Now and Forever Page 12

  Astrid had a plate of hors d’oeuvres waiting for them and a handsome pâté. A fire roared in the grate. Ian accepted a slice of pâté on a slim piece of toast and then laughed into Astrid’s eyes.

  “Mrs. Bonner, I don’t know how to say this, and I feel about fourteen years old, but I am overwhelmed by your home.” And my hostess. He smiled the ingenuous smile that Jessie loved, and Astrid laughed with him.

  “I’m delighted, that’s a lovely compliment, but calling me ‘Mrs. Bonner’ isn’t. You may feel fourteen, but you make me feel about four hundred. Try ‘Astrid’”—she threw up both hands impishly—“or I may have to kick you out. And not ‘Aunt Astrid’ either, God forbid.” All three of them laughed, and she slid out of her shoes and tucked her legs under her in a large comfortable chair. “But I really am glad you like the house. It’s embarrassing sometimes, now that Tom isn’t here anymore. I love it so much, but I occasionally feel that I never quite grew into it all. I mean, it’s so … so … well, as though it should be my mother’s and I’m just house-sitting. I mean, really, me? In all this? How ridiculous!” Except that it wasn’t ridiculous at all. It suited her perfectly. Ian wondered if she knew how perfectly, or if she meant what she had just said. He imagined Tom had built the place around her, right down to the paintings and the view.

  “It suits you very well, you know.” Ian was watching her eyes, and Jessie was watching the exchange.

  “Yes, it does, in some ways, and not in others. It frightens people away sometimes. The lifestyle does. The opulence. The … I guess you could call it an aura. A lot of it is Tom, and some of it is just … oh … things.” She waved vaguely around the room, encompassing rapidly a fortune in art objects. Things. “And some of it is me.” Ian liked the fact that she conceded the point. “People expect you to be a lot when you live like this. Sometimes they expect me to be something I’m not, or they don’t stick around long enough to see what I am. I told you, Jessie, I’d trade you for your jewel of a house any day. But …” She grinned like a cat stretching lazily in the sun. “… This isn’t a bad place to live, either.”

  “Looks like a damn nice place to live, if you ask me, Mrs…. Astrid.” They exchanged a quick burst of laughter over the slip. “But I doubt if you’d trade us for our ‘jewel,’ once you plugged in the hair dryer and the washing machine blew, or when the plumbing fell through to the basement. Our place has a few kinks.”

  “That does sound like fun.” It was clear that nothing like that happened here, and Jessie was grinning broadly, remembering the last time all the fuses had blown, and Ian had refused to deal with it; they had spent the rest of the evening by candlelight—until he wanted to work, and needed the electric typewriter. He looked up sheepishly, knowing what she was thinking.

  “Well, children? Do you want a tour of the place?” Astrid interrupted their thoughts. Jessie hadn’t seen the whole thing, and Ian nodded quickly.

  She tiptoed barefoot along the carpeted hall, flipping switches under brass sconces, opening doors, turning on more lights. There were three bedrooms upstairs. Hers in bright, flowery yellow prints with a large four-poster bed and the same splendid view of the bay. She had a small mirrored boudoir and a white marble bath, which was repeated in pale green across the hall, to go with a quietly elegant bedroom full of small French Provincial antiques.

  “My mother sleeps here when she comes to the city, and this suits her perfectly. You’ll know what I mean when you see her. She’s very lively and little and funny, and she likes lots of flowers everywhere.”

  “Does she live in the East?” Ian was curious, and remembered only that Jessie had told him Astrid had originally come from New York.

  “No, Mother lives on a ranch out here, of all things. She bought it a few years ago, and she’s having a great time with it. Much to our astonishment, it actually agrees with her. We thought she’d be bored in six months, but she’s not. She’s very independent, and she rides a lot and loves to play cowboy. At seventy-two, if you please. She reminds one a bit of Colette.”

  It made Jessie smile to think of a tiny white-haired woman in cowboy gear ensconced in the delicately appointed room. But if she was anything like Astrid, she could pull it off. With cowboy boots custom-made by Gucci and a hat by Adolfo.

