Separate Beds (20 page)

She had a dim impression of her mother waiting in a semicircle of countenances that faced her from the bay window, of space emerging as people rustled back to clear the way. But then all others were forgotten as Catherine's eyes fell upon Clay. He stood in the classic groom's pose, hands clasped before him, feet spraddled, face unsmiling and a bit tense. She had thought to avoid his eyes, but hers had a will of their own. As if he had materialized at the whim of some talented spinner of fairy tales, both he and the setting were too perfect.

Lord help me, thought Catherine, as their eyes met. Lord help me.

He waited, his hair like ripe wheat with the sun setting over it. A tall sconce of countless candles turned his skin to amber, reflecting from the deep apricot ruffles that only added to his masculinity. He wore a vested tuxedo of rich cinnamon, a sternly tied bow tie which suddenly bobbed up, then settled back in place at his first sight of her. His eyes—in that flawless face—widened, and she caught the nearly imperceptible movement as he began locking and unlocking his left knee. Then, just before she lost his glance, his hands dropped to his sides and he wet his lips. Blessedly, he then became only an impression at her side. But she knew he turned to gaze once more at her flushed cheek while the organ and harp faded into only a murmurous background.

“Dearly beloved . . .”

The charade began. Things became surrealistic to Catherine. She was a child again, playing wedding with Bobbi, walking across a lawn dressed in dishtowels and curtains, carrying a bouquet of dandelions. Pretending she was back there took away the sting of guilt at what she was doing.

“Who gives this woman?”

“I do, her brother.”

Reality returned and with it Clay's arm, taking the place of Steve's. It was solid, but surprising, for minute tremors scuttled there, felt but not seen.

This time I wanna be the bride.

But, you're always the bride!

No, I ain't! You were the bride last time!

Aw, come on, don't cry. Okay, but next time I get to wear the curtain on my head!

From her left, Bobbi smiled, while sweet, naive memories came whirling back. The minister spoke; he had a mellifluous voice and could manage to sound as if what he said were being spoken solely to her and Clay. Catherine trained her eyes on the minister's lips, concentrating hard on the words as he reminded those about to be joined of the importance of patience, love and faithfulness. Some muscle tensed into a knot beneath Catherine's hand, was forcibly relaxed, then twitched again. She realized that the minister had asked all the married couples present to join their hands and renew their wedding vows silently along with the bride and groom. Silently Catherine pleaded, No! No! What you're witnessing is a sham! Don't base your reaffirmation of love on something that is meaningless!

She escaped once again into the play days of yesteryear.

When you get married, what kinda man are you gonna marry?

Rich.

Oh, Bobbi, honestly, is that all you think about?

Well, what kind you gonna marry?

One who likes to be with me so much he comes straight home instead of stopping at bars. And he's always gonna be nice to me.

The minister asked them to turn and face each other and hold hands. The profusion of gardenias and roses was given into Bobbi's hands. During the exchange their childhood fantasies were reflected within a glance the two exchanged.

Then Catherine's hands were clasped firmly in Clay's brown, strong fingers, and she felt dampness on his palms and on her own. The minister's voice droned on, far away, and Catherine was suddenly afraid to look Clay full in the face.

I'm gonna marry a man who looks just like Rock Hudson.

Not me. I like blond hair and stormy eyes.

My God, thought Catherine now, did I really say that?

She raised her eyes to blond hair, to gray, sober eyes that wore an expression of sincerity as they probed hers for the benefit of their guests. His face was limned by flickering candlelight which accented the straight nose, long cheeks and sensitive lips which were parted slightly, but somber. An errant pulsebeat showed just above his high, tight, apricot-colored collar and the stern bow tie. His manner was faultless, convincing. It created havoc within Catherine.

A man who is nice to me. Blond hair and stormy eyes. One who is rich.

Phrases from the past resounded through the chambers of Catherine's heart, filling it with remorse unlike any she'd suffered before. But those who looked on couldn't guess the turmoil within her, for she paralleled Clay's superb act, searching his eyes as he searched hers, while the pressure on her knuckles grew to sweet agony.

