by Belva Plain
The perfume was roses, pine, new hay, warm fruit, warm woman. Her mouth tasted like raspberries. He tried to free himself of her tight hold and wasn’t able to because she was strong; then, though he surely was the stronger, he still wasn’t able to, and then didn’t want to. Even at gunpoint he could not have stopped what had begun. And still with her lips attached to his he picked her up and carried her to the guest room’s bed.
The one sane thought that fled through his mind was, Not in there. Not where she lies with him. Then all thought fled.
When he woke up, it was almost midnight by his wristwatch. Roxanne had been watching him sleep. He rose on his elbow and frowned.
“Don’t you know people don’t like being stared at while they’re asleep?”
“How can you not like it when you’re asleep and don’t know they’re doing it?”
“Ah, don’t be stupid.”
“Men always like to think women are stupid.”
He had to smile. Be darned if she didn’t sound like Amanda Grey.
“You’re so sweet when you smile, Ian.”
At once his smile receded. What had he done? What a dirty business this was! He had felt enough guilt these past years on account of Happy, but now he had committed a double offense. My God, if this business tonight had given Roxanne any ideas, he would have wrecked poor Clive’s life. And in what might turn out to be his last few years, too.
“Don’t look so miserable, Ian,” she said, reading his mind. “We’re not taking anything away from anybody.”
He got up hurriedly to put on his clothes. He was terribly anxious.
“You said, that day I came here, that you intended to keep faith with Clive and the bargain you made with yourself. If you don’t, if you dare—”
“I intend to keep it, Ian. I’ve grown fond of Clive. But this has nothing to do with him. He’ll never, never know,” she said calmly, putting the green dress back on.
How queer it all was! A few hours ago she had driven him to her will, making her will his own, while now he was only tired, fearful, and in a rush to get away from her. And foolishly he stammered, seeking words.
“You—you actress!”
“I wasn’t an actress just now,” she said. “That was the real thing.” She looked into his eyes. “And you know it.”
He almost ran down the stairs. At the bottom she caught up with him.
“You know you’ll want to do this again. We owe it to ourselves, Ian. When can we?”
“When your husband’s in the hospital.”
“He’s coming out soon, so what then?”
“You’ve got your answer.”
“But we owe it to ourselves. It’s not hurting anybody,” she pleaded.
“You forgot to make the potato soup,” he called back when he was halfway out the door.
“Oh my God!”
From the driveway as he got into his car, he saw through the lighted kitchen window that she had put a little heap of potatoes on the table and was peeling them. She was crying.
Well, it was a mess, that’s all.
When he let himself into his empty house, the silence roared up at him. Even the dog was gone, for Happy had taken it along so it would not be home alone all day.
When he saw the blinking light on the answering machine, he knew that the voice would be Happy’s. “It’s eleven o’clock and I still haven’t heard from you, so I think that must mean it hasn’t gone well for Clive. I know you won’t wake this household after midnight, but please call me first thing in the morning, as early as six. I love you. Good night.”
He clapped both hands to his head. Oh, damn, damn, damn. Then he went up to bed and lay awake, going over the day and the night just past.
It seemed to him that he was like an alcoholic, the kind of fellow who gets along fine without a drink but cannot refrain if he’s left alone in a room with a bottle on the table in front of him. Or it seemed to him that maybe he had not reached his chronological age, that he had lingered behind in the collegiate years. To be a steady guy like Dan must be much less complicated.… Not that Dan was perfect; he was a stubborn bastard. Take this business of Grey’s Woods. Stubborn, stupid, sentimental fool.
His mind was hopping from one thing to the other, all these disturbances, Clive with cancer, all crowding in. How could a man sleep? He went downstairs and got the morning paper from the hall table, came back to bed and tried to read it.
