My Father's Wives (18 page)

“Hello, beautiful,” I said in a sexy voice.

She turned her head and only her head, and the smile on my face
froze, as did my hand, still resting on her ass. I couldn’t move, so I didn’t, and neither did she, and then she winked and shook her hair. “Hello to you too, handsome,” she said.

It wasn’t Claire, of course. It was Betsy Buchanan. And what I remember most is the way she reacted. She didn’t appear embarrassed or insulted or even amused; if I wasn’t mistaken, she was excited. Ever since that day, Betsy’s friendliness has turned flirtatious in my presence. Rather than pretend the whole thing never happened, she instead jokes about it constantly, in a manner that sometimes feels like an invitation. I perceive Betsy to be a lonely woman. Her husband is significantly older, a former surgeon with grown children from a previous marriage. He travels the world constantly, lecturing and teaching a procedure for which he is renowned. Amiable and obviously smart, he is without a hint of warmth, the opposite of his outgoing, enthusiastic bride. It has never been clear to me where the two of them meet in the middle, not that the matter is any of my concern, but I’ve been acutely aware of it ever since the night I fondled her butt.

That was the first time I’d mistaken her for Claire. Now, here on the bench at school, it had happened again.

“Hi, Jon,” she said. Her voice was husky.

“Do you mind if I sit?” I asked. “I’ve had a very long week.”

She slid to the side and tapped the empty space with waggling fingers. “Tell me,” she said. “What has been keeping us so busy?”

“You know,” I said, staring at the grass beneath our feet, “all the usual things.”

“Yes, the usual things are exhausting. It’s the
unusual
things that keep us awake.”

A chipmunk darted up the trunk of a tree. A car horn sounded. Two women passed behind us on the path, speaking softly.

“Where is Mitchell?” I asked. Mitchell is her husband.

“Prague,” she said. “I think.”

A group of birds passed above in formation, casting a moving shadow across the lawn. Betsy slid slightly toward me, almost imperceptibly.
Her arm was still on the back of the bench, her hand beside my ear.

“You look like you might fall asleep,” she said.

“I’m fine.” The bell was going to ring any second; you could feel it in the silence in the air. “Are
you
fine?” I asked.

I saw the muscles in Betsy’s throat tighten. “Of course I am,” she said, and looked away. “You know, I was voted the hottest mom in the tenth grade. What more does a girl need than that?”

I didn’t know what to say. Claire would never have cared about such a thing as being considered sexy by a bunch of fifteen-year-old boys. I was trying to figure out how to respond when I noticed there were tears in Betsy’s eyes. I guess if you aren’t quite sure that your husband is in Prague, things just aren’t as they should be.

Finally the bell rang and the sound hung in the air, filling the last moments of tranquillity. I put my hand on Betsy’s shoulder and squeezed gently. She smiled and stood, and lingered just a moment, her butt inches from my face, long enough to remind me that she remembered. Then she walked away toward the courtyard, where the voices of the youngest students were already reaching a crescendo.

I waited long enough to take two deep breaths, then got up myself. I passed Sonny on my way through the parking lot, standing beside the car, speaking into a cell phone. Behind him a group of older boys were crowding around a van that was blasting music, the school logo painted on the side. The soccer team, I thought. I didn’t recognize Betsy’s eldest son among them, but I knew it to be his group. And I saw Betsy a few steps ahead of me, walking alone, slowing as she passed the boys, shaking her hips a little in time with the music.

AFTER THE ICE CREAM,
the basketball, the homework, the Boggle, grilled salmon, warm chocolate chip cookies, an hour of television, and only a little struggle getting the kids up to bed, Claire and I were alone
in the dining room. The table was covered with dirty dishes, and we were savoring glasses of Grgich Hills Chardonnay. Claire’s eyes rolled back each time she raised the glass to her lips; she loves wine even more than I do.

“You going to be home for a little while?” she asked.

“One more trip,” I said. “London. Then it should be done for a while.”

She sighed. “So much travel. Don’t forget the kids’ concert is Thursday night.”

“I’ll be back for it, for sure.”

She sloshed about her glass and raised it beneath her nose, then smacked her lips. “You must be exhausted.”

“Do I look exhausted?”

