Possessions (20 page)

Tears filled her eyes. “I've never admitted that to anyone, not even myself . . . that there were those cold spaces between us and I couldn't reach him—no, I'm not sure that's true. Maybe . . . maybe I didn't try hard enough.” She frowned beneath Victoria's intent gaze. “Maybe I didn't. I don't know why. I kept waiting for him to change, to come to me and let me share whatever was bothering him . . . Maybe I should have pushed him more, to talk to me—of course I should have; it seems so obvious, now—but we had good things, too, and
maybe I was afraid I'd ruin them . . . So the spaces got wider and Craig held on to his secrets . . . oh, if you knew how I hated his secrets—”

She was crying. Swiftly, Victoria came around the table to stand beside her, touching her hair, then stroking it. Softly she kissed Katherine's cheek. “My dear, we have so much to talk about. So many things I've wanted to talk about for so long—”

“To Craig?” Katherine's tears dried and a soft contentment filled her, feeling Victoria's hand on her hair and Victoria's cheek pressed to hers. “You've missed talking to Craig—?”

“Oh, no,” Victoria said quietly. “For fifteen years I've missed talking to Jennifer.”

*  *  *

Ross turned off the projector and switched on the overhead lights. The men seated around the square table blinked in the sudden brightness and fumbled for pencils and pens as he unrolled a large drawing and held it down with a water pitcher and three glasses. When he began talking, his voice was relaxed and conversational. An outsider would not have guessed he was at the last stage of four years of planning, designing and negotiating to get the biggest project of his career underway.

“I'm sorry to go over this again,” he said. “Some of you have been through it a number of times—”

“Go right ahead,” interrupted one of the developers of BayBridge Plaza seated in a row along the wall. “When you're spending three hundred million bucks, you can't talk about it too much.”

Ross smiled wryly as the rest of them laughed. That was what had taken two of the last four years; everyone thought it couldn't be talked about too much. Especially the people sitting around the table—representatives from the mayor's office, the Planning Commission, Zoning Board, Citizens for Environmental Planning, the Community Neighborhood Association, the Department of Buildings, and half a dozen other groups and agencies—who looked up at him now with satisfied faces, prepared to give final blessing to a project that would transform part of the landscape called South of Market. Picking up a pointer, Ross wondered which of them would bring up the last-minute objections he'd come to expect. He'd been through it before.

“I showed those slides of Quincy Market in Boston, Harborplace in Baltimore, Society Hill in Philadelphia, and New York's South Street Seaport Development, even though I've shown them before, because they're our predecessors. Every time I think we're drowning in regulations or confrontation, it's comforting to be reminded that others have gone through this, and survived.”

Another ripple of laughter ran around the table. “I'll go over it very quickly . . .”

He began to talk, leaving out his own feelings: his excitement, four years earlier, when the developers had chosen him over all the architects they had interviewed to design the huge project; his frustration at the delays (“The pettiness of people goes up,” Tobias had reminded him, “with the amount of money. They can't really imagine something that costs a million dollars, but watch them argue over a four-dollar versus a three-dollar light switch!”); the nights when he woke in a sweat over the leap he was taking by enlarging his staff from fifteen to eighty-five to handle the massive volume of work; the days and nights when he lost himself in the pure joy of creating the kind of urban development he had dreamed of since becoming an architect.

But none of that appeared in his factual description as he used his pointer to outline the forty acres where thirty-five buildings would be demolished, twenty-five restored, and twelve newly constructed, in addition to a mall of open shops, theaters, and eating places.

“With no building higher than eight stories,” he said. “And open spaces connecting residential, office and retail clusters, BayBridge will have the atmosphere of a small town.” He paused, remembering who had first called it that: Katherine, the day they had lunch together. “A link in the chain of small towns that makes up a city,” he went on, still using her words. “While still being only a block from the commercial strip of Market Street, two blocks from the Civic Center, and within walking distance of bus lines and two BART stations. A setting, in other words, for people—”

“Yes, but the people who're there,” interrupted Ted Taylor, pushing up the glasses that kept slipping down his nose. He was the elected representative of the South of Market Neighborhood Association and for two years had been having the
best time of his life, with the power to hold up a multi-million-dollar project just by raising an objection—sometimes just by raising a finger. He was sorry it was almost over; how often could ordinary guys like him force government officials and bankers and international businessmen to sit up and take notice? “What about the people? Lots of them still living there and running businesses—you're gonna kick 'em out to start construction in the spring?”

“We discussed this last month,” Ross said patiently. “Twenty-eight commercial tenants and ninety-four residents are still in the area; all their leases had expired by last month but we gave them an extension of six months, to next April, and we're helping them relocate. When we set that up, you agreed. Do you have a problem with it now?”

“No,” said Taylor dolefully.

One down, Ross thought. Now if the rest of them would say they have no problems . . .

“A few figures,” he said, and pulled down a chart like a movie screen against the wall. “When complete, BayBridge will provide six hundred housing units with an estimated population of fifteen hundred people; it will provide twenty-five hundred jobs in one hundred forty retail establishments plus another two thousand in office and service jobs. The construction itself will provide one thousand jobs. Revenue from real estate taxes and sales taxes will increase as shown on this chart—”

He pulled down a second one. The city director of Planning nodded, to show he knew all that already. “Very satisfactory; one of the reasons we like it so much.”

Two down, Ross thought, and told himself this was not the time to show impatience.

BayBridge had really started when the developers had begun to buy up the land. They had selected Ross Hayward Associates to draw up plans for the forty acres, then hired a consulting firm to evaluate those plans. When the consulting firm gave its approval, the developers bought the rest of the land, parcel by parcel, over a year and a half; arranged financing for the three-hundred-million-dollar project, started the rounds of government agencies for approval of every stage of the plaza, and began to line up major tenants for the shopping mall and office buildings.

