Treasures

by Belva Plain

  He could hear his heart pound. That small, pathetic thudding and the rustle of the sheets as Pam turned over were the only sounds in the room. And he was conscious, as he had never been before, of the immensity of the world, or rather of his own smallness within its enormous, threatening expanse. When you were scared, when you were in a panic, you were alone. The world was indifferent at best and hostile at worst. The IRS and the SEC would tear him down and pull him apart, not knowing or caring to know that Eddy Osborne had never meant to hurt anyone. He was the kindest man alive. He was known to be, and he knew he was. He wasn’t like the rest of the world, or most of it, anyway.

  The first thing he would have to do in the morning was to find a new lawyer. He couldn’t possibly see himself walking into the austere offices of his regular attorneys; it would be an unbearable humiliation to let those dignified poker-faces see that Vernon Edward Osborne had let himself get into a mess.

  What he needed now was somebody who could grasp the situation at once, somebody to quell his fear. After all, he hadn’t stolen anything, had he? A competent lawyer would know what to do. You had only to read the newspapers to see how skillful guides found paths through the jungle of the courts. The question was just where to go.

  Inquire of Connie’s husband? Martin Berg was a sophisticated New Yorker and must have all sorts of connections. But why let the family know he was in trouble when it surely would blow over? Perhaps the best thing, after all, would be to go ask Abner, since he knew all about it anyway, to make a recommendation. Abner was one of the smartest men he had ever known.

  This is very, very serious, Abner had said.

  Somewhere in the apartment a clock struck. The place was full of clocks. Eddy had been collecting them: old English tall clocks, a rare eighteenth-century skeleton clock whose marvelous mechanism, functioning still, was fascinating to observe. He recognized now the C-sharp note of the little French gilt-and-marble clock in Pam’s dressing room. Ten strokes. Morning was only eight or nine hours away. If he could only stay here in this dark room and not have to get up and go out or even think, but just lie here like this, sheltered and safe! If he could only tell Pam! She was his wife, and she would care about him. Yet he didn’t want to pour his fears out before her. A man had pride, after all. A man wanted to be a hero in his wife’s eyes. And Pam was so proud of him.

  On sudden impulse he reached for her hand, whispering, “Are you asleep?” although he knew well that she was not.

  “Of course I’m not. What’s the trouble, Eddy? Won’t you tell me?”

  He sighed. “It’s the rat race. I told you, I’m tired of it. It’s been getting to me.”

  She waited.

  “I’ve been thinking.” Thoughts were forming as he spoke, thoughts that had not been there even minutes before. “You’ve always had that idea of buying a place in Kentucky, and I’ve always said, ‘someday.’ You know, it’s come to me that maybe ‘someday’ should be now. I wouldn’t mind living there for good, making it our home.”

  She was astonished. “Leave everything here? The office? The business? Just close up and leave?”

  “Why not? People do it all the time.”

  “But whatever put it into your head right now? I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’ve been keeping it in the back of my mind for a long while. And then the other night when those Kentucky people at our table were talking about that wonderful horse farm for sale near them, it popped to the front of my mind.”

  “Well, I can’t say I’m not bowled over. You never said you were tired of the rat race. I thought you loved it.”

  “I did love it. But there’s a time for everything. Time to begin and time to end. So how about our going down to look at this place? If it’s as wonderful as the description, we’ll buy it. Or rather, you will.”

  Put everything in her name. All the treasures in this apartment and the apartment itself. Sell it to her for a few dollars, five or ten thousand, make it a bona fide sale. Just in case … In case … It’s the smart way.…

  There was sudden alarm in Pam’s voice. “But why, Eddy? This is too sudden. Something has to be wrong, and you don’t want to frighten me. Have you found out you’ve heart disease or something so you have to take it easy? You look so worried.”

  “You always suspect that when I look a little tired.”

  “Well, then, if you’re not sick, there has to be another reason.”

  No, he thought again, I will not tell her. I’m not going to frighten the life out of her when I’m sure, I have to be sure, that a good lawyer will iron the whole problem out. Smart as he is, Abner has always been unduly cautious, anyway.

  Eddy’s confidence swung like a pendulum. It will be all right. It will not be all right. His thoughts dashed here and there. Who’s a top lawyer? Marvin and Blake? The Andrews firm? Henry Rathbone? Abner will probably recommend Rathbone, I think.…

  “There has to be another reason,” Pam repeated.

  “Honey, I’ll explain it to you, but I really am too tired now. And there’s not all that much to explain, anyway, nothing to worry over. It’ll be a great thing for us. We can go down and raise horses. We’ll live longer and be healthier. It makes a lot of sense. Believe me.”

  And with that Pam had to be satisfied.

  It took almost no time at all to buy a fine old house, enriched by six hundred acres of woods and fields, because they fell in love with it on sight. It stood at the end of a long drive lined with dogwoods and redbuds, a perfect picture-book house with columns, a veranda, and a fanlight over the door. Eddy’s pulses beat; he was captivated. For one marvelous minute, as he rested his eyes upon that house, he forgot why he was here, forgot that this was to be a refuge, a hideout, an escape.

