What I Did for Love (19 page)

“Oh, indeed I would. And after your
parents,
I would go to your capital partners. I know some of them are rather conservative
and puritanical. I would first tell them the details of everything we did here, and then I would go to the newspapers. And then we would see who would want to be your financial partners.”

I looked straight at him now. “Maybe your new partners would be the professional woman-haters, men who think women like me should be ‘put in their place,’ and women who hate the thought of my being young and rich.”

I recited my threats as though I were discussing the weather, and watched as his expression grew more and more alarmed and angry and disbelieving.

“And then,” I said with the most wicked smile I could conjure up, “I would collateralize my own fortune and launch Bredon; he and I would be capital partners, and we would simply start again.”

He had seemed to stop breathing, astonished at my words. Finally he said, “You would, wouldn’t you!” It was as though I had slapped his face. I had hit on his fears, just as he had tried to play on mine. He adored his parents, and his reputation for honorable behavior was a rarity among the financial wolves that circled every opportunity for gain. He was shaking his head, his fist hitting the stonework of the fireplace behind him.

“Do you really think I would tell Bredon?” he shouted again. “Do you KNOW how much I hate what I’ve done? And how much I hate myself that I did it?” There were tears in his eyes. “I was going to finish this bargain with a final torment, I was going to frighten you and intimidate you. So much for
my
success.” Scathing words, bitterness in his voice, despair in his eyes.

I didn’t know which man to trust, the tormentor or the penitent. I decided to trust neither.

“So we’ve kept our bargain, and we’re done,” I said. Calmly. Quietly.

“Yes,” came the bitter assent, “oh yes. The bargain is done.” He smiled a smile as bitter as his words. “I didn’t wait for last
night. The full amount of money was in his account two days ago. It took that long to get everything in order.”

I was so relieved my knees felt weak, but I held on. “You thought I wouldn’t have come here last night if I knew the money was already there,” I said, pretending indifference.

He nodded.

“You really don’t know me then. I would have come here anyway. That was the bargain. I wouldn’t have gone back on it.”

“You say that now,” he challenged, “but why should you go through with it?”

“I don’t know.” And I really didn’t know. “Maybe for pride, to prove that I keep my word.” He was right, no one could say for sure what they would have done. But I was pretty sure I would have come here anyway.

What he still didn’t seem to grasp was the fact that, with all the spanking and all the frantic ways in which he thought he was using me without regard for my pleasure or feelings, I had been hot for his body, his penis thrusting, his tongue in every secret place, that sexual cloud of sensation that wiped out all other thought. Yes, I was sore, and I would have memories of tonight in my body all through the coming week at least. I regretted none of that. My regret was that I could not love him back, that we had not been able to play, to recapture the joys and the sweetness of the first day we had met.

I pulled the rain cape over me and went to open the door. He was sitting by the fireplace, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, not looking at me as I quietly slipped out. I knew he would pull himself together enough to open the gate, and sure enough, the latch disengaged as I approached. To my surprise, his car was waiting. Tom was talking on the phone, about to hang up, and I practically ran around the block, onto the side street, out of sight of him.

The car was parked facing north, to take me home, and I wanted no witness, even Tom, to my leaving Rand’s house at that
hour. I was still paranoid, wanting no one to find out what I had done. I had a little time until Tom would phone Rand to ask where I was. Rand would probably tell him to cruise the streets to look for me.

In the little time I had, I ran toward a doorman and asked, please, can you call a cab for me? I made myself look nervous and naïve, and the doorman whistled a cab as it crossed the avenue, helping me into the car to my repeated thanks.

I knew Tom would drive to my apartment, and wait there if necessary to ensure my arrival. I had no intention of being there. I phoned one of the boutique hotels where we sometimes held college parties, and booked a room. St. Mary’s was right down the block, a happy irony, yet one that comforted my heart.

Paying the cabdriver in cash, giving him a huge tip that had him thanking me as many times as I had thanked the doorman, I ran out of the cab and to the desk, signing in as Mary Cole. The concierge signaled a porter to show me my room, and I gave him a large bill, closed the door and bolted it, pulled off my clothes, and fell into bed into what I had as a child jokingly called “the sleep of death” – an expression I never used again after our parents had been killed.

