Possessions (15 page)

“You're not whining. Loneliness is a fact, not a complaint.” She looked up at the odd note in his voice, but he changed the subject. “Why must you eat lunch at noon?”

“Because the man I work for decrees it.”

“Why?”

“He didn't tell me. Don't you make rules for the people who work for you?”

“As few as possible. They work harder and more happily when they have some control over their days.”

“Yes.” Katherine watched the waiter serve scallops and wild rice, and fill their wine glasses. “Gil hasn't learned that.”

“Gil?”

She told him about her job, making it seem more quaint than difficult and then, as he asked questions, she described their move to San Francisco.

“And all that time you didn't call me.”

“I thought about it. I wanted to do things by myself. And get used to being alone.”

“But you let your friend help you.”

“That was different.”

“Alone means without a man.” It was a statement, not a question, and it startled her.

“I never thought about it. I suppose it does. Right now, anyway.”

He looked at his watch. “Dessert?” She shook her head, wondering if he was offended. “You know,” he mused. “I've never gone in drag, but if that's what it takes to be your friend, I'd consider it.”

It was several seconds before she took it in. He had spoken so seriously, and he looked so normal as he sat beside her—handsome, successful, at ease—that the words made no sense. Then she burst out laughing. “What an absurd thing to say.”

“As absurd as refusing to call a friend.”

Their eyes met in laughter. “You're looking much better,” Ross said, thinking how remarkable her eyes were and how laughter transformed her face. “The city suits you.”

She flushed and looked away. “And your wife?” she asked. “And Carrie and Jon?”

“Fine.” He wondered why she resisted compliments. “You haven't told me where you live or how I can help you.”

“In the Sunset.”

“Where
in the Sunset?”

She gave him her address. “But we don't need anything. All we have to do is get used to the fog. I'd forgotten that the closer the ocean, the more fog there is. Todd and Jennifer are inventing a fan to blow it out to sea.”

“How do they like school?” he asked.

“Not as much as they would if they let themselves. But they're afraid school means we really live here, we'll never go back to Vancouver, or—” she cleared her throat to stop the waver in her voice “—see Craig again.”

And there was Craig, Ross thought, as if Katherine's words had brought his shadow to sit beside them. “You haven't heard from him? Or anything about him?”

Katherine shook her head. “Everything I do—the apartment, my job, my friends—seems to push him farther away, but at the same time he's always with me. As if he's watching to see how well I can manage alone. I know that sounds silly, but still he's
here.”

Ross signaled for their coffee. “It's not silly. It took us years to get used to the idea that Craig and Jennifer were dead.”

“But Craig wasn't.”

“He might as well have been. He might as well be now. If he's not with you, if he doesn't come back—”

“I don't talk about that,” Katherine said abruptly. “Tell me about your work. You haven't talked about yourself at all.”

“Do you have five minutes more? I'll tell you about a place I designed called BayBridge Plaza.”

“Can you tell me in five minutes?”

“I can start. The other three hours will have to wait until next time.”

She laughed. “Please start.”

“Do you know what mixed-use development is?”

“No, but I suppose—a combination? Offices and stores?”

“That's it, but BayBridge goes even further: residences, office buildings, shops, theaters, eating places, and lots of space and light—parks, atriums, fountains, gardens, tennis courts—places for people. The whole idea is people—on foot, not in cars, and not dodging cars to get around.” He smiled. “We're building for pedestrians. It's a dream we've had for a long time.”

Puzzled, Katherine asked, “Who are ‘we'?”

“My company. The one I began six years ago.”

“It's your dream, then.”

“Well, yes, but my staff is made up of people with the same ideas. What we're dying to do is rebuild cities and towns—or parts of them—without destroying them in the process. Look,” he explained as she frowned slightly, “in BayBridge, we've designed townhouses—some restored, some new—and apartments in renovated warehouses. Wherever possible, we've kept the past—the city's past—and made it livable, not only because it's a reminder of our beginnings, but also for variety. And we've designed them in so many shapes, sizes, styles, and price ranges they'll attract all kinds of residents, young couples, singles, families, retired people—the whole spectrum. The life of a place is in variety, not sameness.”

