Harvest

by Belva Plain

  THE CRITICS LOVE BELVA PLAIN and HARVEST

  “BELVA PLAIN WRITES WITH AUTHORITY AND INTEGRITY.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “[Plain’s] audience will relish this further glance at characters they have come to know and love.”

  —Booklist

  “A SUPERB STORYTELLER … a talent worth remembering.… Mrs. Plain’s novels are good stories well told.”

  —The Star-Ledger (Newark, N J.)

  “BELVA PLAIN IS IN A CLASS BY HERSELF.”

  —The New York Times

  “AN ACCOMPLISHED STORYTELLER.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Belva Plain is a talented tale-spinner with an almost Dickensian ability to keep her stories going.”

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  “A CONSUMMATE STORYTELLER whose skill at bringing likable characters, turbulent events and moving emotional drama together in a fabulous story has never been better.”

  —Rave Reviews

  Published by Dell Publishing a division of Random House, Inc. 1540 Broadway New York, New York 10036

  Copyright © 1990 by Bar-Nan Creations, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  For information address: Delacorte Press, New York, New York.

  The trademark Dell® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  ISBN: 0-440-20891-2

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-8041-5255-6

  Reprinted by arrangement with Delacorte Press

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  1

  Carrying the proceeds of the morning’s errands, soap from the drugstore, rolls from the bakery, socks and shirts from the boys’ store, she was waiting to cross Main Street when she saw his car. There were not that many pearl-gray Cadillac convertibles in town, and it caught her attention seconds before she recognized her husband or saw that a woman was in the front seat beside him. And she stood there, watching, as slowly, through noontime traffic, the car moved past. Sunlight struck the proud MD license plate, and the chrome on the car’s fins gleamed discreetly.

  Then the familiar, shameful, angry, frightened cry rose in her: Who was she? He likes rich things, my husband does. Rich but not gaudy. His tastes are quiet and refined, even in women. But no, not always! That girl at my mother’s cousin’s funeral—the one with three shades of hair and rhinestones all over her skirt—my God, he had to flirt, even at a funeral, even with her.

  She began to tremble, dropping the bag of socks. Someone picked it up. A male voice with a smile in it spoke to her.

  “Got your arms full, haven’t you? Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Stern! You don’t remember me? Jed Bauer from the hospital?”

  One of the interns, she thought, collecting herself. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

  The light was still red. It would probably take another minute to change, a segment of time that he, a polite young man, would think it necessary to fill with pleasantries.

  “Children all well, I hope?”

  “Oh, yes, busy. Back in school.”

  When the traffic stopped and they crossed the street, he was still talking, feeling an obligation, no doubt, to show respect to the wife of Dr. Theo Stern.

  “I’ve never had a chance to thank you, Mrs. Stern, for being so kind to my wife and me.”

  “Was I? When?”

  “Yes, at the party you had for the new interns last winter. We’d just come east from Idaho, and my wife—she’s from a small town—was really nervous that night, but you gave her such a welcome, made her feel right at home. We never forgot it.”

  Then Iris remembered them, the young bride, still really a girl, in the homemade dress, a girl with a hesitant voice, a gentle face, and scared eyes. She had recognized the girl’s bewilderment, had felt it.

  Iris smiled up now into an equally gentle masculine face, honest and somehow innocent. No guile, no flattery had been intended at all.

  “Idaho. Are you pretty well settled here now?”

  “We’re getting there. Jane’s working and I’m learning a lot. Will you give my regards to your husband? I hardly ever see him, but I’ll never forget the one time I watched him operate. It was my first experience with plastic surgery. I knew the patient. He almost had to rebuild her face after an accident. I thought he must be some kind of magician, a master magician. Is this your car?”

  “The station wagon. Right here. Thanks so much for the help, Doctor. It was nice to see you again.” Her voice was still clear and natural. How was it possible?

  Huddled over the steering wheel, she sat without energy or will to start the engine. The master. The magician. But where had he been going at noon with a woman? Still, perhaps it was innocent, just giving someone a lift? And yet, and yet … His wandering eyes, his courtly compliments, the trace of gray in his dark hair, the trace of a Viennese accent in the fluent English he had learned at Oxford …

  She thought of their months-long estrangement; it had been five years ago, and she had put it well behind her. The reconciliation had almost been worth the pain of the long quarrel. Were they now to slip back and go through it all again? She thought: I haven’t the strength this time.

  She took out a mirror. Why? To reassure herself? For she knew what was in the mirror: a slender, sturdy woman, thirty-six years old, with straight dark hair worn in short wings away from the temples; large, dark almond eyes, unblemished skin, a nose too prominent, and good teeth. Pretty enough in a very quiet way, not a woman whom anyone would turn to look after. If I looked like my mother, she thought, it would be different.

  And yet, Theo loved her. Knowing that, still she felt cold. The chill trickled down her spine. She talked to herself.