I got back home late Saturday night to find my message light flashing. “Pls. call when home. R.”

So my eluding Tom had worried him. Good. I quickly swallowed the Plan B first pill, and stored my tote with its Balthus girl costume in the secret closet. I would have to find a way to be sure it was burned in the incinerator. Stowing my Mary Cole credit card with other account material in the locked safe drawer inside the closet, I swung the door back and it became a wall again.

I sent the text, “Home,” made sure all the ringers on my phones were off, and ran a soothing oatmeal tub to soak my stillsore body. Tomorrow I would call Ren, tell him I had broken up with my boyfriend, and ask him to check me out for everything.
I said an urgent prayer, addressing of all the heavenly beings I could think of, that Ren find nothing after blood tests and smears. If my body still looked sore to him, I hoped he would assume that that was the reason for the breakup.

I was exhausted with my own web of lies and subterfuge, and after soaking in the tub and feeling soothed, I lay in bed and watched comedies on television, reading in snatches from the Saturday/Sunday Times sections that I had set on the floor next to my bed. I hoped I would have the energy to go to church tomorrow. There was much to be thankful for: the Business section had large headlines with the news of Bredon’s triumph in a first-of-its-kind multi-national financial deal. I felt hot tears of relief as I read the story, then turned out the lights, and prayed that the bargain and the fearfulness of these past weeks became a soon-forgotten dream.

Bredon’s wedding was announced for late summer, heavy vellum and rag paper invitations with their raised black lettering:

“Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Maxwell Cleves request the honor of your presence at the wedding of their daughter, Ariana Arden Cleves, to Mr. Bredon Matthews Cooper…”

There were love stamps on the invitation and reply envelopes, a concession Mrs. Cleves had made with impatient resignation after sitting with stamp dealers to find stamps that pictured at least one of their many distinguished ancestors. There were such stamps, but of such low denominations that she would have had to put stamps across the tops of the envelopes in two rows. The dealers persuaded her to use the love stamps as the best solution. They benefitted anyway, because Mrs. Cleves ordered three special albums of all the stamps with pictures of anyone related to her in American history. Many of the stamps were costly, and the order was unusual and profitable.

Robin, Dina and I had taken a week to trek around Paris, but I had to get back to be a bridesmaid for Ree. I had thought to resist, or outright decline, but Bredon looked so happy at the thought, and Ree so gracious, there was no way out except graciousness in return. Seeing Bredon’s joy, I was sincere when I thanked Ree for asking me. Still, the fittings and rehearsals and the short time of preparation would make for craziness. I told Robin and Dina to stay close and help me maintain distance and sanity. They were glad to do it, to be close to what was going to be a highlight of the season, the stir, rush, and designer luxury already causing chatter in fashion and financial circles.

Thank heaven, Ree’s mother was a paragon of organization and authority, a take-charge personality, but too well-bred to grate or rasp. I actually grew fond of Mrs. Cleves, who looked like a parody of an old-fashioned opera singer, all bosom and
voice, insisting on her way, not to be denied. Ree’s slender figure must have come from some genetic swerve, her stocky father a match for her mother’s substantial presence.

Her mother’s kind but insistent arrangements were actually a relief for Ree, and for all of us. Ree was spared the endless details of planning that I also would have hated. She continued her work with a high-end publisher of fine art books and scholarly books on arcane subjects, such as the life of the Beguines in Belgium, a group of non-religious celibate women whose order endured even today. The publishing company was run by an old, wealthy family who saw these sorts of books as a family cultural mission. Ree would escape to work when her own fittings were done, her gown of course a major secret, to be revealed only when she began her bridal procession.

Her mother made sure that all the women in the bridal party had closed shoes and only moderate heels, because the wedding would take place outdoors at the Cleves estate in the Hamptons, on a beautiful rise overlooking the water. Great open-sided tents were being set up for the luncheon, their sides able to be lowered and closed, and air conditioning fed into the tents if the ocean breezes failed. Emergency tents for the whole area were at the ready if it dared to rain.

