Now and Forever (15 page)

"What do you suppose her husband was like, Jess? I suspect he wasn't as much fun as she is."

"What makes you say that?" His comment surprised her; there was nothing to suggest that Tom Bonner had been less amusing than his wife. And then Jessica laughed as she guessed what Ian meant. "The separate bedrooms?" He grinned sheepishly and she pinched him. "You're a creep."

"I am not. And let me tell you, madam, I don't care if I live to be ninety, you'll never get me out of our bedroom ... or our bed!" He looked adamant and very pleased with himself as he held her closer on the short walk home.

"Is that a promise, Mr. Clarke?"

"In writing, if you'd like, Mrs. Clarke."

"I may just hold you to that." They paused for a moment and kissed before walking the last few steps toward their home. "I'm glad you liked Astrid, love. I really enjoy her. I'd like to get to know her better. She's a good person to talk to. You know, I ... well, I almost wanted to tell her what's happening to us. We started to talk the other day, and ..." Jessie shrugged; it was hard to put into words, and Ian was beginning to scowl. "She just kind of makes me want to tell her the truth." Ian stopped walking and looked at her.

"Did you?"

"No."

"Good. Because I think you're kidding yourself. Jess. She's a nice woman, but no one is going to understand what's happening to us right now. No one. How do you tell someone you have a trial pending on charges of rape? Do us both a big favor, babe, and don't talk about it. We've got to hope this whole mess will blow over and we can forget it. If we tell people, it could haunt us for years."

"That's what I decided. And, hey, come on ... trust me a little, will you please? I'm not stupid. I know it would be hard for most people to handle."

"So don't ask them to."

Jessica didn't answer, and Ian walked ahead of her to open the door to the house. For the first time Jessie could remember, their chosen separateness from the rest of the world, almost like a secret society, now felt like lonely isolation. She couldn't talk to anyone but Ian. He had forbidden it. In the past it had always been a matter of choice.

Jessie followed him inside and left her jacket in the front hall.

"Want a cup of tea before bed, love?" She put a kettle of water on and heard him go into his studio.

"No, thanks."

She stood in the doorway of his studio for a moment and smiled at him as he sat at his desk. He had a snifter of cognac beside him and a small stack of papers on the desk in front of him. He loosened his tie and sat back and looked at his wife.

"Hello, beautiful lady."

"Hi." They exchanged the subtlest of smiles for a moment and Jessie cocked her head to one side. "You planning to work?"

"Just for a little while."

She nodded and went to take the kettle off the stove; it was whistling fiercely. She made a cup of tea, turned off the rest of the lights, and walked quietly into the bedroom. She knew that Ian wouldn't come to bed for hours. He couldn't. He couldn't try to make love to her tonight. Not after last night. The sour taste of failure had stayed with them. Like the rest of what was happening to them, it was new, and painful, and raw.

Their evening at the ballet with Astrid was as great a success as the dinner at her home. They picked her up just in time to make the curtain, and Jessie had prepared a late supper that was waiting for them at home. Steak tartare, cold asparagus, a variety of cheeses and French bread, and a home-made fudge cake. Off to the side, was a large bowl of fresh strawberries and whipped cream, a huge crystal bowl filled with Viennese style Schlag, for the berries or the cake. It was a feast, and her audience approved.

"Dear girl, is there anything you can't do?"

"Plenty." But Jessie was pleased at the compliment.

"Don't believe her. She can do anything." Ian seconded the compliment with a kiss as he poured a round of Bordeaux. Chateau Margaux '55. It felt like an occasion, and he had brought out one of his favorite wines.

By now the three were a trio, telling jokes, sharing stories, and feeling at ease. They were well into their second bottle of wine when Astrid stood up and glanced at the clock.

"Good God, children, it's two o'clock. Not that I have anything to do tomorrow, but you do. I feel very guilty keeping you up." Ian and Jessica exchanged a sharp glance: they did have to be up early the next morning. But Astrid did not see the look. She was hunting for her bag.

"Don't be silly. Evenings like this are a gift for us." Jessie smiled at her friend.

"They couldn't be as much so as they are for me. You have no idea how I've loved this. And what are you up to tomorrow, Jessica? Can I tempt you with lunch at the Villa Taverna?"

