Possessions (32 page)

Awed by the immensity of those facts, which they could not understand, they pushed them out of sight. “Vancouver is gone,” said Todd one day. “A fleet of a hundred dolphins came along and swallowed it up. Once in a while, when they burp, a piece of our old house might come up, but Vancouver is
gone.”

“You know it's still there, Todd,” Katherine said gently.

“Not for us,” he insisted, and she let it go. In a way he was right; Vancouver didn't exist for them. There would be time enough to resuscitate it if they ever were to go back. Right now, it was more important to Katherine that the three of them were busy and looking ahead, instead of back.

Every day she carried books to read on the bus and on her lunch hour: art books and books on design, architecture, folk art, and archaeology. At night and on the weekends, she was at her worktable until twelve or one o'clock, and by the third week of January, she had finished her sketches and models. The day she made her first cut in the gold strip Derek had given her, Leslie came to watch.

“An important moment; I don't want to miss it. If you don't mind an audience.” Bent over her work, Katherine shook her head. Leslie looked about, a puzzled expression on her face. “Something's changed.”

“I did some rearranging,” Katherine said, concentrating on the lines she was scoring in the gold. “I needed more room.”

“I should say,” murmured Leslie. Shelves now filled the wall above the worktable, stacked with boxes holding Katherine's new tools. Other tools hung from hooks or were spread
on her worktable and a new folding card table nearby. Empty Heath's shoeboxes on the floor beneath the worktable held wires, string, solder, and other supplies. Craig's picture was gone.

“It's in the children's room,” Katherine said as Leslie eyed the spot on the worktable where it had stood since August. She bent to her work again, scoring lines in the soft gold where she would make cuts.

Leslie watched in silence. When Katherine picked up one of her new saws and fastened a blade in it, she said, “It
is
a substitute for Derek, isn't it? And maybe for Craig? The way you handle that gold—”

Katherine laughed. “No, it's not a substitute. But if you don't have love, you ought to have work you love to do.”

“I read that somewhere,” said Leslie. “That the two things we can't do without are love and work. I wish to hell I wasn't battling all the time at Heath's. Since love does not cast a rosy glow over me and Marc, or me and anybody, I could use a fun job. That's all I ask; at least for a while, it would be plenty.”

“I wish you had one,” Katherine said, and then concentrated on making the cuts in her piece of gold. But later, after Leslie was gone, the words still echoed in the room. Love and work. She gazed at her collection of shining tools, her sketch pads and the materials she had gathered, waiting to take shape under her fingers. Craig was in the background; Derek was gone. I have my work, she thought. And at least for a while—she smiled to herself—it's plenty.

*  *  *

Heath's profits were down for the six months ending in mid-January. Even the post-Christmas shopping spurt had not changed the percentages; profits were below what they should be. Someone had to be at fault, and at the Tuesday morning executive meeting, fingers were pointed at Leslie McAlister, vice-president for Personnel and Payroll.

“The computer and I have become one,” she said wearily to Marc on Friday night, collapsing beside him in a booth in a lounge high above Union Square. “I pushed that crew to buy it; now I do nothing but defend it.”

“Why bother?” he asked.

Looking through the window, she said wryly, “You could
have chosen a place where the view wouldn't have included Heath's.”

“Look beyond it.”

“You mean literally.”

He shrugged. “You could get a job anywhere. If they attack you for your pet project, why waste your time on them?”

“Because we took inventory yesterday and got some crazy numbers, and one explanation might be that my pet project fouled up.”

He looked at her with the shrewdness that sat so strangely on his plump face. “Pet project or pet programer?”

“Both.” She sighed. “Bruce scares me sometimes; he's so damned laid back I'm not sure what he'd think is a joke. Like feeding false information into the computer.”

“What false information?”

“That theft is only one and a half percent—” She stopped abruptly. “I don't see a drink before me. Has everyone gone on strike?”

