"No, that's not fair; don't blame yourself. I could have talked to you anytime; I knew that. I just got in a bind: I wanted to solve all my problems myself. Now I've had enough of that and I want help, and whatever you can do will be wonderful." She paused. "And if you can't, if it doesn't work out, I may get out of lab work forever."
"And do what.?"
"Something with horses. I've always loved riding, you know, ever since I was a kid. I just wasn't able to do it unless I found somebody who'd let me hang around stables. And it occurred to me the other day, when I was trying to figure out who I am, that I really like horses better than I like most people, and a lot better than any laboratory I've ever worked in. So one of these days, when I have enough money put away, or maybe even if I don't have enough money put away, that's what I'd love to do: go to work for a pittance, taking care of somebody's horses."
"I met someone last night who has horses. I'll introduce you to her."
"My, my, you're going to answer all my prayers in one day," Gina said lightly. "Your being rich is definitely the best thing that's happened to me so far."
They exchanged a smile. "I've been thinking about work, too," Claire said. "Sometimes I miss it, at least the creating part of it. I miss sitting with a pencil or watercolors and seeing some-
thing take shape on the paper, starting with an idea—not even a whole idea sometimes, just part of one—and becoming something that has its own integrity, and Hfe. I loved that. Maybe someday, if I get tired of all this, I might go back."
"To the same job.'' Taking orders from people who aren't as good as you and letting them take credit for your ideas.'* You've already forgotten that part of it.''"
"No, I wouldn't want to go back the same way. But I might be able to get jobs on my own, maybe working at home."
"Why don't you start your own company.^ You can afford it. Then you wouldn't have to work for anybody, just yourself."
Claire looked surprised. "I could. I hadn't thought about that. Well, it's all pretty vague; I haven't the faintest idea when I'd have time to work even if I wanted to. All of a sudden I'm so busy . . . you wouldn't believe how days can fill up with lunches and brunches and shopping, and thinking about the next lunch or brunch or shopping—" She caught Gina's mocking look. "I know, it's ridiculous to complain; I'm having a good time. And I want you to get a job, and I'm sure Quentin will take care of it. I'll call him when I get home. No, I'll call now. I'll be right back."
She went to the pay phone in the corner and returned in a few minutes. "He says they do have openings and you should see the personnel director; she'll have your name. He says, any friend of mine and so forth."
"I'll go tomorrow, first thing. And we'll celebrate tomorrow night. I hope."
There was a brief pause. "Fine," Claire said.
Gina tilted her head. "You've got a date tomorrow night."
"I'll break it."
"No, we'll celebrate the night after. Assuming we have anything to celebrate. And assuming the night after is free."
Claire took her leather-bound calendar from her purse and checked the date. "It's fine. I'll tell Emma we want her, too."
"Is she seeing what's his name.^"
"Brix. She's seen him once. He hadn't called this morning before I left to meet you."
"Will he, do you think.?"
"I don't know. I don't know what he wants unless it's just to play around for a while. He drove Emma crazy for a week and then called yesterday, and she came out of her funk and was ready
to dance the night away with him. Or spend it in his bed; I don't know if they're doing that. He scares me because he can do that to her."
"So tell her you don't want her to go out with him." "Spoken like a woman who doesn't have a teenage daughter," Claire said with a smile. "I did tell her. It doesn't matter." "Claire, she's still dependent on you for everything." "So what does that mean.^ That I'd threaten to take away her food and clothing and shelter if she doesn't do what I want.'"' Claire shook her head. "Look, I can't fight with her; I've never been able to. And I want her to be strong and independent and ready to make decisions about her own life." "So what are you going to do about this guy.^" "Nothing, right now. I hope he'll move on to somebody else after he's taken her out a few times. I don't imagine he wants anybody permanent; he just wants a beautiful girl, and I guess a young one, too."
"So is he making her happy.'"'
