What is Love? (5 page)

“I will try my best.
I’m so excited—I do feel like a newlywed.”

Patty laughed.
“Somehow, Ellen dearest, that doesn’t surprise me. Just be sure to act like
one. Remember: when you’re good, you’re good, but when you’re bad, you’re better.”

“I will
 …
we
will.”
Bad?
How
could Patty consider such nonsense for her? She hung up and heard Weston
approaching. “Put these in the car, please, and then bring Mr. Horvath’s
luggage down from his room.”

“Yes, Mrs. Horvath,”
Weston said before disappearing.

Ellen turned and
stared at her reflection in the mirror. She wished she could erase all the
lines, yet they were part of her, reminding her of the years of her life. Her
road map. She thought of the other women who had had surgery, how they often
ended up looking ridiculous, like caricatures of themselves. None of them
looked natural. She couldn’t do that to herself. But this week, just this once,
she wished she could appear beautiful and young.
If only he could see me as
I used to be, when he was attracted to me and couldn’t keep his hands off me.

She sighed and
turned, glancing around her room, wondering if upon his return, Jonathan would
once again share her bed, as he had long ago. Thoughts of him kissing her and
saying he loved her filled her with anticipation about the task that lay ahead.
It wouldn’t be easy, but like everything else in life, the things that matter
most are rarely ever easy.

***

Horvath Industries
sat in the heart of the garment district on West 38th Street in Manhattan and occupied
six floors of a neoclassical limestone building and employed over two hundred
people. This did not include the thousand employees at their factories in Long
Island, Georgia, South Carolina and California. The business had started back
in 1921, when Jonathan Horvath Senior returned home a WWI hero, full of
ambition and military connections. Jonathan had grown up working for his
father’s uniform factory and spent most of his time learning everything about
the business—from ordering fabric to negotiating with retailers.

When Jonathan
returned from his own war in 1946, with little training in anything else, he
wanted a chance to run the business himself. His infamous father, Jonathan
Horvath I, was losing the business because of gambling debts and lost military
contracts. Jonathan knew how to turn it into a successful, large-scale
enterprise. So he developed a plan to save it. But it needed a lot of money to
get started, or rather, keep it going. The banks wouldn’t lend enough to cover
both labor and fabric costs, so he approached Ellen’s Uncle George. Ellen
wasn’t surprised when Uncle George lent him the money. He did
owe
her
something, some compensation at least, for his … transgressions.

Soon, the failing
uniform business turned into a thriving coat business. It wasn’t until the
Vietnam War started that they returned to making uniforms, and that’s when
things took off financially. By the mid-seventies, they started making private
label activewear and sportswear as well. Ellen studied the crowds of pedestrians
scurrying in front of her car, no doubt on their way to appointments with
fabric vendors or trim houses. The loud hustle of the district surrounded her,
as workers pushing rolling racks filled with plastic-covered garments
crisscrossed among the trendy designers and students.

Ellen reached for
the car phone in the bar and dialed Brianna’s new number. Ellen lost track of
how many places Brianna had lived in, how many times she changed jobs. She
seemed incapable of any sort of stability or commitment to either a man or a
career. And the latest one—teaching meditation, writing, and doing yoga—meant
she would never meet a decent man. A complete waste of time.

Ellen shook her head
as the phone went to her answering machine. “Hi, Brianna. It’s Mother. I was
hoping to say goodbye before we leave—”

“Hey
 …”
Brianna’s voice cut in, sounding
groggy. “Where are you going?”

“Barbados, remember?
It’s our fortieth next Friday,” Ellen said. “Our second honeymoon.”

“I thought he wanted
to leave you.” Her voice was icy and indifferent.

“Your father
intends—”

“He intends to screw
around on you again and again. God, Mother, face it.”

“Brianna, he’s your
father.” Ellen strained to inhale the dense muggy air.

“He may be my
father, but that doesn’t mean I respect him. I can’t stand what he does to you.
How can you just sit back and ignore everything? It’s pathetic.”

You’re pathetic
is what she actually meant, Ellen knew that. “Brianna, I
 …
we’re working—” Ellen fought her need to argue, it would
prove pointless as always. She pushed the button to unroll the car window
partway. “How’s your new job? Do you think it’s one you can stick with for a
while?”

