Now and Forever (13 page)

"Nothing good. Sounds like if we don't dig up some dirt on her, she's got me by the balls. And according to Schwartz, the courts frown on that kind of character assassination these days. But in this case, it's our only hope. It's her version against mine, and of course the medical testimony too, but that sounds pretty weak. They can tell that there was intercourse, but no one can tell if it was rape. The assault charge has already been dropped. Now we're just down to the nitty-gritty and my 'sexual aberrations.' " Jessica nodded and said nothing.

It was a quiet drive to the boutique. She was thinking about the hearing with dread. She didn't want to see that woman, but there was no way to escape it. She had to see her, had to listen, had to hold up her end, if only for Ian's sake, no matter how ugly the whole thing got.

"Want me to leave you the car, love? I can walk home." Ian prepared to get out after he drove her to the shop.

"No, darling, I ... actually, come to think of it, I'm going to need it today. Does that louse you up?" She was trying to sound pleasant, but she had just had a thought. She needed the car today, and there were no maybe's about it, whether it loused him up or not.

"No sweat. I've got the Swedish sex bomb if I need it." He was referring to his Volvo, and she grinned.

"Want to come in for a cup of coffee?" But neither of them felt talkative. The morning's interview had left them feeling pensive and distant from each other.

"No, I'll let you get to work. I want to spend a little time by myself." It was pointless to ask him if he was upset. They both were.

"Okay, love. I'll see you later." At the door to the boutique they parted with a quick kiss.

She rapidly took refuge in her office and made an appointment for one-thirty. It was the only thing she could think of. Ian would be crushed, but what choice did she have? And he was in no position to object.

"Well, what do you think?"

She hated the man's looks and resented him already. He was fat and oily and sly.

"Not bad. Pretty slinky little number. How's it look under the hood?"

"Impeccable." He was examining the little red Morgan as if it were a piece of meat in a supermarket or a hooker in a bordello. Jessie's skin crawled; this felt like selling their child into white slavery. To this fat nauseating man.

"You in a hurry to sell her?"

"No. Just curious about the price I might get for it."

"Why do you want to sell her? Need the bread?" He looked Jessie over carefully.

"No. I need a larger car." But it was all very painful. She still remembered her astonishment and delight the day Ian had driven up in the Morgan and handed her the keys, with a broad grin on his face. Victory. And now it would be like selling her heart. Or his.

"Tell you what, I'll make you an offer."

"How much?"

"Four thousand ... nah ... maybe, as a favor to you, forty-five hundred." The dealer looked her over and waited.

"That's ridiculous. My husband paid seven for it, and it's in better condition now than when he bought it."

"Best I can do. And I think it's the best you'll get on short notice. It needs a little work." It didn't, and they both knew it, but he was right about the short notice. A Morgan was a beautiful car, but very few people wanted to own one, or could afford to.

"I'll let you know. Thank you for your time." Without further comment she got back in the car and drove off. Damn. What a miserable thing to even consider. But she had the rest of Schwartz's fee to pay, and now the investigator, the business and the house were already tied up by Yorktowne Bonding, and she already had a loan out on the car. She'd be lucky if the bank would even let her sell it. But they knew her well enough. They just might let her. And despite Ian's flourish about going out and getting a job, he had done nothing. He was knee deep in the book and going nowhere except to his studio with a pencil stuck behind his ear. Artistic, but hardly lucrative at this point. And even if he did get a job, how much money could he make in the month or two before the trial, waiting on tables or tending bar while he wrote at night? Maybe the book would sell. There was always that to hope for. But Jessie knew from experience that that took time, and too often they had teased themselves with that slim hope. She knew better now. It would have to be the Morgan. Sooner or later.

She kept to herself for the rest of the day, and it was a pleasant surprise when Astrid Bonner walked into the shop shortly before five. She might bring relief from the day's tensions.

