Family Secrets

by Nancy Thayer

  She’d never tried to go back to Russia again. She’d never wanted to tempt Fate, or whatever force it was that ruled the lives of mothers.

  Ten years later, Diane sat alone in her kitchen, waiting to hear her husband’s step at the door, eager to tell him that they’d weathered another crisis: Julia was safe.

  Chapter 8

  Jean

  That the Jardin du Luxembourg was frequented by an older crowd than the Tuileries should come as no surprise, Jean decided, yet as much as she loved the Left Bank, she missed the sight of mothers pushing baby carriages or chasing after their toddlers. Jean had been surprised all her life at the pleasure it gave her to see babies. This especially baffled her when her own children were teenagers, caught in the metamorphosis from children into adults that was often violent, always shocking. As her four children reached their later teenage years and cut the connection to their mother in variously cruel ways, Jean had been bitter. Why had no one told her what lay in store for her? Why had no one warned her? Why hadn’t any other women—not just her mother or her mother’s friends, but women on the street, charitable strangers—approached her to pass on the word? “Don’t have children. It’s too hard. It’s too painful. Yes, they love you when they’re small. They love you until they are about twelve, perhaps fourteen. But then they change, and they criticize you, disdain you, even truly hate you, and they hold you accountable for everything that is wrong in their lives. And then they leave you.”

  Well, she had not told her own children that. She had not warned Diane or Susan or Bert or Art. Of course by the time they were old enough to have children, they routinely disregarded all her advice anyway, so if she had told them it wouldn’t have helped.

  But the odd thing was that during those painful years when Diane, her oldest, became critical of her mother, then rebellious, then downright hateful, and Bert, just two years younger, went through a wild spell, Jean still found that the sight of other women’s babies brought her heart solace and balm.

  Why? It was not because of some vague, altruistic hope that some mother somewhere would get it right. It reminded Jean that whatever she had now, once she had had a life redolent with sweet and overwhelming love.

  When her children were younger, they had asked her: “Mom, which one of us do you love best?”

  “I love you all the same,” she’d always answered, but while that reply was not a lie it was also not the truth. Of course she did not love her children all the same, except that she would have thrown herself in front of a bus to save any one of them. But they were so different, one from another, and her relationship with each of them was unique.

  The first child and the last had been the most difficult: Diane because she’d been strong willed, Art because he’d been what she termed “sensitive,” and what her husband considered weak. The two middle children, Bert and Susan, had been easier, more like their father, levelheaded and practical.

  Jean loved them as much as she loved her other two but felt they were, at heart, more like Al. It was the troublesome two, Diane and Art, who reminded her of herself as a young woman.

  1940

  War Stories

  When Erich took Jean home early on New Year’s morning, he kissed her slowly and sweetly at the door, but he didn’t make a date to see her again.

  Jean thought she understood. Alone in her room that night, she couldn’t sleep. She tossed in her bed, crushing her body against her pillow. She replayed every second, every breath and touch of New Year’s Eve in the hotel room with Erich. He had wanted her. Of that she had no doubt. But he thought she was a good girl—well, she was a good girl, a classy girl—and being the sort of man he was, he would not take advantage of her. No matter how strong the desire, honorable men did not take women of her set to bed. Last year her best friend, Midge, had gone through a similar ordeal with a junior professor at George Washington. He’d been too poor to marry her, so in spite of their mutual attraction, he’d stopped seeing her. Damn these honorable men! Jean thought.

  During a painfully long New Year’s Day Jean docilely attended a brunch, a tea, and a cocktail party with her parents. This pleased them, and she hoped it would take her mind off Erich, but it did not. Whenever she found the chance, she slipped away from the parties, found a phone in a quiet spot, and called home—only to hear from Agate or Stafford that no, Miz Jean, Mr. Mellor had not called.

