Possessions (25 page)

“The very last,” Leslie agreed that afternoon as they stood before Katherine's full-length mirror. Leslie was ecstatic. “A new woman. Was I right? I am always right about these things. Katherine, you're stunning. Not, I must say, the conventional beauty of the toothpaste ads. Different. Better. Much better. A new person.”

“I'm not,” Katherine protested, but she was uneasy at how different she looked in familiar surroundings. And when Jennifer and Todd came running in, and stopped dead in the doorway, their mouths open, her uneasiness deepened. “Hi,” she said. “How was rehearsal?”

“OK.” Jennifer stared at her mother. “You told us you'd have the same face.”

“Hey,” Leslie said. “You're not going to tell me that is not your mother's face.”

“She looks like a princess,” said Todd.

Katherine turned back to the mirror. She stood straight, her head high, as Victoria had instructed, the dark heavy hair she had imprisoned in a bun now closely framing her face, then
falling in loose curls to her shoulders. Relaxing her hair had eased the tightness of her skin, and her face seemed fuller, her hazel eyes larger and wider apart, with a more pronounced upturn at the corners. Her high cheekbones and the faint shadows beneath them accentuated the warmth of her mouth. Derek had said she was a beautiful woman. Katherine looked in the mirror and knew he was right.

In a small voice, Jennifer asked, “Are you going to keep looking like that?”

“I think so,” Katherine said. “Don't you think we might get used to it?”

“If Daddy could see you now,” said Todd. “He'd come back right away.” Katherine flushed. She hadn't thought of Craig. “Can we send a picture, Mom? To the place where the money was mailed? In Manitoba?”

“We don't have an address, silly,” said Jennifer. She was watching Katherine.

He'd come back right away.
Katherine glanced at her worktable, where a half-finished pendant lay. She thought of the checks she had written four days earlier, on the first of the month, signed Katherine Fraser, paid with money she had earned herself. She looked in the mirror at the reflection of a woman she did not yet know, still at the edge of discoveries.

I'm not sure I want him to see me now.
The words sprang into her mind.
Because I'm not sure anymore whether I really want him back.

T
HE
letter was centered on Ross's desk. He skimmed it once more, then moved to the table along the wall where the scale model of BayBridge stood. Smiling to himself, he plucked out one building and replaced it with a modernized version. The last step. Ivan Macklin had written to say he had received Ross's check for canceling the lease and would be moving out. For the first time, the Macklin Building would be empty and Ross could get to work on it.

Part of BayBridge, he thought, sitting at his desk. But more important, vacant. Finally able to be inspected. He reached for a scratch pad and began scribbling notes for the engineers. Preoccupied, he heard his telephone ring twice before he remembered his secretary had taken the afternoon off for Christmas shopping. “Yes,” he said, still writing. His hand stopped as he heard Katherine's voice.

“I called you last week,” she said. “When you were out of town.”

He waited. When had they last talked? Weeks ago. And he
hadn't seen her since their lunch. Early September; he remembered the kids had just started school. Three months. In the silence, he became aware that she was waiting. He drew an embellished K on his scratch pad. “How are you?” he asked.

“All right. Fine. Jennifer and Todd are up and down, either happy with friends and school, or dragging around, blaming me for everything; we always seem to be arguing or making up. But otherwise we're . . . fine. Do you know about the money that's come? From Craig?”

“Yes.” He'd kept up with her; he knew she was managing, even putting away most of the money that came in the mail. And he knew how she spent some of her evenings.

“I thought they'd tell you,” Katherine said. “Did they say anything else?”

“No. How is your job?”

She hesitated, and he knew it was because of his distant politeness. “I guess it's getting better. Now and then Gil even asks for my suggestions. A couple of weeks ago he used my ideas to change a ski window after I'd gone home, and took credit for it when the president of the store liked it. Is that progress?”

“Of a sort,” he said, smiling. “I understand you've seen Victoria a few times.”

