Cheyney Fox (17 page)

Yes, that’s where she thought it had happened. Or as David suggested, “Number One is probably where we allowed it to surface, but I think I fell in love with you a very long time before that.”

David was probably right. After two margaritas Cheyney
began to relax. Enough for her to feel that everything from the moment she heard the announcement in court; “The determination: Cheyney Fox, full discharge in bankruptcy, case dismissed” was now the past, in the most finalizing sense of the word. As if reborn, she found herself relating to David Rosewarne differently.

She saw him as a man, not simply as
the
lawyer. She felt a spark of joy rekindled, a flow of something of her old self, stir within. For the first time in the years she had known David Rosewarne, they laughed together. He was enchanted by her smile. She was charmed by his dry sense of humor. They spoke candidly to each other about themselves. A candor beyond that of client and lawyer. She was surprised how attracted she was to his kind, respectable good looks; that she suddenly found him incredibly sexy. He was no less surprised by her smoldering sensuality, which he had scarcely guessed at during the time they had known each other.

And then, as will happen, when the flame of a possibly illicit love flares, as it still did now between Cheyney and David, conversation became superfluous. Desire, admiration, the beginnings of adoration, came into being for them. All those months of seeing each other overshadowed always by distress, problems, and the law, they had never seen or thought of wanting each other as they did now over lunch.

He said nothing, he made no move as their desire for each other grew stronger. She tried to distract herself from her feelings for him by talking about their meal. The
oeuf en cocotte
: she kept going on about how perfectly the eggs were cooked, just runny on the inside. His defense against his own developing feelings for Cheyney were to remind himself of his wife. It was her favorite egg dish, but she was unable to master it in her kitchen. Cheyney rhapsodized at such length about the poached salmon, it became ridiculous. More feebly, he mentioned that was what his wife had cooked for them the first time he had brought Cheyney home to dinner.

A long silence followed. In which Cheyney reminded herself of how much she had liked his wife, enjoyed meeting his children, admired the kind of marriage and life-style they shared. And now it shocked her to think of the many times she
had thought of his marriage as a role model for what she would like to have for herself.

He called for a sauterne to go with the lemon mousse they ordered for dessert. They touched the rims of their glasses together. A look passed between them that gave Cheyney a nearly forgotten flutter of excitement. By the third glass she knew she had an admirer who would love her for the rest of her life, yet never do anything about it. There was a tremendous sexual desire in their glances, and it was equal for each of them.

She had no doubt that all she had to do was to say yes and he would make her his mistress forever. She sat there very silent for several minutes drinking her wine, toying with the lemon mousse. She kept reminding herself that solid, stable, conservative men who love their wives, their children, and the world they have constructed for themselves, don’t lightly make moves that complicate their lives. A certain weight of passion is needed; nothing else serves. No matter how much they would like to think differently.

Cheyney and David’s desire for each other became so intense, she finally had to speak. “I want you so very much.”

“I want you more.”

His direct response left her weak-kneed.

She watched his eyes behind his glasses fill with tears. She believed him. That he wanted her more at that moment than anything else in the world. She reached across the table and took his hands in hers, turned it over, and kissed the inside of his palm. Their eyes met. She watched him close his, so unbearable was his passion for her. He took a deep breath, sighed, and gazed at her again. She raised the hand she still held and placed it over her mouth. Again there was the kiss to the inside of the palm.

Before he could say anything, her own voice trembling with enormous passion for him had whispered across the table. “So long as you understand I will leave you when I want more of you than I can have.”

She offered him a gracious exit with her eyes. He had declined as she knew he would now.

Instead, they spoke of how they wanted to make love to each other, of how starved they felt for each other. The danger
of their liaison, because their coming together would be explosive. All homemaker’s caution, all restraint, would be replaced by passion. The sexual chemistry between them had incited a wild, unexpected raunchiness that delivered them into erotic ecstasy. Postponed. Until they could work out the moral side that pricked their consciences.

Cheyney whispered in his ear, “November 22, 1963. My freedom from a horrible ordeal, and the day you brought me back to life.”

He answered, “The day we were both brought back to life.”

It was born-again lust for them both. It was like young love, erotic excitement, the joy of being out of control, of loving dangerously, of being less than perfect, of living a vital sensual adventure. Being alive again, with a new and fresh romance with which to embellish existence. There was no resisting it.

They covered their naked bodies and souls with eager lips, searching tongues, and caressing hands, and begged each other to let go and give in to their sexual yearnings. Only to be stopped by their fear of what their lust could do to them and their lives. The love they felt for each other.