She looked me up and down. “Actually, no,” she said. “Everything is about where it should be.”

Her lips were close to mine, full and moist; she was so beautiful I could hardly bear it. The sight of her face, the smell of the cookies, the feel of the glass in my hands. I leaned forward and kissed her, passionately. She kissed me back, then began to withdraw. “Jonathan,” she said, “the dishes.”

“Leave them.”

“We
can’t
leave them.”

I could smell the wine on her breath. “We can. I know it seems unusual, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”

“Jonathan, don’t be crazy.”

I pressed my lips to hers again. “People do far crazier things every day.”

“Just a second,” she said, and started toward the kitchen, but I didn’t let her get there. I jumped behind and lifted her off the ground.

“Jonathan,” she whispered, “the kids.”

“They’re asleep,” I said. “I promise.” She went limp in my arms. I turned abruptly and headed for the stairs.

“We cannot leave the dishes sitting there all night,” she said.

“Maybe we won’t,” I said. “Maybe we’ll come down later and make hot fudge sundaes. I just can’t think that far ahead.”

I carried her up the stairs and turned left, into our bedroom, without so much as a glance in the other direction. I wasn’t concerned with what had happened there. I was thinking only of right now. I kicked the door shut behind us and dropped her softly onto the bed. The moonlight streaming through the windows cast a black and white shadow as she wriggled out of her jeans. I was out of my clothes quickly too and collapsed on top of her; I heard the air go out of her chest, but the smile never left her face. I wanted to feel her skin against mine and I did, soft and warm and familiar. I held her as though I would never let go, and as we began to make love I once again heard my father’s voice. This time he was telling me I had it right. Everything really was right where it was supposed to be.

THE MORE TIME I
spend in London, the more I find the need to remind myself I am not in New York. More than any other city, foreign or domestic, London feels like my hometown. So, despite all the traveling I had done, when I stepped into the taxi at Heathrow my mind was quiet.

I spent the ride from the airport checking e-mail and arranging a calendar that had been thrown into a state of flux by the events of the past week. One e-mail from Bruce was of particular significance.
Need you here tomorrow 1p
.

It wasn’t a request, and it left me very little time. I would need to be on the first flight back to Kennedy in the morning, which meant I absolutely had to find her tonight.

I took a room at the Berkeley Hotel on Wilton Place, a mile from Piccadilly Circus, in Knightsbridge. I had stayed in numerous hotels in London through the years, but never this one. This time I had chosen not for the elegance but rather the location.

I dropped my bag in the hotel room and headed out into the evening
air. It was uncharacteristically pretty for London, a city in which the sky can almost never be described as “pretty.” But it was clear with just a few clouds, and the air was brisk but not cold. I hiked the collar of my jacket toward my ears. There was no need for an overcoat.

Directly across from the hotel was Kinnerton Street, a narrow, diagonal path, removed from the bustle of Knightsbridge by only a few steps and yet seemingly of an entirely other place and time. Tiny flats, potted plants, a small grocery selling milk and premade ham salad sandwiches. A group of men in suits were outside a pub drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, laughing loudly. I was overwhelmed by the smoke as I passed. The men, no longer allowed to smoke inside, took enormous puffs on their cigarettes with no regard at all for passersby. The smell was bitter and powerful, stronger than the smoke back home. Perhaps this was one small difference between London and New York: in New York the smokers have the decency to feel guilty as they ruin your walk.

Just beyond the pub was a small wooden sign:
JUDITH BLACKLOCK FLOWER SCHOOL
. Delightfully, once I turned into the alley, the revelry and smoke vanished instantly, replaced by a quietude much more in keeping with my state of mind. And the window of the flower shop was nothing short of spectacular. I’m not one who is always observant of such things, but the beauty of this display was impossible to miss, the shapes and colors electrifying, splashes of red, purple, and yellow, crystal vases, leafy greens, whites around the edges. I paused a moment to take it all in.

A bell rang as I pushed open the door. The smell was sensational, as sweet as the smoke had been bitter, perhaps even more so. I was reminded of when Phoebe was younger, and one of her favorite activities was strolling through the flower shop near our house, smelling the flowers and playing with the small cat that belonged to the owners. She would drag me from vase to vase, burying her face in the bouquets, taking long, exaggerated sniffs.

