Stone 588 (8 page)

"Incidentally," Gayle was saying, "a cousin of one of my friends will be calling to see you. She wants . . ."

"Gayle, I'm running late. I have to go."

". . . She wants a two-carat square-cut. I told her you'd let her have it at your cost."

"I don't have any two-carat squares in stock," Springer said, wanting to avoid wasting some future hour with another of her remote acquaintances, who would poke around in the best and end up going cheaper for size and unobvious inclusions.

"You'll show her something," Gayle predicted.

Springer said goodbye with the receiver already halfway to its cradle. He locked the safe and, as was his habit, gave the rug around his desk a swift onceover for a possibly dropped stone. He reminded Linda to set the alarms.

On Fifth Avenue the black BMW 745i was waiting in a bus stop zone in front of the 580 Building. Springer cut across the pedestrian flow and got into the passenger seat. Audrey started the car but got bullied by two buses before she could pull out into traffic. She went left on 46th and had to stop momentarily behind a Wells Fargo armored truck making a pickup. Neither she nor Springer had said hello. They never did. Just as they never said goodbye. It was their way of not acknowledging the time they spent apart.

She leaned to Springer, presented her face. "Give us one, love," she said brightly.

He kissed her. Not his best. She had expected one of his best. "I went around the block eleven times," she said, mixing fact and complaint.

Springer wouldn't tell her about the call from Gayle. He never spoiled their time together with Gayle.

"Want to drive?" Audrey asked.

"Not really."

"You drive and I'll crawl into the back and sleep." Audrey loved sleep. She could close her eyes and drop off in a moment, practically anywhere. She had enjoyable dreams.

Springer vetoed sleep.

"Okay," she told him, "I'll drive, you fondle."

That drew his nice laugh from him. "You're oversexed."

"Underloved," she contended.

"Not by me."

"Maybe you feel you overlove me?"

Impossible, he thought, but, then, he'd been wrong before.

Traffic on Madison was thick and competitive. She enjoyed it, defying fenders, dilating the most meager openings. They went straight uptown through Harlem and got onto the Major Deegan Expressway, where, to the delight of Audrey's right foot, the going was faster. She shoved a cassette into the stereo slot, a Crystal Gayle that started in the middle.

Come back

When you can stay forever, Love's not really love Unless it lasts that long.

Audrey sang along, word for word, inflection for inflection.

Springer wished she'd just leave it up to Crystal. Audrey's singing voice was dreadful: sharp one note, flat the next. However, as far as Springer was concerned, that was about the only thing wrong with her.

He'd first set eyes on her a little over a year ago. At La Goulue on East 70th. It was a special night for him because his divorce from Gayle had come final that afternoon. His dinner companion was a nearly passe Ford model named Elise whom he'd been seeing now and then. They'd had two Scotch and Perriers and Elise was saying she was considering going to work in Milan again, where she was more appreciated, when Springer just happened to shift his head five inches to the right and look past Elise's synthetically studded left ear to see, reflected but partially obscured by some peeling and flaking of the mirror's silver back, a woman's face that stunned him.

He thought the mirror was playing tricks, that it and the amber lights of the restaurant were being too kind to the woman. He was tempted but could not without being obvious turn for a direct appraisal of her. He had to be satisfied with the view he had — and kept—throughout another drink and Elise asking about the entrees and his ordering of roast lamb for two and the waiter reprovingly repeating the way the menu had it: medaillons de selle d 'agneau.

Springer's view also included the back of the head of the man the woman was with. He saw her amused by the man, laughing enough to show her teeth. A white, perfect flash. He saw her use her fingers to unmindfully comb through her jaw-length dark hair. Her hair seemed to parenthesize her face, particularly her eyes, wide-set and large. Springer felt a thief the way he was stealing from her, but no matter, she was oblivious to it, he thought. Besides, whatever was stolen from such riches wouldn't be missed.

Finally, he could take no more. He excused himself to Elise, got up, turned, and, for as little time as it took for him to move his chair in place, looked right at that woman.

She looked back but without a hint of acknowledgment.

He continued on to the men's room.

