He nodded.
“You remember my plan? Here, and then the house as soon as it’s ready? And trips now and then. You remember?”
He nodded again.
“It won’t be so bad, Adam. Anyway, we have no choice, have we?”
No. No choice.
“I don’t understand what’s happened to me,” he cried. “I was contented. I thought I was happy.”
“You were in a rut, darling, and didn’t know it.”
How was that possible? If one was content in the rut, was it really a rut? But no answer came. Filled with tumultuous confusion, he knew only that he could not do without what these few weeks had given to him.
“Oh,” he said, for perhaps the hundredth time, “what harm can come of this? We’re not hurting anybody.”
When she stood up from her chair, he, rising, too, took her into his arms. She was so soft, with her eyes cast down, her lashes brushing her round cheeks, her magic flesh, so soft.
And a thrill of peril shook through him, as if he were guiding a ship through a storm or standing on a cliff in the wind with rocks and ocean below. Yes, he would guide this ship through the storm and keep his balance on the cliff. Yes.
Quite simply, he needed this woman.
EIGHT
Nina stepped back to study the effect and decided that it was good. In fact, it was so well composed that it was charming and could have been photographed for any illustrious magazine. Over the mantel hung a bull’s-eye mirror, its convex surface reflecting in miniature the room’s lovely melange of pinks and dusty greens. The round table set for two was impeccably dressed with old Coalport plates, remnants of a broken-up set found at a secondhand shop, and an age-mellowed Irish lace cloth found in the same place. At the center in a crystal bowl, a rather extravagant Christmas present to herself, she had made a frothy arrangement of freesias and ferns.
All these possessions, now at home in the new apartment, were precious to her. They soothed the senses, as did the very nature of her daily work: the tactile sense, when fingers touched silks and polished woods; the visual, of course, as experience improved her judgment of color and proportion. Nina lived, and was aware of living, in a sensuous world.
All her friends, several of whom had apartments in this building, were in some way involved with the production and appreciation of taste. Among them there were a model, a student of architecture, and an aspiring actor living with a ballet dancer. Here were the women who bought old dresses from the forties, who knew how to tie a scarf or choose the bag that would make a difference. They loved the city’s fashions, its museums, its concert halls and art films; occasionally, when flush with cash, they sampled its famous restaurants.
At this reminder of food Nina glanced behind the bamboo screen into the minute kitchen and, for what must have been the tenth time this evening, counted on her fingers for reassurance: the wine—she needed to buy a book and learn something about wines—a white, to accompany the blackened fish, Portobello mushrooms, a platter of broiled vegetables, salad with sun-dried tomatoes and goat cheese, and for dessert, a tarte tatin, with cappuccino or espresso, whichever Keith might prefer. She looked at her watch. In ten minutes it would be time to heat things. She mustn’t forget the French bread. Thank heaven for New York’s delicious takeout caterers. The little dinner would be perfect.
The clock moved too slowly. And she took a book from the shelf, thinking it might fill the minutes before the doorbell should ring. He was always punctual; it was a trait that Margaret would definitely appreciate, she thought, smiling to herself. And she imagined Keith’s first meeting with the people at home. The way things looked, that meeting seemed inevitable, for they had come very, very far in the half year since they had met.
Not having read a complete sentence, she put the book away and went to the mirror in the bedroom for further reassurance. What she saw there pleased her: black velvet pants and white sweater on a body that never bore a pound too many; eyes wide with expectation, and shining hair still piled high in the style that she had worn for years and would never change, for it was her signature.
“I know this is a cliché,” Keith said, “such an awful cliché as to be embarrassing when you tell a woman that she’s ‘different.’ In your case, though, it happens simply to be a fact, and I can’t help but say it.”
They had been having a drink in a snug downtown bistro, and he had been entertaining her by inventing a background for people at surrounding tables.
