Possessions (21 page)

“It's Mr. Hayward, isn't it?” asked the salesman. “I helped you last time you were here. And what may I show you this afternoon?”

“The sapphire,” said Ross. “Do you have it in silver? Or only in the gold?”

“We have a similar one in silver, and these as well—” The salesman drew out two trays but Ross was impatient.

“This one. I'm in a hurry, so if you'll write it up—”

“One moment, sir.” The salesman sped to a spiral staircase leading to the balcony offices. “I need one of the blue boxes,” he whispered to Herman Mettler's secretary. “For Mr. Hayward.”

She tilted her head to the left. “In Herman's office.”

Hurrying, he went to a cabinet in Mettler's office, found a box, and turned to go. “Miss McAllster!” he said, seeing Leslie perched on the desk. “Have you been here long?”

“Three minutes,” said Leslie. “Marc is arguing with your boss about the cost of gold, or something equally mercenary. Which Mr. Hayward were you whispering about?”

“Ross Hayward.”

“Point him out to me, would you?”

“You can watch me; I'll be writing up his sale.”

From the balcony, Leslie gazed thoughtfully at the salesman's customer, remembering the light in Katherine's eyes when she described their lunch at The Compass Rose. No wonder, Leslie thought, seeing Ross's smile. Married, though. They always are. She watched him stride to the door. He's had good news or bad news and he's off to tell someone. With a peace offering in his hand.

“And what is so absorbing?” Marc Landau said at her shoulder. “Have you, even from this height, spotted a trifle you cannot do without?” He saw her looking at Ross's back in the doorway. “Or a man.”

“A friend of a friend,” Leslie said easily. “Are you finished?”

“Yes. Where would you like to go for a drink?”

“Someplace quiet. It's been a terrible day. Too many puzzles all at once.”

Landau was silent as they drove to the top of Nob Hill. Finally, a little cautiously, he said, “Puzzles.”

“Don't worry, Marc, I'm not going to burden you with my
problems. Even if you were interested, they're confidential.”

At that he looked at her. “Is Heath's in trouble?”

“I
might be in trouble.”

“But if it's confidential it involves Heath's.” He parked in the curved driveway of the Mark Hopkins Hotel. “You can tell me all about it over a drink.”

“You know, Marc,” she said, putting her arm through his, “one of your most endearing qualities is your honesty: confidential news is more interesting than Leslie's problems. Let's talk about something else. Would you do another favor for me? Ask Herman to carry a few of Katherine's pieces next spring. She's taking two classes, but she needs encouragement. Just a few pieces, nothing major. Would you talk to him?”

They sat beside a window and Landau tapped the table with a silver matchbook. “Is there no end to the favors this young woman requires? Where is her pioneering spirit? Does being a woman entitle her to a smooth path to fame and fortune?”

Leslie gave him a long look. “You're not serious.”

“No.” He let out his breath and Leslie knew he had meant every word, but was not ready to quarrel with her.

“Katherine doesn't know I'm asking you. And I don't want her to know. I mean that, Marc. When Herman offers her space in his marble palace, he's not to tell her I had anything to do with it.”

“You're assuming—All right. I'll talk to him, and swear him to secrecy. Is this your price for telling me about Heath's?”

“Oh, fuck it, Marc, what a rotten thing to say.”

“It must be.” He looked amused. “To get such a reaction. I'll help your little friend in any case. So you can tell me just because I ask.”

Below them, the lights of San Francisco were coming on in the gathering dusk. Leslie watched them, drinking her wine and debating briefly with herself. “Nope. I'd like to but I can't.” Because I can't trust you, she added silently. How pleasant if I could. How pleasant if you even tried to convince me I could. “Maybe some other time. Tell me about Herman. Did you sign a new contract with him?”

He gave in gracefully—another reason Leslie liked him—and talked about the spring line of jewelry he and Mettler had agreed upon that afternoon. Listening, she admired his neat balance of art and business, and the rest of the evening was as
pleasant as Marc could make it when he tried. Then, because she was so tired and wanted to go home and worry quietly about meetings she'd heard the other vice-presidents had been having, excluding her, she ended the evening after dinner and once again he gave in gracefully.

