Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair (55 page)

All of a sudden she knew that he didn't, that he was genuinely puzzled. She exclaimed, “But we're never together. We're always in different places, and when we are in the same city, you constantly work late. And when we're at home you haven't got a lot to say to me anymore, Peter; and there's another thing, we don't seem to be as close physically as we were.” It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him if he was having an affair, and then she changed her mind. He might well ask her the same question, and then what would she say?

Peter was shaking his head, looking miserable, the laughter of earlier wiped out of his eyes. He threw the ties onto a chair and sat down on the bed next to her, took hold of her hand. “But, Vanessa, I love you, you know that. Nothing's changed. Well, I guess it has. I'm successful, very successful, and in a way I never dreamed I could be. This is the big one for me, the big chance, and I don't want to screw it up. I can't, because what I do now, how I handle everything now, is for our future. Yours and mine. Our old age, you might say.”

“Old age!” she exploded. “But I don't care about that! I want to live now, while I'm still young.”

“We are living, and living very well. And doing well. That's what counts, sweetie.” He gazed into her eyes, and said more softly, “I guess I've been neglecting you lately. I'm sorry.” He put his arms around her, tried to kiss her, but Vanessa drew away from him.

“You always think you can solve our problems, our disagreements, by making love to me,” she said.

“But you know we always
do
solve what ails us when we're in bed together. We work it out that way.”

“Just for once it would be nice to make love with you because we
want
to make love, not to get us over one of our quarrels.”

“Then let's do it right now.”

“I don't want to, Peter. I'm not in the mood. Sorry, but this little girl doesn't want to play tonight.”

He recoiled slightly, startled by her sarcastic tone, and said slowly, “Is this about the baby? Is this what all this talk of drifting apart is about? Is that it, Vanessa?”

“No, it's not.”

“I know I've been tough on you about having a baby—” he began and stopped abruptly.

“Yes, you have. You made it perfectly clear that you didn't want children.”

“I don't. Well, what I mean is, I don't right now. But listen, sweetie, maybe later on, a few years down the line; maybe we can have a child then.”

She shook her head and before she could stop herself she said, “Perhaps we ought to separate, Peter. Get a divorce.”

His expression changed immediately and he sat up straighter on the bed. “Absolutely not! I don't want a divorce and neither do you. This is silly talk. You're just tired after all the work you did in Venice, and the schedule you've set for yourself with the new collection.”

Vanessa was regarding him intently, and she realized that he was afraid of losing her. She could see the fear in his eyes.

When she remained totally silent, Peter went on swiftly, “I promise you things are going to be different, Vanessa. To be honest, I thought you were happy, excited about your design career. I hadn't realized . . . realized that things weren't right between
us.
You do believe me, don't you?”

“Yes,” she murmured wearily. “I believe you, Peter.” She got up off the bed, and walked toward the bedroom door. Dismay lodged in her chest. “There's not much for dinner. Shall I make pasta and a salad?”

“Certainly not. I'm going to take you out, sweetie. Shall we go next door to Mr. Chow's?”

Vanessa shook her head. “I don't feel like Chinese food.”

“Then we'll go to Neary's pub. Jimmy always gives us such a great welcome, and I know you love it there.”

V
anessa surveyed the living room of the cottage through newly objective and critical eyes. There were no two ways about it, the room looked shabby and decidedly neglected.

She did not care about the shabbiness; the faded wallpaper, the well-washed chintz and worn antique rug were all part of its intrinsic charm. It was the feeling of neglect that bothered her. She knew that the entire cottage was scrupulously clean, since it was maintained by a local woman. But the living room, in particular, had a lackluster air to it.

Bill would be arriving in a few hours to
spend the day and part of the next with her, and she wanted the cottage to look nice. Since he spent so much of his time roughing it in battle zones and second-rate hotels, she felt the need to make it comfortable, warm, and welcoming for him.

When her parents had divorced several years ago, they had not known what to do with Bedelia Cottage. Neither of them had wanted it and yet they had been reluctant to sell it, oddly enough because of sentimental reasons. They both had a soft spot for it.

And so they had ended up giving it to their daughter. Vanessa had been thrilled.

It was located at the far end of Southampton and stood on three acres of land that ran all the way up to the sand dunes and the Atlantic Ocean.

The cottage was not in the chic part of town, nor was it very special, just a simple, stone-and-clapboard house, about forty years old. It had four bedrooms, a large kitchen, a living room, and a library. There was a long, covered veranda at the back of the cottage which fronted onto the sea.

Once the house was hers, she had turned the old red barn into a design studio and office and converted the stone stables into a small
foundry with a kiln. It was here in the studio and foundry that she spent most of her time designing and executing the handblown glass prototypes she took to Venice to be copied and produced in Murano.

Being as preoccupied as she was with work, Vanessa did not give the cottage much attention. Piles of old newspapers and magazines, which she had saved for some reason, were stacked here and there; current books, which she hoped one day to read, were piled on a chest and the floor; and, several large vases of dried flowers, which had looked so spectacular in the summer, had lost their color and were falling apart.

Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was just eight o'clock. Bill was arriving at one. Mavis Glover, who had looked after the cottage for years, usually came at nine.

Suddenly deciding not to wait for her to appear, Vanessa made a beeline for the piles of books, carried them to the library next door and found a place for them all on the bookshelves. For the next hour she worked hard in the living room, discarding newspapers, magazines, and the bedraggled dried flowers.

