Shattered Silk (6 page)

"Weren't you engaged to him once?"

"People didn't get engaged in those days, remember?"

"I've forgotten what we used to call it, but I know what I mean-and so do you. He's not married."

Karen shrugged. "The lady may not have been his wife, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have one."

"Oh, my, what a little cynic you are. I happen to know he's not married because the
Post
ran an interview with him. You heard he was elected to Congress last year, didn't you?"

"Oh, was he?" Karen turned to the mirror and stared blindly and intently at its clouded surface. She had heard of Mark's victory. It had not been one of the big, exciting races, but she had heard about it. Mostly from Jack. He had been very interested in that particular House seat.

"So," she said, "he's living in Washington now?"

"Well, darling, he has to when Congress is in session, now doesn't he? He's as gorgeous as ever, don't you think? Oh, I forgot-you didn't see him. Well, take my word; just standing next to him made me break out all over. You two had quite a thing going for a while, as I recall. When you and Jack ran off and got married, we were all surprised. Especially Mark. He couldn't have been too desperately crushed, though; he certainly consoled himself fast enough. Of course Shreve had been throwing herself at him all year. All he had to do was turn around, and there she was, ready and willing. From what I hear, she still is. Of course her husband is a lot older than she. You know how that is, don't you, sweetie? I wonder if Shreve knows about this new little lady. Mark didn't introduce her to me. I can't imagine why…"

Karen stood unmoving, feeling as if she were under attack by a whole horde of wasps; one sting followed the other so rapidly that numbness finally overcame pain and she felt nothing at all.

She turned blindly toward the door and Julie said gaily, "I hope you aren't brooding about the nasty things I said today. You know how I am, I just get mad and let everything hang out. My shrink says it's the only way to cope with stress. I didn't mean anything by it. You do forgive me, don't you?"

A deprecating smile curved her lips and her eyes were wide and candid. She really meant what she said, or at least she thought she did, which came to the same thing. Do forgive me for cutting you into little aching pieces, it's just my cute, harmless habit. No reasonable person would hold it against me.

Karen murmured something noncommittal. It satisfied Julie; with a practiced smile she put up her umbrella and darted into the pedestrian traffic.

Karen stood staring after her for a moment. Then she shook her head and turned toward home.

What a day. What a horrible, tiring, unbelievable day! Only a few more miserable blocks, a few more terrible minutes, and she could collapse. A glass of wine, a chocolate bar, and thou, oh, muscular hero of television-not singing in the wilderness, but wrecking cars, making love to lissome ladies, fighting villains, and always winning. Just what she needed. Someone who always won.

Head bowed against the rain, hands in her pockets, she trudged northward, wondering whether to stop at a carry-out restaurant for something to eat or forage in Ruth's freezer. To hell with the diet she had started. Tonight she needed all the comfort she could get, and a Hershey bar was cheaper than a psychiatrist.

At least she wouldn't have to worry about seeing Mark again. He must be as anxious to avoid her as she was him. It must have come as a nasty shock to him to learn that she was back in Georgetown, a lone, lorn divorcee-to-be. He would assume she would try to renew their old acquaintance. Karen was not the first of her circle to face divorce. She had seen it happen before, and she knew the signs of desperate pursuit-the forced, bright smile, the too-youthful wardrobe, the telephone calls to married friends. "I do hate to ask, darling, but if Jim (or Joe or Bob) has a few minutes, could he come over and fix my stopped-up sink (or check my snow tires or change the lightbulb)…"

Too bad Mark couldn't know he was safe from that sort of thing. Just as she was safe from him. He would stay as far away from the shop as he could. He wouldn't seek her out there.

She was right. He didn't go to the shop. He was waiting for her on the corner of P Street and Wisconsin.

Concentrating on keeping her footing on the wet sidewalk, she was not aware of his presence until she heard his voice. "Welcome back, Karen. You might know it would be raining."

Karen didn't even stumble. One part of her mind wondered why she was not surprised. Another part moaned, oh, well, what's one more disaster on a day like this? Aloud and quite coolly, she said, "Hello, Mark. I'm sorry I missed you earlier."

"Like hell. Where were you, hiding behind a garbage can in the alley?"

"What makes you think-"

"I was right, wasn't I?" It was a crow of triumph. "That's always been your technique-hiding. And usually behind something rotten. Like Jack Nevitt."

"I would appreciate it if you wouldn't say things like that."

