Passion's Promise (7 page)

"So are you. So are you." She stood in the kitchen doorway, her eyes alight, a twilight glow filling the room, and she looked back at Mark, sprawled on the floor.

"You know, once in a while I think I really love you, Marcus."

"Once in a while I think I love you too."

The look they shared said a multitude of things. There was no unpleasantness there, no pressure, no strain. No depth, but no hassles. There was merit inthat, for both of them.

"Want to go for a walk, Kezia?"

"La passeggiata."

He laughed softly at the word. She always called it that. "I haven't heard that since you went away."

"That's what it always is to me, down here. Uptown, people walk. They run. They go crazy. Here, they still know how to live. Like in Europe.
Le passeggiate,
the walks Italians take every evening at dusk, and at noon on Sundays, in funny little old towns where most of the women wear black and the men wear hats and white shirts, baggy suits and no ties. Proud farmers.'good people. They check out their scene, greet their friends. They do it right it's an institution to them. A ritual, a tradition, and I love it" She looked content as she said it.

"So let's go do it." He rose slowly to his feet stretched, and put an arm around her shoulders. "We can eat when we get back."

Kezia knew what that meant. Eleven, maybe twelve o'clock. First they would walk, and then they would run into friends and stop to chat on the street for a while. It would get dark and they would take refuge in someone's studio, so Mark could see the progress of a friend's latest work, and eventually the studio would grow crowded so they would all go to The Partridge for wine. And suddenly, hours later, they would be starving, and Kezia would be serving fettuccine for nine. There would be candles and music, and laughter and guitars, and joints passed around until they were tiny wisps of paper in somebody's roach clip. And Klee and Rousseau and Cassatt and Pollock would come alive in the room as their names flew among them. Paris in the days of the Impressionists must have been like that. Unloved outlaws of the art establishment banding together and forming a world of their own, to give each other laughter and courage and hope . . . until one day, somebody found them, made them famous, and offered them caviar to replace the chocolate cookies. It was a shame really. For their sakes, Kezia almost hoped they would never leave the fettuccine and the dusty floors of their studios and their magic nights far behind them, because then they would wear dinner jackets and brittle smiles and sad eyes. They would dine at "21" and dance at El Morocco and go to parties at the Maisonette.

But Park Avenue was far from SoHo. A universe away, And the air was still rich with the last of summer, and the night was filled with smiles.

"Where are you off to, my love?" "I have to go uptown to do some errands." "See ya later." He wasn't paying attention to her; he was intent on a gouache.

She kissed the nape of his neck on her way past him and looked around the room with a brief, swift glance. She hated to go "uptown." It was as though she was always afraid she wouldn't find her way back. As though someone in her world would suspect what she'd been up to, where she had been, and might try to keep her from ever coming back here. The idea terrified her. She needed to come back, needed SoHo, and Mark, and all that they stood for. Silly really. Who could stop her from returning? Edward? Her father's ghost? How absurd. She was twenty-nine years old. Still, leaving SoHo felt like crossing the frontier into enemy territory, behind the Iron Curtain, on a scouting mission for the underground. It amused her to fantasize about it And Mark's casual way of treating her comings and goings made it easier to float back and forth between both worlds. She laughed to herself as she ran lightly down the stairs.

It was a bright sunny morning and the subway let her out three blocks from her apartment and the walk down Lexington Avenue and across Seventy-fourth Street was crisp. Nurses from Lenox Hill were dashing out to lunch, afternoon shoppers looked harassed, and traffic bleated angrily. Everything was so much faster here. Louder, darker, dirtier, more.

The doorman swept open the door and touched his cap. There were flowers waiting for her in the refrigerator kept by the building management for instances such as this. God forbid the roses should wilt while Madame was at the coiffeur—or in SoHo. It was the usual white box from Whit Kezia looked at her watch and made a rapid calculation. She had the day's calls to make on behalf of "Martin Hal-lam," snooping secretly for tidbits. And she also had the column she'd already finished which she still had to phone in to her agent. A quick bath, and then the meeting for the Arthritis Ball. First meeting of the year, and good meat for Martin Hallam. She could be back in SoHo by five, stop briefly at Fiorella's for provisions, and still be out for the nightly stroll with Mark. Perfect.

