The Daughter-in-Law (6 page)

“The neighborhood seems to be holding up,” Nicole teased.

“My father thinks they should be knocked down and turned into townhouses. Much more efficient...”

He paused in front of an iron gate that groaned open when he touched the car’s sun visor. Then they drove on a Belgian block driveway through manicured gardens and broke out on a cliff that looked straight down on Rhode Island Sound. The house to her right was a three-story weathered clapboard, with a covered porch that saw water on three sides.

“We’ll have to take our own bags,” he apologized, lifting both hers and his out of the trunk. “There’s no staff until mid-June.”

“What a bother,” she said in a pouting voice. “Who’s going to draw my bath?”

“I will,” he volunteered.

Nicole smiled coyly. Things were looking up.

It was clear, as they settled in, that someone had been there. The windows had been wiped to an invisible finish. The living room, with its grand piano and two furniture groupings, had been dusted and polished, and the fifty-foot oriental had just been shampooed. The dining room table, long enough to seat a score of guests, had been set with two places at one end. The kitchen was stocked with
all the essentials, and several bottles had been brought up from the wine cellar.

Jonathan led the way up the sweeping staircase, pushed open a door to a bedroom suite done in pale yellow with green accents, and stepped aside to let her enter. “Will this be satisfactory?” There was a mint on the pillow.

She went to the window and saw that she was looking across the porch roof and out to sea. “It will be fine, unless there’s a very high tide.”

He led her on a tour of the house and grounds, pointing out himself in short pants in one of the family photos, and then in a sailor suit with his baby sister, Pam, on his lap. His mother was always sitting with the children while Jack stood behind, as if he needed to make a quick getaway. Mrs. Donner was thin and attractive in the earlier pictures, and lean and authoritative in the later ones. Nicole thought that when Jack and his wife embraced it would be like flint striking iron.

There were different pictures in Jack’s study. In a black-and-white news shot he was standing between Joe Kennedy and his son, the president. In a color photo he was sharing a golf cart with Jack Nicklaus. There were cover portraits from
Fortune
and
Business Week,
a candid from the
New York Times
that showed him and Alan Greenspan testifying before Congress, and a campaign photo with his arm around George W. Bush. And there was a framed letter from Windsor Castle thanking him for his assistance to the queen.

“No wonder he wouldn’t remember my name,” Nicole allowed.

“He doesn’t remember any of their names either,” Jonathan said, gesturing to the photo display. “The people are eyewash. The money is real.”

They toured the grounds, stood by the edge of the swimming pool that was still topped with its winter cover, crossed the tennis courts that needed rolling, and walked through the formal gardens that were filling with spring flowers. “This is my mother’s joy,” he explained casually. “This one, and the garden at the Long Island house. Out there, she just about lives in the greenhouse.”

“I love flowers,” Nicole said.

He nodded. “Then you and Alexandra will get along just fine.”

“Alexandra?”

“My mother,” Jonathan explained. “Like the late czarina.”

Back at the house, he made martinis, apologizing because he couldn’t find the olives. Then he decided that the stove was too complicated and drove Nicole down to the harbor for a lobster dinner.

Over the appetizers she asked him how he fit into the family. “I mean, there’s so much for you and you don’t seem to want any of it.”

“It’s not my style,” he answered with a shrug. “They see money as a way of life. The business, the estates, the celebrity galas . . . that’s the center of their world. For me, it’s just an opportunity to live the way I please. An opportunity I don’t take lightly because I know that most people would die for it. It’s been given to me and I don’t intend to waste it.”

While they were trying to pry the meat out of the shells, Jonathan turned the tables on her. “What would you do if you were part of the family? Do the social scene, or get the hell out?”

She swallowed hard. It was a question that needed a careful answer. “I’d do the things that I enjoyed, and then spend some time with things that are important.”

“Like what?”

Careful, she reminded herself. “Oh, maybe open a first-class restaurant. Or put together some funding for would-be actors and musicians. I’d like to be close to theater, even though I don’t have serious talent.”

