All That Was Happy (18 page)

Huntington arrived at her door on schedule,
just as she was putting the finishing touches on her makeup, going
with a light application of Chanel Pure Frost shimmer powder across
her bare shoulders to offset the subdued Creme Soda lipstick
combined with a Pink Ice eye color on the left eye, it having not
bruised after all, and, after much self-discussion, having elected
to leave the blackened right eye unretouched rather than attempt to
somehow disguise a thing that would only wind up looking even more
ludicrous.

When she opened the door, she was struck
immediately, as she always was, by how good-looking he was. His
gaze at this, their first meeting since earlier that morning, was
intense, and stayed that way until she responded, not with a
further invitation to enter her suite, but with an embrace of such
vigor that the two staggered into the hall and stood for a moment
locked in a kiss of such force it seemed nothing could break
it.

“
Whew,” she finally said, when out of
sheer physical necessity each had been forced to either stand back
or collapse in a heap. “I wasn’t quite prepared for the shock of
that. I’m sure my blushing face looks hideous with the swelling
around my eye.”

Huntington laughed softly. “With all due
respect,” he said, “I find you irresistible in that little black
dress.” His gaze continued its direct and frank appraisal of her,
to the point where she backed away and busied herself by gathering
up her new mink wrap and purse--a tiny bag which matched perfectly
the stiletto-heeled silver mules located earlier by her and
purchased for her by the shopping service.

“
I’m leaving Mr. Boopers here,” she
said. “He’s just had a big plate of broiled salmon, with the skin
on, and now he’s going to spend the rest of the night locked in the
guest bathroom on one of the Plaza’s thick luxurious white robes. I
just hope he doesn’t bark his tiny head off after we
leave.”

“
He’ll probably sleep off the salmon
until dawn,” Huntington laughed.

The shiny black stretch Mercedes limo which
Huntington had arranged for in lieu of self-driving, fitted
perfectly into the prestigious scheme of things at both ends of
their event, pulling away from the Plaza in regal elegance and
transporting them, per Huntington’s directions, via the long slow
route along Wilshire Boulevard through the heart of the Miracle
Mile and beyond, during which time they each enjoyed several
glasses of excellent champagne, until, at last entering the stony,
polished heights of the downtown canyons of the rich and ultra
rich, they next found themselves inside the massive Washington
Mutual high-rise, speeding skyward on a succession of high speed
elevators to the reception on the 60th floor of the building, a
building once the tallest in the area, which occupied a sight where
once a stream wandered over a path and dogs lay on the path without
moving for hours, a sight where Indians hoed vegetable gardens and
well-horsed Californios discussed land grants over shots of fine
Spanish port, a sight where all that was gone now and where,
courtesy of the mighty structure erected by the conquerors of all
these people, the spectacular views of the city through the
floor-to-ceiling plate glass gave the beholder a sense of being
high up in the central core, if such a thing existed, of the
Heavenly Jerusalem itself, whereby your lofty place in said holy
core conferred upon you the benefit of eternal protection from the
strivings and dangers which routinely awaited the mere mortals of
the lower realms upon which you gazed.

The room hosting the dinner was set with the
usual overdone and elaborately plated starched linen rounds, the
personally engraved place holder with Beckie’s name on it pushing
back any sense of non-inclusion she might normally have felt in the
presence of such a group, to wit, the top donors of a major
metropolitan charity, donors who channeled millions annually to the
variety of worthy causees which clamored at their gates, donors
who--unlike the vast majority of the financially unwashed who
worked on the concrete plantation of the mighty city--could
rightfully consider themselves to be the owners of the plantation,
with the privileges attendant to such a position--these modern day
rich, the heads of the piled-up storehouses of communications
energies, oil reserves, food supplies, and government
bureaucracies, and who were alarmingly similar in their style of
dress and their casual elegance, their practiced humility, and the
frank gleam in their eyes which psychiatrists might, in persons of
lesser degree, perhaps classify as slightly manic--these
individuals gathered here in this modern super storehouse of the
world’s money, these mighty people whose one unspoken rule was to
never discuss the stuff publicly--either how much they had of it,
or how much they controlled of it--these individuals all, to the
last man and woman, universally recognized Huntington as a fellow
and equal, the lot of them unflinching and pleased at the
introduction of her, Beckie, his date.

As Huntington and Beckie, taking a breather
after the many introductions, stood before the massive window,
listening to the string quartet and feeling the gentle rocking of
the powerful high rise on its earthquake rollers, the sensation
leaving them with a childish sense of giddiness, Beckie raised her
flute of champagne to Huntington and together they toasted the
moment.

“
Pick me up,” she said.

He looked puzzled.

“
Pick me up,” she repeated. “Take me in
your arms in front of all these people.”

He did so, and as he swept her off her feet
and lifted her to him, the room broke out in good natured applause
as the focus of the group shifted their way. Their peerage
surrounded them and the city revolved below them, as though all
were suitably pressed into reverence in the presence of something
divinely sublime.

“
Propose to me, if you will,” she
said.

Again, his face registered the puzzled look
of a man hopelessly out of his depths.

“
Huntington,” she said. “This morning
you wrote me a check for five million dollars, at which I was
impressed, albeit somewhat suspicious--but tonight I’ve gone beyond
that. Tonight I want to show the world that you’ve swept me off my
feet. Now that you’ve done that, the least you can do is
propose.”

“
Marry me,” he said, a little too
loudly, perhaps because of too much champagne or nervousness, or
both, in any event catching the ear of the assemblage at which
point the entire floor fell into a hushed silence.

“
Yes,” she said. The word echoed off
the glass.

“
Yes?” he said. “As in, Yes, You’ll
Marry Me--or as in Yes, You’ll Think About It?”

