Separate Beds (27 page)

“I can go as long as I want.”

“How long is that?”

“A while yet, maybe till the end of second semester.”

He watched her moving around the room, knew she was making motions at inconsequential things to look like she was busy. He wandered to the closet door, idle himself, leaning against the door frame and watching while she opened a dresser drawer. Her fair hair swayed forward over her shoulder as she leaned to retrieve something from inside. The skin across his chest felt as tight as a piano string. His heart beat upon it like a velvet hammer. His voice, when he spoke, was a deep, resonant note, softly struck.

“How long can a pregnant woman safely have intercourse?”

Catherine's hands fell still. Her head jerked up and she met his eyes in the mirror. The muscles of her groin involuntarily tightened, as did her hands upon the garments she'd been needlessly straightening in that drawer. Clay didn't move a muscle, just lounged there against that door frame with a hand strung negligently in his trouser pocket and a thin strip of golden-haired skin showing behind his open shirt. His expression was unreadable as she struggled to think of a reply.

“I want to, you know,” he said, in that same hushed tone that raised every hair along the base of her spine. “And since you're already pregnant, what else could happen? I mean, if it's safe for you, of course.” But she only stared at him. “I've been wanting to for weeks, and I've told you in every possible way except in words. Tonight when we were kissing under that mistletoe I decided I'd tell you. You're a very desirable wife, did you know that, Catherine?”

At last she found her voice, trembling though it was. “I'm a very pregnant wife.”

“Ah, but that doesn't detract from your desirability in the least. Particularly since it's my baby you're carrying.”

“Don't say any more, Clay,” she warned.

“Don't be afraid of me, Catherine. I'm not going to force the issue. It's entirely up to you.”

“I'm not afraid of you, and the answer is no.” Suddenly she found what she was looking for in that drawer and slammed it shut.

“Why?”

She kept her back to him, looking down at something on the dresser top, but in the mirror he could see how she pressed herself against the edge of it, clutching some blue filmy thing in her hand.

“Why are you doing this tonight when it's been such a perfect day?”

“I told you, I'd like to go to bed with you. Would it be dangerous?”

“The subject never came up at the doctor's.”

“Well, why don't you bring it up next time you're there?”

“There's no point in it.”

“Isn't there?”

The silence that followed was as pregnant as the woman leaning against the dresser. Then Clay's voice became convincing.

“I'm tired of sleeping out there on that davenport when there's a luxurious king-size bed in here and a perfectly good, warm woman to snuggle up to. And I think she'd enjoy it, too, if she'd let herself. What do you say, Catherine, it's Christmas.”

“Don't, Clay. You promised.”

“I'm breaking my promise,” he said, bringing his shoulder away from that door frame in slow-motion.

“Clay,” she said warningly, turning to face him.

“How can you kiss that way and not get turned on, will you tell me that?”

“Stay away from me.”

“I've been staying away. All it does is make me need it all the more.” He advanced halfway across the room.

“I am not going to bed with you, so you can just forget it!”

“Convince me,” he said low, still advancing.

“Do you know what your problem is? It's your ego. You simply can't believe I can live with you and not give in to your deadly charms, can you?”

In a voice like velvet he accused, “Cat, you're a goddam liar. You're forgetting I'm the one that was kissing you earlier. What's the harm in it? After all, it's legal, if it comes down to that—all signed, sealed and documented by the preacher. What are you afraid of?”

He was no more than an arm's length in front of her now, his gray eyes warmer than she'd ever seen them. Unconsciously she covered her widening girth with both hands.

“Why do you do that? Why do you try to hide from me? Always keeping me at a distance, avoiding even being in the same room with me. Why can't you be like you were earlier tonight more often? Why don't you talk to me, tell me how you're feeling, even complain about something? I need some human contact, Cat. I'm not used to living this insular life.”

“Don't call me Cat!”

“Why? Tell me why.”

“No.” She would have turned away, but his arm stopped her.

“Don't turn away from me. Talk to me.”

“Oh, Clay, please. It's been the most wonderful night. Please don't ruin it now. I'm tired, and happier than I've been for the longest time; at least I was until you started this. Can't we pretend the kiss never happened and be friends?”

