Precious Moments

by Suzanne Roberts

  The party was, she realized later, very much like the one at Rhonda Miles’ had been—crowded, with stale cigarette smoke and lovely china and silverware and hot, marvelously cooked food. There were women who wore practically no tops to their dresses and there were young men who seemed bored by those same women. When they were introduced to Jamie, the reaction was immediate—they clustered around her, while Thorne sat at the bar watching, smiling at her from time to time as more and more men wandered her way. It was as if they shared some delightful kind of joke between them, a secret of some sort.

  “Is he the one, or is it the other one?” Jamie recognized the voice of the newspaperwoman they’d run into at the disco. Her hard eyes were staring at Thorne, there at the bar. “I still haven’t been able to figure out whose girl you are, Jamie. Maybe that’s why I haven’t printed that item I got firsthand before breakfast this morning.” She smiled. “It concerns you and David Saunders. My source said you were caught on the way to his bedroom, and that he wore the pajamas Rhonda Miles gave him.” She pushed back her silver-streaked hair. “Rhonda will be furious about that. She’s in love with him, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “I haven’t been able to quote her on it because she won’t admit it. There’s that horribly rich prince from Saudi Arabia; he’s just bought a house here. Anyway, dearest, I wanted to tell you what a clever girl I think you are—” She moved away, into the crowd.

  “Don’t talk to that witch,” the young man who’d gone to get coffee for Jamie said. “We all loathe her and we’re all scared to death of her, so she’s always around. She was the first to announce my parents’ divorce in her column.” He handed the cup to Jamie. “Of course, it isn’t every day that a sixty-year-old man divorces in order to marry a seventeen-year-old country and western singer, but that’s exactly what my old man did. Would you like a sandwich?”

  She found herself looking at this man, Peter, his name was, through the haze of smoke. He was young, a bit older than she was probably. He was tall and good-looking, with dark, nicely styled hair and friendly, mild gray eyes. He seemed very anxious to please her and he smoked constantly, his hands moving, his voice a little loud.

  She was sorry for him, and, in a strange way, sorry for a lot of them. Never mind the money part; the fact was, this young man had been raised by a father who had abandoned his family out of lust for a very young girl. Her own father—thinking of him warmed her like a sweet drink. She saw him smiling, talking, gentle, good, loving. A rock.

  She had been far luckier as a child than most of these people. She finally managed to excuse herself and walk over to Thorne.

  “Do you think we could leave, please?”

  His blue eyes seemed unusually bright. “Leave? The party’s just got going.” Someone bumped into him, a fattish girl in a black, backless dress. “That’s the way Cassie’s parties are.”

  “I really don’t want to stay, Thorne.”

  He hardly seemed to hear her. “Tonight’s the night two of my buddies plan to build a snowman and put a giant jug in his hand. Then, they’re going to fill it with booze and see who can—” He stopped talking as Jamie walked away. “Wait a minute!” He looked down at her. “All I’m saying is that it’s going to be a crazy party and let’s stay.” He took a sip of his drink. “That’s nothing to walk out on me for, is it?”

  She felt miserable, bewildered, as he seemed to make her feel so often. She suddenly had the insane wish not to be here at all, in this room, with these noisy, silly people, but to be somewhere else, someplace that did not include Thorne Gundersen’s disturbing presence. His way of making her feel high with happiness and suddenly miserable and somehow angry was beginning to spoil everything.

  “I’m not walking out,” she said quietly. “I’m just saying I don’t happen to like this party and I’d like to leave.”

  “You didn’t even know these people until two or so nights ago, Jamie. Now you’re setting yourself up as judge and jury. Did you get that nasty attitude all by yourself or did David Saunders teach it to you?”

  She felt her eyes widen in a kind of stunned anger.

  “Listen,” he said quickly, “Jamie—I’m sorry. Listen, I didn’t mean—”

  But she had walked quickly away from him, through the crowd, out to the foyer where coats had been hung or tossed on chairs. There were expensive furs everywhere; Jamie looked for her wool plaid coat but didn’t see it.

