She’s never given it a thought, but she knows.
“Design. I like design.”
“I knew you would.” he says triumphantly. “Good, then I know just where to take you.”
How wonderful and strange to be loved by this glorious man who knows about things like jewelry. And photography. And Greeks. And wants to marry her. She wishes she could tell Arlene.
“I’ll pick you up Saturday morning. At 10:00. At your place. We’ll make a day of it.”
She feels exhausted and foolish.
And yet, not quite damned.
André arrives in a shiny black car – nothing showy – and its driver, a silent stubbly Slav, folds it smoothly into midtown traffic. When she asks where they’re going, André takes her hand, entwines it in his own, puts her fingers to his lips and shakes his head.
“A surprise,” he tells her.
It is a surprise. They double-park at the foot of the impressive stairs of a legendary Manhattan hotel.
“I didn’t know they sold rings in hotels,” Fernanda says, bewildered.
“Oh, they do. In Monaco, in London, in Paris, and in New York. They sell jewelry in all the, what used to be known as, “watering spots.” He nods toward the palatial lobby at the top of the stairs, and sure enough – even from here – she sees signage for Cartier and Van Cleef and Arpels.
“But why don’t we just go to the stores?” she asks as they mount the stairs. “They’re all right nearby, aren’t they?”
“Oh, we’re not here for any of those. There’s a beautiful antique jewelry shop here. Almost no one knows about it.”
“But how do you know about it?”
“I used to … I used to come here a lot. I got to know the owner.”
Fernanda stares around the lobby, impressed. Despite her newfound sophistication, she’s never had the courage to walk into a place such as this on her own. The carvings, the statues, the gilding!
“Do you want to look around a little? There’s a famous nightclub here, and a notorious bar with Howard Chandler Christy murals. Or, we could just have a cup of coffee first, and hold hands and talk about the rest of our lives.”
“You know, coffee sounds really nice. So does the part about the rest of our lives. And I didn’t eat any breakfast, actually. Maybe a sticky bun or something?”
They pass the impressive dining room and enter a smaller, cozier room across from the elevators, and André has just given their order to the uniformed waitress when a tall man, darkly mustached and heavy, yet elegantly dressed in a pin-striped blue suit, approaches their table.
“It’s André, isn’t it? It’s been a long time.” His voice is deep and operatic. “And isn’t this early for you? Or were you here for the all-nighter?”
André ignores the question.
“Hello, Vadim. Have you met Fernanda Turner? My fiancée?”
“No, I haven’t had that pleasure.”
The big man doesn’t take Fernanda’s hand. Instead, without asking if he can join them, he lowers himself onto one of the little chairs and simply stares at her.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” she hears his accent now, “but you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He turns to André. “Hey, Player, looks like you won big this time.”
Player? All-nighter? Who is this person, and why is he sitting with them?
Who is her fiancé?
“We were just going to have a quick cup of coffee,” he says. “We have an appointment here.”
“Oh, I won’t keep you, then.” Vadim starts to rise, but changing his mind, he resettles heavily.
“No, really, I thought you might tell me something about this game on the twenty-seventh floor. Who’s there? Who’s ahead? I mean, if anyone would know, you would.” His laugh is harshly suggestive. “I heard they have masseuses up there for the guys who get too tense. ‘Too tense.’ What a joke.”
His laugh has an accent, too, Fernanda thinks.
“So, couple of nights ago, there was two million on the table. And Vlad was taking bets on his cell phone from the guys in Vegas and Moscow and this big shark was up there, eating people up. I figured you’d know what was going on.”
André has gone pale.
“No, I wasn’t there.” His voice is a whisper. Haven’t been in a long time. But listen, we do have this appointment.” Pointedly, he picks up his phone and checks the time.
“Well, in case you feel like it – you and your fiancée, that is,” he winks broadly at Fernanda, “the game is still on, I hear. Lot of people you know. Playing big.”
Vadim gets to his feet, salutes André almost formally, nods at Fernanda, and heads out to the lobby.