  The bedroom next to Astrid’s was more somber, and had apparently belonged to her husband. Jessie and Ian exchanged a rapid, casual glance … they had had separate bedrooms? But Jessie remembered the difference in age. There was a small, elegant study next to his room, rich in red leathers, with a handsome old desk covered with pictures of Astrid.

  Astrid passed quickly through the room and went back out to the hall, closing the door of the green guest room as Jessie and Ian followed.

  “It’s a magnificent house.” Jessie sighed. It was the sort of place that made you want to appear for the next dinner invitation with everything you owned in your arms. You wanted to stay there forever. Now they both understood why she didn’t close the house and find something smaller. It told a tale of people who cared—about beauty, about each other, and about living well.

  “And you saw the downstairs. It’s not very exciting, but it’s pretty.” Jessie wondered why there was no trace of servants. One expected at least a white-aproned maid, or a butler, but she seemed to live alone.

  “Do you both like crab? I really should have called to ask, but I forgot.” She looked faintly embarrassed.

  “We love crab!” Jessie answered for them both.

  “Oh, good! Seems that every time I order it for friends, and forget to ask beforehand, it turns out that someone is allergic to it or something. I love it.”

  It was an unusual feast. Astrid piled a mountain of dismembered cracked crabs on a vast plate in the center of the dining-room table, set out a huge carafe of white wine, added a salad and hot rolls, and invited her guests to dig in. She rolled up the sleeves of her black knit dress, invited Ian to take off his jacket, and sat there like a child, vying for the claws with whoever saw them first.

  “Ian, you’re a fiend. I saw that one first, and you know it!” She rapped him gently on the knuckles with the claw as she removed it, giggling and sipping her wine. She was right—she did look like a young girl whose mother was out for the evening and had let her have her friends over for dinner “as long as you’re all good.” She was delightful, and both Jessie and Ian fell in love with her.

  It was an easy-going evening; they looked like three people with no problems at all—just expensive taste, and a liking for pleasure. It was after midnight when Ian stood up and held out a hand to Jessie.

  “Astrid, I could stay here till four in the morning, but I have to get up tomorrow and work on the book, and if Jessie doesn’t get enough sleep, she turns into a monster.” But it was obvious that they all shared regret that the evening was over. “You’ll come to the ballet with us next week?”

  “With pleasure. And I’ll have you know that Jessie said I would love you, and she was absolutely one-hundred-percent right. I can’t think of two people I’d rather be a fifth wheel with.”

  “Good. Because you’re not. Fifth wheel, my ass.” They all laughed, and Astrid hugged them both as they left, as though she had known them for years. They felt as though she had, as Astrid stood barefoot in the doorway, waving before closing the shiny black door with its brass lion-head knocker.

  “Christ, Jess, what a nice evening. And what a marvelous woman. She’s amazing.”

  “Isn’t she? But she must be lonely as hell. There’s something about the way she invites people into her life, as though she has a lot of leftover loving and no one to give it to most of the time.” Jessie yawned on the last words and Ian nodded. Talking over the evening was always the best part. She could no longer remember when Ian hadn’t been around to share secrets, and opinions, and questions. He had been with her forever.

  “What do you suppose her husband was like, Jess? I suspect he wasn’t as much fun as she is.”

  “What makes yo
u say that?” His comment surprised her; there was nothing to suggest that Tom Bonner had been less amusing than his wife. And then Jessica laughed as she guessed what Ian meant. “The separate bedrooms?” He grinned sheepishly and she pinched him. “You’re a creep.”

  “I am not. And let me tell you, madam, I don’t care if I live to be ninety, you’ll never get me out of our bedroom … or our bed!” He looked adamant and very pleased with himself as he held her closer on the short walk home.

  “Is that a promise, Mr. Clarke?”

  “In writing, if you’d like, Mrs. Clarke.”

  “I may just hold you to that.” They paused for a moment and kissed before walking the last few steps toward their home. “I’m glad you liked Astrid, love. I really enjoy her. I’d like to get to know her better. She’s a good person to talk to. You know, I … well, I almost wanted to tell her what’s happening to us. We started to talk the other day, and …” Jessie shrugged; it was hard to put into words, and Ian was beginning to scowl. “She just kind of makes me want to tell her the truth.” Ian stopped walking and looked at her.