  “I thought you’d blunder on out into the snow,” Thorne said quietly from behind her. “You know—the wounded maiden going out into the blizzard because she got her feelings hurt.”

  She was unreasonably angry. “Don’t bother to take me back to David’s because I intend to call a cab just as soon as I find my coat.”

  He watched her as she lifted minks and seal and other furs, looked through what hung in the wide front closet, and finally found her own little coat under a table.

  “I’m not letting you leave, you know.” He was still looking at her, a small smile on his face. He seemed calm and almost pleased.

  “And I’m not letting you keep me here.” Her voice was firm and laced with the anger she was feeling. Somewhere behind her eyes, tears had formed, tears of frustration and self-rage. Why should she care so much for a man who treated her badly at times?

  “Then we’ll both leave.” He put her coat around her shoulders. “I think,” he said, ushering her out the front door, “it’s time we came to some sort of understanding.”

  She was driving; it seemed strange to her, handling that sleek, powerful little car, but Thorne had asked her to, after they left the party.

  “Where? Where do you want me to take us?”

  He had settled himself in the seat beside her, long legs stuck out in front of himself, arms folded, head against the back of the seat.

  “Up the mountain. As far up as the road goes.”

  She looked upward, feeling a sudden sense of fear. But the sense of hurt in her was still there, stronger than caution, so she shoved the car into gear; it sprang forward like a shot and began the winding trail.

  “You’re an excellent driver,” he shouted finally, from beside her. “You know this road?”

  She glanced at him. He didn’t seem at all afraid, and the strange thing was—neither did she. She drove at a reckless speed, drove until the feelings had left her, the bad feelings, and she felt at last, roaring up that mountain road in his car, a deep sense of kinship with him, a kind of bond.

  His hand covered her small one, where it rested on the gearshift.

  “The road ends up there.”

  She nodded, beginning to slow the car. They came to a stop at the barricade and suddenly she turned to him; without a word between them, they kissed deeply, achingly, their hearts pounding against each other in that very rare moment.

  “Okay,” he said finally, his mouth warm against her ear, “I know I’ve given you a rough time. I know I’ve no right to a girl like you. But I’m asking you to be my girl, Jamie.”

  She nodded, head against his shoulder. Then she raised her face and he began kissing her once again. It had begun snowing again; flakes swirled around the tiny car. And from its ancient place beyond them, the treacherous Ajax seemed to be watching.

  Jamie pulled away from his arms. How many days left until that mountain tried to claim him?

  David came into the kitchen ten minutes before his usual time. It was very early; outside, it was as dark as the night before.

  “Well,” he said, somewhat coldly, “I didn’t expect to see you here this morning. I thought sure you’d want to sleep late.”

  “I’ve been up for over an hour,” she said cheerfully, mixing batter for pancakes. “Did you sleep well?”

  He sat grouchily down at the table. “What’re you doing there?”

  “Making flapjacks for your breakfast,” she said sweetly.

  “Well, I can’t eat that kind of stuff early in the morning.” He sipped at his instant
coffee. “Clogs my brain.”

  “All right, then; I’ll eat some and fix you dry toast.”

  “I’m not an invalid, Jamie. And I’m not a hundred and twelve, so kindly stop treating me that way.”

  She began making coffee in the battered old pot. “I’m sure you aren’t old, David. As a matter of fact, I heard last night that you’re secretly in love.”

  His eyes narrowed. “It had to be Lydia Markin,” he said. “She’s the only one who would hand out such an absurd lie about me. I suppose you ran into the famous queen of the tabloids at that party your new boyfriend took you to?”

  Jamie didn’t answer him. He was very clearly in a vile temper about something and it wouldn’t do a bit of good to press him for civilized conversation. She knew him quite well.

  “I might try just one pancake,” he said finally, as Jamie poured thick golden syrup over her plate of steaming, thickly stacked pancakes. “A small one.”

  She smiled at him. “I’ll make it small enough,” she said, “so that it doesn’t clog your brain.”

