Separate Beds (21 page)

Certainly, now that Jill Magnusson is gone, thought Catherine. “But shouldn't we thank your parents first?”

“I've done that already. Now we're expected to simply slip away unnoticed.”

“But what about the gifts?” She was grasping at straws and she knew it.

“They'll be left here. We're not expected to thank anyone for them tonight. We're only supposed to disappear while they're busy.”

“Mom will be wondering . . .” she began lamely, looking around.

“Will she?” Clay could see how nervous Catherine had suddenly become. “Steve is with her. He'll see that she gets home okay.”

Catherine saw Ada in happy conversation with Bobbi's parents and Steve. Catherine raised her glass to her lips, but found it empty. Then Clay removed it from her lifeless fingers, saying, “Slip upstairs and get your coat and I'll meet you by the side door. And don't forget the key.”

Once more in the pink bedroom, Catherine at last allowed her shoulders to sag. She plopped down on the edge of the gay little bed, then leaned back and let her eyelids close wearily. She wished this were her own room, that she could snuggle in and awaken in the morning to find that no wedding had taken place after all. Absently she picked up a small pillow, toyed with the ruffled edge, staring until the design on it seemed to wriggle. She blinked, tossed the pillow aside and went to stand before the cheval mirror. She pressed her dress against her lower abdomen, visually measuring. She raised her eyes and stared at the reflected face, wondering how it could be so pink when she felt so bloodless. From the depths of the silvered glass, blue eyes watched her fingertips touch one cheek, then flutter down uncertainly to her lips. Her brows wore a troubled look as she assessed her own reflection and found countless imperfections in it.

“Jill Magnusson,” she whispered. Then she turned and flung her coat loosely about her shoulders.

Outside the world wore that semi-dark glow of the first snow of the season, glittering almost as if from within. The night sky looked as though someone had spilled milk across it, obscuring the moon behind a film of white. But as if a droplet slipped off now and then, an occasional snowflake drifted down. The lights from the windows twinkled playfully upon the white frosting, and the leafless limbs of the trees looked warm now beneath their blankets. The air was brittle, though, brittle enough to freeze the tender petals of the gardenia forgotten in Catherine's hair.

Catherine clutched her coat beneath her chin, raised her face and sucked in the taste of the cold. Revitalized, she hurried through the shadows to the end of the house near the garages. It was quiet. Not even the hum of distant traffic intruded, and she savored it, trying to make it calm her.

“Sorry it took so long.”

She jumped at the sound of Clay's voice and clutched her coat tighter. He materialized out of the darkness, a tall shadow with its coat collar turned up. “I got caught by a few well-wishers and couldn't get away.”

“It's okay.” But she drew her mouth down within the protective folds of her coat.

“Here, you're freezing.” He touched her back, steered her toward a strange, dark car that waited there. Even in the blackness she could see that it had streamers trailing from it. He opened the driver's side door.

“Have you got the key?” he asked.

“The key?” she asked dumbly.

“Yes, the key.” He smiled with only one side of his mouth. “I'll drive tonight, but after this, it's yours.”

“M-mine?” she stammered, uncertain of which to look to for verification, the car or his face.

“Happy wedding day, Catherine,” he said simply.

“The key was for this?”

“I thought you'd like a wagon, for groceries and things like that.”

“But, Clay . . .” She was shivering worse now, the tremors quite pronounced in spite of the way she hugged herself into the coat.

“Have you got the key?”

“Clay, this isn't fair,” she pleaded.

“All's fair in love and war.”

“But this is not love or war. How can I just . . . just say 'Thank you, Mr. Forrester' and drive off in a brand new car as if I have every right to it?”

“Don't you?”

“No! It's too much and you know it.”

“The Corvette isn't exactly a family car,” he reasoned. “We'd have trouble getting even the wedding gifts to the town house in it.”

“Well, fine, then, trade it in or—or borrow the Bronco again, but don't hand me the world on a platter that I feel guilty to eat from.”

His hand dropped from the car door; his voice sounded slightly piqued. “It's a gift. Why do you have to make so much of it? I can afford it, and it will make our lives infinitely easier to have two cars. Besides, Tom Magnusson owns an auto dealership and we get great deals from him on all the cars we buy.”