She called her service and collected her messages. A call from Edward. Two from Marina, and one from Whit, who wanted to confirm their lunch at "21" the following day, She returned the call, promised him her full attention at lunch, thanked him for the roses, and listened patiently while he told her how much he missed her. Five minutes later she was in the bathtub, her mind far from Whit, and shortly thereafter she was drying herself in the big white Porthault towels discreetly monogrammed in pink. KHStM.

The meeting was at Elizabeth Morgan's house. Mrs. An-gier Whimple Morgan. The third. She was Kezia's age, but looked ten years older, and her husband was twice her age. She was his third wife, the first two having conveniently died, augmenting his fortune handsomely. Elizabeth was still redoing the house. It just took "forever to find the right pieces."

Kezia was ten minutes late, and when she arrived, throngs of women were crowded into the hall. Two maids in crisp black uniforms offered tea sandwiches, and there was lemonade on a long silver tray. The butler was discreetly taking orders for drinks. And he was getting a lot more business than the long silver tray.

The couch and Louis XV
fauteuils
("Imagine, eight of them, darling, from Christie's! And all in one dayl You know, the Richley estate, and signed tool") were cluttered with the older women on the committee, enthroned like heads of state, clanking gold bracelets and covered with pearls, wearing "good" suits and "marvelous" hats, a host of Balenciaga and Chanel. They eyed the younger women carefully, criticism rich on their minds.

The room had a ceiling the height of two floors; the mantel was French, a "marvelous" marble, Louis XVI, and the ghastly chandelier had been a wedding present from Elizabeth's mother. Fruitwood tables, an inlaid desk, an ormolu chest, Chippendale, Sheraton, Hepplewhite—it all looked to Kezia like Sotheby's the day before auction.

The "girls" were given half an hour of grace before coming to order, and then their attention was demanded at the front of the room. Courtnay St. James was in charge.

"Well, ladies, welcome home from the summer. And doesn't everyone look just marvelous!" She was heftily poured into a navy silk suit that crushed her ample bosom and struggled over her hips. A sapphire brooch of considerable size adorned her lapel, her pearls were in place, her hat matched her dress, and three or four rings that had been born with her hands waved her demi-glasses at the "girls" as she spoke.

"And now, let's get organized for our marvelous, marvelous fete! It's going to be at the Plaza this year."

Surprise! Surprise! The Plaza and not the Pierre. How terribly, terribly exciting!

There was a murmur among the women, and the butler silently circulated his tray at the edge of the crowd. Tiffany was first on line, and seemed to weave as she stood, smiling amiably at her friends. Kezia looked away and let her eyes comb the crowd. They were all here, all the same faces, and one or two new ones, but even the newcomers were not strangers. They had just added this committee to their myriad others. There were no outsiders, no one who didn't belong. One couldn't let just anyone work on the Arthritis Ball, could one? "But my dear, you must understand, you do remember who her mother was, don't you?" Last year, Tippy Walgreen had tried to introduce one of her strange little friends to the group. "I mean, after all, everyone knew her mother was half-Jewish! I mean, really, Tippy, you'll
embarrass
the girl!"

The meeting droned on. Assignments were given. Meet-big schedules decided. Twice a week for seven long months. It would give the women a reason for living and a motive for drinking—at least four martinis per meeting if they caught the butler's eye often enough. He would continue his rounds, ever discreet, while the pitcher of lemonade remained almost full.

As usual, Kezia accepted her role as head of the Junior Committee. As long as she was in town, it was useful for the column to do it. And it meant nothing more than being sure that all the right debutantes came to the Ball, and that a chosen few of them were allowed to lick stamps. An honor which would enchant their mothers. "The Arthritis Ball, Peggy? How nifty!" Nifty . . . nifty . . . nifty. . . .

The meeting broke up at five, with at least half of the women comfortably tight, but not so much so that they couldn't go home and face their husbands with the usual.

"You know how Elizabeth is, she just forces it on you." And Tiffany would tell Bill it had all been divine.

If he came home. The gossip that Kezia was hearing about Tiffany these days was growing unpleasant.

The echoes she heard brought back other memories, memories that were long gone but would never quite be forgotten. Memories of reproaches she had heard from behind closed doors, warnings, and the sounds of someone violently sick to her stomach. Her mother. Like Tiffany. She hated watching Tiffany now. There was too much pain in her eyes, shoddily wrapped in "divine" and bad jokes and that vague glazed look that said she didn't know exactly where she was or why.