Two years later, they signed a contract with Ross for detailed architectural plans of the whole complex. That was when Ross moved to another office building with space for the sixfold increase in his staff of architects, engineers, draftsmen, and computer operators.

The last step had been choosing a contractor. One of the developers, Brock Galvez—burly, aggressive, a man who had made vast wealth “by work and prayer,” he said, “and the good fortune of buying a Mexican farm that turned out to be floating on a sea of oil”—fought hard to give the job to the Hayward Corporation, but the other developers balked. “It's Ross's family corporation; no way we're going to give the media a chance to smear us for making sweetheart deals.”

Ross had stayed out of it. None of them had asked him if he wanted to work with his brother and when they chose another firm, and he seemed satisfied, they thought he was accepting the inevitable. It did not occur to them that he had no wish to work with Derek. And, though BayBridge was the major project of the year in San Francisco, Derek had never asked Ross for help in getting the job. It was all aboveboard.

But the haggling over approvals had dragged on, and at times he'd thought the project would never be built. “These are the final changes you asked us to make,” Ross said, turning from the charts on the wall. Horsetrading, he added to himself, without bitterness. Everyone has fears; everyone wants a feeling of control. Local residents fear higher rents and taxes when we upgrade the area, so we add a community swimming pool in the lower level of the mall. The Landmarks Preservation Council is worried about proper restoration so we submit a description of all exterior materials and paint colors. Small businesses fret over losing customers to the mall, so the developers offer them space in the mall at reduced rents for the first five years. On and on, until, finally, everybody's had a hand in the trading.

“You asked for additional off-street parking,” he said. Actually, they'd insisted on it as soon as Ross sought permission to close off one block of Eighth Street that would otherwise cut through BayBridge's largest park. Why is it, he wondered, that city streets are about as sacred as cathedrals and matrimony? It took seven months of negotiations until they got permission to close off the street, but in exchange they had to
enlarge the parking deck. “This made room for fifty-five more cars,” Ross said, pointing to the extended deck. “But it meant eliminating the snack bar at this end of the recreation area—”

“You took food out to make room for cars?” demanded an incredulous voice.

Noncommittally, Ross nodded. “I understand some vendors have applied for licenses for food carts to be placed around the mall and in the parks.” They were making notes now, he saw. “In response to other requests, we've reduced air conditioning and heating energy requirements by adding solar energy refleeting glass on all south-facing windows. And in line with revised building codes relating to earthquakes, we've strengthened building number twenty-eight. As for other buildings—”

He talked on, keeping his feelings to himself, though he knew, with every step he took without arousing criticism, he was getting closer. Almost there, he told himself, elation growing beneath his relaxed voice. Almost there.

“What happened to the day care center?” asked a young man, looking up from furious note-taking. “In the recreation area—near the gymnasium—wasn't that where we planned it?”

“Shit shit shit,” moaned a dark man across the table. “We've been
over
this. The government grant was cut! When we find the money, we'll put the day care center back.”

“Who's trying to get another grant?” demanded the young man.

“I am,” came a voice from the sidelines where the investors were sitting. “Someone in my office. We're working on it. You want to see what we're doing, come anytime.”

“I'll do that,” said the young man and made another note on his lined pad.

“Well, I like the whole thing.” The chief assistant to the mayor stood and hitched up his pants. “Good concept, good feeling for people. Natural neighborhoods. Our office has approved it; I don't know why the hell we keep going around the mulberry bush; we all know what we're doing. Anybody got a comment on that?”

No one spoke. He asked about schedules and dates; the developers joined the discussion; Brock Calvez said, “We'll be out there within ninety days of sign-off of all the approvals.” Ross let his elation soar. Done, he thought. Galvez was beaming.
“No more than ninety days; we've waited long enough. We'll outdo Baltimore and Philadelphia and New York . . we'll put this place on the map. Best goddamn set of plans I've ever seen.”

They stood about, talking, as if reluctant to go their different ways. Ross stood with them, his tall figure relaxed as he joined their casual conversation, but inwardly, he was bursting with exultation. For the first time the kind of vast project he dreamed of would be built, remaking the landscape. And no one had put it better than the mayor's assistant who was just now shaking his hand and leaving the room.
Natural neighborhoods. A feeling for people.
For the first time, Ross thought. Not a dream on paper. A reality.

He debated going back to work for an hour or two, but he needed to talk. Too much excitement, he thought, steaming inside me; it isn't enough to have something wonderful happen—we have to share it to make it real.

He'd stop off at Mettler's, he decided; buy Melanie a present; take her to dinner. They'd celebrate and make promises and pretend they were at the beginning again, when they'd been able to talk and laugh and love.

On Post Street he parked in a No Parking zone and dashed into Mettler's rarefied, vaulted room. It occurred to him that he was only a few blocks from Heath's; he ought to go over and see Katherine. He hadn't called her for a long time; the weeks had slipped by while he pushed BayBridge through its obstacle course. He knew she was all right because everyone else had seen her and reported to Victoria who called Ross twice a week to give him all the news; Derek, of course, reported to no one, but evidently he'd taken Katherine to the Peruvian show. Ross felt a twist of irritation; why would she spend an evening with Derek?

It's her business, he told himself. Browsing along dignified glass and mahogany cases, Ross had other things on his mind. He wanted to get home to Melanie. The enormous success of his afternoon welled up, like a promise that everything would be all right. He saw a salesman watching him, gauging the proper time to approach. A pin, he thought; she likes them. And then dinner. Ernie's. The Blue Fox. L'Etoile. Whatever she wants. We'll talk about us, work out our differences, stop circling each other like suspicious strangers.