Common sense returned with a cold swipe. “Well, in that case, thank you.”

Catherine got in and slid across to the passenger side. He got behind the wheel to find her leg angled across the transmission hump, her skirt pulled up. She produced the key from within her garter and handed it to him.

It was warm in his palm.

He seemed a little ill at ease as he started the engine, but let it idle. He adjusted the heater, cleared his throat. “Catherine, I don't know how to say this, but it seems we each got a key tonight. I got one too.”

“From whom?”

“From Mother and Father.”

She waited, trembling inside.

“It's for the honeymoon suite at the Regency.”

She made a sound like air going out of a balloon, then moaned, “Oh, God.”

“Yes, oh, God,” he agreed, then laughed nervously.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to go to the town house.”

“And let the Regency phone tomorrow and ask why the bride and groom didn't show up?”

She sat silent, shaking.

“Catherine?”

“Well, couldn't we . . . couldn't we just”—she swallowed—”check in and leave again and go to the town house, maybe leave the key for them to find in the morning?”

“Do you want me to go back into the house and pick up a load of gifts and hope we find some sheets and blankets when we open them?”

He was right; they were trapped.

“Catherine, this is adolescent. We've just gotten married and we've agreed to spend the next several months living together. You realize that we're going to bump into each other now and then during that time, don't you?”

“Yes, but not in any honeymoon suite at the Regency.” Still she knew that before the night was out they'd have put the lie to her words.

“Catherine, what the hell did you expect me to do, stuff the keys back into my father's hand and say 'Use them yourselves'?”

There was no point in arguing. They sat there thinking until finally Clay put the car in reverse, and backed away from the shadow of the garage.

“Clay, I don't have my suitcase!” she gulped.

“It's in the back with mine,” he said, while the doorman grew small behind them, his arms folded and his collar turned up.

They drove along in silence, Catherine still gripping her coat although the car had long since grown warm. The smell of new, hot oil mingled with that of new vinyl. With each mile Catherine grew tighter.

Finally she said, “Why does it seem like everything important that happens between us happens in one of your cars?”

“It's one of the few places we've ever been alone.”

“Well, your parents sure took care of that, didn't they?”

With an abrupt swerve he pulled to the side of the road, skidded to a halt and craned to look back over his shoulder.

She perked alert. “Now what?”

He was already turning around. “You want to go to the town house, okay, we'll go to the town house,” he snapped.

She clutched his arm. “Don't,” she pleaded. “Don't, not tonight.”

He brooded silently, tense now too.

“I was wrong, okay?” she conceded. “Just don't drive crazy—not tonight. I know they meant well to get the room for us, and you're right. What difference does it make where we sleep?” she dropped her hand from his arm. “Please try to understand, though. It's been a nerve-wracking night. I'm not used to lavishness.”

“Maybe you better get used to it, because they never do anything halfway.”

He drove on more sensibly now.

“How much do you imagine it cost them to arrange all that?”

“Don't let it bother you. Mother loved it all. I've told you before, she's in her element planning things like that. Couldn't you tell how she was enjoying her success?”

“Is that supposed to ease my conscience?” she asked.

“Catherine, are we going to go through this every time we get something from them? Why do you constantly berate yourself? Had it occurred to you that maybe you're not the only one benefiting from our arrangement? It may surprise you to learn that I'm actually quite happy to be moving away from home. I should have done it years ago, but it was easier to stay where I was. It's not exactly a hardship being coddled and taken care of. But I'm tired of living with them. I'm glad to be getting out. I wonder if they aren't equally relieved to have me leave at last.

“And as for my parents—don't think they didn't get something out of that production number. Did you see my father's face when he was brandishing his champagne glass? Did you see Mother when she was directing waiters around, watching while everything slipped into place like greased gears? They get high off social success, so just think of it as another autumn gala thrown by the Forresters. They throw one quite like it several times a year anyway.

“What I'm trying to say is, that it's their style. Giving us the night at the Regency is what their friends expect them to do, plus—”

“Plus what?” She shot him a look.

“Plus, giving us the right start gives them a false sense of security. It helps them believe everything will turn out right between us.”

“And you don't feel guilty to accept any of it?”

“Yes, dammit!” he burst out. “But I'm not going to go out and buy a hair shirt over it, all right?”