The paper was full of trouble. Naturally. Troubles made news. Damn right they made news. He shuddered. He wondered whether Roxanne was any danger in that respect. Probably not. But on the other hand, maybe. She was emotional, quick-tempered, and sorry afterward. He really, really, really did not want to be alone with her ever again.
Yet he knew, and this is what scared him so, that very probably he would be, and then—white legs dancing, huge eyes dancing, mocking, laughing, taste of raspberries on her lips—where are we all going? he wondered. Nothing stays the same, that one knows. Something has to happen. But what?
“Ahhh,” he cried, threw the paper on the floor, and turned off the light. Dawn was already rising at the window.
Chapter Thirteen
December 1990
A storm was mounting. Its winds already threatened gale force. Or you might say that a fire, begun with a low crackle in the underbrush, would soon be roaring through the treetops. Unless we can call a halt, Ian thought. But how?
He turned on the desk light and went over the newspaper for the third time that morning.
“It is reported”—and here he gave a snort of contempt for reporters’ reports, nasty snoopers all—“that the two cousins, Ian and Daniel Grey, are no longer speaking to each other but send messages through their secretaries.”
Well, that was partially true. His eyes then skipped to the editorial and read:
The situation has become complicated by the offer coming from a group of European investors to build a community in the southern section of the woodlands that have been held by the Grey family for considerably more than a century. Added, then, to the family’s internal disputes about which rumors are rife, as is only to be expected, given the prominence of the family, is the conflict between preservationists and the proponents of unfettered free enterprise. What concerns us here more than either of the above is the survival of this respected firm that has for so long filled a dominant position in our economic, our cultural, and our philanthropic life. Scythia, and indeed the entire region, farmers, workers, and families, cannot afford the demise or crippling of Grey’s Foods. We can only pray that cool heads will prevail to prevent either.
“Cool heads” indeed. How many of you good citizens would turn down a twenty-eight-million-dollar offer so that you would never need to get up by the clock and go to work, never again for the rest of your life? How many, hey? And yet you expect me to do it.
Across from the editorials came a full-page paid advertisement signed by various “concerned citizens” who had established a Committee to Save Grey’s Woods. On the next page came letters to the editor from nature lovers and lovers of free enterprise alike, most of them indignant and even caustic.
He shoved the paper aside and picked up a sheaf of letters, muttering as he read. There was one from Amanda again, an ultimatum until the first of the year, when she would be coming east herself. There was one from her New York lawyers, a top firm, five hundred dollars an hour; she meant business, to spend all that much. Ian’s temples pounded. There was one from the consortium’s New York lawyers with a photostatic enclosure from Sweden; they, too, wanted immediate action after the first of the year. Even so, they warned, the deal was not to be taken for granted because there were a good many items to be ironed out before conclusion. The last letter came from Grey’s Foods’ own counsel, three solid pages of cautious analysis.
And tossing them all aside, he jumped up and left the room, banging the door so loudly that his secretary in the outer office looked up in dismay. He strode down the hall and without
knocking burst into Dan’s room, shouting.
“Well? Have you done your reading this morning?”
“I assume you mean Amanda’s letter.”
“Yes. Two-gun Amanda. And from her lawyers. She’ll ruin us.”
“Not necessarily. I’m not yet willing to concede. There must be a way out.”
Dan made him sick sometimes with his calm, blind, stupid optimism.
“The only way out is to go along with Sweden, as I’ve explained to you a hundred times by now. With this cash, we—”
Dan raised his hand. “Please. Not again.”
“Well, why the hell don’t you listen to me, then? It’s our last chance. They’re tired of the shilly-shallying. And you sit there like an imbecile! I can’t get anywhere with Clive, can’t press him, can’t even talk to him because he’s too sick. So it’s two against two, and that’s an impasse, and we’ll lose the deal but still have Amanda to contend with. We’re going to crash. You know something? Grey’s Foods is going to crash.”
Dan said with some bitterness, “I thought you wanted to get rid of it anyway, so you could have a free life while you’re young enough to enjoy it, you said.”
