Private affairs : a novel (2 page)

" 'Husband,' " Matt repeated, his lips coming down to hers. "I like the sound of that. What about 'wife'?"

"Give me fifty or sixty years to get used to it," Elizabeth murmured, and they kissed, Matt's hands finding the zipper on the back of her dress and sliding it down as she unbuttoned his shirt, and then her breasts were against his bare chest and they stood that way, their mouths together, tongues slowly exploring, discovering, after living together for the last year, that somehow there was a difference now in making love. "I don't know what it is," Elizabeth said. "Just because of a ceremony . . . what is it that makes me feel different?"

"The oysters," Matt said, and as they laughed together, he slipped her dress off her shoulders and let it fall. Elizabeth put her hands behind his head and brought him down with her to the chaise, just wide enough for the two of them, and in the faint lamplight from the living room, and the cool white of a full moon, they slipped off each other's remaining clothes, slowly, as if for the first time, as if they were just beginning because that afternoon they had vowed their love in a formal ceremony: permanent, part of the community, part of past and future.

"My dear love," Matt said, his lips on her breast. "Dearest Elizabeth." He murmured it against one nipple and then the other, and his voice, speaking her name, seemed to slide inside her, stirring and rippling through her body as his lips moved along her skin and he repeated it— "Elizabeth, my wife, my love"—again and again until she heard nothing else, felt nothing else, dissolving beneath his mouth and hands into ripples that spread wider and deeper, and at last pulled him down to lie on her, and they were no longer separate, but one, as the last streaks of sunset were swallowed by the black, star-studded sky.

Looking at the stars, feeling her husband's weight upon her, Elizabeth's lips curved in a smile. Matt turned his head to kiss them. "You are a remarkably seductive lady."

She put her hand along his face, loving him, thinking she never wanted anything but this: the two of them, loving each other, weaving their lives together. "You make me feel seductive. And wanted. And loved."

Her orchid had fallen to the deck and Matt reached down to pick it up. One of the petals was bent and he gently brushed it back as he held it to Elizabeth's hair. "And extraordinarily beautiful. And adored." He felt the coolness of her skin and sat up. "Too chilly to stay out here. What do

you say to bed? Too ordinary, perhaps, for a wedding night, but warmer than="

They heard the telephone ring in the living room. Matt's eyebrows drew together. "Ignore it. Whoever has the bad taste to call at such a—"

"I can't," said Elizabeth. "I'm sorry, Matt, but I never could ignore a telephone." He watched her slender form disappear through the sliding glass doors.

"Mrs. Lovell?" a voice asked when she picked up the telephone. "This is the emergency room at Johnston Hospital. Mr. Zachary Lovell was just brought in; it looks like he's had a stroke; the doctor is with him now—"

"Is he alive?" Elizabeth cried.

"Who?" Matt said. "Elizabeth, who—?"

"Yes," said the voice from the hospital. "But until the doctor finishes examining him we won't know—"

"Your father," Elizabeth said to Matt, holding out the telephone. "He's had a stroke—he's alive—"

Matt grabbed it. "Is he conscious?" he demanded.

"Is this Mr. Lovell's son?"

"Damn it, of course it is. Is he conscious? Can he talk? How is he?"

"We don't know yet, Mr. Lovell; the doctor is with him. If you could be here—"

"As soon as we can. Tell him—if he asks for us—tell him we're on our way."

In bed in the Intensive Care Unit, Zachary was as white as the uniform of the nurse who came to check green waves moving across a monitor's screen. His lips worked, and Matt and Elizabeth bent to hear him. ". . . need you . . . don't go. . . ." The words were slurred. "Just for a while . . . just till . . . myself again." He closed his eyes. "Hold me together . . . company, I mean . . . hold printing company together ... all I have now, keep it safe . . . Matt, don't leave me. Please, Matt . . . worked all my life . . . I can't lose it. Elizabeth? Talk to him . . . I beg you . . . tell him I need him . . , need you both . . . please. ..."

The last word was a fading sigh. The doctor beckoned to Matt and Elizabeth and numbly they followed her into the hall.

"Not as bad as it might have been," she said. "There may be some lasting paralysis of the left side—we won't be sure for a day or two—and temporary confusion, but, in time, he should recover without crippling damage. It will be slow, however; you should be prepared for that. Is there a history of stroke in your family?"

