Illusions of Love (33 page)

“I know. Oh, I can’t wait for the whole world to see us together.”

“They will. In the meantime just love me a lot.”

Martin signed the cheque and helped Jenny on with her jacket.

“You know you’re the most beautiful woman here.”

“You’re prejudiced.”

“You’re right,” he said.

“Now where to?”

“Anywhere.”

“There’s a new club on Sunset Boulevard with dancing. Do you think you can keep up with anyone as young as r’s me.”

She laughed. It was as though she were twenty again, too. They danced well into the early hours of the morning. Holding each other close as they danced cheek to cheek, neither noticed that the music had changed from slow to a fast swing beat.

“Hey, bud, get with it,” said a drunken dancer nearby as he twirled his partner.

Martin and Jenny only smiled sheepishly at each other.

Back in the hotel room he could barely wait for Jenny to undress.

Pulling her towards him, he said, “Do you know how you make me feel?”

“No,” she whispered, biting his ear.

“As if I could make love to you all night.”

He did make love to her for hours, and each time he climaxed he shouted, “Jenny … Jenny … Jenny … Later she lit two cigarettes and handed him one.

“Oh, Martin, I do love you so.” She pulled him down to her and kissed his mouth, eyes, neck. She never wanted to let him

go. Then, steeling herself, she asked, “Martin, when do you think you’ll ask Sylvia for a divorce?”

Martin wished she hadn’t chosen that moment to ask. He didn’t want anything to spoil this night together.

Jenny saw the stricken look cross his face. She didn’t want to hurt him, but this time she wasn’t going to let him vacillate either. All the way back from the Orient she had known she shouldn’t have returned to California. Instead she should have insisted he make a clean break and come East. When Martin didn’t answer, she said, “You’re going to have to speak to Sylvia sometime. When do you think you’ll do it?”

“After I get home, darling. But let’s not think about it now. Let’s just enjoy what we have.”

“Of course, darling but you will tell her you’re leaving when you get home.”

Martin hesitated. He didn’t want to think of Sylvia or his mother right at this moment; he just wanted to savour these few stolen days.

But despite himself, he remembered his conversation with Dominic . Just be sure you know what you really want. Well, much as he owed his wife, he believed he did know. He wanted Jenny and this time he would fight for her.

The days sped by like seconds. Before Martin could believe it they were back at the San Francisco airport. Afraid they might be seen, he didn’t kiss her, saying, “I love you. Jenny. Everything will be all right.”

“I know, Martin, but you must tell her. Then we will really be together.”

He waited until she got a taxi, then walked through the long terminal to the parking lot for his car.

As he drove out to Woodside he kept rehearsing what he would say to Sylvia. By the time he got home he was so distraught he didn’t put the car in the garage. Instead, he turned off the engine and sat wondering how he could possibly tell his wife he was leaving. They had known each other almost all their lives. What had she ever done to deserve

such treatment? As a girl she had waited patiently through the war, Martin’s year in New York, his affair with Jenny. As a wife she had been loyal and devoted. Whatever problems they’d had with the kids were no fault of hers. What reason could he give for walking out? That he felt their marriage had grown stale? Well, if it had, wasn’t he really to blame? Sylvia had become so involved with her charities and volunteer work only when Martin had made it clear he would not fill the hours left by the children’s absence. And Sylvia had obediently kept herself busy. In fact, when had she ever done anything without his approval?

Or was that itself the problem? Martin had married her because she was the right girl, because his mother adored her, because they envisioned a similar future. He had never pretended he felt about her as he had about Jenny. The very reasons for their marriage had left him with an unresolved longing for the irrational, the passionate, the forbidden.

And now he was about to wreck her life.

He got out of the car and walked up the front path to the door. His heart pounded as he put the key in the lock and entered the large hall. He had a sudden image of himself as a child sliding down the banister and his mother chastising him: “Little gentlemen don’t do that, Martin.” Well, after tonight she wouldn’t have to worry about his behaving like a gentleman.

