Separate Beds (14 page)

“Pressure? He offered you money, which you refused to accept. Is that what you call pressure?”

“Yes. Isn't it?”

“Are you upbraiding me, Miss Anderson?”

“Are
you
upbraiding
me,
Mr. Forrester?”

The room crackled almost electrically for a moment before Claiborne admitted in a less accusing voice, “You surprise me. I hadn't expected your . . . detachment.”

“I'm not at all detached. I've been through two very hellish weeks. I've been making decisions that haven't been easy.”

“So have my wife and I, and—I dare say—Clay.”

“Yes, he told me about your—I dare say—ultimatum.”

“Call it what you will. I don't doubt that Clay represented it to you in anything but its true light. We were grossly disappointed in the lack of good judgment he showed and took steps to see that he not only own up to his responsibilities, but that he not ruin his chances for the future.”

Angela Forrester sat forward then on the edge of her chair, legs crossed, leaning a delicate elbow on one knee. “Catherine,” she said, her voice the first emotional one in the room, “please understand that I—we have all been utterly distraught about your welfare and that of the child. I was so afraid you'd gone off to have an abortion anyway, in spite of what you told Clay.”

Catherine could not help angling a quick glance at Clay, surprised that he'd told them he'd suggested abortion.

“They know everything that we talked about that night,” he confirmed.

“You're surprised, Catherine?” Angela asked. “That Clay told us the truth or that we . . . rather . . . forced the issue?”

“At both, I guess.”

“Catherine, we knew you were here against your wishes the first time. Believe me, Clay's father and I have asked ourselves countless times what is the right thing to do. We coerced Clay into bringing you back here, so are we any less guilty of force than your father?”

“My father is a man who doesn't know how to reason, or rather, who won't. Please don't think that I'm anything like him. I . . .” Catherine looked down at her lap, her first outward show of her inner turmoil. “I intensely dislike my father.” Then she confronted Claiborne's eyes again, continuing. “You may as well know that part of the reason I am here now is to see that he doesn't bleed you for a single red cent, and that my reasons have little to do with altruism.”

Claiborne rose, crossed back to his desk and seated himself behind it. He picked up a letter opener and began toying with it. “You're a very direct young woman.”

Angela could tell this pleased her husband. While the girl's directness put her off somewhat, she was moved to sympathy by a daughter harboring such strong negative emotions for a father. The girl, it was obvious, was defensive about it, too, which meant she was hurt by it. All of this touched the mother in Angela.

“Does that bother you?” Catherine was asking.

“No, no, not at all,” Claiborne blustered, ruffled that someone else controlled the conversational reins which he was accustomed to controlling.

Again Catherine dropped her eyes to her lap. “Well, anyway, I don't have to live in the same house with him anymore.”

Again Angela experienced a twinge of pity; her eyes met her husband's and went to Clay, who was studying Catherine's profile.

Clay dropped his hand from the back of the loveseat onto the back of Catherine's neck, to the spot where he'd once detected the evidence of her father's abuse. Startled, she met his eyes, burned by the heat of his hand through her hair. Then the heat disappeared and Clay looked toward his father. “Catherine left home and arranged for her father to think she was running across the country so that she could continue school without being hassled by him.”

Surprised, Claiborne asked, “You're a student?”

“Yes, at the university.”

Again Clay spoke. “It goes without saying that she'd have a tough time of it with the baby. I managed to convince her that it was sensible to let me help with finances.” He allowed a moment to pass silently before capturing Catherine's hand, pressing it onto his knee in a way she found embarrassingly familiar. “Catherine and I have talked everything over. Tonight I asked her to marry me and she accepted.”

Angela carefully kept the pain from showing in her face, but her throat worked convulsively. The letter opener slipped from Claiborne's fingers and clattered onto the desktop. He then rested one elbow on each side of it and covered his face with both hands.

“We've agreed that it's best this way,” Clay said quietly, and his father's eyes emerged from behind his fingertips just in time to see Catherine slip her hand cautiously off Clay's knee.

What have I done? thought Claiborne.

Angela murmured, “I'm so relieved,” and wondered if she really was.

Claiborne could not help asking, “Are you sure?”

