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old; he isn't old, not really; he has so much vitality. "Are you all right?" she asked him.
"I'm fine; why shouldn't I be?" He put on a scowl. "I mixed up a couple of words; that doesn't mean I'm falling apart. It's hot, that's the problem, and you're keeping me here in the sun when Allison and I could be eating lunch. I thought you were in a hurry."
"Good-bye," Laura said softly. "Don't try to be fierce with me; I'm not fooled." She took Paul's arm. "We've been dismissed."
"About time," he said with a grin, and they left Owen and Allison standing together as they walked through the tunnel beneath the stands and out onto the street. "I want to make love to you," Paul said conversationally as they reached his car in the next block.
"Here?" she asked. "Or shall we stop at a more private gas station along the way?"
He laughed and they kissed in the front seat. "If those are the only choices, I prefer your cottage at the Cape. Would you be willing to wait a couple of hours?"
"I would always wait for you," Laura said, her voice low, and he glanced at her quickly before turning onto Commonwealth Avenue and driving toward the turnpike.
They had learned to be leisurely in their lovemaking. After the storms of their first weeks together, when it seemed they could never satisfy their hunger, they began to come together more slowly. And when they could stay together for the whole night, they took even longer, talking as they caressed and laughing together, even as their passion grew. When they finally fell asleep, their hands were clasped between them, and in the first moments of waking, before opening their eyes, they turned to each other and lay fiill length together, encircled tightly in each other's arms. Their legs were twined, her lips against his chest, his on her forehead, as they slowly came awake to the ligiit in the room and the small, fluttering movements of their bodies. Each morning they held each other for a long quiet time, drifting in warm silent closeness until desire flickered and then grew, like a small ripple far out in the ocean that gathers force and becomes, at last, a thundering wave. And as desire built they moved even more slowly,
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learning to hold back, to find new forms of pleasure, to draw arousal out like the long ripple moving to shore until passion overtook them, and together, one voice, one heart, they rode it to its crest, and together drifted back to the somnolent embrace in which they had begun.
In Osterville, they had the sunmier compound to themselves; they almost had Cape Cod to themselves, since few visitors came in May. They spent the days out of doors, sailing on the sun-sparkled water, picnicking in cool pine forests, chmbing barefoot in the sand dunes, leaving footprints that overlapped as they walked closely, hand in hand. And they walked by moonlight along the beach, laughing at the clownish gait of sandpipers hopping just ahead of them, and speculating about the long-ago women who had paced the widow's walks atop gray shingled houses overlooking the sea, waitmg for their husbands, the whaling captains who had gone to seek the ocean's riches and instead were taken by the ocean to invisible graves.
*Two weeks," Paul said on their last day. "Not enough. Let's extend it; we need at least another month to ourselves."
Laura buttoned her shirt. "I wish we could. But what excuse do I give Jules for not being there first thing tomorrow morning?"
"I'll call and tell him his chief assistant concierge has been kidnapped." He swept her long hair to the side and kissed the back of her neck. "I'll say I need her to help me clear the dinner dishes because it's not right to leave them until morning."
Laura laughed and reached for her hiking shoes. "Jules would say you're mad. He doesn't clear the table at his house."
"And if I tell him I dry while you wash?"
"He'd say that isn't man's work."
"Well, it shouldn't be yours, either, while you're working full-time. We'll need at least two maids to run our house."
Laura's fingers stilled, then, slowly, she resumed tying her shoes. "I couldn't tell a maid what to do," she said hghtly. "I've never had one."
"I have. I'll lay down the law and all you have to do is give praise when it's due. A perfect partnership."
Judith Michael
She gave a small smile. "It sounds like it."
"Of course, it depends on where we're living." Paul was bent over, tying his boots. "If we stay in Boston, Mother or Leni will find us the perfect maids who already know everything, and we won't have to worry. Or Rosa will send over one of her dozen or so nieces to take charge of our household. If we're not in Boston, then we're on our own. Do you think we should stay in Boston?"
"But Owen— " Laura's heart was racing and the words caught in her throat. "Don't you remember I told you Owen may want me in Chicago?"
"Is that definite? When?"
"Not for a while, I think. I'll stay with Jules until . . . until something is settled."
"Well, it doesn't matter, we can live very well in Chicago. I have friends there; you'll like them. I'll be one of those husbands who happily follows his wife from job to job and greets her at the door every night with a martini. But you don't drink martinis."
"No." Laura's throat was choked. "But if yoa could find a nice red wine ..." Tears stopped her and she turned away, blindly reaching for a tissue.
"My God, what have I said?" Paul got to the box before she did and wiped her eyes. "You don't want me in Chicago? You don't want me at all? For God's sake, why would this make you cry? It all seems so natural—"
"Oh, hush," she said. "Please stop talking. Of course I want you in Chicago. I want you anywhere. I don't know why I'm crying—"
Paul kissed her, and then they held each other for a long time, while her heart slowed. And she felt his slow, too. *This was all serious," she said, drawing back to look at him.
"Did you doubt it? Of course it's serious; it's the most serious thing I've ever done. I should have done it long ago; I've loved you for so long I can't remember what it's like not loving you. But why would I want to remember? I'll never have to live that way again."
