Israel (78 page)

“Good to have you back, sir. You've been too long away.”

“Thank you, Cody. It has been almost a year, hasn't it? Miss Herodetzky, may I introduce Ed and Emily Cody. They take care of things around here.”

“I'll get the bags, sir,” Ed Cody said. “Excuse me, Miss Herodetzky.”

“I've got a snack for you in the pantry,” Emily Cody chirped, “and I opened the wine to breathe, just as you instructed.” She hurried off with their coats over her arm.

“It seems like such a huge place for just the two of them to maintain.”

Carl laughed. “I'd say so. Twenty rooms downstairs, and on the second floor six bedroom suites and the nursery. Of course there's another fellow who looks after the stables, and in the summer we bring along some of the servants from town, but Ed Cody has authority over the grounds. I don't interfere with him. He hires on people for specific jobs as he needs them. In winter the house is shut down and the Codys retire to a snug little cottage on the edge of the woods.”

He led her from the front hall into the heart of the house. To her left was a sunken ballroom with a wall of French doors and a massive oak serving bar. Directly before her was the sweep of the main staircase. Carl showed her the music room with its twenty-foot cathedral-beamed ceiling and the solarium, dark now, but Becky could imagine its glory when the potted palms, hanging plants and white wicker furniture were bathed in sunlight.

Becky felt overwhelmed, as lost as in a maze. She was relieved when they ended up in the library. Its warmth came from the intricate carved oak paneling as well as the merrily crackling fire and soothed her, and the relatively modest scale was a relief after the grandeur elsewhere.

She and Carl sat side by side in wing chairs, nibbling at snacks and wine. Becky tried to relax, but it wasn't easy. The house was just too big, its shadowy corners too remote to afford her a sense of shelter. She felt as vulnerable as if she were outside before a campfire.

She was also uneasy about the night ahead. Carl had never stayed the night at her apartment; he considered such behavior improper, especially for a married man, even in the process of divorce.

That was Carl's opinion about staying the night at her place. Becky assumed things would be different here at his
own house. She wondered what it would be like to wake up together in the morning.

She was not to find out. Mrs. Cody was summoned to escort her upstairs to a guest suite. Her bath took up more space than her entire West Side apartment. Twin doors with lion's-head doorknobs led to the sitting room; the bedroom had intricate chinoiserie panels, wide-board pegged oak floors, hooked area rugs and a blazing fireplace. A pair of weeping stone angels supported the fireplace mantel. Once Becky was in bed with the lamp off and the flickering flames casting ominous shadows on the wall, she found that she was overtired and overexcited. Every time she closed her eyes she imagined those two brooding angels creeping toward her.

That took care of sleep. She lay stiff as a board, eyes wide, staring up at the ceiling, wishing she were home. Eventually she must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew the fire had died down to glowing embers and a hand, cold as stone, was brushing back her hair.

She almost screamed, but then she realized it was Carl, and his hands were freezing, so after he'd gotten into bed with her she took his hands and warmed them between her thighs. They made gentle love for a long time, which culminated when Carl cried out and she did not.

No matter, no matter.

Afterward they rested, limbs intertwined. Becky pleaded for him to stay the night, but he said he could not. It simply was not appropriate. There were appearances to uphold, but he promised to remain until she fell asleep.

She woke at seven-thirty. The fire was out. By day the brooding angels of stone seemed far less disquieting but just as sad.

Downstairs she found Mrs. Cody in the dining room. Mr. Pickman was riding and had asked that Miss Herodetzky meet him at the stables at noon. After breakfast Becky asked to see the kitchen. Mrs. Cody chuckled when Becky
went on to say she considered the kitchen to be the heart and soul of a house. After her tour Becky went upstairs for a sweater and outside to explore the grounds.

She spent two hours wandering through the gardens, past the swimming pool, the lily ponds, the Victorian wrought-iron gazebos and even a child-sized wishing well surrounded by bronze statues of fairytale characters. Of course the pool had been drained and the gardens were straw-colored and lifeless now that it was fall, but the landscaped grounds were still quite lovely in a melancholy way. She came across Cody puttering at some task near the garden wall. He answered her questions about the estate, explaining that it ran seventy acres, mostly woods and bridal paths.