A cheerful voice, straight out of a British sitcom, came from behind
a door. “You just made it, almost closing time. I’ll be right with you.” From behind the cluttered desk emerged exactly the woman you would expect to find in such a shop: small, blond hair in a bun, reading glasses perched atop her head, apron, shears, heavy accent. “So sorry,” she said, frazzled but not anxious. “Two weddings this weekend, just about up to my ears. How can I be of service?”

“Are you Judith?” I asked.

“Indeed I am.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Jonathan. I just have a few questions . . .”

“We cover every single aspect of flowers,” she interrupted cheerily. “We teach classes in floral design, which is for amateur use, or floristry, which is for professionals. We have a two-week course, after which you will never need another lesson to open your own shop or do events like weddings or
funerals
.” Her voice dropped significantly on the last word. No one likes funerals, but Judith seemed the sort of person who especially disliked them. “Are you interested in the class?” she asked.

“Not right now,” I said. “I’m looking for Ciara Cavanaugh.”

Judith grinned. “I’ve never met a man who wasn’t.”

“Is she here?”

“Not right now. What business have you with her?”

“Is she the owner?”

“In a manner of speaking, she is. You looking to buy the place? Because I’ll tell you now, she’s not going to sell.”

“I’m not looking to buy anything. It’s . . . a personal matter.”

The smile on Judith’s face waned. “She might be in tomorrow. You can come back then. I need to close up around here, if you don’t mind.” She walked past me toward the door, perhaps to hasten my exit, perhaps to bolt for safety if I really was the lunatic she had decided I might be.

“Listen,” I said, “I just need to talk to her. I promise you I’m not dangerous, or crazy. She was married to my father, and I never met her. That’s all.”

Judith cocked her head to one side, just as Claire always does when trying to size up a situation. “You talking about the senator?”

“Yes. He was my father.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What was his name?”

“Percy,” I said.

She nodded. “Listen, I don’t know about just sending strangers over to Ciara’s place. She’s got stalkers, you know.”

“I’m not a stalker. I just want to talk with her. Can you just call her and tell her I’m here? She might want to meet me.”

Judith’s skepticism was fading, but she didn’t move from the door.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I will wait outside if you prefer. Please call her and tell her Jonathan Sweetwater, Percy’s son, is here. I just want to ask her about a few things.”

“You’re not going to try to claim ownership of the shop, are you?”

I smiled, gently as I could. “I promise you I am not.”

She looked me up and down, sizing me up, and finally nodded. “All right,” she said. “You seem okay to me. Hold on.” She pulled a cell phone from a pocket in her apron, pushed her glasses down over her eyes, and typed furiously with her thumbs. Then she looked up at me. “I’ll hear back in just . . .”

Her phone reverberated before she could finish. She looked down at the screen again. “She’ll be here in five minutes,” she said, the cheer back in her voice. “Would you like to see the shop while you wait?”

Judith poured a glass of lemonade and walked me through the entire floral spectrum. She was very knowledgeable, and generally chatty as well, particularly on the subject of Ciara Cavanaugh. “She saved my life,” Judith said. “I owe everything I have to her.”

When I heard the bells over the door jingle I was behind a wall of orchids, soaking in the fragrance. I came out the other side to find Ciara in the doorway. She took my breath away.

I had seen photos, of course. Everyone has seen photos. In my youth, Ciara Cavanaugh was the world’s most famous fashion model.
The decades that had passed had, if anything, only added to her striking beauty, imbuing her features with a richness and complexity. Her hair was chestnut brown and up in a bun, loose strands dangling on either side of her eyes. Her trademark cheekbones were as prominent as ever. And while she was smaller than I had expected, her presence was larger than life.

“Sweet Jesus,” she said. “Johnny boy, after all these years, look at you.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” I said, my voice cracking like an adolescent boy’s.

“You’re a fine-looking young man,” she said. “You hardly look like Percy at all, for which you should count yourself fortunate indeed.” She burst out laughing at her own joke, as did Judith. I had completely forgotten Judith was in the room. Ciara was the sort of woman who makes you forget others are in the room.