Separate Beds (17 page)

My God, thought Catherine, he's actually challenging the old girl!

Understanding that challenge very clearly, Elizabeth Forrester only chided. “In my day, your grandfather didn't pronounce vulgarities in my ear.”

Clay only grinned, sparring expertly. “Oh, Grandmother, you're sterling, pure sterling. But this is not your day, and a man can get by with a little more.” But then, feeling the muscle of Catherine's leg grow rigid, he dulcified his remark by adding,
“Damn
is hardly considered a vulgarity anymore, not even a crudity.”

She merely cocked the eyebrow again.

“Father,” Clay said, “bring your mother a glass of port. She's being testy tonight and you know how port always mellows her. Catherine, do you like port?”

“I don't know.”

Elizabeth Forrester missed not a word.

“White wine then?” her grandson suggested. The girl's reaction was curious. She attempted to move her thigh away from his. Unconcerned, he arose without waiting for an answer and went to get the wine.

“How long have you known Clay?” his Grandma Sophie asked then, leaning forward with birdlike tentativeness.

“We met this summer.”

“Angela says you are sewing your own dress for the wedding.”

“Yes, but I have lots of help,” Catherine answered, realizing too late that she'd left herself open for further questioning.

“Why, how nice. I never could sew a stitch, could I, Angela? Is your mother helping you?” Sophie's manner of speech was exactly the opposite of her counterpart's. Where Elizabeth Forrester was audacious and quizzing, this woman was shy and unassuming. Still, her innocent line of questioning made Catherine again feel boxed into a corner.

“No, some friends of mine are helping me with the dress. I do some sewing to help out with college expenses.”

“My, Clay didn't tell us you're in college.”

He came to her rescue then, returning with a stem glass of imported German liebfraumilch. As Catherine reached for it, the gems in her ring glittered like the lead crystal glass which held the wine. Before she sipped, she changed hands, resting her left, knuckles-down on her lap.

“Yes, she is. She's a clever girl too. She made the dress she's wearing tonight, Grandma. She's very good with her hands, isn't she?”

Catherine almost choked. Quickly she added, “I also type theses and manuscripts.”

“You do? My, my,” Grandma Sophie remarked inanely.

“You see, Grandma, now I won't have to pay to have my papers typed this year. That's really why I'm marrying her.” He grinned mischievously and laid his hand along the back of the loveseat as he said it, making Sophie's eyes soften in approval.

“Mother,” Angela put in, “Clay is up to his usual teasing again. Don't pay any attention to him.”

The talk moved on, interspersed with the nibbling of crab-stuffed
petits choux
and marinated mushroom caps. Clay relaxed beside Catherine, his knees lolling wide so there was the ever-present intrusion of his thigh against hers. He kept up the small talk, asked once, close to Catherine's ear, if she didn't like the crab, confirmed that's what it was she was eating, murmured just loud enough that the elder Mrs. Forrester overheard him tell his fiancée there were lots of things he'd teach her to like. He bantered with Elizabeth, teased Sophie, agreed to play racquetball with his father one evening soon, and through it all, managed to act as if he doted on Catherine.

By the time they went to dinner, she was nearly undone. She wasn't used to sitting so close to him, nor being wooed in so obvious a manner for the benefit of others. At the table it went on, for Clay was seated directly beside her, and now and then during the meal he rested his elbow on the back of her chair and spoke trumped-up confidences into her ear in a highly convincing way. He could laugh just softly enough, glance at her just beguilingly enough to make his grandmothers smile at each other over their salmon steaks a la Inella. But long before the meal ended either the steaks or Clay or both had caused Catherine's stomach to begin to churn. Add to that the fact that Elizabeth Forrester brought up the ring, and Catherine wondered if she'd make it through the meal.

“I see Angela has given you the radiant. How wonderful, Angela, to see it on Catherine's hand. What does your family think of it, dear?”

Catherine forced herself to continue cutting a cheese-encrusted Irish potato.