  As they finally returned home that evening, her mother was babbling gaily about the latest gossip, her father was already thinking of work waiting in his study, and Jean felt that she had nothing ahead of her but her lonely bed and, at best, a book. She’d been wrong. The magic had been all in her mind. Erich hadn’t called.

  The phone rang just as she and her parents went into the house and were taking off their coats.

  “It’s for you, Miz Jean,” Agate announced.

  “Jean,” Erich said, “sorry to call so late. Do you like to ice-skate? They’ve just flooded the swimming pool at the hotel, and everyone’s out having a great time skating by moonlight. I thought I’d bring you over and we could skate and have a late dinner.”

  She would have gone swimming with him on this frosty night if he’d suggested it.

  Dutifully, she replied, “Let me ask my parents.”

  “Oh, dear, it’s so late,” her mother fretted, but her father, after hearing what the call was about, headed on back to his study, a sign that he was leaving the decision to his wife.

  “Mother, I’m on vacation! Everyone’s there now! Please?”

  “Well …” Her mother yielded.

  “Thanks, Mom!” Jean grabbed her mother and kissed her on the cheek before she could change her mind. “Give me time to put on some slacks and find my skates!” she told Erich. Then she flew up the stairs to get ready.

  Erich arrived in an argyle sweater and a red wool muffler that set off his dark good looks. He escorted her to his car, then slid into his side, giving her a smile as sweet as a kiss. Jean was so purely happy to be with him that she chattered foolishly about every little thing they’d done that day. At least, she thought, now he knows I wasn’t sitting home waiting for him to call.

  The grounds of the Wardman Park Hotel had become a winter wonderland. Snow iced the trees and sparkled in fantastic drifts along the walking paths. The air around the skating rink tasted like champagne. It was cold and glittery and dazzlingly bright. Skaters sailed along to the waltzes piped from the hotel. Couples sat on benches lacing up their skates or moved arm in arm over the ice with laughter trailing after them like their brightly knit scarves. Here and there lovers hid to kiss behind the shadowy protection of a tree, or hurried into the hotel for a hot rum toddy.

  They sat side by side on a bench putting on their skates.

  “Ready?” Erich asked.

  “Ready,” Jean answered, smiling.

  He put his arm around her and took her other hand in a skater’s embrace with a firmness that told her he wanted her next to him. They glided out onto the ice together.

  Erich was an accomplished skater, strong, graceful, and quick. Yet at first Jean held herself stiffly, her mind full of warnings: she mustn’t trip, mustn’t clasp his hand too tightly, mustn’t breathe so rapidly, mustn’t embarrass herself. She concentrated on matching her stride to his and following his lead. Simply being so close to him, tucked up against him, made her heart pound. She knew he could feel the trembling lift and fall of her ribcage beneath his large, steady hand.

  After a few turns around the rink, she began to enjoy herself. The stretch and sweep of her legs was pleasing. The night air was chilly against her face, but her body against Erich’s made a pocket of heat. Surrendering to the rhythm of the lilting “Skater’s Waltz,” she warmed and loosened and at last relaxed completely into his hold. Overhead the stars and lamplights seemed to dip in time to the music. The tempo quickened. Erich’s hand tightened on her waist, and they sailed together, faster and faster, skimming the surface of the sparkling ice.

  Af
ter a while Erich brought them to a stop at the dark end of the rink so they could catch their breath.

  “You’re a wonderful skater,” he told her.

  “So are you.” She was on fire from the movement and a building elation: here she was, where she’d always longed to be, at the sweet white-hot heart of life. She knew her cheeks were rosy. Snatching off her red beret, letting her curly brown hair tumble down her back, she lifted her face to the sky and laughed with pure joy. “I’m so happy!”

  Erich smiled down at her, then pulled her to him and kissed her mouth. She rose onto the toes of her skates, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him back.

  It was a long time before they spoke, and by then their breathing was ragged with desire.

  “I promised you dinner,” Erich whispered against her ear. “Shall we go eat?”

