“And I interrupted you, didn’t I?”
He sounded so genuinely distressed that she felt her irritation at the intrusion melt away.
“It’s all right, really,” she assured him. “I wasn’t having much success, anyway.”
Ted had been to her apartment on a number of occasions over the past year and a half, and each time he entered he was surprised by how familiar it felt. When he sat down on one of the love seats, it was just like slipping into a comfortable old sweater.
“I think this book is a wonderful idea,” he said, glancing down at the photographs on the floor. “I know it’s going to be a success.”
“Providing I hold up my end of the bargain.” Karen sighed. “I don’t know why I let Nancy talk me into this.”
“Someday you’ll be glad she did,” he said with such genuine conviction that Karen smiled.
From the very beginning, he had put her at ease, teasing her like a kid sister, treating her like a valued friend, until it was hard to remember that they hadn’t known each other all their lives. In large part, she supposed, the instant comfort came from his being Nancy’s brother. But Karen knew it was also because he had never attempted anything more than a quick peck on the cheek or a hand on an elbow to guide her across a street that she felt as close to him as if there were actually a flesh-and-blood connection between them.
Like his sister, Ted was bright and clever, and Karen looked forward to the now frequent occasions when she saw him. But even more important to her than the time spent with him was the time she spent with Gwen and Jessica and Amy.
In many ways, the three girls had come to symbolize the innocence Karen had lost, the daughters she would never raise, the children she would never bear. She answered their questions, cheered their successes, and basked in every smile and every giggle they chose to share with her. And always behind them stood their father, steady, sober and safe.
Still, she hadn’t realized how deeply entwined she had become in the lives of the Donigers until this very moment—because this was the first time Ted had ever appeared on her doorstep unannounced.
% “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, suddenly remembering her manners.
“A glass of water would be fine,” he replied.
“How about some iced tea?”
“Only if you’ll have some, too.”
She returned from the kitchen with two frosty glasses and a plate of cookies.
“Looks good,” he said.
They sipped in silence until Ted set his glass down on the coffee table and stood up, walking to the fireplace and pretending to study the Rankin oil that hung above the mantel.
“Amy would like you to come before dark tonight,” he said. “Jessica’s taught her how to do a cartwheel, and she wants you to see.”
“Of course I will,” Karen replied warmly.
“And Jessica wants to show you her science project.”
Karen nodded. “Oh, good. I’ve been anxious to see how it turned out.”
Their words sounded strangely formal and stilted to them both. Karen shifted uncomfortably in her seat, wondering what had happened to their usual light banter. Ted ran a finger along the edge of the mantel.
“Uh, Gwen thinks we ought to get married,” he said, trying to make his tone light, “so we wouldn’t always have to schedule appointments to see you.”
“Oh, she does, does she?” Karen replied with a smile, relieved to have the conversation back on track.
“Actually, all three girls would like that,” he added.
“Those little devils.” She chuckled. “You never know what they’ll come up with next.”
Ted turned around to face her then. “As a matter of fact,” he said softly, “all four of us would like that… very much.”
Karen opened her mouth to say something clever and then closed it again when she realized he was serious. But it didn’t make any sense, because they didn’t have that kind of relationship. They were just—friends.
“I don’t understand,” she stammered finally. “I mean, you
never—that is, I didn’t—I mean, you and I aren’t—well, you know—like that.”
“Just because we haven’t been doesn’t mean we couldn’t be,” he observed.
“But we’re friends,” she protested. “Good friends. I count on your friendship. I don’t want that to change.”
He shrugged. “I happen to think that friendship is a pretty solid foundation to build on.”
Just like an architect, Karen thought wryly, beginning to squirm anew in her seat. She valued the relationship they had forged more than she could ever say, and she wondered whether it would survive her turning him down.
“I’m really very flattered,” she began gently, “but the idea of marrying you—well, it just never entered my head.”
“I know I’m not exactly the knight in shining armor you probably expected to come riding over the hill,” he conceded. “I’ve had some of the stuffing knocked out of me, I admit it. I’m too much of a workaholic and not enough of a romantic. I like theater and the symphony, but I don’t go very often. I’m not much of a party animal. I guess you could say I’m a real stick-in-the-mud. I’m not well-traveled or well-read. On top of that, I’m middle-aged, I’ve buried a wife, and I’ve got three kids to raise—altogether, nobody’s idea of a prize package. But I’m faithful and honest and a good provider, I think, and the thing is, I care for you in a very special way, and I think we could make a good life together.”
He stopped talking suddenly, surprised that he had actually managed to make that whole speech without stumbling.
“How can you say all those awful things about yourself?” Karen demanded. “You’re certainly no more middle-aged than I am, and you’re terrific at parties. You may not say much, but you’re a great listener. I don’t go to the symphony all that often myself, and the bookshelves always seem to be filled at your place. I’m not so well-traveled, either, I’ll have you know. I’ve never even been to Europe. And there are a whole lot more important things for a person to be in life than romantic—like sensible and stable and sincere, and your children are absolutely terrific. How can you say you’re not a
knight in shining armor? I can’t imagine any woman who wouldn’t be proud to ride off with you.”