“The proper study of mankind—” he had begun, and stopped then, with his head tilted first to one side and then the other, studying Nina from all angles as if she were a statue. “In New York there are three or four general types of women: the Upper East Side fashionables, very expensive, half-starved, dressed in next year’s fashions from shoes to hair; the Village woman, just barely but not quite counterculture, sometimes natural and pretty but sometimes unkempt in jeans and sloppy sweaters. Then there’s the theater crowd, and so on, and so on. You don’t fall into any of the categories.”
“Maybe that’s because I came from the Midwest.”
“No. You would be unusual anywhere, Nina. Do you know what I first noticed about you? Your voice. I was talking to one of the men at your place, when I—”
“You were talking to Ernie about your mother’s antique Chinese lamp that somebody broke.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember. I thought you were the handsomest man I’d ever seen, and I wondered who you were.”
She was not coy about the admission. He had come into the shop to replace the lamp in time for his mother’s birthday. And she had indeed wondered very much about this quiet young man whose air of authority and polished manner were those of a much older person. There had seemed to be something oddly aphrodisiac about the combination of youth and age.
Ernie had never seen him before. “He appeals to you, eh? An aristocratic type. Even has the arched nose, the rich voice, and the natural-shoulder suit. Very attractive. He’s straight too. I guarantee it.”
“Ernie! How silly can you be?”
They had long gone past the first formal distance between employer and employee. Among the three of them, Ernie, Willie, and Nina, serious discussion, arguments, and banter passed equally and freely.
“Not silly. I saw you watching while I was talking to him. He saw you too.”
“And what in heaven’s name does that amount to?”
“Probably nothing. But the lamp still has to be electrified, so unless he wants us to deliver it, he may be back next week to get it. And if you’re in the shop when he comes, you’ll have a chance at him.”
“Foolisher and foolisher, Ernie.”
But it had not been foolish. The most farfetched fantasies can sometimes come true, she reflected now. For when an order for delivery arrived, the boy who usually fetched and carried for the firm was doing something else. And so it was Nina who delivered the fragile lamp by taxi.
The great apartments that filled the fifteen-story limestone buildings on Fifth Avenue near the museum had no mystery for Nina. She had been in countless numbers of them, in the beginning as Crozier and Dexter’s humble trainee and more recently with real authority. That authority, too, was a fantasy come to life. So with poise she had passed beneath the green awning, given her name, and taken the elevator up to the door that had been opened to her by Keith himself.
For several seconds they stood as if startled; she had an impression of white collar, soft olive complexion, and vivid recognition. In the background lay a vista of mahogany and well-bred portraits in gilded frames.
“Come in, come in. Let me take that from you. Mother will be so pleased. Her luncheon’s tomorrow, and she’s been so worried that the lamp wouldn’t be here.”
Carefully, he placed it on a table beside the fireplace, adjusted the shade, and plugged the cord in.
“As you can see, the room would be positively naked without this thing.” And he twinkled at Nina. “Well, it d
oes look nice, though.”
A frail woman with silver-gray hair and a dress that matched it came into the room.
“Oh, it’s lovely!” she cried, clasping her hands in a gesture that might be thought charming or else affected, depending on one’s point of view. “Do you know, I think it’s even prettier than the old one? But you’ve always had good taste.”
“Not mine, Mother. The compliment must go to Miss—”
“Keller,” she said quickly. “It’s not mine either. It was Mr. Dexter who helped you.”
“No matter. The thing is, my mother is happy.”
“Yes, it was very nice of you to bring it here, Miss Keller.”
“It was my pleasure,” replied Nina with equivalent formality. “Well, have a lovely party and a happy birthday.”
“Wait,” Keith said quickly as she moved toward the door. “I’ll go down and make sure the doorman can get a taxi for you.”
“Thank you, I’m sure I can manage.”
“No, I insist.”
They rode down in silence. There were no cabs in sight.
“Perhaps,” Keith said, “if you don’t mind a walk, we might have a drink before dinner? There’s a little place on Third. It’s not far.”