One of the Irish setters needed only the slightest coaxing to detach itself from Cody and come play. The setter never tired of retrieving the stick Becky kept throwing. Eventually she and her new friend headed over to the stables, which were of brick and had a red-shingled curbed roof crowned with a cupola and a weather vane.

She walked around the stables with the dog until she happened past the window of a wood-paneled trophy room. She tried the door, found it unlocked and went inside. The walls bloomed with red, yellow and blue ribbons. Once the satin had been fresh and bright, but now the ribbons were dusty, fly-specked and mildewed. There were framed photographs of Carl as he grew up, astride different horses but always beaming triumphantly or being awarded his ribbons. Carl had turned out ruggedly handsome, but what a beautiful youth he had been. In some of the photographs a dreamy-eyed older man was shaking hands with him in an exaggerated display of congratulations. Becky recognized Bernard Pickman from the portraits in the store's executive suite. There were no photographs of Carl with his father.

The Irish setter, which had been lying across the
threshold, barked excitedly. A moment later Becky heard thudding hooves and ran outside in time to see Carl gallop through the stately stone arches that led from the beginnings of the bridal path to the main doors of the stables. He was dressed in boots, jodhpurs and a wool shirt; it was the first time Becky had ever seen him in anything but a business suit. His cheeks were ruddy and his emerald eyes exuberant. His grey hair, which he'd taken to wearing longer, was wind-tousled and curved in a roguish forelock across his brow.

“Becky, what a marvelous morning it's been,” he cried, his voice deep and vibrant. He wheeled his horse—a big handsome roan, glistening from its run—and made it prance. Becky laughed and applauded; the setter went into a paroxysm of spinning, yipping excitement.

Watching Carl, Becky couldn't help thinking how much he still resembled that proud, happy boy in the trophy room photographs. He reined the horse to a stop and lithely dismounted before her. He smelled of sweat and leather and horse; he smelled altogether wonderful. Feverish with desire, Becky threw her arms around his neck and passionately kissed him.

Carl was trembling. “I love you so,” he murmured, his voice husky with emotion.

I'll lure him into the stables, Becky thought. We'll fall back upon the piles of straw and he'll make love to me, and there'll be no holding back.

But then the stable doors creaked open and out shuffled the horse trainer, old Mr. McKay, eighty years old if a day. Carl stepped out of Becky's embrace and the rogue on horseback was once more the aloof, dignified lord of the manor.

McKay led away the roan and they walked back to the house, not touching. The dog did not follow. Carl went upstairs and Becky to the solarium. His scent was still upon her but fading fast.

*     *     *

Later Carl asked if she would mind having dinner in the kitchen with the Codys and McKay. Becky thought it would be far preferable to another self-conscious meal in the huge dining room. The kitchen was cavernous but homey.

That night they sat around one of the kitchen tables, ate roast beef and drank red wine while McKay told anecdotes about Carl's boyhood. Clearly the trainer's advanced age afforded him a privileged position, for Carl gracefully endured it. He seemed more relaxed than Becky had ever seen him, except perhaps for one raucous evening in a West Side spaghetti house.

Carl's good mood slipped a bit when Mrs. Cody rose to bring in dessert and Becky offered to get the coffee. She saw McKay's startled glance at her and sensed Carl's displeasure. At first she was embarrassed, then angry. To hell with knowing how to behave with servants. She'd grown up doing housework when she wasn't breaking her back in her father's store. She'd probably washed as many dishes and plucked as many chickens as Emily Cody, and she knew how to make borscht and do laundry, and she wasn't going to make a fool of herself by pretending anything else.

“I'll get the coffee,” she repeated, feeling ornery and glaring at Carl.

He smiled thinly and looked away.

When she and Carl retired to the library he began at once. “Really, Becky, you were quite out of line at dinner.”

“Oh, stop it. You're making it sound as if I'd begun emptying ashtrays at a ball. I thought these people were your friends.”