“They haven't seen it yet,” she answered truthfully, learning the game quickly, determined not to give the hawk-eyed woman an edge.

“It looks beautiful on such long, slim fingers, don't you think so, Clay?”

Clay picked up Catherine's hand, took the fork from it, kissed it, replaced the fork, and said, “Beautiful.”

“Would you like to prick my grandson with that fork, Catherine, just to let a little of that self-satisfied hot air out of him? Your fondling seems to distract Catherine from her eating, Clay.”

But it was as much the ring as everything else that was distracting Catherine.

Clay only laughed and delved into his food again. “Grandmother, I think I detect a note of testiness again. Nobody told you you had to pass the ring on to Mother. Would you like it back?”

“Don't be cheeky, Clay. As your bride, Catherine should and will wear the ring. Your grandfather would be thrilled to distraction if he could see it on a girl as beautiful as she.”

“I give up. For once you've left me speechless because you're right.”

Elizabeth Forrester was left to wonder if her suspicion was correct. The boy seemed incapable of stopping himself from fawning over the girl. Well, time would tell, soon enough.

In the car on the way home Catherine laid her head back against the seat, struggling with each passing mile to control her roiling insides. But halfway there Catherine ordered, “Stop the car!”

Clay turned to find her eyes closed, one hand convulsively gripping the console.

“What is it?”

“Stop the car
 . . . please.”

But they were on the freeway where controlled accesses made it difficult to stop.

“Hey, are you all right?”

“I have to throw up.”

An exit ramp beckoned and he pulled over, careened halfway up, drove the car completely over the curb and onto the shoulderless area of grass, then slammed on the brakes. Immediately Catherine rolled out her side of the car. He heard her retching, then she gasped and spit.

Sweat broke out under Clay's armpits. Across his chest the skin grew tight and hot, and saliva pooled beneath his own tongue as if he were the nauseated one. He got out, unsure of what to do, saw her huddled over, her hair hanging down over her cheeks.

“Catherine, are you all right?”

“Do you have a tissue?” she asked shakily.

He came up behind her, reached in his hip pocket and extracted his handkerchief. He handed it to her and took her elbow to lead her a few steps aside.

“This . . . is your . . . han . . . hanky. I can't use . . . your hanky.” Her ordeal had left her fighting for breath.

“Christ, use it . . . anything. Are you okay now?”

“I don't know.” She gulped air like a person coming up for the second time. “Don't you have any tissues?”

“Catherine, this is no time to be polite. Use the damn hanky.”

In spite of her wretchedness, it suddenly dawned on Catherine that Clay Forrester swore when he was scared. She swabbed the inside of her mouth with his clean-tasting handkerchief.

“Does this happen often?” His voice was shaky, concerned, and he left a solicitous hand on her arm.

She shook her head, waiting yet, unsure if there was more.

“I thought it only happened in the mornings.”

“I think it was the fish and the grandmothers.” She tried to laugh a little, but didn't quite succeed, so instead sucked in the starlight.

“Cat, I'm sorry. I didn't know it would be that hard on you or I wouldn't have added to it.”

She heard mostly the word
Cat.
God, no, she thought, don't let him call me that. Not that!

“Do you want to go back to the car?” he asked, at a loss, feeling protective toward her, yet utterly useless.

“I think I'll stay here in the air awhile longer. I still feel funny.” She refolded the hanky and wiped her forehead with it. He reached to push aside a strand of hair that had caught on her cheek.

“Are you going to keep this up when we're married?” There was a smile in his question, an attempt to make her feel better.

“If I do, I'll wash the hankies for you. I don't know, it's never happened before. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you.”

“You didn't embarrass me. I just got scared, that's all. I don't know much about handling retching girls.”

“Well, live and learn, huh?”

He smiled, waiting for her to gain her equilibrium again. She ran a shaky hand over her forehead and down one temple. Her stomach was calming down, but Clay's continued touch as he held her arm was unsettling. Wisely, she extricated herself from it.

