The Unlikely Romance of Kate Bjorkman (16 page)

Mother appeared looking radiant in a pale-pink gown and insisted on taking our picture with a Polaroid camera. “Stand by the fireplace,” she said to Helmut and me.

“Mother,” I objected.

“It will be harmless.” She smiled pleasantly, one of those phony smiles parents use when they’re not going to pay any attention to your requests. “A little closer together,” she said, looking through the camera lens.

“Mother!”

Helmut clutched my waist, and I realized that he too was wearing Obsession. This fact, and Richard smirking
behind Mother’s shoulder, made me want to laugh. In fact, an uncontrollable nervous giggle may have emerged as Mother pushed the button and we were blinded by the flash.

“Now take one of Kate and me.” A glint of humor crossed Richard’s face. He stepped between Helmut and me. “Excuse me,” he said, smiling benignly at Helmut, who looked bewildered.

So did Mother, but she collected herself quickly. “Will you hold this?” She handed the snapshot to Helmut. “I think it’s going to be a good one.”

“This one will be a good one too,” Richard said, an easy smile on his lips. One arm was around my shoulder. “Smile pretty,” he said to me. He deserved to be punched.

Another flash.

“Now take one of the three of us,” Richard said devilishly (that’s how the phrase book describes that look). “Come on, Helmut.” He stood between me and Helmut, an arm around each of us, pulling us toward him. “You kids smile now,” he said. He was grinning foolishly at Mother, who was laughing softly behind the camera.

Flash.

“Now take one of Helmut and me,” Richard said, removing his arm from my shoulder but keeping his arm around Helmut.

Even Helmut laughed then. “Your friend has a screw loose, no?” he said, his accent thick.

“A screw loose, yes. Come on, let’s go.” I pulled Helmut into the front hall, put on my coat, and whisked him out the front door.

“You kids have a good time!” Richard called.

Even with the front door shut, I could hear him and Mother laughing.

Believe it or not, Helmut and I debated the Whorfian hypothesis all the way to Minnetonka. It’s a hypothesis I don’t really buy. I mean I just don’t think that language determines ideas and perceptions any more than clothes determine your body type, but Helmut in his sweet anal-retentive way argued that the German word
Staubsauger
—dust sucker—reflects a more functional way of seeing than the English equivalent, “vacuum cleaner.” As we drove down the curved driveway of the Pink Palace, glittering like the starship
Enterprise
in the crisp winter night, he said to me, “You are the only one I can discuss linguistics with.”

I suppose for Helmut it was a kind of declaration of love. His intentions were good, but I couldn’t help comparing him to Richard, who would have guffawed at the idea of romancing a girl with the Whorfian hypothesis.

There were already a lot of people gathered in the “front salon,” as Uncle Lanny calls it, a phrase that makes my father’s eyes roll to the back of his head. After we had given our coats to a man hired to take our coats, we met Aunt Eve and Uncle Lanny, who had organized themselves into kind of a two-person receiving line. Eve hugged me hard. “If I didn’t have this party, I’d never see my favorite niece,” she said.

“Oh come on,” I said. “I’m here all summer long.”

“Is this one special?” she whispered loudly in my ear.

“Aunt Eve!” I protested.

Uncle Lanny questioned Helmut about the “united
Berlin” but didn’t listen to any of the answers. Instead he blustered, “This is
the
party in the Twin Cities. Hubert Humphrey used to come to this party, you know.”

I saw the puzzlement behind Helmut’s polite smile. He had no idea who Hubert Humphrey was.

Uncle Lanny winked at me. “Isn’t that right, Katie, my girl?”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” I said. Uncle Lanny had always been kind to me, but I knew Dad was right. He
was
an old gasbag.

Helmut and I wandered from room to room, each decorated with great glittering trees and wreaths in all the tall, elegant windows, which in daylight gave a view of Lake Minnetonka.

Helmut gaped a great deal. “What does your uncle do for a living?” he asked finally.

“He goes to his office every day and watches his portfolio.”

He looked puzzled.

“His investments,” I said.

“He doesn’t work, then?”

I laughed. “He takes care of his money. He’s good at it too, from what I’ve heard.” I led him into the dining room, where an elaborate buffet was laid out. The room was lit with candlelight only. People were lined up on each side of a long table. Helmut and I stood in line. Across the room I saw Trish and Bjorn talking to one of Bjorn’s old classmates. I waved to Trish, who made her way over to us.