“I'm sorry. Your usual?” She nodded and he ordered for both of them. “My dear Leslie, you can talk to me.”

“It's confidential. You know that.”

“Then let me guess. The computer says theft is one and a half percent. Considerably below industry average. Most stores would cheer at such news. Why, then, is Leslie McAlister worried? Because she thinks someone is giving the computer false information so that it pumps out a false figure. And if someone is going to all that trouble, the correct figure must be higher.” Taking out a pencil, he began figuring on his paper napkin. “Retail stores . . .” he murmured. “Average theft . . . Heath's annual volume approximately one hundred million dollars . . . an additional loss of . . .” He eyed Leslie. “I'd guess that what worries Leslie McAlister is that someone is robbing Heath's of approximately a million dollars in merchandise and fixing her pet project so the numbers balance and it doesn't show up. How close am I?”

She put out her hands and let them fall. “On the button.”

He nodded with satisfaction. “And you propose to investigate a million-dollar loss and keep it confidential?”

“I don't propose; I hope, and I try. Marc, it's my job; anything that happens from now on is going to be dumped on my doorstep. One of my fellow executives even reminded me
today that I got my brother a job as a programer. Any way you look at it, or any way
they
look at it, I'm responsible.”

“Not for computers, for God's sake. No one even understands them, much less willingly takes responsibility for them. Blame the devil. The tides. Sunspots. The Lord. Who probably doesn't understand them either, but at least is big enough to shoulder the blame for them.”

She laughed. “Thank you, Marc. You do put things in perspective. And yes, though you haven't asked, I would like another vodka martini. Well.”

“Well?” He gave the order to the waiter as Leslie bent to look more closely through the window. “What attracts your attention so far below?”

“A sports car that looks familiar. And a woman getting into it. I think I know that coat.”

“What woman?”

“It's not important.” She turned back to him and thoughtfully ran her finger around the edge of the glass the waiter put before her. “Just that I didn't know they were seeing each other again. They had a—misunderstanding on New Year's Eve and I thought she'd have told me if they'd cleared it up. Maybe I'm just feeling left out; things happening without my knowing it.” As she took a drink, she saw his quick frown. “I gather I'm talking about myself too much. Sorry. Your turn.”

“No. I have no intention of spending the evening with a nervous woman. I want you at your best or not at all. So tell me—you aren't really frightened of those idiots at Heath's.”

“You're damn right I am; I'm scared stiff. Marc, can't you understand that those idiots, as you call them, control my future?”

“You should never allow anyone to control your future. Go elsewhere.”

“I don't want to go elsewhere. I want to stay at Heath's. It's been my whole life for ten years; I've built a small power base there and I won't throw it away or let anyone take it from me.” She looked at her hands. “As for allowing others to control my future—you're right: I don't like it. But it goes with the way I make my living and I can deal with it. It might be different if we were talking about my private life.”

“My dear Leslie, are you asking me to marry you?”

“God forbid.” She laughed. “I don't want to marry you,
Marc, any more than you want to marry me. But I've been thinking—” She sipped her drink and said carefully, “My life doesn't seem to have much . . . shape. Or meaning. Other than making Heath's bigger and better, of course. I need something more.”

“A hobby? Leslie, if you're thinking of making jewelry—”

“No; good Lord, no. I'm thinking of making a baby.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don't look so shocked. Women often think about having babies. It's easy when they're married; harder when they're not. I've been thinking about this a long time, trying to figure out what I need, and I've decided what I need is to be responsible for someone else. The way I live—most of the time I'm thinking about me. It's a little . . . narrow. Maybe it's being with Katherine and her kids; whatever it is, I want more than what I have now.”

He nodded. “I see that. And why are you telling me?”

“Because I'm not so young. I have to decide pretty soon and there aren't many men I like well enough to ask. Marc, if I decide to have a child, would you be the father?”

He looked at her, momentarily paralyzed. “I thought I was beyond surprises.” She waited. “With what strings attached?” he asked.