He looked at his watch and signaled for the check. “The buildings will be low, joined by grass and brick paths. No towers, no high-rises, no concrete, no automobiles. They'll be parked on the periphery, screened by berms and trees and walls. The office buildings will be in a separate group and behind them a shopping mall with a community recreation center. The
whole mall, including the central courtyard, will be on multiple levels to make it seem like a series of separate areas—something like small village squares. It's illusion but it works; even with a hundred shops it's scaled to people: intimate, warm, bright, open, with places to sit outside or in, places for kids to play . . . I can't tell you all at once; there's too much. But that's what we're trying to do in the whole plaza: keep each building and each area to a size and scope geared to people instead of the greater glory of engineers and architects and manufacturers of concrete and steel—”

He stopped. “Katherine, I'm sorry. I go on and on when I have a good audience.”

His vitality and excitement had captured Katherine's imagination. “BayBridge is a small town,” she said. “Isn't that it? A community. And if you make enough of them, they'll all be connected, like links in a chain, to make a new kind of city.”

Ross's face lit in a smile. “Thank you. For understanding so completely and for expressing it more perfectly than I ever did.”

Again, Katherine flushed. “I have to get back. Thank you for lunch, and telling me about your work; it was wonderful. The best antidote to Gil.”

“Wait; I'll walk with you.” He took her arm as they left. “How long are you going to work for this tyrant?”

“Until I can make a living some other way.”

He thought back. “Once you said you were going to design jewelry.”

“It didn't work. I wasn't ready. But I think I'm going to try again. Leslie knows a jewelry designer and she's going to ask him for the name of someone I might study with.”

“Let me know how it goes.” In Heath's doorway, they shook hands. “I'll call you soon; we'll have lunch again. And one night we'll go back to Victoria's for dinner.”

She met his eyes. “I don't think so. But I'd enjoy lunch.” Anticipating Gil's wrath, she said a quick goodbye and slipped through the door, almost running to the stairs. But, going down, she smiled at the memory of their laughter in the restaurant.

Another friend.

*  *  *

Leslie McAlister and Marc Landau left the theater while the actors were still taking curtain calls, to beat the crowd to the
street. “I have a feast waiting in the oven,” he announced in the taxi. “So tonight we go to my place.”

Leslie grinned. “Gold dust in the salt shaker?”

“That was last month, to celebrate the success of my custom line. Tonight you will find salt. Do you think I can afford such gestures every time we are together?”

“It would depend on the woman.”

“Ah.” He gestured vaguely, his plump, manicured hand somehow sketching the difficulties of finding anyone who deserved from him more than an occasional lavish gift.

Looking at those pudgy fingers, Leslie marveled that they could be so delicate, not only at the worktable where he created the opulent jewelry that had made him famous and wealthy, but also in bed. An odd man, she thought dispassionately: soft and balding, but ruthless in business; crude but sophisticated, callously promiscuous but occasionally sympathetic and sensitive. After two years of going out with him, sleeping with him, traveling with him, she still wasn't sure how much she liked him. But the older Leslie got, the fewer the men who were amusing and intelligent, and usually Marc was both. And, she thought as they took the elevator to his apartment, he could be helpful to Katherine.

“If not gold dust,” she said, “how about a small favor for a friend?”

“Possibly.”

“She's just moved here from Vancouver. She wants to design and make jewelry, but she needs to improve her technique and try out different materials. Can she work with you? She's already pretty good; it wouldn't be for long.”

“You're asking me to reveal to a stranger the techniques I've spent years developing. Champagne?”

“Yes, thank you. Katherine isn't a stranger; she's my friend. And I'm not asking you to give away secrets, just help her learn to work with gold and silver and other materials—”

“Where will she get the money to buy them?”

