The Carlton Club (7 page)

“Kathleen, are you there?”

“Yes. Was it my turn to speak?”

“It was.”

“OK. Hi. There. Now it’s your turn.”

“I have something to show you.”

“I know. It is something.”

Silence.

“Sorry,” Kathleen said. This wasn’t really her usual style. She didn’t like it. He didn’t like it. Kathleen the perfect lady. But Mark made her silly and giddy. And sexy.

“When can I see you?”

“Anytime. Except it’s the holidays, isn’t it? Do you have plans for Christmas?”

“I can’t do a family Christmas, Kathleen,” Mark said quickly, apologetically. “It’s very nice of you. How’s your mother?”

“Well. A hundred percent. Taking it easy. I didn’t really mean family Christmas, though you would be welcome. I meant the Carlton Club Kids Christmas Celebration.”

“That’s not Kathleen’s Carlton Club Kids Christmas Celebration, is it?” Mark teased.

“You’ve heard of it!” Kathleen teased back.

“Of course. Who hasn’t?” Mark sensed the feeling, the Kathleen feeling, pumping into his body. He wanted to see her. “What is it?”

“Well, around here, the Atherton Mansion Gang—”

“Atherton Mansion Gang?”

“That’s the folks. They aren’t as alliterative as the Kids. Anyway, the AMG celebrates Christmas on Christmas Eve with present opening early Christmas morning. The rest of the Christmas day and evening are boring. As kids we hated Christmas night. So, we invented the Celebration. It’s our biggest party of the year. It has grown as we have. Now it’s held on the top floor at the Fairmont.”

“And you don’t have a date?”

“Not if you say no.”

“It’s fancy, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Kathleen admitted. “It really is. Black tie. Tuxedo. The whole bit.”

“I haven’t worn a tuxedo since . . .”

“Your wedding.”

“Right.”

“You probably don’t have time to go tuxedo renting, do you?”

“No. Kathleen, maybe we could see each other another time?”

“No, please, Mark. I really want you to come. The Kids have been asking about you. What I was going to say was, if you give me your size I’ll get the tux with all the trimmings and bring it to you.”

“Nothing crazy, Kathleen.”

“No! The Celebration is when we all try to out-gorgeous each other. It’s lots of fun. Photographers snapping souvenir portraits. It usually makes the society page of
The Chronicle
.”

“No,” Mark said firmly. I don’t want that.

“OK. We can avoid the press.” Maybe just a private photograph? As a memento?

“OK.”

“When shall I come to your apartment? Are you working on Christmas?”

“No, the whole day off.” It was nice that Kathleen understood that doctors worked on Christmas, and that the idea didn’t seem to bother her.

“Oh. You don’t want to come down here for lunch? My parents would love to see you.”

“No. Thank you.”

“Well. The dust begins to settle about noon. I could be there by two. I could bring turkey and cranberry sauce. Is that too early?”

“No.” Now would be fine. Can’t you come now? “That’s great. When is the party?”

“It starts at eight, but it’s best not to arrive until at least nine-thirty.”

After he hung up, Mark thought about how many times they could listen to his four ballet albums, in bed, between two and nine-thirty. He didn’t give a damn about turkey.

After she hung up, Kathleen had a similar thought.
Scheherazade, Sleeping Beauty, Swan Lake, Giselle.
Then
Giselle, Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty, Scheherazade
. Then . . .

By mid January Mark had collected the boxes Janet had carefully packed. His half of the memories. Mark didn’t need, couldn’t use, any of the furniture. The divorce was all but fact, simply waiting for the required number of days to elapse.

Kathleen saw Mark every third night. She always saw him on the night before he was on call. It was the night he was the most rested. It was also the night he needed the most sleep. On those nights Kathleen was always in his apartment when he arrived home, and she forced herself to leave his bed by two in the morning.

Sometimes if he wasn’t too tired on the night following his on call night, if he got home in time, he would call her, and she would come to him.

“I think I should get an apartment in the city,” Kathleen announced to her parents one morning at breakfast. At that moment Mark was running his second code of the day, trying to resuscitate a patient who had had a cardiac arrest.

“Are you moving in with him, dear?” her father asked bluntly.

“No.” Because Mark hadn’t asked her. It was too soon. Mark needed his privacy. His private time.

“Then why?”

“I want to be able to spend the night with him. All night,” she said. So I can fall asleep and wake up in his arms. So I don’t have to leave him in the middle of the night. “I don’t want to have to worry about you worrying that I’ve crashed somewhere between here and there.”

Kathleen’s morality was not an issue. Only her safety and her happiness. She was twenty-seven years old and lived in her girlhood room, in her own wing of the mansion, because it was more splendid than any apartment. And because she enjoyed being with her parents.

Kathleen had complete freedom, but she had never wanted to spend the night with her other men. Not all night every night. Mark was different.

“Just let us know where you’ll be, dear. Leave Mark’s number with us. We know you are safe with him.”

