The Carlton Club (37 page)

“Kathleen’s in Hawaii plotting the wedding. She and her friend Betsey did this last year when they planned Betsey’s wedding. I’m on my own for a week. So, what about drinks at the Cliff House?”

“You’re on.”

Their arrival was perfectly timed. The pre-dinner cocktail crowd was just leaving; the after dinner crowd hadn’t arrived. They were seated at a window table. The pale yellow moon cast a long shimmering beam across the Pacific Ocean. The waves glowed in the darkness as they crested before crashing onto the rocks and beach below.

“Did you get the invitation to our engagement party?”

“The
engraved
invitation? Yes. Thank you. I’m planning to be there,” Leslie said. She had decided she should go. It would be interesting if nothing else. It was in three weeks. She already knew that she wouldn’t be on call.

“You can bring a date of course.”

“I would if I had one to bring,” she said lightly.

“What about the man you were with at
Peter
Pan?”

“Oh. You noticed.”

“Naturally,” Mark said. Actually, Kathleen had noticed them first, initially simply admiring James and then realizing that he was with Leslie.

Leslie looked at Mark. She hadn’t told anyone about any of it.

“He was married. He is married. It’s a long complicated story, but, basically, that’s the bottom line.”

“Did you think he was going to leave her for you?”

“No, I never thought that. I never even wanted it,” Leslie said truthfully. In the months since James left, she had realized that. Even though she missed him every day and every night she would not have wanted him to leave Lynne because of her. “But it was nice while it lasted.”

“I wonder who the right man for you will be,” Mark said thoughtfully, considering his own question. “You’re such a superwoman. Bright, strong, independent.”

“You make me sound awful!”

“No, Leslie, you’re incredible.”

Leslie shook her head and held up her hand, signaling him to stop.

“I’m serious, Les,” Mark continued, calmly ignoring her protestations. “You’re beautiful and gracious. You know exactly what you want to do, and you’re doing it. You don’t have obvious needs. You’ll have to find a man who’s as capable and secure as you are.”

“I thought you were Mr. Right,” Leslie interjected, fortified by the scotch she drank too quickly as she listened to Mark. It made her feel warm and courageous.

“Me?” he asked, genuinely surprised, obviously flattered.

“Yes. I had such a crush—not an intern on resident crush like you thought—on you.”

“Why didn’t I know that?” He could tell that she meant it. That he had been very important to her.

“Because you weren’t interested. But it’s polite of you to pretend that you might have been.”

“I’m not being polite,” Mark said seriously, frowning slightly. Why hadn’t he known? Because that was his specialty: not knowing the important things that affected himself and the people he cared about. “I really didn’t know.”

“Well, the timing wasn’t perfect anyway. I had a crush on you while you were falling deeply, irrevocably in love with Kathleen,” Leslie said lightly.

“I am deeply, irrevocably in love with her,” Mark admitted gently.

“I know. And she’s deeply and irrevocably in love with you. When’s the wedding?”

“June eleventh. I think those invitations are still at the engraver. I hope you can come. It will be at the Carlton Club. It should be nice.”

“I’m in University Hospital emergency room in June. If I’m lucky, I’ll be off on the eleventh,” she said, not knowing if she really meant it.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the glittering waves and the winter moon.

“I saw Janet a few months ago,” Mark said finally.

“I know. She told me. I think it did her a lot of good to see you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She just seems a lot more relaxed. More comfortable.”

“She needs to find someone.”

“I think she will,” Leslie said. I think she already has, she thought. But there was no point in telling Mark about Ross. Ross, Kathleen’s friend.

Their world was already too small.

“I can’t go to Mark and Kathleen’s engagement party, Ross.”

“You can. It’s on Sunday evening. There’s no show that night. Only the matinee.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“I thought you said you were over him.”

“I am.”

“So?”

“It doesn’t mean that I want to go to his engagement party.”

“Why not?”