"No. We'll always be together." She put her head on his shoulder, feeling the sinewy muscles of his arms beneath her hands. It was all right now. Everything was all right.
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She was safe.
They stood quietly until Paul tilted up her face. "Laura, my love, what arc you thinking about?"
"Owen," she said with a small smile. "I asked him once how he proposed to Iris, and he said he didn't, really; one night they just found themselves talking about where they would live."
"Did he? I never heard that. But Rosa always said they were perfect together. Now she'll have us to talk about. And she can make our wedding cake; ever since I finished college she's told me she's been waiting to make one, whenever I decide to settle down. Is next week all right—here at the Cape? There's a wonderful old church in East Dennis; I always thought I'd like to be married there. And I'd like the family to be with us. You would, too, wouldn't you? It will make it seem more official."
Laura's words were soft. "Of course I would. And next week would be wonderful."
But Leni declared it impossible. She needed time to make a proper wedding; it would have to be in August. In private, she told Owen she had serious doubts about the whole affair. 'They're so very different, their backgrounds are different, Laura has no money at all and Paul doesn't even know what it is to woiic, and whatever she earns will always seem like pin money next to his fortune— **
"It's the best thing that could happen," Owen said firmly, omitting all mention of his warnings to Laura the year before. "Leni, this girl has made the past years a joy for me, and she's going to make her mark in the hotels; you just wait and see what she and I are cooking up. And look at Paul; have you ever seen him stay with one woman or in one place for so long and so happily? And Allison says she feels as if they're sisters. My God, if Laura weren't marrying into the family we'd have to adopt her!"
Leni smiled. "She's del
ightful, I don't deny it, and I'm very fond of her; I just don't know what to predict with the two of them."
"How were your predictions when you married Felix?"
"Wrong," she said briefly. "And that reminds me. Felix is extremely angry; he says Laura is a fortune hunter. That's why I'm giving them a splendid wedding."
Judith Michael
Owen chuckled, but when she had left, his eyes grew somber. I'm eighty-three, he thought, and, no question about it, a little more shaky than I used to be. I have one of the world's great hotel chains and two sons. But—
What does a man do with the work of a lifetime when he doesn't like what his sons have become?
There was no one he could talk to; the only confidante he was comfortable with was Laura, and he couldn't bring her into this. Nor anyone else. He had to woric it out alone.
He sat in his library through the early part of June while the family prepared to leave for the Cape. Often he saw the sunrise; he slept badly and would leave his bed to sit in the high-backed leather chair in his library and watch the stars or the setting of the crescent moon. In the afternoons, he would doze in the same chair and waken when he heard Laura come in from work. But mostly those days he wrote, filling page after page with his bold, sloping handwriting, summarizing the plans for his hotels he and Laura were working on. He had thought about them for years without any sense of urgency; now he knew the project had become a way of saying he wasn't really old, wasn't anywhere near death. How could anyone be close to death when he was making such grand, far-reaching plans?
"Nearly done," he said on a Friday evening when Laura sat across from him at his desk. It was a massive two-sided piece of furniture made by Chippendale the Younger in 1804. Leni had bought it for Owen years before, envisioning Felix and his father sitting cozily across from one another, working together. But it was Laura who sat there; Felix had taken advantage of the double width only a few times and not at all after Owen retired. Owen had thought of giving the desk to Thomas, who admired it, especi^y after he discovered a flaw in it: there was a crack in the wood behind one of the drawers where papers got stuck and seemed to disappear forever when the drawer was too full. But he didn't want to hurt Leni and the crack wasn't serious; he just used other drawers. Later he was glad he had kept the desk. Some of his happiest times came when he and Laura faced each other across its gleaming mahogany, each having what amounted to a full desk with drawers and cabinet doors flanking the kneehole opening that went through from one side to the other.
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"Nearly done," he repeated with satisfaction, handing four manila folders across the desk. "New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Washington. We'll keep them separate for now, for accounting purposes, so we know what each of them costs to renovate and fiimish, but we'll buy for all four when we purchase supplies."
Laura nodded, feeling little jolts of pleasure every time Owen said "we," making her part of every step in the plans for restoring his hotels.
"Of course we'll begin with Chicago," he said, "since that's the one you'll manage."
"If I'm ready."
"You will be. My dear, you learn more quickly than anyone I've ever known, and you have at least another year to prepare. You'll be far more ready than most managers; my God, Willard Payne was a bellhop straight out of high school when I bought the Philadelphia hotel fifty-odd years ago, and he got to be manager just by outliving everybody else. Of course the hotel was fading by then; we were so busy buying new ones, building new ones, expanding to other countries ... I let those old ones slip badly, I fear. And then none of the young hotshot managers wanted them; they wanted the glamorous modem ones." He paused. "You see, FeUx is right in a way. Everyone does want only the most up-to-date of the important things. We'll find guests who like my kind of antique charm, but every one of them will demand modem plumbing and television and this new beeper system I understand they're putting in some of the Hyatts. So we have to give them both. Yesterday and today."