"Don't tell me you're still defending him. Weren't ten years of serfdom long enough?"

Anger is nonproductive, Karen told herself. Anger accomplished nothing. "What did you do with your friend?" she asked.

"Put her in a cab and sent her home. Don't worry about anyone overhearing; this is just between us."

It was raining harder. Water dripped off the brim of Mark's hat. (Mark wearing a hat? In the old days he went bareheaded in all weather, his hair darkened to carnelian by wet or frosted whitely with snowflakes.)

"There's no point in this, Mark," she said wearily. "I don't intend to invite you to come in-"

"I haven't time anyway. Dinner engagement."

"Oh. Then why-"

"Did I stand in the rain waiting for you?" Mark pondered the question with the same gravity he had once bestowed on serious issues of foreign policy. He had majored in foreign affairs; had been one of Jack's students.

After a moment he said, "I yielded to an impulse. I don't often do that anymore, but… Julie had said you were in the office. I knew you must have seen or heard me and bolted out into the alley in order to avoid me. It made me angry."

They had reached the house. Karen stopped by the low wrought-iron gate. Mark reached a long arm over it and unlatched it, with the careless ease of someone who had performed the same action many times. But he did not open it for her. He wasn't finished.

It was on this exact spot that their final confrontation had taken place. It had been raining that day too- a soft spring rain. The sidewalk was sprinkled with catkins from the budding maples and the young leaves shone as if freshly painted. In the gentleness of April Mark's hoarse, angry voice had echoed like an obscenity. She would never forget the things he had said. She had slapped him-the first and last time, the only time she had ever struck anyone.

He was remembering too. A faint ghost of old anger tightened his lips and narrowed his eyes.

"I thought you had come to gloat," Karen said.

"Maybe I did. I hope not. It would have been a lousy thing to do. You don't need to have your nose rubbed in it, do you?"

She had been sure, only a few minutes earlier, that her spirits had sunk as low as they possibly could. She had been mistaken. Mark's eyes moved deliberately from her limp, straggling hair down to the hem of her shapeless old raincoat. Warm brown eyes, almost the same shade as his hair; but they weren't warm and smiling now, they were as cold as the amber whose color they shared.

He had a right to be angry, a right to gloat. Every prediction he had made that spring day had come true. "He likes them young and pretty and intelligent. He likes to pick their brains and cut them down to size-his size.

You have a lot going for you, Karen, you can be somebody. Don't let him use you. He only wants you because you're my lady, he's hated my guts ever since I raised a stink about that paper of mine he tried to steal, he's getting back at me through you-"

That was when she had slapped him. That was the one thing she couldn't accept-the humiliating suggestion that revenge and spite, not love, had prompted Jack's proposal. She still could not accept it. But Mark had been right about everything else, including Jack's ability to destroy her identity and her ambition.

All at once, like a thin demonic voice inside her head, she seemed to hear Mrs. Mac's screech. "And what is he doing? Seems to me he's no better than your husband. Don't stand there and take it!"

She raised her drooping head and blinked the raindrops from her lashes. "No, I don't need to have my nose rubbed in it! I don't need any more-any more crap from anybody, Mark Brinckley, especially from you. You've had your fun and I hope you enjoyed it, because you aren't going to get another chance. Good-by."

She reached for the gate, but he held it firm, moving slightly to block her way. "Fun?" he repeated, his lips twisting in a wry curve that certainly held no suggestion of amusement. "If you think I've enjoyed this… Maybe it's impossible for either of us to forget the past-even the past five minutes-but can't we at least be civil to one another? I'm very fond of your aunt and uncle, and I'd like to go on being friends with them. Ruth canceled an invitation a while back because she thought you wouldn't want to see me."

So he had renewed his old friendship with Ruth and Pat. Ruth hadn't mentioned him. Neither had Pat, whose tactlessness was proverbial.

Compared to the other emotional blows she had endured that day, this news should have been only a minor slap in the face, but to Karen it was almost the last straw. At least Mark was honest. He wanted to forgive and forget (and give him credit, she thought bitterly, for avoiding the time-worn and hideously inappropriate cliche) only because hostility between them would threaten a cherished relationship.

One last effort, she thought. I've come this far without cracking… "Ruth was mistaken," she said coolly. "I don't care whether I see you or not. As for being civil- if I understand you correctly, my problem has always been an excess of civility rather than a lack of it. You're the one who has trouble being polite to people. If you intend to change your ways you can start by letting me get in out of the rain."