In there alone, looking into another mirror, he told himself he was acting strange. She was not that beautiful, actually. She hadn't really affected him all that much. Chalk it up to divorce day.

Thus fortified with self-possession he opened the men's-room door.

There she was.

In the access way barely wide enough for two. She was standing at the pay telephone on the wall with its receiver up to her ear. At that intimate distance there could be no doubt whom her attention was on. She was purposely holding the telephone receiver with her left hand to show herself unmarried. Springer thought. He seized the moment.

"Where can I get in touch with you?" he asked.

Her eyes intensified, narrowed slightly, trying to take in more of him than was possible. She said nothing during the long moment she needed to decide. She stopped pretending with the phone, placed the receiver on its hook. She extended her hand.

Just for a touch, a brief holding. Springer believed, but the next thing he knew, her hand had his grasped firmly and he was on his way, being led past occupied tables and waiters and out onto 70th Street.

It was extremely cold. Some snow had fallen, just enough to coat everything, including the Rolls-Royce Camargue waiting at the curb with a chauffeur in it.

She hesitated.

Springer sensed from that she was somehow related to the car. She hooked her arm in his and tugged and they hurried, coatless conspirators, to the corner of Madison. She was tall, Springer now realized; her head was almost level with his. He glanced back in the direction of the restaurant, saw only their footprints in the new snow; it occurred to him how easily they might be tracked.

He waved at a fleet cab that appeared available but there was a passenger in it, the driver high-sticking, not turning on the meter, so he could pocket the entire fare. Other cabs with their off-duty lights on ignored Springer. She clutched against him. He felt her shivering. She had on only a white, amply cut long-sleeved silk blouse, a full skirt of gray Ultrasuede, and the merest black evening pumps.

Springer's place was the old family apartment on 72nd, just two blocks away. He chose not to suggest it.

They went down Madison in a hug against the cold that made their walking awkward and caused them to slip more. Her teeth chattered and she tried to laugh. Their breaths combined in the air. They were rescued by a Greek coffee shop, a long narrow place with twenty red plastic-covered rotating stools at a Formica counter. Only two other customers. A counterman immediately placed two heavy mugs of coffee before them as though he'd read their minds.

After they'd taken some of the scalding stuff. Springer told her his name, and, when she didn't respond with hers, he asked, "Who are you?"

She smiled soft commas into her cheeks and said, "Maybe I'm a thousand-dollar hooker."

"If so, you're undercharging," he said, and that got to her. He wanted to say all the right things. It was crucial. Clever was okay but take care not to come off smart-ass, he told himself.

She blew at her coffee. "That was rude of us, wasn't it." Referring to the companions they'd deserted at La Goulue.

"But unavoidable," Springer assured.

"They'll get together."

"Probably."

"Might be the match of the century."

"I only hope he pays her check."

She got off that topic by telling her name. Audrey Hull.

It suited her, Springer thought. Audrey. He'd never personally known an Audrey, never realized how well those two syllables went together.

Close by on the counter, displayed on a stainless steel pedestal, was an enormous cake: frosted white and textured with abundant coconut.

"I want a piece of that," Audrey said.

Springer ordered it.

Audrey watched closely as the counterman measured a slice. Before he could cut it, Audrey told him, "Larger." The counterman obliged.

Springer didn't believe she could possibly eat that much cake. A five-inch slice, no less. Between bites she put the first vital question to him.

"Divorced," he replied.

"When?"

"This afternoon."

She wasn't surprised, just momentarily thoughtful. "Mine was final the day before yesterday," she said matter-of-factly.

With modest bites that determined the tempo of the conversation, Audrey ate every morsel of the cake and then used the side of her fork to scrape up all the frosting from the plate. Springer considered it an achievement. He informed her that she had a crumb clinging near the comer of her mouth. Her tongue tried for it, didn't get it. He stopped her hand as it went for her napkin. She remained permissively still, not even a blink when he closed in on her and tenderly kissed away the tiny golden morsel.

That was the start of them.

Love at first sight, or more aptly, as the French express it, des coups de foudre. Thunderbolts.

Springer and Audrey.