“Clay, your grandmother Forrester knows.” Catherine's voice shook.

“So what?”

“How can you say that when she's so . . . so . . .”

“So what? Dictatorial? She's really not, you know. She loved you, couldn't you tell that?”

“Loved me?
 . . . Me?”

“She's a shrewd old devil, and there's not much she misses. I had no notion of trying to deceive her tonight. Yes, she knows, but she's given you her stamp of approval anyway.”

“She chose an odd way to show it.”

“People have their ways, Catherine. Hers are . . . well, different from those of Mother's parents, but, believe me, if she hadn't approved, she would never have said what she did about the ring.”

“So the ring was a test—that's why you made me wear it tonight?”

“I guess in a way it was. But it's tradition too. They all know that there's no way I'd be taking a bride without putting it on her finger. That was understood before I was ever born.”

“Clay, I was . . . well, scared. It was more than just the ring and the way your grandmother quizzed me. I have to be told when I'm eating crabmeat that it's crab and I don't know port wine from a fishing port and I don't know that pink diamonds are called radiants and—”

His unconcerned laughter interrupted her. “A radiant is a cut, not a color, but what does it matter? You foiled the old girl, Catherine, don't you know that? You foiled her by letting her guess the truth and having her approve of you anyway. Why feel scared about that?”

“Because around your family I'm out of my league. I'm like a . . . like a rhinestone among diamonds, can't you see that?”

“You have a surprising lack of confidence lurking behind that composed exterior you usually display. Why do you insist on putting yourself down?”

“I know my place, that's all, and it isn't in the Forrester family.”

“It is as long as I say it is, and nobody's going to contest it.”

“Clay, we're making a mistake.”

“The only mistake made tonight was when you ate Inella's salmon.” He touched her shoulder. “Do you think you've finished with your revenge on her?”

She couldn't help smiling. “What
is
it with you that you can be so casual about all this?”

“Catherine, it's only temporary. I made up my mind to enjoy what I can of it, and not to let the rest bother me, that's all. And I'm even learning in the process, so there.”

“Learning?”

“Like you said . . . how to handle a pregnant lady.” He turned her toward the car. “Come on, I think you're okay now. Get in and I'll drive like a good boy.”

Farther down the road, Clay began talking about Sophie and Granddad, reminiscing about them, and the stories he told made Catherine understand where Angela got all her loving ways. Riding with Clay, listening to stories about his youth, she found herself enjoying his company fully.

She laughed once, saying, “I had all I could to keep from bursting out laughing when Granddad called you 'sonny.'“ She turned a skeptical grin toward Clay and repeated,
“Sonny?”

Clay himself laughed. “Well, I guess that's how he'll always think of me. You know, I really love that old dude. When I was little, he used to take me to see the ore boats on Lake Superior. Just him and me. Once he took me up on the train, because he said trains would soon be gone, and I shouldn't miss the chance to ride on one while I could. Saturday afternoons he'd take me to see Disney movies, to museums, all kinds of places. And I'd go to the ballet with both Granddad and Sophie.”

“The ballet?” She was genuinely surprised.

“Uh-huh.”

“How lucky.”

“You've never been to one?”

“No, only dreamed about it.”

“I assumed you had, from what you said once about being a ballerina.”

“No, you assumed wrong,” and for the first time Catherine opened up a portion of her secret regret to him. Not much, but a little—an important little. Like wiping off a tiny peek-through from a dirt-filmed window, she gave him a first glimpse of what was inside. “My dad drank a lot, so there was never any money for the ballet.”

Suddenly afraid she should not have said it, she waited for Clay's reaction. She did not want him to think she was eliciting his sympathy. She could feel his gaze on her for a moment before his words made her heart dance against her ribcage.

“There is now,” was all he said.