Janet sighed. Why was he pushing her? Why couldn’t he just put his arms around her and tell her that he understood?

“Why not?” he repeated.

“Ross, Mark and I did something very sad and painful to each other. We made promises that we couldn’t keep. We turned our hope into anger and bitterness. We’re not angry and bitter any longer, but what happened still makes us sad. I think it makes Mark a little sad, a little wistful to see me. I feel the same way about him. There’s just no point.”

“You think Mark would care if you came to the party?” Ross asked, incredulous. He had seen Kathleen and Mark together. Nothing, no one, could put even the tiniest dent in their obvious joy.

“Yes. I think he would.” Janet looked at him, her expression sorrowful. She didn’t want to argue with him.

He scowled at her. He didn’t want to fight with her. He just wanted to hold her, to walk beside her on the beach, to hear her laugh, to hear her sing and to talk quietly to her.

He wanted to make love with her, but he was waiting for her to let him know when it was time. He was waiting for her to make the next move. He wondered if she would. She was so passionate. And so shy.

He scowled at her, wanting her, angry with her for throwing up this ridiculous obstacle.

He stood up to leave.

“It hurts my feelings, you know, Janet. I care about you, but you won’t go to a party with me because it might make your ex-husband a little sad. Where does that put me in the list of people that you care about?”

“I’m sorry,” Janet whispered to his back as Ross left, slamming the door behind himself.

“Katie?”

“Ross! Hi.”

“Katie, do you think Mark would care if Janet came to the engagement party?”

“With you?” Kathleen asked. Then she added coyly, “Ross, are you going out with Janet?”

“Would Mark care if Janet came with anyone,” he repeated flatly, avoiding Kathleen’s question.

“No, of course he wouldn’t care.”

“Will you ask him?”

“Why?”

“Just to humor me.”

“Sure. Are you coming to the party?”

“I don’t know. I’d like to. Let me know what Mark says beforehand, though. OK?”

“Sure. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

Kathleen didn’t call Ross back until the night before the party.

“Here’s what he said: ‘Of course she can come.’”

“Ah-ha,” Ross said. It didn’t really matter. He had already made up his mind.

“No, wait, that’s not all. He said, ‘Of course she can come, but it might make us both a little sad.’”

“Oh,” Ross murmured. “Does that bother you?”

“No. He’s just being honest. I’d be sad if I tried to make a life with someone like Mark, or Janet, and it didn’t work out. You make a lot of promises when you get married,” Kathleen said.

If Ross came to any of her performances in the five nights following their argument about the engagement party, Janet didn’t know it. She didn’t see him at the Sunday afternoon matinee, either. She didn’t see him, and she didn’t talk to him.

By the time she got to her cottage Sunday evening, it was almost dusk. She changed into jeans, found a flashlight and headed toward the ocean.

Ross arrived an hour later and found the cottage empty. He took the flashlight from his car and began to walk toward the eucalyptus lane that by now had become familiar to him.

At first, Ross thought the noise was wind, or a seagull, except that it was night. Finally, as he drew closer, he recognized the haunting, seductive notes of
Dreaming
, Joanna’s love song.

Ross stopped. He was invading her very private territory. He had asked her to sing for him once, out here, in her lovely, natural theater, and she had refused.

He waited until the song was over. Then, in the silence and darkness of the moonless spring night, he called to her.

“Ross?” she answered, her voice distant. She was much farther away than he had imagined. Or maybe she was just speaking softly.

He saw a light in the distance.

“Hi,” he called, waving his flashlight.

“Hi.” Her voice was barely audible.

“May I join you?”

“I’ll meet you.”

They moved toward each other, guided by the beams of their flashlights and their knowledge of the terrain.

When they reached each other, Ross extended his arms to her, folding them around her as she fell, gratefully, against him.

“You drive me crazy, you know,” he said.

“You didn’t go to the party.”

