Time After Time

by Stockenberg, Antoinette

  "Who are you talking about? The senator?"

  She didn't have a clue. She took a shot. "Yes. Aren't you a friend of his?"

  "I'm a friend of the senator's son. Not that it matters — the senator doesn't know her either! They met at a charity function. She said how do you do. He said I'm pleased to meet you. Jesus! It wasn't exactly a bonding moment!"

  "Oh. We must've gotten that wrong, then," she said, still winging it. The one thing she didn't want him to know was that the whole thing was a fabrication from the start.

  He spun away from her, slamming his fist on the side of the desk as he did it. She'd never seen him so angry. He ran his hand through his unruly hair and said, "I'll be a laughingstock — or an object of pity. I can't believe this!"

  "I don't see why you should be either one," she ventured timidly. "You're just underwriting the event, not starring in it.

  He turned back to her. His mouth, pressed tight in a thin line of fury, cracked a little into a contemptuous smile. "Really. Did I forget to mention that the society editor of The New York Times called me? That she wanted to know, was it true that I was Princess Diana's date?"

  Aiii. "I don't know why she'd think tha-at," Liz said, bleating like a lamb.

  "Could it be because one of you two dingbats told her?"

  "Please. Give us some credit," Liz said, stung.

  He wasn't listening. He was staring at the wide-board floor, hand on the back of his neck, clearly envisioning the night of the benefit. "Is there anything more absurd," he said, seething, "than being stood up by the future Queen of England?"

  Liz said lightly, "We don't know that she's going to be queen. The monarchy's in trouble over there."

  Jack's head came up. His blue eyes locked on her in anger. He stood there, simmering in place, while she watched him with the same impatience with which she waited for her teapot to come to a boil.

  Come on, she thought. Get it over with. You 'ye been looking for an excuse; this is it.

  "Do you," he asked in a barely controlled voice, "have any idea what a faux pas you've committed?"

  Liz laughed out loud. "Faux pas? Excuse me? Does that mean like, I goofed? Would you mind translating that for me? Because as we know, I was born in a cave and raised in a barn."

  "I knew it," he said, slamming his hand back down on the desk. "It always comes back to this, doesn't it — this obsession of yours with class."

  Liz jumped up, aching to do battle with him. She stood with feet apart, hands on her hips: the position of challenge.

  "Class!" she said. "Class? Listen, pal, I know class when I see it, and so far during this project I ain't seen it! All I've seen are a bunch of cloying, fawning, oozing, name-dropping princess-wannabes who'd do anything——anything! — to be photographed next to some poor skinny blonde whose life, sad as it is, is no longer her own!"

  She took a breath; she wasn't done. "One woman — beautifully dressed; I hear you once dated her — stood right there, demanding a ticket to the dinner. When I told her, over and over, that I couldn't sell her one, she actually stamped her foot! Class? I don't think so!"

  She thought she'd beaten him down, but he came back strong. "Never mind who they are, and never mind what they do! This isn't about them — it's about you, Liz! What were you thinking of? You're supposed to be a professional! You're running a charity event, not a con game!"

  "Okay, things did get a little out of hand," she said, reddening. "But I warned all the real people, my people, that Diana wouldn't be there. They're not going to feel gypped. And as for the others — frankly? I don't care if they bought the tickets under false pretenses."

  "You should care, Liz!" he said hotly. "You should grow up, goddammit! Because, frankly, that blue-collar routine of yours has become a real bore."

  She felt as if he'd slapped her. "Fine! Since we're being frank, this is what I think: I think your anger has as much to do with Princess Diana as it has to do with the Queen of Sheba!"

  His look got more dangerous. "Meaning?"

  "Meaning the real faux pas here, the one you'll never forgive me for, is the fact that I didn't fall to my knees on the day we met and declare my infertility."

  The blue eyes got wide. "What are you — insane? That has nothing to with this. I've got kids coming out of my ears," he added irrelevantly.

  "Don't deny it! I saw that look on your face when I told you I couldn't have children. You looked absolutely betrayed. Anyone would've thought I was a man dressed in women's clothing or something."

