The Other Adonis

by Frank Deford

  “Oh no. Margareta was distraught. Elsa was her friend. But she didn’t have a clue about Ollie. Right to the end.” She gestured to the tape recorder again. “Margareta never knew that Ollie was really this man named Cecil Wainwright. And the reason he changed his name and came to Antwerp was because he killed a woman in England and was on the lam.”

  “Was Margareta just more snatch for him, then?” Bucky asked—and with real pathos in his voice. “Didn’t he love her?”

  “No, honestly, Bucky, I really think he did. I think Margareta must have finally been the one true love of his life. And I think he would have been absolutely delighted if he’d ever learned that Margareta was carrying his child. I’m sentimental enough to believe that even if there’s no good in some of us, at least there’s the potential for love.”

  “So maybe that’s why we’re Double Ones. Ollie found true love, but it was taken from him just when he discovered it.”

  “I hope so,” Nina said. “I’d much rather have it that way.” She was distracted for a moment, though, because she guessed what was coming next. And it did.

  “Does Constance know yet?” Bucky asked. “What Ollie was really like?”

  “No. I was waiting to see what came out of our next session.”

  “We gotta tell her.”

  “Of course. And it’ll be easier now. Because always, before tonight, I thought that Ollie must’ve killed Margareta. That’s why you were screaming. I was so scared of that.”

  Bucky twisted to face Nina. “Why? Why would you be scared?”

  “Well, you know. Because I didn’t want anything to happen to you—to Margareta.”

  Bucky shook his head gently, and for the first time in a long time, he really smiled. “Hey, come on, Dr. Winston, it seems to me that I’ve always heard you say to be cool, because all this happened hundreds of years ago to a man we don’t know named Ollie and to a—”

  “I know,” Nina said, “but sometimes we don’t listen to the doctor—even when we are the doctor.” And, with that, Nina laid a hand upon his, where it rested there on his leg, and Nina knew—and she knew that Bucky knew—that the gesture was more rife with personal affection than it was with professional concern, that the hand belonged more to Nina than to Dr. Winston.

  He glanced up, then, into her eyes, and without hedging any, he said, “You know Nina, you’re wonderful. I’ve never met anybody like you.”

  She did not avert her eyes. She was touched and she was proud and she glowed and she said, so softly, “I just want you to be happy again. You mean so much…”

  Her last words hung there as she and Bucky stared at each other, their faces only inches apart, in that familiar tableau, just so, where a man and a woman know they are about to kiss for the first time. And kiss in a way they both know must only be a start to much more.

  That was the moment. Here and now. Just so. Nina fell into his arms. Their mouths opened and their lips touched, and they kissed with sweet force, the both of them. Only after a long time did they pull apart—and then hardly at all, only so much as to admire one another and what they had done together. A couple now. Both smiled that dear, warm expression of happy wonder, as if no two people could ever possibly have done this quite so well ever before.

  Bucky’s hand then moved up toward Nina’s breast, and their lips approached again. But just at that very instant where they would meet once more and where their passion would have too much momentum to overwhelm any reason, suddenly something overcame Nina, something turned her face from his.

  It was hardly a moment before she looked back at him. It was almost as if it hadn’t happened. Just that instant. Bucky’s hand was still upon her. Nina said, “I—” and she would have fallen straight back into his arms. But somehow, even as they still both wished for that, they both knew that their moment had come and gone, never to be there ever again.

  40

  Nina lay awake for a long time, thinking, wondering, second-guessing.

  Oh well.

  It was still pretty early—hardly past ten when Bucky’d gone off to the other bedroom. Suddenly, though, with a start, the phone rang. Now, it was late for a phone call, and late calls seldom meant anything but grief. Nina didn’t think she could deal with something like that now. First, she would see who it was. So, she waited for the fourth ring, and—

  Hearing one word, her heart leapt. The word was “Nina.” The voice was Hugh. The second word was “darling.” Then he paused. “Let me get right to the point. Since I saw you at Jocelyn’s service, I have not stopped thinking of you. Of us. I can think of nothing else. God forgive me, I have not thought of Jocelyn. And suddenly, an hour or so ago, it was almost mystical. Nina, it was as if I was pulling you to me—or yanking you away from something. Finally, I had to call. Please, Nina, call me back.”