“Twice. For tea. It's wonderful, being with her; I always go home wanting more.”

Ross felt a rush of pity at the wistfulness in her voice. “What about your jewelry?” he asked. “Weren't you going to try to sell some?”

“I've been studying . . .” He listened as she told him about her instructor, who was loaning her the tools and equipment she could not afford to buy. But he was thinking about her voice, lovelier than he remembered: low and clear, with a lilt that had not been there before. So she had changed, probably more than the others had told him. He recalled the frightened, bewildered woman he'd seen in Vancouver and at Victoria's dinner—how much he'd liked her and admired the spirit she'd shown even though her familiar life was crumbling around her.

But damn it, he thought, hearing her animation as she talked about meeting Herman Mettler, how the hell could she be sleeping with Derek? Of all the men she might have found to
ward off loneliness while she waited for Craig, how could she choose a bastard who didn't know the meaning of sympathy or friendship?

And why was Derek interested in her? He never did anything without a reason and never paid attention to any but the most beautiful women. Yet gossips reported them all over town, from the Peruvian exhibit to Marrakech, where Melanie said she'd seen them when she was there with a group from her tennis club. So for some reason, he'd turned his charm on Katherine and she'd been taken in—not the first woman to think Derek Hay ward was offering her the world. That was it, of course. Ross didn't know what his brother was up to, but he could understand how a lonely woman who thought she had few options could respond to a wealthy man whose options seemed limitless.

I might have helped her find some of her own, he thought. But too much had intervened: Melanie, his preoccupation with what was happening to their marriage, his work, and Katherine's place in the family as Craig's wife. Derek had no such concerns; Derek reached out and took whatever piqued his interest.

He became aware that Katherine had stopped talking. “You've made a good start,” he said. “You can't do better than Mettler's.”

“If he likes what I have. He didn't promise anything and I'm trying to keep my hopes down.” She paused. “Ross, I want to ask you something. Last Friday, Derek told me the story of the sailing accident. There's so much I don't understand—that doesn't seem right—I wanted to ask you about it . . .”

Ross was silent. He didn't want to talk about the accident. He and Derek still had a score to settle from the events of that day, but they would do it between themselves, not by talking through Katherine. There was nothing he could tell her, anyway, that would make Craig a hero. It was better to remain silent.

In fact, there was nothing much at all he could do for her. She was building her own life; she'd made Derek a part of it; and Ross was in no position to interfere. Or compete, he reflected. “I think you should let Derek explain,” he said at last. “I don't think I could add anything helpful.” He felt a stab of
regret, liking her, wishing there had been no obstacles between them. “I'm sorry,” he added. “Maybe sometime—”

He looked up as one of his staff members appeared in the doorway, pointing to his watch. Ross nodded. “I'm sorry,” he said again, to Katherine. “I'm late for a meeting. Good luck with Mettler; I'm sure I'll hear all about it from Victoria.”

“Ross—?”

“I really am late. Goodbye, Katherine.”

But he could not shake the memory of her voice. All through the meeting he heard the lilt of her first words and her bewilderment as she said his name the last time, sliding up in a question he had not allowed her to finish. Because I didn't want to talk about the accident, he thought, knowing that what he really meant was he hadn't wanted to talk about Derek and Katherine.

“We're putting together a schedule for the Macklin Building,” he said to his senior staff. “I just got Macklin's lease cancellation; he'll be out in sixty days. That takes us to mid-February, which means if we get moving, we can begin work on it by spring or early summer. But we have to coordinate it with our schedules for the rest of BayBridge.”

They knew he had owned the building for five years but hadn't been able to do anything with it because Ivan Macklin had insisted on a six-year lease before agreeing to sell. What he had never explained to them was why he bought it: a single, rather ordinary building in a decaying neighborhood where no one was talking about redevelopment; where the first thoughts of BayBridge were more than twelve months in the future. By now, with BayBridge a reality, his staff might consider him a wizard for knowing where to buy, and when, and how to negotiate with the developers to keep the building, leasing it to BayBridge Plaza. Well, let them believe it, he thought humorously. Who wouldn't like his staff to think he's got superhuman powers?