He gestured toward the folders. "Well, it's all there; we've talked about most of it. I've added a few more ideas; Felix won't like them—too expensive and risky—but he won't like the whole project, which is why I've always kept my small corporation separate from the family one: he has nothing to say about what I do or don't do with those four hotels. Now, what else? Ah, Clay. I'd like him to be assistant to a professional manager for a few years; then if we both decide he's ready, we'll find a hotel for him to manage. Is that satisfactory?"
"You know it is. You*ie wonderful to both of us.** Laura
Judith Michael
walked around the desk and kissed his forehead. "I'll read through these later. You're having dinner with us, did you remember?"
"I never forget invitations from people I love. Is it just the three of us? Or do I need a tie?"
"You don't need a tie; it's just us; I'm cooking at Paul's apartment. And he's doing the dishes. We'll see you at seven."
"Laura." She turned at the different note in Owen's voice. "You haven't told Paul about these plans, have you?"
"No; you asked me not to until we were ready to start."
He nodded. 'There's a chance it might get to Felix; it will all be so much easier if he isn't trying to create obstacles. E>oes that bother you, to keep it secret?'*
"I'd rather tell him, but if it will please you I can wait."
**Thank you. And my dear—" He paused and pulled his sweater more tightly around him. He always felt chilled these days, even in June; he didn't know why. "I've written you a letter with all our plans—financing, renovation, everything— in one document, instead of four folders: a summary of them, really, and an explanation of some things that I've done, so everyone will understand. I want you to have it in case you have to handle the project yourself.'*
"But why would I? You can manage everything far better than— ** Her eyes widened and quickly she returned to his chair. "Is something wrong? Are you ill?"
"No. But neither am I yoimg. A wise man thinks ahead, and if I am not wise at eighty-ttuee, when will I be?" He held oat to her a long envelope with her name on it. *Take it; put it away somewhere for safekeeping. You may not need it but I want you to have it."
"Keep it in your desk," Laura said. "Do you mind? I'll always know where it is but I'd rather you kept it." / don't want to think about your dying; I don't want to have anything that reminds me I'm going to lose you. "It's yours until . . . until I need it.**
**If it makes you feel better.** He dropped the envelope into die top drawer of his desk. "Now Vm going to take a nap so I can be scintillating at dinner. Go cm, my dear; 1*11 see you at seven."
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Laura left the house slowly and walked down Beacon Hill, crossing the Arthur Fiedler footbridge to the promenade that ran alongside the Charles River. It was one of her favorite walks. On one side of the grassy, tree-shaded strip of land was the wide river dotted with sailboats; on the other was a narrow finger of the river; and just beyond glowed the soft red brick of old Back Bay houses. Their blunt shadows enfolded her in that special aura of sedate age and fixedness that was what she loved best about Boston. Nowhere else, she thought, would she have been able to feel so secure, with the past wiped out so completely. And nowhere else would she have felt protected enough to write to Ben about her engagement. He was still in Amsterdam—that job seemed to be lasting—and she had written to him about her graduation and her plans for marriage and a job in Chicago. She had told him most of it—but she had not told him Paul's name. There was plenty of time, she thought; once we're married, he'll keep his feelings about the Salingers to himself. Maybe he'll even change the way he feels. There's time for all of that.
Paul's apartment took up the third floor of one of the old four-story apartments in the Back Bay, a block from the river. He had taken the basement for his studio, and Laura found him there, reorganizing photographs; old ones, she saw; he hadn't made any new ones, except pictures of her, in months. He turned and kissed her. "I set
the table this afternoon, but I regret to tell you that dinner is not ready."
She laughed. "I wasn't expecting miracles. Anyway, it's going to be simple: fish chowder and salad." She leaned against him within the circle of his arms. "I'm so grateful for you. For finding you and loving you, and knowing you love me.
"And whom do you thank?" he asked with a smile.
"The fates," she said gravely. *The three daughters of Zeus. They spin the web of life, and measure it, and cut it out."
"And brought you to our family four years ago?" She was oddly silent and he said, "Well, whoever did it has my deepest thanks. He or she or they changed my life. All our lives, when you think about it. We'd all be different in some ways if you weren't here."
"Shall we take a walk before dinner?" Laura asked.
Judith Michael
"If you're up to it after a ftill day with Jules." Something had caused that sudden silence, he thought; something from her past. He wondered why she didn't understand that nothing mattered but the present and the future they would make together. He took her hand as they walked along Fairfield to the comer, coming upon the crowds of students from the colleges housed in the old buildings along Commonwealth. "Was it a good day?"
"It was a wonderful day; we pleased the Countess Irinia. I told you about her last year—the Romanian exile who wanted a yacht for a week, and we got the yacht and her favorite chef. This year she wanted ideas for a different kind of party, and I thou^t of a resort Jules had checked out about six months ago and raved about. It's called Damton's and it's on its own island in Lake Champlain, and I called the owner—Kelly Dam-ton; she and her husband run it together—and arranged a week for the Countess and her party, with entertainment, and tiien Jules leased a private train to take them there. She was so pleased, like a little girl who gets to show off for her friends; she kept telling me how wonderful I am."
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