“I know. I live just west of Third.”
“So I take it that the answer is yes?” And again he seemed to twinkle with some private amusement that lighted his eyes and drew amiable crinkles at their corners.
“You may take it that way.” And she laughed.
“Why are you laughing?”
“It occurred to me, in a very nice way, how like you are to your mother.”
“So they always tell me. Rather formal, they say. I’m not aware of it.”
“I think you do more laughing than she does, though.”
“That’s true. It comes from my father. He could find humor in everything, even in his own final illness. I’m not quite that funny, sorry to say.”
They had halted for a red light, when he looked down at her, half a head below him, and demanded why they were talking about him.
“I want to know about you. Where are you from? Surely not from New York.”
“No. I’m a midwesterner. A small town—a small city—woman. How did you guess?”
“Something indefinable. I just felt an awareness of you. You felt one, too, that day in the shop.”
Looking straight into a face that had abruptly turned solemn, she answered frankly, “Yes. Yes, I did.”
“Good. Now each of us knows where he stands.”
An unfamiliar thrill went through Nina then, a sense of some vague, looming happiness. Let come what may, she thought, as she kept pace with his steps.
At the “little place on Third,” Keith was evidently well known. The proprietor gave cheerful greeting and provided a table in an ell that was almost private. Keith drank scotch. Nina had an aperitif, and they talked. After a while he ordered dinner. “This isn’t fancy. The cooking is Italian homestyle. You’ll like it. I come here often.”
“What about dinner at home? Or don’t you live with your mother?”
“She’s invited out tonight. She’s been very ill, just over quadruple bypass surgery and a broken hip two years before that. It’s one reason why I was so eager to get that lamp on time. It was important for her, although it probably might seem ridiculous to other people.”
“Not to me. When you’re part of a close family, you’re tolerant of people’s little quirks, including your own. At home the big things aren’t lamps and things, but dogs and birds. Heaven help you if you’re late with their feed and water.” She smiled, remembering.
“Tell me about your home, please, Nina.”
So, at his behest, she talked about herself. Then he talked about himself. By the second cup of after-dinner espresso she had learned that he was an investment banker, had lived in France, knew rather a good deal about art, was an active sponsor of cancer research, and was twelve years older than she.
When they parted at her front door, he asked to see her again and gave her a gentle kiss. The fact that he did not fumble or grab intensified the gravity of what was happening. Back in her room she examined herself in the mirror; it seemed to her that she was seeing something different and new in her face, an alteration, and a kind of wonder. This surely had to be what is meant to “fall in love.” And she knew she was too sophisticated to scoff at “love at first sight”; undoubtedly, it could happen. It did happen.
The second time they met he took her far downtown to a Chinese movie. He had been in China, and afterward at dinner in a Chinese restaurant, she was full of questions. His answers were clear and unpretentious. She had met too many men who, with their comparably slight experience, were yet too satisfied with themselves; Keith’s simplicity was therefore all the more impressive.
Other men were boys compared with him. Not only the teenagers she had once known at home, but the much older people she was meeting here and now, were boys. Keith was a man. She was filled with respect. And that night, they went to bed.
A gardenia plant in full, creamy bloom arrived the next day. It came with explicit instructions and a warning: This plant requires tender, loving care. It seemed to her as she watered it and wiped its glossy leaves that the admonition was also apt for the care and guarding of human love. It was true that her sexual experience had been limited—by prudent choice, to be sure—yet it had been broad enough for her to recognize differences. The night with Keith had been a revelation of skill and tenderness. She was enchanted; she was overwhelmed with gratitude for the incredible, haphazard accident that had brought them together. All this had evolved out of a broken porcelain lamp! Imagine!
So began the lovely, mellow weeks of early summer. Together, they wandered through the city’s far-flung places, from art galleries and dance recitals in renovated downtown factories to Thai or Russian restaurants and Irish pubs.
