Treasures (22 page)

Connie’s sheer apricot silk dress was a column of Fortuny pleats in the style of ancient Greece.

“And how smart of you to wear no jewelry except those gorgeous earrings!”

“Thank you.” I’ve learned, Connie thought. The sumptuous diamond tassels, an extravagance she had not resisted, were made to dazzle by themselves, without competition. “You look lovely too. Like a bride,” she said, returning the compliment.

Without appearing to do so she studied Pam, who looked aristocratic in heavy white satin. You had to be very tall and reared in the right environment to possess the
air
that let you dress so plainly, to wear your hair caught back with a barrette and still have such elegance.

“A bride! Well, it’s white, anyway, the nearest I could get to wedding regalia. I suppose I’ll always be a trifle sorry that we didn’t have a big wedding.”

“I know. I didn’t have one either. Not that there’s any comparison.” There was not, and the unthinking, somewhat pathetic remark left Connie feeling foolish and tactless.

Then the doorbell rang and Eddy said quickly, “We’re having a varied crowd here tonight, Connie. There should be some interesting people for you.”

It was difficult to tell who was “interesting” and who was not while one was drifting from group to group and room to room, with the buzz of chatter in one’s ears, a
drink in one hand and a canapé on a napkin in the other. There were the usual elderly married men wanting to strike up a conversation apart from their wives, whom they had left on the other side of the room; there were the usual hunters, some of them very, very attractive, jostling each other for a chance to take a young woman home and spend the night; there was the usual interior decorator—Eddy and Pam’s this time—intelligent, refined, and homosexual; there was a promising young man with whom Connie was having a promising discussion about the newest Woody Allen movie, when he revealed that he’d been married three weeks before, and “There she is, the beautiful redhead in the blue dress.”

Mostly, she found herself standing on the fringe of some group that had gathered around her brother as he passed among his guests. Eddy was to be marveled at, she thought, as men, some of them twice his age, showed their regard for him.

“I hear you’ve brought in six million dollars’ worth of pledges for the cardiac unit at Mount Mercy.”

“We’re having our own open house at our new place in Nassau, and we expect you to be there, Eddy. My wife’s going to get in touch with Pam.”

“My law partner wants to meet you, Eddy. I thought maybe we might have lunch next week at the Travers Guaranty in their private dining room. His cousin’s the president, you remember.”

Eddy’s blue eyes were sparkling in contrast to his perpetual tan. He reveled in every word, and why should he not? All that he was, secure, admired, and sought after,
he had accomplished by himself. And Connie’s heart swelled with joy for her brother.

She was making conversational remarks to strangers when dinner was announced. Finding her place card on one of the overflow tables in the library, she wondered why she had been seated in such a quiet backwater. However, she was not in a mood for dancing, so perhaps it was just as well. Except for Connie’s, all the other places were filled, and a quick glance showed that the occupants were chiefly married couples in early middle age.

The unaccompanied man seated next to her stood up and pulled out her chair. As always, it took her only a few seconds to appraise him, to take, as it were, a mental photograph of his person. He was not young, nor was he old. His dark, wavy hair was flecked with gray, he had remarkably fine brown eyes, watchful eyes, and a strong frame marred by a slight paunch.

“Martin Berg,” he said, introducing himself.

“Connie Osborne. I’m Eddy’s sister.”

“Ah! Somebody said he had a beautiful sister. I had no idea I’d be lucky enough to have you as my dinner partner.”

The conventional remark was one that might easily be dismissed, either as meaningless or else as a minor, perfunctory flirtation. Beyond that, the man had little to say. When the first course came, a lobster bisque, he announced that he was hungry and began to eat. Connie, assuming that this meant she would do better to keep silence herself, did just that. Again she wondered why she had been seated here.

The others apparently all knew each other. A voluble conversation sprang up around the table and across the table, or rather, several conversations sprang, concurrently and interrupting.

“Oh, were you at their Southampton affair? I hear they had flowers flown in from Europe.… Well, you can’t get those old roses in this country.… I heard Charlene spends ten thousand a month on flowers.”

“…  speaks French like a native. They all went to school in Switzerland.”

