Treasures (7 page)

Days passed. They went on picnics. They spent a day in San Antonio. They danced at country barbecues and dined at sumptuous French restaurants in town. By the
third week they were still what they had been in the first week, a congenial couple having a wonderful time, who ended their pleasant hours with a rather tender kiss. When, sometimes, Richard stroked her breasts, Connie felt intense excitement and anticipation, but he never sought more.

On this night, however, there came a difference. Suddenly over the
coquilles Saint-Jacques
and the wine, he fell into silence. Over the candle tips and the
bavaroise au chocolat
, his eyes, empty of their customary humor, fixed themselves on Connie with an almost stricken gaze. Then she, too, not knowing what to say, fell silent.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said.

She responded lightly, “Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.”

“Ah, don’t be flippant, Connie. Let’s get out of here. Can’t talk in this place.”

When they were in the car, he commanded, “Now listen to me.” He grasped her two hands. “Listen. They’re finally transferring me to the New York office, and I can leave next week. But I don’t want—I can’t go without you, Connie. I’m in love with you. I never thought—I mean, you read about these things, but they never made sense, at least to me, they didn’t. That a person could feel the way I do now, and be so sure of wanting to spend the rest of his life with someone! And yet I’m more sure about this than I’ve ever been about anything. What about you, Connie? Can you love me? Can you marry me?”

How could she not love a man who looked at her, who
touched her, as if she were the most precious object ever made? The moment was brilliant, exquisite, and filled with a kind of awe. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Oh, yes.”

After a few minutes he released her and turned on the motor. “I want to get you home because I’m going to pick you up early tomorrow morning. You’ve got to meet my parents.”

“Have you said anything to them?”

“No. There wasn’t anything to say without knowing your answer.”

She felt a small chill of dismay. “What if,” she asked, speaking carefully, “they don’t like me?”

“Oh, they will. When they see you—”

“Maybe I’m not what they expected for you.”

“But you are. Connie darling, you’re a beautiful lady. So fine—it shows in everything you do.”

“But if they still shouldn’t want me?”

“Then no matter. I want you.”

In front of Connie’s house they kissed again. The night was calm and bright. When, still held against his warm chest and shoulder, she opened her eyes, she saw that the sky was filled with stars. It seemed as if she had never seen so many before. Surely they were a good omen.

“I hate to leave you like this,” Richard whispered. “I wish I could walk in that door with you right now and stay.”

She giggled. “The Raymonds would probably drop dead of shock if they found you in my room in the morning.”

“That’s not the only reason. We could have had my house all to ourselves and done anything. But somehow I couldn’t ask you, and I wouldn’t ask you now. I guess I knew from the start that you weren’t going to be any one-night stand or anything temporary. I guess I’m just old-fashioned, Connie.”

She giggled again. “You’re from another century, darling.”

“As long as you approve of me.”

“I approve of you.”

“Then I’ll be here early. Nine-thirty? That’ll give me time to tell my folks first.”

She was too overwhelmed to sleep. Consuelo Tory, she thought. She sat down on the bench before the dressing table and stared into the mirror. Astonished eyes stared back at her. Why me? they asked. How can it be possible to get what one wants so easily, so soon? People always tell me life isn’t like that.

On the back of the envelope that lay there she wrote,
Consuelo Osborne Tory
, reflecting on the elegance of that name engraved in navy-blue script on a pale blue paper. Then, after tearing the paper into pieces too small for Mrs. Raymond to decipher, she threw them into the wastebasket and prepared for bed.

Disconnected shreds and fragments floated through her head. Tomorrow’s dress: a white silk shirt and pleated skirt with black-and-white shoes and a flat black taffeta bow at the nape of her neck would be right, refined and demure. The wedding ring: Dare she ask for a diamond band? No, ask for nothing; just be delighted with anything you get. That day at his house the dessert
plates were lovely, a single dark blue flower on a pale yellow ground. Lovely. I wish I knew where to get them. Eddy will be amazed when he hears. We’ll be seeing each other in New York.… Eddy will be pleased with Richard … happy for me.

