Separate Beds (19 page)

“But it's not . . .” She paused, looked away. “I met him on a blind date. He was going with another girl at the time, and they'd had a fight or something.”

“So what?”

“So it was a one-night stand, that's what.”

“Are you saying he loves someone else?”

“He never mentions her.”

“Hey”—Steve's voice was as gentle as his touch upon her arm—”babe, I don't know what to say, except, maybe—just maybe—Clay is worth fighting for.”

“Steve, you above all people should understand that I don't want a marriage like Mom and Dad's. If there's one thing I learned in that house it's that I will not merely
survive
a marriage; I want to
live.”

“Hey, give it a chance. Had you considered that you kind of fell into the pot here and could come out smelling like a rose?”

She couldn't help smiling. “If it'll put your mind at ease, the baby will be taken care of for the rest of his life. That's part of the arrangement. After Clay graduates, he'll help me with tuition so I can go back to school.”

“So the deal is made, huh? I guess we both know you can't back out of it now, don't we?”

She sighed. “You're right. I can't, and I knew it all the time, even when I told you to stop the car.”

He studied her a moment before saying, “You know, little sister, I'll give you odds you won't come out of this feeling quite as platonic about him as you claim to be now. How much you wanna bet?”

“That's wishful thinking and you know it. And I'm going to be late for my own wedding if you don't get this thing into gear.”

“Okay.” He shifted into drive and they pulled back into traffic.

After a few minutes she touched his arm and smiled at Steve. “Thanks for letting me unload on you. I feel better now.”

He winked at her. “You really are a babe, in lots of ways,” he said, covering her hand with his own, hoping Clay Forrester recognized that fact.

The windows of the Forrester home were all ablaze, throwing oblique patches of gold across the snow of early evening. Each of the front columns was festooned with an enormous arrangement of Indian corn, scarlet leaves and bearded wheat with nutmeg-colored ribbons trailing streamers that drifted in a meek breeze. Snow settled softly upon the scene and Catherine gave a soft exclamation of surprise at the liveried attendant who was sweeping the cobbled walk.

She could see that Angela's expert hand had done its work and wondered what other surprises awaited her inside. Catherine fought against the overwhelming sensation of coming home. She fought, too, against the both terrible and wonderful sense of expectation. Surely this incredible day was not happening. Yet the scent of gardenia was real. And the diamond on her hand was so large she couldn't draw her glove over it. Summoning common sense did little good. The flutter of excitement persisted, disquieting, reducing Catherine to nervous jitters.

Then the attendant was smiling, opening the door, while Catherine fought the crazy sensation that she was debarking from a coach-and-four.

The foyer door opened upon yet another dreamlike setting: bronze and yellow flowerbursts threaded with ribbons, cascading from the spooled stair rail at evenly spaced intervals. Angela appeared with Ada in tow, sweeping Catherine into a hurried hug, whispering conspiratorially, “Hurry on up. We don't want you to be seen here.”

“But, Steve—” Catherine strained to glance over her shoulder, dismayed at being whisked through the tantalizing foyer without being allowed to dote upon it. Angela's laughter tinkled into the softly glowing space as if she understood Catherine's reluctance to be swept through so hastily.

“Don't worry about Steve. He knows what to do.”

The floral impressions had to be left behind momentarily. Yet a last look behind her gave Catherine the sight of two white-capped maids peeking over the banister for one forbidden glimpse of the bride.

Insanity continued as Catherine was ushered into a stunningly appropriate bedroom, trimmed in pink flounced ruffles and floor-length priscillas. It was carpeted, too, in palest pink, and furnished with a glorious brass bed and free-standing cheval mirror, ruffled pillows, and a girlish look that seemed the counterpart to Angela's giddiness.

When the door closed behind them, Angela immediately captured both of Catherine's hands. “Forgive an old-fashioned mother her whims, my dear, but I didn't want to run the risk of your meeting Clay somewhere in the hall.” Angela squeezed the damp palms. “You look lovely, Catherine, so lovely. Are you excited?”

“I . . . yes . . . it . . .” She glanced at the door. “All those flowers down there . . . and a doorman!”

“Isn't it exciting? I can't think of another affair I've had more fun arranging. I believe I'm a little breathless, as well. Can I tell you a secret?” She smiled conspiratorially again, then turned to include Ada in the secret. “So is Clay.”

The idea seemed preposterous, yet Catherine asked, “He is?”

“Ah! He's been driving us crazy all day, worrying if there was enough champagne and if the flowers would arrive on time and if we'd forgotten Aunt Gertie's family on the guest list. He's been the typical bridegroom, which pleases me immensely.” Then Angela breezily commandeered Ada. “Now we'll leave you alone for a minute. I want to show your mother the cake and gifts. You'll find everything you need in the bath there, and if you don't find it, let one of the maids know. Come on, Ada. I think we deserve a little glass of sherry to calm our mothers' nerves.”

