“Lily . . .”
I took his hands and pressed them against my breast. “Let’s just run off to Paris, the way we planned, all those years ago. We’ll go to Paris, divorce or no divorce. We’ll take Kiki with us. Do you remember our plans? I do, every one. I’ll stand by your side, work by your side. I’ll have our children. I’ll have them proudly, Nick.”
“Lily.” He shook his head and drew his hands away. “I know you would. But it won’t work. We do this honorably or not at all. We don’t run away in shame, you and I. This, between us.” He put his hand on his heart, and then on mine. “Sacred, remember? We do what’s worthy of it. We don’t run off. We don’t hide. We stand before the world, Lily. That”—he slid his hand from my breast and grasped the tips of my fingers with it—“that is what I mean by fixing things.”
I said softly: “Then tell me, Nick. Why were you staring out the window by my bed like that? If you’re so certain you can fix things.”
“Because tomorrow morning, Lily, first thing, I’m driving back up to Seaview to tell Budgie the game is up. Tomorrow I find out her price.”
“Her price for what?”
“For having you back.”
His cheek was rough with stubble. I reached up to run my finger along it, to reassure him somehow, but he stepped away. “Don’t touch me, Lily. God knows, if you touch me like that, I’ll make love to you, I’ll make adulterers of us.”
I stood there before him, before Nick, my body slipping from his oversized robe and my heart bursting from my chest. “But you said yourself you felt like a bigamist, marrying her. A bigamist.”
He said softly, not looking at me: “I felt like one, Lily. That didn’t mean I was. I didn’t marry you, God forgive me. I married Budgie, I spoke those vows to her. I am her husband.”
“But she’s been unfaithful to you. She’s carrying another man’s child. She’s wronged you in every way.”
“It doesn’t make this right.”
I bowed my head.
“Your father wouldn’t have cared,” I said, into the floorboards.
“I’m not my father. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To do things better this time.”
I said nothing.
“It’s my fault,” Nick said. “I’ve made you suffer, and it’s my fault. Go back to bed, Lily.”
“How can I go to bed without you?”
“Because you must.”
We looked at each other, not touching. The rain still crept in from the window, lessened now, as if it were giving up at last.
“You know, the irony of it is, I think she does love you,” I said. “She couldn’t help it. You took such good care of her, despite everything.”
“Because I pitied her.”
“Still. If you had seen her face, when you were lying there in the sand. I don’t think she was acting. No actress in the world could be that convincing. The look in her eyes.”
He smiled a little. “What about the look in your eyes?”
“God knows. I was just trying to make you better.”
“Well, you did that. You’ve always done that. Now, go to bed. I don’t dare help you. It’s all I can do right now, just looking at you, falling out of my dressing gown like that.” He picked up the ashtray, full of cigarette ends. “I’ll leave the window open for you. Clear the smoke away.”
“It’s starting to let up out there, I think.”
“I think so, too. Good night, Lily.” He moved to the door. I went to the bed, stunned, almost in a trance. I lifted the covers and settled my throbbing body into the sheets.
“Nick?”
“Yes, love?”
“Can’t you tell me what it is? What Budgie knows?”
Nick loomed enormous in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other holding the ashtray with long fingers spread wide. The lamp was on in the living room, caressing his bare shoulders. “Trust me, Lily,” he said. “You don’t want to know.”
NICK CAME TO SEE ME before he left the next morning. He sat on the edge of the bed, a few feet away, and I came awake instantly.
“What is it?” I asked, sitting up. He was washed and dressed, his dark hair damp and neatly brushed, his cheeks pink from the razor. He smelled of soap and coffee and cigarettes. Dawn crept through the windows, red with promise, illuminating the green glints in his eyes.
“I wanted to say good-bye. Here’s the key to the apartment.” He set it on the bedside table. “Your clothes are dry; I hung them in the wardrobe. If you need anything, just take it. I made coffee. I’ll phone later to see how you’re doing.”
“Shouldn’t I come, too? I want to help. Let me help, let me do something.”
