Crazy in Love

by Luanne Rice

  “Fine. It didn’t seem to upset her at all.”

  “So much time has passed.” She slapped my forearm. “I’m jealous she told you instead of me. She must be taking your role as the Swift Observer very seriously. She’s not confiding in her daughter, she’s confiding in an entity.”

  “Maybe that’s true. Heaven knows we’ve been trying to get it out of her for years.”

  “Why didn’t you call me the minute you heard?”

  “I was going to—the day I invited you for lunch and you threw me over for swimming lessons.”

  “I almost wish I didn’t know. Now I’ll always have to picture Dad kissing little Mrs. Billings. It’s a letdown in a way—I used to imagine him with an Elizabeth Taylor type.”

  “So did I. Knowing her true identity makes it seem more real, I think. I feel worse for Honora.”

  “I don’t. It’s too bad Dad cheated on her, but it’s not the worst thing that could happen. Honora has always drummed it into our heads that men are scheming sex fiends, ready to leave you at the first opportunity. No wonder you’re paranoid about Nick.”

  “I’m not exactly paranoid,” I said, beginning to hear the faint hum of the plane’s engine.

  “Listen, the fact that you even doubt him is ridiculous. Donald says Nick begins dreaming of coming home the second he gets into the plane in the morning. Give him a break and don’t have affair attacks anymore.”

  “I’ll try.” The plane banked into sight, the port and starboard lights now clearly visible. “I’m not really worried anyway.”

  “Bullshit,” Clare said, smiling at me. Then we held hands and said “Safe landing” at the same time, a ritual we followed whenever we were together as the plane came in. The plane chattered across the glassy bay.

  “When does Nick’s firm have its summer outing?” she asked.

  I had nearly forgotten about the annual summer party for lawyers and spouses. “Sometime before the end of June. Next week, I guess. How about Donald’s?”

  “Next week also,” she said, making a face that reminded me of one of Pem’s.

  Nick and Donald stepped onto the jetty. The ferry to Orient Point chugged along the horizon. Dark clouds had gathered over Plum Island, covering the early stars. Nick came toward me. He held me close. “You feel wonderful,” he said.

  “Say it like you mean it,” I said, and he bent me over backwards, supporting my shoulders with one arm, and kissed me hard. Then we stood up.

  “Let’s have dinner. I’m starving,” I said. We said goodnight to Clare and Donald. With our arms around each other we walked up the stone walk, across the porch, into our house.

  THE DAYS OF EARLY summer passed quickly. My first report to the Avery Foundation submitted, I now worked on the second. It gave me pleasure to work each day before the heat came, filling the air with white mist. One day I called every woman whose engagement announcement appeared in the New London Day, to ask questions about love, family, what she wanted from life. The answers ranged from thoughtful to absurd. “We just want to be together,” said Judy Delancray, with shy pride in her voice. “I got to get away from my parents,” said Marlene Arturo. “We want to fuck with the church’s permission,” said Noreen Jackowski in a voice so deep that I suspected I had reached her brother or a male cousin, someone grabbing the opportunity for fun on the telephone. I laughed with him, remembering how Clare and I had adored prank calls as children.

  None of the betrothed, however, could distract me from the well-publicized news that Mona Tuchman had suffered a miscarriage. One night I was standing at the sink, chopping vegetables, imagining the conversation she and I would have, when I heard the seaplane. I checked my watch: nine-thirty.

  For a moment I tried to ignore the droning engine. I had a terrible superstition, from which I was trying to escape, that the plane would crash if I wasn’t actually watching it. When I was young I had believed the Red Sox would lose if I didn’t watch them on TV, that my father’s ship would sink on a trip to the other hemisphere if I wasn’t standing on Water Street waving goodbye when he left. On his last, doomed trip, he had flown to Scotland from Boston. I had kissed him goodbye in Woods Hole, but in order to attend a birthday party had stayed behind while Honora drove him to Logan Airport. Remembering that lapse in vigilance, I dropped the knife and hurried to the porch door. Through the trees I saw the plane’s lights angling down. They seemed to skim the top of the privet hedge. Then I heard the small splash as the plane landed.