“Not one. My child, my little family, my income, my cherishing. I'm talking about a seed, not a contract.”

“You understand, it would change everything. I would not adjust my schedule to fit an infant's. It would be impossible to continue what we have now.”

“Of course.”

“Well, then,” he said amiably. “If you're serious about attaching no strings, and if you put that in writing, I would consider it.”

“Fair enough.” She put her hand on his. “Let's talk about something else. Make me laugh and forget profits and computers and my advanced age. Tell me about the jewelry business.”

“It prospers. No matter how bad the economy, there are always people who make money, and spend it, especially on jewelry. Mettler tells me he can't keep enough twenty-thousand-dollar
watches in stock. He sold two necklaces at a quarter million each within a week of showing them. There are those who worry about groceries and those who worry about satisfying the greed of wives, mistresses, and lovers. Fortunately, I deal with the second group.”

“The rich are always with us.”

“Thank God. You need them as much as I. How else would Heath's survive?”

“It wouldn't. Marc, what is the matter with the waiters tonight?”

“The waiters are the same as ever, but you are impatient. And since when do you have more than two drinks before dinner?”

“Only when I need them. I've worked every night this week and after the inventory yesterday I stayed until three in the morning, getting preliminary reports—”

“My God, why didn't you tell me? You shouldn't be in a restaurant at all. Come. We're going home.”

“Whose home?”

“Mine. I will provide a massage and a sauna, champagne to clear the head, and then dinner. And bed. If you feel like it.”

She looked at him curiously. “You know, Marc, for a selfish bastard, you can be exceedingly thoughtful.”

“My foolish, beautiful Leslie,” he said, standing up. “Why else are you here? How many men understand that even bright, aggressive women are worth a little thoughtfulness? You yourself said there aren't many like me. I agree.” And he held her coat so they could leave.

*  *  *

Derek drove with his customary speed, slowing only when he turned into a short curved street. As he stopped the car before a stucco house in a manicured yard, Katherine heard the pounding of ocean surf. “Sea Cliff,” he said, opening her door. “The four of us grew up a block from here.”

Inside the house, enormous rooms looked out on a steel-gray ocean below a fading sunset. Among the guests Katherine recognized familiar faces, but as soon as they greeted their hostess, Derek steered her through the house to a table in a deep bay window. “We need some privacy. I have to show
myself at one of these Mardi Gras dinners every year, but that doesn't mean we can't find some quiet. And it won't be easy to talk later, at the race track.”

“Talk about what?”

“Why you're here with me,” he said. “After deciding not to see me again.” A waitress brought an open bottle of Fumé Blanc and two glasses. Derek poured, and sat back, watching Katherine smooth the surprise from her face. Learning fast, he thought. Another few months and she could hold her own with any of them: as beautiful and carefully dressed, her emotions as controlled, her wit as sharp. And something even more interesting: a seeming vulnerability that made others want to help her. Clever woman. Assuming she planned to give that impression.

“And why
am
I here,” Katherine asked. “If I'd decided not to see you again?”

“Because you're infatuated; because you've been starved for a long time and you know I can satisfy you; because I bring you excitement and introductions to people who are important to your profession.”

She contemplated him over her wine glass: a different man from the one she had hungered for on New Year's Eve—harder, the flashes of cruelty closer to the surface, but his charm undiminished, his magnetism so powerful that she realized with dismay she still was attracted to him. “Is that all?” she asked.

He smiled. “As for why I am here, though you have not asked, it comes from wanting you. And because I expected you to call after our New Year celebration and it interested me that you did not.”

“You left out something,” Katherine said. “You want to hurt Craig by sleeping with his wife.”

The waitress paused in passing their table, hoping to hear more. But Derek waited, patient and amused, until reluctantly she moved on. “A curious idea,” he said. “I wouldn't have expected it from you. Did you get it from someone else?”