Meekly Mark opened the gate and stood back.

"Karen?"

Something in his voice stopped her as she started up the walk. She turned. He was smiling-a genuine smile this time, the rare, well-remembered expression that had once made her very bones melt. Ten years vanished like blown smoke.

"Congratulations," he said. "When did you learn to start fighting back?"

THE rain continued all night, dripping mournfully from dull skies, but for some reason Karen didn't wallow in chocolate as she had planned. Supping virtuously on soup and salad, she realized that the encounter with Mark had actually lifted her spirits. Perhaps it was simply that she had finally sunk so low there was no way to go but up. However, she knew she had been subconsciously dreading the possibility of such a meeting ever since she returned to Washington. Had she but known Mark had renewed his former acquaintance with Ruth and Pat, she would have had greater cause to be concerned. There was nothing surprising about it; they had once been close friends. But to think that Ruth, sly Ruth, hadn't mentioned Mark…

No, that wasn't fair. Ruth was never sly. Tactful, sensitive, considerate of other people's feelings… Why should Ruth suppose it mattered to her? The mere fact that Ruth had avoided the subject-hadn't mentioned the invitation or its cancellation-that, in itself, implied an assumption Ruth had no right to make.

At any rate, the worst was over and, as is so often the case, the reality had not been as bad as the anticipation. Besides, she was proud of herself for standing up to him in the end. Two head-to-head confrontations in one day, first with Julie and then with Mark, and she hadn't done badly. Thanks in part to the inspiration of a bossy old witch! I could have sworn I actually heard her voice, Karen thought, smiling.

Mrs. MacDougal might not be a genuine witch, but she was unquestionably a canny lady with a profound understanding of human nature. In the next few days Karen suffered frequent spells of depression, but as Mrs. Mac had predicted, something usually happened to shake her out of them. Mrs. Mac administered a lot of the shaking herself. She nagged Karen unmercifully about the shop, and kept her so busy she had little time to brood. She made appointments with friends who might have things to sell, and bullied Karen into keeping the appointments. She introduced her to realtors in Maryland, Virginia, and the District, bought and borrowed books for her to read, and quizzed her on the contents. There were times when Karen wished she could tell Mrs. Mac to go to Borneo- or someplace even hotter-and she developed a nervous habit of reaching for her notebook every time the telephone rang. Mrs. MacDougal had given her the notebook; she never failed to ask what progress Karen had made, and Karen knew she had better be able to report progress.

It wasn't easy. If she had realized how many endless and diverse details must be covered before she could even open for business, she would never have had the courage to begin. What terrified her most were the practical aspects-keeping books, borrowing money, arranging for permits, dealing with realtors, regulations, and taxes. Sheer nerves would have kept her awake nights if she hadn't been so tired that she often fell sleep over the book she was reading.

The books were the ones Mrs. Mac had supplied, on the care of antique textiles and the history of costume. At first it was only fear of the old lady's acerbic tongue that made Karen give up her favorite mysteries and romances, but before long she became genuinely fascinated. Her ability to conquer a new subject increased her shaky self-confidence. After all, research was what she had been trained to do; the basic methods were the same for any field. But in this case she could actually touch and feel the objects of her study, and apply the methods she read about. The clothes themselves thrilled her. It was not only their beauty and their charm that moved her, but a growing sense of identification with the past. "Jumping Jack" MacDougal had showered his pretty young bride with jewels and furs and lovely gowns, the best money could buy. As she and Karen sorted the clothing, Mrs. Mac's reminiscences brought to life a world that had been as remote to Karen as ancient Greece-the last lazy summer afternoon of aristocracy before the Great War.

Mrs. Mac had worn the chiffon-and-lace evening dress at the captain's dinner on a 1913 voyage of the
Lusitania,
two years before the luxury liner was sunk by German bombs, precipitating the United States' entrance into the war. The black lace over oyster satin had attended the first performance of
The Three-Cornered Hat,
with Leonide Massine, at London's Alhambra Theatre in 1919. (And what, Karen wondered, had Jumping Jack thought of the ballet? Had he slept through it-had he snored?) The Schiaparelli suit, with huge hand mirrors in lieu of jacket buttons, had dazzled the dignitaries at FDR's first inaugural. Karen could almost see Mrs. Roosevelt's well-bred eyebrows rise at the sight of it. She felt as if she were touching history itself.