"I ... I'm sorry, Astrid, but I can't make lunch tomorrow." Another look flashed its way to Ian. "We have to go to a business meeting in the morning and I don't know what time we'll be through."

"Then why don't all three of us go to lunch?" She had found her handbag and was ready to leave. "You can call me when you're through with your meeting."

"Astrid, we'd better make it another day, much as I hate to." Ian was regretful but firm.

"I think you're both mean." But now she sensed something between them, a tension that hadn't been there before. Something was just a wee bit off balance, but she couldn't tell what, and she found herself remembering the problem Jessica had hinted at when they had first met. There had never been any mention of it again, and Astrid had gone on assuming that Jessie meant a money problem. It was hard to believe, but it obviously couldn't be anything else. Not health, not problems with the marriage certainly--there was too much hugging, touching, kissing, quick pats on the back, rapid squeezes as they stood side by side--there was much too much of that for anyone to believe the marriage was in trouble.

"Maybe we can all go to a movie this weekend." Ian looked at the two women and tried to make light of the too--quiet moment. "Not as classy as the ballet, but there's a new French thriller on Union. Anyone interested?"

"Oh, let's!" Jessie clapped her hands and looked at Astrid, who grinned and put on a cautious look.

"Only if you absolutely swear to buy me a gallon of popcorn."

"I swear." Ian solemnly held up a hand in a formal oath.

"Cross your heart?"

"Cross my heart." He did, and the three of them started to laugh. "You sure drive a hard bargain."

"I have to. I'm addicted to popcorn. With butter!" She looked at him sternly and he gave her a brotherly hug. Astrid returned the hug and leaned over to give Jessie a kiss on the cheek. "And now I shall bid you both good night. And let you get some sleep. I'm really sorry it got so late."

"Don't be. We aren't."

Jessica followed her to the door, and Astrid left with a curious feeling. Almost an eerie sensation. There was nothing she could see or touch or be absolutely sure of, but something seemed to hang in the air, just over their heads--like a hunk of concrete.

The preliminary hearing was scheduled for the next morning.

Jessica walked into the miniature courtroom with Ian's hand held tightly in hers. She wore the navy blue suit and dark glasses again, and Ian looked tired and pale. He hadn't gotten much sleep, and he had a headache from his share of the wine the night before. The three of them had knocked off both bottles of Margaux.

Martin Schwartz was waiting for them in the courtroom. He was going through a file on a small desk at the side of the room, and he motioned to them to join him outside.

"I'm going to ask for a closed hearing. I thought you should know, so you wouldn't be surprised." He looked terribly professional, and they both felt confused. Ian spoke up first, with a worried frown.

"What's a closed hearing?"

"I think the victim may speak more openly if there are no observers in court. Just you, her, the assistant D.A., the judge, and myself. It's a sensible precaution. If she brings friends, she'll want them to think she's as pure as the proverbial driven snow. And she may react badly to having Jessica there." For no reason she could understand, Jessica flinched involuntarily at the sound of her own name.

"Look, if I can take it, so can she." Jessie was unbearably nervous, and she dreaded seeing the woman. She wanted to be anywhere but there. Every fiber of her being shrieked at the prospect of what lay ahead. The enemy. So much to face in one human being. Ian's infidelity, her own inadequacy, the threat to their future, the memory of the almost unscalable mountain of trying to bail him. All of it wrapped up in that one woman.

Martin could see how tense they both were. He pitied them, and he accurately suspected what was at the root of Jessie's nerves: Margaret Burton.

"Just trust me, Jessie. I think a closed hearing will be best for all concerned. We should be getting under way in a few minutes. Why don't you two go for a walk down the hall? Just stay close enough, and I'll come out and signal when the judge is ready to start." Ian nodded tersely and Martin strode back inside. Ian's arm felt as if it had a lead weight hanging from it. Jessie.

They had nothing to say as they paced the length of the hall, turned at the far end, and came back again. Jessica found her mind drifting to memories of other marble halls ... City Hall, where she and Ian had gotten their marriage license ... waiting outside the principal's office in high school ... the funeral parlor in Boston when Jake had died ... and than, one by one, her parents.

"Jessie?"

"Huh?" She was frowning oddly as she looked at him, as though she had difficulty coming back to the present.

"Are you okay?" He looked worried; she had been squeezing his arm too tightly and walking faster and faster as they paced the hall. He had had to shake her arm to catch her attention.

