Possessions (26 page)

Ross walked to the bar and poured a straight Scotch. “You're right. I apologize.”

“You what?”

“I apologize. It was a cruel thing to do and I'm sorry.”

“Then you'll call them back!”

“No.” He downed his drink and poured another and walked toward Melanie. “I didn't apologize for canceling the Fairmont; I apologized for the way I did it. You've already given two parties this year at fifteen thousand dollars apiece. You've spent almost forty thousand dollars in the past six months on clothes and entertaining and trips. We can't afford your Fairmont party. Does it occur to you that I work for a living, that I do not enjoy an infinitely expanding income
—Come back here; I'm talking to you!”

Ignoring Ross, Melanie went to the bar and filled her glass from the martini pitcher. Watching her, Ross realized suddenly she'd never worn that pin he'd brought from Mettler's. But they hadn't talked that night, either, as he'd hoped they would; Melanie had accepted the gift with a brief kiss and then talked nonstop all through dinner, amusingly, as she could when she tried; mainly about the children.

She was not trying to amuse him now; her face was stony as she dropped ice cubes into her drink, listening to him. “We're going to change a few things,” he told her. “From now on you'll have two thousand dollars a month for household expenses. That includes your lipsticks and lace stockings and Godiva caramels. When you want to buy out Wilma's designer clothes or give parties, you'll have to come to me so we can share those decisions. Is that clear? I'm sick of writing checks for a greedy child who gives me nothing as a woman: no companionship, no sex, not even friendship—”

“You mean you'll write the checks if I earn them, is that it? You'll buy my services. What do I get for one screw? A pair of shoes? Does a blow job get me a matching purse? What do I have to do to give a party at the—”

“Be quiet!” he roared. “You don't have the faintest idea what I'm talking about. Do you know—I thought of going to Victoria this evening, to talk about my day, but I decided instead I'd come home to my wife and share with her the things that are hugely important to me. I thought I'd give it one more—”

“Then you're a fool.”

“Oh, yes; that's quite true. But now that we both know that, I think it's time I stopped being one. Are you clear on how we're going to handle our finances from now on?”

“I will not come to you for permission to spend money.”

“You will come to me for every major expenditure over your monthly budget.”

With a scream, Melanie flung her glass at him. Ross jerked to the side and watched the glass shatter against an oil painting he had bought in New York the year they were married.

“When you calm down,” he said, his voice like steel, “we will talk about money and anything else that needs settling.”

“I don't want to talk to you!” she screamed. “You bastard, you're only doing this because Derek was helping me plan that party—”

“Derek?”

“You knew that!”

“No. I didn't. But Derek had nothing to do with—”

“You're lying. Why else would you cancel my party? You never did anything like that before!” Her voice rose higher. “You're always worse when your brother's involved; you're jealous of him because Curt always liked him better—poor little Ross, his daddy loved his brother best—you even ran away to New York to get away from him. And now you're making my life miserable because he's my friend. Everybody thinks you're so nice. My God, if they only knew!”

Very carefully, Ross put down his glass. “Melanie, listen to me. This has nothing to do with Derek. This is between us. I don't want to make your life miserable—I don't want to destroy anything—I want to find the way back to what we had a long time ago. There were so many wonderful things, especially in New York—”

“Well there aren't any more! There haven't been for a long time!” She was breathless. “I've been a perfect wife, I've done everything you wanted—I even moved here from New York when I didn't want to—I left all my friends and my mother and daddy—and you treat me like a child—you're cold and . . . heartless!” Her arms outstretched, she stepped like a tightrope walker around the broken glass. “I'll tell you what you can do. Draw me one of your fancy blueprints about how you're going to make it up to me for humiliating me in front of everyone. I'll look it over when I get back. See if I like it or not.” In a few steps she was at the front door, yanking it open and slamming it shut behind her.

Ross stood in the silence of the living room, then slowly
walked to the broken glass and bent to pick up the pieces. As he did so, a sound made him glance up. At the top of the stairs, in frozen stillness, sat his children, listening.