What are we doing? she wanted to cry. Do you know what you do to me with those eyes of yours? What do I do to myself by clenching your too-strong fingers this way, by pretending to idolize your too-perfect face? Don't you recognize the pain of a girl whose youthful dreams painted this very illusion, time and time again, who escaped into scenes just such as this when reality threatened? Don't you understand that I honestly believed those dreams would come true one day? If you do, release my hands, release my eyes, but above all keep my heart free of you. You are too flawless and this is too close to the real thing and I have suffered long enough for the lack of love. Please, Clay, turn away before it's too late. You are a temporary illusion and I must not, must not get lost in it.

But she was trapped in a farce of her own making, for Clay did not turn away, nor release her eyes, nor her hands. Her palms felt seared, her heart felt blistered. And for a moment she knew the cruel bite of wishfulness.

At last she dragged her eyes downward. Then Stu stepped forward, drawing a ring from his pocket. She extended her trembling fingers and Clay slid a diamond-studded band halfway on and held it hovering there.

“I, Clay, take thee, Catherine . . .”

While his deep voice spoke the words, Catherine's cheated heart wanted suddenly for this to mean something. But this was only a fantasy. Her thoughts tumbled on while Clay completed the ring's journey to its nesting place beside the heirloom already there.

She was startled then to find a ring placed in her palm—Angela had thought of everything—and her eyes fled once more to Clay's. Another prop for the play? hers asked. But perhaps he had chosen it himself, not Angela. Obediently she dropped her gaze and adorned his finger with the wide, gold unstudded florentine band.

“I, Catherine, take thee, Clay . . .” Her unsteady voice was threatened by shredded nerves, lost dreams and the awful need to cry.

But still there was more to be endured as they turned once again full-face to the blurred minister's garb. Hazily Catherine heard him pronounce them man and wife. Then the cleric smiled benevolently and sealed Catherine's and Clay's joined hands with both of his own.

“May your lives together be long and happy,” he wished simply, never suspecting what the words did to Catherine's already strained emotions. She stared at the wavering sight of all their hands together, quite numb now. Then the minister's hands disappeared and his voice poured out softly for the last time. “And now you may seal your vows with your first kiss as Mr. and Mrs. Clay Forrester.”

Shattered already, Catherine didn't know what to do. She felt as if she aged years in the mere moment while Clay took the lead, turning toward her with every misty eye in the house upon them. She lifted her face; the breath caught in her throat. She expected no more than a faint brush of lips, but instead his face loomed near, those gray eyes were lost in closeness, and she found herself enfolded in Clay's arms, gently forced against the starched ruffles of his elegant shirtfront, besieged by soft, slightly opened lips which were far, far too compelling. Haunting memories came flooding back.

No, Clay, don't! she longed to cry. But he did. He kissed her fully. And in that moment of first contact she sensed his apology, but found herself unable to forgive him for the convincing job he was doing.

He released her then, to the accompaniment of a collective murmur, and his breath touched her nose as he stepped back and looked into her startled eyes. There followed the kind of smile she'd been waiting for since childhood, sweeping Clay's face as if the moment were genuine, and she was forced to return one equally as bright. Then Clay tucked her hand possessively within his arm and turned her to face their guests.

She wore the pasted-on smile until it held its own. She was beleaguered by hugs, kisses and congratulations, starting with Stu, who unabashedly kissed her hard on the mouth. Next came Steve, holding her a little too long, a little too protectively, rocking a little while he squeezed her and whispered “Chin up” in her ear.

“Oh, Steve,” she allowed herself to say, knowing that he alone understood.

“Shh, babe, you're both doing fine. I wish you could see how you look together.”

Clay's father appeared, held her by the upper arms and welcomed her to the family with a generous hug and a direct kiss—the first kiss from him ever. Over his shoulder she saw Clay with his arms wrapped around Ada. Grandma and Grandpa Elgin gave her elfin pats and smiles, and Elizabeth Forrester bestowed upon her a regal kiss for each cheek and a tap of her cane upon the right shoulder, as if she were being knighted.

