Sabrina had grown up shuttling back and forth between her parents’ homes, and at the time she’d thought nothing of it. Amanda and Gebhart loved each other. When they were together, they were openly and honestly affectionate. They simply couldn’t live with each other full-time—or so they explained to Sabrina when she began to wonder and ask—and she accepted that, too, for a time. In recent years, though, she’d had doubts. She’d come to see her parents as lonely people, people caught between creative needs and emotional ones. Each had achieved success, but at a price.
For that reason, Sabrina no longer begrudged her parents the odd upbringing she’d had. And for that reason, she always tried to receive her mother’s phone calls with an audible smile.
“Hi, Mom. How’re you doing?”
Amanda answered in the feathery tones that fit her well. “The most wonderful thing just happened, sweetheart. Glen-dine escaped from the last of the Wuftigs. She’s on her way to the Jennery Fields now, and assuming she doesn’t fall on any gluxide mines, she’s home free. He’s waiting for her at Konrell, sweetheart. Zaaro’s waiting at Konrell!”
“That’s great, Mom. I take it Konrell wasn’t destroyed by the Jaspards?”
“A little damage,” Amanda admitted airily, “but nothing that the corps couldn’t fix in an afternoon. Their technology is incredible, sweetheart. A few molecular transfers and things were perfect.” She sighed. “If we only knew half of what they do…”
Sabrina bit her lip. When she was sure she could sound properly respectful, she asked, “Is that the end of the Dusalon series?”
“No, no. There are two more books left. I still haven’t settled the fates of Quist and Fravilon.”
“Mm. Right. I’d forgotten.”
“Quist’s story is next. I’ll be starting it at the end of the week, and unless your father distracts me with a surprise visit, I’ll finish it before my birthday. I’d really like to do that. J. B. is coming up with the girls. He hates it when I talk Dusalon.”
“But he always talks whatever it is that he’s writing.”
“But that’s different. His horror stories are his identity. He hides behind them. If only he could find a woman who’d bring him out. Jenny and he were ill-suited.”
“She loved him for a time.”
“I was never quite sure whether she loved him or his royalties.”
Sabrina snorted. “It would take mighty hefty royalties to keep a woman with J. B.”
“He gets mighty hefty royalties. Sabrina, he’s not that bad.”
“No?”
Amanda was still for a minute before conceding, “Well, he’s easy to look at. And speaking of easy to look at, how’s gorgeous Nicky?”
“Gorgeous.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Lousy.”
“I thought you were seeing Howard Frasier. As specialists go, he’s the best. Wasn’t he any help?”
“Not really.”
“You sound down.”
“I am. I’m tired, Mom.”
“You haven’t been sleeping?”
“Oh, I have. I mean, I’ve had the flu for the past few days, and that’s taken something out of me, but there’s more. I’m burning out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nicky is taking too much from me.”
“He’s your son.”
“And I love him, love him so much, but it’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t always fair. What’s your alternative?”
“A private hospital,” Sabrina said, deliberately avoiding the word “institution.” She’d tried that once on her mother. It hadn’t gone over well. “There’s a place in Vermont that I’ve been—”
“Don’t, Sabrina. He’ll come along. Give him time.”
“That’s what Nick says, but it isn’t working. Nicky has serious problems.”
“He’s a special child.”
“He’s handicapped.”
“Yes, but is putting him away the solution?”
Sabrina curled into herself. “You make him sound like a dog. I’m not ‘putting him away.’ I’m simply looking for a place where the people are equipped to handle problems like his.”
“You can handle them. You’ve been through training programs. You can go through more.”
“But the emotional price—”
“Nicky is your son. He needs to be with you.”
“I can’t deal with it, Mom. If I knew things would improve by next year or the year after, I could hang on. But things aren’t going to improve in five, ten or twenty years. We’re talking full-time custodial care for the rest of his life.”
“Is that what the doctors say?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, sweetheart…”
“I know. There are times when I’m so embroiled in the everyday trauma that I don’t see the larger tragedy. There are other times when the entire picture is crystal-clear, and it eats me alive.”
“The tragedy,” Amanda decided, “is that Nicky isn’t on Dusalon. They’d be able to do something for him there. Actually, they wouldn’t have to do anything for him, because they’d have caught and corrected the problem before he was born and you’d have a wonderfully healthy boy.”
“He’s not on Dusalon, and we don’t know that the problem is genetic. It could be—”
“If the problem weren’t genetic, they’d be able to fix that, too. Even the Wuftigs know about reconstructing cell and reversing brain damage. Why is it that doctors here can’t do it?”
The sound of her pout brought a sad smile to Sabrina’s face. “Because this is reality, Mom.” Her smile listed wanly. “Maybe you could give the doctors a little hint … you know, a shove in the right direction?”
“I can’t do that. My books are copyrighted.”
It was the standard answer Amanda gave when Sabrina teased. The fact was, Amanda had imbued the Dusalonians with their extraordinary medical powers only after Nicky was born. If J. B. Monroe hid behind his horror stories Amanda Monroe expressed her wishes through science fiction.
