Promises (25 page)

Then the front door opened. Three shapes emerged, a woman followed by two small children. They were too far off to be seen with any clarity, but straining her eyes, she was able to discern their crouching, the gleam
of a shovel, and a thin wand, a stick, that stood by itself when they drew away from it. They had planted a sapling.

A touching sight, one would think, a mother and children planting a tree. And yet Nina tasted acid on her tongue. Hanging on, sauntering out into the sunshine, taking her own good time as it suited her, this—this woman whom her husband no longer loved, if he ever had loved her. Just hanging on!

Why don’t you grow up and face reality? she raged. When a mistake has been made, for God’s sake acknowledge it and let go! He doesn’t want you anymore, you fool, you.

She wanted to scream it aloud, wanted to walk up and shout it into the woman’s face. Instead she put the car into gear and, vastly depressed, turned back to the city.

In the semiprivate ell where Nick always kept a table for them, Nina waited for Keith. By now the “little place near Third” had acquired a homelike ambience, as if Nick were almost a member of the family.

“Mr. K. phoned with a message for you,” he said. “He’ll be about twenty minutes late. Shall I get you a drink now, or do you want to wait?”

“Not now, thanks.”

The first day “Mr. K.” dropped his disguise, the feel of shackles would drop off Nina’s arms and legs. It couldn’t be long now. It simply couldn’t. She had seen Keith only three times since the lovely night in Florida and she could hardly wait to see him come through Nick’s door. Their times were too few, too few. Always something intervened of late: business, his sick mother,
always something. And yet people waited years for each other. So if it was going to be years, let it.… But she had to know. At least if you knew you could check off the days on a calendar; it would be more bearable. Or would it? She was feeling terribly unsure.…

“So,” Keith said after he had kissed her. “I’m starved. No time for lunch.” He sat down and unfolded his napkin. “How was your day?”

“Very good, to tell you the truth. The pink-house people in Florida paid me such compliments and Willie was so pleased that I’m almost embarrassed.”

“You’ll soon be a rich woman at that rate.”

“I don’t know about ‘rich.’ I like nice things, but I don’t die when I don’t have them. I can get along on very little.”

“You always tell me that. I’ve heard it at least fifty times.”

“Really? I wasn’t aware of it.”

“Anything new since last week? Your girls coming to visit?”

“No. Their mother won’t let them. Adam would, but she says as long as I don’t communicate—that’s her word, ‘communicate’—with her, she will not send Megan and Julie here over spring vacation. It’s a pity because they’ve never seen New York.”

“Too bad. You could give them a wonderful time.”

“Adam says—we had a long talk, over his office phone, of course—that Margaret is really terribly sad about what’s happened between us and wishes I would come home for a visit. But I won’t go without you. It’s absolutely degrading. It makes me furious. What’s a man supposed to do, live on with a wife who won’t even make love to him? What’s he supposed to be, a
human sacrifice?” Nina sighed. “I never knew Margaret to be narrow-minded like that, quite the contrary. She was always more tolerant than Adam, although I do adore him. He’s my brother and my best friend.”

“I’m glad for you. It’s a good thing even for an independent woman to have some strong male backing in her family, in case she should ever need it.”

“Well, I hope I never will. And that’s my news of the day. What’s yours?”

“Nothing much.”

She looked at him, questioning. “Nothing yet?”

“It’s a slow business. Roadblocks,” he said tersely.

She did not want to spoil the evening, did not want to bring up the painful subject at all. Yet she was driven to hear more.

And, very mildly, she observed, “It’s so awfully slow. All those ‘roadblocks’—what are they?”

“Oh, the usual. Need we discuss them now?”

“It’s just that you never tell me much.… I was thinking, it’s odd, isn’t it, but I don’t even know what your wife looks like, after all this time.”

“I’ve told you. What else do you need to know?”

“You told me she ‘looks older than God,’ that’s all.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Can’t you tell me any more?”

