The Coach House (2 page)
Richard interrupted her midsentence and shot her an all-too-familiar look. “I’m not
going
to contact him, Marie. So let’s drop it…okay?” And with that, he disappeared into the kitchen. Marie had learned to accept the sudden shift in her husband’s demeanor when he didn’t want to continue a discussion.
Marie didn’t mention Vincent again for the rest of the evening, even though she was more than a little curious about what the man wanted with her husband. She figured the more she knew about Richard’s work, the better she would know him, and the fact that Richard didn’t see it that way bothered her. But what was beginning to bother her even more was that masking the truth appeared to come as natural for Richard as delivering the truth did for her.
She went to bed early and was almost asleep when she heard Richard’s voice. Curious, she got up and walked to the hallway expecting to hear him on his office phone. But the sound of his voice grew fainter the closer she got to his office. Puzzled, she retreated to the bedroom. She looked out the window, and from her second-story vantage point she could see him talking over the fence with Russian-born Ivan Botkin from next door. They talked freely back and forth for a few minutes, smiled at each other, and then shook hands.
They had met the Botkins the previous month. Marie and Richard had been sitting on their back porch enjoying an early evening breeze and a glass of wine when the couple walked over, each with a drink in their hand. They introduced themselves. Five-foot-eight Ivan, a burly man with a facial expression as heavy as the heat and hair everywhere but on his head, appeared to be somewhere in his forties. His thick accent and broken English made it hard to understand him. Blond-haired blue-eyed Nanette was younger, taller, and thinner…much younger, taller, and thinner.
With Nannette acting as Ivan’s quasi interpreter, they learned he was an importer of Russian furniture, artwork, and assorted trinkets. When Marie asked Nanette what she did, she responded in a sing-songy voice, “Oh, I don’t work. I’m just a housewife, here to make Ivan happy!”
Marie smiled as she recalled that evening, especially after the Botkins left. Richard was in a playful mood, and they made love on the living room sofa that night. He was a good and considerate lover, always heightening her arousal with his keen awareness of her physical needs. She loved the way he took control, almost every move aimed toward satisfying her. And that wasn’t his only attribute. He took good care of Marie…from the very beginning.
Richard interrupted her walk down memory lane. “Feeling better?” he asked as he crawled into bed beside her. He gently stroked the length of her back. That was usually enough to get her aroused, but not tonight the way she felt.
“A liddle.”
He caressed her hair and kissed her on the cheek. Marie looked into his eyes and wondered whether to ask him what he and Ivan had talked about over the fence. But she was too weak to confront him.
“It’s going to kill me not to make love to you tonight,” he whispered. Except for when he was on the road on business, they hadn’t gone a day without sex since they married.
“I’ll feel bedder soon. Don’t worry.”
“And don’t you worry.”
“About what?” she asked, half asleep.
“About Vincent.”
“I’m dot worried about him.” The more she talked, the more congested she got.
“You look worried.”
“I’m dot worried. I’m jus’ sick.”
Shortly after Marie fell asleep that night, she was awakened by the sound of Richard’s voice in the next room. She strained her ears to hear what he was saying. “Not tonight.” He paused. “I’ll contact {inaudible} tomorrow and see what I can do.” Another pause. “That’s not up for discussion. And don’t…you know.”
The next morning, Marie didn’t feel much better. She called in sick, and after hanging up the phone, went back to bed. The sound of a door slamming woke her. She glanced at the clock. It was ten thirty.
“Richard?” she called out in a hoarse voice.
“Yeah?”
“Why are you still here?”
He entered their bedroom. “I thought I’d work from home today…in case you needed anything.”
“Are you sure? I’ll be fine.”
He bent down to kiss her forehead. “I’m sure. I have plenty of work I can do from home today.”
“Okay, but if you need to leave, don’t worry about me.”
“Do you need anything before I go back to my office?”
“I thought I heard a door slam a few minutes ago.”
“Sorry. I went out for the paper and must have closed the front door a little hard. I’ll try to be quieter, sweetheart.”
Marie was seconds away from falling back asleep. “Okay.”
When Marie awoke two hours later, Richard was standing with his back to her looking out the window. “Hey,” she whispered.
“Hey, yourself.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Give me a minute. I don’t know yet.” She reached out for his hand, which he kissed. “Better now.”
“Feel like lunch? I can open a can of chicken soup.”
“Sounds good. My stomach is growling. Give me a few minutes to splash some water on my face and comb my hair…or something.”
Before going downstairs, Marie stopped in Richard’s office, which was at the front of the house, and turned off the lamp on his desk. Movement outside caught her attention, and when she looked out the window she saw Richard picking up the paper from the sidewalk and scurrying back into the house.
I thought he said he had gotten the paper earlier. Maybe I misunderstood him.
She blew her nose, popped two more aspirin, and then proceeded to the kitchen to meet him.
Marie Andrea Costa was born to Sophia Elana Costa on June 28, 1925. She favored her mother from the very beginning—big brown eyes, soft curly dark brown hair, and pale olive skin. Her first memories were of going to kindergarten. Her mother had a waitress job near her school and picked her up every day. Marie remembered the talks they had on their four-block walk home. She didn’t remember what they talked about, just that she looked forward to them throughout the day. Even at that young age, family was dear to Marie, and the relationship with her mother had been the most important aspect of her life.