“You are a beautiful young woman. I shall expect beautiful children from you,” the old eagle stated sagaciously before turning away as if the matter were settled. Then Catherine was passed around like a dish of divinity, tasted by many mouths until she was actually quite grateful to be returned at last to Clay—until he pleased every guest there by voluntarily giving them what they waited for!

He swooped down, smiling boldly, and grasped Catherine firmly around her ribs, then picked her cleanly up off the floor until she hung suspended like a marionette. Indeed, she had no more choice than a marionette whose strings are controlled by the puppeteer. She could only submit to Clay's lips while the gardenias were wrapped so far around his neck that her nose was buried in them. She closed her eyes, spinning like a leaf in a whirlwind, intoxicated by the overpowering fragrance of the waxy flowers, by the awful sense that this was real, pretending momentarily that it was. The instant he touched her lips, Catherine felt the almost automatic reach of Clay's tongue toward her own, then her own surprised tongue arching in hesitation, not quite knowing what to do with itself. Then Clay's withdrawing politely again. She was faintly aware that the crowd had burst into applause but allowed herself to become mesmerized by the sensation that the world was twirling crazily. With her eyes closed and her arms around her husband's neck she endured an endless kiss while he slowly turned them both in a circle. But the kiss had grown long—difficult to find a place for a tongue in the midst of such a kiss if it does not take its natural course—until at its end, his tongue again touched hers, then, elusive as quicksilver, was gone.

But the crowd saw nothing more than a groom turning his bride in a slow circle in the middle of a candlelit room, kissing, rejoicing in the accepted fashion. They knew nothing of the elusive tongue-dance which accompanied the embrace.

Catherine came out from behind her gardenias with scarlet cheeks, which added to everyone's delight except her own. But then she was grateful to Clay for the convincing ploy, for when she turned from his arms it was to find a string of familiar faces with sparkling eyes that had just witnessed the entire scenario with awe-struck rapture. For the first time Catherine didn't need to act. Her elation was genuine as she flew to greet Marie, then Francie, and Grover and Vicky too!

Having them there made it nearly perfect. Catherine was touched by the sight of the usually unkempt Grover with her hair all shining and curled like Catherine had never seen it before. And Vicky, who had miraculously managed to let her nails grow beyond the tips of her finger and had polished them the most horrendous shade of blood-red. And Francie, smelling of Charlie perfume. Marie, tiny and petite in spite of how close she was to her due date. Marie, the sprite, the matchmaker, who had first taught Catherine to accept the contact of a caring hand. How many times had they touched hands since?

Clay arrived at Catherine's side again, encircling her waist loosely, then pulling her against his hip with a smiling expression she knew was for the girls.

“Isn't she something?” Francie demanded. And obligingly Clay tightened his grip, spread his hand upon Catherine's ribs and dropped a loving kiss on the corner of her eye.

“Yes, she's something, my bride.” Catherine refused to look up at Clay. His fingers rode perilously close to her breast.

“What do you think of our dress?” Marie asked.

Again he moved the hand, caressing the velvet appreciatively, answering, “Gorgeous,” then continuing to play their game by asking, “Who's going to wear it next?”

“Well, that depends on which one of us can snag a guy like you. Hey, why don'tcha let go of her and let us have our turns?”

Deftly Marie divided Clay from his bride while he gave Catherine the required Help!-what-can-I-do look, then threw his all into a tremendous kiss for the tiny Marie. Now it was Clay's turn to be passed around like a sweet. Catherine could only look on, smiling in spite of herself. He kissed them all, giving them a taste of what they wished was theirs. He returned to his bride only when they'd tasted their fill, some of them for a little too long, some with too-rapt expressions as their kiss ended.

But for his understanding, Catherine was again grateful to Clay.

They moved through the crowd again, Catherine at last realizing it was far, far larger than Angela had hinted it would be. Not only the girls from Horizons, but business associates, family friends and numerous relatives had been impetuously added to the invitation list. Angela's “intimate little affair” had blossomed into a full-blown social event of the season.