“Lily, it’s my marriage. It’s my mistake to resolve. This is between me and Budgie.”
“But she’s my friend. I should be there.”
“God, no. I want you safely away. Please stay away for now. Promise me, Lily.”
His face was so dark-browed and intense, it sent a vibration of foreboding through me. “You don’t think she’ll turn violent?” I asked.
“God knows what she’ll do. She never runs to form. You know that better than I do.”
I put my hand to my chest. “What about Kiki?”
“I’ll make sure she’s safe. Don’t worry about that.” He sat on the bed, hands on his knees, looking at me with desperate eyes.
“When will I see you?”
“Soon.” He hesitated, leaned forward, and kissed my brow.
“Nick.” My eyes were closed.
Our foreheads touched. Nick kissed my lips, very lightly, and held his mouth against mine without moving.
I sat and took his breath inside me.
“Lilybird.” He sighed at last, and got up and left the room.
19.
LAKE GEORGE, NEW YORK
January 1932
The pounding starts in my dream. I’m in a football stadium, and the spectators for the opposing team are ramming their feet against the floor in an angry rhythm, and I don’t want to move, don’t want to involve myself in the struggle. I want to stay out of the fight.
Then I feel the violent upheaval of Nick leaping out of bed, and the stadium becomes a hotel bedroom, and the pounding comes from the door.
“What is it?” I gasp, sitting up.
The room is lighter now. Cracks of snow-bleached sunlight push past the gaps in the curtains. Nick is whipping his pants up his legs, thrusting his undershirt over his chest. “I don’t know, but it’s not good news, I’ll tell you that. Stay here.”
After Nick’s warmth, the air on my bare skin is cold. I hold the sheets up to my chin and watch Nick move to the door and look through the peephole.
“Someone from the hotel,” he mutters. He opens the door a crack. “Yes? What is it?”
I strain to hear the conversation, but Nick’s voice is pitched low, and the person on the other side—a man, that’s all I can distinguish—is unintelligible. On the floor lies the limp ghost of Nick’s formal shirt; my dress is hanging from the rail in the bathroom. I’m exposed, helpless, every muscle still stunned and aching from the havoc of Nick’s love.
The murmured conversation goes on at the door. I pound my fist against the sheet, watching Nick’s formidable body, white undershirt meeting black trousers in an uncompromising line at his waist. At last he turns away, opens the wardrobe, and hunts through his coat. A bill passes through the crack in the door; Nick turns and closes it with a shove of his back.
“What is it?” I ask. “Did they find out we’re not married? Or was it the wine?”
Nick walks to the phone and replaces the receiver on the hook. “It was the waiter from last night. He’s been trying to reach us. Your aunt’s here. She’s asking for you at the desk. Demanding, from what the fellow said.”
“Aunt Julie? But . . . how?”
“Took the train up last night, probably.” Nick sits on the bed next to me. His eyes are soft, but his face is still and unsmiling. “Julie van der Wahl, isn’
t she?”
“Yes. My mother’s sister. They’re not much alike.”
“Do you think she’s on our side?”
Aching or not, my body reacts to Nick’s nearness with a surge of primeval craving. It’s all I can do not to touch him, not to reach for his shoulders. “I don’t think so,” I say, picking at the sheets.
“Well, rotten luck for her. She’s too late. I’m not giving you up.” Nick puts his arms around me. “I wasn’t before, and I’m certainly not now.”
“So we’re sneaking out again?”
“No. We’re going to get dressed and go downstairs and settle this.”
His voice rings strong and determined. This time, I know I have no choice.
“Nick, Aunt Julie isn’t like my parents. She’s less conventional; I know you’ve heard the stories. We might have a chance, if we’re clever about it.”
Nick sets me away, stands up, and picks up his shirt from the floor. “I think it’s gone beyond that, don’t you? We’re adults. If we want to get married, she can’t stop us. No one can stop us. I’d love to marry you with your family’s approval, Lily, but with or without it, I’m marrying you.” He buttons his shirt and holds out his hand. “If you want me, of course.”
