A Woman's Place: A Novel (17 page)

I held myself there on the high rocks and listened to the rhythm of the surf. But the hollowness that I'd felt at the house had started to swell, and the sight of Kikit's flailing legs and Johnny's aloneness haunted me. Though I wore a sweater, jeans, and a long gabardine coat that should have protected me from the breeze, I felt chilled. Staring out at the endless sea, I felt pitifully small.

Back at the office, soft night lights burned, the glimmer of sconces by the door, the pale glow of others inside. I let myself in and dropped my coat on the divan by the reception desk. Then I stood in the dimness and looked around.

How many other times I had done the same, feeling pride at what Wicker Wise had become. I felt none of that now. Wicker Wise seemed a liability, a reason for Dennis to rebel, an excuse for the judge to take away my kids.

Knowing that the office held no lure for me, I headed for the workroom. The rocker that I had been working on was there, neat holes where I had removed broken pieces of wicker. There were more to be removed before I began the reweaving, but I didn't feel like doing that either. I had gone one too many nights with too little sleep, one too many hours with too little hope. I felt drained of life, beaten down and weak. Without turning on a light, I made my way up the open staircase that hugged the wall. The storage loft extended over half of the workroom and the entirety of the office space, and was festooned with skylights that, at their lowest, offered night glitters from boats, houses ashore, even the lighthouse several miles up the coast. The moon was half shrouded in clouds, silver scallops around billows of slate. Whitecaps on the ocean came and went.

I stepped carefully over and around stacked pieces until I reached a long wicker sofa. I had found it several years before at a yard sale Page 87

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that my Kansas City franchisee had taken me to. Its cushions were long lost; without them, its enveloping quality was even more marked. That enveloping quality drew me to it now. Its seat was deep, its arms broad, its back tall to the shoulders, angled behind that for neck support.

It creaked when I sat, the soft, easy creak of time and heart. There was more creaking when I wedged myself in a corner and kicked off my flats, more creaking when I snagged a bedraggled afghan from the perambulator that stood nearby. Knees bent, heels touching my bottom, I covered myself and closed my eyes.

The smell of old was there in the loft, worn wicker that life had touched with sun, flowers, dust and rain. I tried to put a story to the sofa--imagined it in a Southern parlor under ladies in lovely lawn dresses, or on a wide verandah overlooking a rolling acre of newly cut grass. I tried to hear gentle voices, soft laughter, sweet promises, but all I heard were Kikit's screams as Dennis carried her into the house and Johnny's silence. My imagination was shot, my heart fractured, all of me dead tired.

I must have fallen asleep, because the view from the skylights was different when next I looked. More lights had gone on up the coast in pin-pointed clusters, and a half-baked moon had cleared the clouds. I heard the shoooo-sha-shoooo-sha of the ocean and something else--a car, probably what had woken me. Since Brody wasn't due back until the next day, I guessed it was Dennis checking to see where I'd gone. A flare of anger held me where I was. If he wanted to think I was in Brody's bed, let him. He wouldn't get a picture this time. Besides, the judge had already ruled against me. I had nothing to lose. I heard the door open in the reception area, heard footsteps, a pause, then, "Claire?"

Not Dennis at all. Brody.

My anger held. He was supposed to be on the Vineyard seeing to things that I couldn't.

"Claire?" Closer now, at the door of the workroom, then inside.

"Claire?"

"Yes," I said and tightened the tattered afghan around me. I heard him cross the workroom floor and start up the stairs. "What are you doing up here?"

"What are you doing back here?"

He materialized at the top, shadowed but large. "I got to Woods Hole. There was a problem with the ferry, so I turned around and came back. I didn't want to be there anyway."

So much for relying on my right-hand man. "You had meetings planned."

"They'll hold." "That work needs to be done."

"It'll hold, Claire," he repeated and began picking his way through the rubble of treasures to my sofa. The closer he came, the more detailed he was in the thin blue of the moon. "Why are you up here?" Page 88

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"Where else should I be? I'm homeless."

"Not homeless. You have my house."