“I’m Trish Bjorkman,” she said to Helmut before I
could introduce them. “You must be Helmut.” They shook hands.

She lowered her voice. “Have you seen your friend Ashley?”

I shook my head.

“She is making them faint in the next room.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s—” She stopped, her attention focused beyond my shoulder.

I turned my head and saw Ashley in the doorway. I may have stopped breathing. She was definitely not wearing the dress she had shown me at Christmas. Instead she was poured into a strapless black number with her breasts perched halfway out of the top. Her hair was thick and curled and swung around her shoulders. Her long, black-stockinged legs, perfectly shaped, showed from midthigh on down. She looked older, sophisticated—I would like to say that she looked cheap, but it wouldn’t be true. She looked dramatic, like a model out of
Harper’s Bazaar
. She looked sensuous as hell. She wore the diamond earrings and a necklace that matched. Dozens of heads turned to look, to appreciate, to be stunned.

Richard stood behind her, talking to Uncle Lanny, whose face was florid. Lanny couldn’t take his eyes off Ashley, even if it was only her back he was seeing. Richard didn’t look at Ashley at all. How much energy, I wondered, did it take to avoid those creamy shoulders, those creamy boobs, that perfect-looking face and figure?

My throat constricted the way it does when I’m afraid.

“Can you believe it?” Trish was whispering.

“Wow,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, trying to push the panic down.

“Is that Ashley Cooper?” Helmut stared across the room.

“It’s one version,” I said, immediately regretting the bite in my voice, but Helmut seemed not to notice; his attention was focused completely on Ashley.

“Incredible, isn’t it?” Trish said. “Watch out, she’s gunning—” She turned. “Bjorn’s looking for me. See you in a bit.” She disappeared back into the crowd.

I spooned indiscriminately onto my plate. I knew who Ashley was gunning for. “Let’s go sit in the other room,” I said to Helmut.

He followed me like an obedient dog. We sat on a sofa. I talked about past-participle morphs in English in the most animated manner I could. And what is funny is that Helmut was actually interested in my textbook parroting. It was depressing. The food all tasted like bran flakes.

Mother and Dad came by on their way to the dining room. Dad leaned down and whispered, “You look lovely.” There was such disparity between that statement and the way I actually felt, which was homely and lumpy—my new tortoiseshell glasses seemed three feet thick—that I wanted to bawl. I felt as if my whole life were at stake.

And then, as if I needed further reminder, Ashley and Richard walked into the room with plates of food. Obviously, Mother and Dad were seeing Ashley for the
first time. Dad said, “Lord almighty,” and Mother said, “Where on earth is that child’s mother?”

From upstairs we could hear the orchestra starting up in the ballroom.

“Hi, you guys.” Ashley sat down next to me. Richard sat in a chair across from us.

“You exchanged your dress,” I said to Ashley.

She leaned into me. “I wanted something more
tantalizing
.” Her words exactly.

“How did you get past your mother?” It was depressing how much I wanted to know.

“She went out much earlier with Doug. They were going to some steak house across the St. Croix in Wisconsin. Do you like it?” She meant the dress.

“You’re creating quite a stir,” I said. Heads were constantly turning in her direction.

Except for Richard’s. He was speaking in low tones with Dell Bradshaw, the youngest Minneapolis city councilman and Richard’s cousin.

Ashley leaned across me to say something to Helmut, who blushed uncontrollably whenever he had to look at her.

I gazed across Ashley’s shoulder at Richard, who looked up at me and gave me “a smile as intimate as a kiss.” The phrase book got that just right. It was a “slow, secret smile,” a smile I understood perfectly. Richard loved me. Ashley could wear sequins and tassels—Richard loved me.
Moi
. That smile lifted me out of my despair. “Let’s go dance,” I said to Helmut, getting up.

“Save one for me,” Ashley cooed to Helmut, who looked as if his head would explode.

Richard caught my hand as I passed him and pulled me down to whisper in my ear: “Remember, all the slow dances are mine.”

I nodded. I have to confess that I “gloried briefly in the shared moment.” But why shouldn’t I glory?

