Pot of gold : a novel

by Michael, Judith

  "Cruises can be wonderful," Hannah said. "I think it's very good that you're going. Shall I finish packing these books.^"

  "Thank you." Claire leaned against the wall and watched Hannah pack and thought about the cruise, with an impressive group of people on it, and the airplane she and Emma would take to Vancouver. Neither of them had ever flown. A new life, she thought. Everything, everything was new.

  And then, finally, they moved. Trucks carrying furniture and rugs all converged on their new house on the same morning from a dozen places in New York and Connecticut; the moving van arrived with their clothes and books and Claire's drawing materials; and Claire drove her white Mercedes, and Emma, with Hannah beside her, followed in her red one, up the long gentle rise that led to their gleaming house, serene and safe in its oak and sycamore forest.

  They walked from room to room, directing where the rugs and furniture would go. "So beautiful," Hannah whispered to herself, and her long sigh was like a prayer of thanksgiving. Claire heard it and, for the first time, felt proud of what she had done in taking Hannah in. She had given Hannah a new life; she had made her happy and no longer fearful. I can do good things, she thought. I have to find more of them to do.

  All the deliverymen were gone, but still Claire roamed through the rooms of the house. This is mine, she told herself, this is mine, this is mine. She loved the brilliant reds and blacks and blues of the Oriental rugs against the shining floors; she loved the red couches and soft taupe armchairs and curtainless windows that looked out onto the gardens; she loved the dark green walls of the library with its white couches and walnut shelves, empty now but,

  by tomorrow, she thought, with the three of them working, filled with all their books. She loved the sound of the front door closing, the whisper of the windows opening to the evening breeze, the fluttering moths against the screens, the faint click of Emma's and Hannah's shoes from other rooms, the sound of her own breathing in the silence of her bedroom, a spacious, high-ceilinged room with a fireplace at one end, furnished in apricot and white, with lace curtains at the high windows. My room, she thought, my home. I cannot believe all this is mine.

  "Where shall we go for dinner.^" she asked, but Hannah shook her head.

  "You're not going to take me away from this kitchen. I can't wait to try it out. You two sit down and watch."

  So Claire and Emma sat at the pine table with a bottle of wine and a plate of Scandinavian bread and smoked salmon and watched Hannah move about the kitchen as if she had known it all her life. She hummed and talked to herself as she worked. "Who would believe it.^ Six weeks ago I thought I was on my way to being a street person. I had visions of me with all my belongings in a grocery cart, trundling along looking for an empty park bench. Oh, was I terrified of that. I thought I'd used up my lifetime supply of happy times and from then on everything would be dark and wretched. But I was wrong. Everything changed and the darkness is gone. And here I am. Love, warmth, comfort. Heaven. Now where might I have put the souffle dishes.'' I thought, a lemon souffle for dessert. So festive, a perfect way to celebrate so many lovely things ..."

  Claire and Emma exchanged a long look. "What would you think," Claire asked softly, "if we take Hannah along when we go on our cruise.'"'

  "I think she'd love it," Emma said.

  "But would you love it.'"'

  "I don't know. I guess she'd spend more time with you than with me. So if you're thinking of meeting some men and having a good time, she might be a problem."

  Claire's eyebrows rose. "Are you thinking of meeting some men and having a good time.^"

  "Sure. 1 mean, isn't that what cruises are for.'' Lorna and Marie and some of the other kids have been on them, and thcv sav that's

  what they're all about. Nobody goes for the scenery. That's what they say, anyway."

  "I guess I was thinking of the scenerv'," Claire murmured. But then she remembered what the travel agent had said. An impressive group of people. Why not think about meeting new people.^ If you're making a new life, she thought, everything opens up. All kinds of people went on these cruises: young and old, executives, professionals, artists, retired people. And they'd all be together for a week. Long enough to get acquainted and to find out which ones would become friends after they got back.

  She looked again at Hannah, who was concentrating on whipping egg whites in a copper bowl. I can do something good for Hannah by taking her on this cruise, she thought, but she could help me, too. She could keep an eye on Emma. Just in case. "Hannah," she said, "when we go on our cruise to Alaska in a couple of weeks, we'd be very pleased if you'd come along."

