Ivy Secrets (30 page)

“London is wonderful,” she said. “I spent my junior year there.”

“I know.” He winked. “We missed our princess.”

She lowered her eyes to her glass. “Please don’t call me that.”

He reached across the table and touched her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

She looked up at him. She held his gaze. He removed his hand and cleared his throat.

“You have a wife,” she said.

Edward nodded.

Marina twisted on the bench. “How long have you been married?”

“Sixteen years.”

She ran a hand along the edge of the table. “That is a long time.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any children?”

He shook his head. “She never wanted any. Now I’m over forty. Too old.”

Marina was surprised he was over forty. She’d thought he was more like, well, like Viktor’s age. She wanted to ask if he was happily married but was afraid it would sound like a come-on, as though she had decided this was indeed a date, when in fact it was probably just a Saturday drive, one friend trying to help another, one way in which he’d thought he
could help a Smithie get out of a depression. He’d probably done this hundreds of times, with hundreds of other Smithies, in the sixteen years of his marriage.

“Marina?” He asked so quietly, she was hesitant to answer. “Marina,” he said again. “How difficult your life must be.”

Tears filled her eyes. What was it about this man that made them appear so readily?

“Please don’t cry,” he said. “You’re too beautiful to cry.”

The waitress arrived to take their order, but neither had looked at the menu. When she left, Edward reached for Marina’s hand. His large, strong fingers, swallowed her tiny ones. “We should head back right after dinner,” he said.

His hand was so warm, so big, so safe. “We do not have to,” Marina said.

He gently rubbed her fingers, one at a time. When he reached her thumb, he began all over again. “We must go back,” he said.

“Your wife?” she asked through half-choked tears.

He shook his head. “She is in Boston for the weekend. But no, Marina, we must go back for you. You don’t want to be stranded for the night with a man who has nothing to offer you.”

She watched him rub her fingers. “You have given me more than any man ever has,” she said. “You are giving me a wonderful feeling that I am cared about.”

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Still,” he said, “we must go back.”

“No,” she said. “I will not. I want to be with you tonight. All night. Please give me that much, Edward. Please give me one night of freedom. I may never have another chance. Not for the rest of my life.”

His warm eyes glistened with tears.

    They found a quaint inn in the town of Derry, a large farmhouse converted for tourists—skiers, mostly, the personable woman, who ran it informed them.

The bed was soft and thick; the eiderdown comforter was warm and snugly. Together, the princess and the professor
found themselves naked, found themselves eager, and found themselves love.

“I can give you nothing,” Edward whispered as he mounted her again, as he kissed her mouth, her throat, her breasts. “I can give you nothing but this.” He slid his wonderfully hard penis inside her.

“This is all I want,” she moaned softly back. “This is more than I ever dreamed possible.”

He thrust in, then out, then back in again. She looked into his eyes. Moonlight kissed the snow outside their window and flooded the room with glowing radiance. Their eyes connected; her body arched to meet his again and again, never taking her eyes off his, never breaking the spell. And then his face seemed to glow. She tried to reach to touch it when a sensation so unknown, so incredible, washed through her, a tidal wave of euphoria, a rush of heaven.

“Edward!” she cried, as her body heaved, and her inside cried out for more. “Edward!” she cried again, then suddenly she felt a hot stream burst into her, pouring into her. His eyes danced; his slow smile curved. “Marina. My God. Yes,” he cried, and she shivered with an ecstasy she had never known.

All through the night, they held each other. Again and again, he entered her. Again and again, he made her reach the peak, the summit of her feelings, the explosion of her lust. He did it again and again, until she cried out, “No more!” And then, he did it again.

When the moonlight grew yellow and turned into sun, they slept, tight in each other’s arms, they slept.

    The scent of baking muffins awakened Marina. She rolled on her side and watched Edward’s sleeping face: so peaceful, so serene. She longed to touch his face, yet she didn’t want to wake him. Her body ached with exhaustion, yet was filled with more energy than she’d ever known. She quietly slipped from the bed and went to the bathroom. In the mirror, she studied her tiny frame. It looked no different than yesterday. Yet now it had been loved. Really loved, not used, as it had been by Viktor. Not like so many others who had tried. This time, it—she—had really been loved.

She quickly pulled on her clothes. She wanted some air,
some fresh, wonderful country air, some so-like-Novokia air. As she stepped outside, Marina realized she had never felt so alive.

Sometime during the night, it had snowed. The narrow dirt road was blanketed by a thick frosting of white. Marina stepped through it and followed the road to the paved street. She walked along, past a large dairy farm, past the brook that trickled through silver ice, past the cows that stood in repose, watching her watch them. She smiled and wondered if they could smell her scent, if they could smell Edward’s scent upon her.

Edward had been right, she thought again as she drank in the morning air. Vermont was much like Novokia. She warmed her hands in her pockets and felt a longing for home. But with that longing, Marina knew, came responsibility. Just as Edward James had responsibility. She had a country; he had a wife. Marina stopped and looked up to the crystal-covered mountain peaks that surrounded her. And she knew, in that instant, that what she and Edward James had shared last night must now become no more than a memory. She knew they could not be together again. Just as she knew she would never—ever—forget their night together, and the wonderful gift he had given her soul.

Two days before Christmas, Charlie sat in a stiff chair in the library of the Hobart mansion. She pressed her knees tightly together, hoping it would help them stop trembling. She could hardly believe that Peter had finally agreed to bring her home to meet his mother.
Be careful what you pray for
, Charlie remembered her mother often saying.
It might come true.

She glanced around the room now—a room large enough to fit the entire first floor of the O’Brien family row house. Charlie folded her hands in her lap. They were clammy, and she tried to ignore that, along with the fact that her heart seemed to be beating a little faster than usual. She wore the white cashmere dress she’d bought so long ago at Felicia’s at cost and with her discount. She silently prayed that white cashmere hadn’t gone out of style.