I take his hand and rise from the bed, flushing with self-consciousness as the light of day falls upon my skin. “I want you.”
Nick folds me against his chest and holds us both still. I love the steady stroke of his heartbeat in my ear. “How are you feeling, Lily? You’re all right?”
Sore, stiff, bleary with exhaustion, overturned by the memory of what we did and said in the dark of night. “I am glorious, Nick. Absolutely glorious.”
He kisses my hair. “So am I.”
I am even more self-conscious a quarter-hour later in the center of the hotel lobby, under the scrutiny of Aunt Julie, smooth-skinned and impeccably attired. She takes it all in with a single stroke of her eyes: my glittering dress, Nick’s shameful shirt and unshaven face, the diamond sparkling from between our clasped hands.
“Well, well,” she says, unwinding the fur around her neck. “This is an adorable little kettle of fish. Thank you, Mr. Greenwald, for taking such immaculate care of my niece.”
Nick’s hand tightens around mine.
I speak out: “Nick’s been an angel, Aunt Julie, and besides, it was all my fault. This was my idea.”
“Oh, I’m sure of that. I doubt Mr. Greenwald has any idea just what bargain he’s contemplating with my sweet-faced little niece.”
“The bargain is already made,” says Nick. “Lily is my wife, and I couldn’t be happier.”
Aunt Julie lifts her eyebrows with mild interest. “Really? I suppose it’s possible, though I doubt it, on such short notice. Of course you’ve taken her to bed, that’s obvious, but it’s not quite the same thing as a wedding.” She pulls off her left glove, finger by finger, and looks Nick in the eye. “Is it?”
“As far as I’m concerned.” The tautness in Nick’s body flows into me through our connected hands. He is vibrating beneath his calm skin.
Aunt Julie proceeds, unconcerned, with the removal of her gloves. “Is that so? And just how many wives have you collected, by that count?”
Nick takes a step and stops.
“How dare you,” I say. “Nick has behaved honorably from the beginning. It’s we who have treated him disgracefully, and I won’t allow it any longer.”
“Well, never mind. You can meet me at dawn with your pistols if you like. I’m here on quite another errand, as it happens.”
Her statement, brusquely delivered, has the same effect as a small explosive. Armed and ready for battle, I am set physically back on my heels. I have to review her words in my mind, and when I reply, my voice is closer to a squeak. “What do you mean? Errand?”
Aunt Julie’s eyes cross over to Nick, who holds my hand as firmly as ever. “May I have a private word with my niece, Mr. Greenwald?”
“Anything you can say to my”—he hesitates, but only for an instant—“to Lily, you can say to me, Mrs. van der Wahl.”
“This is family business, Mr. Greenwald.” She slaps her gloves impatiently against her wrist.
“Nick is family, Aunt Julie. He’s my husband, or nearly.” It’s the first time I’ve used the word, and it tastes exotic on my tongue, exotic and impossibly intimate.
“You might as well say you’re nearly pregnant, my dear. Either you are or you aren’t.” Another sharp glance at Nick. “Which is it?”
“We would be married this minute, if yesterday hadn’t been a holiday,” I say. “And we’re going to do it the instant the . . . the city hall here is open. That’s what I meant. We are married in all but name, and Nick has just as much stake in whatever it is you’ve got to say as I do.”
“Mr. Greenwald?”
“I belong to Lily, Mrs. van der Wahl. If she wants me, I stay.” Nick puts his arm around my back.
Aunt Julie sighs. We are standing beneath a grand chandelier, festooned with crystal, and the reflected light moves across her face in patches of white. In the instant before she speaks, I see her with new eyes, different eyes, and I think to myself that she’s not beautiful, not really, only very good at looking beautiful.
“Well, well,” she says, sounding almost bored. “Nothing so stubborn as young love. In that case, I won’t hold back. Your father has suffered a stroke, Lily, and you are required at home immediately.”
20.