Catherine felt Clay's eyes pulling her own to his face. He gave her a secretive look which could easily be misinterpreted by his parents. Then he rested an elbow on the back of the sofa and laid a hand on her shoulder nearest his chest. “Catherine's friends and I have managed to convince her,” he said, with just enough implied intimacy to give them the fully wrong impression.

Catherine felt her face redden.

Angela and Claiborne witnessed their son's eyes caressing the young woman's face, and their own startled eyes met. How could this possibly have happened so quickly? Yet they each remembered that the two had been intimate once; apparently there was some basis for attraction. Everything about Clay's attitude suggested it, and the girl's blush confirmed it. But sensing that Catherine was displeased with the way Clay allowed his appetites to show, Angela moved toward them, offering congratulations. Claiborne rose and came to clasp their hands. When he held his son's hand firmly within both of his, he said honestly, “We're proud of your decision, Clay.”

But there was an undeniably painful mixture of eagerness and disappointment permeating the room. Feeling it, Catherine thought this must be how a thief felt while casing victims who were also friends.

It was some time later that the issue of the wedding came up as Angela asked, unassumingly, “Do you want your father and I in on the arrangements?”

“Of course,” Clay answered without hesitation. “Catherine and I don't know the first thing about planning a wedding.”

“Why not have the wedding here?” Angela asked most unexpectedly.

It was immediately apparent Catherine had not thought that far ahead. Angela placed a hand on her arm apologetically. “Oh, forgive me, have I been too assuming? From the things you've said about your father I thought perhaps . . .” But her words trailed away, leaving an uncomfortable void. She realized she'd put her foot in her mouth, something Angela Forrester rarely did.

Catherine attempted to ease the tension by affecting a wan laugh. “No, no, it's all right. You're probably right. My father wouldn't be inclined to lay out money when it was his intention all along to realize a profit from this situation.”

“But I've embarrassed you, Catherine, and that was not my intention. I don't mean to usurp your parents' place, but I want you to understand that Clay's father and I would be more than happy to give both of you whatever you want in the way of a wedding. I simply don't want you to think we would stint you on anything. Clay is our only son—please understand, Catherine. This will happen only once. As his parents, we'd love to indulge in our dreams of a perfect wedding celebration. If you'd . . . well, if you'd both agree to have the service here at the house, we'd be utterly happy, wouldn't we, darling?”

Claiborne, looking rather lost and beleaguered, could only concur. But, goddammit, he thought. It should have been Jill.
It should have been Jill!
“What Angela says is true. We certainly are not strapped, and we'd be happy to foot the bill.”

“I don't know yet,” Catherine said, floundering in this new possibility that she hadn't considered.

“Mother, we haven't had a chance to talk about it yet,” Clay explained.

Angela chose her words carefully, hoping that Clay would understand there were social obligations that people of their position must fulfill.

“I see no reason for either of you to feel you must sneak off like two chastised children. A marriage should be treated as a celebration. I . . . Catherine, I can see that I
have
embarrassed you, but please take our offer in the light it is intended. We can very easily afford to pay for a small affair here. Call it selfish, if you want to. Clay is our only son, you must understand.”

“Mother, Catherine and I will talk it over and let you know.”

To Clay, she said, “There are so many people who would be disappointed if you eloped—not the least of whom are your father and me. I'd like the family and a few close friends anyway. You know how your grandparents would be hurt if they were eliminated. And I'm sure Catherine will want her family.”

But neither Clay nor Catherine knew what the other's feelings were on the subject.

“Well”—Angela straightened her shoulders—”enough said. I've been rather premature, I realize, but whatever you decide, I know we can implement your plans.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Forrester. We'll have to talk it over.”

Again an awkward silence fell, and as if suddenly inspired, Claiborne clapped his hands with mock joviality, suggesting a glass of wine to honor the occasion.

Clay immediately seconded the motion, going to find an untapped bottle while Claiborne fetched four crystal goblets.

A glass of white wine of excellent vintage was placed in Catherine's hands. Momentarily the goblet blotted out Clay's face before its rim touched her lips, and above it she telegraphed Clay a message which he, thankfully, understood. The toast done, he took Catherine's glass from her hand and set it, along with his own, on the table.