Not that Mrs. MacDougal wasted time mourning her lost youth. The expectation of playing one last practical joke on her son had given her a burst of demonic energy; she dashed around the house chortling and chuckling and driving her assistants wild. Karen was not one of them; her offers of help had been politely refused, and she soon realized they were unnecessary.

Though Mrs. Mac blandly denied it, she had obviously been planning the move for months. The larger, more valuable antiques were going into storage until their owner returned. If, as she cheerfully remarked, she survived the trip, she would then select the things she wanted to keep or give away. The rest would go to Sotheby's. Since an inventory had been kept up-to-date, this part of the moving process was relatively simple.

What wasn't simple was the question of how to dispose of the thousands of less valuable odds and ends Mrs. MacDougal had accumulated over the years. These ranged from modern pottery to Spode and Royal Prussian dinnerware, from paperback novels to first editions-and included, of course the clothing and accessories. There were enough of the latter to stock a small shop in themselves-hats, shoes, handbags, scarves, gloves, belts, costume jewelry. Karen's last compunctions about taking them vanished when she saw the piles of discarded miscellany grow to mountainous proportions.

The clothing dated from around 1910, when Mrs. Mac had attained debutante status-and a millionaire husband. However, several of her cronies had garments that had been stored away since their mothers' and grandmothers' day, and before long Ruth's neat little house resembled a flea market. Every wardrobe was full, the bedroom furniture was heaped with fabric, and dresses hung from temporary stands. Karen was glad Pat was not there to see it, and comment on it.

Something else happened that week to stiffen Karen's sagging spirits-the arrival of a United Parcel man with several boxes. The surgical precision of the wrapping told Karen who had packed them; the folded corners of the paper looked as if they had been measured with a ruler and pressed with a hot iron. Inside one box was a typed note. It was cool and formal, and very forgiving. It deplored her impetuous and ill-considered action in leaving so precipitously and requested-implicitly, if not in so many words-her humble appreciation for the consideration that was being shown her. The boxes contained her clothes and personal belongings, swathed neatly in tissue. Not a scrap had been overlooked, including a couple of limp bras she had meant to throw away, and a pair of sneakers with holes in both toes.

Karen methodically tore the note into tiny bits and flushed them down the toilet. Then she threw the piece of chocolate cake she had been about to eat into the disposal and went out and jogged for four miles.

She did not see or hear from Mark. She didn't expect to. (At least that was what she told herself.) Nor did she expect the encounter that took place one afternoon toward the end of the week.

Julie had left early, to finish shopping for her approaching vacation. Not five minutes after Julie took her departure Rob followed her, with a look that dared Karen to object. She was at the back of the shop, checking a shelf of costume jewelry over which one customer had lingered long without buying-it was all right, everything seemed to be there-when the door chimes rang. Half concealed by a hanging tapestry, she looked up to see the girl who had been with Mark on his first visit.

She knew she should emerge at once, smiling and helpful. Instead she hunched her shoulders in a half-crouch, hoping the shadows would hide her, while her thoughts raced in uncontrolled confusion.

He's not with her. Of course not-he won't come again. It's probably the armoire she wants. She's attractive, but not as glamorous as I thought…Her hair is beautiful-lovely curling red-gold. It looks real, too. Get out there. Stop skulking. She'll see you in a minute and you'll feel like a fool. Say something. Something witty, intelligent…

She edged out from behind the tapestry. "Hello."

The girl turned with a start. "Hi. I didn't see you at first. It's so dark in here."

It was a common complaint, and Karen seized with relief on the memorized response. "I'll be glad to turn on more lights if there is something you want to examine closely. I'm afraid Julie has stepped out for a moment, but if you need help-"

"I know she isn't here, I saw her leave. I wanted to see you. You are Karen, aren't you?"

"Yes."

The girl came toward her, smiling, her hand out. "I'm Cheryl Reichardt. Mark's sister."

"Sister," Karen repeated blankly.

Cheryl laughed. "I don't blame you, everybody reacts that way. We don't look one bit alike."

The statement was certainly correct. Cheryl was as fair as Mark was dark, and her round face and dimpled cheeks were the antithesis of Mark's austere features.

Karen gathered her scattered wits and took the outstretched hand-just in time, for Cheryl, flushing slightly, had started to withdraw it. "I'm glad to meet you. Are you visiting, or do you live in Washington?"