“No. I’m perfectly willing to pay for my share and let you run it with Clive.”
“You know Clive and I couldn’t run this thing alone even if he were well.”
“He’s getting back on his feet. He’s only got another month of chemotherapy, if that. And I do think that you two could run it.”
“Well, we can’t. And you just said before that he’s too sick for you to talk to him, chemotherapy or not.”
“Will you stop nitpicking? All right, so you and Clive can’t run it, and it closes up. Liquidates. There’s a big difference between that and collapsing because Amanda drives it to the wall.”
“Liquidates,” Dan repeated. He got up from his desk and walked to the window, from which one saw the new office wing, the warehouses, a railroad siding, a load of tomatoes coming by truck from the farm, three trucks departing with cartons bound all over the country, and old Felix, the retired pensioner who still hung about because Grey’s was home. A panorama.
Without looking, Ian knew what Dan was seeing. And he knew, too, what Dan was thinking because he had heard it often enough. All this, so long abuilding, to pass into strange hands. Or, worse yet, and more probably, to be absorbed by some megacorporation, sold off in pieces, and moved away. There was truth in it as well as pain. Ian felt twinges of pain himself.
But twenty-eight million dollars!
“Let it at least go down with dignity, Dan, if it has to. Better that than letting Amanda wreck it.”
Even from where he stood on the other side of the room, he could hear the long sigh. After a minute or two, Dan turned around. He looked as sad as anyone Ian had ever seen, stricken and sad. But he spoke quietly.
“All right, Ian, I give up. Take charge. Do whatever you think best.”
The afternoon was extraordinarily mild, considering that this was the first week in December. The last few leaves fell straight down in the windless air. Sally and Dan, with Clive between them, walked slowly around the paddock at the riding academy.
“Let’s take Clive out Saturday afternoon,” Dan had suggested. “He’s been wanting to visit his horse, and Roxanne apparently has to go someplace.”
He looks terrible, Sally thought. It was not just the baldness, for Clive had lost all his hair except for a sparse circle around a naked dome; it was the color, the fish-white pallor. But they said he was doing very well, as he himself proclaimed. He had been going to the office three times a week after the rest at home that followed each treatment.
“How are you doing?” asked Dan. “We can sit on a bench for a while if you want to.”
“I guess maybe I will. I’m still kind of weak. It seems years since I was last on a horse’s back.”
“You’ll be on horseback sooner than you think,” Dan said.
“Oh, I do think. I know it.”
Clive had courage. He didn’t want to be pitied. Yet Sally pitied. When people were brave, your heart went out to them even more.
“I thought you’d bring Tina,” he said now. “I never see her anymore.”
They had asked Tina to come along today, but she had been going through one of her silent spells, and they had not pressed the matter. Dear God, how much longer, Sally wondered, and lied cheerfully, “We’ll bring her next time. She had a friend over to play, and they were having fun, so we didn’t disturb them.”
“Of course not,” Clive said.
They sat for a while watching the horses. The very sick or even those who are recovering are in another world for a while, Sally reflected, imagining that the healthy animals and the clean, healthy air must be a gift of renewal for Clive, that he was sitting there quietly being grateful.
“Father’s coming home next week. He telephones every day to find out how I am.”
“Big phone bill,” Dan said, being jocular.
“He wants a few days before Christmas up at Red Hill, did you know?”
“I heard. It’ll be fun for a change.”
“I’m glad. I’ve been wanting to stay at the new cottage. Roxanne and I will sleep there and walk over to the main house to eat. Our first Christmas for Roxanne and me.” He went on ruminating, “I wish I looked better, though. When I pass a mirror, I get sick all over again. Not that I ever was anything to look at, but now—”
Sally said quickly, “The hair, you mean? Why, that’ll grow back in no time. Don’t worry about it.”