"I don't think so." Matt frowned. "I can't even remember Dad's being

sick. My grandparents, either. They ranched all their lives, bred horses in Nuevo: they only died a couple of years ago, in their eighties. I don't know," he repeated helplessly.

"I'll need a family history." the doctor said. "My office is down the hall." She turned to Elizabeth. "You could wait upstairs if you'd like, in the solarium. It's more pleasant there."

"AD right." Elizabeth put her hand on Man's arm and he gave her a brief kiss. "Wait for me." he said, and followed the doctor down the hall.

Pacing about the solarium, barely aware of lush trees and hanging plants. Elizabeth felt tears rise in her throat. After a while, when Matt had not arrived, she called her mother. "I just need to talk," she told Lydia. "Just to hear you tell me I'm wrong to be afraid."

"I'm coming over." Lydia said. "Give me five minutes to put some clothes on."

When she arrived, she found Elizabeth huddled on a wicker couch. "How is he' 1 "

"I don't know. Matt hasn't come back: I haven't heard. Mother, we're going to have to stay with him."

"Stay with Zachary 0 You mean have him live with you. Well, that's a problem, but if you find a bigger apartment—"

"No. Stay with him in Santa Fe. He wants Matt to run his company until he can run it by himself again."

"But you can't do that!" They looked at each other in silence, then Lydia sat beside Elizabeth and put her arms around her.

Like a young girl, Elizabeth put her head on her mother's shoulder and began to cry. "I'm sorry. I know it sounds mean and selfish, but I don't want to give everything up. . .

"You're not mean, or selfish," Lydia said. "But can't you wait before you decide to give anything up? Even if he needs a month or two. we can figure something out ... if necessary we'll pay for a manager to run his company until he's back on his feet. . .

"I won't let you spend your retirement money. Anyway, I don't think it would help. The doctor said. ..." Elizabeth took a deep breath, pushing back her tears. "It will be a slow recovery; I don't t hi n k a month or two or even twice that would be enough."

"Then he could close the company for a while. And go to a convalescent home."

"That isn't what he wants."

"What he wants. Elizabeth, and what you can do. are two different things."

"Are they? Oh, mother—" Her tears welled up. "I love him and I want to help him—"

"Zachary? Or Matt?"

"Oh , , . both of them. But Matt's feeling about his father is so special ... I told you about his mother, how she walked out and left them, and all the years of Matt's growing up they were more like brothers than father and son . . . they were everything to each other. Mother, is there any way in the world I can ask Matt to stay here with me if his father asks him to take care of him in Santa Fe and run his company?"

"Not . . . easily," Lydia said. "It could come back to haunt you, years later."

Slowly, Elizabeth shook her head. "Whatever we do is going to come back to haunt us."

When Matt came in a while later, he found Lydia with her arm around Elizabeth, the two of them talking in low voices. He kissed Lydia. "I'm glad you're here." Sitting beside Elizabeth, he kicked off his shoes. "Fuck it," he said tiredly.

"You're going back," Elizabeth said.

"We'll decide together." In a moment he sprang up and strode away from her and then back. "What the hell can I do, Elizabeth? I'm all he's got. He never left me when I depended on him."

"I know." She was crying again, the tears streaking her face. "I know. There isn't anything else we can do."

"Christ, all our plans, everything we wanted . . . But what can I do? What am I supposed to tell him? 'We've got these neat jobs, Dad, so you're on your own.' Can I tell him that?"

"No."

" 'We've got an apartment, Dad.' Can I say that? 'And we plan to buy our own newspaper someday, so you'll have to handle your life yourself because we have our own to live.' Can I say that?"

"No." Elizabeth wiped her face on her shirt sleeve. "Matt, sit with me."

He sat down. "It's his printing company, not mine. It's his life, not mine. I don't want them. But I don't see a way out."

"Not for a while." Elizabeth swallowed the last of her tears and steadied her voice. "It isn't forever, you know; only until he's himself again. Didn't the doctor say there wouldn't be crippling damage? He'll only need us for a while, until he can take care of himself again and run his company. And he will: he's only fifty-six; he'll want to feel useful and active as soon as he can, don't you think?"

In the silence, Lydia stood up. "I'm very proud of you," she said softly

to Elizabeth. "I'm going to find a cafeteria and have a cup of coffee. Will you and Matt join me when you're ready?"