“I realized,” he said kissing the top of her head, “that the only reason I wanted to go to the party with you was to be with you. And you’re here. So I’m here.”

Janet pulled her arms free from his grasp, put her hands gently on his cold cheeks and guided his lips to hers. They kissed until all they felt was the warmth of their mouths and their bodies and forgot the cold ocean wind.

“Janet, Janet,” he whispered to her.

“What?”

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked gently. “You drive me crazy.”

“Make love to me, Ross,” she said so quietly that he wasn’t certain he had heard her correctly.

But as they lay on the dew-covered grass, as he made love to her in her own private theater, as he felt her body respond, instinctively, to his, he knew it was what he had heard. He knew that she wanted him.

The June dawn filtered through the powder blue curtains in Janet’s bedroom, its pale yellow rays awakening her gently, with warmth and light. Janet got out of bed, careful not to disturb Ross.

As quietly as possible, she started a pot of coffee in the kitchen then tiptoed onto the back porch while the coffee brewed. She curled into a painted cedar chair, closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure. She felt the warmth of the new morning sun on her face and the gentle breath of the soft ocean breeze finding her flesh under her modest cotton nightgown. She heard the quiet whispers of the eucalyptus leaves and the early morning songs of the gulls.

It was a perfect day. It felt like she felt: fresh, clean, full of hope and promise.

Janet sighed. She was so lucky.

“Good morning,” he said, carrying two mugs of hot coffee. He was naked except for a pair of khaki trousers. He smiled as he handed her a mug and sat down opposite her, leaning casually on the porch railing.

“Good morning. Thank you. I didn’t mean to waken you.”

“This is too beautiful a day to waste in bed. By myself, anyway. What shall we do with this glorious day?” Ross asked, gazing out at the emerald green hills toward the sapphire blue ocean and avoiding looking at her as he asked the question.

It was Saturday. June eleventh. They both knew that it had special significance. It was a perfect day for a wedding.

Janet didn’t answer.

“How about a picnic at the beach with long walks on either side?” Ross asked.

“How about an early picnic lunch so that you’ll have time to make it to Atherton for the wedding?” Janet asked lightly.

“I’m not going to the wedding,” Ross said. He had told her that six weeks ago. They hadn’t talked about it since.

“Kathleen is one of your closest friends.”

Ross turned and looked at her, then reached tenderly for a golden strand of hair that covered her eyes. He wanted to see them.

“You are one of my closest friends.”

“Ross, it won’t bother me if you go. I think you should. It’s just that I can’t.”

“I know. I don’t even know why we’re discussing it. So, may I change the topic?”

“Sure.”

“Arthur called me yesterday.”

“Oh? How’s Arthur? Still in seventh heaven about his Tony for
Joanna
?”

“The eight Tonys. All of which should have been yours for saving the show.”

“Ross,” she began, shaking her head slightly.

He didn’t know why it made her so uncomfortable to be complimented, to be told how good she was, how talented she was, how beautiful she was. She would have to get used to it. He wasn’t going to stop telling her the truth.

“Anyway, guess
who
Arthur would to have bring
what
show
where?”

“You.
Peter Pan.
Broadway. When?”

“To open in late September. Only he doesn’t want me. He wants you. Although he’s pretending that he wants both of us.”

“Arthur has his own wonderful local talent. After all, Beth won the Tony for
Joanna
.”

“Another of your Tonys. So,” Ross said slowly, “how about it? We get a beautiful penthouse overlooking Central Park and do a four month run in the Big Apple?”

“No,” she said simply, pressing herself deeper against the chair as if to say, I won’t leave here, this spot, ever. “No New York.”

“Janet, you are drinking coffee out of a mug that says ‘I love New York’!”

“You brought it to me!”

“It’s your favorite mug!”

“It is,” Janet answered, nodding her head. “I admit it’s my favorite mug, but I don’t want to move to New York.”

“OK,” Ross agreed quickly.

“OK?” Janet asked, surprised. He wasn’t going to push her?

