Change of Heart (11 page)

* * * *

His wife was a little abstracted during dinner and the reason for it came out after Jennifer went upstairs. Cecelia had had a telephone call from Pat Carruthers, inviting them to Southampton for the weekend. “She’s having a house party and wants to know if we can come. She apologized for the lateness of the invitation but she thought you’d still be in Europe. I said I’d get back to her. Senator Bayley will be there.”

“Oh, good,” said Gil. “Call her back, baby, and say we’ll come.”

“All right,” said Cecelia slowly.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to go?” They were having coffee in the living room and he put down his cup and looked at her, a puzzled expression on his face.

As a matter of fact she didn’t. She was sure Liz Lewis would be there. But all she said was, “Nora and Frank go on vacation this Saturday. I suppose Jenny can always go to stay with Daddy for the weekend.”

“I’m sure they’d both love it,” he said promptly.

“Yes.”

“Is there something else?”

She forced a smile. “No. Baron’s foot was operated on this afternoon and I guess I’m just a little worried about him. But Tim says he thinks he’ll be okay, and Daddy will be around to change the bandages all weekend.”

His face was very still. “Tim? Who is Tim?”

“Tim Curran,” she answered. “Dr. Curran. Our vet.”

“Oh,” said Gil quietly. Then, “I see.”

“Cecelia!” said Jenny, coming into the room. “I’m ready. Come on up with me.”

Cecelia rose. “Kiss your father good night.”

Gil kissed Jennifer and tickled her and made her giggle. But as Cecelia led her out of the room his eyes were not on his daughter but on the slim figure of his wife. He looked like a man who had just received some very unpleasant news.

Ricardo was delighted to take Jenny for the weekend, and so late on Friday morning Gil and Cecelia got in the BMW and headed for Long Island. Cecelia had never before been across the Throgs Neck Bridge. Gil was astounded. “Haven’t you ever been to the ocean?”

“Of course. Don’t be so superior. Rhode Island is on the ocean. So is the Cape.”

He smiled a little, his hands steady on the wheel, his eyes on the highway. “The only person more insular than a New Englander is a New Yorker. Sorry.”

There was a pause and then she said with a studied casualness, “Who else is likely to be there, do you know?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” he answered cheerfully, “but it should be a good mix. Pat knows how to entertain.”

And she didn’t. He didn’t say that but Cecelia read it between the lines. He never suggested inviting anyone to The Birches. She felt sunk in gloom.

The Carruthers’ waterfront home was magnificent—larger even than The Birches. Gil pulled the car up to the awninged carport and a servant came out to take their cases. As they stepped into the hall Pat came through from another room. “Gil, darling,” she said and kissed him. “How lovely to see you. And Cecelia.”

Cecelia held out her hand. She had her father’s reserve about kissing strangers. “Thank you,” she said. “Pat.”

“Come along out to the porch,” Pat said gaily. “Have you had lunch?”

“Yes.” Gil put a hand on Cecelia’s bare arm; she was wearing a sleeveless cotton dress. “We stopped on the way out.”

The first person Cecelia saw when they reached the porch was Liz Lewis. She was wearing white tennis shorts and looked tanned and marvelous. “Gil!” she called. “Come and tell me about your descent on Europe.”

Cecelia foresaw that it was going to be a very long weekend.

* * * *

In fact, Cecelia thought as she sat on the beautiful beach late the following afternoon, it would have been a weekend to enjoy if she had felt more at ease about Gil. The guests had proved to be interesting and surprisingly easy and pleasant; she had never found herself in the embarrassing isolation that had occurred briefly at Liz’s New York party. On the contrary, she never seemed to get a minute by herself.

Gil looked to be having a marvelous time. If she were surrounded he was no less so. She could understand why. Quite simply, he was more fun than anyone else there. He was witty, knowledgeable, amusingly opinionated, and he had a fund of good stories that were endlessly entertaining. No wonder, she thought, all these bright, intelligent people crowded around him. Probably they were being so nice to her because she was his wife.

Two people, at any rate, were pleased to see her for herself. Maisie Winter was there with her husband Hal. And the Carruthers’ neighbors, who came over for dinner, brought with them a young French novelist who was staying with them for the weekend. He was about twenty-seven and good-looking in a dark, intensely serious fashion. He had a slight problem in fitting in with the rest of the party: he spoke no English and no one had read his book.