  "And I'm telling you you're wrong. In the first place, you've hardly said a damned thing about it, except that you 'can't.' What does that mean, you 'can't'? In this age of high tech, with all of science at your beck and call—"

  "Don't lecture me about technology! My doctor said—"

  "Is he a specialist? Did you get a second opinion? A third? A ninth?"

  "All right, all right, all right!" she shouted. "If it's not about that, what is it about? Why have you been avoiding me since that conversation?"

  "You said you wanted some space!" he said instantly.

  "That's not what this is about. Let's face it: you got carried away in the heat of sex, and later you regretted it!"

  "What?"

  "I was right in the first place! Deep down, you're afraid of commitment!"

  "My God! I practically proposed—"

  "But you didn't quite, did you? You left yourself a little breathing room!"

  "I left you a little breathing room, goddammit!"

  "Baloney! If you really loved me—"

  And that's when she remembered that he hadn't yet said he loved her. Three simple words: I. Love. You. How much effort did it take?

  Too much. She could see it in his eyes, the hesitation. In a blinding revelation, Liz knew the reason: to Jack Eastman, the words meant something so sacred, so inviolable, that he had to be one hundred percent certain before saying them. But Liz knew, and every married person knew, that hundred percent certainty wasn't possible. You had to take a chance.

  And so her words hung in the churchlike silence like an unanswered chant: If you loved me...

  His smile was bleak as he said, "We need to take a step back. We've gone too far, too fast. You were right."

  Right or wrong, Liz had no choice now but to do exactly that: to step back from him emotionally. She'd been a breath away from telling him that she loved him.

  Instead, she smiled a smile as bleak as his own and said, "The spiral steps are very steep. Be careful on your way down, Jack."

  Chapter 25

  During the weeks that followed, Liz had no time either to mourn her shattered heart or to mend it: she simply put the pieces aside, like the broken fragments of the botanical plate, the stoneware jug, and the potpourri jar that were lying on a shelf in her basement, waiting.

  There were other advantages to having an impossible schedule. Meetings with Jack — meetings with everyone — were kept to a minimum. There simply was no time. Between coordinating the music, decorations, and caterers; the press releases, program sponsors, and door prizes; the security, the volunteers, the vendors, the press — between juggling all of it and a thousand small details besides, Liz was able to put every sleepless night to good use.

  Though she would never have admitted it, one detail nagged at her more than any other: what to wear to the benefit. In the last several weeks, she'd seen too many well-dressed women to continue thinking she could get by in her old little black dress. So at the last minute she ran out and blew three hundred dollars on a new little black dress. It wasn't up to Meredith's standards, maybe, but it would certainly do.

  On the night before the fund-raiser, Liz laid out the dress and was pinning an envelope filled with checks onto it when the doorbell rang.

  It was Victoria, with a long, white, coat-size box in her arms. "Wait till you see," she said, brushing past Liz into her living room.

  "Tori, for cryin' out loud," Liz moaned. "It's almost midnight, and I've still got t
hings to do."

  Victoria ignored her whimpering. "I was poking through Sarah's Vintage Clothing on Thames Street again. Just look what came in this morning," she said, laying the box on the sofa. "Someone was cleaning out an estate. It's in wonderful condition, and I bought it instantly. Tell me if this isn't fate."

  Victoria removed the lid to the box as if there were hummingbirds inside. Then, smiling radiantly, she folded back the white tissue and lifted up a gown of creamy satin, wrapped in tiers of fine lace, with a plunging, structured bodice that fell away into off-the-shoulder, short puffy sleeves.

  She held the dress against herself. "I love the tiny seed pearls on the lace. Isn't it just perfect for tomorrow?"

  Despite herself, Liz was enchanted. "Oh, Tori, yes. It is the Gilded Age. But I thought you were going as New Age."

  "I am," Victoria said. She held out the gown to Liz. "This is for you."

  "Oh, no, Tori," Liz said, shocked by her friend's generosity. "I can't. Really."

  "You can. You must. Because—there's more."

