Possessions (51 page)

*  *  *

Night falls quickly in the mountains, the sky flaming to crimson, orange, and amber, fading to violet, smoky-gray, and then black, blotting out everything but the ghostly outlines of snow-covered peaks. Driving through the valley, Ross and Katherine watched the sunset fling its brilliance across the sky and then retreat, leaving them in a darkness broken only by the brightness of their headlights.

At the small crossroads town of Sospel, they stopped for a late dinner and lingered over coffee on the terrace of a hotel overlooking a cobblestone square. Hands clasped, chairs touching, they watched the play of light and water from a fountain covered in a mosaic of brightly colored pebbles. Relaxed, sated, filled with a soft, glowing happiness, Katherine rested her head against the back of her chair and gazed at the black sky, so close above them, crowded with brilliant clusters of stars, and the pale frozen lace of the Milky Way. We're always outdoors, she thought idly, remembering how everything with Derek had been inside: restaurants, hotel ballrooms, night clubs, private homes. But she and Ross were almost always outside—everything open, fresh, limitless. She started to tell him, but stopped. They'd never talked about Derek. Long ago, Victoria had said Ross was concerned about her, because of Derek. We'll have to talk about him, she thought. And they'd never talked about the reasons she'd been unsure whether Ross liked her or not. And they'd never talked about—

“We have to talk,” Ross said when they were in the car again, descending on the corniche to Menton. “So many things we've been avoiding. At least, I have.”

Katherine laughed softly. “I was just thinking of all the
things I want to talk to you about. But not tonight. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow I'll be in Paris.”

“Oh.” She had forgotten. “But you'll be back.”

“In three or four days.” The road made a few final twists, then straightened, and the car raced forward. “I'd rather not go at all,” he said, his hands relaxed on the wheel as they sped faster, passing other cars. “It's the wrong time. If I'd known, when Jacques and I made our plans—” He paused. “Why don't you come with me? You'd have the days to yourself and I'll cancel my dinner meetings—why not?” he asked as she shook her head.

“Because we have things to think about. And it might be a good idea for us to be apart for a little while.”

“Before we talk?”

“I don't know. Yes. Before we talk.”

They fell silent, preoccupied with their own thoughts. Suddenly Katherine began to laugh. “What?” Ross asked.

“Victoria. Remember? She gave me strict instructions to tell her every detail of our day.” Simultaneously they pictured their bodies twined together on the grass. “And you said it would be a bad precedent—”

“And I didn't want you taking notes,” he finished, his laughter joining hers.

At the villa, they parted at her door. “I'll be gone before you're up,” he said, and the next morning, when she woke, she found a spray of carnations and roses on her drafting table, with a note written across her sketch pad.

Thank you for the most wonderful of days. I'm taking you with me, because from now on you'll always be inside me. One more thing for us to talk about when I get back. Soon. Ross.

“Well,” said Victoria, searching her face when she came in to breakfast. “You found the scenery satisfactory.”

“Magnificent.”
I'm taking you with me.
But he was still here—as if he had become part of her—and Katherine was uncomfortable. Too much, too fast, she thought, and remembered feeling, just a few days earlier, that events might be out of control. She wondered what Victoria had seen in her face, and knew she was not ready to talk about Ross. Pouring juice
and coffee at the sideboard, she asked, “Where are the children?”

“I believe in the playroom. Two of them grumbling, two being sympathetic.” Katherine looked puzzled. “When Ross said goodbye early this morning, he told Carrie and Jon to call their mother. They were supposed to do it once a week and they missed last week. They say they have nothing to tell her—though they're always busy every minute of the day—and for some reason Jennifer and Todd understand this perfectly. So they sympathize while the other two grumble. Does this make sense to you? When my children were young they would have had no difficulty calling me; they told me everything.”

Katherine smiled. “Did they really?”

