Ivy Secrets (25 page)

Back in Northampton, going to classes became something to do between weekends in the Berkshires, Sturbridge, and southern Vermont. Charlie was quickly getting accustomed to the lifestyle, accustomed to being waited on, accustomed to the little presents Peter bought her on every trip and gave her each Sunday night when he brought her back to Morris House before returning to Boston. They were little presents with so much thought—a Limoges porcelain box, a scrimshaw comb of ivory, a miniature reproduction of a Daniel French sculpture. A present for, a memento of, each magical weekend. As Thanksgiving approached, Charlie
awaited the invitation to his home, and her chance to meet Elizabeth Hobart at last.

“I thought you’d want to be with your family,” he said as they sat by the edge of Paradise Pond.

Charlie skimmed a stone across the water, watching the ripples grow larger and larger, wondering what she was going to do. In the past couple of months she had grown to trust Peter, to trust their love. She’d assumed meeting his mother was their “next step.”

“I haven’t seen my family in a long time,” Charlie answered. “But I thought it was more important to meet your mother.”

“Now’s not a good time, babe,” he said quietly. “Mother is having some problems with the business. It would be better if I went home alone.”

“It doesn’t seem right. I mean, you’ve already met my mother.”

“You’re being silly.”

She picked at a blade of brittle autumn grass. “Don’t you want me to meet her? First there was Labor Day, now Thanksgiving. Don’t you think she’ll approve of me?”

He put his arm around her and pulled her close. “Don’t be ridiculous. I love you. I told you, this just isn’t a good time.”

Charlie looked out across the water. The two swans were there, mates for life. She wondered what it would be like to have such an uncomplicated life. She tried again to tell herself she was being paranoid, but this time she didn’t believe it.

That night when she went to her room to pack for Pittsburgh, Charlie felt an ache of longing for her friends: for Marina, for Tess. Next September was so far away; it seemed too long to be without them.
Men are one thing
, Charlie reasoned as she tossed her jeans into the duffel bag,
but nothing can replace the comfort of a female friend.

She vowed that when Marina and Tess returned next fall, she would do all she could to strengthen their friendship, to let them know how much they were missed.

Autumn 1979

Tess set the small vase on the windowsill of her room in Morris House and stood back to admire it. The autumn sunlight caught the flecks of gold that floated within the emerald glass; the softly curved shape swirled with sensuality. The vase was the masterpiece of her year in Italy; the creation that told her she had found her place, her home, her future in the art of handblown glass. Her father could have his brushes and canvases: glass was her medium; glass was her soul.

She sat on the edge of the bed and reluctantly looked at her schedule of classes for senior year. Tess had not wanted to return to Smith; she’d wanted to stay in Italy, she’d wanted to perfect her craft, to be near Giorgini. But her parents had insisted she finish here. And worse, Giorgini had said it was time for her to leave.

“There are other apprentices I must teach,” he’d said one night as they lay together on the small twin bed in her room at the hostel. He stroked the roundness of her buttocks, kissed the smoothness of her breasts. And Tess was filled with the knowledge that, for once, she had been someone special; for once, she had been loved in return.

But she knew that Giorgini did have other apprentices to teach. And, of course, there was his wife.

She folded the registration form now.
One more year
, she thought.
Nine more lousy months and I will be free.
She did not know where she would go after Smith. She did not know if she would return to Italy; perhaps it was best to
keep the memory of Giorgini warm in her heart. Perhaps it was best not to tempt fate.

The only thing Tess knew was that she was going to blow glass. She looked back at the emerald vase and felt a small dot of light inside her, a small, glowing circle of warmth. At last there was something in her life that Charlie could not do, that Marina could not do. Something that neither of them could take away from her.

Tess closed her eyes. She would stay here at Smith; she would make her father proud and her mother as happy as possible. She would do her duty and get her degree, then her life would truly be her own.

But first, she had to have an abortion.