  Liz's eyes were shining. "More? A whalebone corset, maybe, so that I can squeeze into the thing?"

  "It won't be much of a squeeze," Tori allowed, pinning the gown against Liz. "You've lost weight these last weeks. Look at the pants you're wearing. They hang on you."

  "Do they?" Liz asked absently. "No, really, I can't," she decided all over again. "I've already bought a nice black dress."

  "It's a costume party. Take the dress back."

  "I've cut off the tags."

  "Idiot! Never cut off the tags until ten minutes before you go. Now try this on."

  ****

  Netta adjusted the heavy folds of the lengthy black servant's dress that —somehow — the fey creature Victoria had talked her into wearing. At the time, it seemed like a good idea. What were they thinking? It was too blessed hot for worsted. She patted her glistening brow with a linen handkerchief and tucked the folded square back into the pocket of her starched apron, then pushed a straying hairpin into her neatly arranged bun.

  She'd drawn the line at the little granny glasses, and a good thing, too: she was blind as a bat without her prescription lenses. If tortoiseshell frames weren't Victorian enough for Victoria, well, that couldn't be helped.

  Netta opened the door to the tiny closet of her third-floor quarters and surveyed herself in the full-length mirror. The dress put ten extra pounds on her — one more sacrifice to satisfy Victoria's whim. Ah, well. The creature had worked hard all week, flitting like Tinker Bell from Meredith to Liz and back again.

  "Everything has to be perfect," Victoria had said more than once. "Perfect."

  Well, why wouldn't it be, with Meredith running the dinner and Liz running the costume party after? Both women were perfectionists, each in her own way. True, Meredith Kinney liked to delegate; but then, she had a staff that she could trust to do everything. Since she was donating the entire expense of the dinner, no one minded in the least that she was hardly around.

  Liz, on the other hand, watched every penny and did a lot of her own legwork. Not more than two hours ago, the woman was pulling potted palms around in Caroline's wagon, lifting them in and out as she rearranged the entrance to the big tent. Liz had noticed what everyone else had not: that the palms blocked the view of the palmist, if you entered the tent from the left.

  Two different women, two different ways of doing business. Well, Anne's Place could only benefit, and that was a fact.

  Netta stood for a moment in front of the small fan on her bureau, then impulsively hiked up her dress and yanked off the long, very full muslin underskirt that was part of her costume. Who the dickens would know if she was wearing an underskirt or not? She took a little cotton half-slip out of her drawer and slipped it on instead. Enough was enough.

  On the second-floor landing she bumped into Jack, who waved a length of black tie in her face.

  "Suddenly I can't tie a knot," he said in irritation. "Do it for me, would you, Netta?"

  She obliged him, looping the tie under the collar of his white shirt and shaping it into a formal bow.

  "God, I'll be glad when this evening's over," Jack muttered as he stood before her. "I want my life back."

  "I hope you're planning to wear the waistcoat under the dinner jacket," Netta said in a grim reminder. "Victoria went through lots of trouble to find one for you."

  "Oh, come on, Netta. The thing is old and moth-eaten."

  "Too bad. You put it on. There — all done." She stepped back to survey her handiwork. Jack Eastman: her darling; her utterly beloved Jack. If she had gotten married and had a son, she'd want him to be Jack Eastman, never mind that Jack had gone to Harvard and she couldn't possibly have paid for it.

  He gave her a mocking look. "Well? Will I pass muster?"

  "You look very handsome, Master Jack," she said, as proud of him as if she had borne him. "Like a proper Victorian gentleman."

  "And you, Miss Simmons, look exactly like the kind of woman I might try to fool around with if I were," said Jack with a half-lift of his eyebrows.

  The remark was too close to the reality; Netta brushed it aside with a "Don't be fresh."

  She glanced automatically at the door to Cornelius Eastman's room, though she knew he was holed up in the carriage-house apartment. "It'd be so nice if your father made an appearance later. Did you try him one more time?"

  "Tried and failed. To tell the truth, I envy him; he has an ironclad excuse. Of course, I'll only have to suffer through the dinner; but even that'll seem endless.