"I live with Mark, actually. He asked me to come and keep house for him after my husband died."

"I'm so sorry." Karen's response was genuine; it seemed impossible to think of this cheerful young woman as a widow.

"It's been a couple of years," Cheryl said, her lifted chin and determinedly matter-of-fact voice assuring Karen that sympathy would be unwelcome. "But I don't know what I would have done if it hadn't been for Mark. Joe left a few thousand in insurance, but we didn't have much saved, and my folks are living on Dad's pension, and with a baby to support…"

She paused to draw breath. "You have a child?" Karen asked.

"Little Joe. He's not a baby, he's four now. Want to see his picture?" Without waiting for a reply she reached in her purse and took out her wallet. "This was taken on his last birthday."

Karen's heart gave a queer, painful lurch. The little boy had his mother's mop of fair curls and a funny turned-up nose, but his shy smile reminded Karen of a look she had sometimes seen on Mark's face.

"Do you have any kids?" Cheryl asked.

"No." Jack had not wanted children. He never actually said so, but somehow it was never the right time.

"That's too bad. I was hoping I could borrow one." Cheryl giggled. "One of these days I'm going to be arrested. Whenever I see a kid in a grocery store or someplace, it's all I can do not to grab it and squeeze it. I miss Little Joe so much."

"He isn't with you?" Karen returned the wallet, adding, "He's adorable. I don't see how you can stand to be away from him."

"I didn't have much choice. He'd just got comfortable with Mom and Dad and I didn't want to uproot him again. Besides, it wouldn't have been fair to Mark. He's renting a town house in Foggy Bottom, all neat and shiny and modern, but not very big; and he's always having people in for drinks and talks and dinner and stuff. I'm pretty busy myself, trying to adjust to Mark's schedule and going to school. I'm studying bookkeeping and computer science."

"Good for you."

"Well, I don't want to be a checker in a grocery store all my life." Cheryl leaned against the counter, arms crossed; she seemed quite prepared to stand there for the rest of the afternoon. "I never went to college and I don't have any training-"

"No marketable skills," Karen said with a wry smile.

"Yeah, doesn't it make you feel small when they say that? Like you were a sack of potatoes that's gone bad. I'm doing pretty good in school, though. I think I'm going to get an A in accounting."

Karen offered appropriate congratulations; Cheryl's beaming smile of pride was as irresistible as her cheerful chatter. "So you don't want to become a Washington hostess?" she said.

"Hell-I mean, good heavens, no. All this protocol and formality drives me crazy. Besides, Mark is sure to get married someday. He's got women chasing him all the time."

Karen could think of nothing to say to this. Cheryl realized that she had been tactless and she flushed again, and said awkwardly, "Say, isn't it just about closing time?"

"Don't let that worry you. Take your time-"

"I came to see you. I was glad when that other woman left. I know I shouldn't talk about a friend of yours, but she gives me the pip. I thought maybe if you had time we could have a cup of coffee or a drink or something."

"I'm afraid…" The refusal was instinctive, but the words were scarcely out of her mouth when Karen realized, with some surprise, that she didn't want to refuse.

Cheryl was too sensitive to miss the implication. She blushed more deeply. Her skin had the translucent pallor that goes with red hair and that shows every emotion in the ebb and flow of the blood.

"Mark said I shouldn't come. He said I'd open my big mouth and put my fat foot in it. But I thought… well, she's like me in a lot of ways, she hasn't lived here for a long time and probably most of her friends have moved away, and could be she's a little lonesome-like me…"

She stuttered to a stop, her cheeks flaming. She's shy, Karen thought in surprise, shy and a little insecure, under that chatty facade of hers. That was something else they had in common. And although Cheryl had described herself as tactless, she had not mentioned another thing they shared-their loss, by one means or another, of the men who had dominated their lives.

"I'd love a cup of coffee," Karen said. "But why don't we go to my house? I only live a few blocks away, and the cafes around here charge an arm and a leg."

SHY
was not exactly the word for Cheryl. She was acutely aware of her inadequacies as a hostess for Mark, but the rueful humor with which she related some of her funnier faux pas made it clear that they didn't keep her awake nights. Since her failures had been the result of a blunt tongue, a kind heart, and a complete lack of hypocrisy, Karen was inclined to agree, and to hope, that her new acquaintance would never become a successful political wife.