“It is because I maintain proper discipline with the domestic staff that I can afford to be cordial.”

“I don't want to discuss it,” Becky said. “It's too absurd.”

“You're going to have to learn how to deal with servants, my dear.”

“Why?” she snapped. “I don't have any.”

“But you will.”

“I think the whole thing is—” Becky stopped short. “What? What are you talking about?”

“My divorce was granted last week. Becky, I want you to marry me.” He took a small velvet box from his pocket and opened it. The diamond caught the firelight and hurled it into Becky's astounded eyes.

“Carl—I—”

“Wait. Before you answer or say anything, hear me out. You knew this day was coming. I've been courting you—trying to get you to love me as much as I love you. I'm not quite sure if I've succeeded, but more than a lover I'm a businessman, and you, my dear, are a businesswoman, if ever there was one. Accordingly, in exchange for your companionship and affection, I give you—”

“Carl, all this luxury is wonderful, but—”

“But it doesn't enchant you. I know that, Becky. That's why I'm offering you management of the store.”

“What?”

“It's what you want, isn't it?” he asked affectionately. “I could buy you anything in the world, but nothing makes you happier than the store. As my wife you'd be in control. I would be merely a figurehead.” He chuckled. “In a way I am that already. You and Philip Cooper make all the decisions. I just rubber-stamp your good judgments. Now that the war is over, think of what could be done with Pickman's. Think of all the marvelous changes you could make.”

Becky shook her head. “I don't know whether to laugh or cry. You're trying to bribe me.”

“No. Not at all a bribe.” He took the ring from its
box and held it up. “A man wants to do all he can to make the woman he loves happy. If it is in my power to do so by giving you the store to run, how is that any different from any husband providing his wife with jewelry or a home or anything else? You have made me happy, Becky, happier than I ever thought I could be. Now I want to do the same for you.”

She went over and sat on his lap. She hugged and kissed him and then said, “Carl, I won't live in that mausoleum.”

He laughed. “Yes, that's exactly what it is, a mausoleum. We'll live anywhere you'd like, my love.”

Becky nodded. “On Central Park West. And even if we have a servant, I warn you, nobody is going to make me a guest in my home or a stranger in my kitchen.”

“Then your answer is yes?”

She ran her fingers through his hair. “Think carefully, Carl Pickman,” she murmured. “This time you're not merely taking on another bauble. This time you're taking a wife.”

She allowed him to slide the ring onto her finger, thinking, why not? Why shouldn't I marry him? He loves me, and I'll be a good wife and a good partner. I don't know if I love him, or even what love is. I know I loved Benny Talkin, and what good did that do?

Late that night he came to her bedroom. As they made love Becky desperately tried to recapture the spirit of that afternoon at the stables, but her tumultuous yearning and the intensity that had emanated from Carl now seemed impossibly remote, as ephemeral as vivid. She might just as well chase a dream.

Oh well, no matter. She would be good to Carl and he would be good to her.

As he bucked within her, the brooding stone-cold angels looked on with blind, impassive eyes.

“Philip, Rebecca and I are going to be married.”

It was eight o'clock Monday morning, and Carl Pickman, who did not approve of procrastination, had summoned Philip Cooper to his office. Becky, having been warned during last night's drive back, was hiding out in her office. Millie had been given strict orders from Carl not to put through any calls. Carl was uncomfortable in any matter that called for warmth or a personal touch, whatever that was supposed to be. Nevertheless, he wanted very much to retain Cooper's good will during and after this interview.

Phil Cooper grinned. “That's wonderful news, Carl. When I walked in here and saw the grim look on your face, I thought you were going to tell me bad news.”

Cooper had taken a seat on the sofa. Carl left his chair and came around his desk to sit beside his employee. He and Cooper had been together for many years, even socially sometimes, and yet Carl was reluctant to assume they were friends.

“Phil, you're vice president and general manager of
the store. Rebecca, as my wife, will be general manager and change your title to executive vice president.”

Cooper removed his horn-rimmed glasses to massage the bridge of his nose. “I'll have my resignation on your desk by noon.”