  Nick came inside and shook off his jacket. His lean face was tired but smiling. By this time of June it was usually more tan.

  “It’s good to have you home,” I said.

  “Oh, what a day it was,” he said, following me into the kitchen, watching me start dinner.

  While dinner cooked we changed, Nick into striped blue pajamas, I into my white nightgown. I always washed it with strong bleach to keep it looking nearly blue, a prediliction I had picked up from Liza Jordan during my days as her maid. We sat on the sofa. My back against the sofa arm, I stretched my legs across Nick’s lap. He touched my toes. I stared at the white fabric draped across my knee, its folds deep lavender in the shadowy lamplight. Just one lamp burned beside us, and I loved the way it isolated me and Nick together, leaving the rest of the room dark.

  “No one looks as comfortable as you do,” Nick said. “The way you snuggle into a sofa.”

  “I’m a sloth.”

  “No, that’s not it. Remember that Whistler exhibit at the Freer?”

  During law school one of Nick’s favorite ways to relax was to visit the Freer Gallery on Sunday afternoons. We had loved the Chinese screens, the lacquered writing boxes, and the Peacock Room, but Nick had especially enjoyed an exhibition of Whistler’s watercolors. I knew what he was going to say.

  “I think of those paintings a lot,” he said. “The women looked just like you, even if they didn’t resemble each other. The way they reclined on those chaise longues, or curled up in chairs to read. They were beautiful, such small paintings, but vivid. The expressions on the faces . . . you looked at one woman, all comfortable in a chair, and she’d smile at you with the most intelligent eyes. Or maybe she’d just been crying. That’s how I think of you. Your face can’t hide anything. Right now you look so happy. Your face is so pretty and happy.”

  “You’re home. We’re together.”

  “I know. That’s what makes you happy.”

  “You know that and yet you begrudge me the chance to rendezvous with you on late nights in New York. Some husbands would actually find that romantic.” We were together and times were easy; I could joke about it when Nick was touching me.

  “I find it romantic. But sometimes I find it exhausting. You know there are times when all I want to do is call room service for a BLT.”

  “What did you do today?” I asked. “Are you exhausted?”

  “Not really. Broadsword is on hold, so I negotiated the basics of an agreement between two companies who want to form a joint venture in Great Britain. It was pretty exciting—we drafted and signed a letter of intent before lunch.”

  “You mean their two companies will be joined as one?”

  “Only in a matter of speaking. The two companies are joining forces in one area they have in common—fiber optics—in the EEC countries. The company that hired us—our client—will actually own more shares in the new company that will be formed. That means that they’ll hold the controlling vote.”

  “The controlling vote? Like Honora?”

  Nick laughed. “She’d make a dandy chairman of the board. And she does exert a certain amount of control around here. But I don’t hear anyone complaining.”

  “We humor her. But go on with your day,” I said, smiling at the idea of anyone thinking they could humor Honora.

  “Let’s see. After the signing we all went out to lunch at the Windmill. I made sure to order spa food so I could eat a good dinner tonight.”

  “That’s commendable. We’re having chick
en.”

  “And after that we returned to the client’s office on Park Avenue and he told me a few war stories about his days as an arbitrator in London.”

  “Oh? He’s a lawyer?” I asked.

  “Yes—he’s general counsel for the corporation.”

  “Company lawyers work less than lawyers at law firms,” I said, dismayed to hear an accusatory tone in my voice.

  “True, but their deals are not so big. Not so exciting.”

  “I know,” I said. “I wouldn’t want you to give up what you do. You love it so much. Even if the price is BLTs from room service.”

  He leaned across my outstretched legs and gave me a long kiss. His hands held my knees as if they were breasts, then moved to my breasts. His tongue parted my lips, and with our lips touching he said, “Right now I don’t want a BLT.”