His belligerence surprised her, for he'd been mellow for days. They arrived at the Regency in strained silence. Catherine made a move toward her door handle and Clay ordered, “Wait here until I get the suitcases out.”

He walked around the car, yanking the crepe paper streamers off. His breath formed a pale pink cloud, refracting the glow from the colorful hotel sign and the lights at the entry. He opened the tailgate, and she heard the muffled swish as he tossed the streamers in.

When he opened her door and she'd stepped out, he reached for her arm. “Catherine, I'm sorry I yelled. I'm nervous too.”

She studied his odd-colored visage in the neon night, but she could find nothing to reply.

The porter flourished his hand toward the room and Catherine followed it with her eyes. It felt as though she were couched in a Wedgwood teacup. The room was elegant and tasteful, decorated exclusively in oyster white and Wedgwood blue. The cool blue walls were trimmed with pearly moldings done in beadwork, arranged in rectangles with a carved acanthus centered in each. The design was repeated on two sets of double doors which led to closet and bath. Elegant white silk draperies were crowned by an ornate swagged valance while alabaster French Provincial furniture contrasted soothingly with the room's plush blue carpeting. Besides the enormous bed there was a pleasant grouping of furniture: a pair of chairs and coffee table of Louis XVI persuasion, with graceful cabriole legs and oval, marble tops. On the table sat a profuse bouquet of white roses whose scent was thick in the air.

When the door closed, leaving them alone, Catherine approached the flowers, found the tiny green envelope and turned questioningly to Clay.

“I don't know, open it,” he said.

The card read simply, “All our love, Mother and Dad.”

“It's from your parents.” She extended the card, then sidled a safe distance away while he read it.

“Nice,” he murmured, and stuck the card back into the roses. He pushed back his jacket and scanned the room with hands akimbo. “Nice,” he repeated.

“More than nice,” she seconded, “more like smashing.”

Upon the triple dresser was a basket of fruit and a silver loving cup bearing a green glass bottle. Clay walked over, lifted the bottle, read the label, set it back down, then turned, tugging the knot from his bow tie and unfastening a single button of his shirt. Her eyes flew off in another direction. She walked over and gave a careful peek into the depths of the darkened bathroom.

“Can I hang up your coat for you?” he asked.

She looked surprised to find it still crumpled between her wrist and hip. “Oh—oh, sure.”

He came to reach for her garment and again she retreated a step.

“Don't be skittish,” he said laconically, “I'm only going to hang up your coat.”

“I'm not skittish. I just don't know what to do with myself, that's all.”

He opened the closet doors, spoke at the tinging hangers inside.

“I'd call that skittish. Maybe a glass of champagne would help. Do you want one?” He hung up his tux jacket too.

“I don't think so.” But she wandered back to the dresser anyway and looked over the bottle and the basket. “Who is the fruit from?”

“The management. You want some? How about a last pear of the season?” A tan hand reached around her and hefted one.

“No, no pears either. I'm not hungry.”

As she drifted away he tossed the fruit in the air once, twice, then forgot it in his hand, studying her.

“No champagne, no fruit, so what would you like to do to pass the time away?”

She looked up blankly, standing there in the middle of the room as if afraid to come into contact with any article in it. He sighed, dropped the pear back into the basket and moved to carry their suitcases across to the bed.

“Well, we're here, so we might as well make the best of it.”

He stalked to the bathroom door, flicked on the light, then turned, gesturing toward it.

“Would you like to be first?”

And the next thing Catherine knew, she was laughing! It started as a silent flutter in her throat and before she could control it, it erupted and she had both hands over her mouth before she flung them wide and continued laughing to the ceiling. At last she looked across to find Clay—the corners of his eyes crinkled now—still waiting just outside the bathroom doorway.

“Come on, hey, wife, I'm trying to be gallant and it's getting tougher by the minute.”

And suddenly the tension was relieved.

“Oh, Clay, if your father could see us, I think he'd demand his money back. Are we really in the honeymoon suite of the Regency?”

“I think so.” Gamely, he looked around, checking.

“And did you just sign our names in the register as Mr. and Mrs. Clay Forrester?”

“I think so.”