"Yeah. I'm okay. Just thinking."

"Well, stop thinking. Everything's going to be fine. Relax." She started to say something, and he could tell from the look in her eyes that it wasn't going to be pleasant. She was much too nervous to be cautious or kind.

"I'm ... I'm sorry ... this is just such a weird day. Doesn't it seem weird to you? Or is it just me?" She began to wonder if she were going crazy.

"No, it doesn't seem weird. Shitty, yes, but not weird." He tried to smile, but she wasn't looking at him. She was looking off into the distance, dreamy-eyed again. She was beginning to frighten him. "Look, dammit, if you don't pull yourself together right now, I'm going to send you home."

"Why? So I don't see her?"

"Is mat what you're worried about, for Chrissake? Seeing her? Is that all? Jesus. My ass is on the line, and you're worried about seeing her. Who gives a shit about her? What if they revoke my bail?"

"They won't."

"How the hell do you know?"

"I ... I ... oh, Ian, I don't know. They just can't, that's all. Why would they?" She hadn't even thought of that. Now it was one more thing to worry about.

"Why wouldn't they?"

"Well, maybe if I'd seduced Inspector Houghton, or Barry York, our beloved bailbondsman, maybe they wouldn't. But since I didn't, maybe they will." Her tone was bitter and scared.

"Go home, Jessica."

"Go to hell."

And then Ian stopped talking and looked past her. Time seemed to stop as Jessica too turned to look. It was Margaret Burton.

She was wearing the same hat. But with a polite little beige suit. She was even wearing white gloves. The clothes were cheap, but they were tidy-looking, and very proper. She looked very dull. Like the stereotype of a schoolteacher or a librarian, somebody terribly serious and asexual. Her hair was pulled back in a tight knot at her neck, scarcely visible under the hat. The black roots were nowhere to be seen. She was wearing no makeup and her shoes were low-heeled and dowdy. It was obvious that a woman like this could only be made love to at gunpoint.

Ian said nothing, but looked for a long moment, then turned away. Jessica was staring, with a look of hatred on her face that Ian had never seen. She was rooted to the spot.

"Jess ... come on, baby. Please." He took her elbow and tried to propel her back down the hall, but she wouldn't move. Margaret Burton disappeared into the courtroom without ever having shown a sign of having seen than. And Jessica still wouldn't move. Inspector Houghton followed quickly on Miss Burton's heels, and Martin Schwartz came out and beckoned to Ian, while Jessie simply stood and stared.

"Look, Jessie, just sit down on that bench for a few minutes. I'll be back as soon as I can." She was in terrible shape, and he had enough to worry about.

"Ian?" She turned and looked at him with a stricken expression in her eyes, and he felt his guts turn to sand. "I just don't understand anything anymore." There weren't even tears in her eyes. Only pain.

"Neither do I But I've got to go inside now. Will you be okay out here, or do you want to go home?" He wasn't sure he trusted her alone. The look in her eyes was getting to be all too familiar.

"I'll be here."

That wasn't what he had asked her, but he didn't have time to argue. He disappeared inside the courtroom, and Jessie sat alone on the cold marble bench. She watched people come and go. Ordinary-looking people. Men with attache cases. Women with tissues clutched in their hands. Small bedraggled children in shoes that were worn through at the heel and pants that were too short for their skinny legs. Bailiffs, lawyers, judges, victims, defendants, witnesses ... people. They came and went while Jessie sat and thought of Margaret Burton. Who was she? Why had she done it? Why Ian? She had looked so goddamned proud, so self-righteous as she had walked into the courtroom. The courtroom...

Suddenly her eyes were riveted to the door. It was of dark, highly polished wood with brass knobs and two tiny glass windows, like eyes, looking out ... looking out ... looking in ... inside ... she had to be there ... inside ... to see her ... to listen ... to find out why ... she had to.

A small sign hung crookedly from one of the doorknobs--CLOSED--and a gray-uniformed bailiff stood slightly off to one side, looking disinterestedly at passersby. Jessica stood to her full height, smoothed her skirt, and suddenly felt very calm. She fixed a small smile in place. There was the tiniest of tremors in the corner of her right eye, the convulsions of a butterfly, but who would notice? She looked very much in command, and smiled curtly at the bailiff as she strode to the door and put a hand on the knob.