  It was only a question of time before he was once again her charming, brilliant writer-benefactor, handing her pages of crisp dialogue and biting satire. They finished work early, soon after lunch. Since the housekeeper’s initial session of gossiping, there had been no more of it, so far as Jamie knew. In fact, Emma went around looking guilty, serving an especially nice lunch to Jamie and David, as if to make up for things.

  “She doesn’t think we’re lovers anymore,” Jamie said, biting into the delicious hot apple pie.

  “Would that guilt could make such good cooks of us all,” David said, testing his delicate fish. “Actually, I’m very surprised that Lydia didn’t mention that tidbit about me in pajamas and you with your arms around me in one of her rag papers.”

  “She said something about it. I expect she will say something nasty about me one day. She doesn’t seem to like people very well.”

  “Then why would you believe her when she told you I’m secretly in love? Pass the butter, please.”

  “With my cooking and Emma’s cooking, you’re going to get very fat, David.” Her voice was light and teasing.

  “No chance. My wife was a marvelous cook and she used to make me fantastic things to eat. She cooked all over the world for me. She’d take a little portable hot plate along and when we were in, say, Paris—she’d go to the market and buy fresh stuff and come back to the hotel suite and cook.” His eyes looked warm as he spoke. “Finally, we began renting flats, even if I only had to talk to a publisher for an hour; we’d take a flat for a month and then Margo would start playing house. She was like a child in a lot of ways.”

  “David,” Jamie asked carefully, “are you sure you’ll never marry again?”

  “Are you proposing to me by any chance?”

  Her face colored. “Of course not. It’s only that—you very obviously need someone.”

  “I’m doing fine, thank you. Or I was, briefly, until you took up with your playboy ski friend.”

  Jamie let her breath out. “I’ve been waiting all day for you to get into a good mood and I’m not sure you’re in one yet.” She looked at him. “Are you?”

  “Of course not. You ought to know by now that I’m never in a totally good mood; meanness and sarcasm are always lurking there behind the surface.” He grinned. “What was it you wanted to ask me? Is it about your ski friend?”

  “I wish you’d stop calling him that.” She moved uncomfortably in the chair.

  “All right, then—boyfriend. Now what?”

  “It’s only that I—I want you to understand that—that Thorne and I have an understanding. A sort of understanding, I guess you’d call it. We—made a sort of pact—”

  “That sounds like a lot of rubbish. What sort of pact? Is he trying some sexual-fantasy-come-to-life trick on you?” His eyes were angry behind his glasses.

  “Of course not! It’s—simply that Thorne doesn’t believe in talking about the past very much. It bores him. He told me that last night.” She looked at her plate. “He also told me I’ve set myself up as judge and jury in the case of his friends. And he’s right, David.” She looked at him. “He’s absolutely right. I guess I—caught that feeling from you. Oh,” she said quickly, “it isn’t that I’m blaming you, because I’m not. That wouldn’t be fair. I’m saying that—it might be all right for you to do that; you’re a writer and it’s your business to make judgments, I suppose. But I was wrong to—to want to leave those parties almost as soon as I got there.”

  He was looking at her in the most peculiar way. Finally, he got up from the table and went over to the window. It had stopped snowing; a group of children just out of morning kindergarten stopped to wave at him. David waved back, then turned to face Jamie.

  “You’re caught up in it already,” he said quietly. “You don’t know it yet, but you are.”

  “I’m not—caught up in anything—”

  “Yes, you are. Somehow, you aren’t seeing straight any longer. One moment, you were able to see the insanity of the way they live, and suddenly, it all seems just fine to you. I’m sure you can thank your—boyfriend—for your newly moronic viewpoint.”

  Jamie stood up. She had thought David might be difficult, when she told him of her relationship with Thorne, when she told him that now, for a while at least, she was Thorne’s girl, his love.

  She had expected some display of outrage, but instead David stood there very quietly, almost sadly.