“So you’d do the charity balls. And the opera auctions . . .”

Nicole could hear a hint of disgust in his voice. “No,” she said. “Not the ‘for-show’ events. Not the new dress for every affair. I’d do things privately, and in my own way, because I thought they were important. Not because of what anyone else would think.”

Did she sound too much like Miss America? She studied his face for a reaction.

“That’s what my sister would like,” he said, without looking up from the claw he had locked in a pair of pliers. “She’s like Jack. She does her own thing for her own reasons. She has no time for charity balls.”

“Well, why does she let herself get sucked in?”

“She’s still under my mother’s thumb. What she needs is an infusion of courage. You may be just what she needs.”

They walked along the harbor front, which was already buzzing in anticipation of the summer season. The bars and restaurants were open and there was a decent crowd even though it was only
June and the air was still chilled by the winter water. “How about a nightcap?” he asked.

“That sounds nice.” Her glance was coquettish. “Your place or mine?”

“Mine is closer.”

He gave her a head start to her bedroom while he locked up and turned off the downstairs lights. She was sitting at the vanity in a nightgown when he closed the bedroom door. “Shall I draw your bath now?”

“Why not?” she answered, smiling into the mirror.

Nicole waited until she heard the water stop running. When she opened the bathroom door, he was already in the tub, his knees poking through the surface of bubbles that reached to his chin.

“It’s a bit crowded in here,” he warned her.

“I’ll find a way to squeeze in . . . ”

Nicole eased the nightgown up her legs and then pulled it over her head. She paused with the gown wrinkled across her face to give him her best view. Then she tossed the gown behind her and stepped over the edge of the tub.

SEVEN

T
HE SHEETS
still felt wet when she woke up. For an instant she was puzzled, but as soon as she recalled the night’s romp she smiled deliciously. They had used the bath for foreplay and then rushed to the bed still dripping wet. She opened her eyes into sunlight that was streaming through the window. A lovely day, she thought pleasantly, but sat up with a jolt when she realized how late she had slept. She was alone in the bed.

She looked around for her nightgown and remembered how she had tossed it away in the bathroom. Her robe was still in her suitcase, across the room next to the vanity. She tugged on the top sheet, trying to wrap it around her, but then shook her head at the absurdity of modesty. She bounded up and walked naked to the vanity where she gathered her toiletries and put on a silky black robe.

The bathroom was evidence of their abandon. The water was still in the tub, last night’s playful bubbles wilted to an oil slick. There were puddles on the tile floor, one of them soaked up into a bath towel, another blotted into the corner of the bathmat. Her nightgown was bunched up like a wet wash rag, and one of his socks was behind the toilet. Nicole smiled as she took in the damage. Jonathan had either had the time of his life or he was a much better actor than she was.

She dressed quickly, hoping to be ready before he returned. She didn’t want him finding her near naked and getting ideas about a rematch. New underwear, a pair of jeans, and a light cotton sweater went on first. Only when she was decent did she reapply her makeup, touch up her hair, and put on her sandals.

Nicole poked her head through the door. It didn’t seem that Jonathan had retired to one of the other bedrooms. She crept down the stairs, stealing glances over the banister. There was no sign of him in the living room and the dining room was in darkness.

“Jonathan!” she called softly, and when there was no response she tried a full voice. “Jon, where are you?”

“In here!”

“Where?”

“The kitchen. I’m fixing your breakfast.”

She walked across the living room, into the dining room, and pushed open the swinging door. He was standing at the counter, lifting doughnuts out of the box and spreading them on a decorative plate. Paper coffee cups still wore their plastic tops.

He pointed to the elaborate espresso maker at the other end of the counter. “You have to be a computer genius to work that damn thing.”

“I can make coffee,” she said, moving up close for her morning kiss.

He pecked at her cheek.

“That’s it?” she asked. “Some come down after last night.”

He blushed, then chuckled. “You had a good time?”

“Incredible!” She was still holding her head back with her eyes closed. This time he brushed a kiss across her lips.

