"I don't know. I'll be interested to find out. You told me, in one of our interviews, that you're designing differently."
"Yes, but it had nothing to do with my loss; that was eighteen years ago. It's what I told you: the iotters made the difference; it gave me confidence."
"Winning the lotter^^''"
"Having sixty million dollars."
"You told me that, and I put it in the article, but I didn't really understand it. What does sixty million dollars have to do with how well you design.'"'
She looked at him wonderingly; it seemed so clear to her.
"The world is an easier place; I'm more comfortable in it. I can concentrate on what I want to do instead of what I have to do."
"But your eye hasn't changed; the way you look at the world and see shape and color and harmony hasn't changed; the desire to excel hasn't changed."
"No, but now I'm willing to experiment."
"So you're more daring.''"
"Yes."
"And you think you can't be daring unless you have money.''"
Claire was uncomfortable. "The answer to that ought to be no. But there's something so powerfully affirmative about money, as if having it gives permission for almost anything. If you lost something, you can buy another; if you fail at something, you can afford to keep trying until you succeed; if you make a mistake, you can buy a second chance. Money is control. And I never felt in control of my life until I had it."
"Or something else changed in your life."
She looked at him reflectively. "Maybe. Maybe I just wasn't ready to be daring until now. Maybe the money had nothing to do with it."
"I like that the best," he said with a smile. "We all have to grow up sometime."
"Well, I hope you do," Claire said, her smile meeting his. "And whether you write differently or not, I'm ver' glad you're going back to it. I never really bought the line about your turning into a longshoreman."
"But I was serious; I wasn't posturing. It was an alternative I really thought about, a way to get out of a rut and into something alive and useful."
"What was the rut.^"
"Being in that foreign country. Mourning, feeling sorry for myself, wrapping myself in my own sorrow as if I were trying to be dead, too. As if it would be a betrayal of my wife and our love if I started to live again. Something had to pull me out of that because I sure as hell wasn't doing it for myself."
"And what pulled you out.'"'
"Partly time: enough time passing. But mostly, I think, it was you."
The lobby lights dimmed and brightened and there was an immediate responsive surge in the crowd. Claire and Alex were
pushed back into the corner, their faces very close together. "Time for the second act," he said.
Casually, he took Claire's hand to follow the audience into the theater, and when they were in their seats, he held it again, glancing at the program in his other hand. "Watch the young girl in the first scene; I think she's going to be a great actress." From then on, they concentrated on the play, their eyes meeting now and then when something struck them both as memorable. After a while, Claire became aware of how often that was happening: she would look up and find Alex's eyes meeting hers in appreciation or amusement at something on the stage, and it happened every time she looked up, as if their thoughts were identical.
The next time she found herself turning to look at him, she deliberately kept watching the stage. From the corner of her eye, she saw the movement of his head and she felt his eyes on her. After a few seconds, it was too hard to look straight ahead; she turned, and as their eyes met, they broke into quiet laughter. It was the first time ever, Claire thought, that she had shared a private joke with someone without either of them having to speak.
When the final curtain came down and applause filled the theater, Alex turned to her again. "I have to show up at the party; it goes with being a sponsor. But I'd like to leave early; I want to be with you. Will you come back to my place after we spend half an hour or so with the others.^"
"Yes."
"A woman of swift decisions," he murmured, and after repeated curtain calls and the slow exit of the audience, they left the theater and walked up the street to the Gargoyle Cafe, bright with low-hanging colored lights, like theater spotlights, and swirling with energy. "They know it was good, even with all the opening-night glitches," Alex said between greeting people and introducing them to Claire. "In fact, they know it was great; you can feel it in the air. There's a unique kind of excitement when people know that everything they hoped for has come to pass; it's like a special blessing embracing eversone ecn remotely connected with it. There's no other feeling like it in the world."
He and Claire stood beside the bar talking to the director and producer of the play, the backstage crew, the office staff, and the patrons and sponsors who, like Alex, kept the theater alive. The
talk grew in volume and excitement, and when a new crowd came into the restaurant, they were surrounded again. It was almost another half an hour before Alex turned to Claire and smiled ruefully. "I wanted to stop in for a few minutes and then leave. Are you ready to go.'"'
"Yes, but I've enjoyed this. It's so different from any party I've ever gone to. I've learned a lot and I've had fun."
"I was hoping you would." He took her hand and led her through the crowd, saying good-night to everyone they passed. They all paused in their conversation to talk to Claire.
"Come backstage some night; we'll all go to dinner afterwards."
"If you want to watch rehearsals or some acting classes, feel free."
"We're having a donors' dinner in January at the Rainbow Room; I'm sure Alex has asked you, but I want to tell you how glad we'd all be to see you there."
Claire recalled the invitations she had received from Quentin's friends when she first met them. Two different worlds, she thought, so far apart. Alex held her coat and she slipped it on, and they walked to his car, parked near the theater. "I didn't ask you to the donors' party," Alex said as they drove up Christopher Street, "because I didn't want to ask you to give us money."
"Why not.'"' Claire asked. "You know I have the money, and you know how many organizations I'm involved with; they're in your story."