She and Clay were ensconced in the study to sign the marriage certificate under the gaze of the minister. They gave away no more than shaky fingers, then the photographer was there, popping his bulbs at their hands posed upon the document, then upon Catherine's bouquet, then herding them back into the living room to pose in the bay window with the other members of the wedding party. Throughout all this Catherine succeeded in being spontaneous and gay, as brides are expected to be. Bright repartee fell from her lips and from Clay's while they touched again and again until it became automatic, this reaching for each other's waists. And somehow Catherine found herself beginning to enjoy it.

Upon the dining room table a fountain of champagne cascaded. Clay and Catherine were buffeted there to catch their glasses full and sip around each other's love-knotted arms while the cameras again recorded the moment for posterity. The gentlemen guests posed around Catherine's gartered leg. She caught Clay's eye—was it twinkling?—above the glass of champagne he sipped. Next she posed on the stairway, where she tossed her bouquet over the banister. It was caught by a young girl Catherine didn't recognize.

Small tables appeared, set up with smooth efficiency by a host of hired waiters. Angela managed to oversee the dinner arrangements with silent skill while giving the impression that she'd never left her guests' sides nor swayed her attentions away from them.

Angela's know-how brought off a masterpiece of coordination. By the time Catherine was seated beside Clay at the head table, her admiration for his mother had grown immensely. It took more than money, Catherine realized, to achieve what Angela had here tonight.

The guests were served elegant plates of chicken breast stuffed with Minnesota's rare and delectable wild rice, garnished by crisp broccoli and spiced peach halves. The plates were as delightful to look at as they were to dip into. But what was most appreciated was the almost slick transition from reception rooms to dining hall. The entire festivity was proving to be a stunning success. Gratified, Catherine leaned around Clay to tell Angela so. But she only waved a nonchalant hand and assured Catherine the joy had been hers, she'd have felt cheated to do less and every minute had been worth it. Then she squeezed Catherine's hand.

It was in the middle of the meal that Catherine remembered the key. “Clay, I got your gift. Inella brought it upstairs before the ceremony, but I don't know what it's for.”

“Guess.”

She was afraid to. The whole evening was already overwhelming.

“The town house?” she ventured, but there was too much noise. Clay leaned down, his ear directly in front of her lips.

“What?”

“The town house, I said.”

He straightened, smiled teasingly and only shook his head. She saw his lips move, but there was such a tinkling clangor going on that she couldn't hear him either. Now she lowered her ear to his lips, but while she was thus posed, straining to hear his reply, she became aware that all voices in the room had stopped and only the demanding sound of spoons striking wineglasses filled the air.

Startled, she looked up to find every eye waiting. Then she realized Clay's hand rested on the back of her neck. It slid away and he smilingly began getting to his feet. Realization dawned, but still she hesitated, linen napkin forgotten in one hand, fork in the other, unprepared for yet another assault on her senses.

Clay stepped behind her chair, leaned near her ear. “Apparently they're not going to let us off with a couple of quick kisses that half of them didn't see.”

Quick kiss, she thought, was that last what he calls a
quick
kiss?

It was an old custom, one on which Catherine hadn't reckoned. The first kiss had been part of the ceremony. The second had taken her by surprise. But this one—this one was something altogether different. This was the one where plenty of schmaltz was expected.

From behind her came the innocent invitation, “Mrs. Forrester?” But Catherine suspected that could she see his face she'd find one eyebrow cocked up saucily, along with the corners of his mouth. She had no choice, so she gave the expected nervous laugh and got to her feet. There was no evading the issue this time as Clay gave her a regular Valentino job. Oh, he laid it on with aplomb! He pinned both of her arms at her sides, bent his head sideways and her slightly backward until she thought they'd both land on the floor. Her hands spread wide, finding nothing to hold onto but the taut fabric across his back. And while his tongue plundered the inside of her mouth in no uncertain terms, everyone in the room whistled and hooted and tapped their glasses all the more noisily until Catherine thought she would die of agony or ecstasy or a combination of the two. She died of neither. Instead, she found some welcome reserve of humor. He released her, straightened, and laughed into her eyes for the benefit of their guests, holding her loosely now about the waist with his hips resting against her own.

