.”

“You know my name,” Oliver says.

“He does?” says Sophie.

“You've known it for months. Tell her.”

“I've never seen him before,” Barton announces, desperation edging his voice. “Sophie, this is preposterous. A trick has been played on us, and we should joke about it. I have a good sense of humor about these things, you know. That's one thing you know about me,” he says heartily, managing even to produce a short laugh. “There's no need to take it all so seriously. Let's go downstairs and talk about this, right now. You know how fond of you I am.”

“I do know,” she says kindly. “But I'm not going to do that.”

“Sophie,” Barton says, more angrily, “this…person…clearly is taking advantage of you. I never want to see that happen to someone I care about.”

“Tell her my name,” Oliver says to him, enraged. “Tell her about all the phone calls you made to me, and all the invitations. And the flowers you've sent. Hundreds of dollars' worth of flowers.
Which you've never paid for!
” he can't resist adding. “Talk about taking advantage!”