He wanted to put voice to the root of her problem, to say to her that making love with him would not make her the slut her father told her she was. But she wasn't ready for it yet, and furthermore, it was a truth she must discover for herself. He knew if he forced her before she recognized that truth, the damage would be irreparable.

“If you mean it, and you're genuinely going to be friendly toward me from now on, that's a start. But don't expect me to forget that kiss ever happened, and don't expect me to believe that you'll forget it either.”

“It's that house. Something about that house. I feel different when I go there, and somehow I do crazy things.”

“Like letting your husband kiss you under the mistletoe?”

She was struggling with emotions she could not control, wanting him, afraid of the heartbreak he could cause her in the end. He reached out one brown hand, capturing the back of her neck, pulling her a little nearer, though she stiffly resisted.

“You are afraid of me, Catherine. But you don't have to be. When and if . . . the decision will be yours.”

Then he kissed her lightly on the mouth, still holding her with that single hand on her tight neck muscles.

“Good night, Cat,” he whispered, and was gone.

Her determination to resist Clay was further weakened when on Christmas morning she opened up a small package from him and found two tickets to
Swan Lake,
coming up at Northrup Auditorium in late January. She read the words on the tickets and raised her eyes, but he was tearing into a gift from his mother, so Catherine leaned over and touched his arm softly. He looked up.

“You remembered,” she said, with the warmth expanding in her chest. “I . . . well, thank you, Clay. I'm sorry I have no gift for you.”

“I haven't been to a ballet in a long time,” he said.

The moment grew complicated by the looks in their eyes, then she broke the tension by teasing, “Who says you're invited?”

But next Catherine bestowed one of her rare smiles.

During the following week, Clay invited Catherine to go shopping with him. He needed something to wear on New Year's Eve, which they'd agreed to spend with Claiborne and Angela at the country club. But Catherine declined, believing it best to avoid such little domestic sallies.

Clay came home one night with a pair of plastic-sheathed garment bags, and tossed one casually across the back of a living room chair. “Here, I thought we both ought to have something new.”

“You bought something for
me?”
she asked from the kitchen.

“Sure. You were stubborn so I had to. It's quite formal at the club—kind of a tradition.”

Then he bounded up the stairs with his hanger. She wiped her hands on a dishcloth and walked around the peninsula with her eyes riveted on the dress bag.

When Clay came back, she was standing with the dress aloft, holding the black crepe skirt like an opened fan.

“Clay, you shouldn't have.”

“Do you like it?”

“Well, yes, but it's so impractical. I'll probably only wear it once.”

“I want you looking just as classy as every other woman there.”

“But I'm not. I've never owned a dress like this in my life. I'll feel funny.” She looked momentarily crestfallen, but he could tell how much she liked it.

“Listen, Catherine, you're my wife, and you have as much right to be at the club as anyone else. Understand?”

“Yes, but—”

“Yes, but
nothing. All I'm worried about is if the thing will fit. It's a first for me, you know—buying a maternity dress.”

She couldn't help chuckling. “What did you do, go in the store and say 'Gimme a dress that's, say, four ax-handles around?”

He rubbed his chin, measuring her visually. “No, I figured more like five.”

She scarcely looked at him as she laughed; she had eyes for nothing but the dress.

“I'll look like a circus tent, but I love it . . . really.”

“You're awfully touchy about losing your shape. Isn't it time you accept it? I have.”

“It's easy for a man to say when he doesn't have to face getting blown up like some dirigible and having to lose the extra pounds afterward. If I'm not careful, no man will look twice at me next summer.”

As soon as Catherine said it she felt him bristle. His good humor fled as Clay remarked, “Oh, so you plan to go husband-hunting then?”

“I didn't mean it that way. But I certainly don't intend this marriage to mean the end of my love life.”

For Clay the pleasure of giving her the dress suddenly dissolved, leaving him feeling angry, his ego stung. It irritated him that she could make a comment like that while she wouldn't even let him lay a hand on her. He'd given her the best home she'd ever had, all the things he could think of to make her life easy. He'd taken on his share of the housework, given her the freedom to come and go and to do her abominable typing—which irked him no end and made him want to drop the damn typewriter off the balcony. And he'd been more than patient with her, even when he wanted more attention than she gave. And how did she repay him? By being cold and standoffish, then bemoaning the fact that no man would look twice at her if she didn't preserve her shape? What the hell was she trying to do to him anyway?

