Treasures

by Belva Plain

  Martin put up his hand to halt her admission. “You don’t need to tell me anything. I’m only curious about why you’re not lying to me.”

  “I don’t really know.” She played with the bacon and egg on her plate. Why? Perhaps because he created confidence, because he was so calm and composed and confident himself, even in that absurd unisex Turkish towel bathrobe.

  She amended her reply. “I suppose I feel that you won’t care about backgrounds and families and all that stuff the way other people do. And I trust you.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll never betray your little secret, since it means that much to you.”

  “You think it’s stupid of me, don’t you?”

  Again he shrugged. “Probably. Anyway, it’s not important. What’s important is that you trust me. I hope you don’t trust everybody as quickly. It can be dangerous.”

  “I know that. But I’m pretty good at judging people, except,” she added ruefully, “except when I married. The one time I should have judged well, I” didn’t.”

  “You have plenty of company, if that’s any help. And as you said last night, you’re lucky there are no children.”

  There was a silence so prolonged that Connie, feeling uneasy, broke it by suggesting that they move out of the kitchen onto more comfortable chairs in the library.

  A small stack of books lay on a table next to a bowl of early tulips. Martin examined them.

  “You’re reading history?” he asked, with the emphasis of surprise on the word history. “Napoleon? The French Revolution?”

  “I’m trying, a little at a time. Actually, they’re Richard’s books. He read everything he could about France. He has a remarkable mind, curious about everything, history, art, music, everything.”

  “It’s nice that you’re not bitter,” Martin said.

  “Well, the truth is the truth.”

  He nodded. “My wife is crazy about France too. She’s gone off to live permanently in Paris. In the winter she takes an apartment in Cannes, though I don’t know why. It can be damn chilly in the winter, and the beach is awful, anyway.”

  Connie was curious. “Does she—did she come from Brooklyn too?”

  “No, Doris’s people were a couple of steps higher on the ladder. They lived on the Upper West Side. She was a social worker when I met her. She’s a fine person, very sensible, very serious. A high-quality woman. I still respect her. So I suppose,” he said, “the natural question is why, then, are we ending with divorce?” Two dark furrows cut Martin’s forehead, and his eyes looked weary so that, quite suddenly, he resembled the man he would someday be. “It’s insidious, this process of growing apart. Hard to analyze, because there are so many ways you can blame each other. But mainly, since I’ve been living alone—I moved out of the apartment, although I still own it, and took two rooms in a hotel, a far more cheerful place—I’ve come to a conclusion: She was too serious. All those deep discussions, those ‘political’ friends of hers … There was never anything easy or lighthearted. I get enough heavy stuff all day. I want some fun, just plain fun. I love to dance. She hated to. Things like that.” He broke off. “But I miss my little girl. Let me show you her picture.” He got up and returned with his wallet. “Here she is. Melissa.”

  A plain child, a homely child with Martin’s dark eyes, looked up at Connie while he waited for a comment.

  “She’s sweet. She doesn’t look like you, though, does she? Except for her eyes.”

  “She looks like Doris. But she’s like me. Her mind, her ways … she’s like me. She was here for Christmas vacation, and we had a great time. It broke my heart when I had to take her to Kennedy and put her on the plane back.”

  Connie felt the man’s pain. “I’m sorry, Martin,” she said gently. “I wish I could say something to make you feel better.”

  He caught her hand and held it between both of his. “You’ve done other things to make me feel better, Connie. I never expected—honestly, I swear I never expected what happened last night. But you’re a beautiful, vibrant woman, and a passionate one, so it happened, that’s all.”

  “I don’t make a habit of things like this, I assure you.”

  “Nor do I. I was never a man for one-night stands. I want a relationship, a feeling for each other, with no holding back. I lived for too long with prudishness—it’s strange, my telling you so many personal things about myself! But I suppose you might as well hear it now, because we’re going to be seeing a whole lot of each other, I think.”