“Is that a yes?” he asked.
Karen stopped short. She had been so eager to come to his defense that she hadn’t really given much thought to the effect her words might have on him.
He was so terribly nice and the last thing in the world she wanted to do was hurt him. But she had long ago resigned herself to the idea of being unmarried, choosing instead to devote herself to a career, whatever it turned out to be, and she was not uncomfortable with that decision. Now all she had to do was find a way to let him down gently.
“I think maybe you should give me a little time,” she heard herself say. “You know, to kind of sort things out.”
“Of course,” he exclaimed. “Take all the time you need. I know this is a pretty big decision for you to make.”
The biggest, she thought. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Ted reached for his iced tea and politely drained the glass. “Why don’t I let you get back to work,” he said. “I mean, it’s not as though I”m not going to see you again in a few hours, right?”
“Right,” she agreed.
The moment the door closed behind him, Karen made for the kitchen, filling her tea glass with Scotch and drinking it down in one long swallow.
The plastic composure she had cultivated for the past eighteen years, that singular ability to draw a curtain across her emotions, crumbled as she giggled and cried and shivered all together. She refilled her glass and went back to the living room, where she collapsed in a heap. Halfway through the second Scotch, she began to feel very foolish.
“Why didn’t you just come right out and say no?” she reproached herself aloud. “Why did you have to leave him dangling as though there w
ere some hope?”
The day Peter Bauer walked out of her life, Karen had been devastated. Although, clearly, she had been the one to betray him, she had been unable to shake the feeling that, in some indefinable way, he had betrayed her as well. She determined
that she would never again put herself in that position. The yardstick of the 1960s still hung over her in the 1980s. In her heart, she knew that no man would ever be able to forgive her for what she had let happen on that cold December night, as Peter had not, and would shrink from her at the first mention of it—at the first sight of the result. Of course, she had to admit, she had never been willing to let anyone close enough to test her theory.
Instead, she had come to terms with being single. In many ways, she found she was well-suited to the solitude, and the consequent peace and privacy it afforded. Then, too, the state of spinsterhood no longer carried the stigma it once had. Karen knew women who were enjoying a whole new kind of life-style. They were out in the business world, being successful and single. Some lived intimately and openly with men to whom they were not married. A few Were even choosing to have babies without having husbands.
Downing the last of her Scotch, Karen sighed a sigh of defeat, knowing in her heart of hearts that, even though she had truly made peace with the way her life had turned out, she would gladly have given up Demion Five and her posh East Side apartment and her Rankin oil for just one day of being elbow-deep in diapers and dirty dishes and Tinker Toys. That was the irony of what Ted had come across town to suggest. Had he offered her Mrs. Peagram’s position instead of a marriage proposal, she might have been tempted to accept.
Karen laughed outright. Nothing less than two stiff drinks could have brought her to admit anything like that. But it was true. In just a few short months, she had become so involved in the lives of Gwen and Jessica and Amy that she couldn’t imagine a more rewarding assignment than to spend every single day with them, helping them to learn and grow and blossom into beautiful young women. It would go a long way toward making up for the children she could never have.
Sometimes she liked to imagine, when she sat on Amy’s bed in the evenings and spun out her stories, that these three little girls were indeed her very own. She couldn’t have loved them more. But to marry a man just so she could stay close to
his children? There seemed something not quite honest about that.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like Ted. On the contrary, she liked him enormously and probably even loved him, as a sister would love a brother. But the thought of having to share a bed with him, or let him see the ugly scars that screamed the truth of her youthful indiscretion, made her shiver all over again.
No, she would have to tell him again how flattered she was by his proposal, and then decline—even knowing it would mean she would lose the girls, because things would be too awkward after that. How many men who had been rejected would still want the woman who rejected them underfoot all the time?
Karen bit her lower lip and felt tears stinging her eyes. She was going to miss the children terribly, she knew. Not only that, she was truthful enough to admit that she was going to miss Ted terribly, too.
eight
The photographic essay was finished and scheduled for production the second week in May. “Jesus,” Demelza breathed when she saw it. “I knew Nancy could take pictures, but I never dreamed Karen could write this kind of poetry. This is dynamite. We’ll order five thousand copies.”
“Do you think you can sell that many?” Nancy gasped.
“At least,” the co-owner of Demion Five told her. “What are you going to call it?”
After considerable debate, the two women had named the book Four Seasons because, after all, that was exactly what it was.
“Not to be confused with Vivaldi,” Nancy said.
“Or the restaurant,” Karen added.
Demelza priced the book at $49.95.
“My goodness,” the photographer exclaimed. “Isn’t that a bit steep?” Actually, she considered it outrageous.
