Everlasting (26 page)

More important, Catherine had been reminded of what she needed to make her own life full, and she was conjuring up a new scheme for getting it.

Chapter 8

New York, 1968–1970

C
atherine had forgotten the noise of the city.

Standing on 72nd Street at eight-thirty on an early July morning, she took a deep breath and looked around. No solitude, no serenity here. The subway and the passing traffic made the sidewalk vibrate beneath her feet. Horns blared. Windows opened, doors slammed. A woman with harlequin sunglasses and an Hermès scarf trotted by with a poodle in a rhinestone collar. A delivery boy on a bike cut in front of a taxi driver, who leaned out of his window shaking his fist and swearing in Greek. Gray-suited men with bulging briefcases in their hands slid into their sleek limousines. On the corner a grizzled old man sold hot pretzels, across the street from another who ran a ramshackle newsstand that had been there for years. Wind tugged at the pretzel stand’s striped umbrella. The city hummed with hurry.

Catherine loved it. Here was the pace that matched hers. Her visit to England had refreshed her, dipped her in a well of peace, but she knew that too much peace would drown her. She liked action, work, accomplishment. But also, she thought as she walked toward Blooms, she liked sex.

Jason and Sandra rushed to greet Catherine when she entered. She’d been gone less than two weeks, yet they hugged and kissed her, talking so fast that their words tumbled on top of one another. Catherine had brought them presents: for Sandra, she’d bought a beautiful silk scarf covered with flowers; for Jason, another silk scarf, also covered with flowers, but in a slightly different design and color. She’d brought Piet a present, too, but she planned to give it to him alone: it was an English paisley silk robe from Liberty’s, an invitation.

But now Piet was down in the basement, supervising the men who washed the containers, unpacked the deliveries, and cleaned and conditioned the flowers he had bought downtown in the flower district earlier that morning. She merely called hello to him from the top of the stairs, and he answered that he’d have coffee with her later.

Up in her office, Catherine shut her door; then, stretching her arms wide, she turned around slowly, savoring being back in the room she loved best. Her enormous mahogany desk was piled with mail, trade magazines, and folders Sandra had pulled from the files of clients who had called recently. The summer was usually quiet, but there were still weddings and parties. Business didn’t really flatten out until August.

Catherine sat at her desk, kicked off her shoes, and began to dig in.

“Hi, kid.”

She was so engrossed in her work, she hadn’t even heard the door open. The voice startled her.

“Leslie!” She raced across the room and hugged her friend tightly. “My God, what a surprise! Come in! Sit down. What are you doing here?” She studied her friend’s face. Leslie looked artistically bizarre, like a vampire, or rather as if a vampire had been at her. Even on this hot July day, Leslie was wearing a long-sleeved turtleneck black mini-skirted tunic, no jewelry except heavy dangling silver earrings. Her hair was short, her skin was white as paper, and she was pencil thin.

“I’ve been here for days, I’ve been calling you constantly. It never occurred to me that you wouldn’t be here. From your letters I got the impression you were chained to your shop. It’s great, by the way, really marvelous. I came down a few days ago and talked with one of your staff—Jason. He told me you were off in England.”

“I sent you a postcard.”

“I didn’t get it—it will probably be waiting for me when I get back to Paris. So how are you? Is this a good time for me to be here?”

“When are you going back to Paris? I mean, if you’re leaving tomorrow, I’ll stop work now, but if you’ll be here a few days more, I’d like to get some things out of the way.… Let’s have dinner tonight.”

“I don’t know when I’m going back. I’ll be here at least a week. Daddy’s not here, but he’s coming in a few days. All right, let’s have dinner tonight. I have a lot to tell you.”

“I have a lot to tell you—”

Leslie had left the office door open when she entered, and now Piet was standing in the doorway. Catherine’s heart jumped. His white cotton shirt, damp with sweat, clung to his chest. His sleek black hair was long, and for a moment, in the dim light of the hallway, his face looked as beautiful as a woman’s. Then he stepped inside, and the light illuminated the hard line of his jaw where his beard was already showing stubble so black it was almost violet.

“You must be Piet.”

Catherine looked at Leslie, stunned. Lust had lowered Leslie’s voice several notes. Leslie rose from her chair, crossed the room, and shook Piet’s hand. All perfectly friendly, but full of innuendo. “I’m Catherine’s old school friend, Leslie Dunham. Catherine’s told me so much about you. Actually”—Leslie laughed—“what am I saying? Catherine’s hardly told me anything about you at all.”