When Marie was ten, she asked her mother about her father. It was a subject she had been afraid to broach ever since she figured out that most kids had both a mother and a father. But by ten, she had observed what she believed to be a more enviable family dynamic in her friends’ homes, and she mustered up the courage to ask.
“He’s a wonderful man, Marie, and I love him very much. He just can’t be in our lives right now.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know where he is, sweetheart, and it’s better to just leave it that way.”
“But why can’t he be with us, Mom? Doesn’t he love us?” Marie had asked.
“I think he probably does, Marie. It’s complicated, honey. Very complicated.”
When Marie turned sixteen, her mother sat her down for a serious discussion. “We have to choose a college for you, Marie.” She questioned her mother about how she could afford to go to college. “Don’t worry about where the money will come from. You, my dear, are going to go to college.”
Two weeks later, Sophia was killed in a freak automobile accident. Marie came home from school that day and was told of her mother’s death by Fred and Flora Jefferson, the neighbor couple who lived across the hall from them. Totally unprepared for the loss, Marie went into immediate shock over losing the only person with whom she was close, and except for an obscure father, the only family she had.
The emptiness, the hollowness she felt in the pit of her stomach, overwhelmed Marie. Her mother had been her only safe harbor, the place she knew she could always go to find comfort and understanding. Her mother had created a warm secure existence for the two of them that was Marie’s sole source for sense of belonging.
For as long as she could remember, Marie had felt cheated out of having siblings and wished more than anything that it wasn’t too late for her mother to get back with her father and have more children. If that dream hadn’t been completely quashed before, it certainly was now.
After her mother’s passing, Marie had no place to go, so the Jeffersons took her in.
During the weeks preceding her mother’s death, Marie was excited about the prospect of going to college. Now she felt alone and confused about what the future might hold for her. While not the same as coming from a parent, the Jeffersons gave her encouragement and support, and it was sufficient enough for Marie to accept what had happened and go on.
Life with Flora and Fred wasn’t anything like living with her mother, who was just thirty-seven when she died. Her mother had been full of energy and life. The Jeffersons were in their seventies, did little physical activity, and took care of one another. After moving in with them, it didn’t take long for Marie to accept the role of semi-caregiver when they needed help. In some ways, it was a relief for Marie to have responsibilities that took her mind off her mother’s death, even if just for short periods at a time.
Toward the end of Marie’s junior year in high school, she received a call from the National Bank of Chicago that a college fund had been established for her. She questioned the Jeffersons about it. They claimed to know nothing.
“I can’t believe this is happening, Flora. Mom told me right before she died that I would be going to college, but to be honest, I didn’t believe it. There’s no way she could have afforded it.”
“I don’t know, dear. Did the bank say anything about that when you talked with them?”
“I asked the man who called where it came from, but he said that information was confidential. I don’t know what to think.”
“Well, I would just accept it if I were you. After all, how many young women have the opportunity to go to college?”
“But I don’t know where to go or even what to study.”
“You’ll figure it out, Marie. Talk to your teachers. Pick out something you love to do.”
Fred entered the room during their discussion. “That shouldn’t be hard,” he added. “Look around here. Marie’s been here less than six months and her touch is everywhere. Place never looked so good.” Marie had replaced the kitchen curtains with ones she made out of some fabric her mother had left over from a sewing project. She also rearranged their living room furniture and made throw pillows for the sofa. With the Jeffersons’ blessing, she painted the walls of her bedroom pale yellow and hung two cheery pictures from her old bedroom above the bed.
The thought of leaving the Jeffersons, the only semblance of a family she had, was daunting. But the thought of missing out on a college education was even more upsetting, so Marie took Fred and Flora’s advice to heart and enrolled in New York’s Parsons School of Design so she could become an interior designer. After graduating in the Class of 1945, wanting to leave the frenetic atmosphere of New York City, Marie came back to Chicago where she settled on a junior level position at Marshall Field’s dressing its massive windows and in-store displays.
Just three months after she started at Field’s, she met Richard, the man in the black Fedora who had enticed her out of the display window. She immediately had had second thoughts about him. It was unlike her to be so bold with a man, especially a complete stranger, and when she had met him that first day, his look had been so intense as he watched her walk toward him, it made her even more uneasy.
“What do you say we discuss your dilemma with the mannequin over a cup of coffee,” he had suggested through a boyish grin. “I’m sure we can figure it out between the two of us.”
After introductions, they proceeded to the tearoom on the lower level of the store. They made small talk while they walked through the massive ornate columns that supported the twenty-foot-high ceilings and then stood under the masterful mosaic tiled nine-story domed ceiling waiting for the elevator.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee and hot spiced-apple pie greeted them as they emerged from the elevator. Richard pulled out a chair for her at one of the small café-style tables and watched her sweep in the back of her dress with her hands when she eased into the chair, exposing the shape of her behind.