Often after that first discovery of their passion for each other, he would say to her, “You know, if you were to shout this across the rooftops of Cambridge or New York, or anywhere else in the world for that matter, no one would believe you. They would say the woman is mad. It could never have been David Rosewarne, the conservative, staid, devoted family man. The legal eagle who never breaks formation. Impossible.

“Cheyney, I want you to know this has never happened before, and I am sure it will never happen with any other woman again. But you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she answered. And always sounded as convinced as he did.

For too long now her life had been governed by having to prove that she was not and had never been a criminal. It was difficult to realize that period of her life was over. It had been months. She had won her discharge in bankruptcy. She had been proven innocent of fraud because, hard as Marvin Weinstock tried, he couldn’t dredge up enough evidence to make a
case against her. Then why didn’t she feel the winner? Even when the bankruptcy court had reprimanded Marvin Weinstock for his methods and the vendetta he appeared to be acting out against Cheyney Fox in the name of her creditors. She had won her battle and her war, but at what price?

Cheyney was sitting on a bench near the old New York City Courthouse in lower Manhattan. She had a perfect view of the building: seemingly a late-Victorian version of an English Renaissance country house. Cheyney liked the building. It made her feel calm, gave her hope. It was a symbol of justice, honor, and the law. A reminder that rules were made to be obeyed and there might be a price to be paid if they weren’t.

Balance, that was it. The scales of justice, and everything in balance. Cheyney was human: she could be happy with that. Wasn’t that why she was there waiting for him? To put things back in balance. To explain it all carefully to him, so that there would be as little hurt as possible. Had she not had enough hurt to last her a lifetime? Her resolve was so strong that, much as she feared losing him, she was able to keep her emotions under control. But still, she didn’t much like the prospect of telling him.

No, it wouldn’t be easy to leave him. They had been through so much together. For the last few years he had been the most solid thing in her life. The kindest, most compassionate man she had ever known. The most honorable. That was why they simply could not go on. No, it most certainly was not going to be easy.

Cheyney watched the people going in and out of the courthouse. They were well dressed and well groomed. They seemed, with their briefcases and the stacks of documents carried in their arms, to be missionaries of purpose with every step they took. She recognized in them something of herself, herself a lifetime ago, and envied them. That surprised Cheyney because she was not a person who sustained herself by envy. She didn’t much like the feeling.

She saw David just as he came through the courthouse doors with a colleague. The two men shook hands and parted. David Rosewarne was looking for her. Cheyney rose from the bench on the small patch of green on the other side of the street from
the courthouse. She waved, trying to get his attention. He saw her almost at once and started down the stairs.

David waved to Cheyney from the other side of the street. He waited for the traffic to pass by. He always made her heart sing. If only he was free. What a wonderful lover he could have been, she thought. To be his wife, to build something solid with him. She put that from her mind immediately. It was because she had begun thinking like that during the last few days that she was leaving him. No pain, with him or any other man, no matter how much she loved him. That resolve had become a priority in her life.

Now Cheyney picked up her basket and walked to the curb to meet David.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi. Good day in court?”

“Not bad. I made a reservation at El Parador for us. Okay?”

“Fine.”

He hailed a cab. In the backseat he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. They looked each other in the eyes and Cheyney had to look away. He placed his hand on her chin and slowly turned her face back to his.

“What’s happened? Something’s wrong.”

“Yes,” she could hardly get the word out.

“Tell me about it.”

“Over lunch. I’m really pleased we’re going to El Parador. Carlos’s margarita is just what I need.”

“That bad?” he asked.

“That bad,” she answered.

Cheyney really was relieved that David had chosen El Parador. The Mexican restaurant was only a short distance from her apartment. Now that she was sitting next to her lover, she knew that it was a good thing to be that close to home. She was going to be very upset breaking up their relationship.

David did not press the point of her distress while in the taxi. He was too clever for that. Instead he changed the subject. He touched the sleeve of her dress worn thin from constant washing and pressing. “Why don’t you let me take you to Bergdorf’s? Buy you a lovely summer wardrobe? You love beautiful things. I like you to have them. It would give me so much pleasure.”

“For the same reason I won’t let you furnish my flat or help me change my work life. I don’t want to be a kept woman. And you would hate yourself, your wife, and me, because you had slipped into that role out of guilt, not pleasure.”

He looked embarrassed. “Cheyney, there are times when you are just too wise.”

In El Parador, the margaritas were all they ought to be. The first sip brought the rim of salt to her lips; it combined with the delicious cocktail and slid onto her tongue. She swallowed and her flagging courage revived.

“David, it’s over for us. I’m leaving you.”