“Please, Nina. There’s no point in it. Let’s enjoy our dinner.”

He swirled his glass and took a sip of wine and made a face. “Nick ought to do better than this. I guess I’m spoiled, though. My brother’s an oenophile and he’s making one out of me. Didn’t you notice the wine we had at his place?”

“It was good, but I’m no judge.”

“Well, it was superb, one of the great Burgundies.”

She did not want to talk about wine.
A slow business.… Roadblocks.…

Suddenly she felt very tired. It was time, time right now, to speak out bluntly, to ask what the roadblocks were. She put the fork down, about to begin, when Keith spoke first.

“I was going to wait till after dinner, but I can’t wait. Do you want to know what made me late? This.”

With a triumphant smile he opened his jacket and took from an inner pocket a narrow velvet box.

“Open it, and don’t dare say no, as you always do.”

“But why, Keith? Why? You know I—”

“Open it,” he commanded.

Feeling the most peculiar confusion of emotions, she opened the box and was overwhelmed. There, glittering against black velvet, lay a bracelet, a solid strip of large baguette diamonds, breathtaking in its bold simplicity: no gold, no pattern, just pure, virgin gems.

Keith was still smiling in expectation of her astonished joy. She was indeed astonished, but joy failed her. There was no reason for her to own this fabulous thing.

“Well?” he said.

She gasped appropriately. “It’s magnificent! But you shouldn’t have—I mean, it’s so wonderful of you, but it’s far too much. Really, truly, far too much. I can’t accept it, Keith. I really can’t.”

“Don’t be silly. That’s for me to judge. Put it on. Nobody’s looking. I want to see it.”

Having no decent choice but to obey, she clasped it on her wrist. There it gleamed, and there it spoke to her, saying: I am far too costly for you, Nina. We are not meant for each other.

Keith nodded with satisfaction. “Yes. Not too narrow or too wide. It’s elegant and classic.”

She protested, “It doesn’t suit my way of life, don’t you see? I have no use for anything like this. It’s not that I’m ungrateful, please understand, but—”

“It’s not a formal piece! You can easily wear it to lunch with a certain type of client and in the proper place.”

“Not the neighborhood sandwich bar.”

If I were his wife, she was thinking, I would gladly accept whatever he might want to give. But not now. It’s premature. There is something wrong here. And with what she believed to be great sensitivity, she pleaded, “Keith, it is the most beautiful thing imaginable, but, darling, I don’t feel right about it. In spite of what you say, it doesn’t fit my life or our lives now—yet. Please, will you take it back? Please?”

“No, I will not take it back. It fits you, it’s as lovely as you are, and I insist that you have it. You’ve never accepted a decent present from me. Don’t make me angry. Here, put it back in the box and in your bag. Have it insured tomorrow. Nina, listen to me.” He gave her a long, serious look. “This is my way, perhaps a clumsy way, of saying thank-you for all you are, for the happiness you bring. And you have brought me very much, little Nina.”

And now, at this, she felt the start of tears. He had caused her to lose her resolve, and she was ashamed.

Keith laughed. “Here, take my handkerchief. How funny women are, crying when they’re happy! You are happy, aren’t you?”

He was so pleased. He looked the way adults look when they have brought delight to a child. There was
such a sweetness in his expression; how could she pressure him? And she thought, as always, of the pressures under which he must live, going back every night to a place where he did not want to be.

“And you really like the bracelet?”

“I do, and I still say you shouldn’t have done it, but I will never forget this night and what you said when you gave it to me.”

When she looked ahead at the mirrored wall in the distance, she could see herself smiling. For an instant it startled her to see this young woman, in leaf-green with sparkling earrings and shining hair, smile back. And a wonderful sensation of warmth and comfort poured through her.

So they finished a festive dinner. When they were on the street in the fresh spring night, she remarked, “It’s so beautiful. Shall we walk back to my house?”

“Nina, I can’t come tonight. I must get to the train to ride home with my partner and go over a report that’s overdue.” He kissed her. “The fact is I’ve got about a hundred things on my mind.”

