Her Name Will Be Faith

by Christopher Nicole

  “I guess someone else would beat you to it,” she smiled. “This is all great stuff, Richard. Now let me ask you that last $64,000 question: is there going to be a major storm this year?”

  “That’s another one for the deity, I’m afraid.”

  “But aren’t there some signs you can use?”

  “Sure. And as it happens, we have them. The ocean temperatures are somewhat higher than normal for the time of year. And this warmth is pretty widespread.”

  “So you think there could be a big one?”

  “I think there is going to be a lot more hurricane activity than usual, this year. I won’t go further than that.”

  “Well, as I said, that was just great. Now I have to put it all into readable English.” And then forget all about you as soon as I am given another subject to interview, she thought. But today she didn’t want to do that. Perhaps because her quarrel with Michael had left her feeling isolated; however long she had lived in America, this was his country, not hers. Even the Donnellys, who had so willingly and enthusiastically taken her to their hearts, were his family, not hers.

  Perhaps Richard felt the same way. “Do I see you again?” he asked.

  “I’ll send you a copy of the article,” she promised. “But you know, what you’ve told me today has given me an idea. I’m sure an awful lot of people would like to know something more about hurricanes than the old wives’ tales which is all they normally get. Have you thought of giving a series of talks, say at the end of a forecast? Especially now we’re into June, and if there are going to be a lot of storms this year.”

  “Have you thought of the scheduling? Kiley would throw a fit.”

  “I’ve an idea he might go for it,” Jo said, remembering that it was Kiley who had set up this interview to publicize his new boy. “And what I would like to do is conduct some interviews with the man in the street, get his opinion on what you had to say, find out just how much he knows about hurricanes, whether he believes one could ever hit New York, and so on. It could make interesting reading, and the two would tie in together. What about it? I’ll have Ed Kowicz — he’s my editor — give Kiley a call. And then, at the end of the season, I could interview you again.”

  “Sounds brilliant.” His crooked smile played over his face. “But I’d hate to think you’re not going to interview me again until October.”

  Park Avenue — Afternoon

  “Where are we going, Mom?” Owen Michael looked down at the East River in puzzlement as they left school and drove over Manhattan Bridge.

  “To the beach,” she announced.

  “Oh, Jees, that’s great!”

  “But Mommy, we don’t have any swim things,” Tamsin complained.

  “No problem. We’ll buy new ones.”

  “I’m hungry,” Owen Michael said, waiting breathlessly for her reaction.

  “How does the thought of a double, double, king-size take you?”

  “Neat! Fantastic!”

  “Oh, Mommy! Smashing. But why? You usually call burgers nonfood.” The little girl bounced up and down in the back seat.

  “They are non-food. But today’s a special treat.” She felt like a schoolgirl playing truant; it was that sort of a day.

  She bought bright yellow swimsuits and towels for them all at a beachfront store. They swam first, then sat under a beach umbrella to eat their hamburgers, washing them down with Seven-Ups, and walking away licking ices. After another swim Jo’s offer of a speedboat ride round the Jamaica Bay islands was promptly accepted. They started back at six and Owen Michael complained of hunger pains — so they found a restaurant and she handed the kids a menu. While they ate she went over her notes and added various comments or ideas — and found herself thinking of that crooked smile.

  Owen Michael pushed back his chair. “Jees, if I eat any more my eyeballs will be pushed out on to my plate.”

  “Ugh! Don’t be disgusting,” Tamsin scolded. She, too, was full.

  Michael was waiting for them in the apartment. “Jo! Thank God! I thought…” He looked miserable.

  “Hi!’ she breezed. “Like to fix me a drink while I bath these two?”

  “Okay.” He nodded. “I’ll bring it to you.”

  While the bathing progressed, Michael paced between bathroom, bedroom, and lounge, hovering anxiously, searching her face every time she looked at him for indications of her feelings. He watched as the kids hugged her goodnight.

  “Thanks, Mom, for a super treat.” Owen Michael’s arm squeezed her neck until it hurt.

  “Yeah, thanks, Mommy. What’ll we do next?”