"He's making her happy and miserable. That's why I can't do anything. I want to put my arms around her and keep her from being unhappy, ever, but I can't do that; she's already told me she wants to make her own mistakes. I could just hear myself, saying the same thing to my parents. All I can do is be here for her if she needs me. I can't yell at her or tell her she doesn't know what she's doing, because then she won't trust me, and if she doesn't, she won't come to me at all, even when things get terrible. If they do. So right now I can't even tell her what I really think of Brix. Or what I'm worried about."
"You can't tell his father to keep him home.'"' "How could I do that.'' I don't want to plot behind Emma's back. And what if I did ask Quentin.' Quentin talks to Brix, and Brix tells Emma what I've done. Then where are we.''"
Gina shook her head. "I guess I haven't got any good answers." She finished her coffee. "Except . . . you're having fun and you're happy. Emma's having fun and she's happy, at least part of the time. Hannah is happy and secure for the first time in years. And if I get a job, I'm going to be ecstatic. So it sounds like things really are wonderful and we should be dancing in the streets."
Claire smiled. "You're right, it's ridiculous to worry'. This is
the best time we've ever had. Everything has been wonderful since I won the lotter. I'm not going to ruin it by looking for trouble."
She met Gina's eyes. "Time to go," she said. "I want to do some dancing in the streets."
EIGHT
(.(.
Y
O U ' R E gorgeous," Brix said, looking down at Emma's glowing face. They were lying on a blanket in a park in Greenwich. In the background, a rock band played, while fireworks filled the sky with huge starbursts that soared outward, then slowly descended in long, brilliant streamers that faded as they fell and vanished into the moonlit sky. It was the first week of August and Brix was giving a party for everyone who had missed being with him on the Fourth. He did not say, and Emma did not remind him, that the reason she had not been with him on the Fourth was that he had not asked her to be. They had gone out three times after they returned from Alaska, and then he did not call her for two weeks; when he did, he was cheerful and buoyant. "Did you have a great Fourth.^ I went to some guy's party, one of the worst, and I kept missing you, so I figured I'd better make my own. We'll have a party with fireworks, and then we'll make our own, later, when we're alone. How about Saturday night.''"
"I'd love it," Emma said, weak with relief. She knew Claire was listening, but she did not care. Two of the longest weeks of her life had just passed, worse even than the first long silence because after those three wonderful nights she had thought he would not be able to bear being apart from her, just as she couldn't bear to be away from him. But now the silence was over; Brix wanted to be with her, he wanted fireworks with her. . . oh, God, she thought, whatever he wants, he can do whatever he wants, just let him want me, just let him not go away.
"You're more gorgeous than all those fireworks put together,"
Brix said, and kissed her, lying on her, his hand on her bare legs below her shorts. His tongue, confident and probing, took possession of her mouth, and when he finally raised his head, Emma saw nothing but his face, with the fireworks behind him, like a halo. He was wearing shorts and an open-necked, white, short-sleeved shirt that made his summer tan darker, and the curly hairs along his arms and on his chest a deeper black; Emma thought he looked like a god. "I can't stand this," he said. "You're driving me crazy. Let's go."
"But it's your party. All your friends . . ."
"They've got
fireworks and booze; they don't need me," he said impatiently. "Do you want to stay.'^ Is that it.^"
"No," Emma said quickly. She held his face between her hands. "I want to be with you wherever you want me."
"What a sweetheart. You're the sweetest little doll in the world." He found his glass of Scotch in the grass and drained it, then stood, bringing Emma with him, so he did not see the frown that formed a crease between her eyes and almost immediately disappeared. One of these days she would tell him she didn't like that; one of these days, when the time seemed right, she would tell him. "Finish your drink," he said, bending to retrieve her glass, and even though Emma did not like the taste of Scotch and had barely touched it, she took it when he told her to and drank it like medicine, getting it all down. In an instant, she felt it snake hot and piercing through her body, which was already heavy with wanting Brix, and suddenly the world tilted and began to revolve around her.
"Brfx," she said, and leaned on him.
He laughed and put his arm around her and held her tight. "I'll have to teach you to hold your liquor, my sweet little country girl. That's what you are: my little country girl. Not used to the big time. But Brix is here; Brix will take care of everything."