“What was that?” she asks him. “There’s gambling here? Two million dollars? Who was he and how does he know you?”
André downs his glass of water.
“He’s a guy I knew when I was doing a little gambling. I’ve had some issues with that world, off and on.” He scans the room and its entrance anxiously, then turns to her again.
Here it comes, Fernanda thinks. No. Here it is.
“Issues?” she asks.
“Nothing really illegal. Nothing Ocean’s Eleven-like, really.” An almost-smile. “More of a personal problem.”
He hates her silence.
“Okay. For the last few years I’ve been battling what they call a ‘gambling addiction.’ I can come right out and say that now, like they do at AA, you know.” He attempts a smile as he stirs some milk into the coffee that’s just arrived. “That’s where my photography collection went, Fernanda. I sold it all – the whole thing – to get money to gamble with. Truth is.” He takes a sip and winces, it’s too hot. “I’ve blown – I don’t want to say how much – but more than a million, gambling.’
Fernanda struggles to stay composed. As André reaches for her hand, she instinctively folds them both in her lap. Of course, she, of all people, has no right to be judgmental, she thinks, and hesitantly she puts one hand in his.
His confidence returns.
“I know when it started, too. In St. Louis. Right after my first big win. I had this fantastic luck there, or whatever it was. I think it was luck. It was something amazing, anyhow. But right after that, I became obsessed. Gambling played into my love of risk, I guess.’
Fernanda imagines she’s hearing a touch of that thrill in his voice, and now she knows, as well: he’s the man she met that night. “And whatever caused it – whatever it really was, after that night, I just couldn’t stop.”
“So I lost everything. All I’d earned, all I’d saved. More than that. I borrowed. Went into debt. Did some shameful, unmentionable things. But eventually, I managed to put enough aside to pay for a shrink. And got better. End of story.”
She waits.
He goes on.
“Still, sometimes I think – when I’m feeling in control of the thing – I think the gambling thing must be a lot like, well … golf. It probably sounds stupid, I know it does, but every now and then, in golf, you make this great shot. And once you’ve discovered you can actually do that – like a hole in one or something – well, you just keep coming back because you know you can do it again. If you did it that once, you say to yourself, hey, I can absolutely do it again.” He looks uncomfortable. “It sounds simple-minded, I know.”
But Fernanda understands. Because Stanley had that golf thing. And she’d never understood it at all.
“But now I’m better.”
He’s better.
That’s not all of “it,” she thinks. Or if it is, then she’s very okay with “it.” She’s delighted, as a matter of fact. Because André has a flaw … as she’d known he would. It’s not a terrible flaw and it’s out.
“But why on earth would you bring me here, then?” She looks toward the door where Vadim has disappeared. “Did you gamble in those suites upstairs? Were you part of that?”
He nods.
“So we’re sitting here … about to look for our engag
ement ring … in the place … what would you call it? The surroundings you fear the most?”
Is she puzzled or pleased? Or upset? All three, she suddenly understands. Because he’s so dear. So blessedly imperfect. And so young.
“I wanted to test my resolve, Fernanda. Like this – with you – as soon as I could. And I needed to do it with you, mainly because I haven’t been able to come near any of these places in months, and if I can do it with you, I know I’m better. And so far, I’m good. As of this moment, you are so much more irresistible to me than those Russians upstairs. I’ve won the whole pot, right here. With you.”
He puts some money on the table, and pushing his chair back, reaches for her hand, pulls her to her feet, and draws her to him. His arm around her shoulders, warm and firm, they walk together to the lobby and the steady, pleasant murmur of a fine new life. He seems as happy, all at once, and free. Exactly like that night when Frannie was old and he’d hugged her so hard.
He stops and hugs her hard right now.
“I wanted to bring you here, too, because it’s kind of romantic. Don’t you think it’s romantic?”
“I do,” she says.
“Precisely the words I’ve been waiting to hear.” He treats her to a dazzling, full-on smile.