  When Eddy telephoned that evening, Connie said, “You beat me to it. I was just going to call and tell you both what a marvelous party that was.”

  “You left early.”

  “I didn’t really want to, but Martin Berg—”

  “I saw. You must have made a hit with him.”

  “He’s very nice. He reminded me of you, in a way. Started out poor like you—”

  “Like me? Don’t I wish it.”

  “What do you mean? Does he do any better than you do?”

  “Can you possibly mean that you don’t know who he is?”

  “Finance? Securities—isn’t that what he does?”

  “Oh, my God. He’s Frazier, DeWitt, Berg! They’ve got five thousand employees and branch offices all over the world. It’s one of the oldest white-shoe firms on the Street.”

  “And just what, pray tell, is a ‘white-shoe firm’?”

  “Old-line aristocrats. Firms that go back a couple of generations. In this case Frazier’s dead, but they keep the name. DeWitt took Berg in twenty years ago in spite of the Brooklyn background because he had a lot of business to bring along and because he happens to be damn brilliant. They deal in billions. Hostile takeovers. Big, big fees, whichever side of the deal they happen to take. Where did you two go?”

  “To my house. We sat and talked awhile, then he went home. He’s nice to talk to, very modest. You’d never think he was what you’ve told me.”

  “The man’s worth about five hundred million. And he’s given millions away to charity over the years.”

  Five hundred million. It was unreal. That was why people were watching them as they danced. Five hundred million.

  “You think you’ll see him again?”

  “Maybe. You never can tell about men, can you?”

  Eddy laughed. “You’ll see him. You looked gorgeous last night. Pam said I should tell you that dress was a dream.”

  “Thank her. She looked lovely herself.”

  “She always does, my preppie lady. You’re more to Berg’s taste, though.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I have a hunch you’ll be seeing a lot of him. And you know how good I am at hunches.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Connie said cautiously, “but he’s a sweet man. Really sweet.”

  The months unfolded. He was an extraordinary man. He had prodigious energy, at work for eighteen hours out of the twenty-four. Every morning at half past six his chauffeur drove him to a seven o’clock breakfast meeting at his own office, at some other office, or at a hotel.

  “Breakfast is the most convenient time to get people together,” he explained. “Lawyers, bankers, accountants, and principals.”

  “I don’t know where you get your energy,” she would whisper when, still half asleep, she heard him moving through the room on tiptoe so as not to wake her.

  “As long as I have enough left for you,” he would answer.

  He had that too. She would have been satisfied had he been much less ardent, but he did not know that and never would know it, for her purpose was to please. His kindness, intelligence, and immaculate appearance made it easy to do the pleasing.

  Sometimes, when she had spent the night in his rooms, she would walk around examining, without prying, the possessions that always tell so much about their owner: the twenty-five-hundred-dollar suits and London-made shirts behind the open closet door, the silver-backed brushes on the chest, the leather-bound books and photographs of his
houses, the Palm Beach house and the house in Vail. One time as she picked up a book, a snapshot fell out, and she saw in a family group the woman who must be his wife, a tall woman wearing a blouse and skirt; she had a dour face like Melissa’s. Connie wondered then about the divorce.

  “It will involve a settlement, a pretty big one,” Martin had told her, “as high as a hundred million, maybe. Who knows? It’s vengeance, of course.” And when Connie had gasped at the sum, he had added, “There have been larger settlements than that. It’s funny, too, because Doris was never a spender, never wanted much.

  We started out in an apartment on Long Island, next we had a small ranch house, and it was only at my insistence that we graduated to a good-sized colonial. Then when we decided to move to the city because of my night meetings and late hours, it was I who chose the apartment; she thought it was too big and too expensive. The only thing she ever really loved is the house in Paris; it’s small, but it’s a gem, and now it’s all hers.” He grunted. “It’s not too far from the Sorbonne, where she takes courses. She likes to be thought of as an intellectual. Never even wanted to wear jewelry. Middle-class ostentation, you know.”