    “Just because I’ve brought you here doesn’t mean I totally approve,” Dell said to Tess as they sat on stiff vinyl chairs in the waiting room of the clinic.

Tess stared at the bulletin board on the beige-painted wall, at the thumbtacked notices that were mostly in Spanish. “I know you don’t,” she said quietly. “Neither do I. Believe me, Dell, I would love to have this baby.”

“But?”

“But, it’s like I told you. My mother.”

Dell nodded. “I know. But this is your body. Your life.” She rested her hand on Tess’s leg. “And your baby.”

A lump in Tess’s throat pressed against her airway.

“I only want you to be sure,” Dell said.

Tess pictured her mother, grand dame of San Francisco, proud lady, hopeful for, yet often disappointed in, her daughter. If she knew Tess was pregnant with the child of an Italian artist-gigolo, she would be shocked. Humiliated. Crushed. It was bad enough that Tess had ruined her mother’s dream for Tess and Peter Hobart. No. She could not do this to her mother.

“I’m sure,” Tess answered. “It’s for the best.”

The room was silent. Behind a glass partition, a typewriter clacked.

“I wish you had done this,” Tess said.

“My medical training enables me to be a midwife. I can deliver babies, but I can’t take them. Still, I understand that
sometimes it needs to be done. And that sometimes you don’t want your friends to know.”

“But you’re my friend.”

“Yes,” Dell answered. “I am.”

Tess nodded. “Thank you for promising not to tell my mother.”

“I told you before that your mother and I are different. But I remember her well enough to agree that this would send her over the edge. I don’t think you’d want that.”

“No,” Tess answered, “I wouldn’t. Anyway, thank you for coming with me.” She leaned forward on her elbows and tried to ease the queasiness in her stomach. She wished the waiting would be over. She wished the receptionist would stop typing and open the inner door and say “Miss Richards?” and let her go inside and get this over with. She wanted to stop thinking about this baby inside her, about the dark hair and eyes it would have, about whether it was a boy or a girl. She wanted to stop picturing the look on her mother’s face if she ever found out. She wanted to stop doubting her decision to do the right thing.

She clasped her cold, damp hands together and turned to Dell again. “Did you ever want to have children?”

The woman was quiet. She closed her eyes in thoughtful repose, then opened them again. “Not really,” she answered. “It was one of the reasons my husband left me.”

Tess sat up straight. “Your husband? I didn’t know you were married.”

Dell nodded. “Seventeen years.”

“Oh, my God. That’s …”

“What? Unbelievable?” A soft smile spread across Dell’s round face, then slowly vanished. “His name was Walter. He was a professor at Smith. He loved me. Then he left me.”

“But …”

“He left me for a twenty-three-year-old. Homely as sin, but madly in love with him.”

“Did you love him?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“Oh, Dell, I’m so sorry.”

“Life goes on,” Dell said.

Just then the inner door at last opened. “Miss Richards?”

Tess looked up to the receptionist.

“The doctor is ready for you now.”

Tess took a deep breath and went toward the door, hoping that her life, unlike the baby’s inside her, would go on.

    “Tess, you look wonderful!” Charlie said the next evening in the dining room. She gave Tess a big hug.

Tess pulled away and caught a glimpse of the puckered scar on Charlie’s forehead. She quickly averted her eyes, clutched a hand to her still tender stomach, and looked around the room. “I haven’t seen Marina yet. Is she back?”

“Yes. She’s buying her books.” Charlie sat at the round table and pulled out the chair next to her. “Sit down. I can’t wait to hear all about Italy.” She rolled her eyes. “And Giorgini.”

Tess hesitated, then decided she was being foolish. She would be living across the hall from Charlie for the next nine months. It was time to put the past to rest. It was time to bury her dreams of Peter Hobart in the same place she had buried the tiny fetus that was sucked from her womb. It was time for life to go on. She sat beside Charlie and put her napkin in her lap. “Italy was incredible,” she said. “Giorgini was gorgeous.”