While they were getting ready to go out on New Year's Eve, Clay was as stony as he'd been during the three days since he brought the dress home. Catherine had learned how lonely it felt to be the one on the receiving end of such treatment.

She put the finishing touches on her hair. Just then Clay came in the bedroom to rummage through his jewelry box for a tie pin. From behind, he was tantalizingly thin and tapered in the new smoky-blue suit with its trim cut and double vents at the rear.

Clay swung around to find her studying him.

“I'm almost ready. Excuse me,” he said, edging around her briskly.

“I see that. Is that your new suit?”

He didn't answer, just moved to the mirror to insert the needle of the pin through a new striped tie.

“You always manage to look like an ad in
The New Yorker,”
she tried.

“Thank you,” he replied icily.

“And the dress fits, see?”

“Good.”

She was stung by his indifference. “Clay, you've hardly talked to me at all this week. What's wrong now?”

“If you don't understand it, I'm not going to waste my breath explaining.”

She knew very well what was wrong, but it was hard for her to apologize.

He dropped the back clasp of the tie pin and muttered, “Damn.”

“Clay, I know I act ungrateful sometimes, but I'm not. And you and I had an agreement before we got married.”

“Oh, sure! So why are you in here offering me compliments? Why do I suddenly merit applause for how I dress?”

“Because it's true, that's all.”

“Catherine, don't, okay? I don't know how to handle you anymore. You've walked around me like I was some cigar-store Indian for weeks now. And when you finally decide to start talking to me, it's to tell me you're worried you might gain too much weight so it'll be tough when you go on the make again. How do you think that makes me feel when you practically start shopping for chastity belts every time I try anything with you?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, what's the matter with you, anyway!”

“You want to know what's the matter with me?” he barked, whirling on her, accosting her face-to-face. “What's the matter with me is the same damn thing that was the matter with me last week and the week before that and the week before that. I'm horny! That's what's the matter with me! You want the truth, lady? There it is in a nutshell! So don't come sashaying in here after all this time and suddenly start fawning over my looks, which are the same as when you married me! You know what you are?”

She had never seen Clay this angry. His face was suffused with color; the veins above his collar stood out boldly.

“You, Mrs. Forrester are a—” But even as angry as he was he couldn't say it.

“What!” she yelled. “Finish it! Say it!”

But he got control of himself and turned away, tugging at his lapels and adjusting the knot of his tie.

“My mother raised me to speak with respect around females, so I'll refrain from using the four-letter prefix to the word ——teaser.”

“How dare you, you bastard!”

He gave her an insolent look in the mirror. “Take a look at what happens to you after a few days of being ignored. You come in here with your cute little compliments, just enough to keep me swimming after the bait, huh? Do you know how many times you've warmed up to me just enough to keep me interested? I won't bother to recount them because you'd deny it anyway. But it's the truth. You've accused me of being the one exploiting you to boost my ego, but I believe the shoe's on the other foot.”

“That's not true! I've never led you on!”

“Catherine, at least I've been honest about it, starting with our wedding night. I've come right out and said that I wanted to make love to you. But do you know what you do? You skirt the issue, you skitter away, then allow me close enough only when it suits you. Your problem is you want to forget you're a woman but you can't. You like being pursued, but on the other hand, you're afraid if you break down and allow yourself to be made love to, you'll be what your father always accused you of being. What you don't realize is, that makes you as sick as your old man!”

“You bastard,” she growled, low in her throat.

“Go ahead, call me names so you don't have to face yourself.”

“You said, 'no sex,' when you asked me to marry you.”

“You got it. I've decided not to harass you anymore. You want to sleep in your big bed alone, fine. But let's end this sweet little charade we play in between bedtimes, okay? I won't press you for attention, and you won't give me cute little compliments you don't mean, huh? Let's just keep out of each other's way until July, like we agreed.”

There was nothing in the world she wanted to do less than go to the club that night. Things became even less tolerable when, shortly after they arrived, so did Jill Magnusson, along with her date and her family.

