Come Pour the Wine (40 page)

She brought Kit to take a look at the empty store. “Do you like the idea?” she asked when she finished outlining her plans.

“Love it. How are you going to decorate?”

“Above the mantle a tall Victorian mirror with maybe cupids. I thought purple carpeting, white wicker furniture and lots of Boston ferns. Different colored old silk parasols hanging upside down on the ceiling and electrified for light fixtures. How does that strike you?”

“Great!”

“The dressing rooms could be like gazebos … I thought a three-paneled mirror inside would be more unique than one solid—”

“Yeah, that’s really jazzy. I admire your enthusiasm, but I’m hungry.”

“Oh, gosh, Kit, I got so carried away I forgot about eating.”

“Let’s go.”

That night Janet at last slept peacefully. She had found something …
fulfilling
… in her life, and for the first time since parting from Bill she was happy. Well, if not
happy,
at least she’d restored a measure of self-respect … she’d settle for that. For now.

Added to her pleasure she found a young woman in her twenties by the name of Renée Bouche (who later confided to Janet she was Reva Berkowitz).

Renée came to her from an employment agency, and her credentials were the best. She could use a needle the way a sculptor molds a piece of clay. There was nothing Renée couldn’t alter. Her dream was to have been a designer, but with nine children in the family there’d never been quite enough money. So Renée’s great dream of becoming another Coco Chanel had been lost in the alteration department of Gimbel’s.

She adored Janet from the moment they met, and the feeling was mutual.

Janet and Renée worked doubletime on decorating the shop, readying their merchandise and establishing contacts for future sources of clothing and jewelry. By the middle of July the shop was open and off to a modest but promising start.

Life was beginning to take on a semblance of sanity for Janet. She loved the drive to and from the city, especially now that she’d traded in her old Ford station wagon for a brand-new sports model Mercedes-Benz, copper brown with beige leather interior and a sliding sun roof. It sort of went with the new shop. Both signs of Janet’s coming out, as it were. Well, better late than …

Tired but content, she drove into the driveway and parked the car. There was always that one bad moment before going inside, but she pushed away the thought and walked up the stone path.

When she opened the door her new housekeeper Annabelle said, “Evening, Mrs. McNeil. It’s so hot I thought a nice seafood salad would tempt you.”

“It sure would. Thank you. Any phone calls?”

“A few. I’ve got them written down on your desk. And you got some mail.”

“Thanks, Annabelle. I guess we’ll put dinner on hold for about an hour, okay? I’d like to shower, and then eat on the terrace.”

Going to the den, she sat at her desk and looked at the calls. One had been from a real estate agent who had been hounding her to sell. She crossed that one off. A call from Jason. She’d return it after dinner. Her attention went to the mail … Taking up an envelope, she looked at the return address. It was from Allan Blum. Good Lord, she couldn’t remember if his eyes were green or blue. But she did remember … It read:

Dear Janet,

I’m going to be in New York on the week of July 30th. I hope very much that you’ll find time to allow us to renew our all too brief—by my lights, anyway—acquaintance. Please let me know; my time will be rather tight since I’ll be there on business. I’d hate, though, to think of being in the city without seeing you.

I trust things are going a little more smoothly. As I said when we last met, in times of stress it especially helps to have friends. I hope you’ll consider me one of yours.

Please do write and let me know if you will be free.

Allan

She held the letter in her hand, and read it again. He hadn’t signed it “sincerely,” “cordially,” “fondly.” Merely “Allan.” Without being immodest, she felt she knew why. He apparently didn’t feel he could say what he wanted to say, which was “love,” but he’d settle for no shabby substitutes. She liked that.

The next was a letter from Bill’s attorney, asking that she come to the office to sign some papers. Her courage sank with this one. In spite of her determination not to allow herself any self-pity or idle dream that a miracle would happen, still, she was badly shaken. Getting up from the desk she poured a brandy and drank it down. Composing herself, or at least trying to, she took up the next letter, which was from Nicole. It helped.

Dearest Mother,

I think the closest thing to heaven must be the countryside of France. Today we’re in the Chateau country. The vineyards are indescribable. Mark and I lie in our sleeping bags and look up at the stars. They never seemed so clear or so near. It’s almost as though you could reach up and pick one out of the sky. We have our own special one.