Clive turned to her. “You’re very good to me, Sally. I don’t believe I’ve ever told you or thanked you for welcoming Roxanne. You and Happy, too. Ian I don’t understand. He came to the hospital, couldn’t do enough and still does plenty for me, but he never comes to our house, never asks about my wife. I know he was shocked by the marriage, I’m sure you all were, but that’s no reason to be like this. I don’t understand.”
“He’s been terribly upset,” Dan said. “I don’t know whether you know.”
“I know. I read the paper just this morning.” Clive smiled. “I know about the letters, too. I found my secretary trying to hide my copies, and I made her give them to me.”
“We didn’t want you to have anything to worry about,” Dan said.
“I understand.” Clive paused. “I know I can speak frankly to you both, so I’ll say it. Amanda’s another one I don’t understand. Of course, I scarcely know her. But greed, hers and Ian’s, is beyond me. They already have so much.”
“It’s beyond me, too,” said Dan.
“Ian, I’m afraid, is immovable. But maybe Father will be able to convince Amanda when she comes.”
“Maybe,” Dan said.
He knows better, Sally thought. She was so sad for him, and as she looked now into the silent depths of the ancient forest, sad for it, too.
Dan cleared his throat and said abruptly, “Clive, I’ve decided. I’ve thrown in the towel. The Swedes and their crowd, Ian, Amanda—it’s a losing battle no matter how you turn. There’s no way out.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I’ve told Ian to do what he thinks best. I’m finished with the struggle. And I release you from your promise. Let’s make it unanimous with Ian and see what happens.”
“Dan, you can’t do that.”
“Can I keep banging my head on a stone wall? Not one wall, but two?”
“I vote for Grey’s Woods. I vote against the consortium. It would break Father’s heart, and yours, too.”
“Oliver hasn’t taken sides, Clive.”
“Only because he doesn’t want to hurt anybody. That’s how he is. But I know what’s in his heart. I know.” Clive raised his head defiantly. “I may not look it, but I’m a fighter.” Then he laughed. “Funny, Roxanne has for some reason been broaching the subject lately. I never thought she was interested, but I guess Happy must have told her something. She thinks I should vote with Ian f
or the consortium.”
That’s odd, thought Sally. Happy never discusses the business with me. It’s our unspoken agreement.
“It must be the tempting money,” Clive said, still laughing a little. “Twenty-eight million. It’s a staggering sum by anybody’s standards, and I guess when you never had anything—How she appreciates things! It’s a pleasure to watch her in the house, bustling around, cooking. She’s a marvelous cook, a homemaker.”
Sally was glad that the subject had veered from the business. It had been grinding Dan down, that and the frantic worry over their child.
“She loves being home. Sometimes when she disappears on an afternoon, I miss her so. The house is too quiet until she comes back.”
He seemed so happy, with that tranquil look on his face. Sally had never before heard him speak so openly about himself. It was completely uncharacteristic. And Roxanne, of all people, had done it.
“You know,” Clive went on, “I never realized how splendid life can be. Just six months ago it all began. Can you picture those fireworks on the Fourth of July, that fierce burst that seems to spread flowers all over the sky? Well, that’s what has happened to my life.”
Such poetic imagery coming from this man was astounding. You never knew what you might discover in the most unlikely people! And with shame, she recalled the evil thoughts she had once had about Clive Grey.
He said shyly, “I have to trust you both with a secret. Roxanne is pregnant. It’s very early, and she doesn’t want it told yet, but I have to tell someone.”
Dan said promptly, “Congratulations! That’s great. That’s just great.”
“I’m thrilled,” Sally said, wondering about the consequences, a father who might die before the child was even born, although they said he wouldn’t. But he looked so dreadful.
“I hope it doesn’t look like me,” Clive said, not joking.
“There’s nothing wrong with the way you look. And it doesn’t matter what a child looks like, anyway, as long as it’s healthy,” Sally assured him, and meant that from the bottom of her worried heart.