“It’s a bargain,” Demelza told her. “Fifty Yanows for a dollar apiece? Fabulous presentation? Even without the poetry— which could be a lovely little book in its own right—it’s an absolute bargain.”
“I had no idea,” Nancy conceded, even though her single prints, which were limited to a run of fifty, sold for as much as two hundred and fifty dollars each. But then, they were individually signed and numbered.
“You have to remember,” Demelza continued as though she had read the photographer’s mind, “it’s not so very different from marketing your prints. We’re still talking limited edition.”
“Five thousand doesn’t sound so limited to me,” Nancy observed.
“If we start promoting by the middle of July,” Demelza said, “we should be sold out by Christmas.”
“Sold out?” Nancy exclaimed. “Are you serious?”
Demelza smiled. “I suggest you start planning your next book.”
Nancy’s head was spinning and Karen was feeling as giddy as a newborn colt as the two women made their way over to Ninth Avenue and a new, highly touted Italian restaurant. They had promised themselves a night on the town when Four Seasons was finished.
“Why do I feel as though I’m in a leaky rowboat about to plunge over Niagara Falls?” the photographer wondered as they were shown to their table.
The poet chuckled. “Well, look at it this way,” she suggested. “It’s not your life you’re in danger of losing, just your credibility.”
“Thanks,” Nancy replied dryly. “That makes me feel lots better.”
It was a prix-fixe restaurant without a menu. The fare was whatever the chef felt like preparing that particular evening. Reservations were required, and the place, which could accommodate only forty diners at a time, was booked at least two months in advance.
They discussed different ways of promoting the book through the minestrone, the in-store fanfare that Demion Five would be likely to launch over the hot and cold antipasto, and the incredible idea that their work could become a coffee-table necessity between bites of cheese ravioli.
It wasn’t until they had begun to dig into their veal scal-lopini that Karen casually dropped her bombshell.
“Ted asked me to marry him.”
The fork fell from Nancy’s hand and her uneven blue eyes almost popped from her head.
“And you waited through three courses to tell me?” she cried indignantly.
“Well, actually, it’s been a bit longer than that.”
“How long?”
Karen shrugged. “About a month.”
“A month?” Nancy squealed. “A whole month and you never breathed a word of it?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure how you’d take it.”
“How I’d take it? I’ve been hoping and praying for this for a year and a half now.”
Karen picked at her three-star food.
“The thing is, you see, I’ve never really thought of Ted in that way,” she mused.
“Oh?” Nancy said, and the word hung there between them.
“Don’t misunderstand. It’s not that I don’t care about him,” Karen insisted. “I do, a great deal, and you know how much I adore the girls. But, well, I wasn’t planning on getting married.”
“Why not?” was all Nancy could think of to ask.
“It’s just a choice I made, a long time ago,” Karen replied, gulping her Chianti.
Nancy had decided that Karen was ideal for her brother the first day the two women met at Demion Five, over tea and muffins and Paul Revere. She wasn’t sure what it was about the stylish boutique manager, among all the other women she had considered and rejected, that made her so positive so immediately, but the idea had caught on something inside her head and refused to be dislodged.
“Why would you make such a ridiculous choice as that?” she asked, as Karen toyed with her veal.
“I’ve been alone so long,” came the reply. “I’m set in my ways. I need my space.
”
“It’s about a long time ago, isn’t it?” Nancy asked softly, shrewdly. “About what happened to you—what you wrote about?”
Karen looked away. “It’s about a lot of things,” she murmured.
“But things can change,” Nancy insisted. “If we want them to.”
There was a pause then, neither of them knowing quite where to go next.
“I believe that everyone has two selves,” Karen said finally. “The public self that they show to the world and the private one that sustains them. For some people, the public self is merely an extension of the private self. For others, though, the public self is a mask for the private self, and without it they wouldn’t survive.”
Karen stopped there, and Nancy considered her words. This woman had been her closest friend for two years, in great part because they shared so many common interests, common values and common instincts, and Nancy had long ago seen beneath the self-assured facade.
“Sometimes sharing can be a means of survival,” she suggested.
“Not in this case,” Karen asserted. “You’ll just have to take my word for that.”
“I think you’re selling yourself short,” Nancy declared. “And Ted, too.”
“Perhaps I just have a different perspective.”
“Then why say anything at all?”
“Because you and Ted are so close and I don’t want this to come between you. And because you and I are close and I don’t want it to come between us, either.”
“He might not come to me.”
Karen thought about that for a moment. “Then go to him. There are so many good women out there. Don’t let him shut the door because one failed him.”
“He really cares about you, you know.”
A shadow flickered across Karen’s face. “He deserves better.”
The next evening, she dropped by for a bedtime story unannounced, choosing the tale of the princess and the pea. As soon as she finished, she tucked the covers around Amy, kissed Jessica and Gwen good night, and went in search of Ted, finding him in the study, of course, hunched over his drafting table, the light from the lamp glinting off his golden hair.
Guilt by Association Page 26