Clay put on a devoted-husband act, timing his repeated returns to Catherine's side very assiduously all night long, making sure she had whatever drink she wanted, making sure introductions were made where necessary, making sure she was never left at the table alone when every other woman was dancing. Around his parents Clay was the epitome of husbandly courtesies, but Catherine lost track of how many times he danced with Jill. At two minutes before midnight Clay was dancing with his wife, but when the band broke into “Auld Lang Syne” and he kissed her, it was the most impersonal, tongueless kiss she'd ever had. Furthermore, he had artfully maneuvered them near enough to Jill and her partner that it appeared quite natural when they were the first couple to exchange partners. Catherine found herself pressed into the arms of a stocky, black-haired man who solicitously refrained from embracing the pregnant lady too tightly. But while she and the dark man kissed, her eyes were open, watching Clay and Jill sending a silent message into each other's eyes—long and tenuous—before enfolding each other in a painfully familiar fashion. Clay's hands caressed Jill's bare back, his fingers spread seductively so that his little finger hooked beneath a red spaghetti strap, traveled up Jill's shoulder blade and disappeared beneath her cascading hair. Catherine dropped her eyes only to see Clay's hips pressed provocatively against Jill's. The couple broke apart momentarily, then Jill laughed and half-turned to Clay as she captured him again. Now Catherine could see Jill's long fingernails glittering through Clay's hair. Unable to drag her eyes away, Catherine watched as their mouths opened wide upon each other and could see a movement at Clay's cheek as his tongue danced into Jill's mouth.

Then, thankfully, Stu was there to claim a kiss from Catherine. But he could see the way she fought the intimidating rush of tears and whispered, “Don't think anything of it, kiddo, okay? We've all been kissing each other Happy New Year since we were too young to know what it meant.”

Then Stu smoothly parted Clay and Jill and moved in for a kiss. But Catherine noticed when Stu kissed Jill there was none of that open-mouthed business, nor did she run her glistening nails through
his
hair.

Before one o'clock arrived, Jill and Clay were both mysteriously missing. Nobody seemed to notice except Catherine, who checked the clock at least twenty times during the twenty minutes they were gone. When they returned, they entered carefully from opposite doors. But Clay's tie had been loosened and she could tell he'd freshly run a comb through his hair.

Dreary January settled in, bringing snow and cold and little to cheer anyone. Clay began leaving the house in the evenings again, although he never stayed out overnight. He and Catherine withdrew into their polite roles of roommates, and nothing more. The spirited teasing they'd once shared seemed gone forever, and the consideration Clay had once shown Catherine disappeared with New Year's Eve. When they were at home at the same time, they rarely ate together, avoided even passing each other in the hall. With Herb still in the workhouse, Catherine visited her mother more often, raising no objection in Clay when she'd return home later than he. The night before the ballet she reminded him of it, but without looking up from his book he suggested she take Bobbi or her mother because he wouldn't be free to go with her. Catherine took Bobbi, but somehow the ballet had lost its appeal.

Clay spent the night of the ballet at home. Occasionally his thoughts meandered to Catherine, remembering her pleasure at receiving the tickets. He'd thought back then that it would be fun to take her to see her first performance. Most of the time when he was alone he tried not to think of her at all, but tonight it was hard, knowing where she was. There had been times during the past month when, if she would have offered even the slightest warming toward him, he might have reneged and dropped the uncaring front behind which he'd been posing. But he'd been hurt by her rebuffs too many times to approach her again. A man could stand being turned away only to a point before withdrawing a safe distance, or—better yet—going where he knew he'd find a positive response.

When Catherine came home, Clay was drowsing in the living room with a book on his lap. He yawned, sat up and ran a hand through his hair. It had been a long time since they'd said anything civil to each other. He thought, maybe . . .

“How was it?” he inquired.

She glanced over his tousled hair, wondering why he bothered to make it appear as if he'd been home all night when she hadn't the slightest doubt whom he'd been with. She kept her voice intentionally expressionless as she replied, “I didn't like the way you could hear the dancers' feet echoing on the floor every time they landed.”

Clay withdrew further into his protective shield.

February came, bringing gray days that thwarted even the most blithe spirits. Catherine decided to stay in school until the semester ended in mid-March, but the chore became harder and harder as she grew heavier and more listless.

And in the town house in Golden Valley not even the briefest word was spoken between husband and wife.