Three Daughters: A Novel (67 page)

When he saw the obituary in the evening paper, he thought he misread it. But instead of checking he got out of his chair and began to pace. Back and forth. Back and forth while his heart changed its beat. It was a long, graceful room with tall, arched windows looking out on rolling lawns and deep woods, but his eyes were on his feet. He wanted to concentrate and calm down. His mind had always worked on reason but now he felt superstitiously tied to Paul Halaby. For the last three months, outside his control, he had been suffused with an exquisite longing for the dead man’s wife. But he hadn’t counted on fate opening the road for him so decisively.

He had invented a past for her and convinced himself that she was in great need of being saved. Was that foolish? Why would such a beautiful woman be in trouble? For one thing, her eyes weren’t aloof—a woman like that could be spoiled and demanding, but this one was full of understanding and (surprisingly) sadness. When he heard her voice, his reserve had cracked. Desire changed from a chaste gauzy dream to open—and unchaste—desire.

I want you.
That phrase was meant for slushy songs and teenage love talk. He was a man of the world. Wasn’t he? Those banal words had nothing to do with him. But they precisely fit what he felt. He wanted her. When he allowed his mind the freedom, it latched on to the idea of making love to her in every possible variation. He imagined a room upholstered in silk with huge square divans and soft lights. He wanted to place her in the middle of such a room—position her like a queen—and give her everything he had. His manhood, his mind and life experience, the sum of his saved-up love.

He stopped pacing and sat down to read the obituary from beginning to end. Like any premature corpse, Halaby was survived by a long list of relatives, including his wife, Star, and a daughter, Cassandra. Her name was Star. A condolence call was the very least he could offer. Would she remember him?

By the time he got around to calling, she was no longer living in the same place. At the forwarding telephone number, a woman said she was out of the country.

“Will she be back?”

“I certainly hope so.”

He waited six months to call again and by that time, to his intense relief, she was listed in the telephone book.

“Hello, my name is Andrew Larabee. We met at the Bowie track.” They hadn’t met at all.

Silence. Would she pretend to remember? “I’m sorry, I don’t recall.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m calling to offer my condolences on the death of your husband.” Her husband had been dead too long a time for condolences.

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Perhaps you’d like to spend some time up here around the horses. This is the prettiest time . . .” His voice was coaxing. “I know you used to bring your little girl.”

“That’s very generous, but I can’t accept.”

“I have a vacant guest house. No one would bother you.”

“It isn’t that. I have a job and this is our busiest season.”

“Oh. Too bad. What do you do? Train with the Washington Senators?”
Good God, Larabee, you’ve gone crazy.

She laughed. “I work for Fred McKay, the real estate firm.”

“Well, that explains it. Perhaps another time.”

“Perhaps. And thank you.”

Damn. Why hadn’t he just asked her out to dinner right there and then? Why had be made that insipid joke? He should have been more spontaneous. He couldn’t call back now; she’d think he was an idiot or a crank.

Larraine was buffing her nails so vigorously she generated considerable heat. She doubled her hand over and admired the pink glow. It was a slow Monday and Fred McKay had left her alone in the office. She had to type up three new listings on white cards and do a little filing as long as the phones stayed quiet. The office was on the parlor floor of a brownstone off Connecticut and M. On the street level, which was down three steps, there was an Italian restaurant and the smells wafting up were making her stomach growl. She’d close up and let the service answer the phone while she went down for lunch. She put away her nail buffer and reached in the drawer for her handbag, but then groaned with disappointment. There was a client at the door.

One look and she forgot her annoyance. Everything about this one was whispering
money, money, money
. McKay had told her how to spot a Dunhill suit and here was the real article staring her in the face.
Look at the buttonholes on the sleeve
, he had instructed.
If they really unbutton and if the buttons are bone—they’ll look striated—it’s the genuine thing or at least as expensive.

She could see that the buttonhole on his sleeve—his arms were folded across his chest—was the right kind.
Mister, I’m going to sell you an expensive house, so help me God.
“Yes, may I help you?”

“I’m interested in a house.”

“What kind of a house?”

He looked blank. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Uh-huh. Well, that’s all right, I guess.” She was stalling. Men were seldom vague about what they wanted. And he didn’t look like a crazy. He looked like an ambassador. An ambassador to the great outdoors. Lovely tan. “Neighborhood?”

“I hadn’t thought of that either.”

“Size?”

“Small.”

“Now we’ve really narrowed it down.” She smiled and hoped he would, too, but he didn’t. His mind was elsewhere. He kept looking around. “Just for yourself then?” There was no Mrs. Ambassador?

“Yes.”

“Well, how about this: a small but elegant townhouse either on Massachusetts or N or M in back of St. Matthew’s Cathedral. Or perhaps up around California Street or New Hampshire? Are you familiar with those streets?”

“Vaguely. Is Mrs. Halaby here?”

“Oh? Has she already taken you around?”

“No.”

“Someone recommended her?”