"Well, Jessica, you certainly are hard to get hold of!" But she was in high spirits. She had just bought a new topaz ring, a handsome piece of work, thirty-two karats' worth encased in a small fortune in gold, and she "hadn't been able to resist it." On anyone else it would have been vulgar; on Astrid it had style. But it made Jessie's heart ache again over the Morgan. The topaz with the narrow diamond baguettes had probably cost Astrid twice the amount she needed so badly.

"Life has been pretty crazy ever since I got back from New York. And that's some ring, Astrid!"

"If I get tired of it, I can always use it as a doorknob. I can't quite decide if it's gorgeous or ghastly, and I know no one will ever tell me the truth."

"It's gorgeous."

"Truth?" She looked at Jessie teasingly.

"So much so I've been green with envy since you walked in."

"Goody! It really was a shockingly self-indulgent thing to do. Amazing what a little ennui will do to a girl." She laughed coquettishly and Jessie smiled. Such simple problems. Ennui.

"Want a lift home, or did you come to do some shopping?"

"No shopping, and I have the car, thanks. I came by on my way home to invite you and your husband to dinner." The girls had told her that Jessie was married.

"What a sweet thought. We'd love it. When do you want us?"

"How about tomorrow?"

"You're on." They exchanged a smile of pleasure and Astrid walked comfortably around Jessie's small, cheerful office.

"You know, Jessica, I'm falling in love with this place. I might have to con you out of it one of these days." She laughed mischievously and watched Jessica's eyes.

"Don't waste your energies conning me. I might just give it to you. Right about now, I might even gift wrap it!"

"You're making me drool."

"Spare your saliva. Can I talk you into a drink? I don't know about you, but I could use a stiff one."

"Still those problems you mentioned the other day?"

"More or less."

"Which means mind my own business. Fair enough." She smiled easily; she didn't know that Jessica had spent the day trying to forget that Barry York had a lien on her business. It made Jessica sick to think about it, and all the while Ian was out of touch with the world, working on that bloody book night and day. Jesus. She needed someone to talk to. And why did he have to start tuning out right now? He always got that way when he was into a book. But now?

"I have an idea, Jessica."

Jessie looked up, startled. For a moment she had totally forgotten Astrid.

"How about having that drink at my place?"

"You know what? I'd love that. You're sure it's not too much trouble?"

"It's no trouble; it would be fun. Come on, let's get going."

Jessie bid a rapid good night to the girls and found herself relieved to leave the boutique. It hadn't used to be like that. She'd used to feel good just walking in the door in the morning, and pleased with herself and her life as she walked out at night. Now she hated to think of the place. It was shocking how things could change in so little time.

Jessie followed Astrid home in her car. The older woman was driving a two-year-old black Jaguar sedan. It was perfect for her, as sleek and elegant as she was. This woman was surrounded by beautiful things. Including her home.

It was a breathtaking mixture of delicate French and English antiques, Louis XV, Louis XVI, Heppel-white, Sheraton. But none of it was overwhelming. There was an airy quality to the house. Lots of yellow and white, delicate organdy curtains, eggshell silks, and, upstairs, bright flowered prints and a magnificent collection of paintings. Two Chagalls, a Picasso, a Renoir, and a Monet that lent a summer night's mood to the dining room.

"Astrid, this is fabulous!"

"I must admit, I love it. Tom had such marvelous things. And they're happy things to live with. We bought a few pieces together, but most of it was already his. I picked out the Monet, though."

"It's a beauty." Astrid looked proud. She had every right to.

Even the glasses she poured the Scotch into were lovely--paper-thin crystal, with a rainbow hue to them as they were held up to the late afternoon light. And there was an overpowering view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the bay from the library upstairs, where they settled down with their drinks.

"God, what a magnificent house. I don't know what to say." It was splendid. The library was wood-paneled and lined with old books. There was a portrait of a serious-looking man on one wall, and a Cezanne over the small brown marble fireplace. The portrait was of Tom. Jessie could easily see them together, despite the broad difference in age. There was a warm light in his eyes; one sensed approaching laughter. As she looked at the portrait, Jessie suddenly realized how lonely Astrid must be now.

"He was a fine-looking man."