  FOUR

  T

  H E ship gleamed white in the sun, trim and sleek on the softly slapping gray waves of the harbor. It was a floating small city with shops and a swimming pool, a nightclub, two restaurants, even a gambling casino. Emma and Claire had adjoining staterooms on the boat deck, and Hannah was in a room on the other side. "I love it; it's huge," Emma said. "I could live here forever, except I love our new house, too. Am I dressed all right for dinner.'*"

  She was wearing a very short red chiffon dress with a skirt that swirled as she walked, and high heels. Her legs were long and elegant, her hair gleamed red-gold against the red dress, and teardrop crystal earrings sparkled at her ears. "You're beautiful," Claire said. "You'll be the star of the dining room." But when they walked in together and the maitre d' led them to a table in the center of the room, both of them attracted attention.

  "Isn't this a blast.''" Emma whispered as they made their way between the tables and heads swiveled to watch them pass. "I feel like the queen of the world. I love the way you look, too; you're really great. Don't you think we make a great team.''"

  Claire felt a rush of love and gratitude. How wonderful, to have a daughter's approval. Emma had been withdrawn the past few days, getting ready for the trip, as if, Claire thought, she had suddenly realized she would have two chaperones on her er first trip anywhere. But then she would become cheerful and talk happily about all the things they were going to do.

  And now she seemed happy to be sitting with Claire in the center of the large room, looking at the women in satin dresses and silk pantsuits, the men in suits and ties, and waiters in tuxedos pouring wine and passing small trays of hors d'oeuvres. Music from a piano and flute wove lightly through the talk and laughter and clatter of dishes, and the ship's captain went from table to table, greeting all his guests.

  Claire tried to take it all in. She couldn't believe it. Ever since she won the lotter% she had felt like this: like a young girl just launched into a strange and fabulous world. It was almost as if she and Emma suddenly were the same age, stepping out into a land of wonder, filled with more than she had ever imagined in her fantasies—because how could she fantasize about things she didn't even know existed.^

  Even now, six weeks after winning the lottery, she could not stop herself; still, wherever she went, she bought and bought and bought, accumulating treasures that she knew she did not need— but what did need have to do with it.^—that piled up in her rooms and closets, her drawers and shelves and cabinets, even her garage. And she moved through her house and watched the staff clean it and manicure its lawns and fix whatever needed fixing, and she hugged it to herself—/ own this; this is mine —but even then somehow she could not feel absolutely certain that it was truly and forever hers.

  Now she caught a glimpse of herself and Emma in an oval mirror and marveled at the way they looked, her black silk dress contrasting with Emma's red one, their jewels glinting in the bright lights, their smiles as casual and their heads as high as any in the room, as if they, too, took all of this for granted. But of course they didn't, because everything about the ship seemed magical to them: their spacious staterooms with sitting room and bedroom and large picture windows framed in heavy draperies; the wide deck of polished wood that circled the ship, lined with smoothly curved deck chairs, their arms touching like close friends telling secrets to each o
ther; the echoes in the tiled room where the swimming pool rippled with the motion of the ship; the cozy library with walls lined with books on Alaska. Claire had a brief memory of herself sitting at Danbur' Graphics, working at her drawing board, frustrated because she was working on someone

  else's idea, not her own, feeling locked in but believing there were no other options for her, nor would there be, ever. Less than two months ago. Long enough for her to remake her life.

  "How very pleasant," Hannah said, taking an empty chair at Claire and Emma's table. "What a place to find myself, when just a little while ago I was thinking I'd never again go farther afield than my own apartment." She smiled at Claire, who smiled back, wondering why she could not talk about her feelings the way Hannah did. But she had never been able to talk about herself; she always felt no one would be interested, and she was afraid of putting herself forward because others might grow bored or impatient. She'd always felt it was better to keep quiet and fit in everywhere and not make waves.