“Ah, Valentino, I'm sure,” she said with a smile.

“They love it,” he rejoined above the burst of applause. If anyone cared to read lips, Catherine was sure it would appear that Clay had said, “I love it.” He held her a moment longer in that relaxed and familiar slackness. From the far reaches of the room it appeared they were the typically starstruck nuptial pair. He even rocked her sideways once, then plunged forward again to whisper in her ear, “Sorry.”

Catherine's stomach felt at that moment like she'd eaten too much of Inella's salmon again. But before she could dwell on it, the photographer was there, demanding that they pose, feeding each other from filled forks. It was disconcerting, watching Clay's mouth open to receive food, holding the pose like a statuette, watching the glistening tip of his tongue which had only a moment ago unabashedly invaded her own.

The meal progressed, but Catherine couldn't eat another bite. Clay poured more champagne into her glass and she dove into it like a sailor from a burning ship. It made her head light and fuzzy and she warned herself to be careful. It was confusing stuff.

But before the bubbles cleared from her eyes, the glasses were ringing out again and Clay was standing up, taking her by the upper arm. This time it was easier, better, the wine having gone to her head somewhat, and her inhibitions sagged shamelessly while Clay gave her a kiss the likes of which turned her spine to aspic.

What the heck, the bride thought, give them what they want and forget it. And so she threw a little more of her heart into it—to say nothing of her tongue, which found a readily receptive mate within Clay's mouth. She even emoted a little, plopping her hand on top of her head as if holding it on, quite tickled by her own ingenuity.

The kiss ended. Clay laughed into her eyes. “Good job, Mrs. Forrester.”

“Not bad yourself, Mr. Forrester.” But she was all too aware of the way his hips again nudged her own through the velvet gown and the way her slightly bubbled tummy intruded upon the spot where his crisp tuxedo jacket hung open. “But I think you'd better stop filling my glass.”

“Now why would I want to do a thing like that?” He smirked cutely, raising an eyebrow suggestively. His hands skimmed lightly downward to rest upon her hips. She wondered if it were her imagination or had he pressed himself momentarily closer? But then she decided it was her imagination. After all, he was performing—just as she was—for the benefit of all the tinkling glass-tappers out there.

The cake was wheeled in on a glass cart. It was a towering creation of fluted columns and doves with ribbons threaded through their confectionary beaks, and it raised a chorus of aah's that gratified Angela. Clay's and Catherine's hands were trained upon the knife handle with its voluminous white satin bow. Flashbulbs exploded, the knife sliced through the cake, and the bride was instructed to feed her groom, this time from her fingertips. But he not only took the cake, he lipped the frosting from her knuckle while, above it, his gray eyes crinkled at the corners. Naughty sensations tingled their way down to Catherine's toes and her eyes swerved swiftly aside.

“Mmm . . . sweet stuff,” he said this time.

“Bad for your teeth,” she smiled up at him, “. . . and rumored to cause hyperactivity.”

He reared back and laughed wholeheartedly and once again they sat down.

“Let's have one of the groom feeding the bride,” the photographer suggested, zooming in on his quarry.

“How many more must we take?” Catherine asked, flustered now, but not entirely disliking the game.

“I'll be neat,” Clay promised in an aside. But that same devilish crinkle tugged at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He lifted a morsel of cake and she took it, tasted sugar, swallowed, then found him still standing there with an index finger frosted and waiting.

With a smile as sweet as any confection she said, “This is getting bawdy.” But all she could do was suck the end of his finger, finding it slightly salty too.

“Our guests find it amusing.”

“You, Mr. Forrester, are unforgivably salty.” But at that moment she caught Elizabeth Forrester's bright, knowing gaze snapping down the table at them, and she wondered what the old girl suspected.

The moment turned serious when Claiborne rose to give Catherine his official welcome. He came around the table and gave her a hug and a kiss and his approval for all to see. She sensed sobriety returning to Clay as he leaned an elbow on the table's edge and absently brushed an index finger across his lip, watching. Then he rose and shook hands with his father. Applause followed as Clay sat back down. The whole thing had been appallingly earnest on Claiborne's part, and as their eyes met, both Catherine and Clay realized it.