"None of them are theater groups; you've narrowed it to education and music and anything connected with children."
"I don't know much about the theater. I'd like to know more; I think I will come to rehearsals and acting classes, to learn how they work. But that wasn't why you didn't ask me to the dinner."
He stopped at a red light and looked ahead, at the Christmas lights strung on shops and restaurants and, on the floors above, the trees blinking in apartment windows. Once, this had been the worst time of year for him, when everything was a symbol of home and family, when carols and candy canes and fake Santas seemed to mock his singleness, when he missed his wife with a deep, dull pain that seemed to have no end. And even when it did, finally, ease and then disappear, what remained was emptiness, and he
had wondered if he would ever feel, or love, again. Now he thought he knew the answer to that. Tonight, he felt only happiness. Tonight, he had to admit, he was absurdly happy.
"You're right," he said, driving on as the light changed. "I didn't ask you for money because, however personal the request— and the ones that bring in the most money are always personal— it's a business transaction, and I don't want to be doing business with you."
Claire was silent, gazing out her window. Traffic was light and they were moving swiftly up Eighth Avenue, past bedecked apartments, past stores whose neon signs blinked and flashed and quarreled with the meek Christmas lights beside them, past record stores with music blaring through open doors, and nightclubs with solid, secretive doors, and apartments with uniformed doormen in white gloves standing guard. Only a few people walked on the streets, stepping briskly past shapeless bundles of sleeping people in the doorways, men walking their dogs, and groups of young people swinging arm in arm down the
sidewalk.
Claire felt the life of the city: a constant, rumbling vibration that quivered through the streets; the air was tense and alert, perpetually in motion, as if a steady gale kept everything spinning a few feet off the ground. Coming from the forests and fields of Connecticut, she felt like a stranger, but, still, something drew her to the growling, humming intensity of the city, and for the first time, she found herself thinking that she would like to live there.
Alex had glanced at her once as he drove, but he said nothing and they both were silent, absorbed in their thoughts. Claire liked it that he did not feel he had to keep noise going between them, whether they had anything to say or not. But that had never happened, she thought; they had always had something to say. She thought back over the past few weeks, to the long hours in her studio when they had put away their work and sat over tea, talking, talking, talking, about everything in the world, and about themselves. She had never talked so much or so comfortably to anyone but (jina and Hannah; she had never had a good friend who was a man.
/ {Jon^t "inant to be doing business "m'ith you.
Alex turned off West End Avenue onto a quiet street, and she was struck by the sudden difference in the atmosphere. Here there were no tail apartments or bags of garbage on the sidewalk
or the rush of taxis; here tall trees lined the street on both sides, screening elegant limestone row houses facing each other with severe grace. The noises of the city seemed to have vanished; it was as if they had driven into a small corner of another century, and as Claire looked around with pleasure, she almost expected to see varnished horse-drawn cabs clip-clopping along past young boys with soft caps hawking penny newspapers.
They drove the length of the row houses to the end of the street where a square, graystone apartment building stood on the corner of Riverside Drive. Beneath bright yellow streetlights, Alex pulled to the curb, maneuvering to fit into the small parking place. "You may not appreciate this, but you are witnessing a minor miracle: a parking place on 105th Street." He took Claire's hand as she got out of the car and led her to the door, opening it with his key. "No doorman; we all voted it down. Too expensive. We do have a maintenance man who seems to excel at catnaps; now and then he finds an odd job or rwo, like taking out the garbage, that he's willing to expend some energy on."
The lobby was enormous, dimly lit and bare of furniture, with a black-and-white tile floor and, at each end, an elevator with scarred and chipped doorframes. "The idea is not to look like a Fifth Avenue building, to discourage anyone who thinks we have anything to rob. In fact, I don't, but some of my neighbors do; the apartments are very good. You'll see."
They rode the self-service elevator to the eleventh floor and walked to the end of the corridor, to another scarred door. Alex opened it with his key, and Claire went inside and walked farther into the large room while he hung up her coat. It was a combination living room, dining room, and office, with a galley kitchen on one side and a small bedroom on the other. The furnishings were Spartan—a couch and armchair with a hassock and a glass coffee table; a small, square dining table with four chairs; two desks, one for a computer and printer, and several filing cabinets—but Alex had brought warmth to it with a dark red kilim rug, floor lamps with dark red shades, a rare Toulouse-Lautrec poster with life-size figures, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, crammed and overflowing, on two walls, and more shelves running up the sides and over the top of the large windows on the fourth wall.
"They overlook the Hudson," Alex said. "You'll have to come during the day, to see it. We get exceptional sunsets here, too. I
have Stilton and fresh pears and a good Bordeaux; would that please you?"
"Very much." Claire was at the windows, looking down at the bright lights of Riverside Drive and the river's edge. "You seem so far from the city here."
"An illusion, but a happy one. I've come to enjoy the city, now that I have my own retreat." He set the food and wine on the coffee table and sat on the couch, then watched Claire turn and hesitate between the armchair and the other end of the couch, and choose the couch.