For a minute she watched the taxi recede into the traffic. To be loved was everything! How lucky she was! How could she have had even a moment’s doubt? And all the way home, as she walked among hurrying strangers, she felt an amazing goodwill toward them, a wish that they might be as happy as she was.

“Y
ou shouldn’t have gone there,” Adam said gently. “Suppose she had seen you?”

“Don’t worry. I took care that she wouldn’t.” He looked up from the telephone to the photograph on the desk, a family photograph with Nina standing in the front row. Poor young thing, to be so entangled! He surely was able to empathize with her, and with her man Keith, who, like himself and poor Randi, was apparently caught between the devil and the sea.

“Don’t worry about me,” Nina said. “I was a wreck for a few days after going there, but I’m fine again now. You know how I can be in the dumps one minute and out of them in the next. Naturally, I don’t call Keith at his office, so I call you when I feel low, and you’re an immense help as always. It’s amazing to me how well you understand me now, given the kind of marriage you have.”

“Yes, I do understand you,” Adam said.

“I wish Margaret would relent. I don’t see why,
though, when you always work so perfectly together, you can’t change her mind about Keith and me.”

“I guess it’s just one of those things, but I’ll keep trying.”

“Well, enough of that. I think it’s great about Megan’s essay. We always knew she was smart, but this is really astounding. I want to send her a present.”

“That’s not necessary. Just write and congratulate her.”

“No, I want to send something, a little recognition. Winning first place in a statewide essay contest should be celebrated. You’ve never been one for celebration, Adam.”

“I guess I haven’t. Gil and Louise are the folks for that stuff. Louise is planning something for Megan, I heard.”

“She’s got a big heart. I like Louise.”

“You like everybody.”

“Well, mostly yes, I do. Anyway, I have to go, and I’m sure you do too. I’ll call you soon. Bye, Adam.”

“Keep your chin up. You’re going to come out all right, honey. Love finds a way.”

“Love finds a way,” Randi said, “and it’s pretty clear to me that you’ve almost found it yourself.”

He did not answer at once. His inner conflict was so severe that often now when the subject—what other subject was there?—came up, he found it impossible to speak. No matter which argument he settled on, immediately he had his refutation of it ready.

His home was cold, cold as a tomb, and he wanted out of it. Yet conscience gave stern lectures. At night when he was unable to sleep, he heard his mother, almost
in shock, admonishing him: “You would do this to Margaret? Remember how you brought your newborn babies home and fed them together? Remember how she cared for me, your mother, as few daughters-in-law would do? Remember?”

“Sometimes I feel as if I’ll lose my mind,” he said now.

“Darling, you won’t. You’ll wake up one morning soon and find that everything has been solved for you. But that’s enough talk for today. Are you taking me out for a birthday lunch on Saturday?”

“Of course. I wish it could be dinner, but I have no excuses for Saturday nights.”

“Your lively social Saturdays.”

“Hardly. We’re having our next-door neighbors to dinner. It’s our turn.”

“You’ll be back in plenty of time. I made an early reservation, twelve-thirty.”

“Reservation? Where are we going?”

“Your head’s so frazzled that you’ve forgotten? It’s the Villandry, the French place that was written up last month. My boss went, and she says it’s gorgeous, the only truly French food around here.”

“It’s not really around here,” Adam objected, having recently developed a dislike of change, a nervous unwillingness to explore the new.

“Fifty miles down the highway. What’s bad about that on a nice spring day? We’ll be there and back in no time. And we don’t dare be seen at any place nearer, damn it.”

The Villandry, if not exactly “gorgeous,” was a pleasant emulation of any French restaurant in any world-class
city. Its walls were hung with paintings of chateaux, and its plentiful flowers, tulips, iris, and narcissi, were spectacular. The service was deft, and the food was excellent. Halfway through a dish of chicken and mushrooms in wine, Adam was glad he had come.