Separate Beds (36 page)

“How are you?” he asked instead.

She pictured his face, the face she'd been searching crowds for ever since she'd last seen it, pictured his hair which she'd imagined she'd seen on hundreds of strangers, his eyes, his mouth. Long moments passed before she admitted, “Not so happy since you were here last.”

He swallowed, surprised at her answer when he'd expected the usual trite, “Fine.”

“Me either.”

It was incredible how two such simple words managed to slam the breath out of her. Frantically she searched for something to say, but her mind remained filled only with his face, and she wondered where he was and what he was wearing.

“How's Melissa's head?” he asked.

“Oh, fine. It's all healed up, no worse for the wear.”

They both laughed nervously, but the strained sound ended abruptly at both ends of the wire, followed by silence again. Clay raised one knee, propped an elbow on it and kneaded the bridge of his nose, his heart thundering so loud it seemed she must hear it at her end.

“Catherine, I was wondering what you're doing tomorrow night.”

She clutched the phone in both hands. “To-tomorrow night? But that's Christmas Eve.”

“Yes, I know.”

Clay quit kneading his eyes, took up pressing the crease of one trouser leg between his fingers instead. “I was wondering if you and Melissa have plans.”

Catherine's eyes slid shut. She raised the mouthpiece up to her forehead so he couldn't hear her jerky breathing. She got control.

“No, not for tomorrow night. We're going to Uncle Frank and Aunt Ella's on Christmas Day, but nothing for tomorrow.” Up went the receiver to her forehead again.

“Would you like to come out to the house with me?”

She put her hand on the top of her head to keep it from leaving her body, struggled to sound calm.

“Out to your parents' house?”

“Yes.”

He felt physically sick during the interminable moments while she thought, What about Jill? Where is Jill? I told you not to call me unless it was forever.

“Where are you, Clay?” she asked, so quietly he had to strain to hear the words.

“I'm in a motel.”

“A motel?”

“Alone.”

Joy sluiced through every vein of her body. Her throat and eyes felt flooded while she sat there gripping the phone like some babbling idiot.

“Catherine?” His voice cracked as he said it.

“Yes, I'm here,” she got out.

In a stranger's voice he managed, “For Chrissake, answer me, will you?” And she remembered how Clay swore when he was scared.

“Yes,” she whispered, and slid down with a thump onto the floor.

“What?”

“Yes,” she said, louder, smiling great-big.

The line grew silent for a long, long time, with only the sound of some distant electronic bleeps making music in their ears, then disappearing.

“Where are you?” he asked then, wishing he were with her now.

“I'm in the bedroom, sitting on the floor beside the bed.”

“Is Melissa asleep?”

“Yes, for a long time.”

“Has she got the koala bear with her?”

“Yes,” Catherine whispered, “it's in the crib by her head.”

The line went quiet once more. After a long time Clay said, “I'm going back to work with Dad, as soon as possible.”

“Oh, Clay . . .”

She heard him laugh, but it was a deeply emotional laugh, as if it were very hard to bring from his throat.

“Oh, Cat, you were right, you were so right.”

“I was only guessing.”

This time when he laughed it was less strained, then she heard him sigh.

“Listen, I've got to get some sleep. I didn't get much last night or the night before that or the night before that.”

“Me either.”

“I'll pick you up at five or so?”

“We'll be ready.”

Silence roared between them again, a long, quivering silence that said as much as the soft words which followed:

“Good night, Catherine.”

“Good night, Clay.”

And again, silence, while each waited for the other to hang up first.

“Good night, I said,” he said.

“So did I.”

“Then let's do it together.”

“Do what together?”

She never knew before that you could hear a smile.

“That too. But later. For now, just hang up so I can get some sleep.”

“Okay, on three, then?”

“One . . . two . . . three.”

This time they hung up together.

But they were both sadly mistaken if they thought they'd get much sleep.

The next day crawled. Catherine felt light-headed, at times giddy, almost removed from herself. Passing a mirror, she found herself staring at her reflection long and assessingly before covering her cheeks with both hands, closing her eyes and reveling in the heartbeat that seemed to extend into every nerve ending of her body, its cadence fast-tripping. She opened her eyes and warned herself this might be a false alarm. Maybe just Clay's way of seeing Melissa, giving his parents a chance to see her, too, during the holiday. But then Catherine would remember his voice on the phone, and she knew somehow this was what she'd been dreaming of. Her thoughts flew to the oncoming evening. Hurry, hurry!

Finally, to kill time, she bundled Melissa into the car and went out shopping for something new to wear. She moved through the crowds of last-minuters in a thoroughly changed state from the previous day. She smiled at strangers. She hummed along with piped-in carols. She was eminently patient when forced to wait behind slow-moving lines at cash registers. Once she even spoke to an older man whose temper was on edge, whose face was red and quivery and impatient. A new feeling of ebullience lifted Catherine as she saw his impatience dissolve beneath her own good spirits. And she thought, see what love can do?

