Possessions (54 page)

She paced restlessly, then, pulling on a robe, went back along the corridor to the darkened living room where she had left her book. As she reached for it, a key turned in the front door and Ross walked in, a suitcase in one hand, a bunch of packages in the other, dangling like balloons from a loop of string.

“Hitched a ride,” he said, as casually as if he had not been gone at all. He dropped the suitcase and packages and strode across the room to take Katherine in his arms. “I missed you. I woke up missing you and went to sleep missing you. Did you get my postcard?”

“Yes—”

“I wrote twenty. The other nineteen are in my suitcase. I didn't want you to think I was overdoing it.” And as she laughed, he kissed her.

Enfolded in his arms, Katherine held him in her own, her lips opening with his in a long breathless kiss and then small, murmuring ones. Their arms seemed like a charmed circle, she thought, with no secrets or doubts. Ross untied her robe and
pushed it open. The buttons of his sport jacket had left faint impressions on the smooth skin of her breast and stomach and he kissed each one, lingeringly, before Katherine took his hand—not thinking, not planning, dizzily wanting him—and they walked down the corridor to her rooms.

But once inside, when he had shut the door, they moved apart. Katherine saw the somberness of his dark eyes, intent on her face. “All the way back from Paris,” he said, “I wanted you. And I knew we'd have to wait. We have too much to talk about.”

No charmed circle after all, Katherine thought. She nodded. “I spent hours yesterday at Eze Village, wondering where we'd begin.”

“Could we begin with some food? I flew down with a friend who was in a hurry to leave, so we didn't take time for dinner.”

“Of course,” Katherine said. And added softly, “Thank you,” knowing he would understand that she was grateful to him for giving her something to do, giving them both something to do, until their bodies cooled and they could talk. And then she thought how rare it was to find someone she could trust to understand her. We can tell each other the truth, she reflected. Remembering Craig, nothing seemed more important.

In the lower half of an olive-wood cabinet in her sitting room was a small refrigerator. Katherine knelt in front of it. “I'm not sure what's here. We may have to go to the kitchen.”

“My wants are simple,” said Ross beside her, then laughed—“and what could be simpler than this?”—as he pulled out three kinds of cheese, sliced Westphalian ham, locally grown clementines and dates, and a crusty loaf of French bread. He piled everything on a platter and from the upper shelves of the cabinet chose a bottle of Côtes du Rhone, and they carried it all to the terrace, returning to the cabinet for plates and wine glasses, cheese knives and napkins. “Who could resist a woman who provides such a midnight snack?” he murmured.

“Her name is Sylvie,” said Katherine. “She's run the villa for Victoria for fifteen years, and seems content, but she might consider an offer if you wanted to make one.”

He chuckled and kissed the top of her head, then sat beside her at the round cypress table. “I don't think I'll steal Sylvie from my grandmother. Though if she has a sister, I could use
her in Berkeley; I'm ashamed of how little I know about keeping house. How do women know these things? Their mothers can't possibly prepare them for every crisis that crops up.”

“I think they got the message a few thousand years ago,” Katherine said dryly, “that if they didn't pay close attention and learn on the job, they'd be
out
of a job.”

“You mean out of a marriage.”

“Probably. But it's mainly attention and practice. You'll learn very quickly.”

“Of course. I've already begun.”

“And how are you getting along?”

“Carrie gives me advice.” They laughed, and then were silent.

The soft air was fragrant with roses and pines, and an elusive breeze brought whispers of the sea. The terrace was deeply shadowed, lit only by the glow from the sitting room and bedroom, and when Ross leaned forward to fill Katherine's glass, her face filled his vision—pale, faintly flushed, with dark hollows: as fine as a delicate etching. “You are so lovely,” he murmured, then let out his breath in a long sigh. “Do you know, the whole time we've been together, with everything we've talked about, we've managed to avoid talking about Craig—and Derek.”

