Treasures (53 page)

After two weeks there was no word from Jonathan Bayer. She was sure she had given him her New York address, and in any case, he could easily have found it if he had wanted to.

I don’t understand it, she thought over and over during the quiet hours. She had many quiet hours in the days that followed the parting from Preston, all desire for activity having left her. So, walking in the park with
Thérèse or sitting with a half-read book on her lap, she pondered. He had called her “gentle” and “comical” and “kind.” “When we get to know each other better,” he had said.

She felt a cold sense of loss. The man had reached her as no man ever had, yet that was not to say that she had reached
him
in the same way, was it?

One night, not sleeping well, she got up and walked through the apartment, turning lights on and off as, on thick, muffling rugs, she went from room to room. The place was lonely. For so many months it had been deserted, its long rooms filled with plump, padded, and now vacant chairs. She heard again the air resounding with imperious chatter, the boasts of those who had “made it,” hoped to make more, and were there to let the world know how importantly they existed. The place was a museum, too, its walls and corners, its cabinets and niches, crammed with brilliant objects, collected in superfluity that all might see how well their owner had “made it.”

The place was useless. It was dead. Like the pyramids, it was dead.

How strange it was that, living here, she had never before felt its deadness!

“I will telephone him in the morning,” she said aloud into the midnight silence. “Pride or not, what more have I got to lose?”

If he should agree, they would have dinner together at Cresthill tomorrow.

• • •

It was still light enough when Jonathan arrived to see the gold leaves tremble slowly onto the leaf-speckled grass. From the window nook in the library where Connie had arranged that they would dine simply at a small round table, he gazed out at a vast view of lawns emblazoned with ornamental trees, with gazebos, ponds, and statuary. During the last few minutes, after an animated start, he had become quiet.

She had told herself that she would be very open; for the first time in her life she would bring no wiles, no calculations to bear upon a man. And so she asked bluntly, “What are you thinking? What are you seeing out there?”

He turned to her with equal honesty. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“I am thinking that this place reminds me of Versailles.”

“And you don’t like it.”

“Versailles was fine for Louis XIV in his time. No, I take that back. It wasn’t fine, even then.”

“I want to sell it,” she said abruptly.

“I thought you loved it.”

“I did once.” She hesitated. “It was a binge. An addiction, like drugs.”

He listened while she let her thoughts speak, thoughts that not long ago she would have said she could never have. All that money, flowing in and spilling over …

“In the end,” she said softly, “it has no meaning. The treasures, the rich prizes, have no meaning.”

Without answering he kept his gaze on the window and the scene beyond, where it was rapidly growing dark. With every one of her senses she was aware of him, aware of the black, curving eyelashes, of the cleft chin that gave a sweetness to the powerful face, of the long hand that rested on the table, the white cuffs, the—

He stood up suddenly. The coffee had grown cold in the cups. “May we sit elsewhere? I need to talk to you.”

Fifty people could sit comfortably in the library. At one end a fire had been lit against the early autumn chill, and there she led him to sit.

“Connie,” he began, “I know you wondered why I didn’t call you. You knew, we both knew, that something was happening to us.”

“Then it was cruel of you,” she cried. “I waited—”

“Forgive me,” he said, vaguely pleading, “but I was so afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

He waved his hand toward the enormous room. “Of this. I don’t belong here. It seemed incongruous to think of myself with a woman who did. I knew who Martin Berg was—a decent man, I’m sure, but worlds apart from me, and I thought that a woman who had coveted all this couldn’t possibly be happy with my ways.” He stopped.

Connie’s heart was hammering. “Go on,” she said, not taking her eyes away from him.

“You don’t know how I fought with myself. I remember thinking how warm you are, with all your vital joy. And still I asked myself whether I really knew you.”

“And do you think you do now?”

“Much better. Oh, much better. What you said just then about the treasures, ‘the rich prizes’ I think you said, that seemed to open the way for me to see you clearly.”

She got up and stood before him, trembling. “What do you see? Tell me what you see.”

“I see a woman. A real one. Oh,” he said, “I know I wouldn’t have held out. I kept thinking, I mustn’t lose you. Then I thought, but what if we start out together and then I lose you? How much worse that would be!”

“You won’t lose me, Jonathan.”

“Oh,” he cried, and rose to meet her.

