Then one morning he’d seen Gwen in the neighborhood. She had come out of her apartment building and headed in the direction of the old part of town. He soon realized that this walk was a regular occurrence. Every morning like clockwork, she left the building at the same time. He could have set his watch by her. He found he liked to watch her walk. Even in her condition—she was pregnant—her stride was long and fast and . . . well, joyful was the only word for it. He thought she belonged on a country road or an open field, and he tried to picture her in such a setting. The free, athletic way she moved shouldn’t have fit with the demure white dress she’d worn on the night when he’d met her, but it did. There was something refined and pure about both. Jeff ’s father would have said Gwen Wright was a “thoroughbred.” It was one of the highest compliments he could bestow on a woman.
* * *
Jeff watched Gwen now as she headed down the street, once again in the direction of the old part of town. She hadn’t been out of her apartment since she’d lost her baby—this bit of gossip had come to him from Jewel, naturally—and he was glad to see Gwen out and about. But she was moving slowly, wearily, without her usual joy. Well, that was probably to be expected after what she’d been through. Still, it made him feel sad, as if he was watching a lovely animal—a deer perhaps, or a wild horse—hobbled by pain.
He watched Gwen until she was out of sight, then turned away from his window and went back to his desk and the packet of papers on it. He was leaving in two days to conclude a deal for the water concession in Buenos Aires and he had reading to do. But the information so carefully distilled and condensed by his young Turks didn’t hold his attention. Thinking about Gwen Wright and her birthday party had reminded him of the painting he’d bought from her stepfather Walter Amburn. He looked up; it was on his wall here in the office, the simple little picture of a small girl sitting on a roof watching the river flow by her house at dusk. Until Jeff married Jewel it always had hung in a prominent spot in his home. Even after he moved to the hotel where he and Jewel now lived while they waited for their house to be finished, the painting had hung over the fireplace in his penthouse suite. In the past few years he’d become something of a collector. He now had scouts who called him when a David Hockney went on sale, or when a Utrillo was up for auction. But the little painting by Amburn was still a favorite of his; there was something about the isolation of the child and the endless river which spoke to him.
But when Jewel came to live with him in the hotel suite, she’d asked if it would be all right if they took the picture down and put it in storage.
“It’s so gloomy, honey,” she’d said in the sweet cooing voice she used when she wanted to convince him of something. “It gives me the creeps.” She’d shivered deliciously and laughed. “I’m sure we’ll be able to find some place for it when the new house is finished, although the interior decorator says you have paintings that are worth a lot more that we should be showcasing. That dinky little thing was awfully cheap, wasn’t it? I mean, you bought it when you couldn’t afford anything better.”
That was his wife. His Jewel. Jeff closed his eyes for a second, and thought about the changes she’d brought into his life, changes that did not thrill him.
You have only yourself to blame, pal, he thought in a rare burst of honesty. Take the matter of their new home. It was he who had told Jewel to tear up the plans for the sleek modern house he had originally commissioned. The architect had designed it to be light and airy with clean lines, but Jewel had found the stone and glass structure “creepy”—it seemed to be her favorite word—and had lobbied instead for a “McMansion.” Jeff had given her carte blanche to do as she pleased, because in the beginning, she had taken possession of him as if he had been a foolish teenager in the throes of a crush. He’d told himself that it didn’t matter that his house was a vulgar attempt to recreate . . .he didn’t know what. A stately mansion in Great Britain? A French chateau? A Tuscan villa? All of the above? A house was like a suit of clothes, he’d told himself back in those halcyon days of passion; the one you bought to cover yourself, the other for shelter. But the truth was, such things also sent a message. The message told the world your taste, your pocketbook, and in an arrogant, subtle way, your “class.” And when he actually found himself faced with the prospect of living in Jewel’s mansion/chateau/villa—and it was going to happen soon—he was embarrassed. It was the same kind of embarrassment he felt when Jewel wore all of her gold bangles—heavy bracelets studded with diamonds that she had wanted and he had purchased—at once. He remembered his mother saying that when a lady dressed for the evening the last thing she did was look in the mirror and remove at least one accessory.
But his discontent went deeper than embarrassment. He wished just once his wife would have something interesting to say. It could be about anything—politics, or the weather—as long as it wasn’t yet more chatter about the latest celebrity gossip. When he’d married her, he’d known she didn’t read, but he wished she’d take up a hobby or a sport—tennis or bridge or quilting—anything to keep her from touring the shops in the Algonquin Mall in her endless search for more clothes, more objects, more loot. . . .
Stop that, Jeff, he told himself sternly. You have to be patient. She had nothing when she married you, so it’s only natural that she would go a little wild now.
Besides, hadn’t he married her in part because she knew how to spend money? He hadn’t been embarrassed by her when she encouraged him to buy the yacht he wanted. But the funny thing about that was that after she had encouraged him, he hadn’t done it. Somehow watching her shop day after day had soured him on it for himself.
She did try to be a good wife to him. They’d had apricot pie a month ago because he’d said he liked apricots. That had been very thoughtful of her—and he had thanked her. But since then he had had so many apricots, fresh, canned, in pies and other desserts, that he never wanted to see another one.