Neither parent had seen Mark since Kathleen’s mother’s hospitalization, but their memories of him, of his kindness, were strong and clear and enduring.

By the end of January, with Mark’s permission, Kathleen had purchased a box spring to put under the mattress, four feather pillows to replace the lumpy ones and two complete sets of Laura Ashley sheets with matching comforters. She bought five live plants for the living room and hung the red and white Cornhuskers banner over the bed, even though it clashed with the pretty, delicate Laura Ashley patterns.

Mark stored the boxes of memories in the attic of the building.

Little by little, guided by Kathleen’s stylish eye, the apartment looked better. Better, bigger, comfortable. Theirs.

“It still needs a face lift,” Kathleen said one night. “A coat of paint in the living room. Some pictures.”

“Who’s going to paint it?”

“I am. If that’s OK. Some day when you’re on call, so it can air out. OK? Please?”

“Sure,” Mark said, putting his arms around her. “If you want to.”

At ten in the morning on February fifth, Janet climbed the stairs to Mark’s apartment. She had never been there, but Mark had given her the address. She carried a small box that contained the last of the memories and mail that hadn’t been forwarded. It was nothing of great value. She could leave the box outside his apartment door.

One last detail. Janet was moving out of the house, their house, in a week.

She didn’t even call to tell him. She didn’t want to speak to him. Too painful. Nothing to say. Janet chose a time, ten o’clock on a Thursday morning, when she knew he wouldn’t be there.

She knew he was working on the wards at San Francisco General Hospital with Leslie.

Janet was surprised to find the door to Mark’s apartment wide open. She saw drop cloths and smelled paint. She assumed it was the landlord. She walked into the apartment. As long as the door was open she might as well leave the box inside.

“Hello?” she called.

“Hello!” answered a surprised female voice.

Janet walked farther in and almost collided with Kathleen. Kathleen had been expecting Betsey, who was coming to watch, only, the painting process.

“Oh! Hello,” Kathleen said. She had no idea that she was looking at Mark’s almost ex-wife.

But she recognized the face.

“I’m Janet. I have a box of things for Mark.”

“Janet. I’m Kathleen. I’m a friend of Mark’s. I offered to paint his apartment.”

Kathleen recognized Janet’s face immediately. How could she forget it? It was her. She hoped Janet wouldn’t recognize her. There was a chance she wouldn’t. Kathleen looked so different today, in her painting clothes, than she had the day before.

But Janet did recognize her.

“Weren’t you at the auditions?”

“Yes. I was.”

The day before, the Board of Union Square Theater had auditioned the finalists for
Joanna
. The finalists had been selected after two grueling weeks of auditions in front of choreographers, directors, producers and cast members of other Union Square Theater productions. Kathleen was a member of the board, and the board had an advisory say in the final selection.

Joanna
was such an important production. Such a risk. It was the first original musical Union Square Theater had done—a musical opening not in New York on Broadway but in San Francisco on Geary. It was a landmark event for the theater. They all knew that
Joanna
had potential, great potential.

But they had to choose exactly the right cast.

Janet was there as a finalist. She was the only amateur who had survived to the finals.

J. Wells. Kathleen remembered the name on the roster, the name of the woman with the haunting beauty and the lovely, clear, soulful voice.

It was Kathleen who had suggested that they audition J. Wells for the lead not just for the supporting cast. Janet had overhead the suggestion. She knew who made it. Now she knew more about the sophisticated young woman with the jet black hair and violet eyes.

“You’re Mark’s wife?”

“His ex-wife. Almost. I guess you know.”

“I didn’t know who you were yesterday.”

“I’m using my maiden name.”

Different name, Kathleen thought. And different woman. True, Mark had never told her anything about Janet, but Kathleen had allowed herself to imagine a large, unsophisticated farm girl. Pretty, plump, uninspired. It was a comforting image.

Kathleen had left the audition thinking about the remarkable walk-on who had mesmerized and captivated them and who they hoped would captivate audiences in San Francisco and maybe even in New York. Who was the intriguing, beautiful woman with incredible talent and the remarkable gray eyes? Kathleen had wondered.

Now she knew.

“You were wonderful,” Kathleen said.

“Thank you.”

“You’ve heard, haven’t you? The decision?”

“No. They said they would call sometime today,” Janet answered quickly, eager to leave. She couldn’t stand seeing Kathleen in Mark’s apartment. Kathleen obviously belonged there. Janet was the outsider. Janet had to leave. It was too painful.

But Kathleen had something to say to her.

“They were supposed to call you at nine. You got the lead, Janet. You stole it right away from all those seasoned professionals. You deserve it. You were the best.”

The Best. How Janet hated those two words. But she wanted the part, any part, in the musical. She had to start singing and performing again. Her sanity depended on it.

Janet eyed Kathleen skeptically. The lead?