“We talked about us,” Katherine replied. “About our feelings. As if no one else were real.” She looked at him gravely. “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know you. What you were before I met you, what you were with Craig, what you were with Derek.” He paused. When he spoke again it was as if the words were wrenched from him. “I have no right to ask about Derek. But from what I do know about you, it makes no sense . . . that you stayed with him as long as you did.” He waited, but Katherine said nothing. “I know what he offered you, and I know how much you needed it. But I don't understand how it lasted, why the glamour didn't fade when you got to know him, how he uses people—”

“He didn't use me.”

“Derek uses everyone; he sets up power plays and maneuvers people through them. He always has, even in our family.”

“Jennifer,” Katherine murmured. “Melanie. Myself.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“Once I asked Derek why he pursued women who were close to you and Craig.”

“How did you know about Jennifer? What made you think he was ever involved with Melanie?”

“Tobias told me about Jennifer. I saw him with Melanie one night, and guessed.”

As if struck, Ross sat back in his chair. Phrases, looks, small details from his marriage ran through his mind and he knew it could be true. He'd never suspected, because Melanie talked about Derek so much—too much, one would have thought, for a woman burdened with the guilt of an affair. But why should he assume that Melanie had any guilt?

A flash of rage tore through him, then, surprisingly, faded, and he realized how little importance Melanie had for him now—even when his brother was involved. Once, that might have crushed him; now, sitting beside Katherine, he found his thoughts moving beyond Melanie and Derek to something even more surprising. “You said that to Derek and he took it? I've seen him destroy reputations for less.”

“I didn't stay to give him a chance.”

“But you'd stayed a long time.”

“Ross, you said you understood what he offered me: glamour, excitement, a chance to be with people who controlled events instead of being jostled by them . . . And you must know how charming he can be, and how clever. I needed all of that; I enjoyed myself with him.” Seeing his dark frown, she sighed. “You want to know if I slept with him.” When he was silent, she said slowly, “You think I did.”

Ross refilled their glasses. “I told you I have no right to ask. But I spent a lot of time in Paris thinking about you, about being in love with you and wanting more than picnics and swimming holes. So I had two choices. I could say the past is unimportant, that you and I begin from our time in Paris; or I could say it's more important than ever that I understand the past, because it means understanding you. I decided I had to understand. That was why I came back early. I couldn't wait.”

His words were like heartbeats beneath Katherine's thoughts.
In love with you.
“I didn't sleep with Derek.” But then she knew that wasn't enough. If we don't have the truth, she thought,
we don't have anything. Taking a deep breath, she said, “But I wanted to.”

Quickly, looking beyond him, at the harbor, she said, “Craig had been gone for almost seven months. Derek was the only man I was seeing, and he hadn't pressured me. I suppose he thought he wouldn't have to. Instead he took me into his world and made me feel beautiful and desirable, instead of like a housewife who'd been deserted. And there was something else.” She gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “He had none of Craig's virtues. He wasn't gentle or kind or loving or anxious to please . . . I never knew exactly what he expected of me. He was like the dark side of my husband and somehow that was so exciting—I felt like a child, sneaking cookies from the cupboard. And I think Derek knew that; he encouraged that feeling of something forbidden . . .” Again she paused. “I didn't love him, but he was hard to resist. Then, last New Year's Eve, he invited a crowd back to his place after a party and I became his hostess. It was as if all my fantasies had become real. By the time everyone left, there was only one thing I didn't have, and hadn't had for months. But then . . . Jennifer called. Telling me to come home. Craig was there.”

She turned, Ross's eyes were shadowed. He sat still, saying nothing, his face hard and unyielding.

“Why can't you understand?” she burst out. Springing from her chair she walked the length of the terrace. “What is it about Derek that makes you pull away? Both of you—he's just the same—you can't talk about each other . . . you become cold and distant . . .”

Ross stared fixedly at the distant lights of Menton. It was so quiet they heard the scurrying of a small animal through the wild grass below the terrace wall. “I do understand.” He spoke without turning. “I'm sorry I didn't make that clear. I'm sorry I seemed cold.” His voice was gentle, with a thread of sadness. “I've never talked to you about Derek; I've never told you how he dominated us, all the years we were growing up . . . Katherine, please sit with me.”