The short trio of weeks before the wedding, coupled with the countless necessary arrangements, saw Catherine and Clay together almost as much as they were apart. The thing Catherine feared most began to happen: she grew familiar with Clay. She began expecting things before they happened—to have her car door opened, her coat held, her fast food paid for. Personal things about Clay intruded too—the way he always took time to kid the girls at Horizons before snatching Catherine away again; the continuing sense of closeness he displayed with his family; the endless touching about which none of them felt inhibited; his laugh. He laughed easily, she discovered, and seemed to accept what was happening far more readily than Catherine herself was able to.

She grew familiar with the incidental things: the way his eyes were drawn to the vapor trails of jets; the way he removed the pickles from his hamburgers but added extra ketchup; the fact that most of his clothes were brown, that he was slightly color-blind between browns and greens and sometimes mistakenly chose socks of the wrong color. She came to know his wardrobe and the scent of him that lingered in his car, until one evening when it changed it came as a shock that she'd even detected the change. She learned which of his tapes were favorites, then the particular songs on those tapes that were even more favored.

Then one day he offered her the use of his car to complete all her errands. Her wide blue eyes flew from the keys, dangling off his index finger, to his grinning eyes.

She was speechless.

“What the hell, it's only a car,” he said offhandedly.

But it wasn't! Not to Clay. He took care of it the way a trainer takes care of a Kentucky Derby winner and with equally as much pride. His trusting her to drive it was another stitch in the seam of familiarity binding Clay and Catherine ever closer. She saw all this clearly as she stared at the keys. To accept them was to break down another of the barriers between them, this barrier so much more significant than any which had fallen before, for it had delineated their separate rights. Accepting the keys would only meld the two, which was something Catherine sought to avoid.

Yet she took the keys anyway, tempted by the luxury they represented, the freedom, the thrill, telling herself, “One time . . . just this once . . . because there's so much running to do, and it'll be so much easier by car than by bus.”

Driving the Corvette, she felt she had usurped Clay's world, the car was so much a part of him. There was a sense of willful intrusion that made her heart race when she placed her hands on the wheel in the precise spot where his usually rested. The feel of her flesh on
his
spot was decidedly intimate, so she quickly reverted to the more cavalier pose with one wrist draped indolently over the wheel, put the machine in motion and turned on the radio, experiencing a heady jolt of freedom when the music poured from the speakers. She even used the horn once, unnecessarily, and laughed aloud at her precociousness. She adjusted the rearview mirror, amazed at how suddenly exotic Minneapolis, Minnesota, looked when viewed in reverse from a white leather bucket seat inside a sleek, silver bullet.

She watched men's heads snap around and women's faces affect expressions of disdain, and allowed herself to feel temporarily superior. She smiled at drivers of other cars while sitting at stop signs. The Corvette was superficial, ostentatious, and somebody else's. But she didn't care. She smiled anyway.

And she took first Marie, then Bobbie, out shopping in it.

And for one day—one magic day—Catherine allowed herself to pretend it was all real. And somehow, for that one day, it was. For that single day Catherine had a taste of the full flush of joy wedding preparations can bring.

The making of Catherine's wedding dress became a “family project” with almost every girl at Horizons sharing the work in some way. Then one day before the gown was finished Little Bit had her baby. It was a girl, but they all knew Little Bit had long ago made the decision for adoption, so nobody spoke much about the baby. When they visited Little Bit in the hospital they spoke of the wedding, the gown, even the Corvette ride. But on the shelf by her bed there was only an ice-blue wedding invitation where there should have been baby cards too.

After that Catherine sensed a new wistfulness when the girls touched her wedding gown. They vied for the right to zip it up the back when Catherine fit it on, touching it with a reverence she found heartbreaking. It was a lovely creation of ivory velvet, with wrist-length sleeves, an Empire waist and a miniature train. The front bodice was gathered at the shoulder and on up the high, tight neck, and draped in soft swags from shoulder to shoulder. Studying her reflection, Catherine could not help wondering what the months ahead would bring.