For minutes then they stood together, clasped while he kissed her eyes, her cheeks, and her mouth, his hands moving gently on her body, and neither of them able to stop or to let go. So this had been here in the world all the time, and she had never known it!

When at last he loosened his arms, she was thinking, I shall have so much to make up for, and the thought made her laugh, a little tender laugh mingled with a few bright tears.

“Shall we? Shall we now, darling?” asked Jonathan.

“Yes. I’ve left Thérèse in the city, so there’s no one here.” No wiles, she thought again. There’d be nothing but bold honesty this time. And she said, “You see, I wanted it to turn but like this. I wanted it so. With all my heart.”

Thanksgiving, one year later.

With huge pleasure Lara looked down the long table. At the far end sat Davey; ranked on either side were
Eddy and Pam, Connie and Thérèse and Jonathan, then Melissa Berg and her own two children. In the center was a splendid mound of chrysanthemums, baby pumpkins, and dried Indian corn.

“I always wanted a really big tableful, really big,” she said, “and this year I have it.”

“Next year, if you invite us,” Eddy said, looking significantly at Pam’s visible, enormous pregnancy, “it will be even fuller.”

“No, you’ll come to our house,” Pam said. “We must start a tradition of taking turns.”

A sliver of pie remained on the plate in front of Lara. “Does anyone want the last piece?” she asked. “If not, I guess we can all get up and stretch.”

At the living room window Connie stood looking out at the yard, where the pin oaks’ leaves, turned to brown, would hang on all winter through the snow, to be shed contrariwise only in the spring. At the far end of the property stood Davey’s new workroom, much like the shabby original in size and shape, but painted white with green window boxes that Lara would plant with geraniums again. Connie smiled to herself.

“He gets his best ideas when he can work at home in a quiet place,” Lara said, coming up beside her. “The plant’s too busy.”

Davey overheard. “Thank God, it’s busy. I hired ten new men last week. Have you heard about P.T.C. Longwood, Connie?”

“No, I don’t hear about those things anymore.”

“Well, it was in the papers. Bennett’s selling to the Japanese.”

“A few more billions for his coffers,” said Connie, scoffing.

“Connie, you’ve become an idealist,” Lara observed tranquilly.

“Well, I have. It’s disgusting when people are addicted to piling up millions that they can’t possibly use.”

“It’s an easy addiction to get,” Eddy said, “and hard to break.”

“None of us is exactly impoverished.” That was Davey.

“We’ve finally sold Cresthill,” Connie announced abruptly. “And the apartment too. We’re going to close the deal on our new house this week.”

It pleased her that they all wanted to know what the new one was like.

Jonathan replied with a smile. “It’s a beautiful colonial near the hospital and Thérése’s new school, a little larger than I wanted and a little smaller than Connie wanted, so we compromised, since each of us paid for our half of it.”

“There’s just enough room to hold you all, including Melissa when she’s home from college, and then even a nursery for Pam’s baby,” Connie assured them. “Are you positive you haven’t got twins in there, darling?”

“I’d be delighted if she had,” said Eddy, taking his wife’s hand.

“What a wonderful day it’s been,” sighed Lara, with that same lovely, tranquil look on her face.

“I’ve been thinking of Peg,” Connie murmured. “If
she knows that we’re here together like this, she’s very, very happy.”

And Eddy added typically, “Yes, we haven’t done too badly. We’ve had our ups and our downs, and nobody’s won a Nobel prize, either, but we haven’t done too badly.”

Connie caught her husband’s eye. So you like us? went her silent question.

Yes. And you, you I love, came his silent answer.

The moment caught Connie’s heart. She must remember it exactly, its familiar faces, its well-known voices, and even the way the late sun fell, to touch with its blessed light these whom she held most dear, all these, her living treasures.

LOOKING BACK

AFTER THE FIRE

FORTUNE’S HAND

LEGACY OF SILENCE

HOMECOMING

SECRECY

PROMISES

THE CAROUSEL

DAYBREAK

WHISPERS

TREASURES

HARVEST

BLESSINGS

TAPESTRY

THE GOLDEN CUP

CRESCENT CITY

EDEN BURNING

RANDOM WINDS

EVERGREEN

BELVA PLAIN is the internationally acclaimed author of nineteen bestselling novels. She lives in northern New Jersey.