“Catherine and I will see you . . . when, Catherine?” He looked to her. “Tomorrow night?”

So fast! she thought, things are moving so fast! But she found herself agreeing to tomorrow night.

Preparing to leave, Catherine tried to thank Angela, but Angela's eyes were unmistakably dewy as she said, “Things will work out.” The diamonds upon her hands flashed as she made a gesture of command with the wineglass. “Go now,” she finished, “and we'll see you tomorrow.”

As she left the room where Claiborne and Angela stood with their arms around each other's waists, Catherine found herself comparing them to her own parents and admitted that the Forresters did not deserve to be deceived. They were the “rich sons-a-bitches” her father had despised, whom she'd nearly caught herself despising. But she saw them now only as a mother and father who wanted nothing but the best for their son. Leaving their house Catherine thought, I'm no better than my father.

Outside it had turned colder, and a spiritless rain had begun. The heater, not yet warmed up, breathed clammy air onto Catherine's legs as she girded her knees with both hands to keep from shivering.

Headed back to Horizons, Clay asked peremptorily, “Well, what do you think?”

“I have a feeling this thing is going to get out of hand right before our very eyes. I never thought your mother would come up with such a suggestion.”

“I didn't either, but I guess I didn't have time to think. Still, it's better than the whole church thing with a thousand guests, isn't it?”

“I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't grandpas and grandmas.” Somehow Clay Forrester seemed too chic to have grandparents hidden somewhere in the woodwork.

“I didn't evolve from a splitting cell, you know,” he said, attempting to inject a little humor into the otherwise humorless situation.

“Right now I almost wish you had. Me too.”

“Don't you have any grandparents?”

“No, they're all dead. But if I did, I think I'd burn an effigy on their front lawn to protest their having an offspring like my dad. Clay, I will not have that man at our wedding, no matter what.”

“Well, it wouldn't hurt my feelings not to invite him, but how can you leave him out and still have your mother? Is that what you're suggesting?”

“I don't know what I'm suggesting. This whole idea of a—a real
ceremony
is . . . well, it's preposterous! My old man would get pickled and become obnoxious as usual and the whole scene would be worse than any so far. Either that, or he'd go around telling all the guests how his ship just came in!”

“Well, I don't see how we can avoid him.”

“Clay!”
she said in an I-don't-believe-this tone of voice.

“What? What does that mean
—Clay?”
He repeated her exact tone of disbelief.

“You really want to go along with this whole shindig, don't you? I mean, you think we should let your mother go through with all the preparations and the expense of a real wedding, and let them believe it's for keeps?”

“If she wants to do it, let her do it. She's in her glory when she's organizing what she calls her 'little social events,' so let her organize one. Who's it going to hurt?”

“Me! I feel like a felon already, planning what we're planning. I don't want to haze your parents any more than necessary.”

“Catherine, I think you have to put things into perspective. The whole occasion will probably cost less than one of the rings on my mother's hands. So why not let her have her fun?”

“Because it's dishonest,” she said stubbornly.

He grew a little irritated. “That fact is already established, so what's the difference how we go about it as long as we're going to go about it anyway?”

“Can't we just go off to some justice of the peace or something?”

“We can if that's what you really want. But I think it would only hurt my parents more. I don't know about yours—your mother anyway—but I doubt that she'd be too disappointed to see you getting married with a show of my parents' support. That's really what it boils down to, you know. My parents have chosen to accept our marriage and want it known that they do. Isn't that what weddings are all about?”

“No. Most weddings are about a lifelong commitment between a man and a woman.”

But Clay sensed something more behind Catherine's refusal. “You wouldn't like any
vile ostentation
on your account, is that it? Especially if the bill was picked up by the despicable rich you've been cultured to hate so much?”

At the beginning that had been part of it, but no longer. “Okay, I'll admit it, I've been prejudiced by my father's prejudices against the rich. And, yes, I've had preformed notions about what your family would be like, but your parents are not bearing them out.”

Clay worked the edges of his teeth together, noting that she did not include him in her summary of findings. “You mean you like them?”

But Catherine had decided that liking them was a pitfall she would do well to guard against.

“I respect them,” she answered truthfully, “and that in itself is something new for me.”