And in her sweet voice that could at times have a cutting edge on it, she had said, “Don’t tell me you’re not going to eat it. I thought you’d love apricot bread. I went to so much trouble to find the recipe for the chef.” He could recognize that voice even when she was speaking on the phone in the next room. And what was she always talking about? Not about the headlines in The New York Times, that was for sure. Hell, she wasn’t even talking about taking a walk with the dog. Because they didn’t have a dog. It was something he had always wanted; when he was a kid, his parents would only tolerate cats. But first the collie, then the Irish setter, then the small poodle had all been sent back to the various breeders because it was discovered that they were all too dirty to live in the new house. A dog, Jewel had declared, would ruin her décor.
There was something else that she didn’t like: his music. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t listened to music. But the symphonies and operas that he loved, and that were at times the only balm he knew for the soul, left her cold. Before he’d married her, he had thought that none of this would matter to him; now he was finding that it did. It mattered very much.
Be patient, he told himself again. She never had the time or the money to enjoy what you think of as the better things in life.
Surely there would come a day when she would have her fill of shopping and acquiring, when her McMansion was finished and her jewelry box was full. Then he would slowly, and gently expose her to Bach, Schubert, and Wagner. There was time for her to discover the joys of intelligent, informed conversation, of a good book, or a great painting. And in the meantime? Well, she was still heart-stoppingly, breathtakingly beautiful. And heads did turn when he walked into a room with her on his arm. And, if she never did change? And if that continued to irk him? Well, the world was full of women.
Jeff tried once again to focus on the documents on his desk, but his mind kept wandering. He stood up and went back to look out of the window at the ever-changing parade of humanity beneath him. And he saw Gwen Wright Whatever-Her-Last-Name-Was walking ba
ck from wherever she’d gone. Her weariness was even worse now; she was moving with the trudging step of someone who was sick or elderly. She stopped at the entrance to her apartment building, and seemed to be thinking about something. Then instead of going inside, she shook her head and began to walk in the direction of the little park at the end of the street. That had to be her destination.
But there are children playing in that park, Jeff thought. That’s no place for a woman who is obviously suffering from the loss of her own baby.Without thinking, Jeff ran out of his office toward the elevator.
* * *
Stan had not been in the shop. Even though Gwen knew it had nothing to do with her, that he had probably gone out on a job, after her outburst the night before she’d felt as if he was avoiding her. For the first time in weeks she found herself thinking about something besides her child and her loss. She’d read an article once in a magazine which quoted a lot of statistics about couples who had been driven apart by a tragedy. She’d forgotten the exact figures but she did remember how high they were.
Stan and I aren’t handling our tragedy well, she thought. At least, I’m not. When we were first married, I couldn’t have imagined that anything could ever come between us. Loving Stan was the easiest thing I’d ever done.
But now she realized there was a reason for all those thousands of self-help books and dozens of television shows dedicated to helping married couples communicate. And commiserate, and empathize. And forgive.
I will not let our tragedy destroy us, she’d thought as she stood in the middle of Stan’s empty shop. The blaming and the anger and the guilt stop here. I’m done with it. And with those brave thoughts in her head, she’d turned around and started back to the apartment building.
* * *
The trouble with brave thoughts is finding the actions to match them. Particularly when you are younger than your years and naïve enough to believe that good intentions are enough. Gwen had reached her building, walked firmly up to the entrance, and stopped dead in her tracks. I can’t go back in there, she thought. Not with Abby’s ghost and the ghosts of all my own dreams waiting for me. She stood in front of the entrance, knowing she was being irrational, and without wanting to, she wondered, What would Cassie do now? The answer came back loud and clear:Cassandra Wright would face down her pain. She would look at it squarely and she would wrestle it to the ground. Galvanized, Gwen started for the little park at the end of the street—the one where all the kids played.
At first it seemed to Gwen as if there were hundreds of children—boys and girls—in the park, and the sweet little faces and high, delighted laughter overwhelmed her. She stood at the park’s entrance unable to breathe. But she was Cassandra Wright’s daughter. She forced air into her lungs until she could see that the actual number of children was closer to ten. Mercifully none of them were infants. But it was still too hard, too painful, to watch them. She was about to turn away when a voice at her side said, “Excuse me, aren’t you . . . that is, weren’t you Gwen Wright?” And standing next to her was a man she recognized from the many stories written about him in the newspapers. He was the owner and CEO of the JeffSon Corporation, but she would always think of him as the pirate who had come to her birthday party.
“I’ve been to your house . . . your mother’s house . . . it was about four years ago. But you probably don’t remember.”
“But I do. How do you do, Mr. Henry?” she said. She held out her hand for him to shake. “I used to be Gwen Wright. Now my name is Gwen Girard.” Then, she added because she couldn’t help herself, “Didn’t you marry Jewel Fairchild?”
Chapter Twenty-four
Stan looked at the note Gwen had left for him on his workbench. I stopped by to take you up on that lunch offer, it said, but you weren’t here. I want a rain check. I love you, Gwen.