“Well, probably not. Probably I was better off that they didn't. And I suppose children would never become independent if they didn't have secrets. But from you, my dear, I want to hear about everything that gave you that radiant look. Come, sit down, sit down, I want to hear it all, from the beginning. Where did you leave the car—La Bollene or St. Martin? And where did you hike? Sit down, my dear, drink your coffee, eat something, and tell me all about it.”

“I will. But if you don't mind, I'd like to check on the grumbling, first. I'll be right back.”

Walking down the wide corridor to the children's wing, she shivered, as if a chill breeze had found its way through a crack in the wall. Melanie, San Francisco, the outside world. Craig. For three weeks they had barely existed, invisible in the glare of the Mediterranean sun, the unfamiliar landscape, the force of Ross's presence.

Now the chill breeze brushed her and she almost turned back. But then she heard Carrie's voice and caught a quick glimpse, in the playroom, of Jennifer and Todd on the couch, watching gravely as Carrie spoke on the telephone with Jon beside her. Katherine stepped back, not wanting to make them self-conscious. She wavered between going and staying, then stayed. She would just listen for a minute; just to make sure everything was all right.

“Nothing much,” Carrie was saying. “We go swimming and there's Scrabble and stuff in the playroom and that's all.” She listened, tapping her foot. “Well I suppose we're bored. I don't know.” She listened again. “No, she's nice. She lets us do lots
of things and she jokes with us and she's funny . . . she drives the gardener crazy by picking vegetables he thinks aren't ripe, or flowers that aren't—what? Oh. Well, I can't help it if you don't care about the gardener. Here. Jon wants to say hello.”

Scowling, she thrust the phone at Jon. “Hi, Mom, we're fine. What? I don't know. I don't think I'm bored. We do things all the time with Jennifer and Todd and—Carrie, cut it out! What are you doing?”

“Hitting your head, stupid! Oh, never mind.”

“Wasn't I supposed to tell Mom they're here?”

“I don't know. I just thought maybe we wouldn't.”

Jon frowned at the telephone, then said into it, “Sorry, Mom, Carrie was beating on me. What? Jennifer and Todd Fraser, you know them.” He looked at Carrie and rolled his eyes. “We didn't
know
they'd be here, so how could we tell you? Sure she's here; they all came together. We don't see her a lot though 'cause she works every morning and then in the afternoon she and Dad go places. How do
I
know where? They don't tell us. I guess every day; we do our own stuff; we don't watch them. I don't
know
what time they get back. Usually for dinner. Mom, I gotta go. There's another diving contest and we have to practice. No, I can't get Dad to the phone; he's in Paris. He left this morning. I don't know. Carrie, when will Dad be back?”

“Three or four days.”

“Three or four days. I don't know; Carrie, what's Dad's hotel?”

“L'Hotel on the Rue des Beaux Arts. The same one he was in before. You know all that.”

“Yeh, but—Mom? L'Hotel. The same one he was in before. OK? Gotta go; talk to you soon. 'Bye.”

*  *  *

Melanie hung up the telephone and stared, unseeing, at the lights of San Francisco.

Across the room, Derek took ice cubes from the refrigerator behind the bar. “I didn't get all of that, but I gather Victoria has imported someone to entertain Ross.”

“Katherine Fraser,” she said, still looking out the window.

He stood still. “Ross and Katherine? How clever of Victoria.”

Melanie turned. His face was smooth, but his eyes were dark with fury, and she felt a stab of jealousy. “Does that bother you? Katherine and your brother? I must say, it didn't take long; we only split in May.” She watched his expressionless face. “Jon says they're having quite a time, every afternoon and night . . . sending the kids off to play tennis or whatever so they can be alone. He leaves me stuck with this house while he plays on the Riviera . . . and he certainly isn't spending time with his children, which was the reason,
he said,
he wanted them in France for the month. I should demand them back; they both say they're bored; they don't have a mother
or
a father.”

Derek was looking off in the distance, the muscle beside his eye jumping erratically. He put back the ice cube tray. “It's after eleven. If you want to get to this party we'd better go. When is your tennis champion due back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“And what are you going to do with him?”