“Yes. I told Arthur you wouldn’t want to, but I promised to ask you anyway. Besides, I have a much better way for you to spend your fall.”

“What?” she asked, a trace of uneasiness in her voice.

“Harper and Peterson, the ones who wrote
Joanna
, have written a new musical. I just got it this week. It’s called
San Francisco
. I think they wrote it precisely for you to perform in this city. I’d like you to take a look at it. If you like it, we’ll open it this fall. If not, we’ll find something else.”

“
San Francisco?
Is it gold rush? Earthquake?” Janet asked eagerly. Not that it mattered.

“It’s contemporary. Flower children and little cable cars.”

“Where is it?” Janet asked, unable to breathe, unable to conceal her excitement.

Ross smiled. He loved to see the enthusiasm in her eyes just like he loved to see the desire in them when they made love.

“It’s somewhere near.”

“You tease!” Janet stood up. “Where?”

“In the trunk of my car. Sit back down. Let’s take it with us for our picnic at the beach. We can spend this entire day reading the script and watching the waves. How does that sound?”

“Wonderful. Let’s go.”

“Janet.” Ross’s voice became serious. Janet sat down in her chair and looked at him carefully.

“What?”

“What about the other part? You said no New York but—” he paused. He’d given this a lot of thought. It was what he wanted. He had no idea how she would react. “How about the we’ll get a penthouse part?”

In the months since that moonless March evening when they had made love for the first time in the hills behind the cottage, they had spent almost every weekend together there, in Janet’s tiny house. But they were apart during the week. Ross had to be at the theater early every weekday.
Peter Pan
was only one of his productions.

Janet worked late every night. By the time she left the theater, it was usually midnight. If she drove straight home, it was almost two by the time she got to the cottage, and she didn’t always go straight home. Sometimes Ross saw her leave with Peter.

One Wednesday night, Ross took Janet home with him to his fabulous condominium located ten minutes from the theater. They watched the twinkling lights of the city below, drank champagne, made love and fell asleep in each other’s arms, but in the morning, Janet was restless to leave, pacing like a trapped, displaced animal, uncertain of her role or what she was doing in
his
home at seven in the morning.

They had never discussed it, but a pattern evolved. They spent two nights together and five nights apart. It wasn’t enough for him, but he had no idea how she felt. He needed to know.

Now, in response to his question, Janet wasn’t saying anything. She just looked at him, a little confused, a little surprised, a little worried and a little excited.

“Do you think it’s wrong for people to live together?” he asked. We could get married, he thought. But it was much too soon for that.

“No. I think it’s a good idea,” she said honestly.

“In general, or for us?”

“In general,” she said, then smiled coyly. “Maybe for us.”

“I thought we could spend weeknights in the city at my place. I think if you brought some of your things, made it your home, too, you would feel comfortable there. And we could spend weekends here. More time when we’re between productions. All of August.”

“The Greenes are planning to put the entire estate on the market,” she said suddenly, remembering the disquieting news she had learned the day before. She sighed, “So I may be looking for a new place anyway. I’m sure that this property will sell quickly, even at the huge asking price, because it’s a natural for residential development. I’m going to hate to leave.”

“We’ll find you another place. One with lots of property and a house big enough for script rewriting sessions by the sea and a piano and your clothes and my clothes and your books and my books and your albums and my albums. This cottage is cozy but awfully small.”

Ross’s observations about the size of the cottage were intentionally long-winded. He was giving her time. He could see that she was considering his question, weighing it carefully, cautiously.

Finally she reached for his face with her hand, softly parting his tousled white-blond hair, tracing the lines at the corners of his eyes and touching his lips.

“Sometimes,” she said, “you get angry, annoyed with me. I’m not always sure why.”

“Because sometimes you seem to withdraw, get quiet,” he said seriously. It worried him less and less each day, but still the worry was there.

“I don’t get quiet, Ross. I
am
quiet.”