Cecelia’s kind heart was wrung, and after dinner she approached him and said in soft, fluent French, “I must tell you how extraordinary I found your book, Monsieur Peyre.”

The intense dark eyes lit up and he broke into rapid speech—almost the first words he had uttered since arriving. Cecelia replied, and that was it for the evening. He hung on to her with grim determination, the dark eyes clearly showing it was not just her French he appreciated.

After dinner they had moved out onto the Carrutherses’ enormous screened-in porch. Maisie Winter sat a little apart from the rest of the group and watched Gilbert Archer and his wife. Gil was standing, drink in hand, by one of the screened windows. He was listening gravely to Senator Bayley, and as the senator finished, Gil’s mouth quirked. He said something that caused both the senator and Liz Lewis, who was standing by Gil’s side, to break into laughter. Pat had lit a few hurricane lamps and one of them was next to Gil; the flickering light from it rimmed his fair hair with silver. His face was brilliant with intelligence and mirth. Slowly Maisie looked from it to his wife.

Cecelia was seated in a wicker chair, and next to her, on a wicker stool, was Marc Peyre, the young French novelist. He was talking. As Maisie watched, Cecelia’s eyes slowly traveled to the figure of her husband across the width of the porch from her. There was a wistful, uncertain look about her mouth.

Damn, said Maisie to herself. Damn, damn, damn.

“What’s the matter, dear?” said her husband, coming up and sitting beside her.

“I’m worried about Cecelia,” she answered.

“Cecelia?” He sounded startled. “Why? She’s a lovely girl. Getting along just fine.”

“I know she’s a lovely girl,” his wife answered impatiently. “I’ve known her since she was a child. She has something rare in this day and age, Hal; she’s generous and she’s kind. Look at her boring herself into a coma over that boy and his wretched book. And all because she feels sorry for him.”

“How do you know it’s a wretched book?” her husband asked reasonably. “You haven’t read it.”

“It must be,” said Maisie. She was not interested in the book. “I don’t know how she came to marry Gil Archer,” she went on, “but I’m sure it was a mistake. She’s not in his class at all.”

“What do you mean?” Her husband sounded genuinely puzzled. “Any woman would have jumped at the chance to marry Gil.”

“That’s just it,” his wife said infuriatingly.

“Could you possibly be a little less sibylline?” he asked patiently.

“Gil is spoiled rotten,” she said with admirable clarity. “All his life he’s gotten just what he wanted. Even when he went against his father and started the magazine, he had it easy. He didn’t need his father’s backing. He had all the Van Gelder money from his mother’s legacy to stake him.”

“I thought you liked Gil,” said Hal.

“I do. I defy you to find me a woman who doesn’t. And that is just the trouble. He has only to smile that bone-melting, charming smile, to give that look of secret amusement, and they fall into his lap like ripe plums. A man like that is no good for Cecelia. She’s too vulnerable, too young for his kind of sophistication. It will only lead to heartache.”

“But I haven’t heard that he’s been unfaithful,” protested Hal.

His wife gave him a pitying look. “There’s more to marriage than sexual fidelity,” she said. “Let’s go and rescue Cecelia from the French.”

* * * *

Cecelia, like Hal, had not heard of Gil’s being unfaithful. It was not unfaithfulness that she feared. She satisfied him in that respect; she knew that. But a real marriage, as Maisie had recently pointed out, was more than just being good in bed together. With an aching heart, she was coming to see that she did not have a real marriage at all.

There was nothing she could do about it, nothing she could say to him. She was intensely conscious of being under an obligation to him about her father’s hospital bills. All the benefits from their marriage were on her side—how then could she complain?

She and Gil played tennis the following day, a mixed doubles match against Liz Lewis and Ben Carruthers. As Cecelia watched Liz toss the ball high in the air and serve to Gil she thought dismally that if Liz had been a more motherly type Gil would probably have married
her.
Liz’s serve was hard and deep and Gil returned it with an equally hard forehand.

Cecelia was not at all happy about playing in such expert company. The superb coordination and timing that made her such an excellent rider enabled her to pick up most sports easily, but better than average was not good enough here. She had played tennis in high school and college, though not seriously, and after two points she knew she was hopelessly outclassed.