  No one really knows anything about anyone else. My husband is one of the best-known plastic reconstruction surgeons in the New York area. My father is one of the most successful builders. I have four children and a house that my father built for us on two acres of greenery. I’m in good health, at least as far as I know. So I have everything, haven’t I?

  Her daily list, only half checked off, lay on the seat. Market. Shoe repair. Underwear and socks for Jimmy and Steve. See Mrs. Mills about Laura’s Brownie scout meeting. Make haircut appointment. Kindergarten parents’ day with Philip. Call about Steve’s Bar Mitzvah date. Lunch at club with Papa and Mama.

  She looked at her watch, ran a comb through her hair, and turned the key in the ignition. Papa was almost a fanatic about tardiness, and since that was one of the very few things that ever made him angry, he deserved to be humored. Thought of her father was sudden comfort; in him lay security. Understanding quite well that there was something juvenile about these feelings, as when a child is consoled by a kiss on his bump or scratch, she felt it nevertheless. So then, she ought to be glad now about this
rare event, a meeting in the middle of the busy workweek, and ordinarily she would have been very glad. But at this moment she felt only like running home, like hiding, like being alone.

  Now in late September the day was as hot and weary-looking as midsummer, distinguished from it only because the trees were dusty. A smoky haze lay over the street. The center of town was busy with autumn shoppers moving through the Georgian brick stores where, behind quaint bow windows, were displayed in turn the Irish tweeds, Italian shoes, Scottish cashmere sweaters, French tableware, records, books, and gourmet foods that befitted an urbane life within commuting distance of New York.

  Before the war the town had still borne the mark of the country village it had once been. In the fifteen years since the war it had tripled in size and prosperity, a fact which seemed to gratify most people, but not Iris. She would have liked it to stay as it had been. In all things she was most at home with smallness and simplicity.

  People aren’t satisfied anymore, she thought. The country is restless and greedy. Everybody wants better things than his neighbor has. Theo said it was understandable after what they’d all been through, the long Depression, followed by the war. Theo again. Always her thoughts must return to him.

  Driving now through the gates of the country club, which they had only recently joined, she reflected that if it had been left to her, they would not have done it. This club was far too expensive, with its large bond and dues. Also, it was too manicured, formal, lavish, snobbish—too everything. But Theo was expert at tennis, he loved his competitive games, the heated-all-year pool, the lawns, the grand view—he loved it all.

  The lobby was deserted. Those who were not still on the golf course at this hour were already at lunch on the terrace, from which came a murmur of voices.

  The smart young woman in charge of the dining room came over. “Mr. and Mrs. Friedman are already here. They’re on the terrace, Mrs. Stern.”

  This is a talent, too, Iris thought as she followed. Imagine caring enough to remember all those names! Of course, she has to; it’s part of her job. But still, she must really like to be at the center of crowds, as for me, I can’t imagine it—

  Her parents were at a table under an orange umbrella. She kissed them both, apologizing, “I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t think of looking out here for you.”

  “That’s all right, darling,” Papa said. “Only two minutes. You’re forgiven. Your mother’s entertained herself watching birds.”

  A variegated congregation of sparrows, blue jays, mourning doves, cardinals, and pigeons was bustling around a shallow feeder.

  “Look!” Anna cried. “There’s a flock of ducks on the way south. Isn’t it a miracle that they know when it’s time to leave?”

  Her face, raised toward the sky, was young and eager. Her russet hair, which was barely streaked with a few strands of gray, was piled high in soft, thick waves. In spite of the sultry weather she looked cool. Her cotton dress was plaided in lime-green, black, and white; she wore thinly strapped black sandals and little jewelry, just a gold choker and the diamond on her finger. Iris, in her pink sundress and white shoes left over from last summer, felt suddenly dowdy.

  “What are you having?” Anna asked. “The last time we had lunch together the lobster salad was wonderful.”

  “That sounds good. I’ll join you,” Joseph agreed.

  His wife touched his hand. “You! At home you’re so observant you won’t have it in the house. But outside it’s all right, is it?”

  Her touch was affectionate and her tone amused. She has an aura, Iris thought. A sparkle? No, that’s too bright, it’s more like a glow, a light that spreads from her, the light of pleasure, as if she found the world delicious.

  “So what’s new?” asked Papa.

  “Nothing special. Nothing’s changed,” Iris replied.

  “Then that’s good. When nothing’s new it means things must be all right.” He reached into his breast pocket, out of which protruded three black cigars, took one, clipped off the end, lit it, and drew on it, sending a small, curly puff of aromatic smoke into the air. An expression of pure enjoyment crossed his shrewd, kindly face, an expression that Iris’s memory always summoned when she thought of her father.

  He settled back in the chair. “Ah, you’re a lucky young woman to have a husband like Theo.” He chuckled. “The answer to a parent’s prayer, he is.”