“Honestly, Mother,
you act like nothing’s wrong with your marriage. After this trip, he’ll be back
with her, or another one. God, why won’t you just leave?”

“And give up on my
marriage? You’re joking. You do not understand anything about—”

“Your marriage is
the joke. Is it really worth saving?”

“How can you even
ask that? Our marriage is blessed by God, and only God can end it. It’s the
most important thing in my life.” Ellen opened the window all the way,
breathing deep to slow her racing heart. The air was rank with garbage. She
abruptly raised it. “Leave? That’s absurd.” Ellen turned on the fan. “You know
what happens to women who leave their husbands.”

“Yeah, they get a
life. They discover—”

“No, dear. Maybe in
your world. In my world, women my age end up alone. Men of equal status and
wealth don’t want them. Society discreetly shuns them until they are
conveniently forgotten about. There they sit and age, until one day people ask,
‘Is she still alive? I thought she was dead.’ So you see, there isn’t a place
for older, single women with no status.”

“Status? You really
care about status?”

“Everyone cares
about status. Of course, you already have it, thanks to all my efforts—”

“God, Mother, you
just don’t get it. You’re so seduced by your fake lifestyle and your phony
friends
 …
by society. I just
hope that you—”

“Just hope we stay
together. Oh, here comes your father, we can talk later. Do you want to say
goodbye? He’s outside with Gregory—”

“No,” Brianna
shouted. Then in a softer voice said, “Just try and have a good time.”

Ellen hung up and
closed her eyes. Her stomach had tightened into twisted knots. Brianna was
young, and young people are idealists. They don’t know what life is really
like, all the pressures and stress. What did they understand of struggle and
sacrifice? Of commitment and values? Brianna and Brandon grew up with social
status and a trust fund. What does Brianna know about hardship? When has she
ever done without? Nothing was too good for Daddy’s little darling. She got
whatever she wanted, including her father’s undying attention.
One day
,
Ellen mused,
one day she’ll know exactly what I’ve gone through. Perhaps
then she’ll understand the sacrifices you make for marriage, for family, for
the good of everyone—everyone except yourself.

Ellen longed to feel
close to her daughter again. She had tried many times over the years, but
everything she said was wrong, every suggestion she made rebuffed. Brianna no
longer sought her advice, and the harder she tried to convince Brianna of
things, the wider the barricade became. Ellen felt the distance between them
widen with every conversation. The more Brianna studied this “New Age” stuff
and continued in her alternative life choices, the harder it was to discuss
anything without argument. Ellen knew Brianna was making horrible mistakes that
would later ruin her future. Mistakes that might also damage Ellen’s
reputation. She flinched as she remembered their last fight when Ellen had
asked, “Do you have to be so public?”

To which Brianna
responded: “Can’t you accept me as I am?”

“I could accept you
if didn’t act like such a
 …”
Ellen
couldn’t say the “L” word. She shuddered when she remembered Brianna’s hostile
reply. It was weeks before Brianna was willing to speak to her. Ellen sighed,
pushing the unpleasant episode out of her thoughts.

Jonathan stood
outside the limousine, talking to Gregory, his vice president, with his hand
clutching an overstuffed briefcase. Ellen thought about all the times she
waited for him, all the trips canceled and all the work that had to be done
during holidays. This trip would be different, a chance to be together, without
distraction
 …
alone. Just the
two of them. A chance to remember the love they had shared during those early
years. A renewal.

***

Sam awoke to the
soft tapping on her door. In the darkness, she could see Rory’s strong
silhouette, the violet-blue glow from her bedside clock highlighting his
angular build. It was one in the morning. “Hey you,” she whispered, rubbing her
eyes.

“I got your message,
‘Desperate. Come quick.’ What’s wrong? I haven’t seen you in weeks—did
something happen?” Rory quietly closed her bedroom door.

“Come here first.”
She pulled down the cover, giving a glimpse of what awaited him.

“Someone’s naughty.”
He leaned over her, pulling on the laces of her corset.

She smiled, unable
to hide her mischievous desire. “Light the candles first.”