“And besides,” Amanda went on, “Earth doctors are too full of themselves. They’d never listen to an alien. When I dared suggest to the young doctor who lives next door that he should have his wife drink my ambrosia each night, he looked at me like I was crazy. That, after asking me why I look forty when I’m about to turn fifty-six. You are coming out for my party, aren’t you, Sabrina?”
“Uh, Mom, I don’t know.”
“Why not? It’s not every day that I have a birthday. You didn’t come for Thanksgiving or Christmas. I haven’t see you since last summer, and only then when I flew into New York for my publisher’s party.”
How could Sabrina explain the pain she felt seeing her family, when she didn’t wholly understand it herself?… No, not seeing her family. Having her family see Nicky. She wasn’t ashamed of him, at least she didn’t think she was. But she’d wanted to do motherhood right, and Nicky hadn’t worked. She loved him. She loved her parents. She watched them watching him, and she felt odd—self-conscious and guilty, maybe disappointed.
And she had trouble being with J. B. He would stare at Nicky, then declare that the problem was a spirit that had entered through a hair follicle and had taken control of the child—or something else equally bizarre. And she had trouble seeing J. B.’s daughters, who were seven and ten, adorable, outgoing, and quick. They had all their marbles. Her son didn’t, and it hurt.
It occurred to her to wonder whether she was competing with her brother, which puzzled her, because she didn’t know why she should. But she had too many things to think about, so she simply said in response to her mother’s question, “Traveling with Nicky is such a hassle.”
“But we want to see him. We want to see you.”
“Nick’s been very busy. I doubt he could take the time.”
“Fine,” was Amanda’s reaction. “Leave him home.”
Sabrina gave a dry chuckle. “No love lost there.”
“
I’ve always found Nicholas to be a little stiff for my tastes. And that was even before Nicky was born. Is he still being difficult?”
“He’s okay.”
“Is he accepting Nicky any more than he did?”
“He still denies the problem, if that’s what you mean.”
“Does he spend time with him?”
“Once in a while. He tosses him in the air, roughhouses a little—anything to give a semblance of normalcy. I hold my breath when Nicky’s head wobbles, but the worst of it is that Nicholas always manages to get a sound out of him. The sound may be Nicky’s version of a terrified scream—we’ll never know, but it is a sound.”
“Is Nicholas at all supportive of you?”
Sabrina bowed her head and rubbed the frown lines between her eyes. Her mother wasn’t in outer space now; she was right there, all there, summarizing the worst of the situation in a nutshell.
“Nicholas thinks I’m an alarmist.”
“Regardless of what he thinks of you, he has to have some respect for the doctors, doesn’t he?”
It had been months since Nicholas had gone with her to any of the appointments. “He hangs on to his dreams.”
“Sounds like he needs a counselor himself.”
Sabrina wanted to laugh. Nicholas saw himself as being in total control of his life. He wouldn’t admit that Nicky had problems. He’d never admit that he had problems himself. She could just imagine his ridicule if she dared to suggest marital counseling.
She wanted marital counseling. She wanted something. She wanted to spill everything, to tell her mother about the wreck that was her marriage, but she couldn’t, she just couldn’t. She’d taken such care in choosing a husband, finding a man she thought to be stable and successful. Her parents had had reservations about Nicholas Stone from the first, and for reasons similar to those her mother had just named—they’d thought him to be Establishment to the core, which wasn’t saying all that much, given Amanda and Gebhart’s nonconformism. And it certainly wasn’t a case of saying that they’d been right. Nick’s conservatism hadn’t destroyed the marriage. Life had done it. Fate had done it. When things had soured and the chips were down, Nicholas and she were no good together. Neither could offer what the other needed. They let each other down. They clashed.
“Nicholas will come around in time,” Sabrina ventured.
“I hope so for your sake. What will you do if he doesn’t?”
“I don’t know.” It was as close as she could come to admitting that the marriage might be doomed.
“Oh, sweetheart…”
“Mmm. Pretty depressing, isn’t it?”
“You do need to get away. Why not come for my party and plan to stay a few weeks?”
“But the problem will be with me whether I’m here or there, and the advantage of being here is that there are a few trained people I can fall back on when I’ve had it up to my eyeballs.”
“You do need to get away from Nicky for a few days. Just for a breather. If you were to do that every once in a while, you’d be able to manage just fine. You wouldn’t have to think about putting the child in a hospital.”
Later that night, then at odd times during the next few days, Sabrina took the plain white envelope from its spot between pages 209 and 210 of the book on the headboard shelf. She read and reread the message inside. She listed the pros and cons of her returning to Parkersville, reviewed them time and again in her mind. Inevitably, she refolded the paper, returned it neatly to its envelope, returned the envelope to that safe spot in her book and the book to its shelf.
* * *
Maura Coryelle was a bundle of energy. She was by profession a literary agent, but at any given time she had her fingers in a dozen other pies. She’d had grand successes and gross failures, but she was a survivor. She bounced back. Single, and generally on the make, she was alternatively an angel, a devil and a minx. She was wily. She was loyal. She made the society pages of Town and Country as often as Sabrina. She told jokes that were more than a little off color, and her conversation was peppered with swear words. She was just what Sabrina needed.