“The Côte d’Azur is ruined. When I remember how it used to be … that marvelous house in Cap Estel …”

“Of course, it’s all the thing to have a
mas
on some isolate hillside in Provence. She had the decorator come down from Paris to do it.”

Beneath this trivial, loud prattle about things French came a soft voice, just above a whisper, at Connie’s right.

“You look far away,” said Martin Berg.

“Do I? I didn’t mean to.”

“I think you’re bored. I think it’s your nature to be friendly, to be lively.”

“How can you tell?”

“I saw you before dinner in the other room. Am I right?”

“Well, I usually do more talking than I’ve done here, but—”

“But these people are boring as hell, and you wouldn’t have had a chance to break in if you’d wanted to. So talk to me—if you want to, that is.”

The mellow bass of the voice was, curiously, both appealing and demanding. So she answered readily, “I’d like to. What shall I talk about?”

“About yourself. Are you married?”

“Divorced. And you?”

“Soon to be. We’ve been a long time separated, but there’ve been complications. Two children. Have you got babies?”

“Fortunately, no.”

“You notice I said ‘babies,’ not ‘children.’ You can’t be long out of school yourself.”

“Thank you, but I’m not all that young, I’m twenty-seven.”

“I’m forty-seven. My son’s in college at the Sorbonne. And I have a little girl, a dear little girl whom I miss most terribly.”

Such a candid, pained admission from a stranger seemed unusual. He was either a timid, lonely soul in need of sympathetic contact, or else a person so sure of himself that he could afford to say whatever he pleased, whenever and wherever his mood moved him. And, glancing again from his face with its firm, narrow lips to his fine, tasteful tie, to the equally tasteful gold cuff links and watch, she concluded that very definitely he was the latter.

“Where does your girl live?” she asked.

“In Paris, with her mother. Divorce is a wound, no matter what the circumstances.”

Connie, nodding, remembered Richard standing in the kitchen saying over and over, I’m so sorry I’ve hurt you, Connie.

Berg’s manner turned brisk. “Let’s talk about something cheerful. About your brother,” he said deliberately. “Of course, you know they’re all calling him the ‘young prince.’ And he really is a wonder. I know it took me years to get even a footing on Wall Street, and look where he’s gotten almost overnight.”

“Oh, you’re in finance too?”

“Yes. Stocks and bonds.” An odd smile passed across his face. Had the question been so amusing? And for a moment he toyed with his dessert, a baked Alaska with a mound of meringue and a thick chocolate sauce. “I shouldn’t eat this stuff, although sweets are my weakness. How do you manage to keep so thin?” he asked, for Connie had not left a particle on her plate.

“Exercise, daily workout.”

“I should do it, too, but I hate exercise. The only kind I like is dancing. Would you like to dance now?”

They stood up, excused themselves, and went to the drawing room. A little alcove in the semicircle of palms near the piano had been prepared for the musicians; their pulsing music had brought almost everybody to the dance floor, whirling and gyrating to the tom-tom rhythm.

Berg danced well. Older people so often looked absurd when they attempted rock and roll, but he was adept, and she saw by his smile that he was enjoying himself. Then, at somebody’s request, the music changed, surprisingly, to another genre: show tunes from
My Fair Lady.
Now Connie had to move into Berg’s arms. She was almost as tall as he, so that their cheeks met. And when she moved her head, their eyes
met. There were minute green flecks in his brown irises. They were friendly eyes, she decided, like Richard’s except that there was no humor in them, or shyness, either, nor was there shyness in his firm hold around her waist.

People were watching them. A man called pleasantly, “Great performance, Martin!” as they swung past. The admiration was palpable, pouring like warm water over their perfect steps and over Connie, who could not help but know that she was the best-looking woman in the room.

When the music switched back to the tom-tom rhythm, Martin paused. “I’ve had enough of that for tonight, haven’t you? How about going somewhere else for some real old-fashioned dancing? To the St. Regis Roof, maybe? A dress like yours should be shown off. Or would you rather just go someplace after the party for a quiet drink?”

He was obviously very, very interested. And with a difference. What it was that made his interest different from the usual none-too-subtle bid for a night in bed she could not have said. So she told him that a quiet drink would be very nice.