  “I suppose you’ll refuse to go to Jamaica with me, too. Now that you’ve got yourself tied down—”

  “I’m not tied down!” She rang for Emma to clear the trays; that was usually a signal that her time with David had more or less ended for the day. Lunch trays, tea trays cleared out, papers neatly stacked, sometimes a final cup of spiced tea with him; then, the fire was put out for the day, unless, of course, she or David planned to stay in and use the study to read. Neither of them had done that lately; she’d hear his Jag drive up in the very early hours of the morning. Sometimes, she herself got in very late, or very early in the morning, but David seemed to be making a habit of late homecomings.

  “You can forget Jamaica,” he said as she stood stacking manuscript papers on her desk, preparing to leave the room, end the workday and, of course, avoid further discussion of her relationship with Thorne. “I know you’ll refuse to go and I’m not sure I can do the book without you. It’s as simple as that.”

  She felt suddenly ashamed of herself. This man, this good, kind, grieving man needed her.

  “Can’t we stay on here and work on your book, David? I promise I won’t cause you any more worry.” She leaned over to pick up a sheet of copy paper that had fluttered to the floor. At the same time David came quickly across the room and bent to retrieve it. They were suddenly very close, there on the floor.

  “We’ll stay here,” he said gently. “And if he hurts you—I swear I’ll kill him!”

  It wasn’t until she was upstairs soaking in the tub, in the pretty, newly decorated bath connected to her bedroom, that Jamie remembered something important: she had meant to ask David about Rhonda, to get him to talk about that sultry, spoiled but very charming young woman.

  As she buttoned the gold sweater she’d chosen to wear over warm slacks, the thought came clearly into her mind: Am I trying to bring David around to talking about his true feelings for Rhonda so that I don’t have to examine my own real feelings for Thorne?

  Thirty minutes later, in the hallway, standing in Thorne’s strong arms in the dim light, her mouth yielding under his, gone trembling and soft under his, she forgot the nagging little worry that was always there, hiding, inside her mind.

  “You smell like some kind of lovely flowers,” he said, his mouth against her hair. “We could skip the dinner party at Friday’s and go to my house early—”

  She had promised herself to draw the line. It had something to do with what David had warned her about, something to do with survival
, but she wasn’t sure what.

  “I think we’d better go to Friday’s.”

  He sighed. “Okay. I’m going to have to be a good boy, even if I was awake half the night thinking about you.”

  The dinner party at the popular gathering spot was, as Jamie had expected, extremely noisy and brawlsome. The parties given in owned, leased or rented-for-the-weekend houses were subdued to some degree by the fact that they were held in somebody’s house. Here, it was a bar, a posh disco-type place with a long bar and a dance floor and eerie lights. The dinner was being given by a young married couple who studiously avoided getting close to each other during the entire evening.

  Later, in the parking lot, heading for a coffeehouse down the street along with Thorne and ten or so merry, slightly drunk friends, Jamie saw the party’s hostess in a car with a man who wasn’t her husband. The man kissed her and slid the straps of her dress down from her shoulders.

  “You look upset,” Thorne told her, as they pushed their way through the noisy crowd at the coffeehouse. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. It seemed to her that it was impossible to talk in this place; it was all a blur of sweatered, smiling, beautiful-looking people, moving from table to table, kissing, hugging, chatting. They were probably the richest, most spoiled generation in history, or at least one of them. They had all inherited their money, and although they were all well-educated, none of them seemed to Jamie to be one-hundredth as interesting as David Saunders.

  “At least nobody minds if I kiss you here,” Thorne said, as mugs of coffee and doughnuts were placed before them. He leaned toward her, his eyes warm—partly, she suspected, from the wine and brandy he’d had earlier. “There’s another party starting in a while,” he said softly, “breakfast and beds, if anybody’s interested.” He kissed her mouth gently. “Is anybody?”

  “Not tonight. I have to be in David’s kitchen very early, for what he calls our pre-work conference.”

  He hadn’t heard her; the band was too noisy. So they sat holding hands, not talking; Jamie smiled up into some stranger’s face now and again, as people stopped to hug or kiss Thorne or shake his hand.