  “Well,” he said, “well, what do you think?”

  “We almost don’t need to see the inside, do we? I can describe it to you now, and then we’ll see whether I’m right. Of course, there’s a center hall, there’s a dining room on the left because that has to be the kitchen wing. Let’s see.… Six bedrooms, I estimate, and probably not enough bathrooms.”

  “Those can be put in,” Eddy said quickly.

  “And I’ll bet there’s a fireplace in every room. Let’s go in.”

  In a happy kind of daze they followed the caretaker through the rooms, Pam murmuring, “Oh, it’s too good to be true! I’d love to hang your Rowlandson prints in the little upstairs hall. This corner bedroom should be ours; I’d do it in pale blue, very cool, because the sun must come in most of the day.”

  She’s thrilled, he thought. This is her rightful setting, far more than the apartment is or the suite in Paris; she’ll have a dozen dogs running all over the place.

  The caretaker had some comments for them when they went outside again.

  “Back there’s a pond, and behind it the woods. The orchard, the cornfield, and vegetables are on that side; they’ve been a bit neglected this last year, but there’s no great harm done. Some folks might think the stables are too close to the main house, but,” he added regretfully, “I sure would hate to see them torn down.”

  “Torn down!” Pam exclaimed. “Absolutely never!”

  Two long, handsome buildings faced each other across a courtyard. On one, a clock, and on the other, a gilded weather vane twinkled in the sunlight.

  “There’s room for thirty horses,” the man said.

  On Pam’s face there was an expression that could only be described as rapturous.

  “So you love it, darling?” Eddy asked.

  “Oh!” she said. And then anxiety passed across her face. “But are you sure it’s right, what we’re doing?”

  “It’s right,” he said decisively. “Let’s waste no time closing the deal and getting workmen in here to fix it up.”

  For time was pressing. Time was “of the essence,” as lawyers say.

  Lawyers …

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  From a stall in the ladies’ room at the Met
ropolitan Museum, Connie overheard an indiscreet conversation.

  “This is the third—no, the fourth—second wedding I’ve been at this year.” The voice was not a young one, and the tone was indignant. “First they make their fortunes, and then they ditch their wives for these trophies. It’s disgraceful.”

  “I know,” came the response. “And all those gushing articles about what wonderful, sensitive, caring—I’m sick of that word caring, anyway—fathers these fifty-year-olds are to their new babies! It’s ridiculous.”

  “Nobody mentions the first family,” said the first voice. “I often think of Martin Berg’s children. They say the son is alienated, and the last time I saw the daughter, she looked absolutely forlorn. A pathetic waif.”

  Connie emerged from the stall and stared directly into the flustered countenance of Mrs. Preston DeWitt. Then she turned her back, washed her hands, and, with a scornful laugh, left the room, banging the door behind her.

  Old fools! Jealous old fools! Preston probably stayed with Caroline only because she was ill and he was decent. There hadn’t been photographers waiting on the front steps of the museum for her tonight, as they had been when the Bergs arrived. There would be no articles about Caroline DeWitt in the society columns tomorrow, as there would be about Connie, with full description of her dress and the brand-new sapphires around her neck. They were drop-dead sapphires, too, Martin’s most recent gift, presented for no reason other than “I adore you.”

  Connie’s silver heels clicked over the stone floors through the long, dim sculpture galleries as she hurried back toward the Temple of Dendur. Round tables covered with lace cloths over turquoise petticoats surrounded the temple, which still, some thousands of years after its conception on the Nile, held a powerful, dark mystery. The shrubbery and the flowers, the gilded candelabra, the poached lobster, and the Haut Brion, all were magnificent, as befitted both the setting and the marriage of one of the most important financiers in America. Oh, it was wonderful to be among grand events at the pinnacle and in the heart of the city! These were the people who kept the city moving, and she was part of them. Often when she had given her name, Mrs. Martin Berg, in a shop, she would hear, as she turned away, the awed whispers among the salesgirls. And then, remembering her days in the Houston dress shop, she would jubilate, as now at this moment.

  Nevertheless, the word trophy could still rankle.

  Bitsy Maxwell was at the Bergs’ table. “I hear,” she said, “that you’ve just bought a marvelous house in London. What’s the location?”

  “Belgravia. It’s one of those early-nineteenth-century terrace houses and needs a lot of work.”

  “I don’t envy you the responsibility,” said Bitsy, who could not afford more than a New York apartment and a place in Southampton.

  “Oh, I don’t mind it at all. I wanted the house for Martin. He goes back and forth from London so much that I really thought he should have a place of his own to relax in. The Savoy is a perfect hotel, but still a hotel isn’t a home, is it?”

  Bitsy shrugged. “I don’t object to hotels. We stay at the Connaught.”