  Iris made no answer. What had brought that up? Nothing, no doubt, but Papa’s satisfaction and pride in his son-in-law. From where Papa sat, indeed Theo was an answered prayer, sober and gentle, an attentive parent, a worker after Papa’s own heart. A good man; a good husband and father had to be a worker.

  What would Papa say if he knew of the ways she suffered? Although maybe suffered was too strong a word? Just say “troubled,” then; the ways Theo “troubled” her. And yet it felt like suffering. It was a matter of degree, after all … A small, swift jab above her temples presaged a headache.

  But Papa must never know. It would be cruel to tell him, to say nothing of its being pointless and self-defeating. The admiration between the two men was genuine and equal. What was to be gained by destroying it?

  Theo admired his self-educated, self-made father-in-law. “Your parents, yes, they gave me the first feeling of home that I had on this continent,” he liked to say. Then his poignant memory of the Holocaust, of his lost parents, of his lost first wife and baby boy, would darken his face. “Yes, in their house, for the first time, I began to feel whole again.”

  “A lucky young woman,” Papa repeated now. “Not that you don’t deserve it. Our good daughter. You make us very happy, Iris.”

  It was funny about Papa. He didn’t often get sentimental. Something must have inspired his mood, probably their wedding anniversary, which was coming up this week. It was the kind of time when he always said, “I count my blessings.” They were no idle words either. In a very literal sense he did count them, for he was truly in his heart a religious man.

  “And your children make us so happy. Beautiful, beautiful children! You should have some more.”

  Anna’s laughter rang out. “Joseph! What do you want of her? Aren’t four enough?”

  “Another child is the last thing I want. What I want is to go back to teaching or to work toward my master’s, or even perhaps do both. I want to do something—something with my life,” she said, letting the anger speak. Yet at the same time she knew that this anger was only a substitute for that other anger.

  Anna was dubious. “With that big household to run?”

  “I’m not much of a housekeeper, Mother. You know that.”

  “Mother,” she had said. It crossed her mind that Mama was the word for some moods, but Mother was the word for this one.

  “It’s not my freezer that’s filled with homemade pies, and I certainly don’t know how to make strudel dough. My vases aren’t filled with fresh-cut flowers out of the garden I planted, and I don’t do needlepoint,” she finished.

  Anna smiled. The smile said: I know you’re attacking me or else defending yourself in some odd way, and I don’t mind. I wish I could know everything about you, but that’s impossible. I do try, though, Iris.

  “I’m sorry,” Iris said. “I didn’t mean anything except that I’m not like you, Mama.”

  She was taking her trouble out on her mother, and it wasn’t right.

  Joseph intervened. “True, you’re not like your mother. But you do well enough. Your family’s fed and cared for, as far as I can see.”

  “Yes. But I want to do something more. Something important.”

  “Having children isn’t important?” Joseph queried. “You know better than that. It’s the most important thing you can do.”

  Anna looked reflective. “That’s true, Joseph. And yet, if I had had the education Iris has, I often think—oh, I don’t know. I wonder what I would have done in the world—”

  Joseph interrupted. “Look what you do now! All your charities, your hospital comm
ittee, the League of Women Voters, you do plenty in the world,” he said firmly.

  It is odd, Iris thought, that Papa, to whom I have always been so much closer, is still the one to whom some things are better left unsaid. He has a picture of me, his happy, grown-up little girl, that mustn’t be touched. While my mother—Mama—is ready to listen in spite of the strain that has always been between us, that we never mention because there is no explanation for it. Is it because she knows I am aware of her beauty that I haven’t inherited, or because my brother died? No, it was further back. Further. I don’t know why.

  “If Theo wants you to stay home,” Papa said, “my advice to you is, put this business out of your mind. Iris dear, be content as you are. Cultivate your talents at home. Remember, a man who works as hard as he does and under so much tension wants a well-run, peaceful household. Especially a European man, brought up before the war in a very different style.”

  Iris was faintly surprised that her father could have such awareness of a cultural difference. She was also faintly surprised at the unmistakable reprimand in his voice.

  Anna hurriedly cut through whatever resentment might be rising to cloud the air.

  “Has your dress come yet, Iris? Mine was delivered this morning. It’s gorgeous.” And without waiting for an answer she said to Joseph, “Oh, you’ll be proud of us both at your dinner. But not as proud as we are of you. I’ve been hearing everywhere that this Home for the Aged is the best thing you’ve ever built. The man at the bank today called it an architectural gem.”

  “Well, well, I wasn’t the architect. I only built it. Too much fuss,” Joseph growled, looking enormously pleased.

  “Don’t sell yourself short. You had a lot to do with the design. You deserve a testimonial dinner. Did you say that your dress has come, Iris?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Where did you go for them?” Joseph asked. “To that fancy place in New York?”

  “Chez Léa, of course. Where else?” Anna gave a little self-mocking smile. “It’s the only place to go. Half the women I know practically live there.”