Slowly he climbed the stairs and stood outside the door to their bedroom, a room that he already no longer considered his. In abdicating from his marriage he felt he’d have to set aside all claim to this house. He turned the knob and opened the door. Sylvia was in bed, eating an apple. Her face was sunburned from working in the garden, and there was a transparent layer of vaseline on her nose.

Reading glasses perched somewhat unbecomingly on her nose.

“Oh, Martin darling,” she said, holding out her arms.

“I didn’t expect you until later.”

“I decided to take an earlier plane,” he said, busying himself with some mail on the dresser to avoid her embrace.

She didn’t sense anything wrong and said, “I’m so delighted you did;

how did your week go? “

“Fine, fine. Sylvia … would you mind if I went down and fixed a drink?”

“Not at all. In fact, I’ll join you in a minute.”

Martin poured himself a scotch and went to stand by the French doors.

He peered into the night as though he could find the answers out there. He still hadn’t decided how to broach the subject of divorce when Sylvia entered the room. This time she did sense his tension.

“Martin, come and talk to me.”

He turned around and looked at her. Slowly he walked to a chair, sat down, and took a sip of his drink.

“What’s wrong, Martin?”

He shook his head.

“If something is bothering you, don’t you think it would help to discuss it? We don’t do much of that any more.”

Martin remained silent.

“Please, Martin. Don’t keep shutting me out.”

He simply couldn’t tell her tonight. He’d call Jenny and tell her, and she’d have to understand.

“I’m going to bed. I’m really awfully beat. You’ll have to excuse me, it has been a difficult week.”

“Darling, please give me a chance. Give us a chance. Talk to me about what’s troubling you.”

He sank back into his chair.

“Sylvia, I love you. I always will.

That’s what makes all this so difficult. “

Her heart suddenly began to pound.

“What’s difficult, Martin?”

“Sylvia, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know quite how to say this.”

“Say what?”

He began again.

“I have fought this believe me, I really have.”

“Fought what?” she said, but even as she asked she had a terrifying flash of knowledge.

Martin still was unable to speak. He went over to the bar and poured himself a half glass of straight scotch.

“Sylvia, I don’t want you to hate me … She folded her hands to keep them from shaking.

He paused, summoning courage, then almost inaudibly said, “I met Jenny McCoy again, quite by accident. Sylvia, I still love her. All these years I pretended she was no longer a part of my life, but it wasn’t true. When I saw her I knew I couldn’t leave her again any more than I could tear my heart from my body. My only regret is hurting you.”

Sylvia thought she was going to faint. He’d been away with Jenny for the past ten days. She knew that whatever she said at this moment could affect the rest of their lives. She mustn’t overreact. She was too stunned to tell him what she really felt.

“Would you mind getting me a drink?” she finally whispered.

When he brought it to her she took it with trembling hands and forced herself to sip it quickly.

Waiting until she thought her voice would be steady, she said, “Well, Martin, where does this leave us?”

“God, Sylvia, I don’t know how to say it, but I guess it won’t be any easier tomorrow, or the next day. I want you to divorce me.”

Sylvia felt as if her world had collapsed. She had hoped even through her fear that Martin was just going to confess to a fling. She would have been upset, but she would have forgiven him. Instead he was telling her he was leaving. Well, she wouldn’t let him. She just wouldn’t. She could fight, too. She had won twenty-five years ago.

Maybe she would again. For all she knew it was a phase the male mid life crisis they were writing all those books about. Well, the trick was to stay calm.

“Martin,” she forced herself to say gently, ‘give yourself some time to think. Don’t act rashly. I’ll try not to pressure you, but don’t do anything impulsively. “

“Sylvia, you don’t seem to understand. I’m not acting impulsively. I honestly need to be free. I feel so bad worse than you’d know but this really has nothing to do with you … ‘

“Nothing to do with me?” Despite her resolution not to lose her temper, she heard her voice rising.

“Then who does it have to do with?

I’m your wife. “

Damn, Martin thought. I’m handling this so badly.

