Fine things (9 page)

And it was that photograph which ran the next morning. A large photograph of Liz in Bernie's arms, as they circled the floor at the opera ball at City Hall. You could see some of the detail of the dress, but more than that, you could see Liz beaming up into Bernie's face as he held her.

“You really like him, huh, Mom?” Jane had her chin propped up in both hands, and Liz had a terrific headache as they read the newspaper over breakfast the next morning. She had come home at four-thirty and had realized, as the room spun slowly around her as she tried to get to sleep, that they must have consumed at least four or five bottles of champagne that evening. It had been the most beautiful night of her life, but now just the thought of the sparkling wine made her nauseous. And she was in no shape whatsoever to spar with her daughter.

“He's a very nice man, and he likes you a lot, Jane.” It seemed the smartest thing to say and the only thing she could think of.

“I like him too.” But her eyes said she wasn't quite as sure as she had once been. Things had gotten complicated over the summer. And she instinctively sensed the seriousness of their involvement. “How come you go out with him so much?”

Liz' head pounded ominously as she stared at her daughter silently over her coffee. “I like him.” To hell with it. She decided to say it. “Actually I love him.” The woman and the girl stared at each other over the table. She wasn't telling Jane anything she didn't know, but it was the first time Jane had heard the words and she didn't think she liked them. “I love him.” Liz' voice wobbled on the last word and she hated herself for it.

“So? … So what?” Jane got up and flounced away from the table as her mother's eyes grabbed her back.

“What's wrong with that?”

“Who said there was something wrong?”

“You did, by the way you're acting. He loves you, too, you know.”

“Yeah? How do you know?” There were tears in Jane's eyes now, and Liz' head was throbbing.

“I know because he told me.” She stood up and walked slowly to her child, wondering just how much she should tell her and tempted to say it all. She had to tell her eventually, and maybe it was better sooner than later. She sat down on the couch and pulled Jane onto her lap. The little body was stiff, but she didn't fight her. “He wants to marry us.” Her mother's voice was soft in the quiet room, and Jane couldn't fight back the tears any longer. She buried her face as she sobbed and clung to her mother. There were tears in Liz' eyes, too, as she held the little girl that had once been her baby, and in some ways always would be. “I love him, sweetheart. …”

“Why? … I mean why do we have to marry him? We were okay just us.”

“Were we? Didn't you ever wish we had a daddy?”

The sobbing stopped, but only for a moment. “Sometimes. But we did okay without one.” And she still had the illusion of the father she had never known, the “handsome actor” who had died when she was a baby.

“Maybe we'd do better with a daddy. Did you ever think of that?”

Jane sniffed as Liz held her. “You'd have to sleep in his bed and I couldn't get into bed with you anymore on Saturday and Sunday mornings.”

“Sure you could.” But they both knew it would be different, and in some ways it was sad and in other ways it was happy. “Think of all the good stuff we could do with him … go to the beach, and go for drives, and go sailing, and …think of what a nice man he is, baby.”

Jane nodded. She couldn't deny that. She was too fair to ever try maligning him. “I guess I kind of like him …even with the beard …” She smiled up at her mother through her tears and then asked what she really wanted to know. “Will you still love me if you have him?”

“Always.” The tears spilled onto Liz' cheeks as she held her. “Always and always and always.”

Chapter 9

Jane and Liz started buying all the bride magazines, and when they finally went to Wolffs together to pick out their dresses for the wedding, Jane was not only resigned, she was beginning to enjoy it. They spent an hour in the children's department, looking for just the right dress for Jane and they finally found it. It was white velvet with a pink satin sash, and a tiny pink rosebud at the neck, and it was exactly what Jane wanted. And they were equally successful finding a dress for Liz. And afterwards Bernie took them to lunch at the Saint Francis.

And the following week in New York, Berman had already heard the news. News traveled fast in retail circles, and Bernie was an important man at Wolffs. Berman called him with curiosity and amusement.

“Holding out on me, are you?” There was a smile in Berman's voice and Bernie felt sheepish replying.

“Not really.”

“I hear Cupid has struck a blow on the West Coast. Is it rumor or truth?” He was pleased for his longtime friend and he wished him well. Whoever she was, he was sure Bernie had made a wise choice, and he hoped to meet her.

“It's true, but I wanted to tell you myself, Paul.”

“Then go ahead. Who is she? All I know is that she bought a wedding dress on the fourth floor.” He laughed. They lived in a tiny world run by rumors and gossip.

“Her name is Liz, and she's a second-grade teacher. She's originally from Chicago, went to Northwestern, is twenty-seven years old, and has a delicious little girl named Jane who is five years old. And we're getting married right after Christmas.”

“It all sounds very wholesome. What's her last name?”

“O'Reilly.”

Paul roared. He had met Mrs. Fine several times. “What did your mother say?”

Bernie smiled too. “I haven't told her yet.”

“Let us know when you do. We should be hearing the sonic boom over here, or has she mellowed in recent years?”

“Not exactly.”