A few days ago we were in Grasse. The mixtures of perfumed air are, to put it mildly, heady. If anybody would appreciate the silk factory in Lyon, it would be you.

While we were in Paris we stayed at a small pension on the Left Bank. Both of us almost forgot we weren’t French. I bought a crocheted bag for groceries and we shopped for food every day. Mark looks hysterically funny with a beret, and imagine a Frenchman coming up to us and asking in French where to find a certain street. I was so proud of my French ancestry. I answered him in French. I guess seeing it this time is so much more meaningful than when we were here last. The only extravagance I allowed myself was a new dress I bought in a lovely shop on the Rue de la Paix, to wear to the ballet. Thank God, Mark had enough sense to bring a suit. We would have looked pretty ridiculous in our jeans, sandals and striped jerseys sitting in the first tier. And, you’ll never believe this, but guess what ballet company was here? … Balanchine’s. Is that crazy? We had to come to Paris to see that? But,
c’est la vie.
It looked better on this side of the Atlantic.

You’re not the only gifted member of the family, mom. I seem to have taken up the same hobby, documenting everything on film. Enclosed are snapshots of the synagogues we visited. While everyone else was viewing cathedrals … well, we decided to look for the treasures of our heritage. It’s become Mark’s favorite adventure, tracing the old houses of worship.

On Saturday we walked into a synagogue in the Jewish section of Paris, unaware that a
bar mitzvah
was in progress. It was fascinating and unlike Mark’s, which was so … elegant. But the simplicity of this one made it even more poignant, more effective, I felt. Added to the fascination was hearing the service conducted in French
and
Hebrew. I just wish I knew more about my Jewish genes. Well, I’ll learn, Mark assures me. Still, I’m so grateful for the little you used to tell Jason and me about our great-great-grandfather. Suddenly the name Yankel Stevensky sounds just right. It’s wonderful to know about one’s roots … it’s also made Mark and me feel even closer, if possible. Like you, I feel very drawn to the part of us that’s Jewish.

Hope you received my birthday gift. Forgive me, I got so carried away I didn’t even ask how you were getting on. But from what Aunt Kit writes, you’re doing great. Keep it up, mom. We love you, and give a big hug and kiss to Jay. We’ll see you the end of August. ’Til then, with all our love,

Nicole and Mark

As she reinserted the letter in its envelope, Janet was smiling. I’m afraid, she told herself, you’re always going to be a romantic. When all’s said and done, nothing is quite like your first love … For Nicole, she devoutly hoped the first would also be the last.

Quickly she went to the bedroom, undressed, and stepped into the cold shower …

At seven she got into bed and called Jason. She gave him Nicole’s hello and news, he asked about the shop, she told him how well it was doing and what fun it was …

“I miss you, mom,” he said. “Can’t wait to come home. Another month seems like a long time. You’re sure you’re okay?”

“You bet, Jay. Keep busy, darling. The time will pass and before you know it you’ll be back forgetting you ever left.” Why did she say that? Why should he forget he ever left … ?

When she hung up her sense of aloneness was so great she almost called him back, but she thought better of it. After all, he was her son … God, the nights were rough …

But she did allow herself to call Kit. “I got a letter from Nicole and Mark. Talk about love in bloom.”

“I know, I got one too. Aren’t they great, and
frugal…
they’re eating like peasants and Mark’s acting all French, carrying a baguette of bread under his arm … uh, what else is new aside from our kids?”

“…I got a note from Allan Blum. He’s going to be in town the end of the month and wants to have dinner. But I don’t know, Kit—”

“You’re going, Janet.”

“Why? I don’t even know what we’ll talk about.” Or what color his eyes are …

“You’ll find something to say, and if you don’t, he will. Now you
go.
You can’t keep living like a hermit and that’s what you’re doing. Crawling into a hole can get to be a habit. If you don’t start breaking it now you’ll wind up being a recluse.”

“Then you think I should—?”

“I already answered that. Now don’t forget my party on Saturday.”

Janet wasn’t enthusiastic about the prospect of a Westchester party. She’d turned down every other invitation … but for Kit? She couldn’t say no. “I haven’t forgotten.”

On Saturday night she went through the motions of dressing. After she finished she looked at her reflection. Even the new dress from Bonwit’s didn’t lift her spirits. Whether anyone else thought so or not, she felt like the fifth wheel. She was a woman alone now, a woman whose husband had walked out on her. And in so doing had taken so much of the meaning of her life with him. Would she ever get accustomed to
that?