“What I mean is that it’s nothing that you’ve done. You’ve been a wonderful wife … ” Martin, don’t our years together mean anything? You’ve always believed in family. Look how upset you were about Julian’s marriage, yet you’re ready to break up our home because you spent ten days with a woman you haven’t seen in a quarter of a century.

“

“Sylvia, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? I’ve put my life into this marriage. I’m not complaining it’s a fact. My first priority was to make you happy.”

“Please, Sylvia. I guess I never stopped loving her.”

“Oh God, Martin, are you telling me all these years in bed you were thinking other?”

“No, no. You must understand me, Sylvia. I’ve loved you. I still love you.”

“Martin, don’t make things worse. If you loved me you wouldn’t be talking of divorce.”

He went to her and knelt by the couch.

“You’re wrong. I do love you, Sylvia. If I could find a way to spare you this I would.”

She did not hear the rest of his words as she finally gave in to her tears. She didn’t know how long she wept, but feeling Martin’s arms around her restored some of her strength. She would not give him up easily. She would fight, but with the weapons that had served her in the past: patience, understanding, and the force of her love itself.

She sat up and asked Martin to freshen her drink. When he returned she was sitting up drying her eyes. With every ounce of courage she possessed, she made herself say, “Sit down, Martin, and tell me what happened. I’m ready to listen.”

Martin told her everything, from how he had spotted Jenny right before Christmas after leaving Sylvia outside.

I. Magnin’s. How he had fought with himself before calling her name, to how he had finally met her in Los Angeles.

“You’ve never stopped loving her, have you, Martin?”

“I think I have been obsessed with her. When she vanished I always felt responsible. There were times I was afraid she hadn’t survived.

If I let her go a second time, Sylvia, I’ll never get over it. “

Sylvia swallowed hard before saying, “Maybe you can go on seeing her for a while without leaving me. I’ll try to be sensible, Martin, if you promise you won’t act in haste. Make sure you’re doing the right thing before you do anything that’s irrevocable. You once told me that Jenny was a devout Catholic. I’m sure she has a high regard for the sanctity of marriage; it’s not something she’d want you to toss aside carelessly.”

Sylvia wasn’t really sure Jenny had any high regard for marriage, but she felt it was to her own advantage to speak of her in the best terms possible. Sylvia knew her years with Martin had given her a certain influence and she was determined to use it now.

Praying for strength, she said, “Why don’t you give yourself a chance to know her better. After all these years, you’re almost strangers.

Maybe you’re just trying to recapture your youth. I don’t know. I’m no psychologist. I’m just a woman desperately in love with her husband. “

Then, feeling as though she were plunging a knife into her heart, she said, “Live with her for a little while. See if what you feel is really love. Then in six months if you still want it I’ll give you a divorce.”

Martin was stunned. Sylvia was everything a woman should be, all the things he had told Jenny she was. And dear God, if he could have willed it he would have loved her as she deserved.

“You could bear such an arrangement?” he asked.

“If I have to,” Sylvia told him, standing up.

“Look, Martin, I’m exhausted. Call Jenny or go to her if you wish. I want some time alone anyway.” She walked out of the room with her head high, but back in the bedroom she and

Martin had shared with so much pleasure she dissolved into tears.

Going into the bathroom, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

“You fool,” she said aloud.

“You stupid, stupid fool. There isn’t a woman in the world more stupid than you. You want him even though you know he married you on the rebound, even though he’s still in love with her. But the small voice of truth said: you have always loved him and always will. Even being second best was better than not having him at all. You won out over Jenny once, and with God’s help you can do it again.” Then, putting Jenny and Martin together in Los Angeles, she lashed out: “You bitch .. you little Irish bitch. I won’t let you ruin my life.” Picking up a bottle of bath salts, she threw it against the wall with all her might and watched it shatter into a million pieces. Then she slumped to the floor, resting her head against the cold tub.

“I love you, Martin. I love you. Please come back … please … ‘

When Martin called and told Jenny he was on his way back to the city, she rushed around to be ready. After ordering up champagne she took a quick bath and dressed in a bright red silk caftan. She was sitting waiting when she heard his knock.