Berman smiled again. “Well, I wish you the best of luck. Will I be seeing Liz with you when you come east next month?” Bernie had to go to New York, and then Europe, but Liz was not planning to go along. She had to work, and take care of Jane, and they were looking for a house to rent for the next year. There was no point buying if they were going back to New York so soon.

“I think she'll be busy here. But we'd love to see you at the wedding.” They had already ordered the invitations, at Wolffs, of course. But the wedding was going to be small. They didn't want more than fifty or sixty people. It was going to be a simple lunch somewhere, and then they were leaving for Hawaii. Tracy, Liz' friend from school, had already promised to stay with Jane at the new house while they were away, which was helpful.

“When is it?” Bernie told him. “I'll try to come And I imagine now you may not be in such a hurry to get back to New York.” Bernie's heart sank at the words.

“That's not necessarily true. I'm going to be looking for schools for Jane in New York when I'm there, and Liz will look at them with me next spring.” He wanted Berman to feel pressured to bring him home, but there was no sound at the other end as Bernie frowned. “We want to have her enrolled for next September.”

“Right…. Well, I'll see you in New York in a few weeks. And congratulations.” Bernie sat staring into space afterwards and that night he said something to Liz. He was worried.

“Christ, I'll be damned if I'll let them stick me here for three years like they did in Chicago.”

“Can you talk to him when you go east?”

“I intend to.”

But when he did, when he was in New York, Paul Berman wouldn't commit himself to a sure return date.

“You've only been there for a few months. You have to get the branch on its feet for us, Bernard. That was always our understanding.”

“It's doing beautifully, and I've been there for eight months.”

“But the store has only been open for less than five. Give it another year. You know how badly we need you. The tone of that store will be set for years by what you're doing there right now, and you're the best man we have.”

“Another year is an awfully long time.” To Bernie it felt like a lifetime.

“Let's talk about it in six months.” Paul was putting Bernie off, and he was depressed when he left the store that night. It was the wrong frame of mind to meet with his parents. He had made a date with them at La Cote Basque, because he explained that he didn't have time to go out to Scarsdale. And he knew how anxious his mother was to see him. He had bought her a beautiful handbag that afternoon, a beige lizard with a tiger's eye clasp that was the latest from Gucci. It was a work of art more than a handbag and he hoped she'd like it. But his heart was heavy as he walked from his hotel to the restaurant. It was one of those beautiful October nights, when the weather is perfect for exactly two minutes, and the way it is in San Francisco all year round. But because it's so rare, in New York, it always seems much more special.

But everything seemed alive as the taxis swirled past, and the horns honked, and even the sky looked clear as elegantly dressed women darted from cabs to restaurants, and in and out of limousines wearing fabulous suits and brilliantly hued coats, on their way to plays and concerts and dinner parties. And it suddenly reminded him of everything he had been missing for the past eight months, and he wished that Liz were there with him, and he promised himself that the next time he would bring her. With luck, he could plan his spring business trip while she had Easter vacation.

He went quickly through the revolving door at La Cote Basque and took a deep breath of the elite ambience of his favorite restaurant. The murals were even prettier than he remembered and the light was soft as beautifully bejeweled women in black dresses lined the banquettes watching passersby and chatting with dozens of men, all in gray suits, as though in uniform, but they all had the same air of money and power.

He looked around and said a word to the maitre d'hotel. His parents were already there, seated at a table for four in the rear, and when he reached them his mother reached out to him with a look of anguish and clung to his neck as though she were drowning.

It was a style of greeting which embarrassed him profoundly, and then made him hate himself for not being happier to see her.

“Hi, Mom.”

“That's all you have to say after eight months? 'Hi, Mom'?” She looked shocked, as she relegated her husband to a chair so she could sit next to Bernie on the banquette. He felt as though everyone in the room were staring at them as she scolded him for being so unfeeling.

“It's a restaurant, Mom. You can't make a scene here, that's all.”

“You call that a scene? You don't see your mother for eight months, and you barely say hello to her, and that's a
scene?”
He wanted to crawl under the table. Everyone within fifty feet could hear her talking.

“I saw you in June.” His voice was deliberately low, but he should have known better than to argue with her.

“That was in San Francisco.”

“That counts too.”

“Not when you're so busy you can't even see me.” It had been when the store opened, but he had still managed to spend time with them, not that she would admit it.

“You look great.” It was definitely time to change the subject. His father was ordering a bourbon on the rocks for himself and a Rob Roy for his mother, and Bernie ordered a kir.

“What kind of a drink is that?” His mother looked suspicious.

“I'll let you try it when it comes. It's very light. You look wonderful, Mom.” He tried again, sorry that the conversations were always between himself and his mother. He couldn't remember the last time he and his father had had a serious talk, and he was surprised he hadn't brought his medical journals to Cote Basque with him.

The drinks arrived and he took a sip of the kir, held it out to her, and she refused it. He was trying to decide if he should tell her about Liz before or after they ate. If he told her after, she would always accuse him of being dishonest with her all night by not telling her first. If he told her before, she might make a scene and embarrass him further. After was safer in some ways, before was more honest. He took a big swallow of the kir and decided on before. “I have some good news for you, Mom.” He could actually hear his voice tremble, and she looked at him with hawk-like eyes, sensing that this was important.