“We're responsible for the renovation, but the more we can use crews as they arrive for BayBridge, the less expensive it will be. What I need is a firm schedule. When can we have the building inspected? When can we get final schematics for the arcade and the renovation of the upper floors? How soon can we bring in a contractor? There's a problem—yes, Donna?”

“Ross, I can't find an engineer's report on that building.”

“That's what I was about to say. There isn't one.”

“But didn't you get one before you bought it?”

“This building doesn't fit the regular pattern.” He looked at them: coworkers, friends, men and women he trusted. “I don't know what happened to the engineer's report; it's missing. But I think there's a chance the foundation is weak. It's only a guess, but if I'm right, it will have to be strengthened, and that means we'll need plans for both repairs and renovation.”

“Well, we'll check the original plans,” said Donna practically.

Ross shook his head. “That's part of the problem. I'm not sure the building and the plans agree. If they don't, and if there are problems in the foundation, I want them corrected as part of the renovation.”

No one asked why Ross suspected a problem in the building. They had a job to do; they trusted him; and they knew he trusted them. Donna gathered up her notes. “OK; we need a foundation engineer to check the support columns, and the soil they're in. Do you have some favorite engineers, Ross?”

“I'll give you a couple of names. Now, can we work out a schedule for the Macklin Building and what the rest of you are doing on BayBridge?”

They settled down to work. They were the original group Ross had assembled when he opened his firm six years before and they were comfortable together, knowing one another's strengths and weaknesses. Like a family, Ross thought as they left an hour later. But then, as he locked the office door for the night, he contradicted himself. Ross Hayward Associates was not like a family, because he had chosen its members to balance and respect one another and work harmoniously as a group. Not like a family, he amended. Not, anyway, like mine.

*  *  *

Melanie was waiting in the living room when he came in. Her back was to the sliding glass doors that led to the deck and the starry ring of lights encircling the bay—that magnificent scene that made buyers flock to the Tiburon hills, thinking all their problems would fade away in an atmosphere of such beauty. But Ross knew they didn't. We carry our baggage with
us, he thought—the accumulated grievances and tensions of years—and no scenery in the world can even begin to evaporate them.

Melanie was not looking at the view. She was dropping ice cubes into a martini, concentrating on how much liquid each cube splashed on the Bokhara rug. “You didn't call to say you'd be late. I've been waiting for an hour.”

“I'm sorry. We had a meeting and I lost track of the time. Macklin's moving out, Melanie; I'll finally be able to get into the building.” He watched her examine an ice cube and let it fall into her glass; a splash of gin landed on the toe of her alligator shoe. Stubbornly, calling himself a fool, he went on. “We talked about this, remember? The night I brought you the pin from Mettler's and we went to dinner—”

“The Wildings' party is tonight. I was going to it.”

They stood a few feet apart in the blue-and-gold living room, but the space between them was immeasurable. “Why don't you go, then?” Ross asked.

“Because I'm ashamed to show my face! Everyone there knows about my party; how can I tell them I'm not having it after all?”

“Which party?”

“Which
party! You know damn well which party! The one you canceled!”

“I didn't cancel the party. Only the garden and the ballroom.”

“Only! Only! That was where I planned it! Where would you like me to put three hundred and fifty people? In our cozy living room? In your precious Macklin Building? It was going to be the party of the year—and if you had any sense you'd know that would help your business, too! I've been working on it for weeks—the decorations, the food, the invitations—and you decided,
without telling me,
you bastard—you didn't want it, so you made one telephone call and canceled everything I'd done. You humiliated me with the Fairmont and with my friends—these things never stay secret!—you had no right to treat me that way!”