So she was ready to forgive him. His heart leapt. They had never been seriously angry at each other before and he hated the feeling. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure that she was the one who should be doing the forgiving. Their loss had been his every bit as much as it had been hers, but she had not tried to comfort him as he had tried to comfort her. Instead she had blamed him—not in so many words, because she knew she was being unfair and unreasonable—but he was not a stupid man. He’d known what she was thinking. Stan sighed and unwrapped the pastrami sandwich he’d purchased at Berger’s Deli down the street.
He’d known when he married Gwen that she’d been privileged, and protected, and as a result, she really didn’t have any idea how the rest of the world lived. That naiveté had been a part of her charm as far as he was concerned. But living with it wasn’t always easy.
A case in point had been his apartment. Gwen had hated the entire building from the moment she’d set foot inside it. He was rather proud of the shiny lobby, the up-to-the-minute exercise room, the courtyard, and the roof garden, and he’d been surprised and more than a little hurt by Gwen’s reaction. His four small rooms could not compare with the Wright house, but Gwen had always insisted she didn’t want to live in a mansion with artwork on the walls and Aubusson carpets on the floors. But it was clear that she missed certain elements of her old life.
The things she had complained about had seemed rather trivial to him—the lack of privacy and quiet, for instance. You didn’t have much of either in an apartment, that was a given, but you learned to adjust to your neighbors’ noise, and when you couldn’t, you just tuned it out. As for the woodlands and the wild animals Gwen mourned so much, well, he ouldn’t see that it was worth it to make a fuss over a few trees and squirrels. Of course it was nice to have some land of your own, and he certainly planned to buy a house, but when he could afford it; he was not about to saddle himself with a huge mortgage. In the meantime his present apartment, which was far better than his last one, was a stepping-stone along the way.
When he’d said that to Gwen, he’d realized for the first time just how wide the gap between them actually was. His wife didn’t understand about stepping-stones. Not really. Intellectually she knew that when she’d married Stan she’d given up the life of wealth she’d once had, but she’d never had to do without something she considered a necessity because she couldn’t afford it. To her, a house was a necessity, and the idea that they had to save up for one was a hardship for which she just wasn’t prepared.
So when Cassie had wanted to buy a place for them, Gwen had seen it as a way to escape the living arrangement she hated, and she’d been eager to accept. To Stan, it had been a demeaning offer from a woman who felt he wasn’t worthy of her daughter. He’d been hurt and angry that Gwen hadn’t understood why he couldn’t accept Cassie’s offer, and she, he knew, had been equally hurt and angry that he had not jumped at the chance to end a situation that was intolerable to her. Then they’d lost the baby. And Gwen, who had been so protected, did not know how to accept the fact that life is full of random cruelties which are no one’s fault. She had needed someone or something to blame, and he and his apartment were available. He had resented it, even though he’d understood why, and he hadn’t reached out to her the way he should have.
But today she had come to the shop to have lunch with him.
I love you, she’d written.
He knew that, would have bet his life on it. And he loved her. He thought that perhaps he’d stop at the florist down the street when he went home after work tonight. He wouldn’t get pink roses for Gwen, although he thought of them as her flower, because he didn’t want to remind her of the little bush she’d fought so hard to keep alive. Maybe some daisies.
* * *
Jeff and Gwen had left the little park together, and he invited her to have some coffee with him. She had accepted and they walked back to his office building, where there was a fancy little café that dispensed lattes and other such trendy variations on the good old-fashioned cup of Joe. As they walked they had established that yes, indeed, he had married Jewel Fairchild, and for a brief moment he had wondered if for some re
ason Gwen Wright—and why couldn’t he remember her new last name?—was keeping tabs on his wife as much as his wife kept tabs on her. But why would she do that? Jewel was jealous of Gwen for all the obvious reasons, but surely Gwen Wright Whatever had no reason to return the favor.
When he and Gwen had reached their destination and they were seated across the table from each other, Jeff found himself momentarily at a loss for something to say. The thoughts in his mind—There are dark circles under your eyes; are you sleeping enough? And there is a haunted expression in them that I find horribly sad. Is there anything I can do for you?—wouldn’t be appropriate. Finally he settled on, “Do you go to that park often?”
And he thought to himself, Wonderful, Jeff, could you have asked a question that was more of a cliché?
But she answered seriously. “I haven’t been there in a while. I . . . haven’t been well. . . .”
I know, he thought of saying but didn’t. She didn’t need to be reminded that she was still a Wright, and the loss of her child was the subject of gossip in their city. She didn’t need to know that one of the chief gossips was his jealous wife.
“I’m afraid I don’t like that park very much,” she went on. “It’s so small and crowded.”
He thought of her athletic stride and the feeling he’d had that she should be walking on country roads and open fields. This was the wrong setting for her, he thought. It was so very wrong. But what had Jewel said about the man she’d married—the one whose name Jeff couldn’t remember? Jewel said he was beneath Gwen. A nobody. So probably this was the best they could afford. But still it didn’t seem right.