A wild rush of exhilaration swept through Emma. The Scotch burned like a fire inside her, the flames lifting her higher and higher so that she felt she was dancing, weightless and without fear, faf above the earth. But Brix was with her; she was dancing in the air and walking beside him at the same time. How amazing, she thought; how lovely. It's magic. Brix makes things magic. I want this forever. "I love you," she said to Brix. "I love you forever."
"Good," he said, and tightened his arm around her.
Whatever she had meant to tell him about the way he talked to her had vanished as completely as the long filaments of fireworks that fell toward earth. Tonight was for love; tonight was for magic. Tonight was for Brix. Every night was for Brix. Please, Emma prayed. Please make every night for Brix.
They made their way among the blankets and stretched-out bodies of Brix's guests, the air sweet with a pungent smoke that rose from glowing cigarettes. They passed the long table where the caterers had set up trays of food, and another table where two bartenders were busy all through the fireworks display, refilling glasses and handing out bottles of beer. They passed the musicians, who beat out a rock tune that filled the park, punctuated with the cannon booms of the fireworks being set off some distance away. And then they were at Brix's car and driving to his house, and Emma tried to sit still, though inside she was bubbling with excitement and love, and still she was dancing, far above Brix's car, looking down on it as it sped along the highway toward his home.
He led her inside, his arm around her waist, his hand under her blouse, hot against the heat of her skin, and as soon as the door shut behind them, he pulled Emma to the living room and down with him to the soft gray carpet that shone palely in the moonlight. The flames in Emma burned higher and faster; she was feverish and heavy, and she drew Brix to her with a passion she did not know she had. His mouth was everywhere on her body where she had never felt, and barely imagined, a man's mouth, and then, suddenly, she was using her own mouth and hands as he was, and she had never imagined that, either, but now it seemed all right because it was daring and somehow dangerous, and she could not imagine anyone she knew doing it, and Brix was moaning, "Oh, good, good, God you are so good," and she knew he was happy, and the flames inside her flared wildly, until she pulled Brix on top of her and brought him inside her, deep and tight, wanting him forever. And then, finally, they lay still on the carpet, drenched and gasping, staring unseeing at the window, black now: the moon had set.
"Wow," Brix said at last. "Wow. Vou are one incredible doll. God, what a wav to celebrate the Fourth: real fireworks, the real
thing. Emma, Emma, Emma, Emma, Emma." He sighed deeply. "The best. The best ever."
Emma felt a surge of pride. The best ever. But then she wondered, out of how many.'' The flames inside her fell back and died away; she was chilly and a shiver rippled through her. How many P And how many of them is he with on those endless days when he isnt calling meP
Brix sat up and leaned back against the couch. He picked up his shirt and took a small envelope from the pocket. "Dessert," he said, and tapping a small line of white powder onto the back of his hand, he held it toward Emma. A thin glass tube had somehow appeared in his other hand.
Emma turned her head and stared at the powder. She felt helpless and filled with anxierv'. Brix would think she was stupid and ignorant; he'd brush her aside because he didn't need her the way she needed him. He had everv^thing he wanted and all the girls in the world, just waiting for his call, and he'd want to be with them, not her, because they knew the things he knew and lived the kind of life he lived. He didn't really want a country girl; he said that, but he really wanted someone who knew how to live. I'm sorry, she thought, I'm so sorry I never learned, I'm sorry. She shivered again, nothing left of the flames now but ashes. She could not imagine what it had been like to dance above the earth.
"Come on," Brix said. "I can't do it for you, you know."
"I'm sorry," she stammered. "I've never . . ."
He stared at her. "You're kidding."
"No." Her teeth began to chatter. She sat up. An afghan was on the couch behind Brix and she pulled it around herself. "I never did. The people I hung around with didn't do it, so ... I didn't." She did not tell him she had never drunk more than a glass of wine before she met him, either. It did not matter, since now she drank Scotch; now she was experienced, and she would never have to admit to him how ignorant she had been.