“Well, then, couldn't you respect their wishes and go along with my mother?”

Catherine sighed heavily. “Lord, I don't know. I'm not very good at any of this. I don't think I ever should have agreed to it.”

“Catherine, whatever you might think, my mother is not a manipulator. She does try to do things in the accepted fashion, and I haven't mentioned it before, but I know that part of the reason for a reception of some kind is political. It may not have been mentioned, but business etiquette requires invitations to occasions such as these for certain long-established associates who have become more than just business connections down through the years. Some of them are close personal friends of my parents by now. I'm sorry if that lays an extra burden on you, but that's the way it is.”

“Why didn't you tell me this when you first suggested the scheme?”

“Frankly, I didn't think of it then.”

She groaned softly. “Oh, this gets worse all the time.”

“If you ask Mother to scale it down, I'm sure she will. But I guarantee that whatever she has a hand in will be handled with taste and efficiency. Would that be so hard to accept?”

“I . . . it scares me, that's all. I don't know anything about . . . society weddings.”

“She does. Let her guide you. I have a feeling the two of you could work well together, once you get to know each other.”

Again Catherine felt cornered, this time by Clay's obvious wish to please his parents, even if it meant a wedding that was larger than prudent. And again as she remembered his light touches, the looks of implied intimacy, she decided to take up the subject now so that he clearly understood her stand on the matter.

“That was quite a performance you put on back there, and totally unnecessary. I'm sure your parents aren't that gullible.”

“You may have thought it unnecessary; I didn't.”

“Well, spare me in the future, please. It's bad enough as it is.”

“I wanted as few questions as possible, that's all. And I think it worked.”

“You have no conscience whatsoever, do you?”

“We've been over this once before, so let's not go over it again. I don't like it any more than you do, but I'm going through with it, okay? If I have to touch you now and then to make it convincing, I'm sorry.”

“Well, that wasn't part of our agreement.”

“Are you that insecure that a touch on the shoulder threatens you?”

She would not grace him with an answer to such nonsense. But when she sat silently stewing for some time, he added, “Just forget it. It didn't mean anything, it was only an act.”

Only an act, Catherine thought. Only an act.

It was warm in the car as Catherine sighed, leaned back in the comfortable seat and let the whisper of rain beneath the tires hypnotize her. The purring syllable of the engine, the faint vibration of the road, the gentle sway now and then as they rounded a curve or changed lanes—she let it engulf her in a place halfway between sleep and wakefulness, halfway between worry and security. The swoop of the windshield wipers mesmerized her and she drifted away, playing the game of pretend, as she and Bobbi had done so often in childhood. What happened to the girl who romanticized stories in her diary all her growing years? What happened to those dreams that had been an escape hatch then? What would it be like if this wedding were not some trumped-up scheme? What if it were real, and she and Clay both wanted it?

There was a bouquet of sweet-scented flowers in her hands as she drifted through a crowd of people with radiant smiles. She wore a stunning white gown with a skirt so voluminous it filled the width of the stairway from banister to wall. The diaphanous veil on her head tumbled around her, following like an aureole as she passed a table spread with lace and laid with silver, and another that bore an eruption of gifts which scarcely took her notice as she searched the throng for the eyes she knew so well. Bobbi was there, kissing her cheek, crying a little bit from happiness. But again the search for gray eyes and she found them and they smiled. He waited for her to reach him, and when she had she knew peace and fulfillment. Rice flew, and the bouquet flew, straight into Bobbi's upraised hands, and Bobbi tossed her a kiss that said, “See? It happened just like we pretended, you first, then me.” And mother's face was in the crowd, eased of worry, because Cathy had picked the right man. Then she and the very right, very gray-eyed man were sailing through the door toward a honeymoon, a honeylife, and it was real . . . real . . . real . . .

Catherine's head leaned at a fallen angle upon the seat of the car. Clay leaned near her, shaking her elbow gently. “Hey, Catherine, wake up.” The dash lights picked out a series of golden needlepoints from the tips of her eyelashes which formed a dim fan of shadows across her cheek and nose. Her hair was messed up on one side, caught against the car seat and billowed out in disarray around her ear. He noticed for the first time that the ear was pierced. She wore a tiny silver stud in it. Her lips had fallen relaxed, all of their earlier gloss now gone. The very tip of her tongue showed between her teeth. The tendons of her neck were highlighted, creating intimate shadows behind them. The faint, inviting scent of her perfume still clung there.