“You're moving back to New York?” Her words turned the knife in his heart.

“Not yet. But one of these days. No, better than that.”

“You got a promotion?”

He held his breath. He had to end the guessing game. “I'm getting married.” Everything stopped. It was as though someone had pulled her plug as she stared silently at him. It felt like a full five minutes before she spoke again, and as usual, his father said nothing.

“Would you care to explain that?”

He felt as though he had just told them he had been arrested for selling drugs and something way deep down inside him began to get angry. “She's a wonderful girl, Mom. You'll love her. She's twenty-seven years old, and the most beautiful girl you've ever seen. She teaches second grade,” which proved that she was wholesome at least. She was not a go-go dancer or a cocktail waitress or a stripper. “And she has a little girl named Jane.”

“She's divorced.”

“Yes, she is. Jane is five.”

His mother searched his eyes, wanting to know what the hitch was. “How long have you known her?”

“Since I moved to San Francisco,” he lied, feeling ten years old again, and fumbling for the photographs he had brought. They were pictures of Liz and Jane at Stinson Beach, and they were very endearing. He handed them to his mother, who passed them on to his father, who admired the pretty young woman and the little girl, as Ruth Fine stared at her son, wanting to know the truth.

“Why didn't you introduce her to us in June?” Obviously, that meant she had a limp, a cleft palate, or a husband she still lived with.

“I didn't know her then.”

“You mean you've only known her a few weeks, and you're getting married?” She made it impossible to explain anything to her and then she moved in for the coup de grace. She went straight to the heart of the matter. And maybe it was just as well. “Is she Jewish?”

“No, she's not.” He thought she was going to faint, and he couldn't suppress a smile at the look on her face. “Don't look like that for chrissake. Not everyone is, you know.”

“Enough people are so you could find one. What is she?” Not that it mattered. She was just torturing herself now, but he decided to get it all over with at once.

“She's Catholic. Her name is O'Reilly.”

“Oh my God.” She closed her eyes and slumped in her chair, and for a moment he thought she had really fainted. In sudden fright he turned to his father, who calmly waved a hand, indicating that it was nothing. She opened her eyes a moment later and looked at her husband. “Did you hear what he said? Do you know what he's doing? He's killing me. And does he care? No, he doesn't care.” She started to cry, and made a great show of opening her bag, taking out her handkerchief, and dabbing at her eyes, while the people at the next table watched and the waiter hovered, wondering if they were going to order dinner.

“I think we should order.” Bernie spoke in a calm voice and she snapped at him.

“You …you can eat. Me, I would have a heart attack at the table.”

“Order some soup,” her husband suggested.

“It would choke me.” Bernie would have liked to choke her himself.

“She is a wonderful girl, Mom. You're going to love her.”

“You've made up your mind?” He nodded. “When is the wedding?”

“December twenty-ninth.” He purposely didn't say the words “after Christmas.” But she began to cry again anyway.

“Everything is planned, everything is arranged …the date …the girl …nobody tells me anything. When did you decide all this? Is this why you went to California?” It was endless. It was going to be a very long evening.

“I met her once I moved out there.”

“How? Who introduced you? Who did this to me?” She was dabbing at her eyes again as the soup arrived.

“I met her through the store.”

“How? On the escalator?”

“For chrissake, Mom, stop it!” He pounded the table and his mother jumped, as did the people at the tables next to them. “I'm getting married. Period. I am thirty-five years old. I am marrying a lovely woman. And frankly, I don't give a damn if she's Buddhist. She's a good woman, a good person, and a good mother, and that is good enough for me.” He dug into his own soup with a vengeance as his mother stared at him.

“Is she pregnant?”

“No.”

“Then why do you have to get married so soon? Wait a while.”

“I've waited thirty-five years, that's long enough.”

She sighed, and looked at him mournfully. “Have you met her parents?”

“No. They're dead.” For a moment, Ruth almost looked sorry for her, but she would never have admitted it to Bernie. Instead, she sat and suffered in silence, and it was only when coffee was served that he remembered the gift he had brought her. He handed it across the table, and she shook her head and refused to take it.

“This is not a night I want to remember.”

“Take it anyway. You'll like it.” He felt like throwing it at her, and reluctantly she took the box and put it on the seat next to her, like a bomb rigged to go off within the hour.

“I don't understand how you can do this.”

“Because it's the best thing I've ever done.” It suddenly depressed him to think of how difficult his mother was. It would have been so much simpler if she could be happy for him, and congratulate him. He sighed and sat back against the banquette after he took a sip of coffee. “I take it you don't want to come to the wedding.”

She started to cry again, using her napkin to dab at her eyes instead of her hankie. She looked at her husband as though Bernie weren't there. “He doesn't even want us at his wedding.” She cried harder and louder and Bernie thought he had never been as exhausted.

“Mom, I didn't say that. I just assumed …”

“Don't assume anything!” she snapped at him, recovering momentarily and then lapsing back into playing Camille for her husband. “I just can't believe this has happened.” Lou patted her hand and looked at his son.