The party was in full swing by the time she arrived. The pool and landscape were bathed in moonlight and illuminated by lanterns. The food was lavishly displayed on the long buffet tables.

Kit looked marvelous. Her deeply tanned skin and black hair—now with the beginning of a gray streak which she refused to color—were highlighted by the flowing white caftan she wore. Nat was in high spirits and was, as usual, the perfect host. And everyone was surprised and pleased to see her.

“The only complaint we have about you, dear, is that the girls miss seeing you. It’s like you dropped off the edge,” said Mary Chase.

The girls! “Well, as you know, I opened a shop in New York—”

“I heard. Lucky you. I’d love to do something like that. Sounds so exciting being a career woman. Tennis, bridge and parties are such a bore.”

My God, where had she heard that before? Wasn’t anyone satisfied? What went wrong with marriage? What are we all looking for? Why doesn’t it … love … last? Janet had a headache.

She slipped away unseen and went into the den, closing the door behind her. She turned off all the lamps but one. In the semi-darkness she lay her head back against the sofa pillows and sat wondering if she’d ever feel like a whole woman again. The shop served its purpose, but, face it, it wasn’t the complete answer she’d hoped for. It was the nights, those awful, lonely nights. Lately she’d begun having nightmares. She could never remember them in the morning, but she awoke from them drenched in perspiration and with a violent headache. Her days were sometimes little better. The memories were revived and relived. Certain songs reminded her of where they’d been, what he’d looked like, what they’d talked about. She avoided passing Bill’s office building; it was too painful to look back and see herself sitting on that leather bench one late afternoon so long ago. She couldn’t go to certain restaurants because she remembered the times they had celebrated in them, could still see Bill’s expression as he’d poured the wine and proposed a toast.

God, who needed snapshots? All the pictures were imprinted on her mind and she couldn’t burn or discard them. It still didn’t make any sense. If they’d fought … if they’d had violent disagreements … if they’d had huge conflicting opinions she might be able to see or understand
why …
But none of that had happened in their marriage. They were a loving, devoted couple, enjoyed the same things. She tried hard to please him—why are you
doing
this to yourself, Janet? You’ve gone round and round like a dog chasing his tail. All the things you’re telling yourself may be true, but as Bill put it, life got to be monotonous for him, no excitement, no challenges … What went wrong? I guess I was … too complacent, too much the contented hausfrau … too damn placid. I should have been more aggressive. But then I was afraid he’d think I was dominating him like his mother, and I did a complete about-face. Well, not altogether.
I
was the one who made him move to the country.
I
was the one who wanted children. He didn’t. Sure, after they were born he adored them. But what would have happened if we had stayed in the city and waited until he was ready to become a father? Maybe I took him a little too much for granted. Never really considered his needs seriously enough … I should have moved back to the city when he asked, but the children came first, and so did I. You stupid, how many times have you tried figuring it out? There are no answers … maybe Bill’s got the right idea, looking for them on some psychiatrist’s couch. Maybe I should …

Her thoughts were interrupted when she saw the door open and Guy Rogers walked in. He was holding a highball glass in his hand. The room was so dim he didn’t see her at first, and he seemed startled when he discovered her sitting on the sofa.

“So you couldn’t take it either … the party, I mean.” His words were slurred.

“I think it’s lovely but I have a headache.”

He sat down next to her. “I’ve had a headache for seventeen years … Do you feel like a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“It could help … the headache. I’m going to fix one.” He poured straight Scotch into the glass, filling it almost to the brim, then sat down next to Janet again. “Marriage stinks, Janet, stinks. Sandra, that frigid cold bitch … wasn’t always that way. Oh, no, she wanted to screw all the time before we were married. Didn’t mind the things we did then. It was okay. Would you believe it, Janet, I have to use a condom. She doesn’t want me to get her all messy. She’s so meticulous I can’t even smoke a cigar in my own den. She fluffs up the pillows the minute I get up. I’m like a boarder she tolerates … I’m a goddamn money machine, is what I am. After the boys were born she needed separate beds, then separate rooms, she got migraines. Couldn’t stand me in the same room. Who the hell does she think she’s kidding?” he said between long pulls on his drink. “My life stinks.”