Nice, she thought, when she was alone in the blue-and-white living room of her house overlooking the Marina. Having someone who makes no demands. Although—she turned off the lights, put on a record of dreamy piano music, and sat in a window seat to watch the ghostly shapes of sailboats swaying in the harbor—it would be nice to have someone who does more than make requests and give in gracefully. It would be nice to have someone who gives a damn.

*  *  *

The first time Katherine had dinner with Derek, on the Saturday they spent at his vineyards, she discovered he had ordered their meal when he made the reservation. “So you don't need a menu,” he said. “In fact, you can't have one. It's all taken care of.”

She protested. “I'd like to pay for my own dinner.”

He smiled slightly. “But when I invite you to dinner I expect to pay. Do you see a way out of this dilemma?”

It had been a wonderful day, hot and dry, with a buzzing stillness in the vineyards that stretched between low hills beneath a canopy of cloudless sky. Leslie had taken Jennifer and Todd to the Exploratorium, and the whole day had been a special time pulled out of her everyday life, free of worry. She didn't want to ruin it by arguing over who would pay for dinner. So she met his smile with her own and said lightly, “But if I don't see the menu, how will I know what I'm missing?”

“You can take it for granted that you aren't missing a thing.”

Since then, he had called twice a week, inviting her to dinner or a nightclub. Four times she had said yes, each time telling herself it was the last: she should spend her evenings with Jennifer and Todd, she ought to be working on her jewelry designs, she shouldn't be having a good time while Craig was missing. But she went, because Derek could make her lighthearted even after a day of Gil Lister's insults and dinner with her increasingly sulky children. She went, even if she didn't understand why he sought her out, because she was fascinated by his power and wealth, his charm and attentiveness, and the
way he seemed to center them all on her, making her feel young and very special. And she went because she missed being with a man, and he was the only one who was calling.

The day before the excursion to the Napa vineyards, Leslie told Katherine she had seen Ross at Mettler's, buying one of Landau's sapphire-and-silver lapel pins. “Marvelous-looking man; too stern, but when he smiles it's a face to remember.” She paused. “Why don't you call him?”

“Because he's busy with his own life,” Katherine answered. “And what would I say? ‘I'm fine, though you haven't asked in a long time; the children are fine, though you haven't asked; I've heard from Craig, though you haven't asked . . .' He probably knows how we are, from his family, and if he wanted to ask me he would. So there's no reason to call.”

“I find reasons when I want to call someone,” Leslie said.

“I've never called a man. And anyway, I'm married.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Probably nothing.” They laughed. “But I won't call, anyway.”

So there was only Derek, introducing her to the nightlife of San Francisco. “A favorite of mine,” he said one night when they went to the dimly lit Moroccan restaurant called Marrakech. They sat on a low sofa before a carved brass table and used chunks of bread to eat spiced shredded chicken, lamb with honey and almonds, and couscous with vegetables. After a tea girl washed their hands with rosewater, they sat over fruit and tea, talking in the languorous tones of those who have eaten too much and know they cannot stir for at least an hour.

Derek gave Katherine leisurely descriptions of the people in the restaurant whom he knew. One depended on a rich aunt to make up losses on the commodities exchange; one kept a mistress in Cancun; another wrote books for which her husband was famous as author and television personality. “And over there,” Derek said, gesturing at a noisy group in the opposite corner, “are the seven dwarfs. One big happy banking family, mutually protective. They pay off irate husbands who catch Cousin Dopey in bed with their wives; they kick Cousin Sleepy under the table when he insults a hostess by snoring through the entree; they use Cousin Snoopy to spy on rival bankers; Cousin Doc tries to cure Droopy, who, as you may imagine from his name, has sexual problems—”

“There is no Droopy,” Katherine laughed.