"Yes, and we suited each other so well. Losing him has been an awful blow. But we were lucky. Ten years is a lot, when they're ten years like the ones we had." But Jessie could tell that Astrid still hadn't decided what to do with her life. She was floating--into dress shops and jewelers, into furriers, off on trips. She had nothing to anchor her. She had the house, the money, the paintings, the clothes ... but no longer the man. And he was the key. Without Tom none of it really meant anything. Jessie could imagine what that might be like. It gave her chills thinking of it.

"What's your husband like, Jessica?"

Jessie smiled. "Terrific. He's a writer. And he ... well, he's my best friend. I think he's crazy and wonderful and brilliant and handsome. He's the only person I can really talk to. He's someone very special."

"That says it all, doesn't it?" There was a gentle light in Astrid's eyes as she spoke, and Jessie suddenly felt guilty. How could she so blatantly rave about Ian to this woman who had lost the man who meant every bit as much to her as Ian meant to Jessie?

"No, don't look like that, Jessica. I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong. You should feel that way. You should say it with just exactly that wonderful victorious look on your face. That's how I felt about Tom. Cherish it, flaunt it, enjoy it, don't ever apologize for it, and certainly not to me."

Jessica nodded pensively over her drink, and then looked up at Astrid.

"We're having some nasty problems right now."

"With each other?" Astrid was surprised. It didn't show in Jessica's face. Something did, but not trouble with her husband--she had looked too happy when she described him. Maybe money problems. Young people had those. There was something, though. It surfaced at unexpected moments. A whisper of fear, almost terror. Sickness, perhaps? The loss of a breast? Astrid wondered, but didn't want to pry.

"I guess you might call this a crisis. Maybe even a big one. But the problem isn't with each other, not in that sense." She looked out at the bay and fell silent.

"I'm sure you'll work it out." Astrid knew. Jessie didn't want to talk about it.

"I hope so."

Their talk turned unexpectedly to business then, to how the shop was run and what sort of clients Jessie had. Astrid made her laugh telling her some of the stories from her days at Vogue in New York. It was almost seven before Jessie got up to go home. And she hated to leave.

"See you tomorrow. At seven-thirty?"

"We'll be here with bells on. I can't wait to show Ian the house." And then she had a thought. "Astrid, do you like the ballet?"

"I adore it."

"Want to come see the Joffrey with us next week?"

"No ... I ..." There was a moment of sadness in her eyes.

"Come on, don't be a drag. Ian would love to take us both. God, what that would do to his ego!" She laughed, and Astrid seemed to hesitate. Then she nodded with a small girl's grin.

"I can't resist. I hate to be the fifth wheel--I went through that after Tom died, and it's the loneliest thing in the world. It's actually much easier to be alone. But I'd love to go with you, if Ian won't mind."

They left each other like two new school friends who have the good fortune to find that they live across the street from each other. And Jessie ran home to tell Ian about the house.

He was going to love it, and Astrid. She reminded Jessie of herself, as she would have liked to be. All the poise in the world, and so gentle, so open and sunny. She might be uncertain about the course her life would take, but she had long since come to terms with herself, and it showed. She radiated loving and peace, no longer grabbing at life like Jessie. But Jessie didn't really envy her. She still had Ian, and Astrid no longer had Tom. And, as she drove home, Jessica found herself speeding the car into the driveway, anxious to see Ian, not just his portrait.

As she approached their front door she saw a man walking away from the house toward an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway. He gave her a long examining glance and then nodded. And Jessie felt terror wash over her. Police ... the police were back ... what were they doing now? The terror reached her eyes as she stood there, rooted to the spot. The nightmare was back again. At least he wasn't Inspector Houghton. And where was Ian? She wanted to scream, but she couldn't. The neighbors might hear.

"I'm Harvey Green. Mrs. Clarke?" She nodded and stood there, still eyeing him with horror. "I'm the investigator Martin Schwartz referred to your case."

"Oh. I see. Have you spoken to my husband?" She suddenly felt the cool breeze on her face, but it would take a while for her heart to stop pounding.

"Yes, I've spoken to him."

"Is there anything you want me to add?" Other than money ...