“So let’s go look at rings,” she says, sliding her arm though his.
But just as they approach a corridor lined with little shops, Fernanda slows and comes to a stop, and André turns, concerned.
“Is there something else you want me to tell you, Fernanda?”
“André,” she answers. “Is there some treachery here? Something more that you’re part of? I have to know. Are you what you seem to be? What I’m asking here is, well … can I trust you?”
And oddly, her question doesn’t surprise or upset him. Instead, his face goes still, and grave. He runs his fingers through his milk-white hair.
“Treachery? What a strange, old-fashioned word.” He thinks for a minute. “I’m not sure why you’d ask me that, but I’ll give you the answer I hope you want.’
He pulls her out of the eddy of tourists and bellboys and shoppers into a gilded coatroom entry.
“I’m many things, Fernanda darling. We all are. I told you some of them just now. Pretty much all of the important ones, in fact. But no, I don’t think I’ve ever been treacherous. I’m exactly what and who I seem to be: an ordinary, imperfect man who’s fallen in love with an exquisite woman whom he’s just met but who feels … who feels,” he pauses once again and seems to think, “not like someone he’s known all his life – not some platitude like that – but someone he’s known he would meet from the beginning of time.”
If Randi and Frannie and Stanley had never happened, Fernanda thinks – if she were this girl being loved by this boy, she’d be … oh my God … That’s what she is.
“Let’s go find that store,” Fernanda says.
“Not quite yet. I need to kiss you first.”
He rests his hands lightly on her shoulders and kisses her once on each eyelid.
“Now we can go.”
He pulls her into his arms, then hurries ahead of her down the long hall. And there, with a flourish, he bows and kisses her outstretched hand as she enters “his” shop.
CHAPTER 23
Her ring is beautiful beyond imagining. She’s been admiring it for days – on the street and at work – when she wakes beside him and strokes his face. Even Courtney, who’s a fan of oversize contemporary jewelry, keeps dropping by her desk and asking to see it again. Her ring was designed by René Lalique, she happily explains to anyone who asks. It’s a green glass cameo, framed by a twisted surround of golden trees, boughs and leaves, and on it, a carved satyr looms above a prostrate nude.
“Like a rape in the woods,” Courtney teases her.
“Well, that’s really taking the romance out of it,” Fernanda replies, laughing.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Fernanda.” Courtney grabs her left hand. “Things just pop out of my mouth sometimes.”
“No, no. You’ve picked up on exactly what we liked about it.” She pauses and lowers her voice. “Have I told you? He’s the best lover I’ve ever had. And as you know, I’ve had, shall we say, a few.”
Fernanda nudges her arm.
“I think you’ve told me seven times in the last three days alone. You’re making me jealous.”
“We just have to find someone for you, Court.”
Her friend’s eyes darken: she twists one fat gold bracelet.
“I think my girls will probably get lucky before I do. If I ever do. Honestly, though, I don’t think their generation is remotely as interested in pairing off as mine was.” She moves some books to make a little room on Fernanda’s desk and perches on its corner. “But maybe we were wrong to want all that nesting.”
If she’s hoping for confirmation, she won’t find it here, Fernanda thinks. She’s nothing if not a nester. Always has been.
“Could be, they’ll be wrong about that, though,” she goes on more thoughtfully. “My girls could very well wind up at my age with no one to love them. Like me, and pretty much everyone else I grew up with. Imagine that. Still waiting for that soulmate.” She brightens. “Anyway, you have yours. And I’ve got my kids, at least.”
“Oh, you’re so lucky to have them, Court … ooops, I think that’s my phone. Talk later, okay?” Fernanda’s grateful for the interruption: children and lovelessness are really not her thing anymore.
Even distorted by static, André’s baritone seems seductive, although he has barely said hello before plunging into rhapsodies about this band that he’s found for the reception: its wide-ranging repertoire; its coolness; its suitability.