"Mi casa es su casa? Yeah, well, that's what got me into this mess. No"--I took a quick breath--"it's men who got me into this mess. My mother had it right. She used to talk about a defective gene, what with my father dying and leaving a mess and Rona's two husbands--and I always argued against it, but, damn it, here I am, in a major mess, thanks to men. Dennis, the judge, even Johnny--Johnny'll be a problem, you mark my words, he won't take this as easily as Kikit--so what is it about the male of the species? Power? Ego? Innate weakness?"

"Hey. I came back here because I was worried about you."

"God save me from chivalrous men. No, don't sit there," I cried when he lowered himself to my sofa. He raised himself fast. "This is my space." He moved away, bumped into something.

"Be careful, Brody. You're kicking things that are worth millions." He had the good grace not to contradict me, though we both knew

"millions" was an exaggeration. Instead, with caution, he asked, "Has something else happened?"

"No. Just the same old shit, the same new shit." I could have told him about that moment when I had driven away from my children, and he would have bled for me. But, damn it, I didn't want sympathy just then. I wanted justice. I hugged my knees while he drew up a ladder1 back chair that awaited re caning He slouched into it, crossed his arms and his ankles.

"Do you know how bad that is for the chair?" I asked. I got no response at first. Then I heard a chuckle. Granted, it was gentle. Still.

"You think it's funny? This is my livelihood, Brody. Clearly, I can't rely on my husband anymore, though God knows I haven't been able to do that in years, but at least there was an illusion of it. Well, that's gone. For all I know, he'll sock me so hard for alimony that I'll be forced to drain every reserve I have, and then, and then," my imagination was back in force, "if the market turns bad and we have to declare bankruptcy, I'll have nothing, so it could be that refinishing this stuff will be the only thing standing between me and the local soup kitchen."

Brody snickered.

"And you sit there and laugh," I groused. "Well, what should I have expected? Compassion? Understanding? Respect? That's it. The problem is respect. Men choke when it comes to giving it to a woman, because maybe, just maybe, it means she's stronger than he is, and that is so threatening he can't bear it, but it's the truth. Women are stronger. We create and construct and accommodate, and look at the world with wider eyes than men do. We keep trying harder, because it isn't an ego thing for us. It's survival. And necessity. And good common sense. Good God, it's amazing, men have always let me down."

"Not me."

"Yes, you," I shouted, because it felt good to shout. Page 89

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Brody sat up and leaned forward, all innocence. "What did do

"You hugged me. Right there at the window, in full view of anyone who was outside. Didn't it occur to you someone might be watching?"

"Frankly, no."

"Well, it should have."

"If you knew, why didn't you warn me?"

"Because I was upset. And besides, I'm a woman. Women trust people. Women give people the benefit of the doubt, rather than assuming the worst. It didn't occur to me that someone was out there. But you're a man. You should have known what Dennis was capable of." I heard the creak of Brody's chair.

"Don't come near me," I said against my knees. "I want to be alone."

"I don't believe you. I think you want to let off steam, and you have every right, but I'd rather be sitting beside you, than opposite you when you do it."

"Don't sit here," I warned as he lowered himself to the sofa. I straightened my legs and pressed the soles of my feet against his thighs to keep him at that distance at least, but with an easy scoop he had my feet in his lap. "Brody," I protested.

"I've never heard you like this. A new Claire."

"I'm human," I grumbled. "I have fears and vulnerabilities, just like the rest of the world. I bleed when I'm slashed, and I hurt when I'm kicked. If I want to spit and yell, I will. Damn it, if anyone has a right, I do. I've been royally fucked over."

It wasn't until he began rubbing my feet that I realized how cold they were, and then something about the warmth of his hands, something about his presence, even his amusement, because it held such affection, got to me. Absurdly, I started to cry.

When he pulled on my legs to draw me closer, I kicked out against him, but with that small movement went the last of my anger. I didn't fight when he pulled a second time, first my legs, then my arms, until he had me turned and drawn to his chest.