The plans for Catherine and Clay's immediate future came down to more personal things. They had to think about a place to live and furnishings for it. Once again the fairy-tale aura pervaded as Clay announced his father owned various properties around the twin cities and there were at least three different ones unoccupied. Would Catherine like to look at them?

He took her to a complex of town houses in the suburb of Golden Valley. Catherine stood back, watching Clay fit the key into the lock with an odd thrill of expectation. The door swung open and she stepped inside, hearing the door close behind her. She stood in the foyer of a split-level house. It was disconcertingly silent. Before her, chocolate-carpeted stairs led up one level and down one. Clay touched her arm and she jumped. They walked up the steps, unspeaking, to be greeted by a great open expanse of space which ended in sliding glass doors on the far side of the living room. To her left was a kitchen, to her right the steps leading to the sleeping level. She hadn't expected such luxury, such newness.

“Oh, Clay,” was all Catherine said, sweeping the living room with her eyes.

“I know what you're thinking.”

“But I'm right. It's too much.”

“Don't you like it? We can look at others.”

She swung to face him in the middle of the bright, vast room. “I can't live in this with you. It would be like cheating on my income tax.”

“Okay, let's go. Where else do you have in mind?”

“Wait a minute.” She reached out to detain him, for he'd turned impatiently toward the foyer. “I'm not the only one who has a say.”

He paused, but she could tell his teeth were clenched.

“Clay, what are we going to fill all this up with?”

“Furniture, but it won't be
filled.
We'll just get what we need.”

“Just
 . . . get?”

“Well, we'll go out and buy it, dammit! We have to have furniture, and that's the usual way of getting it.” It was unlike him to speak in such a brittle manner. She could tell that he was disappointed and not a little angry.

“You want it, don't you?”

“I've always liked this place, but it doesn't matter. There are others.”

“Yes, so you said before.” She paused, met his displeased eyes and said quietly, “Show me the rest of it.”

She followed him up the short flight of stairs. He switched on a light and a spacious bathroom was revealed. It had a long vanity, topped with gold-veined black marble, sporting two sinks and a mirror the size of a bedsheet. The fixtures were almond-colored, and the walls papered in a bold geometric of beige and brown with touches of silver foil adding a richness for which she was not prepared. She quickly glanced from the vanity stool to the shower stall—separate from the tub—with its opaque glass walls.

“Any of the paper can be changed,” he said.

“That won't be necessary. I can see why you like it as it is—all these browns.”

He switched off the light and she followed him to a small bedroom on the opposite side of the hall. Here again was a room papered in brown and tan geometric, very masculine, evidently decorated as a den or study.

Silently they moved on to the other bedroom. It was massive and could easily have been divided into two rooms. It, too, was papered in shades of brown, but this time a cool, restful dusty-blue had been added. Clay walked over and opened a door, revealing a generous walk-in closet with built-in drawers, shoe shelves and luggage racks up above.

“Clay, how much is this going to cost anyway?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I . . . we . . . it just does, that's all.”

“I can afford it.”

“That's not the point and you know it.”

“What is the point then, Catherine?”

But for answer, her eyes slid to the spot where the bed so obviously belonged. His eyes did the same, then they quickly looked away from each other. She turned from the room and abruptly went back downstairs to check the kitchen.

It was compact, efficient, had a dishwasher, disposal, side-by-side refrigerator-freezer, glossy flooring of rich vinyl, almond-colored appliances—everything. She thought of the kitchen at home, of her father slinging coffee grounds in the sink without bothering to wash them down, of the dirty dishes that were forever piled in the sink unless she herself washed them.

Catherine thought about what it would be like working in this clean kitchen with its gleaming appliances, its wood-grained Formica countertops. She turned to eye the peninsula and imagined a pair of stools on the other side of it—a cozy, informal eating spot. She pictured Clay sitting there in the morning, drinking coffee while she fried eggs. But she'd never been with him early in the morning and didn't know if he liked coffee, or fried eggs. And furthermore, she had no business imagining such things in such a wishful way.

“Catherine?”