But before they could leave, a maid opened the door and ushered in a breathless Bobbi, with a plastic clothing carrier over her arm. There followed a flurry of kisses and greetings and hanging up of gowns, and exclamations over all the subdued activity going on downstairs.

“We'll see you later, Catherine.” Angela waved two fingers and took Ada away, but not before warning, “Now remember, you're not to leave this room until I come for you.”

“Don't worry,” Bobbi promised. “I'll see that she doesn't.”

Left alone, Catherine and Bobbi had only to look at each other to burst into matching grins and hug each other again, before Bobbi exclaimed, “Have you seen what's going on down there!”

Catherine, panicked afresh, placed a hand on her hammering heart and pleaded, “Don't tell me. I'm giddy enough as it is. This is all so unbelievable!”

Whatever Catherine had expected this evening to be, she had not in her wildest dreams believed it would turn out like the make-believe weddings she and Bobbi had conjured up during childhood. Yet it seemed to be. Each of the girls realized it as they stood in the feminine bedroom, exchanging inanities, occasionally giggling. A maid knocked to ask if their dresses needed any last-minute pressing. They sent her away and went into the bathroom to check each other's hair, giving a last swish of hair spray, then laughing into each other's eyes in the huge mirror. Another knock sounded and produced a maid with two large boxes containing their bouquets.

They laid them on the bed and looked at the unopened, white containers.

“You first,” Catherine said, clasping her hands beneath her chin.

“Oh, no, not this time. We're not eight-year-olds pretending anymore. You first!”

“Let's open them together then.”

They did. Bobbi's held a quaint basket of bronze mums and apricot roses, with streamers of pale ribbon falling from its handle. Catherine stood back, quite unable to reach for the stunning spray of white gardenia, baby's breath, and apricot roses nestled in their transparent bag with dewy beads of moisture clinging inside. Bobbi watched her press her hands to her cheeks, then close her eyes momentarily, open them once again to remain stock-still, staring at the blossoms. So Bobbi leaned down, removed the pearl-headed pin and lifted the huge spray from its wrapper, releasing the heady fragrance of gardenia and roses into the room. She pinned one of the gardenias into Catherine's hair. Still, Catherine seemed unable to move.

“Oh, Cath, they're beautiful.”

Bobbi lifted the bouquet and at last Catherine moved, wordlessly plunging her face into the nosegay. Looking up again across the flowers, she stammered, “I—I don't deserve all this.”

Bobbi's voice was soft with emotion. “Of course you do. It's exactly what we dreamed about, Cath. One of us has made it, and everything turned out even better than make-believe.”

“Don't say that.”

“Don't dissect it, Cath, just enjoy every precious minute of it.”

“But you don't know—”

“I know. Believe me, I do. I know that you have doubts about the way you and Clay got started, but don't think about them tonight. Think of the good side, okay?”

“You wanted me to marry Clay all along, didn't you, Bobbi?”

“I wanted something good for you and if it's Clay Forrester, then, yes, I wanted it.”

“I think you've always been a little soft on him yourself.”

“Maybe I have. Maybe not, I don't know. I only know if it were me standing there holding that bouquet, I'd be ecstatic instead of depressed.”

“I'm not depressed, really I'm not. It's just more than I bargained for, and it's all so sudden.”

“And so you doubt and question? Catherine, for once—just for once—in your godforsaken life, will you accept a little manna from heaven? You're so used to living in hell that a little heaven scares you. Come on, now, smile! And tell yourself that he asked you to marry him because he wanted to. It's going to work. Clay is one of the nicest men I know, but if you tell Stu I said so, I'll kill you.”

At last Catherine smiled, but she was affected more than she cared to admit by Bobbi's opinion of Clay.

“Now, come on, let's get your dress on.”

They stripped off its protective plastic, looked at each other meaningfully once again, recalling all those childhood games, all that make-believe. But the luxurious velvet was real. Bobbi lifted it high while Catherine raised her arms. When she was halfway into it a sound—suspiciously like a harp—came from below.

“What's that?” Bobbi cocked an ear.

“I can't hear in here,” came the muffled voice from inside the dress.

“Oh, here, get your ears out of there!”

When Catherine emerged, they posed like robins listening for worms. They looked at each other in disbelief.

“It sounds like a harp!”

“A harp?”

“Well, doesn't it?”

They both listened again.

“My God, it does!”

“Could there really be a harp in this house?”

“Apparently so.”

“Leave it to Angela.”

Then they both burst into laughter and finished drawing the dress over Catherine's arms. By now she was shaking visibly. Her palms were damp but she dared not wipe them on the velvet.

“Bobbi, I'm scared stiff.”