  We sat on that sofa kissing for fifteen minutes. Having enough free time to kiss is one of the great luxuries of a busy marriage. We knew we’d wind up making love, but we didn’t want to rush into it. I lay back, not touching Nick with my hands, and felt him kiss my mouth, my eyelids, my collarbone. We sat side by side, our arms around each other, kissing with our eyes closed, then open. He kissed one corner of my mouth, then the other. Running his finger down the length of my spine, he made me arch against the pressure.

  The timer sounded to tell us the chicken was ready.

  “I don’t want a BLT and I don’t want roast chicken,” Nick said. And we walked into our bedroom.

  THE DAY OF THE summer outing dawned clear and fine. The air held no trace of humidity. I lay awake, enjoying the novelty of Nick still asleep beside me. Today he wouldn’t go to the office; it wasn’t allowed. The invitation, printed on Hubbard, Starr cream vellum stationery, had read:

  Our annual summer outing will be held Thursday, June 25, at Stoneleigh Bath and Tennis Club. We hope all of you, together with your dates or spouses, will be able to attend. As always, attendance at this affair is mandatory—so please make your plans accordingly. Those who do not attend will be subjected to heinous sanctions currently being developed by the Corporate Coordinating Committee in plenary session.

  There will be golf and tennis available to all, as well as appropriate intra-team athletic contests to be organized by the Super Athletic Coordinating Committee.

  All of this will be followed by cocktails on the Club Terrace commencing at 6:30 P.M. and dinner at 7:30 P.M. The club requests that jackets and ties be worn on the Club Terrace.

  Sincerely,

  Corporate Coordinating Committee

  Lying still beside Nick, who was snoring, I reflected that tonight would be the first weeknight in months that any Hubbard, Starr associate had eaten dinner at seven-thirty.

  OUR BAGS PACKED with tennis and evening clothes, we began our journey. We took one train into New York and transferred to the Long Island Railroad.

  “See that blond girl toward the back of the car?” Nick asked.

  Pretending to look for the conductor, I saw who he meant. The young woman was slight, with blond hair and a pink sundress.

  “She’s a summer associate,” Nick said. “Her name is Michele and she’s starting her third year at Harvard.”

  Summer associates were law students who worked at firms during their summer vacations, hoping to be offered permanent positions. Qualified law students were valuable; Wall Street firms wooed them with outings, summer memberships at exclusive clubs, and theater tickets. Summer outings such as this one were crucial for summer associates who vied for the highly coveted permanent jobs on Wall Street. Here they could hope to impress the right people.

  “We should probably invite her to share a cab to the club,” Nick said.

  “Good idea,” I said, not meaning it. My time with Nick ceased feeling special once we joined the throng. I felt too obliged to act sweet to summer associates and charming to partners to really enjoy myself. But at least the Stoneleigh Bath and Tennis Club had good food and lovely grounds.

  When the train reached Stoneleigh, we stepped onto the platform and waited for Michele to emerge. She didn’t. The train began slowly to pull away.

  “Shit, she must have missed the stop,” Nick said, looking worried.

  “So what? This train stops every five minutes. Let her take a cab back from the next station.” I took his arm, leading him toward the taxi stand. The train inched past.

  Suddenly Michele hurled herself out the moving train’s open door. The train’s brakes screeched. A conductor leapt to the pavement. Nick ran to help Michele, who had crumpled on the pavement. Before he reached her, she stood up. Blood trickled down her face; it had stained her blond hair rust and dribbled onto her sundress. Covering the wound with one hand, she held her other hand out to me.

  “You must be Mrs. Symonds,” she said, smiling graciously. “I’ve seen your picture on Nick’s desk.”

  “Sit down,” I said. “Right here.” I pushed the girl onto the train platform. My heart pounded in my throat.

  “Are you a lawyer too?” the girl asked, still smiling brightly. “It’s just incredible how many lawyers marry other lawyers.”

  “You must be in shock,” I said, amazed that the girl would try to act normal.

  “All of a sudden she just jumped off,” the conductor was saying to Nick. “I turned around and she’s running down the aisle and she takes a flying leap.”