*  *  *

Thursday, December 10, was circled on Katherine's calendar. Eight
A.M.
: Mettler's. As the day approached, Jennifer and Todd grew as tense as their mother. “He'll think they're wonderful,” Jennifer said, watching Katherine polish a pendant of blued steel, the closest she could come, on her budget, to silver.

Todd jumped on the couch and intoned in a deep voice, “My dear Mrs. Fraser, these are so good they will be whizzed to England and given to the queen, and when she sees them she'll jump on the Concorde and fly to San Francisco and parachute to our doorstep—if she can find it in the lousy fog—and say here's a million dollars, please give me enough jewelry for my family and friends and every single person in the, what's it called, House of Something—”

“Parliament,” said Jennifer.

“No, House of Ordinary, something like that—”

Katherine burst out laughing. “Commons. Todd, you're wonderful, and I hope it all comes true.”

“Am I wonderful, Mom?”

“Yes.” She was concentrating on a curve in the steel.

“Then how come I never get any attention around here?”

“Oh, Lord.” She put down the pendant. Swiveling on her stool, she held out her arms and Todd jumped down and came to her. “I'm sorry, sweetheart. There's so much to do before tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, I know.” He looked at her closely. “Mom—if this guy likes them, and buys a whole bunch, and you make a bunch of money . . .”

“Yes?”

“You won't need Daddy anymore, will you?”

Holding Todd, Katherine's arms tensed. She looked to Jennifer, standing watchfully nearby, and Jennifer came to her rescue.

“That's really stupid, Todd. Do we only want Daddy back because he earns money or because we love him?”

“Because we love him, but—” Todd frowned, trying to recapture his train of thought. But Jennifer had confused him
and, a little later, when they went to bed, he still had not puzzled it out.

But Katherine knew he would, and would bring it up again. Because he and Jennifer were beginning to recognize that there were many kinds of need. We'll talk about it, she thought—one of these days. When I know what to say. When I know what I feel about Craig.

He watched her. His picture stared at her over the jewelry samples and sketches she would take to Herman Mettler in the morning. Her chin in her hand, Katherine looked steadily back at him, recalling the small warm details of their life together. But when she tried to recapture her contentment, all the way back to the day Craig took her to their first apartment in Vancouver and made love to her on the floor while they waited for the furniture to be delivered, she could not do it. It was gone. And she had no time to try to retrieve it. In spite of herself, her eyes slid from Craig's picture to her jewelry and sketches, and her thoughts moved ahead, to her appointment and what more she could do that night to make it a success.

*  *  *

“Ah, yes,” rumbled Herman Mettler, arranging Katherine's four pieces like the points of a compass. They seemed small and insignificant beneath his splayed fingers on the polished emptiness of his desk. “Marc told me you were working in Tony's studio. A strong personality, Tony. Strong influence.”

“Those are my own designs.” Katherine handed him her sketches, bound in a folder. “So are these.”

“No doubt, no doubt. But influence is like an aroma from a distant restaurant; you find yourself cooking onion soup for dinner without realizing that during the day you were inspired by inhaling its scent. However. Let's see what you have. Tony, after all, is better than onion soup.”

Chuckling at his wit, he fanned the sketches like playing cards beside the finished pieces and gave them serious attention. Katherine sat rigidly, hands gripped in her lap. No one had seen her work but Jennifer and Todd. In Vancouver she had been fooled by her friends' uncritical praise into thinking she was better than she was. She would not let that happen again. So she kept her designs hidden, even from Leslie. Now, finding no clues in Mettler's impassive face, she looked around his balcony office. On the paneled walls, framed photographs of
film and television stars were autographed, with gratitude, to Herman Mettler. “Friends,” Mettler said. Startled, Katherine turned to find him watching her. “Women remember, when we help make them beautiful. Your work has promise; we'll start with a dozen.”

Katherine's eyes widened. “A dozen pieces?”