“Why? You're the main attraction and you look it. Be proud!”

Bobbi zipped and buttoned busily, then walked around behind Catherine and extended the miniature train onto the pink carpet. Catherine caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, pressed her hands to her tummy and asked, “Do I show a lot?”

Bobbi slapped her cousin's hands down, scolding, “Oh, for heaven's sake, will you
please!”
Then she had an inspiration; she handed over the bouquet. “If you must worry about it, hide behind this.”

Catherine struck a prim pose that made them both laugh again, but now the sounds from downstairs were definitely steadier, the hum of voices intermingling with the mellow tones of the music.

The door opened and this time it was Inella who stood there with a tiny, foil-wrapped box.

“Why, don't you look lovely, Miss Catherine,” the maid said with a wide smile. “Your groom gave me the honor of delivering this.” She extended the box. Catherine only gaped, then reached out a tentative hand, withdrew it, then finally took the gift.

“What is it?”

“Why, I'm sure I don't know, Miss. Why don't you open it and see?”

Catherine turned wide eyes to Bobbi.

“Inella's right, open it! I'm dying to see!”

“But what if it's something—” She stopped just short of saying “expensive.” The box was too small to be anything but jewelry. It lay in her hand accusingly while she wondered with a sinking feeling why Clay had done this to her. Again her eyes sought Bobbi's, then Inella's. Quickly she stripped away the foil and found a small, velveteen ring box. Her heart was hammering, her throat went suddenly dry. She lifted the lid. Inside no jewels glittered, no rings twinkled. Instead, couched in the velvet slot was a brass key. No message, no clues. Catherine breathed again.

“What's it for?”

“Why, I'm afraid I couldn't guess, Miss Catherine.”

“But—”

A knock sounded and Angela came in. As the door opened, the gentle swell of voices told that the crowd was growing below.

“It's nearly time,” announced Angela.

“Look.” Catherine held up the key. “It's from Clay. Do you know what it's for?”

“I'm afraid I haven't any idea. You'll have to wait until after the ceremony and ask him.”

Catherine tucked the key away in her garter where it seemed to burn warmly against her leg.

“Is Mother okay?”

“Yes, dear, don't worry. She's already in her place.”

Inella ventured a tidy kiss on Catherine's cheek, then said, “You do look radiant, Miss Catherine.” Then she was gone to attend to her duties below.

Again Bobbi picked up Catherine's bouquet, handed it to her and gave a last caress on the cheek, and stood awaiting her signal. The door swung open and Catherine watched Angela meet Claiborne in the upstairs hall. There was a brief smile from him, a last hovering look from her before they left Catherine's range of vision. Next came Stu, in a lush tuxedo of rich spice-brown, with an abundance of starched, apricot-colored ruffles springing from his chest below a high, stiff collar and bow tie. Stu grinned in at Catherine, and she attempted a quavering smile in return before Bobbi moved out into the hall and headed for the stairs.

And then came Steve. Her beloved Steve, looking so handsome in a tuxedo of his own, holding out both hands to her as if inviting her to a minuet. He wore a smile that melted her heart, that washed away their earlier disagreement. Catherine knew she must move forward, but her feet refused. Steve, sensing her thoughts, stepped gallantly to the bedroom doorway, bowed from the waist and extended an elbow. Suddenly she realized that people below were awaiting them and were more than likely gazing up the steps.

She felt the tug of the train upon the carpet, Steve's firm arm beneath her hand and the pressure of her heart thudding high against her ribcage. From below came a collective “Oooh . . .” as she stepped to the head of the stairs. A sudden intimidation gripped her as the raised sea of faces swam into view. But Steve, sensing her hesitation, closed his free hand over hers, urging her down the first step. She was dimly aware of candles washing everything with a mellow glow. They were everywhere: in wall sconces, upon shelves and tables, gleaming and twinkling from the floral sprays attached to the railing and from within the study where an overflow of guests watched. A path emerged as she and Steve rounded the newel post and glided toward the living room. Catherine had a fleeting memory of the first time she'd been in this foyer, sitting on the velvet bench now hidden behind the multitude of guests. How apprehensive she'd been then, yet this was not really so different. Her stomach was in knots. She moved in hypnotic fashion toward the living room doorway, toward Clay. From somewhere an electronic keyboard had joined the harp in a simple Chopin prelude. And everywhere, everywhere, there was the aura of candleglow, all gold and amber and warm and serene. The smell of flowers mingled with the waxen scent of candle smoke while Catherine drifted through the throng of guests, quite unaware of their great number, of their admiring gazes, or of how, for many of them, the sight of her brought back quicksilver memories of their own breathless walk down the aisle. The living room doorway captured her every thought; the idea of Clay waiting on the other side of it sent her heart flitting and her stomach shaking.