  Joyously, Martin bought and bought for Connie. “I feel like a hick,” he complained on the Saturday afternoon when they got the sable coat. “It’s so many years since I’ve bought anything like this, that I can’t believe how prices have gone up. Not that I mind,” he said quickly. “Far from it.”

  From Harry Winston on the same day came a Burmese ruby, and from David Webb, a pair of diamond-studded bracelets.

  “We’re going to a hospital benefit ball next week,” he explained, “and I want you to wear the coat, the ruby, and the bracelets.”

  She understood how very much it meant to this man to make an entrance with a splendidly dressed young woman on his arm. What she did not understand were his ultimate intentions; was she to be a cherished mistress, or finally a wife?

  Often all that year, when Martin attended breakfast meetings at the Regency Hotel, Connie would wait in the marble-and-velvet lobby, observing the flow of people at the door. They came, quite naturally, in every age and size, but out of proportion to their numbers, or so it seemed to her, were couples consisting of a paunchy, balding man with a young woman half a head taller than he. These expensive young women wore anything from jogging outfits or anoraks with skintight black pants to ankle-length black mink. Often they had proud, sulky faces. Mistresses, they were, or second wives, acquired for their youth. Martin and she must look like that.… She didn’t want to think about it.

  Then he would appear at the top of the steps, striding briskly and smiling toward her. Under her guidance he had lost ten pounds, and along with them as many years. He was unmistakably a powerful man and unmistakably an attractive man. No, they did not resemble the others.… And it would hurt to lose him.… A little shiver of fear would run down Connie’s back, while the essential question trembled, waiting to be asked. But she dared not ask it.

  In early spring they went to Vail, traveling on the private jet that belonged to Martin’s firm. Connie was a warm-weather person, and Vail was still deep in winter. But the mountains were magnificent, and so was the house, with its handmade furniture, bright Indian fabrics, and photographs of the Old West. Martin was an expert on skis, while she had never had a pair on her feet and was wary of trying.

  “You’re not afraid, are you?” he asked, and she, remembering that he had happened once to mention that Doris had refused to learn, assured him she was not.

  A private instructor came to teach her, and mastering both her fear and the cold, she made good progress; mastering, too, the language of the slopes, she began to talk like an enthusiast around the various fireplaces where Martin’s friends, of whom he had incredibly many, spent the evenings. And so she pleased him.

  The seasons flowed. In the summer the city had a different air. Their favorite restaurants were relatively uncrowded, there were open air concerts, and delightful sidewalk cafés. Sometimes on weekends they met Eddy and Pam in the country. But most of the time Connie was busy, having kept her boutique open. Because her future was uncertain, it seemed more prudent to retain it; besides, to be idle all day in expectation of the night was to be nothing but a courtesan, which was, in spite of being an old-fashioned word, an apt one.

  The fall brought parties again, charity benefits and balls. Martin bought tickets and took tables for everything. Through her experiences with Bitsy Maxwell, Connie was able to calculate how much money all these cost him. Generous as were Martin’s gifts, they were commensurate with his wealth; she wondered whether Eddy gave in the same proportion and rather thought not. Eddy liked the personal pleasure that came with actually seeing the person to whom he gave, and perhaps, she thought, too, of controlling that person along with the gift.

  A second Christmas approached. Martin announced that his daughter was coming to spend the week with him. She loved the ocean and was to fly directly to Florida.

  “I haven’t used the house in two years. But I’ve been letting my friends use it whenever they want to. I’ve invited my brother Ben this time too. He’s had the flu, and a rest will do him good.” Martin chuckled. “Ben doesn’t approve of the house there, you know. Says it’s outrageous, and from his point of view, I guess it is. He doesn’t approve of me either. But we get along fine, anyway.”

  These last words held a sting for Connie. Although she mentioned Eddy quite freely and happily, she had never told Martin anything about Lara, except to say that she had a sister in Ohio, for she could not have mentioned the separation without tears. There was too much pain for her to enter into explanations.