“Bracelets, pins, necklaces. No earrings; I have enough to pierce every earlobe west of the Rockies.” Chuckling, he fastened his gaze on Katherine until she realized he was waiting for her to join him in admiring his joke. She smiled. “Now.” He settled back. “What I like I buy outright; no consignments. I'll buy the blued steel pendants today; the other two pieces don't interest me. How much are you asking?”

Katherine hesitated. “I haven't priced them.”

“I assumed you hadn't. There's a skill to it; ask around.” He pondered. “I'll charge seventy for the seagull; ninety for the snail—nice use of the cornelian, by the way; a center focus as well as an eye. One of the reasons I said you showed promise. My secretary will send you a check for sixty-four dollars—”

“Sixty-four?”

“Forty percent of the price I'll charge. Ordinarily, of course, my price would be a markup of what you charge me. Since you are uncertain what to charge, I've worked backwards. Any objection to that?”

“No. I just wondered.”

“Well, then. I want ten more by the end of February, for our spring showing. We advertise heavily so your name will get around if you deserve it. Use color; some designers can handle black but nothing here tells me whether you can or not, so don't try. This sketch and this one are good; I'd try to ease the rose, however.”

“Ease—?”

“Enlarge the opening in each petal. In other words, deflower it.” This time he bellowed with laughter, and Katherine, knowing what was expected, smiled with him. Then he returned to business. “We do well with gold, silver, fine gems, cloisonné. Don't use enamel unless you have forms other than this.”

Stung, Katherine said, “Tony liked that bird.”

“Tony would. I don't like sculptured enamel. Private preferences, Mrs. Fraser. If you want me to make you famous, you'll indulge me. Or you can rely on Tony, who can't do a
thing for you. Now pay attention.” He swept together Katherine's sketches and samples and pushed them toward her. “You have promise. You have a certain amount of talent; how much I can't say yet and I doubt that you can either, until you've tackled a wider range of materials and styles. Continue to work with Tony if you want, but you would be better off away from his aroma.”

“He lets me use his tools and equipment; I can't afford my own yet.”

“Use him, then, but don't let his onion soup get into your designs. I'm not buying Tony; I'm buying you. You've shown some facility with blued steel and copper; stay with them if you like. Pity you can't afford gold, but if you do well with this order, we may be able to advance you something in February. When a jeweler does that, it's an act of gemerosity.”

Shaking with laughter, he stood and held out his hand. Katherine took it and then found herself laughing with him. It was easier this time. She'd just made her first sale.

*  *  *

To celebrate, Leslie brought a bottle of wine to go with Katherine's meatballs. “A celebration,” she reminded Todd as they finished dessert. “So what's your problem?”

“Mom,” said Todd glumly. “She's eight million miles away, thinking about jewelry.”

Leslie regarded Katherine. “True. Good or bad thoughts?”

“Mostly worrying,” Katherine said ruefully.

“Not surprising.” Leslie watched Todd and Jennifer carry the dishes into the kitchen. “Mettler's forced you to the wall. Come out of your safe little corner, lady, and your happy dreams of success. Do your thing, deliver your goods and see if the fickle public buys or turns thumbs down. Scary.”

Katherine gave a small laugh. “You're amazing. How do you know that's how I feel?”

“Because that's how I feel every day. Slightly different, but whenever I make a suggestion or decision it can be knocked down in three seconds by Heath's president or the executive committee. Enough three-second knockdowns and I'm out—slinking off to find another job. The big difference is that I'm anonymous, but you have to go public—how else can you make a name for yourself? Good reason to be scared. The dream of making it big . . .” Her attention veered off.

“What about you?” Katherine asked. “What are your worries?”

“Me? I? What makes you think I'm worried?”

“Is it Marc? Or something at the store? I tell you my problems; it's not fair to keep yours a secret.”

“Well.” Leslie spread her hands. “What a coincidence that you should ask.” She pushed a crumb of cheesecake around her plate. “Remember the Ralph Lauren sweaters I told you about at my birthday party?”