How defenseless she looks, thought Clay, all wilted sideways, with her usual air of aloofness erased. She was a beautiful girl this way, but when she awoke he knew her stern facade would quickly return, and with it the cold overtones that Clay already disliked so intensely. He wondered if he might not learn to love her if her personality were as warm and sweet as the look of her right now. His eyes moved down to her lap. One hand was still lightly closed around a clutch purse, the other lay against her low abdomen. Behind that hand his child thrived. He let the thought carry him. He considered what he wanted out of life and wondered what she wanted out of hers. The hand in her lap twitched and he studied it, thinking how easily she could have had an abortion. Momentarily he wished she had, then again, was relieved she hadn't. He wondered what the baby would look like. He wondered if it would be a boy or a girl. He wondered if it were a mistake, this wedding idea. He felt a momentary tenderness toward her because of the life she carried, and decided no, it was no mistake; his child deserved a better start in life than he, Clay, had given it so far. He wished, oh, how he wished, that things were different, that this girl were different, so he could love her. He realized he still held her arm, just above the elbow. He could feel her pliant flesh, her body heat through her coat sleeve.

“Catherine, wake up,” he repeated softly.

Her eyelashes lifted and her tongue glanced across her lips. Her head rolled upright, and her eyelids shut once more.

“You fell asleep,” he said, close to her, that hand still resting on her forearm.

“Mmmm . . .” Catherine murmured, resisting wakefulness a little longer. She stretched without stretching, using only her shoulders. She was aware of his touch, and she pretended for a minute longer, knowing now that he was very near, even though her eyes were still closed.

“You were supposed to be thinking things over instead of sleeping.” But his voice was devoid of criticism, holding instead a note of warmth. She opened her eyes to find him a hovering shadow before her, his features eclipsed, for he'd slung one elbow over the wheel and half-turned her way.

“Sorry. I seem to do that so easily lately. The doctor said it was natural though.”

Her words created an intimacy that lightly lifted Clay's stomach, coming as they did upon the heels of his thoughts about the baby. He had never considered the personal changes going on inside her body before, nor the way they affected her day-to-day routine. It struck him that he was responsible for many changes she was undergoing, of which he was totally unaware.

“It's okay. I really don't mind.”

It was the first time they ever had spoken unguardedly to each other. Her defenses were down, drowsy as she was.

“I was pretending,” she confided.

“Pretending what?”

“Not really pretending, but remembering how Bobbi and I used to sit for hours and plan our weddings and make gowns out of dishtowels and safety pins, and veils from old curtains. Then we'd write it all in our diaries, all our glorious fantasies.”

“And what did you write?”

“Oh, all the usual things. Girlish dreams.”

“Lohengrin
and trailing veils?”

She laughed softly in her throat and shrugged.

“You never said that before. If you wanted all those things, why did you argue earlier?”

“Because the traditional things will only be empty and depressing if all they do is create a front for what's missing.”

“Hearts and flowers?”

She had never seen him this mellow before. Again she wondered what it would be like with him if this were real. “Don't mistake my meaning if I say yes.”

He moved away slightly, squaring himself in the seat. “I won't. Do you assume that men don't want the same things?”

“I never thought about what men want.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that I've recently done some wishing of my own?”

Yes, she thought, yes, it would. Have I robbed you of your dreams? She stole a glance at his profile. It was a very appealing profile, one she had looked at directly very few times. It wore an amenable expression now.

“Did you?” she asked at last, unable to stop the question.

“A little, yes. Mostly hindsight, you know.”

She tried for an understanding note as she observed, “You really don't like being a disappointment to your parents in any way, do you?”

“No.”

She didn't want to seem prying, yet she had to know—it had been bothering her for so long. She took a careful breath, held it, and finally asked softly, looking down at her lap, “This other girl you've been going with . . . Jill . . . she's the one they hoped you'd marry, isn't she?”

He turned, saw the way she idled her fingers back and forth across her purse, staring down. She looked up and their eyes met.