  “The train wasn’t moving very fast at all,” Michele said, as if confiding a secret, her voice perfectly controlled. “I missed the stop because I was reading some securities regulations. You know, for the Southport Electric case, Nick. Anyway, I’m just fine. If I can just find a ladies’ room, I can freshen up.”

  I pressed my white tennis shorts to the gash in her head. It looked deep and purple, about an inch long.

  “Listen,” Nick said. “We have to take you to the emergency room.”

  Michele stood, holding my shorts to the side of her head. She laughed. “Don’t be silly. Give me a minute, and maybe we can share a cab. Unless you two want to go on ahead.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Nick said. I heard impatience, anger, in his voice. “We’re going to the hospital. Head injuries can be really dangerous, Michele.”

  “I have to take down her name,” the conductor said. “It’s a regulation.” The train stood still; passengers watched avidly through the grimy windows.

  “I’m sorry,” Michele said, smiling. “Give me a minute while I find the ladies’ room.” She weaved speedily around a corner.

  “There is an Observer piece in this,” I said, hurrying after her, leaving Nick to fill out the train man’s forms.

  He caught up with us at a gas station two blocks away. Michele had locked herself in the ladies’ room. “This is unreal,” I said. “She’s obsessed with the summer outing. She refuses to go to the hospital. Did you see the blood?” I pressed my head against Nick’s chest. The experience had left us both shaking.

  “Michele, we’re going to the hospital,” he called.

  She emerged, having changed into a red-and-white seersucker suit. She had washed her hair in the bathroom sink. She smiled sternly.

  “I appreciate your concern, but I will not go to the hospital. It is that simple. Now, where can we get a taxi?”

  I had to marvel at the tyranny of this frail, wounded blonde. She would make a fine lawyer. During the ride to the club, she sat in the front seat chattering about the wonderful experience Hubbard, Starr had provided so far. It was as though the accident had been a mere hiccup in her plan to bowl over the partners and senior associates. Nick and I sat in the backseat, astonished. To me it seemed the perfect metaphor of the cutthroat Wall Street spirit: that a woman would risk concussion and maybe brain damage to ensure a job offer at Hubbard, Starr. Nick whispered that he planned to find the hiring coordinator and suggest that she force Michele to have her head examined, yuk, yuk.

  The cab sped up a long drive bordered with mountain laurel and rhododendrons. Through the bushes, we
glimpsed emerald fairways and grass tennis courts. All tennis players wore white; even the balls were white. This was, after all, Long Island’s North Shore, home of Jay Gatsby. I had been here on many summer outings. I knew just when the clubhouse, a rambling white clapboard building with green shutters and trellises of roses, would come into sight. The cab stopped at the main entrance.

  Couples dressed in white strolled past. Barn swallows swooped down from the eaves. Michele bid us farewell and went off in search of more-influential members of the firm.

  “That woman is a first-class maniac,” Nick said, watching her extend her hand to Greg Gerston.

  “You’d better tell someone about her head,” I said. “I can just imagine her keeling over in the middle of cocktails and you getting blamed for not getting medical help.”

  “I suppose so. I’ll be right back.”

  I sat on a white bench beneath a tall elm. A cab discharged a group of associates. Two of them approached me.

  “Hello, Jean, Pete,” I said. Stocky Pete Margolis was dressed to play golf, his bag swung over one shoulder. Jean Snizort, the most beautiful of Nick’s colleagues, wore a stunning off-the-shoulder red blouse and full print skirt. It looked sensuous and bold.

  “Well, hi, Jessie,” Jean said, smiling sweetly.

  “It’s Georgie,” I said, correcting her, the way I always did.

  Jean touched her forehead. “I am so sorry. Why can’t I get that straight?”

  “You have a rather unusual name,” Pete said, kissing my cheek. I smiled at him, recognizing the private joke. Pete had once occupied the office across from Nick’s, and we had gotten friendly on the Saturdays I spent at the firm. He was irreverent and had once confessed to me that he purposely forgot people’s names to throw them off guard. He had said it was common practice among lawyers.

  “Where’s your fellow?” Jean asked.

  “Oh, he went to find someone,” I said, telling them the story of Michele.