The guest list was small, maybe fifty people, only closest family and friends. Parties would be given for wider circles of friends and acquaintances when Ree and Bredon returned from their honeymoon. I thought the whole idea was wonderful.

So we were relieved from the fashion books, sketches, debates, and meetings with designers. Mrs. Cleves surveyed the bridesmaids: me, and Ree’s oldest brother’s daughter, Charlotte; one married sister who would be matron of honor; and Ree’s best friend Suzanne, who would be maid of honor. That double “honor” was a family compromise, the one thing Ree insisted on. Mrs. Cleves chose a gown that managed to flatter all our figures, and Mr. Cleves and Bredon arranged the men’s formal wear.

I did not care what I wore and went to fittings as instructed, Robin and Dina with me to tease and praise, and we roamed about the city afterward. I had only made one request of Mrs. Cleves, that the gown she chose would actually cover me, showing less skin and more silk. The almost-bare wedding fashions for women made me uncomfortable. I did not understand how bridegrooms could be in such gorgeous formal dress, all covered and manly, and the brides half naked, their gowns straight across the top of their breasts, dipping to show their backs almost to their waists. I had been so admiring of the wedding gown that Kate Middleton wore, for its lacy modesty. To my relief, Ree and her mother shared my views, which made Dina and Robin cheer when I told them.

Were we throwbacks? I didn’t care. We would come to Ree’s house to have lunch after the fittings, and Ree’s father seemed to love our presence, a trio of chatter and youth, distracting him from the wedding frenzy. Bredon reported that when we were not around, Mr. Cleves found ways to hide out, going to his office to read the paper in peace, or taking Bredon and Ren to lunch, or finding civic obligations to fulfill. I saw Ree’s character in his quiet sweetness. She was so like her father. My brother was going to have great in-laws, and my only tearfulness was in my solitary times when I thought of how my parents would have loved to see my brother married. That ache in my heart made me cry when I was alone. Three years an orphan. An eternity of loss.

The one secret note through all the summer was Rand. He had never apologized for his roughness in our bargain, but a week after our parting he had sent me a text: “Can you have lunch with me today?” Just like that, as though all had always been normal and friendly between us.

The text made me flush with remembrance, but I did not want to risk anyone noticing a familiarity between us. Not until more time had passed, and I had again set clear terms with Rand about never giving away what we had done.

I texted back, “Can’t.”

The next day he phoned. “We can have lunch,” he said, saying nothing that would give anything away. He distrusted electronic communication as much as I did.

“Maybe after the wedding,” I lied, having no intention of seeing him.

There had been so much activity after our last meeting, our Paris trek, the wedding, the stir over Bredon’s success in the international deal, my relief that he was now bought out of it, as was Rand. I had had no time to sort out my feelings about Rand, or to figure out anything about the two weekends with him. I only knew I was glad I had done it, for my own ridiculous passion for his body, and for Bredon above all.

Then a note came that Marilisa delivered to me. I think she thought I had an old-fashioned secret admirer, though she neither pried nor changed expression when she gave it to me. The note said, “I will be at the wedding. One dance?”

I had forgotten that of course he would be there. Would he bring a woman with him? Earlier in the summer, when Robin had returned and said his name, I had simply shaken my head, and treasure that she was, she did not raise the subject again. But I couldn’t ask her now to listen for the gossip. Whoever he brought, I determined not to care. And I would not have a date per se. My escort was the groomsman who would be my partner in the wedding procession, a handsome fellow, Ree’s cousin. His name was Andrew Fortier, twenty-three, in graduate school, an economics major. I would learn more about him later, but Ree gave me a rundown and a picture, and I happily nodded at the prospect of a normal, nice, regular young man to dance with and sit with and maybe get to know better after the wedding.

There would be many family members from Ree’s side, few from ours. Our great-aunt Caroline Hartfield would be there, her son Holt, and his son Charles Efram. We were great-cousins, second and third cousins, but we all just called each other
“cousin.” There were too few of us to worry about degrees of connection. Connection itself was all that mattered. Cousin Holt’s wife and daughter would be in Europe on a long-planned trip that Mrs. Cleves urged them not to cancel, reassuring them that the post-honeymoon parties would be plenty of time for all the family members to be together.