A week had gone by since Sabrina had talked with her mother. Six days had gone by since she’d resumed caring for Nicky. Her husband’s face had been as scarce as ever during that time.
“Ah, Maura,” Sabrina said with a voluminous sigh moments after the maître d’ seated them, “it’s great to be out of the house. It’s great to be in a restaurant. And it’s great to be with you. Not in that order, of course.”
“Of course,” Maura said with an acknowledging nod. “But you can’t fool me. And I know just what the attraction is. As we get older, we revert to our youth. I represent your youth.”
Sabrina and Maura had been high school pals in San Francisco, and a more improbable friendship wasn’t often to be found. They were different in looks, background, personality and aspirations, but they complemented each other and had continued to do so even through the college years when they’d come East—Sabrina to Columbia, Maura to NYU. Their relationship now had the benefit of history.
“You represent my adulthood,” Sabrina corrected. “It’s been so long since I’ve been out for lunch that I feel like I’m playing grown-up.” With a regal air that she pulled off with grace, she settled her elbows on the velvet arms of her chair, looked up and around and caught the eye of the wine steward. He was at their table seconds later. “We’d like a dry Vouvray, please.”
The steward nodded and left.
“Who’s picking up the tab?” Maura asked.
“Me.”
“Great.” She relaxed and sat back. “Are we celebrating?”
“We’re relaxing.”
“Uh-oh, things are as bad as ever at home?”
Sabrina held up a hand. “Shh. Not today.”
“What do you mean, not today?”
“I don’t want to think about home. I’m tired of hearing myself whine all the time. I’m as bad as Nicky … unnnh, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But this is me. Maura. If you can’t pour out your heart to me, who can you pour it out to?”
Sabrina set her chin at a confident angle. “I’m not pouring today. So. How’s work? By the way, you look terrific. I love your hair.”
Maura shook the mass of long, Titian waves back from her face. “I thought I’d try life as a redhead.”
“How is it?”
“Not bad. Hmmm, pretty good. Actually”—she gave a Cheshire cat grin, leaned forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level—“it’s fuckin’ great! I met a guy last night who is not to be believed. I mean, tall and dark, good-looking as hell, silent, mysterious—and an absolute dream in bed.”
“What’s his name?”
“His name?” A moment’s pregnant pause proceeded a mischievous shrug.
Sabrina stared. “You’re kidding.”
Maura shook her head.
“How could you not know his name?”
“That was part of it,” she explained excitedly. “It was fantasy from the word go. Our eyes caught in the elevator of the Park Lane; we kept tabs on each other through three hours’ worth of dinner with other people at the restaurant; he was at the door when I was leaving, escorted me around the block, in the back door of the hotel and up to a room on the eleventh floor. It was unbelievably romantic.”
“It was insane. He could have been a mugger. Or a pervert. For that matter, he could have given you something. Have you stopped to consider that?”
“Why should I consider it with you here to do it for me? That’s why our friendship works, Sabrina. You’re rational. I’m impulsive.”
Sabrina realized that she’d summed it up pretty well. Maura counted on her practicality; she counted on Maura’s freshness. Not that picking up a guy in an elevator thrilled Sabrina.…
“You can relax,” Maura went on. “He was okay, really he was. He’s a lawyer form Houston.”
“Married?”
Maura sucked in her lip
s and rounded her eyes. The expression said, “How should I know?” She said, “He said no.”
“Did you give him your name?”
“Why in the hell would I want to do that?”
“So he could contact you again?”
“But giving him my name would have been too easy. I made a point to drop the names of a few of my more prominent clients. If he’s interested in finding me, a phone call to any one of them will do the trick.”
“Very clever.”
“Maybe. But the fun was in the anonymity of it, the naughtiness, don’t you see?”
Sabrina didn’t see at all, but then, she was the nesting type. Maura was not. “I’ll take your word for it,” she said with a smile for the wine steward, who had returned to present the bottle he’d chosen. “That looks fine.” After the bottle had been uncorked, a sample tasted and approved and their glasses filled, she raised hers. “To freedom.”
“Freedom? Where did that come from?”
Sabrina was at that very instant asking herself the same question. Images flitted through her mind—of prisons, one on Fifth Avenue, the other in the Berkshires. She dislodged them with a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head. “I don’t know. It just came. See what you do to me?”
“I wish I could do more to you,” Maura said. She sipped her wine and carefully set the glass down. “I wish I could get you to write again.”
“Work is slow?” Sabrina teased.
“Work is never slow!”
“Then you can’t be missing me. What’re you into now?”
“Besides books? A little music, a little art. And lots of cheesecake.”
Sabrina covered her face with a hand and moaned. “I don’t believe it, Maura. Cheesecake?”
“Not that kind of cheesecake. Cheesecake cheesecake—you know, the kind you eat? I met a girl who makes the most delicious cheesecake you’ve ever tasted … plain, chocolate, marble, raspberry, you name it, and in any shape and size. Baby Watson moooove over.”
Commitments Page 7