They were sitting in what had become their favorite booth, in their favorite restaurant. He remained calm. But Cheyney saw the immediate shock in his eyes. His face grew pale with anguish. He could not speak. He did nothing. She feared for him. What had she done? They remained like that for what felt to Cheyney like an eternity.

Cheyney drank more of the cocktail and said, “There must be something you can say.”

Her voice seemed to bring him back from where he had retreated. He drank deeply and some color returned to his face.

“Like what?” His voice was more bitter than she had expected.

“That you forgive me for wanting more of you than you can give me.”

Cheyney felt her heart racing. For one weak moment she fantasized that he would offer her an alternative. That he would leave his family for her.

His only reply was to order more margaritas. David Rosewarne, controlled on the outside, felt like a shattered pane of glass. He did not take his eyes off Cheyney.

“Do you love me, Cheyney?”

“More every day. That’s the problem.”

“Will you have any more security without me than you do with me?”

That made Cheyney angry. He must know what he had to do if he wanted to keep her and supply the security he obviously knew she sought from a relationship.

“That’s an unfair question. Let me go, David. If I stay with you, I’ll suffer, and I will have to learn to live with conflict.
I want more than that. I want as much at least as Mary has. We both know — we’ve always known from the beginning — that’s impossible. At least with you it is.”

“You love someone else.”

“No, of course not. But I’m going to look for someone like you, who is available to love me and build a life with me as good as the one you and Mary have.”

“My life will never be the same without you.” He was trembling when he said these too obvious words, and there was pain in his eyes. She had to lower her own not to cry, not to yield to him as she knew he wanted her to.

“You have six months to come back to me. After that I never want to see you again.”

She watched him walk away. He did not look back. She gave in to tears.

Chapter 17

D
ella opened the door. Zazou leapt up and Della caught her in her arms, and both were lost in dog kisses. Over her shoulder she said, “Cheyney, you’re just in time. They’re rerunning that marvelous interview between Grant Madigan and President Kennedy. The one Madigan did a month before the assassination.
TV Guide
says he’s going to do a live introduction. And after the interview there’s going to be a discussion led by Madigan. His guests are going to be Pierre Salinger, Bobby Kennedy, and Ted Sorenson. We can have a good cry. We’ll have dinner after that, Okay?”

“Fine. Who’s Grant Madigan?”

Della dropped Zazou on the sofa. Fiddling with the dials on
the set, she teased her friend. “Who’s Grant Madigan? Just another Edward R. Murrow, that’s all. And he’s so dishy besides. Who’s Grant Madigan? If you had a TV set, read the newspapers, magazines, came back into the world a little more, Cheyney, you’d sure know who he is. Wait until you see this interview. I did, when it was first run. And now poor Kennedy is dead.”

Grant Madigan’s face filled the screen. Cheyney recognized him. The credits were still rolling when she said, “I know him.”

“You know Grant Madigan?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know him. He plucked me out of the rain and gave me a taxi ride to the gallery one day.”

“Honestly, Cheyney, I’d kill to know Grant Madigan.”

“Hang on, Della, I don’t exactly know him. But I did have a rather intimate few minutes with him.”

“Intimate? You mean he …?”

“Oh, no, no, Della, you’ve got it all wrong.”

“Shush, tell me about it later.”

That was the first time Cheyney had seen him on TV. The medium enhanced the good looks she remembered. The warmth she felt so briefly in his arms that day came to mind. Della had been right. The program was fascinating. Madigan’s intellectual grasp of complex foreign policy issues was masterful. Not one banal question and no shirking the follow-ups. The president revealed himself to his host as Cheyney had never heard him do before. Perhaps Grant Madigan merited his reputation as the definitive press and TV man on the world power players.

She was riveted by the energy, the excitement coming off the screen. She felt inspired, full of hope. She watched and listened to the two men who knew how to raise the spirit, go for the big issues, and win their points. At the same time she felt poignantly the Kennedy flame brutally extinguished. The brain, the mind, simply blasted away.

Madigan posed some tough questions. The man had a knack of zeroing in on his guest and probing weaknesses that even he had been unaware of. He did it so smoothly that it never offended, merely expanded the interview. Cheyney was suddenly reminded that Grant Madigan had done that to her when
he had come to her rescue. Only he had been less smooth about it, more like a chastising knight who could see she was blind to her inability to protect herself. Hadn’t he said something to her like, “You’re not even smart enough to get out of the rain. And that’s basic.”

There was a brilliance in the way he masked his ability to cut instantly to the core of things, in his relaxed use of a clear, quick mind that responded like the snap of a whip to a calm intelligence. He never lost your attention, not for one second. He was the best. And, watching him, Cheyney understood the extra something about the man that made him special. He radiated on enormous integrity. He framed his questions, forced his issues with an apparent political impartiality that held his audiences and got them involved. He exercised his spell over them just as strongly as over his guests. They, too, were forced to face themselves and answer the issues in question.