Gil, on the other hand, she knew for an excellent player, and she shamelessly stepped aside and let him take as many chances as he could. He was strong enough to cover her defects and the score held even. As the game went along she began to relax a little; her husband was laughingly encouraging; obviously he was playing for fun, not blood. Cecelia ventured to become a little more aggressive and he called approval as she tackled a difficult backhand and returned it to the opposite corner for a winner. “That’s my girl,” he said as he passed her on the way to the net and she felt absurdly pleased. Her eyes began to sparkle. She was actually beginning to have fun.

Fifteen minutes later the score was 4—5 and Gil was serving for the set. Cecelia stood at the net, her racquet poised to volley. Gil’s serve cannon-balled over the net and Ben flung out his racquet and managed a crosscourt return. Cecelia got it and volleyed into the court directly in front of her. Liz, seeing it coining, had already prepared. She took the ball on her racquet and then slammed it hard, directly at Cecelia’s face.

Cecelia’s excellent reflexes saved her. She didn’t get her racquet up but she ducked, and the bail grazed the top of her head as it went by. “Sorry, Cecelia,” said Liz sweetly, “but you shouldn’t be so close to the net.”

Cecelia was very pale. “Come on back to the baseline, baby,” said Gil. She backed up slowly, her eyes on the ground at her feet. “Are you all right?” he asked. His voice sounded peculiar.

“Yes,” she said without looking at him. “I’m okay.”

Gil picked up the tennis balls. “Love-fifteen,” he said. Liz, in the ad court waiting to receive serve, smiled. Gil had a tremendously powerful serve. Ben had had trouble with it all morning, but Gil always took something off it when he served to a woman. Liz had made most of her team’s points. Gil threw the ball high in the air and his arm came around. The ball was by Liz before she even got her racquet back. “I believe that was in,” he called to Ben.

“It was. An ace.” Ben was not smiling as he moved back to the baseline.

“Fifteen—all,” said Gil as he picked up the ball Ben had thrown to him. He walked toward Cecelia. “Stay at the baseline, baby,” he told her. “We’ll finish this game in a hurry.”

He was right. Ben managed to get a racquet on his serve but lost the point. Gil aced Liz once more and Ben ended it by hitting Gil’s first serve into the net.

Ben came immediately to the net to shake Gil’s hand. “I don’t blame you,” was what he said. Then he grinned at Cecelia. “You have the makings of a wicked backhand there, Cecelia. Get this guy to coach you a little.”

Both men walked with Cecelia to the umbrella table beside the court, where they joined the group who had been watching the match. Neither Ben nor Gil said a word to Liz.

* * * *

“That was stupid,” Pat Carruthers said to Liz a little later in the privacy of the house.

“I know.” Liz did not look happy. “I did it before I thought.”

“Ben is furious with you. He likes Cecelia. He says she’s what Gil’s needed for a long time.”

“Thanks,” said Liz acidly.

“I didn’t say it,” Pat protested. “Ben did.”

“She’s very beautiful,” Liz conceded.

“She is. Intelligent too. Speaks beautiful French— thank God. What I was going to do with that novelist I don’t know. His book is evidently one of those avant-garde things the French intelligentsia read and no one else. Melissa said he arrived armed with an introduction from Pierre Desmoulin and they had to entertain him for the weekend.

She apologized most profusely for saddling me with him last night.”

“Cecelia had read his book,” said Liz.

“She probably had to read it in college.”

“Do me a favor, Pat,” said Liz. “Don’t try to cheer me up. It depresses the hell out of me.”

Liz apologized to Cecelia before dinner that evening, and Cecelia, surprised and touched by her obvious humility, was very gracious. “Don’t worry about it,” she said with a smile.

“I don’t know what got into me,” Liz said.

“The competitive spirit, I expect,” returned Cecelia. “When one plays as well as you do, one doesn’t like to lose.”

“You’re probably right,” Liz said slowly, her eyes steady on the lovely face of Gil’s wife. “I don’t like to lose.” She saw a familiar figure in the corner of her vision and turned to call, “Gil, darling, I’ve just apologized to Cecelia for my tennis excesses and she has said I’m forgiven. Will you forgive me as well?”

Cecelia turned also and both women watched the tall male figure approaching them. He was wearing casual white pants, a light blue golf shirt, and top-siders.