by Belva Plain
“I don't know. I was only ten or twelve when I made up my mind to go to law school. Maybe it was my schoolteacher mother, encouraging me. She, and all the books in the house. We didn't have any money, but somehow we bought books.”
“How long have you been in New York?”
“Almost six years, all of them with Orton and Pratt.”
“You'll be a partner before long.”
“Who knows? But I hope so. I love the work.”
“It must be wonderful to feel that way about your work. I don't hate mine, but I certainly don't love it, either.”
“What would you rather be doing?”
“Painting. I've taken art lessons, and while I'm not awful, I've learned that I'm not good, either.”
“Maybe you need better training,” said Donald, aware that he knew nothing about the subject.
“I tried that. I even went to Italy for six months, in Florence, going to classes, soaking up the atmosphere. The best thing I got out of it besides the pleasure of being there was learning to squelch all foolish hopes. I came home almost broke. I used up almost all the insurance that came to me after my mother's death. Then I went to work for Mr. Buzley.”
Thinking, but not sure, that he was seeing a glimmer of moisture under her round white eyelids, he said gently, “It isn't easy to lose your mother. I know about it.”
“But you have to accept, don't you? Accept and keep moving.” She looked at her watch. “Excuse me, I don't want to leave, but my housemate is going to have a major extraction at the dentist's, and I promised to go with her. Thank you so much for this treat. I've loved talking to you.”
“Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night, Lillian? I have a feeling that we have more to say to each other.”
He had a tentative appointment for the next night, but he was going to break it because he was not going to let go of this woman.
“That would be wonderful, Donald.”
“Give me your address and telephone. Here's my card. It's proof of my identity, so you can check. It's for your safety,” he added when she protested.
“Nonsense,” she said. “Your face is proof enough of my safety. I'm a very good judge of people, Donald.”
They were going in opposite directions. When at the first corner he turned to look back, he saw that she was doing the same. Then they waved to each other and walked on.
Perhaps because this was their second meeting, or because of the surroundings, quiet space, comfortable chairs, and the lighting so soft and subtly pink, there was no hesitancy between them.
“So we're both orphans,” Donald said. “And both only children. I think about it sometimes, although not too often. But whenever I do, I'm aware of being alone at the end of a chain. There are some third cousins on my father's side, but they live in Wyoming, and I've only seen them once when they came by our way. But my life is full, and always has been. I had a great childhood. The only pain I have is that neither parent lived to see me graduate from law school. My mother had been talking for years about that day.”
Why was he telling her all this, he a private person not given to revelations about himself? But she had seemed interested and had pressed him to talk about himself.
“Now what about you?” he asked. “You grew up on Long Island, you said. I haven't been on Long Island more than twice, and then only for an hour each time. I've read about it, though.”
“You read about the mansions, and the beaches. An awful lot of it is just rows of little houses side by side, where, they tell me, the potato fields used to be. That's where I grew up. Suburbia. You must have read about suburbia, too.”
“Yes, all kinds of supposedly learned articles. They don't praise it much, and I'm generally suspicious of that nose-in-the-air attitude.”
“They're not altogether wrong, believe me. Suburbia can be dull beyond belief. As soon as I could get away, I did, and went as far as I could.”
Her eyes were sparkling. She had determination. Imagine a young woman, alone in the world, taking her ambition and her little money, all she had, to gamble it on her future in a country where she didn't know man or woman! There she sat, as sure of herself as any well-protected young woman living on Park Avenue. He had learned enough about New York to recognize that her clothes were fashionable. She wore a fine watch, and why not? She had nobody to care for but herself.
Nevertheless, it was a dangerous world. One accident, one illness, one misstep, and a defenseless person all alone is destroyed. Thinking so, he fell silent.
“You're a gentle soul,” Lillian said suddenly.
He was touched, and he laughed. “You've never seen me in a court fight.”
“I don't mean that. I mean that if your heart is touched, you can be terribly hurt, more than most people.”
Yesterday, when he was fondling that dog, she had sensed his mood. “What are you doing, psychoanalyzing me?” he asked.
“No, nor flattering you, either. You're too intelligent not to see right through that. No, it's simply that I like you, and so naturally I'm interested in you.”
“Are you interested enough to prolong this evening, after we've had our coffee?”
“Yes, very. Unfortunately, we can't go back to my place because tonight's Cindy's turn to have a friend.”
“Then we'll go to mine—that is, if you don't mind climbing four flights of stairs.”
Cindy's turn. Was it not ridiculous that having met this woman only yesterday, he should feel a pang of jealousy and wonder whom Lillian brought to those rooms when it was her turn?
They climbed the stairs, and he opened the door and switched on the light. Seldom did he have visitors here, but he was meticulous, and for his own sake, kept his home in order. So here they were, his two little rooms, filled with books and simple mementos of his journeys: a handwoven cotton rug from Turkey, a Chinese screen to hide the closet-sized kitchen, and three engravings of eighteenth-century Paris, bought at a bookstore on the Left Bank.