Kezia looked at her watch in annoyance. It was almost five-thirty, and she didn't want to bother stopping at home to get out of the little Chanel number she'd worn. Mark would survive it. And with luck, he'd be too wrapped up in his easel to notice. If he ever got a chance to notice; at that hour it was almost impossible to catch a cab. She looked at the street in dismay. Not a vacant cab in sight.

"Want a ride?" The voice was only a few feet away, and she turned in surprise. It was Tiffany, standing beside a sleek navy blue Bentley with liveried chauffeur. The car was her mother-in-law's, as Kezia knew.

"Mother Benjamin lent me the car." Tiffany looked apologetic. In the late afternoon sunlight, away from the world of parties and facades, Kezia saw a so much older version of her school friend, with wrinkles of sadness and betrayal around her eyes, and a sallow look to her skin. She had been so pretty in school, and still was, but she was losing it now. It reminded Kezia again of her mother. She could hardly bear to look into Tiffany's eyes.

"Thanks, love, but I don't want to take you out of your way."

"Hell, you don't live very far ... do you?" She smiled a tired smile which made her look almost young again. As though being out with the grown-ups was just too much for her, and now it was time to go home. She had had just enough to drink to make her begin to forget things again, Kezia had lived in the same place for years.

"No, I don't live very far, Tiffie, but I'm not going home."

"That's okay." She looked so lonely, so in need of a friend. Kezia couldn't say no. Tears were welling up in her throat.

"Okay, thanks." Kezia smiled and approached the car, forcing herself to think of other things. She couldn't cry in front of the girl, for God's sake. Cry about what? Her mother's death, twenty years later ... or for this girl who was already halfway dead? Kezia wouldn't let herself think about it, as she sank into the gentle upholstery in the back seat. The bar was already open. "Mother Benjamin" kept quite a stock.

"Harley, we're out of bourbon again."

"Yes, madam." Harley remained expressionless and Tiffany turned to Kezia with a smile.

"Want a drink?"

Kezia shook her head "Why don't you wait 'til you get home?" Tiffany nodded, holding the glass in her hand and gazing out the window. She was trying to remember if Bill was coming home for dinner. She thought he was in London for three days, but she wasn't sure if that was next week . . . or last week.

"Kezia?"

"Yes?" Kezia sat very still as Tiffany tried to make her mind stick to one thought.

"Do you love me?" Kezia was stunned, and Tiffany looked horrified. She had been absent-minded and it had slipped out. The question again. The demon that haunted her. "I ... I'm sorry ... I ... I was thinking of someone else. . . ." There were tears flooding Kezia's eyes now as Tiffany brought her gaze from the window to rest on Kezia's face.

"It's all right, Tiffie. It's okay." She put her arms around her friend and there was a long moment of silence. The chauffeur glanced into the rearview mirror, then hastily averted his eyes and sat rigid, behind the wheel, patient, imperturbable and profoundly and eternally discreet. Neither of the young women noted his presence. They had been brought up to think that way. He waited a full five minutes while the women in the back seat sat hugged wordlessly and there was the sound of gentle weeping. He wasn't sure which woman was crying.

"Madam?"

"Yes, Harley?" Tiffany sounded very young and very hoarse.

"Where are we taking Miss Saint Martin?"

"Oh ... I don't know." She dried her eyes with one gloved hand, and looked at Kezia with a half smile.

"Where are you going?"

"I ... the Sherry-Netherland. Can you drop me ofi there?"

"Sure." The car had already started, and the two settled back in their seat, holding hands between fine beige kid and black suede and saying nothing. There was nothing either could say: too much would have to be said if either of them ever began to try. The silence was easier. Tiffany wanted to invite Kezia home to dinner, but she couldn't remember if Bill was in town, and he didn't like her friends. He wanted to be able to read the work he brought home after dinner, or go out to his meetings, without feeling he had to stick around and make chitchat. Tiffany knew the rules. No one to dinner, except when Bill brought them home. It had been years since she'd tried . . . that was why . . . that was how ... in the beginning, she had been so lonely. With Daddy gone, and Mother . . . well, Mother . . . and she had thought babies of her own . . . but Bill didn't want them around either. Now the children ate at five-thirty with Nanny Singleton in the kitchen, and Nanny thought it "unwise" for Tiffany to eat with them. It made the children "uncomfortable." So she ate alone in the dining room at seven-thirty. She wondered if Bill would be home for dinner tonight, or just how angry he would be if. . . .