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Because I think you’re kidding yourself. Jess. She’s a nice woman, but no one is going to understand what’s happening to us right now. No one. How do you tell someone you have a trial pending on charges of rape? Do us both a big favor, babe, and don’t talk about it. We’ve got to hope this whole mess will blow over and we can forget it. If we tell people, it could haunt us for years.”

  “That’s what I decided. And, hey, come on … trust me a little, will you please? I’m not stupid. I know it would be hard for most people to handle.”

  “So don’t ask them to.”

  Jessica didn’t answer, and Ian walked ahead of her to open the door to the house. For the first time Jessie could remember, their chosen separateness from the rest of the world, almost like a secret society, now felt like lonely isolation. She couldn’t talk to anyone but Ian. He had forbidden it. In the past it had always been a matter of choice.

  Jessie followed him inside and left her jacket in the front hall.

  “Want a cup of tea before bed, love?” She put a kettle of water on and heard him go into his studio.

  “No, thanks.”

  She stood in the doorway of his studio for a moment and smiled at him as he sat at his desk. He had a snifter of cognac beside him and a small stack of papers on the desk in front of him. He loosened his tie and sat back and looked at his wife.

  “Hello, beautiful lady.”

  “Hi.” They exchanged the subtlest of smiles for a moment and Jessie cocked her head to one side. “You planning to work?”

  “Just for a little while.”

  She nodded and went to take the kettle off the stove; it was whistling fiercely. She made a cup of tea, turned off the rest of the lights, and walked quietly into the bedroom. She knew that Ian wouldn’t come to bed for hours. He couldn’t. He couldn’t try to make love to her tonight. Not after last night. The sour taste of failure had stayed with them. Like the rest of what was happening to them, it was new, and painful, and raw.

  Their evening at the ballet with Astrid was as great a success as the dinner at her home. They picked her up just in time to make the curtain, and Jessie had prepared a late supper that was waiting for them at home. Steak tartare, cold asparagus, a variety of cheeses and French bread, and a homemade fudge cake. Off to the side, was a large bowl of fresh strawberries and whipped cream, a huge crystal bowl filled with Viennese-style Schlag, for the berries or the cake. It was a feast, and her audience approved.

  “Dear girl, is there anything you can’t do?”

  “Plenty.” But Jessie was pleased at the compliment.

  “Don’t believe her. She can do anything.” Ian seconded the compliment with a kiss as he poured a round of Bordeaux. Chateau Margaux ’55. It felt like an occasion, and he had brought out one of his favorite wines.

  By now the three were a trio, telling jokes, sharing stories, and feeling at ease. They were well into their second bottle of wine when Astrid stood up and glanced at the clock.

  “Good God, children, it’s two o’clock. Not that I have anything to do tomorrow, but you do. I feel very guilty keeping you up.” Ian and Jessica exchanged a sharp glance: they did have to be up early the next morning. But Astrid did not see the look. She was hunting for her bag.

  “Don’t be silly. Evenings like this are a gift for us.” Jessie smiled at her friend.

  “They couldn’t be as much so as they are for me. You have no idea how I’ve loved this. And what are you up to tomorrow, Jessica? Can I tempt you with lunch at the Villa Taverna?”

  “I … I’m sorry, Astrid, but I can’t make lunch tomorrow.” Another look flashed its way to Ian. “We have to go to a business meeting in the morning and I don’t know what time we’ll be through.”

  “Then why don’t all three of us go to lunch?” She had found her handbag and was ready to leave. “You can call me when you’re through with your meeting.”

  “Astrid, we’d better make it another day, much as I hate to.” Ian was regretful but firm.

  “I think you’re both mean.” But now she sensed something between them, a tension that hadn’t been there before. Something was just a wee bit off balance, but she couldn’t tell what, and she found herself remembering the problem Jessica had hinted at when they had first met. There had never been any mention of it again, and Astrid had gone on assuming that Jessie meant a money problem. It was hard to believe, but it obviously couldn’t be anything else. Not health, not problems with the marriage certainly—there was too much hugging, touching, kissing, quick pats on the back, rapid squeezes as they stood side by side—there was much too much of that for anyone to believe the marriage was in trouble.