“I like to get off the beaten path,” Keith said. “It takes no imagination to keep going back to famous places. We’ve all seen them often enough.”
Nina’s neighbor in the apartment across the hall, noticing that he left at ten o’clock one night, remarked, “Your friend doesn’t stay very late.”
“He lives near here on Fifth Avenue with his mother.”
“Not really with his mother?”
“Yes. She’s been ill, and so he’s moved back with her for a while. He’s that sort, very kind.”
“And very rich, I should think.”
The woman was too curious, but there was no malice in her, and Nina was merely amused.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, Fifth Avenue, after all.”
“Probably he is. I suppose so.”
“Is it serious?”
“I hope so.”
“Not bad for you, if it is. Not bad, living on Fifth Avenue.”
Now Nina spoke brusquely. “I don’t care at all. Not at all.”
This was true. Any inference that her emotions could be influenced by money made her wince. She had her independence. She cherished it and was proud of it. Everything she possessed had come to her through her own efforts.
In the second month after meeting Keith she had moved from the studio apartment to the present one.
“Nice as this is,” he had said, “in my opinion you deserve better. I’d like to see you in a building with an elevator and a doorman.”
“I can’t afford it,” she had told him.
“Let me help you.”
“No, Keith. Thank you, but absolutely no.”
“Just in part, then. A joint venture.”
“I couldn’t possibly.”
Then, curiously, he asked why not. She knew why not. Because it would be quite simply, and for lack of a better word, cheap. Love should never be mixed up with money. She knew quite well what Margaret and Adam would say about that.
She did not, however, tell him anything more than “I’m a very independent person. I see you haven’t lear
ned that about me yet.”
“I think I have. You wouldn’t even let me give you that little silver bracelet in the craft shop window.”
“Flowers and chocolates will be graciously received,” she told him, laughing.
“That sounds like something out of an ancient book of etiquette.”
“As a matter of fact, it is. I used to read my grandmother’s mother’s Emily Post.”
“A proper lady, you are. Except in bed. Then you’re hardly proper at all,” he said with his by-now-familiar twinkle.
“That’s different.”
“Tell me, are books acceptable to a lady?”
“Ah, yes, I forgot about books.”
As a result of that little conversation Nina’s bookshelves were rapidly filling. It was interesting that, once away from formal education and required reading, she had become a reader. The great books that Margaret had loved, the novelists and poets, now lay about her rooms. Before her on the coffee table Balzac’s Père Goriot was open at the page where, in her impatience, she had put it down.
When the telephone rang, she jumped to it, praying that it wasn’t Keith to say he couldn’t come. It was Margaret.
“I thought maybe I’d catch you at home with your feet up after a long, hard day.”
“It was a long day, but not hard, since I love what I do. And my feet aren’t up. They’re in new shoes. I’m expecting Keith to dinner any minute.”
“Then I won’t keep you. I had nothing special to say, anyhow, nothing more than a chat. What have you made for dinner? Steak and potatoes, or is he watching cholesterol and fats like practically everybody else?”
“What have I made for dinner? Nobody cooks anymore, not around here at least. The takeout places are fabulous. I’ve got blackened fish, vegetables, and a stunning lace tablecloth. You should see my new place. I’ve two big rooms and a kitchen. It’s really lovely. Can you come soon for a weekend?”
“You know I’d pick up and travel at the drop of a hat. And Adam would, too, just for a chance at a couple of operas. But he can’t possibly get away right now.” Margaret’s clear soprano dropped to an anxious tone. “Things aren’t going well at the office, Adam says. Everybody’s worried about what may lie ahead. Meanwhile, they’re working people to death. He keeps slave hours. Really. Some nights he doesn’t get home till eleven-thirty or after, and then he’s up in the morning before six to get to his desk. It’s inhuman. We hardly ever have dinner together anymore, which is especially hard on Danny.”