  “Well, on Saturday, how about the zoo up at Prospect Park?”

  “Ooh, yes. Terrific. Dad…” Owen Michael looked up at his father. “Couldn’t you come too?”

  Jo bent over Tamsin’s bed, deliberately not looking at Michael.

  “I… er… well,” Michael hesitated. “What do you reckon, honey? Would you like me to come?”

  Jo stood up and faced him. “Yes, Michael, I would.”

  He strode across the room to take her in his arms. “Oh, my sweetheart,” he whispered. “I love you. I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”

  She hugged him back, and the kids stood on their beds to join in. “What about the race?” she whispered.

  “Well… maybe they can manage without me for one weekend.”

  “Oh, Dad! Then you can teach me to water-ski,” Owen Michael begged.

  “And me?” Tamsin squealed.

  Jo looked on, beaming. Had it really worked? Certainly it was time to forget that crooked smile.

  National American Broadcasting Service Offices, Fifth Avenue — Evening

  “God, but it’s hot out there.” Jayme, Richard Connors’ secretary, delicately patted perspiration from her neck as she came into the office; she had nipped out for a sandwich between newscasts. “Even without the sun I bet you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. And it’s only June. What do you reckon it’s going to be like come August?”

  “Worse than Florida,” Richard commented. He was trying to concentrate on the various weather reports, which were certainly interesting, but was finding himself instead thinking about Jo Donnelly. He wondered if anything might come of her suggestion that he do a series on hurricanes. It was something he’d love to tackle, supposing Kiley would go for it. Although, he supposed, the real decision would come from that snapping turtle on the top floor.

  But he wondered even more if she had suggested the idea — with its implication that they would work together — from a purely professional point of view, or if she might have had an ulterior motive? But how could she, happily married as she was and with kids. Maybe if he and Pam had had kids… but that had been yet another thing on which they had differed.

  Jayme leaned over him. “Anything interesting on the way?”

  “More of the same for us, I’m afraid. But the first storm of the season is down there. Just came in.”

  “Where? Let me see.”

  He prodded the map, as she rested one breast on his shoulder; she was already half in love with him. “There, in the middle of the Caribbean. They’ve just up-rated him into a Tropical Storm; winds around the center are sustaining 45 knots. So he has a name: Anthony.”

  “And is Anthony going to become a hurricane?”

  “Could be. The water temperature down there is certainly high enough. But he’s not going to interest us; starting where he is, he’ll almost certainly head off into the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “Now there’s a shame,” Jayme remarked. “If he’d come up here, maybe we’d get some rain to cool things off. You know what, Richard? I’ll bet you ten bucks we’re on water rationing before another month is out. Can’t you conjure up a storm for us?”

  Richard was studying the charts, plotting the course of the jet stream. “I don’t think I’m going to have to do that,” he said. “I think one may come along of its own accord.”

  JUNE: The First Two Weeks

  SUNDAY 4 JUNE

/>   The Four Seasons Restaurant, New York

  The Four Seasons restaurant hummed with muted conversation around the vast shrubbery where prospective diners sipped aperitifs and greeted friends and guests. It was a constant source of interest to Jo Donnelly, as an Englishwoman, to observe the variety and general informality of clothes American women wore to dinner in one of New York’s leading establishments. In London it was not unusual to see long gowns and black ties — certainly most women would be in smart summer dresses, at least, but here no one seemed to bother; skirts and blouses, suits, slacks, even jeans, were apparently acceptable. A pity, she thought, so to downgrade a special evening.

  Michael smiled at his wife, and was aware how lovely she looked tonight; the neck of her white dress was cut wide and low, revealing the deep tan on which a two-carat solitaire diamond pendant gleamed, matching the sparkle of her ear-studs as she moved her head. She wasn’t beautiful in the modern film star style, yet she outshone any other woman in the room. The angle of her head, her sleekness and dignity, had always attracted him, always would… if only — what? If only she’d let him lead his own life? Stop nagging? Give up her damned journalism? Stick to the role of wife and mother? But if she did, could, would she still be the lively, dynamic personality with whom he had fallen in love?