“Well, that’s a little better. But it’s still a long way from last night.”

He carried the doughnuts to the kitchen table. Nicole followed with the two paper cups of coffee.

“I hope you found me worth saving,” she said when they were seated. “I’d hate to think that if you had it to do all over again you wouldn’t bother pulling my parachute.”

He looked at her sheepishly. “Skydiving is like a walk in the park compared to you. First I thought I was going to drown in the tub. Later, maybe die of exhaustion. Plunging to the earth isn’t nearly as dangerous as getting into bed with you.”

“Does that mean that you don’t want to do it ever again?”

“Only if I’m wearing a parachute.”

Jonathan was quiet on the drive back to the city, and Nicole knew enough not to interrupt his deliberations. There were several paths he might be pursuing and she was anxious that he choose the right one.

They all began with the same premise that Nicole Pierce was a
terrific woman. She was attractive, an adornment on any occasion, and personable, a center for any gathering. She, like he, was a free spirit, determined to live her own life in her own way. She wasn’t trying to break into the charity balls, but anxious to be his coconspirator when he found a way to break out. She had a healthy respect for money—she had easily admitted that money was the reason for her switch from theater to Wall Street—but it didn’t seem to leave her breathless. As with him, Nicole saw wealth as an opportunity to do the things she wanted. And the things she liked were the same things that interested him. He had met her while skydiving, and she was keenly interested in his scuba diving ventures. It was unlikely that she would die of fright at the sight of an octopus.

But that premise could lead Jonathan to any number of conclusions. The most likely one—the one that Nicole was desperately hoping for—was that this was a woman he shouldn’t let get away. This was the one he ought to marry.

The thought must be playing in his mind even while he was hurtling in and out of Sunday night traffic. After all, he had already presented her to his father, if the encounter at the baseball game could be called a presentation. He had introduced her to his family when he walked her through the photo gallery, commenting on each of the relatives. He had grilled her to detect whether she was genuine, and she had passed the test, apparently with flying colors. Hadn’t he suggested that she could be the dose of courage that his sister sorely needed? And then there was the physical compatibility. Jonathan had been wildly thrilled in their Saturday night rumble, and had been trembling with delight when they made love again in the early afternoon. That wasn’t something that most men could simply walk away from.

But there were other possibilities. Men could string along even the most perfect woman for years and sometimes even decades. She was a wonderful companion and lover, but she had already demonstrated that he could have her in either capacity without any commitment on his part. Wasn’t that the perfect arrangement for a self-confessed free spirit? Jonathan wasn’t the kind to take on obligations. So, there was every chance that he would shower her with attention just to encourage her to keep giving free samples.

Another possibility: maybe he was sensing that his freedom was
in jeopardy and, in his moody silence, he was looking for ways to cut and run. Simpleminded lovelies and giggling debutantes were no threat to him. He could enjoy them and discard them the same as he would a good Cuban cigar. But this woman could easily become intoxicating, an addiction that would be torturous to break. Best not sniff the stuff in the first place. Or, if the drugged illusions had been wonderful, remember that delight was the beginning of every craving, and make damn sure that he never used her again.

They were on the tangle of ramps and bridges that led into Manhattan when Jonathan finally revealed his thinking. And even then, there was no clear-cut decision.

“My sister’s graduation party is next weekend. A dinner dance on Saturday night, and brunch on Sunday.”

“Sounds lovely,” she answered, thinking of an intimate family affair at a club that had a dance combo on the weekends. “Where is it being held?”

“At the Long Island house. Probably a few hundred people. Her friends, family friends, and the required celebrities. A lot of them will be staying over.”

“It must be a very big house?”

“More like a gated development. There are several very big houses.”

“Are you inviting me?”

“Yeah . . . well, sort of. But I have to warn you as well. The dinner dance is formal. Alexandra really does these things up big! The celebrities are stuffy and Pam’s friends are rowdy. I was just going to bring her a present, wish her luck, and skip the party. But it would be a chance for you to meet the rest of the inmates.”