The two women had problems with holding back tears during the presidential interview. Dead, Kennedy’s image seemed to hold even more the hopes and dreams of his America. But their spirits rallied with what they heard from Bobby Kennedy.

The TV switched off, Della insisted on hearing about Grant Madigan as the women set the dinner table. At the end of her account, Cheyney added, “Boy, was I sure of myself in those days. I thought I had the world by a string. All I had to do was work hard, look beautiful, keep stretching myself and my intellect, and life would take care of me because I was taking care of myself. If that isn’t a laugh. On me, unfortunately.”

One look, for a moment, backward into the past and fear wrapped itself around Cheyney and pulled her down into anxiety. She picked Zazou up and held her in her arms. The dog’s mop of long hair, the warmth of the dog’s body in her arms, helped. Zazou shook her head violently from side to side and wriggled, trying to attract more attention from Cheyney. Two bright black eyes appeared from under the mass of fringe covering them. As usual, Cheyney reacted. Zazou brought her back from herself, if not from the pit.

Over grilled lamb chops and baked potatoes and a fresh green salad, Della plucked up her courage. “Cheyney, don’t you think it’s time to give up this reclusive life you lead? You can’t
stay below Forty-ninth Street for the rest of your life. A telephone, a TV, making some real money — they’re not beyond you. Isn’t it time you wore beautiful clothes again, walked in a decent pair of shoes, and stopped pacing those empty rooms upstairs?”

Della was taken aback when she heard Cheyney say, “Yes.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. What are you going to do?”

“What I should have done in the last days of the gallery. Gather together enough money to run away. I have been too much the courageous fool. And the price I paid may have bankrupted me again. Only this time, emotionally.”

“You’re leaving New York! To live where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you have a plan?”

“No.”

“Oh, Cheyney, you can’t just run away. Think about it. Make a plan. Get some money together.”

“I do have an idea. As long as you’re happy to keep Zazou, I want to sell off what stock I have left in my ‘basket-on-arm’ business and leave as soon as possible after that.

“I’ve got to get away, Della. I’m not just running away from New York, I’m running away from David Rosewarne as well. He hasn’t called, not even to offer me a ‘someday,’ and I’m constantly on the verge of calling him. That’s too self-destructive in the long term for me.”

“Money, Cheyney?”

“My check came this morning from the museum for the last collection I sold them. Selling the stock should give me about three or four hundred dollars. Roberto is still holding a first-class, round-trip ticket, New York, Rome, New York, in my name, with an open date. If I can use your telephone, I’ll call him tonight after dinner and ask him to send the ticket airmail express. I will of course pay for the call.”

Della waved her hand to indicate that wasn’t necessary. “But Rome is so expensive, Cheyney. A couple of hundred dollars will get you nowhere. Not even if you stay with Lala and Roberto.”

“I’m not going to Rome. I’m not going to go to Italy. I am not ready to face Rome and the chic society Roberto and Lala run in. I intend to change the ticket for economy class
and book it to Athens. That’s where I’m off to.”

“Athens?”

“I was happy in Greece. The life-style suited me. It’s cheap, I know the city, the islands. It’s the last outpost before the East, so I will still feel I am in the Western world. A good jumping-off place for other countries. I’ll take a room for a month and do a reconnaissance. See what really fine folk art I can collect for the museum. What I can find to import from there and neighboring countries for the boutiques and shops I sell to. And to see if it can become a lucrative way for Zazou and me to drift around the world until we can find the right place for us.”

“But that takes money — being an importer. Where will you get the capital to start a business like that?”

“I don’t intend to start a business that I have to invest my own capital in — or anyone else’s, for that matter. Not ever again. The museum and my other customers seem to think I have an eye for the rare and beautiful, the sort of thing they find hard to buy. They will pay for what I buy for them on bills of lading or documents presented against letters of credit at specific banks designated by me. It’s not altogether a crazy idea. Their enthusiasm is there. The rest is up to me. According to the museum director of that department, good reliable buyers abroad are hard to find.”

“And if it works, what then?”

“Well, then will be the time to see about that, won’t it, Della? For the moment, living the lazy carefree life of the expatriate for a month while I look around can’t be bad for me. The worst thing that can happen is I will return with nothing in hand and have to scrounge around the jobbers’ lot, assemble at night and peddle in the day, as I have been doing. Sit for the boys at the antique shop when they need me. I can always have a job there.”

“Did you choose Greece because of Christopher?” asked Della hesitantly.