She stared across the library into the steady flames of the fireplace. She wished that Peter would stop pacing.

“I don’t know what’s keeping her,” Peter said. “I’m sure she’ll be down in a minute.”

Charlie nodded, almost afraid to speak. She shifted her gaze to the tiny white lights that covered the neat spruce Christmas tree in the corner. Yards of white pearls and strings of gold beads were wrapped around the tree; delicate hand-painted crystal ornaments hung from its branches. It bore little resemblance to an O’Brien tree, like the one they had two years ago when Marina came to visit and gave the greatest gift of all. The Hobart tree had no colorful paper chains, no Styrofoam ornaments decorated in elementary school, and surprisingly, no mound of gifts beneath its
boughs. Charlie supposed that the Hobart gifts consisted of neat little packages from Tiffany’s and Carrier, not mismatched boxes containing work boots and Play-Doh and hand-knit sweaters, all clumsily wrapped with stick-on bows and too much tape.

Movement from the doors behind her startled Charlie. She tugged the hem of her dress over her knees and turned around. But it wasn’t Elizabeth Hobart; it was the butler, bearing a silver tray of tiny cookies perfectly aligned on a lacy doily.

“Marzipan?” he asked as he tipped the tray toward Charlie.

She’d never tasted marzipan, never even heard of it. She plucked a pink ball decorated with a precisely halved cherry, and said, “Thank you.”

The butler brought the tray to Peter, but Peter shook his head.

After the butler left, Charlie sat and stared at the small pink ball. She looked at Peter; he smiled. She took a small bite and slowly chewed-the soft almond paste, wishing she had taken a napkin from the tray, not knowing quite what to do with the sticky residue on her fingers.

“Peter.” It Was a woman’s voice, as strong and authoritative as Tess had warned Charlie.

She twisted in her chair, popped the rest of the cookie in her mouth, and tried to suck her fingers clean. Peter crossed the room to greet his mother. Charlie stood up on Jell-O legs, and awaited her formal introduction to the woman she would soon call mother.

One look at Elizabeth Hobart told her it wasn’t going to be easy. Elizabeth held her cheek to Peter; he kissed it as was apparently expected.

“Mother,” he said. “You look lovely.”

Lovely
wasn’t exactly a word Charlie would have used. Stately, perhaps. Or regal. She wondered if Marina’s mother—a real-life queen—carried with her such an air.

“This is Charlene,” Peter said as he guided his mother toward her.

Charlene?
Charlie wanted to choke on the name. She’d been called Charlie since she could remember. Charlene was someone else’s child, perhaps, not her.

Charlie tried to smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Hobart,”
she said as she extended her hand. Elizabeth Hobart’s hand was dry and cool. It grazed over Charlie’s, then quickly pulled away. Maybe, Charlie thought, she felt the leftover marzipan.

“Good evening, Charlene,” was all the woman said.

She moved to a tall wing-backed chair and sat, her black velvet robe cascading around her. Despite the warmth from the fire, Charlie felt a chill in the room.

“How is Amherst?” Elizabeth asked Peter as though Charlie wasn’t there.

“Fine, Mother.”

“And the library?”

Charlie knew she was inquiring about the state of construction of the Maximillian Hobart Memorial Library Wing—a gift to the college from the family. A “gift” that followed the acceptance of the younger Hobart, John, despite his poor grades and even poorer SATs.

“It’s coming along.”

Elizabeth nodded and scrutinized the fire. She seemed to require no further information.

Peter cleared his throat, picked up the poker and moved the logs around. They crackled and hissed, then settled into mellowness. “Charlene is from Pittsburgh, Mother.”

“Yes. I believe you mentioned that.” Then the woman turned to Charlie. “Is your father in steel?”

Charlie hesitated a moment. She looked at Peter, who had a pleading look on his face. “Yes,” she answered.

The fire snapped.

“Charlene is a senior at Smith, Mother,” Peter said.

Elizabeth turned her head to Charlie. “I was never privileged to go to college.”

Charlie took a deep breath. “Nor am I privileged, Mrs. Hobart. I’m there on a scholarship.”

A white eyebrow raised.

“A
full
scholarship,” Charlie added.

“I see,” said the woman, as she turned back to the fire. “What are you planning to do with your life after Smith?”

Charlie looked to Peter for a cue. It was his opportunity to tell his mother they planned to marry. It was his chance to break the ice. He said nothing.

“I’d like to open a women’s clothing store,” Charlie said. “Several, perhaps.”

“You are studying business?”

“Yes.”

“I thought Smith was a liberal arts school.”

“It is.”

“Why did you go there if you wanted to study business?”

“It has an excellent program. Economics is actually my major.”

The woman turned sharply. “Few women can make it in the business world. Despite what the women’s libbers claim.”

Charlie looked at Peter again. She didn’t know what to say. Why wasn’t he telling his mother about their plans? Why wasn’t he standing up for her?

“Tea?” The butler’s question startled Charlie.

“Not for me, Randolph,” Elizabeth said as she stood. “I’m going to retire early tonight.”

She left the room, followed by the butler bearing his teapotted tray, without so much as a good-bye.

Charlie left her shoulders relax. She stared at the floor, fighting back tears. “She hates me.”

Peter came to her and took her hands in his. “No. That’s just Mother’s way.”

She pulled her hands away. “Her way? Are you crazy? ‘I was never privileged to go to college. What are you planning to do?’ God, Peter, she hates me.”

“Give her a chance.”

Charlie shook her head. “It’s not even her, Peter. It’s as much you.”

“Me?”