  “No.” She nuzzled against his neck.

  “Do you want to skate some more?”

  “No.” His hands held her tightly against him at the hips. Shamelessly she rubbed against him.

  “Do you want to go home?” His voice deepened.

  “I want you to take me upstairs.”

  Reaching up behind his neck, he took her wrists in his hands and broke their embrace, bringing her arms down and holding her away from him. He looked at her seriously, considering. Jean’s set weren’t supposed to be wild; they were supposed to be good. But he could see she cared nothing about any of that. She lifted her chin and lowered her eyelids in a seductive taunt.

  “All right,” he said.

  He led her across the ice to a bench where they sat side by side, unlacing their skates. Her ankles burned and threatened to collapse when she stood up. They walked into the hotel, through the lobby, to the elevators. Here Erich didn’t speak or hold her hand. At the fifth floor, he led her off and down a long corridor. He unlocked the door and ushered her into a room, turning on the lights.

  Jean blinked, stunned by the sudden quiet. The room was pleasant enough, even luxurious, but impersonal. She saw no framed photographs, no papers piled on the desk, only sitting room furniture and, through an open door, the bedroom.

  “Do you live here?” Suddenly she was nervous.

  “Yes. Just temporarily.”

  “It’s—nice.” She couldn’t meet his eyes.

  “We don’t have to—do this, you know.” His voice was kind.

  She flushed, embarrassed, but looking up at him gave her courage. She gazed upon his face, and said, “I want to. Oh, I want to.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her gently. She responded to him with a violent surge of desire, awkwardly wrapping herself around him so passionately he almost lost his balance.

  Erich put his hands on her face and forced her to look at him. “Wait, Jean. Listen to me. You’ve got to know something.” He took a breath. “I can’t marry you. I can’t even propose to you in the hopes that we can marry later. A war is on the way. We may not like it, but it’s coming. I have no security to offer you, no future.”

  “I don’t want security. I don’t want the future. I want us now. Together, now.”

  “Jean—”

  “I’m sure. Don’t you believe me?” She broke free of his grasp, twisted away, took a step backward. Holding his eyes with hers, she began to pull off her clothes, dropping her red sweater to the floor, bending to step out of her gray slacks. She reached behind her back to unfasten her bra with fingers that trembled so much she could scarcely work the hooks. Her chest rose and fell so rapidly she was afraid he could see her impetuous heart drumming under her skin. She pulled her bra down, off one arm, off the other, and let it fall to the floor.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said.

  She was shivering with fear and desire. Putting her hands on her waist, she began to roll down her panties, but this was too hard. She turned her back to him, crossing her arms protectively over her bare breasts. She was afraid she was going to cry. Instantly Erich was behind her, wrapping his arms over hers, kissing the top of her head, forcing her to turn to him, kissing her mouth, caressing her shoulders with his large warm hands, moving her arms down to her sides, bending to kiss her cheek, her neck, her collarbone, bending to kiss her breasts. The fabric of his clothing was rough against her bare skin. She cried out and arched backward. He steadied her with his hands.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said again. Sliding one arm behind her knees, he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. As he laid her on the bed, his belt buckle scraped her side, a tiny irritation. She remained as he placed her, on her back, hands crossed over her chest, and watched while he took off his clothes. When he pulled his argyle sweater up over his head, his thick black hair crackled with electricity and stood up like a rooster’s comb. This made her laugh, and Erich smiled at her pleasure. It seemed as though he took forever to unbutton his white cotton shirt. He pulled it up out of his pants and off, dropping it on a chair. His chest was matted with dark curls of hair. His torso was long, lean, the muscles of his arms and abdomen prominent.

  He undid his belt. Unzipped his trousers. Let them fall to the floor, revealing rumpled white boxer shorts straining to contain his penis, now huge beneath the fabric. It made her slightly frightened. As if he understood this, he didn’t take off his shorts but came to the bed and lay down next to her. Lying on his back, he pulled her on top of him, bringing her down so that he could kiss her mouth. Between the silk of her underpants and the cotton of his she felt the shape and push of his penis.