For them there was none of the usual lie-for-a-lie. No doubt-sowing insinuations or intentional punishments or deliberate withholdings. They made a pact early on to not waste time on all that tricky stuff. Others might need it to maintain the high temperatures of their relationships but not they. They would help each to be sure of the other, allow their love and all its consequences to happen honestly.

Springer wanted Audrey to understand how his marriage had been, hoped to get it out of the way once and for all. He spared her the sordid details and managed to conceal whatever permanent bitterness it had caused. As for his disillusionment, that, with the entrance of Audrey, felt gone for good.

"Tell me just one thing she did that was particularly disgusting," Audrey said, wanting it to put Gayle into that kind of mental niche.

There were so many bad things that Springer had trouble deciding on which he should divulge.

"Can't come up with even one?" Audrey pressed.

Springer considered telling her of the psychological tug-of-war games she'd played with their son, the shabby use she made of the child to get her own way. Instead, he told Audrey, "She'd ball up her used sweat socks and jam them into the toes of her sneakers, then chuck the sneakers into the back of my closet. Stunk up all my suits."

'is that the worst thing she ever did?"

"No."

"That's good." Audrey claimed she wasn't jealous of Gayle, but she made Springer promise he'd never speak the name in her presence. When mentioning Gayle was absolutely unavoidable he would use she or her. Audrey would know to whom he was referring.

Springer believed that fair enough.

It was especially important to Audrey that Springer see her marriage in its true light. The person she'd been married to (she didn't say man) was Tyler Briggs. She'd known him most of her life. They had, as they say, gone to different schools together. Tyler was her age, twenty-eight, bom the same month, in fact. She'd felt all along that a marriage to him wouldn't work, but it had always been not a matter of Are you going to marry Tyler Briggs? but When? Her Aunt Libby had been the most insistent promoter. Aunt Libby was always quick to point out anything Tyler did that might be entered on the positive side of his ledger, and for him, going to his tailor was an accomplishment. On the good side, Tyler had a quick mind, an attractively cynical sense of humor, and was capable of sorties of thoughtfulness if they weren't expected of him. He was a victim rather than a survivor of extremely wealthy parents. An only child because his mother was dead set on never having to go through that again. It was impossible for Tyler to commit to anything that asked for effort, be it a career or a dutiful sit-down dinner, Audrey said. She hadn't, of course, realized how terribly hopelessly lopsided he was until after they were married. Not to bitch, just to relate, Tyler was the world's worst loser and winner. Whenever he lost, at backgammon or tennis, for example, he would brood and snap and go into a pout. Whenever he won he rubbed it in and gloated as though that was his real reward. Honestly, Audrey told Springer, as rationalizing as it might sound, the main reason she married Tyler was to get it over with. Was that weak of her?

"No," Springer assured her too quickly.

"Besides," she added, "at the time there were just too many damn Tylers around by one name or another."

(One afternoon the next September, Springer and Audrey were bound for a couple of hours with Monet and his friends at the Met. They happened onto Tyler. He was standing there on the sidewalk in front of the museum looking at girls in skirts, who, by being seated on the steps above, were unknowingly exposing their panty-covered crotches. Tyler made no pretensions about what he was doing. He resented being interrupted. Audrey introduced Springer and there was some neutral small talk. Tyler, as visualized by Springer, was a slim-to-bony, under-height, vainly dressed, superior-nosed, privileged-looking sort. The real Tyler was six-foot-five and two hundred forty. A lot of pudge in a dark-blue hard-finished business suit and a plain dark tie, knotted too tight up into the straining top button of his white shirt collar. His prematurely receding hairline provided more forehead to perspire. He appeared closer to forty-eight than twenty-eight.

"See you," Tyler said dismissively and continued with his diversions.)

Springer was relieved to learn the extent of Audrey's marriage. He told her she could mention Tyler any time.

What did disturb Springer, however, was Aunt Libby. He knew her — at least knew of her: Elizabeth Hopkins-Hull. Those with her measure of social and financial power, no matter how they went on with their liberal rantings and posturings, did not want any middle-bracket diamond dealer seriously turning the head of one of their darlings. The prudent way to cope with Aunt Libby, Springer decided, was to keep away from her.