Her skepticism was well founded. It seemed highly unlikely that a complete unknown would be selected as the lead. The concept of introducing a new musical was innovative enough. But an unknown musical with an unknown lead? It was so risky. Too risky. Janet couldn’t imagine that anyone would be willing to take the risk.

But Janet didn’t know Ross MacMillan. Ross took risks and converted them into phenomenal successes. When Ross founded Union Square Theater, everyone said it would fail. San Francisco didn’t need another theater. Now theatergoers rushed to get season tickets and eagerly awaited announcements of Union Square Theater’s upcoming productions. They were never disappointed.

Ross MacMillan took risks. They really weren’t risks with Ross at the creative helm; they were opportunities. He knew what was possible, and he took what was possible and made it into something spectacular.

Ross MacMillan was thirty-three years old and looked like he should be on stage rather than behind it. But as crowd-stopping as his looks were, his ability to mesmerize an audience through his genius as a director was even greater.

Ross MacMillan was a Carlton Club Kid.

And Ross MacMillan was ultimately responsible for the decision to cast Janet Wells as the lead in
Joanna
. The board was advisory. It was his decision.

“Where were they supposed to call you?” Kathleen asked Janet.

“At work. But I don’t go in until noon on Thursdays.”

“Call there. Right now. When I left the theater yesterday you had the part. I think it would be best for you to check before you leave.”
Because this is about the worst possible scenario.

Kathleen gestured toward the phone, realizing too late that beside the phone, beautifully framed, was the stunning portrait taken of Mark and Kathleen at the Celebration. A magnificent, romantic picture. Their private memory.

Janet saw the picture, recoiled for a moment, then dialed her office. There was a message to call Ross MacMillan at Union Square Theater.

Janet memorized the number and dialed the theater.

“Really? I won Joanna?” The role. The role that would make or break Union Square Theater’s innovative experiment. Janet’s heart pounded. “Yes, I’ll be there at eight Monday morning. Yes. Thank you, Mr. MacMillan.”

After she replaced the receiver, Janet paused for a moment to look at the photograph. When she turned to Kathleen, her usually calm eyes were stormy with emotion. Janet tried to smile.

“It didn’t take him long, did it?” Janet stopped with a frown. Was she looking at the reason? The real reason? Was Kathleen the reason for Mark’s moodiness and detachment? Was she why Mark didn’t touch Janet? How long had they been together? A year? Fifteen months?

“Janet,” Kathleen said, blinking back her own tears. She realized now what a great loss it had been for both of them. She knew now why all that Mark had said about his failed marriage to Janet was that it made him sad. Why he still, quietly, grieved. “Mark and I met
after
and it has taken him a long time. It will take him a long time. Believe me, Janet.”

“I have to go,” Janet said, walking toward the door. She stopped, just before she reached it, and turned, tears running down her face.

“Will I see you again? I mean, through the production?”

“There will be a few parties.”

“I wonder . . . could you please, does he have to come with you?”

“No. I’ll come alone. Or not at all. It’s your show. You’re the star.”

“Thanks,” Janet sniffed. “I really thought I was doing better.”

“I can’t think of anything worse than what you’re going through right now, can you?” Kathleen asked, hopefully.

“No,” Janet smiled, barely. “Oh. Would you, could you, see that he does see the show?”

“Of course he will,” Kathleen said, her own eyes glistening.

Mark would be so proud of Janet.

After Janet left, Kathleen sat, numb, immobile, for an hour, wondering for the thousandth time if she should just leave him alone, let him recover. Leave him alone and then hope that Mark, once healed, would find her again.

Mark never even mentioned Janet. Or his grief. He barely let it show. Only when he thought Kathleen wasn’t watching. But what about times when she wasn’t there? What about when he was alone? Kathleen wondered.

How would she tell Mark about today, about meeting Janet?

Betsey found Kathleen in a lump in the kitchen when she arrived. Kathleen didn’t tell her what had happened. They spent the afternoon chattering about nothing and listening to records while Kathleen painted.

Mark didn’t call the next night. He probably got home too late, Kathleen decided. But the questions thundered in her brain. What if Janet had called him and told him what had happened? What if it brought them back together?

Mark would let me know, Kathleen thought.

The next day, the every third night that was theirs, Kathleen arrived at the apartment carrying three framed pictures for the newly painted walls. Two pictures were unoriginal, but they were Kathleen’s favorite scenic posters of San Francisco. The first, bright and fresh, was a sleek, shiny sailboat with a multicolored spinnaker gliding across the shimmering blue bay. The second, soft and romantic, was a twilight silhouette of the city with a spring moon and a single star. The third picture was original. Made just for Mark.

It was a photograph of a brick mansion with white marble pillars surrounded by perfectly manicured, emerald green lawns and brilliant, exquisitely tended gardens of roses and lilacs and azaleas. The mansion and its luxurious grounds made an undeniable statement about wealth, taste, heritage and privilege. Chiseled into the marble and brick near the entrance were the words: The Carlton Club.