Piet leaned against the doorjamb, smiling. “Yes, our Catherine can be secretive,” he said.

“Well, hey,” Leslie said, “Catherine and I are going out to dinner tonight. Why don’t you join us?”

Piet looked over at Catherine. His dark eyes seemed to hold amusement, but then they often did.

Catherine felt that in a few brief seconds she’d lost control of her life and her plans. “Yes, Piet, do join us,” she said. “We’ll dress up and show Leslie a great time in her old town!”

Piet nodded, his eyes betraying nothing of his reaction, then he excused himself. “See you later, Leslie. Catherine—it’s nice to have you home.”

The moment he’d turned to go down the stairs, Leslie pushed the door shut and shot across the room. She bent over Catherine, who was still seated on her desk chair. “Jesus,” Leslie whispered. “He’s sublime! I’ve never seen anyone like him. Don’t tell me that after all these years you still aren’t sleeping with him.”

“Sit down, Leslie, and cool off. Look, we work together.”

Leslie sat down. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes, she said, “I sleep with a lot of people I work with.”

“What? I didn’t know you worked.”

“I model. And sleep with the artists. And guys model for me, and I sleep with them. God, Catherine, I’ve written you. How’s your family? Now where have you been?”

Relieved that Leslie had changed the subject, Catherine relaxed. She told Leslie about going to Everly with Ann and asked about Mr. Dunham. But Leslie was restless. Catherine could see her mind was elsewhere, probably in the basement of Blooms, she thought dryly. “I’ll let you get back to work. See you tonight.”

* * *

T
hey met at six at Blooms. Leslie wanted to try a new French restaurant she’d heard about in Paris, and Piet drove them there in the van. Catherine was a little embarrassed: a van seemed so déclassé. But the air of the van was marvelously perfumed from a crush of elaborate pedestal arrangements of summer roses Blooms had done for a summer wedding. The van’s front seat was actually a long bench, so all three of them could fit comfortably. Leslie snaked her way into the van first so that she was the one squeezed against Piet as he drove.

Catherine was wearing the sleeveless black dress with the gold chain belt around her hips that she’d started her day’s work in; in the end she’d been too busy catching up to go home and change. Leslie was wearing a shapeless, shimmering batik Indian dress made of gauze, hung with beads and fringe. Ornate earrings, intricate and vaguely sexual, like carvings from a primitive temple, hung from her ears. But Piet was the surprise. For once, he was wearing a summer navy blazer with white linen trousers. He looked like a crown prince of the raj dressed for an English tea.

At the restaurant, to celebrate, they ordered champagne, and then escargots with baguettes to soak up the garlic butter, and tournedos and
pommes frites
. Almost at once Leslie and Piet began chattering to each other in French. Catherine was miffed: she hadn’t known Piet could speak fluent French, and her own facility had faded considerably. Imposing what she hoped was a pleasant expression on her face, she watched and listened, trying to understand the lilting conversation that lopped back and forth between Leslie and Piet. She was distracted. She was restless and unhappy. She wanted to be alone with her old friend, she wanted to be alone with Piet. She could hardly tell Leslie about making love to Ned with Piet sitting there—especially when she was hoping to seduce Piet.

Leslie wasn’t doing a bad job of seducing Piet herself. She met his eyes, leaned close, laughed, and touched his arm as she spoke. She was flirtatious, fluid, feminine.

Piet appeared to be charmed. Certainly he was charming. Catherine had never seen him like this, at ease, sophisticated, even courtly. She let the conversation slide past her—Piet and Leslie could have been discussing art or astronauts for all Catherine could comprehend. Stop that! Catherine wanted to shout at Piet. Stop acting so cosmopolitan, I know what you’re really like! But of course, she didn’t know what he was like at all.

“You’re so quiet, Catherine,” Leslie said in English. “Is something wrong?”

“I think I’m just tired. I was in England only yesterday morning. I’m—disoriented. And I have to admit, despite Miss Brill’s I can’t keep up with you two in French.”

“Oh, darling! Then we’ll talk in English.” Leslie smiled at Catherine, then immediately looked back at Piet. “I’d love to paint you. I mean, I would really love to paint you. I don’t suppose I could get you to pose for me.”