  “Penny for your thoughts.” Jo squeezed his hand. He told her. After all, they had come here to round off their wonderful weekend together — and to discuss where they went from here.

  It was the opening they needed.

  “Can you understand that I am just not that sort of person?” Jo gazed into his face, pleading for his understanding.

  “Can you understand that I need excitement and stimulation — like yacht racing? That’s the sort of person I am.”

  “Yes, of course. And if it’s not yacht racing it must be something else. I see that.” She took his hand from the cocktail table and held it between both of hers, on her lap. “But as I see it, yachting as such is not the problem. Time is the point at issue. Time to be with your wife and family. Surely modern marriage isn’t just a quick fuck and a wave of the hand in passing, as one flits from job to amusement and back? No,” she shook her head as he tried to speak. “Don’t get me wrong. You and I have the same problems — I just think I schedule my life better than you, so as to do justice to each of my roles. And I’ve cut out of my life all other interests until Owen Michael and Tamsin are much older.”

  “What other interests?”

  “Sport. When I left England I was in the top division of the squash league, remember? And I was also a county class tennis player.”

  “If you would only give up your…”

  “Don’t say it, please. I sacrificed sport for a career and that’s that. Look at it this way; I spend an average of six hours a day, thirty hours a week, on journalism, and eight hours a day, plus all weekends, say sixty-five hours a week, on home and family. And I spend all vacations with Owen Michael and Tamsin.”

  Michael frowned. “Eight hours a day? How do you work that out?” “Seven till nine in the mornings; half twelve till two lunch time; and six till half ten evenings.”

  “Well, I do almost that.”

  “True. But it’s the weekends and holidays which are causing the problem.” She held up her hand again as he opened his mouth. “I am going to make you an offer. I’ll promise to cut down my journalism by an average of one hour a day, if you’ll promise to spend alternate weekends with the kids and me, and take two weeks’ vacation with us every summer, plus the winter skiing. And alternate public holidays.”

  The headwaiter appeared at that moment to lead them to their table, so Michael had several minutes to consider his reply. “Well, put that way, I suppose it sounds fair,” he admitted, as an under-waiter spread a napkin across his lap. “I hadn’t analyzed the situation down to hours, as you seem to have done, and I’d gotten the idea that I was spending that much time with you anyway. It’s just a pity the Bermuda Race this year is sailed at roughly the same time Dad and Babs always go down to Eleuthera, and you know how disappointed they’d be if they didn’t have the kids with them every summer. But what with the preparations and all that… you do realize the Bermuda Race is the big one?”

  “I know. It will be an enormous sacrifice to miss it…” Jo started.

  “Miss it? You mean…” He paused to study her expression. “Oh, God, yes, I see you do.”

  He was miserable, torn both ways, and she watched his torment with pity… but what was the alternative? “It won’t be forever,” she said gently. “In five years the thought of a holiday with us old folks will bore the kids silly. You’ll be able to do what you like, then.”

  “Does this mean you want me to sell my share of Esmeralda?” Michael asked over his avocado and prawns.

  “Good Lord, no! Can’t you just cut down the amount of time you spend on her?” She didn’t want to be unreasonable.

  “I can do that, of course. But the Bermuda Race… we have a real chance this year, of winning our section. And we’re a team, with me both skipper and navigator.”

  “Michael. You have said you have a chance of winning every year for the past seven, and you never have. Surely some of the others can navigate? Sam could replace you as skipper.”

  “Cheers.” He raised his wine glass and drank.

  “Cheers! Well?”

  “I guess Sam could,” he agreed reluctantly. “Larry could navigate…”

  Jo noted the reluctance with a sinking feeling. Would this mean a ghastly summer holiday, with Michael sulking all the time because she had dragged him away from his sport? “You have no idea how much fun it is down there,” she said. “All the family — Marcia is certain to bring Benny down to show off the house — and Lawson and Belle always come up from Nassau…” she paused. “It all boils down to a matter of loving, doesn’t it?” she asked, without taking her eyes from her plate. “Which do you love more, your wife and kids, or your yacht?” He didn’t answer, but she felt his eyes on her, and looked up. Her heart lurched as she whispered, “Michael? How important to you is our marriage? Do you want to save it, honestly, or do you want us to split up?”