  "Perfect," Hannah sighed as the waiter put an iced glass of vodka in front of her. She saw Emma looking across the room and followed her gaze. "Oh, isn't he handsome. And he certainly seems aware oiyou.'''

  Emma turned away, her color high. "I only noticed them because they're alone, like us. Everybody else has their own private party."

  "I guess people travel with their friends," Claire said, and turned in her chair. "Where were you looking.'*"

  "At those two men," Hannah said, "near the piano."

  Claire located them. One of them, the younger, was looking fixedly at Emma. Hannah was right: he was extraordinarily handsome, his face dark, almost brooding, his hair thick and black, falling over his forehead. He had a full mouth and heavy brows and a restlessness in the way he shifted in his chair, as if it were too small for him. The man with him was clearly his father, with the same full mouth and black brows that almost met, though his hair was a steel gray and his eyelids were hooded, making him look more remote and secretive than his son. He met Claire's eyes and smiled and nodded a brief greeting.

  "They're both quite handsome," Hannah said reflectively. "And how interesting to see a father and son traveling together. I wonder if they're American. They look foreign to me. Italian, perhaps."

  "I didn't notice," said Emma, and they all laughed.

  The waiter came to take their order, and then their dinners came, and while the ship left the lights of 'anc()ucr behind and

  moved smoothly northward through ice blue waters, they ate in a leisurely way, barely aware that they were moving but somehow feeling, already, the sense of being cut off from land. "It's kind of eerie, isn't it?" Emma asked as they sat back with their coffee. The dining room was emptying as others left for the nightclub or the casino or the cocktail lounge, and it became easier to hear the music and the murmur of a few other voices. "Isn't it eerie.^" she said again. "I mean, here we are in the middle of nowhere, going off into the unknown with five or six hundred people we don't know."

  "In the middle of nowhere," Hannah smiled, "with fax machines and telephones and television and movies and—"

  "Well, but it feels odd," Emma insisted. "We're not on land; not even close enough to touch it. It's like we've lost what makes us us. I mean, we couldn't live here; if the boat sank or we fell overboard, we couldn't live in the water; we're in the wrong place. It was the same on the plane, when we flew to Vancouver; didn't you feel it.'' We weren't connected, we were just floating, you know, cut off, sort oi out there where everything is endless and so . . . mysterious; it's like there's nothing to protect us if something goes wrong. I don't know, it just seems pretty eerie to me."

  "That's the romantic way of thinking; I like it," said a deep voice. They looked up quickly, at the two men they had been looking at earlier. "Forgive us for interrupting," said the older one, who had just spoken, "but we'd be very pleased if you would join us for an after-dinner drink. I'm Quentin Eiger." He held out his hand to Claire, and she took it. "And my son, Brix."

  "An unusual name," said Hannah. "A family name.^"

  "My mother's," said the young man, his voice as deep as his father's. "Brixton."

  "Well," Hannah said, "ours are not as exotic. I'm Hannah Goddard, and this is Claire and Emma Goddard." She looked at Claire, her eyebrows raised.

  "Yes," Claire said into the silence, "we'd be glad to join you." She tried to sound casual, but these two tall, powerful-looking men looming over their table made her nervous and worried about what they would all talk about. Like a young girl, she thought again; Emma and I, there's so much we don't know. Everyone was standing now, and she stood with them. This is what it means to have money, she thought: to learn how to deal with other worlds.

  As for making conversation, Hannah would be there. And Hannah always seemed able to think of something to say.

  They were all moving toward the lounge, led by Quentin Eiger and his son. Like sheep, Claire thought, but when they were seated in deep armchairs grouped around a low cocktail table, and she met Quentin's eyes, she saw only admiration in them. She glanced at Emma, absorbed in listening to Brix, and then at Hannah, who was gazing around the cocktail lounge, deliberately letting Emma and Claire make their own way. Quentin leaned toward Claire. "I admire you and your daughter. You're both extraordinarily beautiful, and you seem to be good friends."

  "Thank you," Claire said. "We are good friends. At least, most of the time."

  He chuckled. "Well, that's honest. Brix and I don't even do that well."