“I’m glad you chose that, Connie. I was hoping you would. Where shall it be?”

“My place,” she told him.

“This is a pleasing room,” said Martin, looking around the library.

“No Sargent over the fireplace. No fireplace, for that matter.”

He shrugged. “What’s the difference? Your brother’s a rich man. He can afford a Sargent. And this is very nice. In good taste.”

They were on their second glass of champagne. She had learned that it was smart to keep a chilled bottle ready for unexpected occasions like this one. But now she was beginning to feel the wine’s potency; her blood ran hot and her words were coming too slowly. It became absolutely necessary to keep from falling asleep.

“We could put some music on and roll up the rug in the hall,” she suggested.

“A great idea. Let’s.”

Firmly held again, she followed in perfect rhythm. Coming face to face, they regarded each other rather solemnly; then he placed a light kiss on her lips. His mouth was pleasing with its fragrance of fruity wine, mingled with a trace of mint. He kissed her again; her head spun; they pressed more closely to each other. Presently, they stopped dancing and stood still where they were, pressed together from mouth to knee. The tape stopped. And still they stood together in a quiet so thick and deep that she could hear the throbbing of his heart. There was no question about what must follow.

“Connie? Say where.”

In the bedroom they undressed slowly, not taking their eyes away from one another. At last she stood naked of everything except the long diamond earrings.

“God, you’re beautiful!” he cried.

Expertly, he unscrewed the earrings, laid them on the night table, and drew her down onto the bed.

He knew how to please, how to prolong pleasure. Indeed,
Connie had never had as much pleasure with anyone before. It was not ecstatic—she knew by now that she was one of those for whom it never would reach the ultimate, just as there are people for whom food is never a real delight—but it was good enough. Quickly she grasped the fact that Berg was passionate and would want a passionate response from her. Not getting it, he might probably never come back. She hoped he would, for he was unmistakably a man, and she had had her fill of boys.

Things she had read and been told by other women, all sorts of tricks and variations, now came to mind. Sex was an art. Very well then, she would practice it.

“You are,” Martin said in the morning, “the best I’ve ever known.” His eyes were bright with happiness and admiration. “You’re marvelous, Connie.”

It was late on a dark gray Sunday. But the kitchen where they were having breakfast was cheerful, and the feeling was companionable.

“So you’re from Ohio?”

“A small-town girl.”

“You surely don’t look it. You look like Fifth Avenue. Or Paris. As for me, I’m from Flatbush. Originally, that is. That’s Brooklyn, in case you don’t know.”

“I’ve heard, but I’ve never been there.”

“You haven’t missed anything. It’s pretty awful.”

“Then shall I say you don’t look it either?”

Martin laughed. “As a matter of fact, I do. My parents were Polish immigrants. My father drove a taxi. He’s
dead now. My mother too.” He stopped. “That’s enough. It’s of no interest to you.”

“Oh, but it is.” And it was, for in a startling instant she became aware that this man was the first person she had met since leaving Texas who had made his own way, and that he had come, as she herself had, from the class that is called “working.”

“Go on. What about the rest of the family?”

“I’m the youngest of seven, one of the only two born here and who speak English without an accent. The other one, my brother Ben, teaches economics in a community college. The eldest brother was killed in the Korean War, one sister died, two brothers are in the wholesale millinery business in Chicago, and the other sister is married to a doctor in Houston.” He gave her a modest, rather touching smile and concluded, “So the taxi driver’s children have done pretty well, all considered.”

“You’ve left yourself out.”

“Me? There’s nothing unusual to tell. I worked hard. I’ve been a waiter, and I’ve pushed a handcart in the garment district. But I was also lucky, I know that. I got a scholarship to Yale and after that to the Wharton School.”

“That’s hardly the result of luck, Martin.”

He shrugged. She saw that the shrug was a characteristic gesture for him. And he continued, “Ben is the remarkable one. You’d expect him to be a free thinker, he’s such a ‘liberated’ man in other ways, satisfied to live on next to nothing, so antibourgeoisie and all that business, and yet he’s religious, practically Orthodox. We’re Jews, of course.”