  In Palm Beach, at the end of the vast lawn stretching up from the ocean, immured by gates and flourishing shrubbery from public view or trespass, lay a long pink stuccoed house with a red tile Spanish roof. Striped awnings shaded the tall windows. Hibiscus and oleander blazed in the sunshine. Enormous rooms led from one to another and out through loggias, terraces, and a Mediterranean courtyard where a fountain splashed. In an oval conservatory Martin displayed his orchid collection.

  “I thought it would be a good hobby,” he explained. “I even bought books to learn about orchids. You’d be surprised how much there is to know about all the varieties. But I’ve given it up and let the gardeners do it. I never have enough time to fool around with things like that.”

  Connie was looking over his shoulder toward the pool and the guest wing.

  “How many rooms are there?” she inquired.

  “Sixty-four. Not counting the quarters for gardeners and chauffeur, which are separate.”

  Ben Berg and Melissa arrived from New York and Paris within an hour of each other, and shortly afterward were seated at a little table in the courtyard having dinner. Three pairs of identical dark, heavy eyes surrounded Connie. All three Bergs had the same thick hair; the girl’s was just a tangle of coarse black silk. The two brothers had the same alert and vigilant face, but Melissa’s expression seemed either worried or perhaps just absentminded. At any rate, she looked like one of those children who have been born old. She was badly dressed in sallow green with a loose wide collar, out of which rose a long neck and a pointed chin. Her mother ought to know better or to care more, Connie thought pityingly.

  The fountain trickled. Whenever the voices ceased, this music alone filled the night. No air stirred a leaf. The candle flames were steady.

  “A perfect night,” Martin murmured. He reached across the table for his daughter’s hand and held it while she held her fork in the other hand.

  Connie smiled. “How can you eat like that?” she asked.

  “I’m left handed,” replied Melissa, not letting go.

  They loved each other, Connie saw. The girl, suffering, was the ultimate victim of the crumbling marriage. As always. And again, she was moved to pity.

  Long after the dessert was cleared away, the men were still talking to each other. Inattentively, Connie heard that they were having
a mild argument, Ben, faintly sardonic, saying something about industry: It should be making jobs and products, not paying off debt. And Martin emphatically responding. Melissa did not speak, but Connie felt her furtive glances. She was wondering, probably, what Connie’s position here might be, and could not know that Connie was wondering the same about herself.

  The melancholy began to weigh too heavily, and Connie stood abruptly, saying, “We’re forgetting about jet lag. For Melissa it’s already past midnight.”

  “Of course,” Martin said at once. “Go to bed. You, too, Connie. Maybe you ladies might want to do some shopping tomorrow. I think Melissa needs some summer clothes.”

  So he had noticed the awful dress. Naturally. He noticed everything.

  With Melissa in the house Martin would of course stay in his own bed. So Connie lay awake in a room that was too large for one person to occupy alone. Her memory spun.

  “How are things between Martin and you?” Eddy had recently inquired, meaning, You’re starting the second year. When is he going to marry you?? To which she had answered only, Things are fine, and left him uninformed.

  The divorce proceedings were taking their time, it was true. Still, there was no guarantee that Martin had anything else in mind but to continue as they were, even after the divorce should become final. There were no guarantees of anything in this world, and nothing lasted forever. She ought to have learned that by now. She should not be taking for granted this protected life, this voluptuous nest, this gold-lined cocoon. Indeed, she should not have let herself grow fond of the man. And as she lay looking up at the dim ceiling, a tightness came to her throat, as though she were about to cry.

  The day’s purchases were spread on Melissa’s bed, were hung in the closet and laid over chairs. There were swimsuits and sundresses, clothes for every possible occasion in the life of an eleven-year-old girl. Regarding herself in the mirror, Melissa allowed a timid smile to spread from her lips and brighten her sober eyes. Peach-colored linen brought becoming color to her pale cheeks. Her thick hair had been smoothed back with a bandeau above her forehead.