  He kissed her mouth for a long, long time, while his hands stroked her back, her thighs, her ticklish waist, both soothing and exciting her. Finally he gently pushed her back up until she was sitting. He lay for a long moment gazing up at her breasts. The lightness of his touch as he brought his fingers down her throat and over the slope of her breasts made an invisible necklace of desire bead her skin.

  Erich rolled over, so that Jean was beneath him and, still kissing her, he very slowly pushed her legs apart. When his hand slid up her thigh, against her crotch, she felt her heat flood and gather. Her hands were all over him, she couldn’t touch him enough, his smooth back, curved arms, his chest where the black hair was damp with sweat. At last he slid his hand down inside her panties and between her legs. As she relaxed and opened up to him, a languorous warmth uncurled inside her. He moved his fingers against her skin. She moaned. He pushed up, kneeling, and took off her underpants, then his. She didn’t look down, she couldn’t, she closed her eyes, she felt him lower himself over her, she felt him part her with his hand, and then felt a firm bluntness shove its way inside her, push farther, force its way deeper, harder, so that she moved her legs wider apart. She stopped shaking. Her blood slowed. She strained against him. A rose of heat budded in her pelvis, then suddenly unfolded in fiery petals of pleasure.

  He waited until she opened her eyes to speak. “You can’t have any idea how lovely you are,” he said.

  “I’m so happy,” she replied. “I’ve never been so happy in my life.”

  “This doesn’t hurt—?”

  “Oh, no.”

  Then he raised himself up on his powerful arms, so that ropes of muscle twisted beneath his skin. His breath ragged, he thrust against her, seeming to lose all his self-consciousness and cautious control. Jean watched him, shaken and amazed by the intensity of his passion. Experimentally she moved her hips and tightened the muscles between her thighs. In answer, Erich moaned; it pleased her, excited her, and she moved again. He shut his eyes. He seemed to be falling into her, and she was overcome with a hot exultation. Then Erich shuddered, his jaw clenched, and all his skin, chest and arms and the back of his powerful thighs, broke out in goose bumps. He fell against her and buried his face in her neck. Jean sighed with triumph and content. Touching her tongue to her lover’s shoulder, she tasted his sweat. She licked, then fastened her teeth softly against his skin, an instinctive, animal’s act of possession.

  They lay together in silence. He grew heavier as his ch
est rose and fell with his slowing breath. He lifted himself off and lay next to her, one arm around her, his mouth against her hair. They drifted toward sleep.

  Erich broke the spell. “I don’t want to move, but I should take you home. I don’t want to upset your parents.”

  “Everything upsets my parents,” Jean groaned.

  He chuckled. “When do you go back to school?”

  “In two days.”

  He ran his hand over the curve of her hip. “I’ll come up to Boston when I can. And I often go to New York on business. Could you get away and meet me there sometime?”

  “I’ll find a way.” Curling her fingers into the thick black hair on his chest, she smiled, pleased with herself.

  “Do you ever come home during the term?”

  “Sometimes. If there’s a long weekend. I haven’t come home very often. There’s never been any reason before. But now—” Reality was returning, flooding over her like a rush of cold air.

  “Won’t your parents be suspicious if you start making trips home?”

  She shook her head. “They’re all in such a state now over this war business, they probably won’t even notice me. That’s all anyone in my house talks about. Father’s more preoccupied than I’ve ever seen him. Bobby’s applied for submarine training and he’s like a bull in a cage, waiting for his orders. Al—you know Al White, Bobby’s best friend—already has his orders. He’s being shipped to join the command group of a battleship. What about you? Will you enlist?”

  Erich turned to punch a pillow up under his head. “I don’t know. I don’t approve of war, but I might have no choice.”