She jumped and whirled to find him leaning in the doorway, one elbow braced high against it. He was dressed in a rust-colored corduroy jacket with a matching vest beneath. The way he stood, the jacket flared away from his body creating inviting shadows around his torso. It struck her again how flawless his appearance was, how his trousers never seemed to wrinkle, his hair never to be out of place. She felt her mouth go dry and wondered what she was letting herself in for.

“There's only a week left,” he said sensibly.

“I know.” She turned toward the stove, walked over and switched on the light above it because it gave her a reason to turn her back to him and because she'd been wondering if he drank coffee in the morning and because she'd been thinking of the shadows within his corduroy jacket.

“If it's what you want, Clay, we'll take it. I know the colors suit you.”

“Do you want to look at something else?” He was no longer angry, not at all. Instead his voice was mellow.

“I love this, Clay. I just don't think that we . . . that I . . .”

“Deserve it?” he finished as she faltered.

“Something like that.”

“Would it make things more fair if we lived in a hovel someplace, is that what you think?”

“Yes!” She spun to face him. “No . . . oh, God, I don't know. This is more than I ever imagined I'd live in, that's all. I'm trying very hard not to be overcome.”

He smiled, raised his other hand so both were now braced against the door frame above his head, then he shook his head at the vinyl floor.

“You know, sometimes I don't believe you.”

“Well, sometimes I don't believe you either.” She threw her hands wide, indicating the whole place in one gesture. “Now furniture too!”

“I said we'd only get the necessities.”

“But I'm fast learning what you consider
necessities.”

“Well, I'll do my damnedest to hunt up some stick furniture if it'll make you happy. And I'll string some thongs from the bedroom wall and haul in a fresh load of straw for on top of them. How's that?”

His face wore the most engaging grin; it was irresistible.

He was teasing her. Standing there leaning against their future kitchen doorway looking good enough to serve for dinner, Clay Forrester was teasing. His laughter started as a soft bubble of mirth deep in his throat, but when it erupted into full, uninhibited sound, all she could do was laugh back.

He chose an enormously long davenport because, he said, his mother drove him nuts with all her loveseats that a man couldn't even stretch out on. And two armchairs of tweed, and a pecan coffee table and end tables, and a lamp that cost as much as one of the chairs, although Catherine could not convince him this was utterly spendthrift and silly. He said he liked it, expensive or not, and that was that. They chose two stools for the kitchen peninsula, but Catherine adamantly refused to furnish the formal dining room. They really wouldn't need it, she said. She won on that point, but the bedroom set she said was “good enough” wasn't good enough for Clay. He picked out one that cost nearly double that of her choice, and a triple dresser
and
a chest of drawers, which she said were unnecessary because the closet had built-in drawers.

They were standing in the aisle arguing about nightstands and lamps when their salesman returned to them.

“But why do we need more lamps? There are ceiling fixtures; that's good enough.”

“Because I like to read in bed!” Clay exclaimed.

The salesman began to clear his throat, thought better of it, and withdrew discreetly to let them argue it out. But Catherine knew he'd overheard Clay's last comment and was left beetfaced, feeling like a complete fool, standing there in the aisle of a furniture store arguing with a fiancé who exclaimed he liked to
read
in bed!

Things started happening so fast.

Steve called to say he'd be arriving on Thursday, the thirteenth.

Ada called to say she'd finished making her dress.

The store called to make arrangement for delivery of the furniture.

Bobbi called to say the Magnussons would definitely be at the wedding.

The doctor's office called to say Catherine's blood count was low.

Angela called and apologetically explained that Claiborne had pressed charges against Herb Anderson and successfully managed to have him convicted to ninety days in the workhouse for assault and battery.

And then one evening Catherine walked into Horizons to find a surprise bridal shower awaiting her, and not only were all the girls there, but seated side by side on the sofa were her mother and Angela. And Catherine, giving in to what is each bride's right, covered her face with both hands and burst into tears for the first time since this whole charade began.