  “Well, from now on you’ll have our place to stay at when you’re in London.” And Connie, looking about with satisfaction, caught Martin’s eye just as he was rising from the table.

  “I see Simmonds over there,” he whispered. “He’s supposed to get some more publicity on the neurology wing I’m donating. Damn, I want it known that I do something with my money besides making more of it.”

  “Darling, everybody knows what you do. Sit down and relax. You work too hard, anyway.”

  “I have to if I want to keep up with your expenditures.” Martin smiled. “But I don’t mind. Do you know you’re the most beautiful woman in this whole room, including the bride?”

  She watched him walk away, reach for a cigar, and then, remembering where he was, put it back in his breast pocket. It was a hardship for him to go more than an hour or two without a cigar. He really looked well, thanks to her unrelenting supervision of his exercise and diet. She had been good for him; his sisters had even told her so. Ben, the disapproving brother, they fortunately saw quite seldom. As to Martin’s children, she was careful to be as loving to Melissa as to her own Thérèse, and Martin saw that.

  Now and again, she still wondered what it was to be “in love,” to feel the euphoria, the willingness to “die” for another that one read about and that sometimes, rarely and shyly, Lara talked about. Not that she needed to hear tell of it; you simply saw it between Davey and her.…

  Well, this was all immaterial, anyway. She was here tonight in pride and splendor. Later, they would go home, and in the carved rococo bed she would practice on her husband the arts that kept him loving her and kept him feeling young.

  He was standing now in the center of a cluster of men. Her first thought was that he looked awfully short, and she must watch the height of her heels. The second thought was that something had happened, for the group around him was enlarging. Men were putting their napkins aside and rising to join it.

  “What’s going on?” asked Bitsy.

  “Oh, the prime rate’s gone up or down or something,” Connie answered.

  Presently, Martin came back toward her and beckoned. “Come outside to the hall for a minute.”

  Surprised, she stood up and followed. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  Martin was glum. “I’m afraid there is, and I wanted to tell you before we go back to the table, in case anyone says something. People are generally tactful, but there might be somebody there who doesn’t know your name is Osborne. It’s about your brother, you see. No, no, nothing’s happened to him, for God’s sake! Except that there’s a leak in tomorrow’s papers. He’s to be indicted by the United States attorney. The news is all over Wall Street. I would have heard it if I hadn’t been in Boston all day.”

  A wave of shock swept over her. “Indicted? For what?”

  “I don’t know all the details. Insider trading, defrauding Internal Revenue. I’m not sure.”

  Eddy! But he was so clever and so good! Surely this had to be a mistake, some sort of unjust accusation. Oh, poor Eddy!

  Then, after the first few seconds, came another fright. “You’re not involved in anything with him, are you?”

  Martin was indignant. “What a stupid question! I’m surprised at you. Me? An eighty-five-year-old firm like ours involved with a kid like him?”

  “All right, it was a stupid question. I’m sorry. I’m just upset. I’m just horrified.”

  “Honey, don’t cry here. Don’t let it show.”

  She took a long, deep breath. Then very softly she asked, “Martin, if it’s true, what’s going to happen to him?”

  “If it’s true,” Martin said grimly, “he’ll go to prison.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Henry Rathbone was one of the most celebrated lawyers in the city and one of the most expensive, and he had counseled Eddy to keep calm and go to work as usual while relying on Henry to negotiate. Naturally, he had made no promises, but his general demeanor had suggested a modified optimism. And so, keeping that in mind, Eddy dressed himself that morning to his usual perfection, ate his usual breakfast, and was now seated at his desk with the usual pile of papers before him. But his gaze kept straying, first toward the sullen, dark Hudson on the one side and then back into the room, where a sullen, steely light slanted across the Sheraton bow-front chest beside the door.

  Abruptly, the door opened, revealing Mrs. Evans in dismay.

  “Mr. Osborne! There are two men here. They say they’re United States marshals, they showed me their badges, and they’re coming in, I couldn’t stop them, I don’t know what they want—”

  Eddy stood up. “Let them in,” he said, and along with immediate awareness that his heart had begun to pound, and that every pulse in his body was pounding with it, was the consciousness that this must be the moment when he must bear himself well.

  Two men entered, men so ordinary
as to be indescribable. They might have been selling insurance or vacuum cleaners. Eddy’s thoughts went helter-skelter.

  “Mr. Osborne,” one said, “we have a warrant for your arrest.”

  Arrest. The helter-skelter thoughts focused: But Rathbone said— These were paper proceedings, weren’t they? Things settled by words between lawyers, settled in offices, at desks and on telephones, not physically! Not taking your body. Arrest was seizing. Seizing your body.

  He stammered. “What for? I mean—I don’t understand. There’s a mistake. My lawyer’s working on it right now.”

  “You’ll be able to call your lawyer. But you’ll have to come along first.” The man extended a piece of paper. “Read the warrant.”