“Marry him, I suppose.”

“Why?”

“Because I love him.”

“Bullshit.”

Standing at the vestibule mirror, Melanie smoothed her hair with nervous fingers. “Because he's young and makes me feel young.”

“That's not all. What else?”

“Damn you, Derek.” She took a silk shawl from the closet. “I'm afraid of being alone.”

He nodded. “I wish you well.”

“No you don't. You don't really care anything about me. You used to make love to me—you
pursued
me—and lately you won't. Even though I ask you. I
never
ask!
Anybody!
But I ask you, and you turn me down!”

“Katherine said I wanted you because you were Ross's wife.”

“
Katherine
said! What does that bitch know about any of us?”

“Considerably more than you do.” He opened the door, his thoughts cold and bitter. Derek understood himself well enough to know when someone saw through him. Ordinarily he was indifferent to what others said, but on the rare occasions when
someone got past his barriers and reached the Derek Hayward he took care to hide from the world, he reacted with fury. It had been bad enough when Katherine did it in April; now, knowing she was with Ross, imagining them talking about him, he felt his insides twist with rage and knew he had to be careful until he calmed down. Abruptly, he said, “Are you ready?”

Melanie swung upon him. “Are you in love with her?”

“No.”

She persisted. “Were you, when you were going out with her?”

“No. And what difference does it make?”

“I don't know,” she said. They walked to his car. “I'd just feel better if you weren't.”

He made no answer and after a moment, unable to endure silence, Melanie began to talk of something else. She talked all the way across the Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco and to the top of Nob Hill where Derek parked on the steep street in front of Herman Mettler's town-house.

It was a very large party, the kind Mettler gave every summer when business was slow. Assuming everyone else was bored, too, he provided various entertainments: a choice selection of pornographic films in the basement projection room; an orchestra playing dance tunes in the living room that took up most of the first floor; and Polynesian hors d'oeuvres served by circulating waitresses in grass skirts. Upstairs, a glass case held a sampling from Mettler's fall line of jewelry.

“Of course she doesn't do your kind of thing,” Mettler said to Marc Landau as their gaze fastened on a gold necklace labeled “Katherine Fraser.” “But she's got quite a talent, no doubt about it. Might even rival you someday, Marc. Make her own mark.” He chuckled. “Especially if her work keeps changing as incredibly as it has so far.”

“No one rivals Marc Landau,” Leslie said slyly. “He's told me so himself. But that necklace is spectacular, isn't it?” She turned as someone called her name. “Excuse me; I'm going to mingle.”

Landau studied the necklace. “Her work changed?”

“Like day and night. Her first batch was nice, well-made, the kind you see at Williams and Baylor, or Corfert's. The second . . . well, you see it. Inventive, bold, unique . . .
fascinating use of materials. The first time she kept to safe channels; the next she broke free. Astonishing. And you know, I nearly ruined it. I was so surprised I made the almost fatal mistake of asking her whether they were really hers. Ah, Derek.” He interrupted himself. “Good to see you.”

They shook hands. “Have you been accusing someone of stealing designs?” Derek asked.

“God forbid! I only asked. Your friend Katherine Fraser; she didn't tell you? She seemed angry enough to tell the world, just because I made an innocent comment when she brought in
totally
different work and refused to consider an exclusive contract. What a high horse she got on! It made
me
hoarse—apologizing. I'd let on how impressed I was, so she knew she could go elsewhere, and she almost walked out on me. Hard to believe she didn't regale you with the whole story, Derek.”

“She didn't because she didn't see me,” Derek said, thoughtfully contemplating Katherine's necklace. “The last time we saw each other was sometime in April.”

“Lovers' quarrels,” said Mettler whimsically. But his curiosity was like a persistent itch. “I'm sure you'll patch it up . . . or has it gone too far?”

Seemingly absorbed in the necklace, Derek said softly, “Herman, I never talk about young women's problems.”

After a pause, Mettler asked, “Problems?”

Landau frowned. “Leslie said she was settled and doing well.”