The air conditioner’s sleep-inducing hum took hold. Still, in her dreams, the shreds and fragments floated, in dreams such as children have through the long impatient night before Christmas.

By eight o’clock she had already been on the telephone with Lara for half an hour.

“But you can’t do this,” Lara kept crying. “You hardly know him.”

“Peg knew Pop six weeks before she married him, and they’d still be together if they’d lived. You know that.” When no reply was made, Connie persisted, “I can tell what you’re thinking. But Richard is not an alcoholic any more than Davey is.”

After a moment Lara asked what he did for a living.

“He’s in the advertising business, and we’re moving to New York.” Hastily she added, “But he’s not at all what you think of when you hear ‘Madison Avenue,’ sharp and competitive—you know? Richard’s got a kind of innocence, almost, that’s very appealing. And he must have a lot of talent, or they wouldn’t be promoting him. Lara, he’s wonderful, he’s everything you’d want for me, and I love him.”

“Well, if you’re sure …”

“Darling, I’m sure. Aren’t you sure about Davey?”

“When shall I meet him?”

“He wants to be married next week. Can you get down here?”

“Honey, I can’t possibly do it on such short notice. Davey’s having trouble with his father, another stroke and—can’t you wait a little?”

“Richard doesn’t want to. But it’s okay. Obviously, we’re not having a big wedding. So we’ll come visit you afterward instead.”

And suddenly a picture printed itself in Connie’s head: the peeling paint on the two-family house, the scruffy weeds in the yard, Richard climbing the stairs … Not that he would ever care; he was too decent, too intelligent, for such snobbery; wouldn’t he care, though, that she had lied to him?

There was time enough, however, to think about that later.

“So will you tell Eddy? I tried to get him on the phone just now, but there was no answer.”

“He’s probably at his club for the weekend. Our Eddy seems to have made contact in high places.”

Not as high as mine, I’ll bet, Connie thought, but did not say.

Later, in the car, Richard said, “I’ve told them, and they’re expecting you.”

“And?”

“Well, they were surprised, of course. It is a little sudden, after all.”

“Just surprised? No objections?”

“They’re only worried about whether I was sure, and I told them I was and that you were too. So,” he said,
“you haven’t the slightest reason for being nervous. Just be yourself.”

The Torys were standing at the front door when Richard stopped the car. In the second before recognition and greetings Connie had an illusion of Grant Wood’s “American Gothic,” the farm couple in overalls and housedress, standing stone faced and rigid together. The illusion dissolved into brass-buttoned blazer and printed silk as they all shook hands.

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to get back into the car,” Mr. Tory said, “and drive your mother to your aunt May’s. She’s sick again. Miss Osborne can stay here with me.”

“But that’ll take all morning,” Richard said.

“I know, but it can’t be helped. I’d go myself, except for an important call that I’m expecting.”

“I’m really sorry,” Mrs. Tory explained. “Miss Osborne, make yourself at home. You’ll have lunch with my husband and Richard will be back by two o’clock, I’m sure.”

Connie looked sympathetic. “I do hope your aunt—”

“My sister.”

“Your sister will be all right. And do please call me Connie.”

Richard seemed flustered. “I don’t know whether I told you, her real name is Consuelo.”

“Consuelo? As in Vanderbilt?”

Connie smiled. Her closed-lip smile, she knew, was charmingly modest. “As a matter of fact, there is a relationship. Cousins, way, way back.”

“Really? How interesting.”

“You’d best be going,” Mr. Tory said.

“I’m awfully sorry, Connie,” Richard apologized.

She put up her hand. “Please! If your aunt’s ill, family comes first. Always. I’ll be fine. I’ll have a quiet time reading.”

The library to which Mr. Tory conducted her and where he left her was a handsome, rather masculine room furnished with leather chairs and dark red walls. She had expected to find that the books on the shelves were uniform, expensive sets of the classics, put there by a decorator, not to be read but to harmonize with the furnishings. On the contrary the books were a collection to delight a browser. And then she remembered that Richard had said books were the only things he collected. Finding a copy of the
Pickwick Papers
, she sat down to pass the time.