He leaned forward and filled their wineglasses and handed her one. "I haven't brought anyone here in the four years I've lived here," he said casually. Claire looked at him in surprise. "It isn't that I've been a monk; far from it. But I haven't been able to bring anyone here. Somehow, from the day I bought it, it seemed to be a part of me that couldn't be opened to scrutiny, like the house I'd sold, and the people who'd lived in it. That was the private core that never made it to conversation."
There was a silence. "I'm glad to be here," Claire said.
Alex nodded slowly, contemplating his wineglass. "It's a wonder to me, how you always say what I hope you'll say." He leaned forward again and filled a small plate with cheese and fruit and handed it to Claire. "I don't think I made a deliberate decision to keep out of any involvements; it just happened. I couldn't imagine living with any of the women I knew, or even staying with them very long. I couldn't imagine living with anyone, even my son. For the first year, I craved solitude as if I couldn't hold myself together except in silence. After that, I wanted people, I needed them, but not in my own space and not permanently. Until I started working in your studio. After the third or fourth time, I didn't want to leave. Or, if I had to leave, I wanted to take you with me and bring you here. Because I couldn't imagine staying here, without you."
Claire sat very still, letting his words settle within her. She felt a long, sweet sense of expectancy, like a child contemplating Christmas. It was nothing like the thrill she had felt when Quen-tin and his friends took her into their lives; this was slower and deeper. She felt as if the pieces of her life were falling into place and she was finding order and harmony. She felt she was coming to a place where she belonged.
Alex was waiting for her to say something; he would not go on if she stopped him. But he knew she would not; their thoughts were as close now as they had been in the theater when their eyes met and they shared those special moments. "Something I've been thinking about," she said, "is how slowly things used to happen, before our world speeded up, especially the way people got to know each other. There was a rhythm to it that they understood, a way of moving gradually and gracefully from one stage of friendship to another, instead of lurching from the first drink or dinner into bed."
She gazed at him for a long moment, liking the look of him: the sharply defined bones of his face that made him look as purposeful and intense as she knew him to be, his brown hair, turning gray, curling on the back of his neck, his mouth that pulled down at the corners, and his deep-set eyes that never wandered when they were talking, but stayed on her face, as if the most important thing to him was to keep in close contact with her. "I like the way our friendship has grown, and what it's still becoming," she said, and watched his face change, the corners of his mouth lifting, his eyes seeming to grow lighter.
He moved to her on the couch and they held each other as naturally as if they had done it many times before. And when they kissed, that, too, seemed familiar to Claire, her mouth and his opening together, welcoming each other, as if their bodies were homes, each giving the other a place to belong.
They held each other more tightly, feeling the beat of each other's heart. Within Claire, something seemed to let go; she felt loose and at ease, with nothing to prove. Not a contest. The words sprang to her mind; it was the last time she would think of Quen-tin when she was in Alex's arms.
They stood and she felt Alex's lean body pressing against hers, his shoulder bones and the long, hard muscles of his arms beneath her hands. For the first time since they had met, they were silent, their bodies taut and locked together. Not a contest. A Journey that two people take, together.
They pulled back and looked at each other. "Wonderful," Alex murmured. "Filled with wonder. I love you, Claire. I love what you are and what we are together, and the way the world seems filled with possibilities since we met, instead of—"
"Alex, even writers
ought to know when words are unneces-
sary." She curved her hand on the back of his head and brought his mouth to hers again. Together, they moved toward the bedroom, their arms around each other. And then they heard a key in the front door.
Alex's head shot up. "David," he muttered. "What the hell ..." He took long strides toward the door, but it opened before he got there, and a tall, thin young man came into the room with casual familiarity. He was a young, gangly version of Alex, with the same curling hair and deep-set eyes, but his face was not as sharp and his mouth not as thin. He was handsomer than his father, and soon, Claire saw, he would be irresistible.
"Hi, Dad," he said. Then he saw Claire. "Oh." His palm struck his forehead with a dramatic slap. "I am the world's most incredible jerk. I never even thought . . . Well, you know, you never have anybody up here—"
"It's all right," Claire said, coming to him with her hand outstretched. She was trembling, and she had no idea how disheveled her hair was, but in a way, David's bursting in was like a farce, and the corners of her mouth were lifting with the humor of it. "I'm Claire Goddard."
"David Jarrell," he said, taking her hand and pumping it, "and I'm really and truly, fervently sorry. I'm not usually a total dork, but, you know, usually when I come here—"
"David," Alex said. His voice was husky and he cleared his throat as David turned to him and they hugged each other. They were almost the same height.
"Hi," David said again. "It's okay. Dad, I'm gone; I'll come back tomorrow, or, you know, whenever."
Alex was studying him. "What's wrong.''"
"Nothing. Why should anything be wrong.''"
"Because it's almost midnight and it's a school night—"
"Nope; Christmas vacation."
"Do Diane and Jake know you're here.'"'
"Uh, not exactly."
"What the hell does that mean.'"'
"Well, I didn't exactly punch the time clock."
"You just left.'' Without telling them you were going out.^"
"They were out."
Pot of Gold Page 38