  His eyes closed momentarily, hiding his thoughts. He drained his glass and a waiter immediately stepped forward to take the bottle from the ice bucket, and dry it on a napkin before refilling both glasses.

  When the man retreated, Michael held the tips of Jo’s fingers and looked at her rings — the big emerald-cut diamond solitaire left to him by his grandmother and given to Jo on their engagement, the diamond eternity he had bought her when Owen Michael was born, and the plain platinum wedding band he had slid, nervously, on her finger in the splendid surroundings of St James’s, Piccadilly, in front of a vast congregation of family and friends… what a let-down it would be to everyone, not least himself, to admit the marriage had failed.

  His eyes held hers as he whispered back, “My dearest Jo, our marriage, our love, is far more important than anything else in the world. It’s a deal. I promise to cut back on the time I spend on Esmeralda. And I will hand over to Sam for the Bermuda Race.”

  Tears of happiness stung her eyes as she said, “And I promise to cut back on my journalism.”

  Their lips met above their climbing wine glasses, while the headwaiter and his team stood watching benevolently.

  Office of Profiles Magazine, Madison Avenue

  The phone purred beside Jo, and she flicked the open switch, unwilling to spare a hand from the article she was composing on Richard Connors. “Josephine Donnelly, good morning.”

  “Jo? Marcia here. How’re you doing?” Her happy voice trilled out of the box.

  “Never better. How about you? What’s new?”

  “Something fantastic. I’ve got to tell you all about it. Are you busy right now?”

  Jo looked down at her pad; there was a lot to be done, and Ed wanted this on the press by Friday. But Marcia sounded so excited and eager to relay her good news. “Not too busy. What�
��s happened?”

  “Can I come over for a coffee?”

  “Sure, little sister. Any time.”

  “Like right now?”

  “I’ll meet you at the place on the corner.”

  “Ten minutes. ’Bye.”

  Jo sighed, and folded her pad away. Ten minutes later Marcia rushed into the coffee shop, panting. “I’m so excited I could die.” The disheveled young blonde squealed as she pranced in and planted herself in the chair across the table.

  Jo giggled, and signaled the waitress to bring another coffee. “Okay, so what’s it all about?”

  “It’s so fabulous I don’t know where to start.”

  “Try the beginning, sweetie.”

  “Well… you remember I told you that Benny’s mother owned an apartment building?”

  “Yes.” Jo wrinkled her nose. She hadn’t seen the house, but knew it was in Greenwich Village and in rather a run-down state.

  “Well, the two guys who were renting the basement have moved out, owing two months’ rent, so Annamarie has repossessed it. Now she says we can have it.”

  “Oh, how super.” Not quite as exciting as Jo had expected.

  Marcia saw her expression and grinned. “But that’s not all. The lease on the first floor ends in two months, and the old darling says she won’t renew it, so we can have that, too.”

  Jo frowned. “What are you going to do with two apartments?”

  “Steady, girl, steady; that’s not all, either. The old chap on the second floor is in hospital. His wife says he has terminal cancer, and so she is leaving to keep house for her brother. Isn’t it fantastic, all that happening at once? So Benny’s mother says we can have the whole house.”

  “Gee, Marcia, that’s fabulous. But the rent…”

  “No, no, she’s not renting it to us. She’s giving it! We thought she meant selling it, and we didn’t think we could raise that kind of money, but she says she has enough income from her other houses; seems Benny’s father left her three. So she’s making the deeds of the house over to us. And,” she went on as Jo made to congratulate her, “there’s more yet.” She opened her purse and produced a sapphire and diamond engagement ring. “Benny says that if we want to be respectable home owners, we’ll have to get married and have children. Look what he bought me with the money he got from the sale of that purple and red sea scene.” She slipped the ring on to her finger and held it up to the light. “We are now officially engaged.”