  The intensity must have been too much, because Hugh added a little light change of pace now. “You know, Nina, I have something of yours. I’d appreciate it if you could drop by soon and put it back on your finger, where it’s supposed to be.” A brief pause. “And while you’re at it, well, in the words of that great new country-western song, ‘Put Your Ring Back on My Finger and You Back in My Heart.’ Okay? Please?”

  And gently, then, he hung up the phone. Yes, Nina could tell for certain that it had been gentle. She pushed the Repeat button and hugged the pillow, listening to it again. …it was almost mystical. Nina, it was as if I was pulling you to me—or yanking you away from something.

  Nina threw on her wrapper, went out, and knocked on the guest room door. “Bucky?”

  “Nina?”

  “The phone wake you up?”

  “No, don’t worry, I never got to sleep.”

  “Well, are you decent?”

  “I’m safely ensconced under the covers.”

  So, Nina pushed open the door, letting the light behind her throw just enough of a shaft across him where he lay, his hands on the pillow, propping up his head. Nina came to the end of the bed, leaning onto the frame, looking down on him from above his feet. She said, “We almost made love back there, didn’t we?”

  “That was certainly my impression,” he replied, buckysmirking.

  “Funny. I never would’ve thought that was your style.”

  “Well, I didn’t think it was yours, either.”

  “Honestly,” Nina said, “you’re really not the type to fool around, are you?”

  “All my big talk, all my flirting—I’m harmless.”

  “So, why me tonight? All the trauma of this day? Or just a lonely old lady, all too available?”

  Bucky raised up on his elbows, which was disconcerting for Nina, inasmuch as it was very much the way Margareta had positioned herself on this same bed in their session. “Ah, lay off the how-could-you-possibly-come-on-to-poor-old-me crap. You wanna compliment, Nina?” She shrugged. “Well, that’s easy. You’re one terrific lady and you turn me on—and that’s a very powerful combination.”

  “Okay,” Nina said, and without further ado, she turned away.

  “Hey wait,” he called after her. “‘Okay.’ Just ‘okay’?”

  Nina looked back at him from the door. She knew she was framed in the light there. “Well, you confirmed what I already thought. I really didn’t think I was just another roll in the hay.”

  “No.”

  “So, if you really cared about me, then think about it.”

  “Think about what?” Bucky asked.

  Nina stepped forward to the end of the bed again. “Think about it: if you cared about me, then what does that mean about how you think about Constance?” Bucky didn’t reply; he just let himself fall back on the pillow. So, Nina went on. “You know, if we had got it on, I don’t think you’d’ve been cheating on Phyllis. I think you’d’ve been cheating on Constance. That’s all. Night-night.” She s
tarted to close the door behind her. In fact, it was almost shut when he called out to her again. She opened it back up. “Yeah?”

  “Are you telling me that as my psychiatrist or as a woman who almost climbed into bed with me?”

  “Oh, the latter, Bucky. Very definitely the latter. Psychiatrists are like everybody else. They really don’t know a whole lot about love.” And this time, Nina winked at him before she pulled the door shut.

  The next morning, even before Nina awoke, Constance was already sitting in a boarding lounge at O’Hare. She and Carl had returned from Oberlin only yesterday after safely enrolling Elise there. “Now it’s time for me to get on with my lives,” Constance thought to herself. That was a good joke; she must be sure to tell that one to Bucky. She’d call him as soon as he got to his office—surprise him. Constance had to tell him that she’d changed her hotel, too. This time, she’d taken a room at the Stanhope—up by the Metropolitan. She’d go there, to gallery twenty-seven, as soon as she unpacked. And now the boarding for American flight 390 to LaGuardia was ready to start.

  Nina read the note Bucky had left behind on his bed. It read: “Dear Doctor, Thanks for the best piece of almost I ever had. Always, Bucky.”