Slowly, Katherine came back to her chair, and Ross went on. “Derek always seemed so sure of himself, like a pile driver, even when he was wrong. He had a way of taunting us that
made us feel we'd bungled something . . . and the damnable thing about his power was that we'd feel that way even when we knew we'd done it well. He can still do that to me—at least momentarily, until I catch myself. The only ones he didn't do it to were my grandparents, but when Hugh died and Derek and Curt took over the company, there was no stopping him.” He brooded at the dark shapes of olive trees, barely visible against the starlit sky. “Melanie always held Derek up to me as the kind of man I should be, who'd protect her, coddle her, give her what she wanted,” He laughed shortly. “I didn't take that well. I knew she was wrong—Derek wouldn't protect or coddle anyone unless it served his own purposes—but I didn't try to tell her that; instead I found a way to punish her for idolizing him. When she'd come running to me, bubbling with excitement over a party she'd dreamed up, or taking a trip to the Caymans—something she'd spent days or weeks thinking about—I'd cut her off with a few words. Her excitement would disappear and the life would fade from her face, and I'd hate what I'd done. But with you”—he turned to Katherine—“I didn't mean to pull away. I never want to pull away from you. I don't know what the hell got into me.”

“You didn't want to know that I'd had any pleasure with Derek.” Katherine's voice was muffled and she cleared her throat. “I didn't finish. After New Year's, the spell—I suppose it was a spell—was broken. I still went out with him once or twice a week, but finally I broke it off. In April.”

“April? I saw him in June. He said he was giving you money.”

“He never gave me money! Once he told me to buy clothes and charge them to him and I refused. I never took a penny from him! Why would he tell you I did?”

“To wound, I suppose; to cause pain; he'd failed to get something he wanted and he was lashing out—”

“He thought he'd hurt you by lying about me?”

“He was right.”

“Even last June you cared what he said about me?”

“Even then.”

“But how did he know?”

Ross shrugged slightly. “He knew I'd cared about you since I met you in Vancouver. And Derek always has been able to identify the vulnerable spot in people.”

“But you didn't ask me about what he said.”

“I should have. I was swamped with my own affairs. That's probably why Victoria didn't tell me you'd broken off with him. She was waiting for a time when I was less preoccupied, more receptive.” He thought a moment. “New Year's Eve . . . Victoria told me you didn't see Craig.”

“He was gone. Jennifer told him I was with Derek, and he left before I got there.”

“Oh, Christ! Poor Craig. Whatever he'd done, whatever he came back for, to find his wife with the person he hates most in the world . . .” Katherine winced. Startled, Ross realized that, for the first time, he was thinking about Craig as if he were alive, and part of their lives. He glanced at Katherine and saw her watching him. “I told you I didn't call you because I was swamped. But there was another reason. I wasn't sure how to think about you—my cousin's wife—how much I could risk getting close to you. But it wasn't a real issue. I haven't had a cousin in sixteen years. It's strange,” he mused. “I was in your house in Vancouver; I saw those photographs you brought the first night you came to Victoria's; and you and Jennifer and Todd are part of us now . . . but Craig had no reality for me. I mourned him too long, accepted him as dead for too long, to feel that he was alive. There were only memories that had no connection with me or anything I did or thought.”

“He's alive for me,” Katherine said. Restlessly, she walked to the stone wall, then back to the table, repeating Ross's words to herself.
No connection with me
 . . . She'd felt that, too, the past few weeks. But not any longer. “He's alive and . . . everywhere. No matter what I do, he follows me. The same as before. Everything is the same. I still don't know what he was really like; sometimes I think the more I hear, the less I know. Because I don't know what to believe. Ross,” she said abruptly, “tell me about the sailing accident. I've heard Claude's version, and then Derek told me his, but I never knew whether to believe it or not. I've wanted to ask you, but in the past few weeks . . .”