I cried for a long time, belly-deep sobs that gradually shallowed and slowed, lulled by the motion of his hand on my shoulder, my back, beneath my hair. In time the tears stopped, but I didn't move away. I was too tired, and he felt too good against my battered psyche.

"Oh Brody," I sniffled a whisper at one point, "I don't know what to do. I have never felt so helpless in my entire life." If he answered, I didn't hear, because within seconds, the strain I'd been under and sheer exhaustion combined with the security he offered and his warmth put me to sleep.

When I awoke, we were sprawled on the sofa with our arms and legs entwined, my head on his chest, and his heart beating too fast by my ear. I knew right away that something was different, and it wasn't just that runaway heartbeat. It might have been the way my hand was splayed Page 90

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over his ribs, or the way his arm held me to him. More likely it was our lower bodies. My thigh lay over his, high up, over an erection that was as impressive as it was startling.

I drew my leg back, pushed myself up, and looked down at him. His eyes were wide open, clear as day, though the moon was lower and dimmer. He didn't speak, nor did I. Nor did either of us move. Shock, I told myself. Embarrassment, I told myself. But there was intrigue, too, because I liked the way he felt and wanted to feel more. That was when I knew I was in trouble. eight.

Early Tuesday morning, I called the house. Dennis picked up the phone after a single ring, said that he was in the middle of making breakfast, didn't I have any maple syrup in the house, and I'd have to call the kids later. When I asked if they were still upset, he said they weren't and hung up the phone. I thought of calling back, then thought better of it. I was furious that he had hung up on me, and feared I would say something I would regret. Better, I decided, to have Carmen take up the issue of phone calls with Art Heuber.

Next, I called my mother. She sounded frail and discouraged. No, she wasn't hungry for breakfast. No, she didn't want to watch the Today show. No, she wasn't interested in having someone wheel her to the solarium. When I suggested that we talk more when she was feeling better, she perked up and asked me about work. I gave her a preview of the sales meeting I was leading that morning in our Essex store, told her about the line I was introducing to our staff, and the sales rep I was bringing along to speak. I kept an eye on the clock, not for the sake of the meeting, as much as for the sake of the third call I wanted to make. It was to the school, and my timing was right. I caught both of the children's teachers while they were still in the teachers' lounge. These women saw my children every day, and I trusted them. I felt they should know of the change at home. I didn't go into detail, shared only as much as I needed to to ensure that sensitive adults would keep an eye on my kids.

Finally, I called Carmen's office and left word where I would be at roughly what time. She had filed the Motion for Reconsideration the afternoon before and was expecting Selwey's clerk to notify her about a hearing. That hearing would be no earlier than Friday, to allow time for Dennis and his lawyer to be notified and prepare.

I was off the phone, dressed for work, and at the store with ten minutes to spare. Sales meetings were a weekly ritual in all our stores. Lasting anywhere from thirty to forty-five minutes, they gave each manager an opportunity to pass on product information, push new designs, and discuss new groupings to her entire staff in one fell swoop. I led the meetings in Essex whenever I could. I liked being with my staff, liked sharing the excitement that came with healthy forward movement. If that excitement was forced this morning, few knew it. I talked for ten minutes about a new line that would be arriving after the first of the year, showed samples of the various finishes and fabrics offered with it, then passed off to the sales rep who had come to pitch a second line that we were also introducing. By the time he was done, it was time to open the store.

Ducking out as only the president of the company could do without a twinge of guilt, I drove across town to meet with Cynthia Harris. Cynthia was the real-estate broker who had originally helped us buy our house. Working with her was time-effective; she quickly grasped what her client wanted and showed only houses that fit the bill. Ten years ago, I had been pregnant with Johnny, spending six hours a day at my first Page 91

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Wicker Wise and hours more seeing to Dennis's needs. I couldn't possibly house hunt full-time then.

Time was scarce now in a different way, but scarce nonetheless, and my order was a big one. I wanted a short-term rental that was equidistant to the kids, the office, and the store. It didn't have to be large, but it had to have charm. It had to lend itself to wicker furniture. It had to have appealing outdoor space.