She hadn’t been fooled by this ruse. Richard had been whipped away so that his father could talk to her alone. After a decent interval Mr. Tory would come in, probably to fetch her to lunch, and the interrogation, no doubt a diplomatic one, would begin.

And that was exactly what happened, so that by half past twelve Connie found herself in the dining room sitting across from Richard’s father with the Lalique swan between them.

“You’re very well thought of at the club,” he began. “You’re much more efficient than anyone that we’ve had there for quite a while. I thought you might like to know.”

“I’m very glad,” she answered simply. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Have you had jobs like this before?”

“No, never. I’m quite inexperienced, I’m afraid.”

“Indeed! Richard says you’re a newcomer to Texas.”

“Yes, I’d always wanted to see it. Such an exciting place, especially for someone who grew up in a small town.”

Tory’s hooded eyes were keen and all Connie could see were ugly gleaming slits.

“Didn’t your family object to your going so far all alone?”

You’re polite enough in your searching, Connie thought, but you’re surely getting right to the point, aren’t you?

Softly, she replied, “My parents are dead. And I’m sure they wouldn’t have let me. I was very strictly brought up. My father’s parents were British, and he had their ways.” She sighed. The sigh and the words came easily now. “But they’d both been sick so long. I just had to get away from all the sadness.”

“Are you an only child?”

“No, I have a married sister at home. Her husband’s in business there. And I have a brother on Wall Street.”

“I see. Then what would you call this? Rather a lark, what you’re doing?”

Connie gave a small laugh. “You could call it that. Rather a lark.”

“Richard told us this morning that he wants to marry you. We told him it seemed rather hasty.”

The maid came and Tory stopped talking. During the brief, uncomfortable silence Connie’s mind divided itself between tension over Mr. Tory’s possible questions and observation of her surroundings. The spoons and
forks had been laid facedown on the table, probably because the chased and monogrammed backs were meant to be seen. The girl’s spring-green uniform matched the background of the wallpaper. She knows something is afoot, Connie thought. Back in the kitchen she’ll be reporting to the cook.

“Times have changed. I can still remember,” Mr. Tory resumed, “at least here in our group, people usually married within the group, people they knew, or certainly that the families knew for a long time. Now it seems that total strangers get together after a few meetings.”

Connie tried a coy comment. “Like Romeo and Juliet.”

Tory said dryly, “They came to a rather unfortunate end, if you remember.” When she made no answer, he continued, “Like them, too, you’re both rather young.”

“Richard is twenty-four.”

“Richard is twenty-four going on eighteen. Oh, he’s well educated, he’s traveled, he’s talented—all that’s obvious, but we who know him best know that he’s also ignorant of life. He’s totally inexperienced.”

She understood what the man was thinking: This girl’s looking for money, and Richard doesn’t see it.

Now she had to wonder and weigh how best to win the man over. To adopt a virtuous, almost a humble posture, or to show strength by standing up to him? If she made the wrong move, he could ruin everything, regardless of what Richard said. She might ruin it all, anyway.… When she’d come so far … Well, she wasn’t going to let him.

“Richard is an idealist,” his father said, sounding the admirable noun as if it were “embezzler.”

Not having made up her mind yet as to which manner to adopt, the shy or the independent, Connie spoke a noncommittal truth. “Richard is one of the kindest people I’ve ever known, honest and trusting.”

“Oh, yes, trusting. And that ties right into his lack of experience.”

Tory met Connie’s eyes with some severity, but she did not flinch.

“Now, I have the impression that you, on the other hand, are rather more experienced.”

The implication was abruptly clear. She followed Tory’s thought: They’ve been sleeping together, the girl’s going to get herself pregnant, and Richard will naturally take on his responsibility.

And now she was ready for Tory. “You’re implying, I think, that I’m experienced with men, Mr. Tory. That I pull tricks. No double meaning intended.” Her little laugh was bitter, and Tory flushed. “You might like to know that, believe it or not, at not quite twenty-one, I’m still a virgin.” She was working herself into such righteous indignation that tears began to blur her eyes. “I come of a very fine family—”

Tory was disconcerted. “Oh, I have nothing against you personally. It’s plain that you’re a fine young lady, and—”