Treasures (10 page)

In the quiet, so high above the ground that the only sound was the soft rustle of the sheets whenever Richard turned, Connie lay thinking. How ironic it was that when she finally desired a man, he seemed not to desire her. It was too confusing.

Then she began to argue with herself. Use your head, Connie. It’s obvious that he adores you. He’ll do anything for you. You’ve been married just two months.
These things take time, everybody says they do. And who knows, anyway, how often other people make love or how? What do you really know about Lara and Davey? Richard adores you. Remember that.

And we’re going to Europe.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

T
hey stayed on the forward deck all afternoon as the
Queen
slid from The Solent into the Channel and out to sea. Richard had gotten a deck chair, a blanket against the raw wind, and a book, but Connie stood at the railing until the coast receded into a line of gray clouds.

Behind her lay all the quaint and ancient places, the castles, lakes, and gardens, the cobblestoned alleys and the marbled palace-hotels of Europe, all of them as far removed from the thirty-third-floor apartment in Manhattan as was that apartment from Peg’s flat in the Perry Building. No, farther, farther. Willingly she would turn the ship around and go back. She was already feeling the ache of nostalgia, an urgent restlessness; it was the same feeling that had swept over her when, in Houston, she had seen her first ballet and felt the world so filled with wonders. A sense of haste now overwhelmed her.

Travel with Richard was certainly rewarding, but also frustrating; knowledge emphasized her ignorance. After a morning at the Jeu de Paume and the Rodin Museum, she was envious. I must learn about art, she told herself,
and I know almost nothing of European history. I know almost nothing at all.

They did very little shopping, their time being too precious, Richard declared, to waste it in stores. He did, however, buy a suit and two dresses for Connie, since, he said earnestly, no woman should come home from Paris without something Parisian to wear. Always competent about such things, he assured her that the dark red velvet and the emerald satin would be right for dinner on the ship.

In England Connie fell in love with country antiques and old landscapes. After seeing flowery Cotswold inns and burnished London shops, she began to envision old mahogany and old paintings, a library with leather chairs and animal portraits. She had a new awareness that the rooms overlooking the East River were not so grand after all, that, as a matter of fact, they were ordinary.

So, again, on the homeward voyage that compelling sense of haste came sweeping back.

Richard had wanted to ask for a table for two in the dining salon. “You won’t like it if you’re put with the wrong people,” he warned. “I’ve had that experience on ships.”

But Connie wanted to take the risk, and so it was that they found themselves at a large table seated next to Mrs. Dennison Maxwell. A gaunt lady well into her sixties, she gave a prim appearance that made her blunt speech all the more surprising. By the final night she was on intimate terms with the young Torys.

“It’s a pleasure to see a pretty young woman with a good-looking young man for a change. In New York these days the prettiest young women all seem to be married to dreadful old men. You haven’t said, but this is your honeymoon, isn’t it?” And when informed that it was, she continued, “I had mine on the
Queen Mary.
There’s no comparison. Of course, this ship has all the comforts. But it’s so dreadfully vulgar. All this chrome and glitter. Of course, I suppose you’re both too young to remember the old
Queens
, but your parents must have told you about them, I’m sure. Now,
they
had elegance.”

Connie, remembering something she had once read, answered quickly, “Oh, yes, the life-sized portraits of Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth—King George’s wife, I mean. Oh, yes, it must have been wonderful. So Old World.”

“I do love your Texas accent,” Mrs. Maxwell told her.

“Oh, do you? I thought I’d lost it.”

“But Connie doesn’t—” began Richard, and stopped when her foot brushed his.

“You must meet my granddaughter-in-law. She’s practically a bride like you, only married last year. You’d like each other. I have a sixth sense about people, and I’m sure you would.”

“That’s so kind of you, Mrs. Maxwell.”

“She’s terribly busy, Bitsy is. She raises more money for her charities than any three women. I don’t know where she gets the energy. Or the time to keep herself so well put together. She never looks frazzled. Twice a year she flies to Paris, buys everything for the season, and
then forgets about herself.” Mrs. Maxwell took a small pad and small silver pen from her bag. “Do write your name and phone number here, dear. I’ll tell Bitsy to be sure to call and introduce you around town: But you’ll have no trouble making friends. People always adore Texans.”

“Why on earth did you want her to think you came from Texas?” asked Richard when they were alone.

“Because. You heard what she said. People adore Texans.”

He laughed. “Maxwell. I wonder whether that can be Maxwell Knox International. We do their advertising. She might be. That emerald has to be five carats. And anyway, without the emerald, she has that
air.
Couldn’t you smell it?”

“I smelled the very good perfume. That’s all.”

“Not the disgusting smell of snobbery?”

“Not at all. She was interesting.” An exaggerated version of his own mother, Connie thought, and wondered whether that could possibly be what he was thinking.

“You don’t really want to meet the granddaughter, do you?”

“Why not? It might be a look into another world. What’s there to lose?”

It was indeed another world, as Connie had supposed that it might be. And, to her surprise, it accepted her at once. But then, people had always taken a liking to Connie. She was bright and quick, friendly and obliging. Her zest for all the things that were new to her refreshed
young women to whom everything was old and too familiar.

Sondra Maxwell, called Bitsy, was known for her independence. She wore a mink coat over a woolen skirt and sweater, sneakers, and on her wrist a gold bracelet whose value Connie, having seen enough by now to know, estimated at ten thousand dollars. Her hair, which was marvelous but no more so than Connie’s own, hung long enough to be tossed as she walked. She owned a small poodle of a rare red color and persuaded Connie to buy its sister, named Delphine. The two young women with the two small dogs soon made a striking pair as they moved along the opulent streets of the Upper East Side. And Connie was no longer a stranger in the city.