Wow, Fernanda, half-listening, thinks: not only does he know where to buy antique jewelry, he knows about Mozart and Coldplay and good wedding bands, both musical and gold. In fact, she’s never known anyone so incredibly well informed. He’ll talk old movies with her, but he’s just as happy to spend the evening paging through her books on fifteenth-century Sienese painting, or film, or amazingly – amazingly – Poussin. He’s recommended that she read Nabokov and Melville and Pynchon and brought her their books and she’s going to try. One remarkable afternoon, they spent all day in bed discussing Marilyn Monroe’s intellect, or lack thereof. Among other things. And he tried to teach her to dance one night: his only mistake so far.
Fernanda’s sleeping badly nonetheless.
It’s too quiet in the apartment on the nights he isn’t with her. And when it’s quiet like that, things begin to feel really wrong. It’s wrong to be risking it all on this lovely young man, although he adores her. How can anyone so perfect be her eleventh-hour option?
There has to be a catch. She just can’t find it.
And so, last night, once again, Fernanda was flailing and turning in her bed until she had to sit up, turn on the bedside lamps, and think it through once again.
Okay. She plumped up the pillows and folded her hands on her chest.
Okay.
The night she met André. Was their winning, that night, suspicious?
And why does André feel so right for her? But isn’t that precisely what she wants?
Where is Randi in all of this? She still doesn’t know how to reach her. As if she even wanted to.
And here she is, staring down the wedding track, her feet against the blocks: bridesmaids, bouquets, favors, mints, gifts, the whole extravaganza. The first heat in the finals of life: companionship, hobbies, meals, sex, love. Castles in the sugary air.
And will she age?
Will he?
She needs to tell him everything right now.
Fernanda pulls the deck of cards from her night-table drawer and is just dealing them out when her beautiful ring gleams in the light.
Yeah, right. Tell him.
Wanna bet?
But here he is now on the phone, easily convincing her that he’s found the all-time best band in the city for the wedding, except that it’s
only available for March 3rd.
The hair on her arms stands up. Three days before the end.
“Oh André, we don’t have to have a top band, do we? In fact, let’s just elope.” She wants to keep it light, to keep the gods from noticing. “Or isn’t there an almost-as-good group that can do the wedding sooner? Like next week? Is there a second-best band, maybe? I wouldn’t even care about third-best.” She tries a laugh.
“Well,” he pauses, “I hate having to tell you this on the phone, darling girl, but I’m going to be making a couple of important business trips between now and then. And that means there won’t be a lot of time for us to be together much before the 3rd. And besides, ‘almost as good’ isn’t good enough for you, my darling. So no eloping, and that’s definite. It’s just not how you and I are meant to begin. Besides, if I have anything to say about it – and I expect to, forever” – he sounds so happy – “you’ll never need to consider anything ‘almost as good’ at all. So, okay. I can nail them down today if you’ll say yes to me, my love. One more time.”
She just doesn’t have it in her to spoil his joy. And yet, he’s going away? What if there’s some glitch? What if he can’t get back in time? What if he’s kidnapped by aliens and taken to Roswell? What if Randi gets him?
He intuits her dismay. “I’m so sorry, I know I shouldn’t have dropped it on you like this. I was kind of trying to hide the business stuff behind the band date thing. But aren’t you going to need at least a little time to get your dress and the cake and the invitations and all that? What’s the matter?” She can almost see him grin. “Haven’t you ever been married before?”
The staticky reception clears so abruptly that his voice becomes a roar. Fernanda yanks the phone from her ear and stares at the thing before responding.
“Have you?”
The briefest of pauses. Not anything you could put a name to. A hiccup, merely.
Ah, of course, she realizes. That’s why André Celestin knows all about engagement rings and flowers and bands and wedding cakes. And napkins and shoes. It’s what he hasn’t said and didn’t want to tell her.
Her knees weak, the phone at her ear again, she walks over to the window in Peregrine’s empty office and exhales on the pane. She draws a frowning face in the faint gray condensation.
Catch 26 Page 27