“I know,” he said, reaching for her hand, kissing it. “I’m learning that. But sometimes you do put up walls. Your eyes cloud over and you hide.”

“Maybe sometimes I do.”

He pulled her head against his warm bare chest, cradling her for a moment, gently untangling her uncombed silken hair.

“So what do you think?” he whispered, holding her tight.

“I think we could try,” she said slowly. Then

she pulled herself free, her eyes flashing, “But what about Stacy?”

“Stacy? I haven’t seen her since Christmas.”

“Oh. Good.”

“What about Peter?”

“Peter?”

“You know. Your leading man. The guy you leave the theater with when you don’t leave with me. The guy who calls you all sorts of terms of endearment off stage as well as on. That Peter.”

“Are you jealous?” she asked, laughing.

“Maybe.”

“Peter’s my friend. Sometimes we go for dinner after the show because we’re starving and we like to rehash the performance. Are you really jealous?”

“This isn’t very much fun.”

“Ross,” she said, kissing him playfully on the lips. Then she said, “Ross. Peter’s gay.”

“Oh,” he said, kissing her seriously. “Oh.”

“I, Mark, take you Kathleen . . .”

They stood beneath an arch of white lilacs and soft pink roses, eyes locked, hands joined, as they made their promises of forever in the lovely fragrant south garden at the Carlton Club.

Her glistening eyes told him much more than the words ever could. His moist loving eyes eloquently answered back.

I love you, Mark, with all my heart
.

“For better, for worse . . .”

I promise, Kathleen. I want you so much
.

“. . . as long as we both shall live.”

Afterward, as they stood in the reception line, greeting their many guests, Mark felt Kathleen’s hand tighten around his forearm and heard the uncharacteristic strain in her gracious, lilting voice. He covered her hand with his, and she responded instantly, almost desperately, by intertwining her fingers with his.

As soon as the last guest had wished them well, Virginia Jordaine urged them toward the elaborate multi-tiered wedding cake.

“I need a private moment with my wife, Virginia,” Mark said pleasantly but firmly. “Just a moment.”

Mark led Kathleen across the perfectly manicured lawn to a private, secluded alcove behind a pink and lavender hedge of rhododendrons.

“Sweetheart?” he asked when they were alone and away from view.

Tears spilled. Kathleen couldn’t stop the tears, and she couldn’t speak.

“Second thoughts?” Mark asked easily. He knew that wasn’t it, but it would draw her out.

“Oh, no, Mark,
no
,” she answered quickly, touching his face with her trembling hands. She gazed into his eyes. “It’s just that I want to make your life, our life, perfect.
Always
. I want it so much it scares me.”

I’m afraid, too, Mark thought as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight against him, but my fears are real. I’ve made mistakes before. What if I make them again?

“You do make my life perfect,” he whispered, kissing her black silky hair. “You don’t even have to try.”

“Did you go to the wedding, Leslie?” the head nurse in University Hospital emergency room asked when Leslie arrived for work that evening.

“No. The ceremony was supposed to start at four. I couldn’t have made it back here on time,” she said, glancing at the large institutional clock that read five-thirty-five.

Leslie’s shift started at six
P.M.
and lasted until eight
A.M.
They called it the Lindbergh shift: a long, lonely, solo flight into the night.

“It’s too bad you missed it. You and Mark are such good friends.”

“It’s just the luck of the draw,” Leslie said flatly. She was glad she was working. She didn’t really want to go to the wedding after all. “So, where’s Dave? I might as well begin now, send him home a little early.”

Eric answered the phone on the fifth ring.

“Hi,” Charlie said. “Did I interrupt something?”

“No. I cut my damned hand. I was just trying to put another bandage on it.”

Charlie recoiled at the anger and frustration in his voice.

“Another bandage? When did you cut it?”

“What time is it now? Seven? I cut it about one. I was washing those Saint Louis crystal highball glasses we used last night.”