  She laughed and dressed. She had Hugh back; she floated. WNYC said it would start off as another uncommonly cool August day, with a seventy percent chance of afternoon showers. Then: clearing and seasonable. “That’s me right now,” Nina announced to herself. “I’m clearing and seasonable.”

  She’d call Hugh later; hey, let him sweat it a little. No, she wouldn’t. No games. She called him right then, right that moment. “Hi, I still love you too,” she sighed, as soon as he picked up the phone.

  “Oh God, Nina, when can I see you?”

  “My last appointment finishes at four. How ’bout four-oh-one?”

  “Better idea. Meet you at the Tiffany Court at four-fifteen.”

  “I like that. That’s romantic.”

  “Yeah, it’s a good place to get engaged again.”

  They cooed some more before they hung up. Immediately after that, Nina called Lindsay in Rehoboth. “Hi, is the nuptial beach still available?”

  “Oh Mother, is it back on?”

  “Better than ever. Hugh and I’ll work out the details tonight.”

  Whistling (which she rarely did), Nina put on her favorite suit, the violet-colored one. Skirt, not pants. And the cream blouse that was too daring for the office…but then: who cared about the bloody office today? Who cared jack shit about the office? Life began at four-fifteen in the Tiffany Court. To top it off, Nina put on her Nike model Picabo Street Air Max Electrify Sneakers, but she also took her new four-inch spike heels with her. Monstrosities, yes. But fashionable again. Made her taller, gave her better legs. Especially if you just happened to be wearing the right sort of sexy violet suit.

  “Good morning, Jaime,” Nina chirped, heading jauntily through the lobby.

  “Oh, Dr. Winston,” Jaime began tentatively.

  “Uh huh?”

  “There’s something I’m supposed to tell you.”

  “There’s something you’re supposed to tell me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “The gentleman who came in with you last night…”

  “Yes?”

  “When he left this morning, he said for me to tell you…”

  “Yes?”

  Jaime paused to make sure he had this just right. “He said for me to tell you that he had told me that he had slept in the guest bedroom.”

  Nina broke into a big smile. “And do you believe that, Jaime?”

  “Oh, yes ma’am, I certainly do.”

  “Damn, Jaime,” Nina said, walking off in her Picabo Streets, “I wish you thought better of me.”

  The moment that Bucky’s secretary, Aimee, arrived at the office, he called her to his desk. There he was fiddling with his American Express receipt from Il Violino last night. He studied it one more time. After he’d worked out the tip, Bucky had written a name down on the back of the slip. Now he copied it neatly on his From The Desk Of… memo pad and handed it to Aimee. “See if you can find this guy for me,” he said.

  She studied the strange name. Bucky explained. “It’s Flemish. It’s pronounced like Gees. Gijs Stoclet. He’s an inspector with the Antwerp police. In Belgium. That’s all I know. But just find him, Aimee. Don’t worry about anything else till you do.”

  “Okay, Bucky.” She looked funny at him. She thought he might’ve been crying right there at his desk. Certainly, he looked like hell.

  Over Ohio, Constance reached for the Airfone in the seat back facing her. She ran her credit card through it and dialed Bucky’s office.

  41

  Roseann broke smack into Nina’s two-o’clock appointment with Mrs. Chen. “I’m sorry, Doctor,” she said, but I really think you ought to pick up line one. It’s that Mrs. Rawlings.”

  Nina apologized to Mrs. Chen for having to take the call. Then: “Constance?”

  Abruptly: “I’d like for you to meet me at the museum.”

  “Well, I’m with a patient now.” She thought of Hugh. “And then I have a very important meeting. Perhaps we can—”

  Rudely, Constance interrupted. “No, I can’t wait. I’m going over to gallery twenty-seven now.”

  Nina could sense the obstinacy in her attitude, the urgency in her voice. She tried to redirect the conversation. “Have you spoken to Bucky?”

  For a moment, Nina could almost hear her coo on the other end of the phone. “Of course. We’re seeing each other tonight.” But right away, the harsh Constance returned. “Yeah, I understand last night, you had a little tête-à-tête with him.”