Rory went to her
dresser and took her lighter from the top drawer. A flickering amber glow
spread across the walls as he lit the candles on her dresser, desk, and
nightstand.

She watched as he
stripped his shirt over his head, then dropped his jeans to the floor. Compared
to Jonathan’s flab, Rory was all muscle—a tower of steel, a smooth hard surface
etched with ridges and valleys. It was a shame he was unable to stay committed
to anyone.

“It’s been too
long,” she said as she grabbed his shorts and pulled him into bed.

“And just whose
fault is that?” Rory mumbled, kissing her neck.

“Shhh, you are
beautiful. So very beautiful,” she whispered. Her fingers traced over the
crevices formed by well-trained muscles on his chest and arms.

“Not like the
withered old fart, huh?” he laughed, grasping his heart and mock panting.

“Very funny,” she
laughed and slapped him on the chest.

“Oh sorry, I
forgot—you love the old geezer.”

“What do you know
about love, Mr. Sex-buddy?”

“Well—I know I love
money, just like you. So I guess I could love an old broad with loads of cash,
she might be worth sticking around for.” He kissed her, leaving a trail of
marked territory along her shoulders. His hands hovered over her body,
searching for more flesh. He pulled the corset down and started gently kissing
her breasts. She moaned with delight.

He climbed on top of
her, pinning her arms over her head. “You like him for the money and me for the
sex. Admit it,” Rory demanded. Sam struggled to free her arms. Rory’s hands
tightened around her wrists and pressed her into the bed. He laughed as she
squirmed and tried to get free. “Come on, admit it.”

She stopped her
futile struggle. “Yes. Okay. You win. I admit after I marry him, I plan to keep
you as my sex slave.”

He kissed her, then
released his grip. “I thought so.”

“Too bad you’re not
rich,” Sam laughed, rubbing her wrists.

“If I were rich, I
could have any hot babe I wanted—supermodels and playmates—why would I want a
golddigger like you?” She hit him on the chest with her fists. He grabbed her
hands, pulled her tight and kissed her. “Okay. Maybe if I were rich and tired
of all those shallow women, maybe I’d want you. Maybe then.” He climbed off her
and sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the window. “Too bad I’m flat
broke. Guess you’ll have to marry ol’ dickwad.”

“Are you actually
jealous?” Sam asked, unable to hide her sarcasm.

“Of him? No way.” He
turned and faced her. “I wouldn’t want to be old and fat.” Rory laughed, then
turned away again. “But yeah, I’d like to spoil babes with fancy stuff
 …
jewelry, clothes, take ‘em to fancy
places …”

Sam sat up and
rubbed his back, tracing hearts across his shoulders with her fingers. “It is
fun being spoiled. I must admit, I do love the money. I’ve gotten quite
attached to it. In fact, I’m ruined. Now I’ll always need to be rich.”

Rory turned and
slapped her thigh. “So get to work and get his money, you hussy—Hey, where is
Romeo tonight?”

“Barbados, with his
ugly old wife,” Sam said, surprised by the crack in her voice.

“Ahhh!” Rory lay
back and grabbed Sam at her waist. “So that’s why you called me.”

“Yeah. I’m pissed at
him—”

“Why? For taking his
wife on a vacation?” Rory put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “He
is
married, you know.”

She pulled away from
his grip and reached for a cigarette. Sam turned to face him, then leaned
against the footboard, lighting the cigarette. With her head tilted back, she
took a slow drag from the menthol cigarette, the dim light hiding her shaking
hand. “He’s trying to take it slowly.” She faced Rory. “It pisses me off. He
was all set to start the divorce and stuff, and now, wham! Out of the blue, he
wants to take his time and not rush, for her sake.” Rory grabbed an empty
candleholder and leaned forward to catch the ashes falling from Sam’s wavering
cigarette that zigzagged as she spoke. “I mean, get on with it, already,” she
demanded. “Why wait?”

“Good God, he’s
changed his mind. He actually wants the old wife,” Rory said with a wide grin.
“That’s it! It’s too late. You’re screwed.”

Sam threw her
lighter at him and scowled. “Nice try. He loves me. Really, he does.”