Back at home she put Melissa down for a nap and took a leisurely bath in an explosion of bubbles. Emerging from the tub, she stood before the wide vanity mirror blotting her skin. She felt giddily gay, childish and womanly all at once. She made a moue at her reflection, then struck a seductive pose with the towel partially shielding her nudity, then tried a different pose, a different facial expression. She leaned nearer the mirror, tugging tendrils of hair out of the hastily secured top-knot, giving herself a kittenish look with loose wisps at her temples and the back of her neck. She wet her lips, allowed them to fall slightly open, lowered her lids to a smoky expression, and breathed, “Hello, Clay.” Then she tried standing with her back to the mirror, looking over one shoulder, saying impishly, “Hi, Clay.” Next she turned, slung the towel around her neck, its ends covering the rosy peaks of her breasts, put her hands on her bare hips and said sexily, “Whaddya say, Clay-boy?”

But suddenly she dropped the charade; she was none of these characters. She was not a little girl anymore, she was a woman. What was happening in her life was real, and she must present only the genuine Catherine to Clay. The real Catherine dropped the towel at her feet. She stood straight and tall, studying her body, her face, her hair. She took up the bottle of lightly scented lotion she'd splurged on that morning, her eyes never leaving her reflection as she poured some within her palm and began applying it to her long, supple arms, her shoulders, her neck, circling it and reaching as far onto her back as she could. She cupped her hand for another cool, sleek helping, its smell—the scent she knew Clay loved—all around her now in the warm, steamy bathroom. She rubbed it into her stomach, up the cove between her ribs, her eyes sliding closed as her palms slipped over her breasts, feeling the vaguely welcome discomfort at touching the nipples puckered into gem-hard points. Standing there touching herself, she thought of Clay, of the night ahead. I want you, Clay, she thought, I've wanted you for so long. She imagined it was Clay's hands rubbing her breasts. Her eyelids fluttered open and she took more lotion, watched her palms rub slowly together before she raised one foot, resting it on the vanity, pointing her toes as she spread the scented coolness from the arched top of the foot up the calf, behind the knee, thigh, over the buttock, the sheltered spot between her legs. I'm wanton, she thought. Then, No, I'm a woman, with a woman's needs. The scent Clay loved was all over her now.

Slowly she took the combs from her hair and began brushing it, remembering that night of their blind date, then the night the girls at Horizons had played handmaiden. That was the night of her second date with Clay. She took as much care now with her toilette as the girls had taken that night. She dressed in the minuscule bra and panties that Clay had never seen on their wedding night. She worked over her makeup until it was a subtle work of art. But she kept her hair loose, simple, lightly curled back from her face much as she wore it when she first met Clay.

The new dress was of pale plum crepe de Chine, a wrap-around that dropped from lightly gathered shoulders to the hem in an easy looseness. It was collarless, leaving a V of skin exposed at the neck. When she tied the string-belt, the dress gained shape, accenting her hollow-hipped thinness. She buttoned the cuffs at her wrists, then stood back to study herself. She pressed her palms to her dancing stomach, then brushed back a wayward wisp of hair. The movement stirred the scent of Charlie which was trapped now in the fabric of the new dress. Gold loops for her ears, a simple, short chain that fell only to the hollow of her throat, and sling-back shoes of black patent. She chose them because they were the highest she had, knowing how heartily Clay approved of a woman's foot in high heels.

It struck Catherine that she was, without a doubt, trying to be alluring to Clay, and for a moment she felt guilty. But then Melissa called, in her after-nap gibberish, and Catherine hurried to get the baby ready.

Clay had gone out and bought a whole new outfit as well. But now, on his way to Catherine's, he wondered for the tenth time whether the silk tie looked too formal. He wondered if he'd appear to be a spit-combed, nervous schoolboy, all trussed up and tightly knotted this way. What the hell was the matter with him anyway? He'd never had the vaguest doubt about choosing his clothing before. But as he sat at a red light, Clay twisted the rearview mirror so he could study the tie once more. He yanked the Windsor knot halfway down, then changed his mind and slipped it back into place. He glanced at his hair, smoothed a palm over it, although not a filament was out of place. Someone behind him honked the horn and he muttered a curse and proceeded through the green light. Suddenly, as if just remembering, he withdrew a tape from the deck, found another and put it in the track, filling the car with the music of The Lettermen. Too obvious! he reprimanded himself, and tucked The Lettermen out of sight again.

With more than a half hour to spare, Catherine was all ready. She pictured Clay, somewhere out there getting prepared to come for her, wondered what he was feeling, what he was thinking. Melissa seemed to pick up her mother's distraction and capitalized on it, getting into things she knew she wasn't supposed to touch: the tree decorations, the knobs of the television, the philodendron on the coffee table. Finally, unnerved further by constantly pulling Melissa away from trouble, Catherine deposited her in the playpen, and continued her pacing without interference.