“No. I simply know that she works here and I thought I should ask for her.” Something was going on here, but she wasn’t sure what it was. “I met her up in the country.”

“Do you know that she lost her husband?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And you wanted her to take you around? She won’t be here again until next week.” The right hemisphere of Larraine’s brain was searching doggedly for a vital connection, which had to be deciphered. This man didn’t want a house. He would buy one if he had to, but he was here for other reasons. The news that Star was not available seemed to stump him. His eyes—staring out of that rugged face—were beseeching and that tugged at her motherly heart. Out of the blue, she blurted out, “Did you want to see her very badly?”

That got his attention. “Yes, I did.”

Oh, so that’s it. He’s interested in Star.
“Well, Mr. . . .”

“Larabee. Andrew Larabee.”

“Mr. Larabee, perhaps I can help you. That is, of course, if your intentions meet with my approval.”

She had bought a new dress for herself. Slim and black. “Every woman needs a little black dress,” the ad had said. “Let this be the one.” It was sexy. Sort of sexy.

“Well, look at you,” said Larraine. “Getting ideas again?”

“Of course not. It’s just a dress.”

She had bought the dress because McKay was having a shindig, as he called it, and she was invited. It was a sit-down formal dinner for sixteen associates and clients. She knew what that meant. He wanted to woo investors or repay those who had generated business and commissions for Fred McKay.

The night of the party she stood in the library of McKay’s impressive mansion and peered at each new arrival with some nervousness. One of them would be her partner. Maybe he wouldn’t show up, which would be a relief. She’d be able to eat without worrying about keeping up her end of the conversation. But then she’d be the floating guest. Whom would she talk with? Maybe her partner was already there, although there weren’t any men who appeared at loose ends. The doorbell rang and she jumped.
I wonder if he knows I have a child? It shouldn’t matter, after all, it’s just for the evening. Maybe I don’t have to mention Cassie at all. It’s not as if I’m likely to see him again. Oh, God, this is so awkward.

He had to tie his bow tie three times before he got it right. He hated formal dress, even though women told him repeatedly that on him a tuxedo was dynamite. He looked distinguished and very handsome. At the last minute he had serious doubts about Mrs. Halaby’s reaction to him and began to think of excuses for canceling. The barn might burn down or one of his horses might become ill or he’d sprain his ankle. Maybe the White House would call and ask him to come right over. Or an eighteen-wheeler could jackknife across the road, blocking all traffic. He put on his jacket. How foolish he felt. His heart was skittering around his chest. He knew that if his heart was really to skitter around his chest, he’d be dead on the floor and it wouldn’t matter if Star Halaby liked him or not.

Star went and stood by the first bookcase because it was tucked in a little bend in the room. Here, at eye level, were the
B
s. Balzac, Browning, Byron . . . Had McKay actually read these authors? They were probably for show, but he’d be the first to admit it. She could take out a book as a prop and read it. That way she’d be doing something when McKay brought him over. Oh! Was this the one? He was tall and vaguely familiar. She’d seen that face before. But where? It was a strong face . . . already tan so early in the year . . . a shy smile . . . how handsome men were in tuxedos.

The moment he saw her his muscular legs—they had been gripping horses’ flanks for thirty years—felt less sturdy. He wanted to bolt across the room and tell her how much she meant to him. She was wearing a dress instead of the dungarees she had worn to the track, but the face was exactly as he had remembered it. God, why did he feel so weak? He should have felt strong. Elated. She was smiling at him.

Perhaps he looked familiar because he reminded her—vaguely, of course—of her father. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Star Halaby, your dinner partner.”

Across the room Larraine felt her eyes fill. She had seen Star’s face look so anxious and now relieved. Wasn’t she due for something good? Maybe this was it . . .

The letter from her grandmother came a few days after she met Andrew Larabee. It was a valiant effort written in a spidery hand, the
H
formed with such care but still so wobbly it broke her heart.

Promise me something
,

it began without any salutation.

Don’t believe that you have bad luck or that bad things happen to you. I’ve been around a long time and this is how life continues. I’ve had many blows—one still cuts and breaks me. My baby boy died a terrible death. He had the kind of illness that made him lose all his fluids. I couldn’t comfort him or even touch him. His skin would have cracked and burst. Right now, when I think about it, I feel like weeping. He was a little boy and he looked like an old man. I can’t account for such cruelty from God, but there it is.

We must take things hard that are hard but also go forward and not ask too many questions. Your mother’s gone but I’m still here. Why? Perhaps for you. I’m left to tell you what a strong good girl you were to your parents and how happy you made your mother. I want to say that I love you all the way from here. How strange. I have never in my life told anyone I loved them, so you see, miracles happen. One will come to you.

Your Teta now and for always.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Consuelo Saah Baehr is herself of French/Palestinian Christian descent. Ms. Baehr lives in East Hampton, New York. Visit her blog, The Repurposed Writer, at
consuelosaahbaehr.com