"Thank you, Mother." Elizabeth was looking at Matt as Lydia quietly left them. "What did you tell Zachary?"

"Nothing. I wanted to talk to you first." He clenched his fist, opened it, clenched it again. "Elizabeth, I promise it will only be for a while. As soon as he recovers, or we find someone to help him at home, and in the company, we'll come back here. Or we'll go somewhere else. We won't have trouble finding jobs; newspapers are always looking for brilliant prize-winning journalists."

She nodded and smiled, knowing he was trying to convince himself as well as her. "I promise," Matt repeated. "We'll pick up where we left off; we're young, there's plenty of time. This is a detour, that's all. I promise."

Elizabeth circled his neck with her arms, as she had earlier that night, when their dreams were as bright as the sunset. "It's all right, Matt. There isn't anything else we can do."

"All the dreams," he murmured, holding her. As if, Elizabeth thought, they were propping each other up. "Everything we want. We'll have it all, we'll do it all. It will just take a little longer than we'd planned."

She put her cheek to his, then kissed him. "It's all right, Matt," she repeated, whispering against his lips. "Don't worry. We'll be fine." Her tears had dried, but she still felt them, flowing inside her. Don't be selfish. Think ofZachary. Think of Matt. Don't be mean. You're young. You have everything ahead of you. "It's all right," she said one more time. "We have each other. That's all that matters. Now—shall we get some coffee? And maybe we should make a list. We have so many things to do."

Undo, she thought, but she kept it to herself, with the tears still flowing inside her, as she and Matt walked down the stairs, leaving the moonlight behind.

H A P T E R

T,

.he bride and groom stood on the brick patio within the placita of the great house as the guests moved past, murmuring greetings in Spanish and English. Nearby, beneath the arching branches of an olive tree heavy with silver leaves and clusters of tiny, unripened olives, long tables were laden with food and drink, silver goblets, and decorations symbolizing long life, joy, and many children.

The groom's father slipped away from the reception line. Mopping his forehead with an oversize handkerchief, he stopped to ask the barman for two glasses of champagne punch, then made his way across the garden and handed a glass to Elizabeth. "To drink our health. And to sustain us in our hour of need."

"What do you need?" she asked, laughing.

"Patience, since I dislike parties; a look of gratitude for my son's advantageous marriage; and stamina, since soon I must dance with women I have no desire to hold in my arms. I wouldn't mind if it were you: you are extraordinarily beautiful; more so every year. To our health." They touched glasses. "And what makes you so quiet?" he went on when Elizabeth did not speak.

"I've been remembering my own wedding," she said meditatively. "It

was in a garden, almost as beautiful as this, on a June afternoon just like this one. And everyone had the same look of expectation. Predicting a marvelous future for the happy couple."

"And how many years ago was that?"

"Sixteen," she said.

"And were they right—about the marvelous future?"

"Of course," she replied automatically. The groom's father looked closely at her but they were interrupted by guests politely jostling for a chance to talk to Elizabeth, and, with a sigh, he returned to his place in the reception line. Elizabeth listened to the guests, occasionally making notes on a pad of paper, her eyes still on the bride and groom, looking so young, smiling and smiling even as they wilted beneath the white-hot Santa Fe sun. Everyone else sought the shade; bright dresses and dark suits blended into the carefully tended gardens, smooth lawns, and a quietly flowing stream with a wooden bridge leading to the swimming pool and bathhouses.

Elizabeth breathed in the mingled fragrances and admired the lavish placita. No one ever saw it but invited guests, since it was shielded on three sides by the sprawling adobe house; and the house itself, with its driveway and gravel parking area, was completely enclosed by a high adobe wall with heavy wooden gates. A year ago, she and Matt had enlarged their own house and built an adobe wall around their garden, but they had nothing as sprawling and magnificent as this. Not enough land, she thought, and added ruefully, not enough money.

The shadows lengthened; the reception line came to an end. Musicians tuned their guitars; servants lit wrought-iron lanterns and swung open tall doors leading to the long salon; and the bridal couple danced, sweeping the length of the room, their fatigue gone, their faces bright, seeing only each other. In a few minutes their parents joined them, and then the guests, filling the high-ceilinged room with the gay confetti of festive gowns. The groom's father returned to Elizabeth. "You will dance with me?"