“She's working at Heath's.”

“My dear Leslie, if she's working when will she have the time? And how much can she be earning? Do you have any idea what gold and silver cost?”

“A lot. But that's not the message I'm getting.” She put down her glass and looked at him narrowly. “It's just too much
trouble, isn't it? The famous designer can't be bothered. She's my friend and I'm asking a favor, but there are a dozen goddamn reasons why you can't lift a finger to help. God, Marc, you are a bore. Never mind; I'll ask someone else. Is there more champagne?”

“There is always more champagne. And I am not a bore or you would not be here. As for your friend, I'll find someone to help her. I have no interest in coaching apprentices, but I know a man who takes small classes; I'll see if he has an opening. As for you, my dear, you seem to be turning into a charitable institution. First your brother—is he still at Heath's, by the way?”

“Still there. But I think he's avoiding me and I'm worried—”

“Spare me the details. And take care, Leslie, that you don't give too much of yourself to others; they suck you dry if you let them.” He picked up the champagne bottle. “Now may we move on to the kitchen? We should inspect this elegant dinner I have personally prepared for you by standing in line at four exceedingly busy and exclusive delicatessens.”

She laughed. “But you will help Katherine?”

“My God, I've said I would. Give me a day or two. In the meantime, here—and here—and here—” He pulled books from the shelf. “Tell her to read these. And leave me her telephone number before you go. Now, for the rest of the evening, you are to forget about good deeds. Except, of course, for those that belong in the bedroom. After dinner.”

*  *  *

In a small room above a store on Geary Street, Katherine sat on a wooden stool at a workbench, cutting a leaf from a silver square. As she finished the stem, her saw blade, barely thicker than a hair, snapped apart, and she let out a sharp sigh before reaching for a new one. After a day of holding china and silver while Lister set a banquet scene, her arms ached and it was their trembling as she followed the pattern scored in the soft silver that had caused her to break four blades in one evening.

“It happens to all of us,” her instructor said at her shoulder. “Keep the blade upright and hold the strokes steady. You'll be fine. You're almost through, you know.”

Fitting a new blade to her saw, she nodded. This time her
hand moved in a smoother rhythm, flowing with the softness of the silver, and in a moment the roughly shaped leaf lay before her. With a small file, she smoothed and also notched the edges, making the distinctive outline of a maple leaf. A drawer in her lap caught the silver dust and shavings. When the shape was complete, she clamped the leaf in a revolving vise and turned and tilted it while scoring it with an awl—one line down the center, shorter lines radiating out. When the leaf's veins were finished she removed it from the vise and placed it in a hollow in a block of wood, where she pounded it to a curved shape with a rawhide-covered hammer. And finally, she polished the leaf on a buffing wheel to a silver gleam.

The finished maple leaf shone in her palm, gracefully curved as if lifted by the wind. She touched it with her finger. It was no different from hundreds of others made by students in classes just like her own—yet it was different. Marc Landau had suggested starting from the beginning with a short course in metals and stones. That was why it was different: it was a beginning. Never again would this be a pleasant hobby to fill her extra time: she would be a designer, an artist, a professional. She carried a sketch pad now, wherever she went, to draw forms in nature or architecture that might be created in jewelry. Every night, after Jennifer and Todd were asleep, she worked at a small table in the corner of her living room, the only sound the scratching of her pencil as she doodled and drew and threw away and began again.

Craig watched her. She had had a snapshot enlarged and framed and it stood at the back of the table watching her: Craig in khakis and a plaid shirt, leaning against a tree at the top of Grouse Mountain. They had taken a picnic lunch, just the two of them—one of the few times they were ever alone. Craig had told her, as she was taking his picture, that Hank Aylmer had invited them to go with him when he next visited Eskimo villages to buy sculptures. A holiday, Craig said. It would be good to get away.