“True. Grumpy is the one with those problems, but Droopy is more descriptive. Now there's another group, at the table just beyond the dwarfs—” And he continued around the room, with caustic, intimate dissections that embarrassed Katherine but also intrigued her, because these were some of the city's top business and professional people, whose pictures she saw in newspaper society pages. “It's my job to meet them,” he said when she asked how he knew so many. “And stroke them. They control everything we need—construction permits, zoning, structural requirements, highway funds, bank loans—the lifeblood of our company.” He scanned the tables. “A dull lot, but we can't survive without them. Some of my favorite characters aren't here, but we'll find them at other places, on other nights—” He broke off, watching a couple cross the far end of the room to sit at a small table. “Idiotic,” he murmured. “Here, of all places—”

Katherine followed his look. “Isn't that Melanie?” she asked.

“None other.” His voice was dry.

“But who is she with?”

“A young—a very young—tennis pro from the Mill Valley Country Club. A tadpole on Melanie's well-baited hook. I think it's time for us to leave. Unless you want more tea—?”

“No. There's no room for another drop. And we've been here for hours.”

“The only way to eat here is to make it an evening.” His voice was preoccupied. “Ready?”

She stood and slipped into her jacket as he held it. “Isn't the wrong couple sneaking out before being seen?”

He turned his dark eyes on her with the intent look he always had when she impressed him. Smiling, he took her arm. “Possibly. I'll explain it sometime.” He led the way between couches and ottomans to the exit. “On Friday,” he said casually as they waited for the doorman to bring his car, “a friend of mine is having a party. Do you have something formal to wear?”

“No.” It came out quickly, the dreamy languor of the evening gone in an instant. She could not afford new clothes. “Craig and I never went out very much. I didn't enjoy it.”

“You love it,” he said flatly. In the car, he drove slowly for once, past Japantown and then into Golden Gate Park—the long way back. “So Craig must have been the homebody.”

“He worked hard,” Katherine said defensively. “And he liked being home. Whenever he came back from a trip, he'd close the door behind him and say how wonderful it was to be there, safe and protected . . .” Her voice trailed away. They would kiss, while the children waited their turn, and Craig would tell them about his trip, and pull out little presents, tantalizingly, one at a time, so that it was like a long, drawnout Christmas.

“Safe and protected,” Derek repeated. “Like a womb.” He turned off and stopped at the Chain of Lakes, brooding at the water in the misty light of lamps and a fragile moon. “Or Victoria's open arms. Or Ann's. After all these years, he was still looking for them.”

“Fifteen years. You don't know anything about him.”

“I know everything about him. Do you really think people change? However, I'm more interested in you. Did you—”

“Why? Why are you interested in me? Everywhere we go we meet beautiful women whom you know—some of them you've had affairs with—”

“Now how would you know that?”

“It's in your voice when you talk about them. You shape your words as if they're soft clay—as if you still feel her, whoever she is, under your hands.”

“Good God.” He shook his head. “Just when you seem most timid, you come out with something remarkable. How long are you going to hide under your cover? Cautious, careful, wearing dowdy clothes—”

“They're not dowdy!”

“By my standards they are. And you know what I mean; you do a full study of every woman in sight when we go out. Look, I have accounts at every store in town; take a day and fit yourself out properly.”

“On your charge accounts? You can't be serious. You're not keeping me, Derek; no one is. I take care of myself. If you don't like the way I dress, you can go out with someone else.”

“I do.”

“Oh.” Of course. All those other nights in the week.

“But I also expect to go out with you.”

“Why?”

“Partly because I like women who are more complicated than they seem. The rest you'll have to figure out yourself.”

After a moment, Katherine said, “Derek, I'd like to go home.”

He started the car and drove out of the park, and within a few minutes pulled up before her building. Putting his hand on the back of her head, he kissed her lightly. “I'd like to help you escape from that prison Craig built. I don't think he kept the key.” Reaching across her, he opened her door. “Think about some new clothes. You'll be more comfortable on Friday night.”