Now, with Bitsy’s group, she went to exercise classes, played tennis, went shopping, took art appreciation classes, had lunch at Le Cirque, and eventually even came to see her picture in a popular magazine. At Bitsy’s birthday luncheon at the Pierre the group was photographed for the society page; at the bottom of a long list of names came Connie’s, and at the rear of the group, barely visible behind a shoulder, appeared her face. She bought half a dozen copies and sent one to Lara.

Toward the end of the winter the Torys were invited to the Maxwell house. They lived in five spacious rooms in a solid old building on Park Avenue.

“Don’t blame me for the furnishings,” said Bitsy. “They’re all my grandmother’s, foisted on us by the family when she died. But we won’t have to put up with them much longer. We’ve outgrown this place, and as soon as we move, we’ll refurnish.”

This apology astonished Connie, who had been about to remark, and now did not, how handsome the apartment was.

The evening ended early, for all the young men had to get up early to appear in court, at the bank, the investment office, or wherever else it was that they had to appear within the immense stone forest of Manhattan.

Connie and Richard were reading in bed when presently she laid down her book.

“Imagine saying they’ve outgrown that place. Can you imagine it, Richard?”

“I could if I had the Maxwell money. The company’s stock is still held in the family.”

“It’s hard to believe how quickly everything’s happened,” she murmured.

“What’s happened?”

“Their taking us up as friends, especially me, when I think of where I came from.”

Now Richard put his book down. “I’m amazed at you. You feeling inferior? With your brains and your personality? And besides, you were the prettiest woman there tonight.”

“Was I really?”

He laid his hand over hers. “Yes, really. Oh, your friend Bitsy—ridiculous name—is good looking, but that’s all she is. They were pleasant people tonight, very affable, but don’t let yourself be too impressed by them, Connie.”

For a moment she was silent, reflecting on the evening. “I’ve been thinking,” she said then, “that we really
need to do some serious entertaining. It’s part of getting ahead, as you just saw tonight.”

“Those people didn’t need to get ahead by entertaining. They were born ahead.”

“I know, but I was thinking.… We really should be able to have a dinner party, or at the very least, give a big brunch, and we can’t do it here. Don’t you think we need a larger apartment, Richard? One farther uptown?”

“Hey, I’m not the president of McOueen, you know.”

“Of course I know. I don’t mean anything outrageous.” And very carefully, very delicately, she proceeded. “This place doesn’t look like you, anyway. It doesn’t do justice to your taste.”

“Well, it isn’t my taste. You know I bought it furnished.”

“It’s served its purpose very nicely, I realize.” She sighed. It was so difficult, so unpleasant, having to press for something. “It’s just that it’s complicated, having always to say no to friends and make excuses. For instance, Bitsy’s asked me to be on the committee for the hospital ball. It’s really a prestigious thing, but the problem is one has to make a sizable donation, or better still, take a whole table. And I really don’t know how to keep on refusing all the time. It’s almost insulting to her when we’ve become such good friends.”

Richard was silent.

“I’m really very fond of Bitsy. She’s been so nice to me.”

“Those people go to three or four affairs like that every month during the season, Connie. I told you, we
don’t belong with them. It makes no sense for us to try keeping up.”

There was a long pause during which Richard appeared to be waiting for some acknowledgment, while she was inwardly coming to terms with her expanding knowledge of the world. The Torys were not rich, not really. They were what sociologists call the “upper middle class,” very comfortable, very prosperous, but not rich. The house in River Oaks, she saw now, had had good furniture, but no rare antiques; the paintings had not been of museum quality; there had been no collections of anything, just enough silver and some fine china for use. Only what was needed for use, and no more.

Taking her hand again, Richard said softly, “You’re very disappointed, aren’t you?”

“A little.”

“What’s the least you’d need to give?”

“Well, fifteen hundred would do. I think maybe it would.”

“Okay. I’ll write a check in the morning. I’ll stretch my year’s budget for charity for your sake.”

“Oh, you’re sweet! Thanks so much. You’re so sweet.”

He reached across to turn off the lamp, and then reaching back, put his arm around her. His lips brushed her neck.

“Feel happier now, do you?”

“Oh, yes, oh, yes.”

For the present she was satisfied. But what of the next time? It would have been easier, in a way, if these people hadn’t taken her to themselves. But they had done so,
and because of them, she could feel for the first time in her life that life was
fun.

Richard was tightening his hold. He wanted sex. She wanted to go to sleep. And it crossed her mind that her original desire for him, which had been so disappointed so often and had slowly been cooling toward indifference, might possibly be turning into active rejection. His three minutes, or maybe it was a minute and a half, of pleasure, were worse than nothing for her, far worse.…

We have to have a new apartment, she was thinking while he lay upon her. This place is impossible. Richard gave a final shudder, sighed, brushed her ear with his lips, and rolled over to sleep.

Silver bowls, jugs, candlesticks, and platters gleamed on the shelves behind the counter.

“So you were just as pleased with the teapot after you got it home?” the proprietor inquired pleasantly.

“Oh, yes. I’ve got the collecting bug, and that’s why I’m back,” Eddy replied. And added with confidence, “I’ve decided to buy nothing more recent than 1900.”

“Well, that’s not a bad decision.” The man hefted a bowl. “They didn’t used to stint on weight, that’s for sure.”

“I like the little repoussé dish. I think I’ll make that my purchase of the day.”

“A precious old piece. You won’t be sorry about it, either, Mr. Osborne.”

Outdoors again in the bright afternoon with the package tucked under his arm, Eddy strolled along, feeling
the marvelous sense of well-being that so often accompanied him these days. He was flying in blue skies, sailing over blue seas.