  Nina was thrown back. And a bit put off herself, Mrs. Chen went into the bathroom. Nina tried to reconnoiter her position; surely Bucky hadn’t told Constance all of the events of the past evening. “Bucky was very upset after Jocelyn’s service, Constance, and I just—”

  “Tell it to the Marines.” The phone clicked off.

  Nina took a deep breath, trying to figure out what she should do next. Call Bucky. She reached for the address book and actually started dialing his office number: 986-70…No. What good would that do? The problem isn’t with Bucky. The problem is that the woman is already on her way to gallery twenty-seven, where she all but lost her composure—her sanity?—last time. And like her or not, Constance Rawlings is still my patient—at least for another day or two—and I must go see her.

  Nina snatched up her purse, calling to Roseann as she passed by to try and explain to Mrs. Chen. In fact, Nina was already charging up Fifth Avenue before she realized she had left her sneakers back in the office. To hell with it. She just stopped, pulled off her spike heels, and kept on running in her panty-hose feet.

  Only inside the Metropolitan did she remember she was barefoot. She slipped her heels back on as she got the day’s admission button. Appropriately, it was silver—although, Nina observed, it was a pretty drab silver: more of a bathroom-faucet silver than a Hugh-Venable, Double-Ones silver.

  Scrambling up the escalator, then maneuvering in her heels the best she could, Nina rushed down the corridor and through the European paintings, catching her breath as she turned into gallery twenty-seven. And, yes, there Constance stood. She was only a few feet before the Madonna painting, her eyes fixed on it, on the Madonna. On Margareta.

  At least she was able to acknowledge Nina. “Hello, Doctor.” But that was all. She stared at Margareta again. And, to herself: “How beautiful is my Margareta,” she murmured. With that, she took another step closer to the painting. Nina could see the guard—a different guard, but another very wary guard—eyeing her. She took Constance by the arm, and gently tried to pull her away. But she couldn’t budge her. God, she’s strong, Nina thought.

  So, she tried ano
ther tack. “You’re gonna see Bucky tonight, huh?”

  Constance nodded, but although her lips formed a little happy smile, she kept her eyes fixated on the painting. Nina knew enough to understand that a part of her, at some level, was already Ollie. After a few moments, though, much to Nina’s surprise, Constance turned to her and beaming, said, “She had a baby, you know?”

  Nina could barely answer. “Who did?”

  Constance gestured to the painting. “Margareta.” She sighed then. “Ollie’s.”

  “Of course.”

  “Yes, we had a baby.”

  Nina swallowed. Constance had said “we.” Didn’t realize it. But, nonetheless, clearly said it. Nina tried to be matter-of-fact. “Oh,” she chirped. “Did Bucky tell you that?”

  “No,” Constance replied, airily.

  “So, then, how did you find out about Margareta’s baby?”

  “Because I saw the baby.”

  “You saw the baby?”

  Constance scowled at Nina, and in a voice dripping with condescension: “Of course I didn’t see the baby. I saw a painting of the baby.”

  “Of course. And…where was that?”

  “Why, the painting over Mr. Rubens’s tomb. A wonderful work he did not long before he died. And Margareta is in it as the Madonna again.”

  “Oh yes, of course.”

  “And our baby is the Christ Child.”

  “Oh yes,” Nina managed to say. But now her mind was racing. Peter Paul Rubens could only have been buried in one place. In his Antwerp. Nina knew that. She’d read it. There was no doubt in her mind: Rubens lay in Antwerp. And if Constance had seen…

  Suddenly, Nina could hardly breathe. Suddenly, she was dizzy.

  “Bucky,” Aimee said, “I got that guy in Belgium.”

  Bucky grabbed for his phone. “Inspector Stoclet?”

  “Yes, Mr. Buckingham?”

  Bucky hunched forward over his desk, grasping the phone as much for support as for merely using a speaking device. Squeezing it hard, he began, “I was a great friend of Jocelyn Ridenhour.”