  Surprised, Claire said, "You seemed so close at dinner."

  "We look alike. That always makes people think we're close. But we've never managed it, from the time he was born." Claire was amazed at his instant, intimate revelations. They made her wary, but Quentin did not seem to notice. "I suppose part of the problem now," he went on, "is that we work together; that often adds to the tensions between generations. It's unlikely that you and Emma have that problem."

  "Working together.^ No, Emma just graduated from high school."

  It was his turn to be surprised. "She looks older." His face was thoughtful as he watched Brix and Emma.

  "She's seventeen," Claire said, her voice casual, but it was clearly a warning, a message for Quentin to give to his son. Claire had watched Emma and Brix as they moved ahead of her into the lounge, aware of what a striking couple they made, Emma tall and willowy in her red froth of a dress with her flaming red-gold hair catching the light, and Brix, darkly handsome, half a head taller, broad shouldered, walking with a slight swagger that Claire did not trust.

  "Then she'll be going to college.''" Quentin asked.

  Claire nodded. "This September."

  "And you.'' Where is your home.''"

  "Wilton, Connecticut. Wc just bought a house there."

  "What a wonderful surprise," he said, smiHng broadly. "We're neighbors. I live in Darien; I have a company in Norwalk."

  "Norvvalk," Claire repeated, recalling what the travel agent had said. "Some laboratorv', is that right.'' I don't recall the name . . ."

  "Eiger Labs. How would you know that.''"

  "The travel agent told me about some of the prestigious people she'd booked on this cruise."

  He frowned. "She's a stupid woman. I wonder how many other people she's advertised my travels to."

  "I'm sorrv'. I didn't—"

  "It's not your fault; it's hers. And in this case I should be grateful, because it seems she brought us together. But I won't use her again, and if you value your privacy, I'd advise you not to either. You said you just bought a house. Is it just you and Emma living there.'"'

  "And Hannah." The waiter brought their drinks and fussed with them, arranging them precisely in front of each person, and organizing baskets of nuts and after-dinner mints in the center of the table.

  "Fine," Quentin said, and the waiter recognized the word as an order to leave, and did. "Just Hannah.''" he asked.

  "Yes," Claire said.

  "You're widowed.''
Divorced.^"

  "Divorced." She picked up her cognac and sat back. She was more relaxed now, though part of her, watching Emma, was alert and surprised to see that Emma had ordered cognac; Emma never drank anything but a glass of wine now and then, and Claire had only let her do that when she became a senior in high school. Cognac and Brix Eiger in one evening, Claire thought; powerful stuff. At that moment, Emma glanced up and met Claire's eyes. She gave a quick, startled smile and then looked down, at her clasped hands. We'll have to talk, Claire thought, tonight or tomorrow morning.

  But now she turned back to Quentin. She knew very well the ritual that men and women go through in getting to know each other; usually she dreaded it because she hated the predictable litany of questions about job and home and previous spouses and likes and dislikes that turn the first date, and often the second,

  TO JUDITH MICHAEL

  into an interview more than a conversation. But Quentin was smooth and easygoing; perfectly at ease and completely in command, and he did not push; he moved the conversation along as unobtrusively as he had shepherded them from the dining room into the lounge.

  How comfortable, Claire thought, to let a strong person take charge.

  She saw Emma look up again, stealing a quick glance at her, and she wondered what her daughter saw. She sat straighter in her chair, putting herself a little distance from Quentin, and lowered her eyes. I mustn't show too much interest in a man in front of my daughter; it might shock her.

  "Brix and I lived together, off and on," Quentin was saying. "We always seemed to rub each other the wrong way, but we kept trying, until he went to boarding school, and then college. Now, of course, he has his own place. He's done all right, I think; most kids somehow land on their feet even with a rough childhood, but Brix has probably done better than most."

  "Rough childhood.^" Claire repeated.

  "Oh, the usual: parents too busy with their own problems, that sort of thing." There was a pause. "No, I'll bet that wouldn't be usual for you, would it.'' You probably made Emma the center of your life and gave her everything she wanted."