“I thought you were going back to Paris,” Catherine said.

Leslie shot Catherine a smile, but from her eyes glinted—what? a warning? a challenge? Catherine’s breath caught in her throat. She’d never competed with Leslie for a man’s attentions before.

“—no rush to get back,” Leslie was saying. She took out a cigarette. Piet leaned forward to light it. She put her hand on his to steady it and let her hand linger there just a few seconds longer than necessary.

Leslie had to go back to Paris sometime, Catherine thought glumly as Leslie babbled on. Leslie had to go back to Paris, and Piet would remain here, but she didn’t want Piet later, and she didn’t want Piet after Leslie had been his lover, and she also didn’t want Piet now if it meant engaging in some kind of seductive contest for him. I’m doomed, Catherine thought, drinking her champagne, toying with her steak, doomed never to have him. She’d had such fantasies on the flight home! No. More than that. She’d had
fantasies
for years now. On the plane she’d made plans, imagined how to arouse him. When she’d arrived back in New York yesterday afternoon, she’d purposely, and with great difficulty, kept away from the shop to sleep off her exhaustion before she saw him. The silk paisley robe was in its purple box in her living room. She’d planned to invite him to her apartment for a drink tonight. She’d planned to give him the gift … and she’d imagined the rest would follow. Damn Leslie!

“Why are you so twitchy?” Leslie asked, suddenly focusing on Catherine.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s just jet lag,” Catherine lied.

“Well, perhaps you ought to go home and get some more sleep.”

And it would be fine with you if I left now, wouldn’t it!
a wicked voice in Catherine’s head taunted. Aloud, she said slowly, “You’re probably right, Leslie. I should just go home—”

“Unfortunately, I have to go, too,” Piet said.

“You do? Why?” Catherine asked, shocked.

Piet smiled directly at her. “You don’t know why?”

“Well, no—”

Catherine stared at Piet. She knew her cheeks were flaming. She could see Leslie looking at her with a mixture of envy and curiosity on her face. Catherine couldn’t speak. She looked at Piet, and their gaze was a kind of touching, a stream of heat flaring between the two of them.

“Catherine.” Leslie’s voice was sharp. “What’s gotten into you?”

Catherine tore her gaze away from Piet’s eyes.

“Why do you have to go now?” Leslie asked Piet, her voice sweet. “It’s so early.”

“I apologize, Leslie, I should have warned you. I thought Catherine would understand—but perhaps she thinks I never sleep. I buy the flowers for the shop at the flower district every morning. I have to be there between five and six—and if I don’t turn in around ten o’clock, I’m useless.”

“God, how dreadful for you!” Leslie said. “I usually don’t go to bed until four in the morning, and I sleep till noon.”

Leslie and Piet chattered easily as they paid the check. Catherine was still quiet. If Piet hadn’t known how she felt about him before, he’d know now. She wandered out of the restaurant after her friends like an amnesiac.

She didn’t bother to listen to Piet and Leslie as they talked on the drive back across to the East Side. She leaned her head against the back of the seat.

“Oh! Well! Here we are! I didn’t realize—”

Leslie’s shrill cheerfulness startled Catherine.

“Would you like to come up for a drink? Both of you? Either of you? Oh, no, I forgot, early days tomorrow. Well, it’s been lovely, and Piet, I hope I see you again. Catherine, I’ll come to the shop in the afternoon. Kiss kiss.” Leslie pecked the air on both sides of Catherine’s face.

Catherine watched Piet walk Leslie to the door and kiss her on both cheeks. Then he was back in the van with her. Alone.

“I’ll take the van home with me,” Piet said. “That way I can drive it back to the shop in the morning, take out the pedestals, then go for the new flowers.”

“Fine. That’s fine, Piet,” she said tonelessly. She didn’t look at him.

Minutes later he was pulling the hand brake. Catherine blinked, disoriented.

“Piet. You’ve parked in the alley behind Blooms—I thought you were going to drive the van to your place.”

“I am. In a while.”

She turned to look at him. From a lamppost at the end of the alley a light burned, casting their faces in a silvery glow. As if they were on the moon, or in a dream. “There’s something I want to show you.”

“What?” Piet’s voice was so casual, she forgot her embarrassment. “Let me show you.”