MANHATTAN
Wednesday, September 21, 1938
The rains of September had passed by at last, and the morning air lay still and sunny outside Nick’s bedroom window. When I turned on the radio in the living room at eight o’clock, neatly clothed, coffee and cigarette in hand, toast browning in Nick’s shiny pop-up electric Toastmaster, the announcer informed me that the weather today would continue sunny and pleasant, breezy in the afternoon, a peaceful end to a scorching summer, and that the expected hurricane in Florida had instead spun harmlessly out to sea. A good omen, I thought.
I ate my toast and finished my coffee and cigarette. I checked my pocketbook. I had a few dollars, a crumpled handkerchief, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, some lipstick, a compact. I fixed up my face and went to Nick’s bureau to find a fresh handkerchief.
I wasn’t snooping, not really. What a man kept in his bureau was his own business. I simply noted both the presence of fresh white underwear in the right-hand drawer and the absence of any feminine articles, and moved to the left-hand drawer, where I found Nick’s handkerchiefs, and beneath them, a small dark blue box.
I wouldn’t have taken any notice, except that I had seen that box before.
I picked it up and opened it, and inside I found the diamond ring Nick had placed on my finger in the first few minutes of 1932.
I lifted it out. The familiar facets caught the sunlight through the window, glinting at me like an old friend.
There was no note nearby, no sentimental label of any kind. Certainly not the note with which I had sent the ring back to him, some time later. Was it sitting underneath his handkerchiefs because he treasured it, or because it was a valuable piece of jewelry he didn’t want to lose?
The telephone jangled aggressively into the silence, making me jump. The ring fell from my fingers onto the floor. For a moment I stood there as the telephone rang again and again, looking desperately over the rug, torn between the two imperatives.
Then I remembered the caller might be Nick.
I rushed from the bedroom and into the living room, where the telephone sat on Nick’s desk. I snatched the receiver, and in the split second before I spoke, I remembered that it might not be Nick. That it might, in fact, be his wife.
What would I say if it was Budgie?
The voice came through on the other end, hissing and popping: “Hello? Lily? Are you there?”
“Nick.” I sank down on the chair. “I was afraid you were Budgie.”
“No, darling, it’s me. I’m at a filling st
ation in Westport. I just wanted to see how you were.”
“I’m fine. I . . . I miss you.” I said it tentatively. So strange, so disorienting, to be once more exchanging endearments with Nick.
“I miss you, too. You’re feeling all right? Did you get some more sleep?”
“Yes. I slept until seven. You must be exhausted.”
“I couldn’t sleep anyway. I’ve had coffee. Talk to me, Lily. Tell me a story. I need to hear your voice.” He sounded weary, apprehensive.
“I don’t know what to say. I miss you terribly. I’m worried about you, about Kiki. I wish you’d tell me what we’re up against.”
“Sweetheart, don’t worry. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll find a way. I’ve been thinking about it all the way up.”
“Can’t you offer her money?”
“It isn’t money she wants, Lily. Not really.”
“Then what does she want?”
His sigh crackled down the line. “Haven’t you guessed yet? She wants you, Lily. She worships you, she envies you. She always has. I tried offering her money, back in Bermuda. I offered her an obscene amount. She wouldn’t take it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, you wouldn’t. I don’t think she understands it herself. Listen, I’m almost out of change. I’ll telephone again when I get in.”
“Wait, Nick. I . . .” I twisted the cord around my finger. “I was looking for a handkerchief, in your drawer.”
He was silent, breathing softly into the telephone. I unwound the cord, wound it again, waited for him to reply.
“And what did you find, Lilybird?” he said at last.
“I found the ring. You kept it, Nick.”
“I kept it. I couldn’t bear to get rid of it. Listen, Lily. Put the ring back in the drawer. Keep it safe for me. When I return, when Budgie’s safely out of the picture, we’ll take it out again. I’ll put it back on your finger myself.” His words frizzed with static. I wasn’t sure I’d even heard them all.
“Nick,” I whispered.
A Hundred Summers Page 27