  "Oh, I know, you poor thing," Netta said in a deadpan voice. She turned on her heel and began walking down the stairs.

  "Hey — what's that supposed to mean?" said Jack behind her.

  "Put the rest of your clothes on, dear," she said without turning around. "The guests will start arriving any minute."

  "Netta," Jack said in a dangerous voice. "Come back here, please. I'd like an explanation."

  She sighed and decided that maybe he deserved one. She retraced her steps to the landing, then took Jack by the shirt-sleeve and hauled him over to the eight-foot-tall cathedral window, intricately paned in clear leaded glass, that overlooked the grounds. Together they looked down at the huge tent, bedecked with thousands and thousands of white lights, that hovered over the lawn like a fairy castle at twilight.

  "You see that?" she asked Jack.

  "It'd be hard to miss," he said dryly. "I didn't have to turn on the bathroom lights when I shaved just now."

  "That tent is the result of a lot of hard work by a lot of good people. Everyone — even Deirdre — put in long hours. Now, I'm not saying that you haven't been generous with your house or quick to write a check. But that's about it, Jack. The rest of the time you hide behind closed doors, away from us all. Between you and your father — well, I don't know. It's very disappointing."

  "You needn't be disappointed, Netta," Jack said, flushing with anger. "After tonight I'll probably come back out."

  "Jack, Jack," she said, shaking her head in sorrow. "What're you afraid of? No — let me put that another way. Why are you afraid of her? Things were going so well between you."

  Jack said nothing, only stared down at the tent. The caterers were moving about, making last-minute adjustments.

  "She did a great job," Jack said curtly.

  "Have you told her that? I haven't seen you say boo to her lately. And don't tell me you got tired of her, because I won't believe it."

  Jack scowled ferociously. "She's not the kind of woman a man gets tired of. Her husband must have been the world's biggest ass," he added.

  Emboldened, Netta said, "She could've dumped you, I guess, but that would be a first, and I don't suppose it happened."

  "Not that it's any of your business, Miss Simmons, but the fact is, we've decided on a cooling-off period," Jack said in a lifeless voice as he scanned the tent and the grounds.

  "And what would the point of that be?" asked Netta. "To keep from doing bodi
ly harm to one another?"

  "It's to — to reassess. Things were getting out of hand. I needed time to think."

  "You think much longer, you're going to die of old age, dear," said Netta in a voice of sweet reason. "Do you love her or not?"

  Jack's smile was noncommittal. "You know me better than that, Netta," he said ambiguously, and headed back to his room.

  So. He wasn't going to confide in her. It wasn't surprising. Jack had grown up among people who believed that spilling your own guts was the worst form of barbarity. She sighed, then checked the time.

  The creature had better know what she's doing, Netta thought as she went to answer the first summons of the evening.

  It was the creature herself, in the same odd, fierce mood that she'd been in all week. Victoria was dressed in what Netta supposed was New Age style: her gown was of slinky silver lamé fabric that rippled and glittered when she moved. Her shoulders were bare, though the bodice reached up and encircled her neck in a seductively modest way. Her hair was piled high on her head and woven through with silver stars. She wore no real jewelry—unless you counted the stars — but over her heart was pinned what looked like airline wings, the kind pilots give children on long flights. What a curious sense of style she had.

  "Oh, Netta, you look exactly right," Victoria cried.

  "I look hot," Netta said, dismissing her enthusiasm. "Where's Liz?" she added, surprised. Victoria was supposed to have her in tow.

  "She went right to the tent with a box of Sterno for the dipping chocolate. She won't come into the house; you know that."

  Netta knew it very well. "And yet you think you'll be able to get her in here when you have to?"

  "I got her into the gown, didn't I? You should see her, Netta. She fought the idea, same as you, but once she saw herself in it — well, I think she knows it was made for her. It fit like a glove. I put her hair up in a French braid; she looks breathtaking. It's all coming together. I knew it would. Is Meredith here yet?"

  "She just called to say she's on her way."

  "Isn't this fun, Netta? Isn't it?" Victoria sighed happily, then swayed in place. "God — I'm light-headed from it all!"