Charlie leaned toward her. “Tell me more,” she said. “I haven’t seen you in over a year and I want to hear everything. Your letters never said enough.”

Tess smiled. “Some things are too personal.”

Charlie swatted her arm. “Don’t give me that!”

Tess knew she should ask Charlie about Peter. She’d thought about them—him—often during her year abroad. After Giorgini, she liked to think Peter had become, well, irrelevant. Dull. For some reason, though, it was still difficult to ask. Then she remembered the vase on her windowsill. Her vase, her art, her soul. Tess reminded herself that she didn’t need Peter Hobart or Charlie O’Brien or any of them. She had herself now, and that was enough, no matter what anyone thought. She cleared her throat.

“You said in your last letter you were still seeing Peter.”

Charlie blinked. “Yes. He’s in his last year of grad school now. At Harvard.”

Tess nodded. Harvard. For business, no doubt. She
smiled at the dullness of it all. The student server put plates of chicken and spaghetti in front of them. “Any big plans?”

“Maybe,” Charlie answered.

In spite of everything, Tess felt a small knot form in her stomach, the empty stomach, where, until yesterday, there had been life. Charlie and Peter would marry. Charlie would become Mrs. Peter Hobart. Charlie. Not Tess. Tess picked up her fork, threaded the tines through the pasta, and tried not to think about her mother.

“Chicken again?” the unmistakable voice of Marina pierced the dining room. Tess was relieved at the distraction. She stood and hugged the tiny princess, half-hoping that Charlie didn’t notice her enthusiasm was greater than it had been when Tess greeted Charlie, half-hoping she would notice.

“God, Your Highness,” Tess laughed. “It’s great to see you.”

“And I you,” Marina said with a mock curtsy. “You have no idea how wonderful it is to be in the sanest place on earth.”

Tess sat down and Marina sat next to her. Tess was suddenly aware that she was sitting between them—the thorn between two roses. “Don’t tell me London wasn’t sane.”

Marina tossed back her hair. “London was London. Rainy, foggy, and quite proper. I studied and Nicholas followed me around. I was bored to death.”

Charlie grinned and raised her water glass. “Here’s to your return to the excitement of Northampton. Both of you. I missed you terribly.”

Tess thought Charlie’s eyes were coated with tears. She wondered if Charlie had been envious that they went away, while she was stuck here. Then Tess thought of Peter. Stuck? Was she kidding?

She shoved her fork around the limp pasta again. The kitchen help could obviously use a lesson in Italian cuisine. “The last time I saw you,” Tess said to Marina, “you were off to your sister’s wedding.”

Marina groaned. “Do not remind me. She is pregnant now. Thank God I will not be there for the royal birth next month.”

Pregnant.
The word shivered, then dissolved in Tess’s inner
ear. That was yesterday. This is today. “Have you been back to Novokia since then?”

Marina shook her head. The waitress put a plate in front of her and she stared at it. “I understand though that my friend Viktor has been stirring up trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Charlie asked.

Tess wished Charlie would shut up. She liked being with Marina. She didn’t like it that Charlie was still here. She took a deep breath and wondered why she couldn’t shake this sick, angry feeling inside her. She’d thought that Italy was far away enough to remove her pain; that a year was enough time. But seeing Charlie again brought it all back. Charlie, who had her man, and who would never have to have an abortion.

Marina picked up a chicken leg, examined it, then set it back on her plate. “No one is sure what Viktor is up to. The rumor is that he is now some kind of rebel hiding out in the mountains.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Betrayal is the worst kind of crime.”

Silence descended over the table. Tess shifted uneasily. None of them wanted to speak of Viktor; none of them wanted to remember, or remind Marina of, that pain. And Tess, for one, didn’t want to think about betrayal.

“Well,” Tess said, “you know what they say in Italy.” She stretched out her arm and tapped the inside of her elbow, snapping, her hand up in the air.