“No.”

“Are you sure you’re not still in love with him?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind taking Zazou for a month? Everything hinges on that.”

“No problem.”

It was after midnight in Rome. Exactly the time for Cheyney to catch Roberto and Lala at home. They were night people, but was Kurt Walbrook? Roberto and Lala daren’t take the chance to find out. Their friendship could hardly survive a miscalculation in such a matter. So the couple decided to wait until morning to call and tell him the good news. Cheyney Fox was finished with her romance. She was free now from both her legal and emotional commitments and ready to accept the ticket they had been keeping for her. That was the good news. They were less eager to share the bad news. Cheyney was not accepting their invitation to come to Rome and be pampered by them.

They had been entertaining; after talking to Cheyney, they went back to their guests and forgot about Cheyney and Kurt Walbrook. The rosy-fingered Roman dawn for some reason brought the subject to mind. Lying in Roberto’s arms Lala asked,

“Roberto, darling?”

“Yes, darling.”

“Do you think Kurt really loves Cheyney?”

Roberto plucked a cigarette from the box on the table next to the bed, struck a match and lit it. The tip glowed in the dark. He took a deep pull on the Gitane. The glow momentarily brightened his aristocratic features. Lala lovingly traced them with a finger and kissed the tip of his nose, then snuggled even closer to him.

Finally he answered. “Yes, I do.”

“You don’t think that Cheyney is just a rich man’s whim, Kurt’s plaything, do you?”

He took another long draw on the cigarette, taking his time before answering. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

Lala rolled on her side and kissed Roberto on the cheek. “Why, Roberto. Why do you believe him?”

“Because of the way he has chosen to pursue Cheyney. The elaborate plans he has made to help her help herself without her knowing it. The way he has disciplined himself to stay
away from her until, as he puts it, ‘She is whole again. Until she is ready for me.’ I don’t care for his terminology, but I see what he means.”

“Don’t you think it’s strange that he doesn’t care how long it takes? It’s been years already,” said Lala, feeling concern for her friend. She pulled herself up to a half-sitting position against the pillows.

“That doesn’t bother Kurt. Time is irrelevant for him when he wants something. Kurt is tracking Cheyney the same way he tracks a great work of art. I have seen him do it a dozen times. He bides his time, lets all other contenders make their mistakes and fall out. Then, when he senses the time is right, there is no opposition. He makes his bid and walks off with the prize.”

“Tracking a work of art, my foot. It’s more like he’s stalking his prey. It gives me the shivers. He’s so cold and controlled about it.”

“That’s how he always gets what he wants. Don’t get worked up about it, darling.”

“I can’t understand the man. He watches Cheyney from way off, clings to any news of her we can give him. He wants Cheyney, yet he showed no jealousy when we told him about her affair with David Rosewarne. Remember, his only remark was, ‘It’s the best thing for her now.’ A real red-hot Romeo there! I expect he’ll just nod when we tell him her affair is over.”

“I expect he will.” Roberto blew out a smoke ring.

“Well, I will grant him one thing. If she’s on the back burner, he does at least keep checking the temperature. And he’s found a neat way to boost her income, having us ask Cheyney to act on our behalf and pay her for her trouble.”

“Not bad for us either. Damned good of him to put it about that he uses us as agents, without telling anyone that we are, after all, just his puppets with him pulling all the strings. It does our art dealing here in Rome no harm to be associated with a number-one collector.”

“I know that, Roberto, and that’s all wonderful. Wonderful for Cheyney and for us. And, God knows, he is more than generous with money. But … why? What’s his motive?”

“You know why. For just the reason he told you. He wants
Cheyney Fox. He wants one day to pluck her from the world and place her in his life and keep her there for always. But he is not going to approach her until he is certain she is going to go with him.”

“I find that scary, Roberto, real scary.” Lala slipped down from the pillows and huddled tight up against Roberto. “In fact, I find Kurt Walbrook more than a little scary when I think about him.”

“Don’t think about him.”

Lala ignored that and continued, “When I am in his company, like most everyone else, I go for the smooth Viennese charm, the old sensual magnetism, and the fantastic life-style. All that patrician presence, the shining white hair, the piercing blue eyes, and the total respect and obedience he commands from everyone. He suffers fools gladly, and that scares me, even though I know he is very fond of me — in spite of my being, as he has so charmingly said, deeply, deeply silly. He is scary, Roberto, and what he is doing with Cheyney is, too. Why, he could go tomorrow and pluck Cheyney out of New York. He could make her life so easy with chunks of real big money, instead of his two thousand dollars here, a thousand there. I think the largest amount we have ever paid her at one time was three thousand dollars.”