  “Maybe we can all go to a movie this weekend.” Ian looked at the two women and tried to make light of the too-quiet moment. “Not as classy as the ballet, but there’s a new French thriller on Union. Anyone interested?”

  “Oh, let’s!” Jessie clapped her hands and looked at Astrid, who grinned and put on a cautious look.

  “Only if you absolutely swear to buy me a gallon of popcorn.”

  “I swear.” Ian solemnly held up a hand in a formal oath.

  “Cross your heart?”

  “Cross my heart.” He did, and the three of them started to laugh. “You sure drive a hard bargain.”

  “I have to. I’m addicted to popcorn. With butter!” She looked at him sternly and he gave her a brotherly hug. Astrid returned the hug and leaned over to give Jessie a kiss on the cheek. “And now I shall bid you both good night. And let you get some sleep. I’m really sorry it got so late.”

  “Don’t be. We aren’t.”

  Jessica followed her to the door, and Astrid left with a curious feeling. Almost an eerie sensation. There was nothing she could see or touch or be absolutely sure of, but something seemed to hang in the air, just over their heads—like a hunk of concrete.

  The preliminary hearing was scheduled for the next morning.

  Chapter 12

  Jessica walked into the miniature courtroom with Ian’s hand held tightly in hers. She wore the navy blue suit and dark glasses again, and Ian looked tired and pale. He hadn’t gotten much sleep, and he had a headache from his share of the wine the night before. The three of them had knocked off both bottles of Margaux.

  Martin Schwartz was waiting for them in the courtroom. He was going through a file on a small desk at the side of the room, and he motioned to them to join him outside.

  “I’m going to ask for a closed hearing. I thought you should know, so you wouldn’t be surprised.” He looked terribly professional, and they both felt confused. Ian spoke up first, with a worried frown.

  “What’s a closed hearing?”

  “I think the victim may speak more openly if there are no observers in court. Just you, her, the assistant D.A., the judge, and myself. It’s a sensible precaution. If s
he brings friends, she’ll want them to think she’s as pure as the proverbial driven snow. And she may react badly to having Jessica there.” For no reason she could understand, Jessica flinched involuntarily at the sound of her own name.

  “Look, if I can take it, so can she.” Jessie was unbearably nervous, and she dreaded seeing the woman. She wanted to be anywhere but there. Every fiber of her being shrieked at the prospect of what lay ahead. The enemy. So much to face in one human being. Ian’s infidelity, her own inadequacy, the threat to their future, the memory of the almost unscalable mountain of trying to bail him. All of it wrapped up in that one woman.

  Martin could see how tense they both were. He pitied them, and he accurately suspected what was at the root of Jessie’s nerves: Margaret Burton.

  “Just trust me, Jessie. I think a closed hearing will be best for all concerned. We should be getting under way in a few minutes. Why don’t you two go for a walk down the hall? Just stay close enough, and I’ll come out and signal when the judge is ready to start.” Ian nodded tersely and Martin strode back inside. Ian’s arm felt as if it had a lead weight hanging from it. Jessie.

  They had nothing to say as they paced the length of the hall, turned at the far end, and came back again. Jessica found her mind drifting to memories of other marble halls … City Hall, where she and Ian had gotten their marriage license … waiting outside the principal’s office in high school … the funeral parlor in Boston when Jake had died … and then, one by one, her parents.

  “Jessie?”

  “Huh?” She was frowning oddly as she looked at him, as though she had difficulty coming back to the present.

  “Are you okay?” He looked worried; she had been squeezing his arm too tightly and walking faster and faster as they paced the hall. He had had to shake her arm to catch her attention.

  “Yeah. I’m okay. Just thinking.”

  “Well, stop thinking. Everything’s going to be fine. Relax.” She started to say something, and he could tell from the look in her eyes that it wasn’t going to be pleasant. She was much too nervous to be cautious or kind.