“On second thought, you'd better pour me another glass,” she said, “and smile. Your grandmother Forrester is watching every move we make.”

“Then this is for her, and for Mother and Father,” Clay said, and reached a finger to tip her chin up and placed the lightest kiss upon her lips. Then he reached for the champagne bottle. But his smile and gay mood did not return.

The meal ended and dancing began. Catherine met more of Clay's relatives and spent the appropriate amount of time with each. Then she found time to move off by herself and seek out her mother, and Uncle Frank and Aunt Ella. The evening was moving inexorably toward its close, and with each passing minute Catherine's apprehension grew.

Standing with Bobbi in the living room, Catherine caught sight of Clay out in the foyer. He stood with a remarkably beautiful girl whose auburn hair trailed down to the middle of her back. She cradled a champagne glass as if she were born with it in her hand. She smiled up at Clay, gyrated her head as if to toss her hair back. But it fell alluringly across her cheek. Then the girl circled Clay's neck with the arm bearing the stem glass, raising her lips to his and kissing him differently than any of the starry-eyed girls from Horizons had. Catherine observed the somber look upon Clay's face as he spoke to the girl, dropping his eyes to the floor, then raising them to her face again with a look of apology etching his every feature. Catherine would have been lying to herself had she not admitted that the touch he gave the girl's upper arm was a caress. He spoke into her eyes, rubbed that arm, then gave it a lingering squeeze before he bent to drop an unhurried kiss upon the crest of one flawless, high-boned cheek.

Quickly Catherine turned her back. But the picture rankled until something pinched at her throat and made it hard to swallow the champagne she lifted to her lips.

“Who is that girl out there with Clay?”

Bobbi glanced toward the foyer and her smile immediately faded.

“It's her, isn't it?” Catherine questioned. “It's Jill Magnusson.”

Bobbi turned her back on the couple too quickly. “Yes, it is. So what?”

“Nothing.”

But try as she might, Catherine could not resist looking their way again to find Clay now relaxed, one hand in his trouser pocket while Jill threaded her arm through his and rested her breast leisurely against his biceps. She was the kind of girl who could get by with a touch like that. Her sophistication made it look chic instead of shabby. An older man had joined them now and Jill Magnusson laughed, leaned sideways without relinquishing her claim on Clay and gave the older man a swift kiss on the side of his mouth.

“And who's he?” Catherine asked, carefully keeping the ice from her tone.

“That's Jill's father.”

There was a sick and empty feeling settling in the pit of Catherine's stomach. She wished she hadn't witnessed Jill leaning casually against Clay in the presence of her own father, nor her obvious lack of unease at kissing Clay with an arm looped around his neck. But Catherine was in for a further surprise, for even as she looked on, Elizabeth Forrester approached the group and it was immediately apparent that Jill Magnusson was as comfortable with the old eagle as she was with the champagne glass and Catherine's new husband. The unapproachable old woman didn't daunt Jill one bit. The brunette actually linked her remaining arm through Elizabeth's, laughing gracefully at whatever Clay's grandmother said. Then—unbelievably—the old eagle laughed too.

And Catherine finally turned away.

At that moment Clay's eyes drifted up, found Bobbi observing the quartet, and immediately he withdrew his hand from his pocket, excused himself and crossed toward her and Catherine.

“Jill and her parents were just leaving,” he explained. It became apparent as soon as the words left his mouth that explanations should not have been necessary. They had not been for the other guests who'd already departed.

“Somehow it seems that Catherine was not introduced to the Magnussons.”

“Oh . . . I'm sorry, Catherine. I should have seen to it.” He glanced uncertainly from Catherine to the front door. But it was opening. Angela and Mrs. Magnusson were touching cheeks fondly while the two men shook hands, and Jill gave a long, last look across the expanse that separated her from Clay. Then they were gone.

“Catherine . . .” Clay began, but realizing Bobbi was still there, said, “Excuse us, will you, Bobbi?” He took Catherine's elbow and moved her beyond earshot. “I think it's time we left.”