She looked up as if appealing to the heavens. “Help, I'm floundering.”

“You should do that more often, you know?” He smiled her way.

“Do what, flounder?” She chuckled and made a hapless motion.

“No, laugh. Or even smile. I was beginning to think you were going to wear your stiff face all night long.”

“Do I have a stiff face?” It looked mobile and amazed as she asked.

“Stiff might not be the right word. Deadpan is probably more accurate. Yes, deadpan. You put it on like armor at times.”

“I do?”

“Mostly when we're alone.”

“So you'd like it if I smiled more?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I would. I like smilers. I guess I'm used to being around them.”

“I'll try to remember.” She glanced toward the window, then back at him. “Clay, what you said down there in the car, well, I'm sorry, too.” Her face had turned suddenly serious, contrite.

“No, it was me who got short with you. My timing really stunk.”

“No, listen, it was partly my fault too. I don't want us to fight all the time we're married. I've been around it all my life and now I simply want . . . well,
peace
between us. I know this sounds silly, but it feels better already, just admitting that we're nervous, instead of the way we were acting on the way over here. I want you to know that I'll try to do my part to maintain some kind of status quo.”

“Good. Me too. We're stuck with each other for better or for worse, so let's make the better of it instead of the worse.”

She smiled a little. “Agreed. So . . . me first, huh?”

They both looked at the bathroom door.

“Yup.”

What the heck, she thought, it's only a regular old bathroom, right? And I'm choking in this dress, right? And dying to get comfortable, right?

But once inside the bathroom she was too aware of his presence just outside. She turned on the faucet to cover any personal sounds. She kept glancing furtively at the doors. She confronted herself in the mirror, moving close to analyze her reflection until her breath beaded on the glass.

“Mrs. Clay Forrester, huh?” she asked her reflection. “Well, don't go getting ideas. He told you once you don't play around without paying for it, and he was right. So put on your nightie and go out there and clamber into bed with him, and if you're uncomfortable doing it, you've got nobody to blame but yourself.”

Her fingers trembled as she undressed. She stared herself down with too-wide eyes as she removed her velvet wedding gown, then the slip and that ridiculously minuscule bra. Her breasts were weightier now, the nipples broad and florid. At their sudden release, dull twinges of ache flowed through them—not pain exactly, but something akin to it—and she closed her eyes and cupped one in each hand, squeezing and lifting in that way which lately could abate those unexpected throes. Once the pangs were gone came the relief of being unbound. She watched herself scratch the red marks where her bra had bitten too tightly at the top of her ribs, then her stomach, which felt like the head of a drum and itched mercilessly now as the skin began stretching.

Unbidden the thought came that the man who waited on the other side of the door had created these changes in her body.

She shook off the thought, brushed her teeth, ran warm water and soaped a cloth. But just as she was about to scrub off her makeup, it struck her that her face had many shortcomings which would be emphasized without the makeup, so she left it on.

She threw up her arms and a yellow nightgown drifted down like a parachute in the wind, followed by a matching peignoir. Her hands slowed, tying the cover-up at her throat. It was so obviously new. Would he mistake her reason for wearing such frillery? Should she march out there and announce that Ada had bought it at the company store at an employee's discount and had given it to her for a shower gift?

Through the peignoir her new girth was disguised, and she soothed the front, thoughts skittering from one to another. She was putting off opening the door and she knew it. She closed her eyes and swallowed . . . and swallowed again . . . and felt a hidden tremor deep within her stomach.

Suddenly the memory of Jill Magnusson was there in full color behind her eyelids and Catherine knew beyond a doubt that had it been Jill here getting ready to join Clay, there would be no schoolgirl shyness.

She supposed Clay was wishing right now she
were
Jill Magnusson. A hint of self-pity threatened, but she barred it. She remembered that last, long look of regret on Jill's face as she looked back across the room at Clay before walking out the door.

At last Catherine admitted, I carry his child. But it should be her, not me.

The door was soundless. Clay stood with his back to her, gazing down into her open suitcase, his tie forgotten in one hand, toothbrush in the other.

“Your turn,” she said quietly, expecting him to jump guiltily. Instead he looked over his shoulder and smiled. His eyes made one quick trip down and up the yellow peignoir.

“Feel better?”