Finally, standing in the middle of the room and glancing around appraisingly, Vanessa
decided she had made a vast improvement. Because the room was no longer cluttered, the furniture was suddenly shown off to advantage. The French country antique pieces stood out. Their dark wood tones were mellow against the white walls and the blue chintz patterned with pink and red tulips, which hung at the windows and covered the sofas and chairs.

Not bad, not bad at all, Vanessa thought, and hurried out to the large family-style kitchen. Last night, when she had arrived, she had put the flowers she had brought from the city into vases; now she carried one of these back to the sitting room. The second one she took upstairs to her bedroom.

This had once been her parents' private sanctuary, and to Vanessa it was the nicest room in the cottage. Certainly it was the largest. It had many windows overlooking the sand dunes and the ocean beyond, and a big stone fireplace was set in one of the end walls.

Entirely decorated in yellow and blue, the room had a cheerful, sunny feeling even on the dullest of days. It was comfortable to the point of luxury.

Hurrying forward, Vanessa put the vase of yellow roses on the coffee table in front of the
fire, and then went into the bathroom to take a shower. Once she was made up and dressed she would start on lunch while Mavis cleaned the rest of the cottage.

As she stood under the shower, letting the hot water sluice down over her, Vanessa luxuriated for a moment or two in thoughts of Bill. He had arrived in New York last Friday, December the fifteenth, as he had said he would. That was five days ago now. They had managed to snatch several quick drinks together on Sunday and Monday. He was busy with CNS most of the time; but when he was not, she did not want to intrude on hours he had set aside for his daughter.

“I'll drive out to the Hamptons on Wednesday morning,” he had told her over their last drink at the Carlyle. “I can stay over until Thursday, if that's all right with you. How does it sound?”

It had sounded wonderful to her, and her beaming face had been her answer to him.

She could hardly wait to see him, have his arms around her, his mouth on hers. At the mere thought of making love with him, her body started to tingle. She snapped her eyes open and turned off the shower.

No time for fantasizing, she chastised
herself, reaching for a towel. Anyway, within the space of a few hours she would have the real thing. They would be together.

Once she was dry, Vanessa dressed quickly, choosing a heavy red sweater to go with her well-washed blue jeans. Since it was a cold day, she put on thick white wool socks and brown penny loafers. Her only jewelry was a pair of gold earrings.

Once she had applied a little makeup and sprayed on perfume, she ran downstairs to prepare lunch for Bill.

He was late.

Vanessa sat in the small library, leafing through
Time
and
Newsweek
, wondering where he was, hoping he was not trapped in traffic.

Foolish idea that is, she thought. It was a Wednesday morning in the middle of December, and the traffic had to be light from Manhattan. It was only in the summer that it became a nightmare. She was quite certain Bill would find it straight sailing today; she had given him explicit driving instructions, and,
anyway, the cottage was easy to find, just off the main road.

By one forty-five, when he had still not arrived, her anxiety was growing more acute by the minute. She was just deciding whether or not to call the network when she heard a car drawing up outside and she rushed to the front door.

When she saw Bill alighting, then taking his bag out of the trunk, she felt weak with relief. A moment later he was walking into the house, his face wreathed in smiles.

He took hold of her at once, pulled her into his arms. She clung to him tightly.

“Sorry, darling,” he said against her hair. “I was delayed at the network and then it was tough getting out of New York this morning. A lot of traffic. Christmas shoppers, I guess.”

“It's all right . . . I thought something had happened to you.”

“Nothing's going to happen to me,” he said, tilting her face to his in that special way he had.

“Let's go into the living room. It's warmer,” Vanessa murmured, taking his arm. “I've got white wine on ice, or would you prefer Scotch?”

“White wine's fine, thanks.”

They stood together in front of the roaring fire, sipping their wine and staring at each other over the rims of their glasses.

“I've missed you, Vanessa.”

“I've missed you, too.”

“You know something . . . I think about you all the time.”

“So do I—I think of you, I mean.”

“It's funny,” he said softly, looking at her closely. “I feel as if you've been in my life always, as if I've known you always.”

“Yes. It's the same for me, Bill.”

He shook his head, smiled faintly. “I didn't dare touch you when we were in the bar of the Carlyle . . . you're very inflammatory to me.”

She stared at him, saying nothing.

He stared back.

Putting his glass on the mantelpiece, he then did the same with hers, moved closer to her, and brought her into the circle of his arms. He kissed her hard, pressing her even closer to him, wanting her to know how much she excited him.

Vanessa tightened her embrace, responding to him with ardor, and this further inflamed him. Bill said in a low, hoarse voice, “I want you so much, want to be close to you.”

Pulling away from him, she nodded, took
hold of his hand, and led him upstairs to her bedroom.

There was tremendous tension between them. They undressed with great speed, sharing an urgent need to be intimate and closely joined. As they fell on the bed, his hands were all over her body. Loving hands that touched, stroked, explored, and brought her to a fever pitch of excitement.

They could not get enough of each other. He continued to kiss her, and she returned his kisses with the same intense passion she had felt in Venice. And Bill luxuriated in the nearness of her, in the knowledge that she longed for him, needed him so desperately. He felt the same need for her. It was a deep, insatiable need.

Stretching his body alongside hers, he took her suddenly, moving into her so swiftly he heard her gasp with surprise and pleasure. As she clasped him tightly in her arms, her legs wrapped around him, they shared a mounting joy.