Lillian exclaimed, “It's lovely! The cobalt blue paint and that grass green lamp, the chair—all just right. I'm amazed. Most men don't know about colors. Most people don't, for that matter.”
“Well, I assure you that I'm one who doesn't. I merely copied the idea from a window on Madison Avenue. I thought it looked nice.”
She drew back the curtains and looked out into empty darkness. “I was wondering whether you had a view, and that's why you moved so high up.”
“No, if I wanted a view I'd move to the twentieth floor in one of those new buildings on the avenue.”
“Why don't you?”
“Too expensive, when I started out. I had to pay off my college loans and start saving. Then by the time I was free of debt, I was used to it here. There wasn't any reason to move. I work in a fine office, I go out into the world, and when I do have an evening at home, all I need are my books and my music records. I'm satisfied. It's clear sailing for me.”
Why was he telling her all this, too?
“You must have two hundred albums on those shelves. Opera—do you like opera?”
“Very much. Do you?”
“I went when I was in Italy, but never here. I suppose it's the same.”
“We'll go sometime. . . . Why are you smiling?”
“Because you're taking it for granted that I'll go with you.”
“That's true. I am.”
“Well, you're right. I will.”
“Good. Better to be honest with each other from the start instead of just guessing.”
“Then give me a drink. We'll drink to that.”
“Wine, or what?”
“Wine, please. Or anything. It doesn't matter.”
“Be comfortable,” he said, motioning toward the only upholstered chair.”
“No, you take it. I like to sit on the floor. I'll lean against your knees. I'm comfortable that way. I insist. Would you like some music?”
“Not now. Just silence, and the wine. It was cold walking here.”<
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She leaned with confidence against him. When he looked down, he saw two twinkling diamonds in her earlobes; her fragrance was faint as a whiff of summer. He had known her only a little more than twenty-four hours. A sense of unreality swept over him.
She spoke softly, hesitating. “I was thinking that thirty-one hours ago we didn't know each other, and here we sit.”
“I was thinking the same.”
Then silence returned. Donald's thoughts were whirling. He wasn't used to moving quite so fast, although many men—possibly most men—were. There were of course times when he had done so, but not with a woman like this one; this one was by turns outspoken and reserved, by turns reflective and vivacious; he knew only, as he had known when they met, that he did not want to lose her.
She stood abruptly. “Let's see the rest of your house.”
“House? There's only one other room.”
“Well, show me.”
There was just the narrow bed, made up in tight army style, a dresser, and a small table with a lamp and a pile of books on it.
She looked and nodded. “Monastic. No cobalt and green. This is your other side.”
Arranged on one wall was a series of historical prints: Custer's Last Stand, the Lincoln Memorial, Lee's surrender at Appomattox, and Washington taking the oath of office in New York.
After examining each one, she turned to him. “You're a very interesting person, Donald Wolfe.”
“And you,” he replied.
“You're not a monk, are you?”
“No, not at all.”
They stared at each other. My God, he thought, this is different. I never—
“I'm twenty-six,” she said. “I'm not a virgin.”
“I didn't think you would be.”
“It's you who've done this to me. I don't want you to think . . . I'm not really . . .”
“That's all right. That's all right. Come here.”
Past midnight, he found a taxicab and took her home to a modest apartment house.
“The next time, Lillian? When shall it be?”
“Any time.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.”
He walked home, although the cab could have taken him back. But he needed to move, to feel the night air, and to come back to reality. So he told himself.
Emotion! All the women, beginning with girls in high school up to last month's charming friend in Paris, who still, after two years, hoped for him to say something definite—all of them, and never anyone like her. So smooth, so cool, and still so fiery!
“Lillian,” he said aloud, and the sound of the name took visual shape as sounds sometimes did for him, so that as he walked he was able to see it before him, a presence white and silken, shimmering through the darkness: Lillian.
Chapter 3
If he had ever had to fill out one of those questionnaires in which you were asked to answer such perplexing subtle questions as, “Do you consider yourself happy?” Donald would not have hesitated to write yes. He took a plain view of life. It was supposed to present problems and one was supposed to solve them if one could. For a long time now, he had had no problems. His health was excellent, his profession was in every way rewarding, he had agreeable friends, and the world was a splendid place. So yes, simply put, he was happy.
Yet never, as spring moved toward summer, had the world been so splendid. Of course he had read those old sayings about how the world seems to smile on lovers, and of course he had thought that was all sentimental nonsense, yet now he had to admit that it was quite true. Strangers whom he passed on the street all seemed to be smiling; people held doors for him and said “good morning” in such a friendly way; the weather itself was especially wonderful this year, and the city never more beautifully arrayed with tulips everywhere and a sapphire sky overhead.
A free hour away from Lillian was a wasted one. Sometimes they met for a sandwich lunch in the pocket park where it had all begun. On Saturdays when he was not catching up on work and always on Sundays, they roamed through the city. They took brisk walks around the reservoir in Central Park, they took a boat ride around Manhattan, they visited the medieval marvel of the Cloisters, where she began his education in art. At the Metropolitan Museum, she led him in big leaps through the ages, from the Egyptians through the twentieth century. She did not know that although he wanted to absorb what he was seeing, most of the time he was more aware of her than of anything else. He was charmed by her velvet voice, her earnest explanations, and the white frill around the neck of her summer dress.