He had pulled his shirttails out of his trousers. Her eyes went down to them like metal shavings to a magnet, to the network of wrinkles pressed into the fabric by his skin. Then farther down, to his stocking feet.

“Much.”

They exchanged places and Clay moved into the bathroom, leaving the door open while he only brushed his teeth. In the suitcase, Catherine found a corner of her diary showing beneath the neatly folded clothing there. She tucked it away and closed the suitcase with a snap.

“Are you tired?” he asked, coming back from the bathroom.

“Not a bit.”

“Do you mind if I break into that champagne then?”

“No, go ahead. It might help after all.”

When his back was turned, she tugged at the top of her neckline; it was far from seductive, but not quite demure. His shoulders flexed and twisted as he worked away at the cork, and the wrinkles on the rear tails of his shirt did incredible things to her stomach, hanging free that way, shifting against his buttocks with each movement. The cork exploded and he swung the bottle over the loving cup.

“Here,” he said, coming back with bottle in one hand, glasses in the other. She held the glasses while he poured. But his shirt was unbuttoned all the way now, exposing a thin band of skin a slightly deeper shade than the fabric itself. She dragged her eyes back to the champagne glasses, to the tan, long-fingered hand that reached out to reclaim one.

“To your happiness,” he said simply, in his Clay-like, polite, usual way, while she wondered just what would make her happy right now.

“And to yours.”

They drank, standing there in the middle of the room. There was a lump in her throat, she realized, as she swallowed the golden liquid. She looked down into her glass.

“Clay, I don't want either of us to pretend this is something it isn't.” Rattled now, she put a palm to her forehead and swung away. “Oh, God.”

“Come on, Catherine, let's sit down.”

He led the way, set the bottle on the table beside the roses and strung himself out on a chair, lying low against its back, legs outstretched, ankles crossed, while she curled up opposite. He had a glimpse of her bare feet before she tucked them up beneath her in the corner of her chair. Together they raised their glasses, eyeing each other as they drank.

“I suppose maybe we're setting out to get drunk,” she mused.

“Maybe we are.”

“That doesn't make much sense, does it?”

“Not a lick.”

“It won't change a thing.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Then why are we doing it?”

“Because it'll make crawling into bed easier.”

“Let's talk about something else.”

“Whatever you say.”

She fiddled with her glass, then sat back, drawing circles with it upon her turned knee. Finally she asked, “You know what was the hardest?” Across the table, he was looking very relaxed.

“Hmm-mmm.” His eyes were closed.

“Your father's official welcome at the dinner table. I was very touched by it.”

Clay's eyes drifted open, studied her a moment before he observed, “You know, I think my father likes you.”

With a fingertip she toyed with the bubbles on the surface of her drink. “He still scares me in so many ways.”

“I suppose to a stranger he seems formidable. Both he and Grandmother Forrester have an air about them that seems rather officious and puts people on their guard at first. But when you get to know them, you realize they're not that way at all.”

“I don't intend to get to know them.”

“Why?”

She raised expressionless eyes to his, then dropped them as she answered, “In the long run that'd be best.”

“Why?”

His head lolled sideways, yet she suspected his catlike pose was not all real. She considered evading the issue, then decided against it. She leaned to take one rose from the bouquet and held it before her upper lip.

“Because I might learn to like them after all.”

He seemed to be mulling that over, but he only tipped his glass again, then shut his eyes.

“Do you know what your Grandmother Forrester said to me tonight?”

“What?”

“She said, 'You are a beautiful bride. I shall expect beautiful children from you,' as if it was an official edict and she'd brook no ugly grandchildren spawned with her name.”

Clay laughed appreciatively, his eyes again scrutinizing Catherine from behind half-closed lids. “Grandmother's usually right—and you were, you know.”

“Was?” she asked, puzzled.

“A beautiful bride.”

Immediately Catherine hid behind the rose again, became engrossed in studying the depths between its petals.

“I didn't know if I should say it or not, but—dammit, why not?—you were a knockout tonight.”

“I wasn't fishing for a compliment.”

“You make a habit of that, you know?”

“Of what?”

“Of withdrawing from any show of approval I make toward you. I knew before I said that that you'd turn defensive and reject it.”

“I didn't reject it, did I?”