Brix shook his head. "Poor little country girl; nobody taught you anything. Well, come on, I'll help you." He sat close to her and showed Emma how to inhale the powder, slowly and deeply. Then, after he did the same himself, he put his arm around her and settled her against him, humming a little tune.
Emma began to feel warm. Her teeth stopped chattering and her body relaxed into Brix's. Her bones felt light and fragile; she seemed to be a flower, lying along Brix's chest or in his lapel—but how can he have a lapel, she thought, when he doesn't have any clothes on? She tried to stifle a giggle, but it bubbled out between her lips, and Brix held her tighter and brought his hand farther around her so that his fingers played with her nipple. Oh, Emma thought, what a lovely feeling, it goes all the way through me. Everything seemed so easy. Why had she been worried.'' There was nothing to worry about. She was with Brix; his strong body supported hers and he was humming; he was happy. She had made him happy. He knew everything in the world, he had so many women waiting for him, but Emma Goddard made him happy. He would never brush her aside now; now she knew everything she had to know.
It was almost dawn when she got home. Brix always brought her back late, but Claire was always awake, reading in bed, the door to her room open. "Have a good time.''" she always asked casually as Emma walked past, on the way to her room, and Emma always said, "Yes," walking quickly. After the night of the fireworks, she mumbled, "Awfully sleepy," almost scurrying to her room, because she was afraid if Claire asked her to come in for a minute, something would show: the whiskey or the cocaine or making love, something would give it all away. And when she got to her room and looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. Her pupils were so big they seemed to fill her eyes, making them look black and empty; her lips were swollen from Brix's kisses; and her body was different: her breasts seemed fuller and her back and neck had a languor that made her seem to sway as she walked.
But the next morning her eyes were back to normal, and when she came downstairs to breakfast, she thought she looked the same as ever as she sat in the bay window, looking at the glass of orange juice Hannah had just squeezed and placed before her.
Hannah gave her a piercing look. "You're losing weight."
"I am not," Emma said.
"Last time I looked, we didn't own a scale. How do you know.?"
"I jus
t know. I ought to know what I weigh."
"You weigh less than you did a month ago. And you're not drinking your orange juice."
Emma pici^ed up the glass. She did not want it, but she forced it down. "Now are you satisfied.^"
"I'm getting there. What do you want for breakfast?"
"I'm not hungry."
"Well, there you are. That's why you're losing weight. Emma, you've got a problem; you're not happy and I want to help—"
"I don't want your help!" Emma jumped up. "You can't talk to me like that, you're not my mother, you're not even part of our family, and if I can't sit here without this—"
"Hold on a minute." Hannah stood straight. Her shoulders were squared but there was a slight tremble to her lips. "I know perfectly well I'm not your mother; I'm not anyone's mother. I wish I were, but we don't always have any say in getting what we want most in the world. And I suppose you're right that I'm not really part of this family, though I thought I was making a little place for myself, not through cooking or anything like that, but just because I love you and your mother, I care about what happens to you, and if I lost you ... if you sent me away ... I wouldn't have much to ... to hold on to . . ."
"I'm sorry." Emma's face was flushed. Hannah looked small and vulnerable in the center of the room, but somehow, surrounded by sleek modern appliances, she reminded Emma of an old-fashioned woman, maybe a pioneer, standing in the doorway of a cabin with a rifle in one hand and a child in the other, while soup bubbled on the stove behind her. She seemed fierce, protective, loving, and formidable, and in the midst of Emma's anger and confusion, she felt a rush of love for Hannah, and a kind of awe. "I'm sorry," she said again. "You are part of our family, of course you are. It's just that I can't stand it when people keep going on and on, like an inquisition, and if that's what you're going to do, I'll go someplace else."
"Well. I thank you for part of that. But this isn't an inquisition, this is a conversation. Or it would be, if you'd sit down. And I have a comment to make. That's all it is, a comment, an observation. You're losing weight and you're drooping, and of course the problem is the young man. This is August eighth, and he's called you a total of four times, which is probably a tenth of the
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