“Now you see,” she said one day on the one time he visited her apartment, “now you see why I shall never be an artist.”
Fastened by tape to one whole wall were oils and watercolors done by Lillian. Looking them over, he was not quite sure how to be both frank and truthful.
“Well,” he began, but she did not let him finish.
“Don't spare me. I know better. They look like greeting cards, don't they? Answer yes or no.”
Her eyes went straight to his. There's no point fooling her, he thought. People won't ever be able to fool her.
“Yes,” he said.
“Thank you for being truthful. It's easy to get along with people who tell the truth.” She sighed. “I'll tell you something, though. If I'm ever rich, I'm going to buy paintings. I'm going to wake up in the morning and look at beautiful things.” She motioned to the wall. “I really want to take these horrors away, but believe it or not, Cindy wants them up. When I move out of here, whenever that will be, I'll leave them for her, and good riddance.”
He could have said also, but naturally did not say, “Good riddance to Cindy, too, when you move.”
Beside her somewhat coarse manner, which might be forgiven because no one had ever taught her anything else, Cindy was cynical and hard. A strange companion for Lillian, he thought; and very delicately, he suggested so.
Lillian shook her head. “No, no. You don't know her. She's a very, very good person. She's had terribly hard luck. I pay three quarters of the rent here. She has nothing. And I'm used to her ways.” She laughed. “When you work in Buzley's office, you meet all sorts.”
It was this brief visit that gave Donald the impetus to make some changes. In a brand-new building not far from his present quarters, he found two attractive apartments typical of the ones occupied by those of his unmarried friends who did not live downtown in a loft. One, on the twenty-ninth floor just beneath the penthouse, had a grand view of Manhattan's entire width from east to west; the other, on the third floor, had a view of the traffic on the avenue. The design of each was identical, the only difference, a considerable one, being the price. Reasoning that money was better off invested than being handed out every month to the landlord in exchange for a view, he chose the lower floor and quietly went ahead with his plan.
At this point, he stopped being frugal. Don't be a miser, he said to himself. You're living in New York. Get a decorator. These rooms were to be a fit setting for a lovely woman. The bedroom must be feminine; it must remind her of a garden. The “extra room” must fit his needs for big chairs, a huge desk for the work that he brought home, and shelves for his by now considerable library.
The young decorator apparently sensed that Donald was in a frantic hurry, and he worked with amazing speed. Soon then came the day when the last curtain was hung and the surprise could be revealed.
Lillian was enchanted, as he had known she would be. On their first evening, she arrived with a perfectly cooked dinner and six gardenias, which she set floating in a shallow dish at the center of the table. She looked around the room and sighed, “I can't believe I'm here. It's so beautiful. Poor Cindy, I feel so guilty about leaving her alone. She'll probably be moving soon, she says, and I do hope so. She has a new man, but I don't know about him. Anyway, you wouldn't like him.”
“How do you know I wouldn't?”
“Oh, I know you pretty well, darling, pretty well.”
He laughe
d and took another helping of dessert, and felt that he was living on top of the world. What peace! And afterward, the soft new bed in the cool room under the blue-and-white covers.
Donald's friends, when he began to introduce Lillian to them, were all impressed. She was charming. Many of the men were lawyers; she had the good sense not to offer opinions on the strength of what she had learned as a legal secretary. Some of them were married, and she had the patience to listen to lengthy anecdotes about babies. Above all, she was friendly and, as one of the men joked to Donald, “Best-looking girl in the room, yet none of the other girls hated her.”
One day his closest friend in the office, Ed Wills, who already had two children and a third on the way, asked him frankly whether he was “serious” about Lillian. Had he, or was he planning to, ask the big question?
Yes, he had done some thinking about that. He had been playing with the idea of making an immediate proposal. Why wait? They were living together in a cozy home and were as good as married. Yet something, most likely his innate conservativism, held him back from doing anything quite so abrupt. They had met, after all, only three months ago. On the other hand, people had always made hasty marriages, and many of them had worked out just as well as any. Again on the other hand, most people did take a little more time and live together for a while before they took the step. Might it not be irresponsible, even somewhat adolescent, to rush into something after an acquaintance of ninety days? Did Ed agree? Yes, Ed did agree. Three months was a short time, and you never knew. . . .
Ultimately, though, Donald had no doubt, none at all. One day, testing himself, he had even sat down and done his best to separate head from heart. Had she any discernible faults? For every human being on earth has faults, isn't that so? Was she a little bit stubborn? Maybe, but only maybe. Was she a bit fanatic about art? Well, maybe again, but if you had to be fanatic about anything, art was no bad choice. He gave up. She was marvelous. She had everything: beauty, intelligence, humor, refinement, kindness. Look how she cared for that poor soul, Cindy! Yes, she had everything. And chuckling, he wondered what faults she would find in him were she to make the same kind of list.