Richard was true to his promise. The first half hour of dancing was filled with lively, fast music. Helmut was a better dancer than I would have supposed. The music seemed to relax him. But when the first slow song came up, Richard was there asking for an exchange. Ashley smiled cooperatively.

Richard pulled me close, his lips pressed against my forehead. “At last,” he murmured. I felt completely reassured.

Ashley’s expansive smile decreased with every slow-dance exchange. I didn’t care. Richard sang an old Cole Porter tune in my ear: “Night and day, you are the one.” Ashley could rage all she wanted. She had the attention. I had Richard.

The night continued that way, divided for me between fast dancing and slow dancing until about half an hour before midnight, when the orchestra played “Stardust”—definitely a slow one, but Richard and Ashley were nowhere in sight. I supposed Ashley had put her foot down.

“Aha, you will have to dance one slow dance with me,” Helmut teased. He had not exactly suffered dancing them with Ashley. Over his shoulder I searched for Richard. He was not in the room.

A couple of fast dances and then another slow dance. Still no Richard. Hats and noisemakers, bags of confetti,
and rolls of streamers were passed to all the guests. Just before midnight Uncle Lanny led the countdown, using an old European clock housed in a porcelain case to tell the “correct” time. The crowd, vibrating, more than a little drunk, counted backward together: “Ten, nine, eight, seven …” A drumroll accompanied them.

Where was Richard?

“Six, five, four …” I wanted Richard to begin this new year. “Three, two, one—” Happy New Year! The orchestra struck up “Auld Lang Syne.” Helmut kissed me politely on the lips. “
Frohes Neujahr
,” he said warmly.

“Ein glückliches Neues Jahr, mein deutsches Freund.”
I hugged him, and then we made noise and threw streamers and confetti and shouted “Happy New Year” in German.

Where was Richard?

Outside, fireworks went up near the boat dock, and guests gravitated to the long windows to look out. When I was a child, this was my favorite part of the party. Helmut said the whole city of Berlin lit up with firecrackers at New Year’s. “This makes me homesick,” he said, his eyes cast upward. I was glad I had brought him.

Mother and Dad, Trish and Bjorn all came by to kiss me and wish me Happy New Year, and I thought of Fleur telling me my whole life was a romance. She was right, of course.

But where was Richard?

I had to use the ladies’ room and excused myself. Finding the guest bathrooms occupied, I decided to cut through the kitchen to a little half bath near the back stairs in a hallway that led to the half dozen garages.
When I was finished, I fixed my makeup and hair and stuffed my lipstick and comb back into my black beaded purse. When I stepped out of the room, I heard voices, familiar voices: Richard’s and Ashley’s voices.

“Ash, don’t—let’s go back and dance.”

“Let’s dance here.”

I turned a corner and saw them on the stairs, the service stairs, Uncle Lanny called them. He was an imperialist to his little white toes. Richard was backed against the wall, and Ashley had her arms about his neck, her whole body leaning into him. Let me try again—her whole body
mashed, crushed, pasted, squashed, smashed
against his. One knee curved against his leg.

Richard’s hands were on her elbows. “Listen,
Ash
.”

Her mouth clamped his, but his hands pushed against her elbows. I saw it clearly—he was not engaged in this kiss. He had not initiated any of this. I knew that.

I held my breath.

Ashley’s knee rose on his leg. Richard pulled down on her elbows. I couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. I wish I could have disappeared, because then I wouldn’t have seen him give in. I wouldn’t have seen his arms folding around her bare back—wouldn’t have seen him step forward. “He clasped her body tightly to his” is how
The Romance Writer’s Phrase Book
would put it, but it’s not so romantic when it’s your boyfriend you’re describing in a heated embrace with a girl who was once your friend.

Even now, a cold knot forms in my stomach as I write about it. It still stuns and sickens me to repeat the experience on these pages.

I dropped my purse onto the tile floor. I looked down. The clasp had opened, the lipstick rolled and stopped. I looked up.

A shadow of shock crossed Richard’s face when he saw me. He pushed Ashley away. “Kate!” His voice was hoarse. Kissing can do that.

“I’m sorry,” I said. I turned and ran through the kitchen, leaving the purse and its contents on the floor.

“Kate!” Richard’s voice followed me through the house.

I found Helmut with my parents, still watching the fireworks. “Please, I want to go home,” I said to Helmut. “Right now, please!”