“
I’ll marry you,” she said. “I don’t
need to think about it. Whoever said emotions had to make sense.
We’ll never have another moment like this--not in this life. So I’m
saying yes--I, Beckie, give you, Huntington, the power to enter my
life forever--the power to love me, to wound me, to heal me, to be
faithful to me or to abandon me. I just want you to remember one
thing about me before you take me to the altar.”

The room became a hushed space into which all
eternity could have easily been stuffed, with room left over, a
space waiting to hear the one thing about her.

“
Tell me,” he said hoarsely. “Tell me
what to remember about you.”

“
If you ever decide to leave me, just
remember,” she said. “--I’m not good at good-byes.”

Chapter
32

“
We have to find a way to stay in total
control of our emotions,” he said.

“
Interesting,” she said.

Beckie and Huntington, having returned to the
Plaza after a long and celebratory evening during which a great
deal of wine had been offered in good-natured toasting on their
behalf, the result of which both were more than a little toasted
themselves, and as a precaution against further excesses of a
different nature, had agreed not to part company at the door of her
suite, but instead in the lobby of the great hotel, where they were
even now seated comfortably together upon the new and fine
furniture placed there by the recent and thoughtful new management,
enjoying as a nightcap a small thimble of Drambuie before saying
their good-byes.

“
It’s complicated,” Huntington said.
“I’m Catholic, and I’m not sure the Church would approve of my
proposing tonight to a woman who’s already married, albeit you are
in the throes of a divorce.”

“
It’s not complicated,” Beckie said.
“Tomorrow--or should I say later today--it’s already tomorrow,
isn’t it? Anyway, later today, you can call your priest and get a
rundown on the technical aspects of putting together an officially
sanctioned Church marriage--but you’re right--we have to keep our
emotions from getting the better of us--it’s been a long time since
I’ve been to Catechism, but I’m fairly certain nothing’s
changed--we’re still required to have a “look but don’t touch”
policy until we’re married.”

“
Nothing’s changed,” he
said.

“
And why should it?” Beckie said. “Look
what happened to me--I married outside the church, and against my
parents’ wishes--and here I am, under siege by my husband even as
we speak.”

“
I know we’ve got a long road to the
altar,” Huntington said. “But I’m sure we can speed up your divorce
proceedings if we instruct Lauren to put the pedal to the
metal.”

“
I’ll tell her to give Bernie whatever
he wants,” Beckie said, “just as long as he agrees not to delay the
process. But I’m not sure how the Church is going to look at me
getting married again so soon after my divorce.”

“
You’ll have to get your marriage to
Bernie annulled,” he said. “And then they’ll make us go through a
six-month marriage prep course. It’s no big deal.”

“
There’s something else I haven’t told
you,” Beckie said. “Yesterday I went to the warehouse and pulled a
gun on Bernie’s girlfriend. I won’t go into details.”

“
I’m a virgin,” Huntington
said.

Her admission and his admission collided
mid-rink, leaving the two of them flattened in the middle of the
conversation.

“
You’re thirty-seven years old, an
extremely handsome, but wealthy bachelor who has a pad at the
beach,” Beckie said. “Yet you claim to be still in possession of
your virginity. I’m trying to do the math, but I can’t made it add
up.”

“
Did you kill his girlfriend?” he
said.

“
I chickened out,” Beckie said. “I
thought I had the guts, but something deep down inside me made me
freeze. Once a Catholic always a Catholic. Now you’re going to
explain what you just said, because when you said it, my dream
bubble popped--my first thought was, Oh No, There’s Something Wrong
With Him.”

“
Right,” he said. “Look, before I
explain, could I ask that you not tell anyone of this
conversation?”

“
Who would I tell?” Beckie
said.

“
Okay,” he said. “When I was a kid, I
had a dream of growing up to be a priest. When I was doing my Young
Fogy thing in High School and in College, my friends and I made a
vow to remain chaste and celibate until marriage. I myself had
decided to remain chaste and celibate for life, what with my desire
to enter the priesthood. There was just one problem--my Father--he
was very much against me, his only son, becoming a priest. Father
finally gave in to my wishes, but he made me promise to finish
B-school first. I had to honor his wishes, and somewhere during my
stay at Harvard, my dream of the priesthood somehow faded away from
my heart, and I went to work on the Street instead. But after I got
there, and I saw the wholesale immorality being played out around
me, I surrounded myself with my religion. I kept myself apart from
the indulgent life of your average trader.”

“
Oh,” Beckie said. “I think I’m
starting to get the picture--you were a big player on Wall Street,
but your conscience could never square it, and suddenly you left it
all behind to hang out at the beach. You’ve been doing some
soul-searching, haven’t you? You were thinking about your calling
again?”

“
Yes,” he said. “I’ve been searching my
heart for my true vocation in life.”

“
Then one moonlit night, a slightly
drunk older married lady walked up to you in a bar and
propositioned you and your vocation went out the
window.”

“
Beckie, it isn’t like that,” he
said.

Beckie stood up, the tears welling up in her
eyes.

“
We could go round and round about
this,” she said. “But I believe there are certain mysteries in life
that nobody should interfere with. I’m a Catholic. I can’t say I’m
a very strong one, having married outside the faith and lived a
life apart from the church for the past twenty-nine years. But I’m
still a Catholic and one thing I know better than to do is
interfere with someone who’s being called by God.”

“
Beckie, wait,” he said. “The moment I
saw you, I knew God didn’t want me to be a priest. Beckie, please
wait!”

“
No, Huntington,” she said. “I can’t
wait.”

She walked away from him, not trusting
herself to look back.

“
Good-bye, Huntington,” she whispered
softly.

Chapter
33

“
Dr. Black’s exchange,” the voice
said.