The bell rang.

Twice, let him ring twice, she scolded her impatient feet, while outside, Clay crammed his hand into his coat pocket to keep from ringing again too soon.

What should I say, she wondered wildly.

What should I say, he wondered frantically.

The door opened and she stood there in a loosely belted thing that made her look willowy and wonderful.

Snow fell upon the shoulders of Clay's rich, brown leather topcoat.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, his eyes on her face while he took in details of her slender feet arched into high-heeled shoes, and the way the dress draped over her hips.

“Merry Christmas,” she answered, smiling a small, nervous smile, stepping aside with a hand still on the doorknob to let him pass into the house. He turned around to watch her close the door, letting his eyes travel down to the backs of her calves, then up to the hair on her shoulders. When she met his eyes he said, “Nice dress.”

“Thank you. It's new. I . . . well, I spent a little of your money on it.”

Why did you say that! she scolded herself, but then he was smiling, saying, “I heartily approve, especially since I did the same thing.”

“You did?”

“Christmas present for myself.” He opened his topcoat to give her a brief glimpse of herringbone tweed the color of coffee with cream in it.

“In browns, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But then you always did look your best in browns.” The entry suddenly seemed to grow too small, hemming them in, and Catherine moved to lead the way up to the living room, chattering, “Melissa's wearing a new dress, too, one your mother gave her that she just grew into. Come and see her.”

“Hey, she'll outshine us both,” Clay said right behind her. “Hi, Melissa.” And for once Melissa didn't cry at the sight of him.

Catherine stooped and lifted the child, turning with her on her arm, carefully avoiding Clay's eyes as she said, “Can you say hi to Daddy, Melissa?” Their baby only gazed at Clay with bright, unblinking eyes. Catherine whispered something Clay couldn't make out and nudged Melissa's little hand. Still staring, the baby opened and closed her chubby fingers once.

“That's hi,” Catherine interpreted, and briefly met Clay's pleased smile. Then she sat down on the davenport and began stuffing Melissa's hands and feet into a blue snowsuit. “Clay, would it be all right if we took my car, then we could take the playpen along.”

“We won't need a playpen. Mother had one of the bedrooms redone into a nursery.”

Startled, Catherine looked up. “She did?”

Clay nodded.

“When?”

“Last summer.”

“She never told me.”

“She never had a chance.”

“Does she . . . I mean, do they know we're coming tonight, Melissa and I?”

“No. I didn't want to disappoint them if it didn't turn out.”

Like a scene from a long-remembered favorite movie, the car moved through the streets while along the way streetlights eased on, signaling the arrival of dark. Catherine was filled with such an odd combination of emotions. The peaceful feeling of being again where she belonged was combined with the breath-halting sense of anticipation leading ever closer to a place where she belonged even more. She counted the hours until the end of the evening.

Clay cast careful glances her way. Christmas did things to a person, he thought, smiling appreciatively at the sight of Melissa reaching for knobs on the dash while Catherine pulled the tiny hands away time and again, and gently scolded. He glanced at Catherine's profile once more, his nostrils almost flaring in the light, powdery fragrance emanating from her, and he wondered how he'd make it till the end of the night when he could get her alone again.

The driveway curved to meet them, and Catherine couldn't control the small gasp. “I've missed it,” she said, almost to herself. An expression of pleasure tipped up the corners of her mouth beguilingly.

They swept up in front of the door and Clay was around the car, reaching for Melissa, taking her up and into the crook of his arm, then taking Catherine's elbow as she stepped from the car. They stood for a moment in the mellow glow, splashing their faces from the carriage lanterns. The streamers of a red ribbon made a light tapping sound as they flicked against the bricks in a light, crisp wind. That wind lifted Clay's hair from his forehead, then set it gently back down as Catherine gazed at him. It toyed with the gold hoops at her ears, sending them swinging against her jawline where he wanted to bury his lips. But that would have to wait.

“Let's ring the bell,” he said puckishly.

“Let's,” she seconded.

When Angela opened the door she was already saying, “I wondered when—” But the words faded and she placed delicate fingers over her lips.

“Do you have room for three more?” Clay asked.

Angela didn't move for the longest time. Her eyes grew too sparkly, going from the smiling face of Catherine, in the shelter of Clay's arm, to that of Melissa, in his other arm.

“Angela,” Catherine said softly. And suddenly the older woman in the pale yellow dress moved to encompass all three as best she could, unable to quite contend with everything at once, with the tears threatening to spill over her lids, with getting them all inside, beckoning Claiborne, taking Melissa—blue snowsuit and all—getting kissed by Clay and by Catherine.

When Claiborne saw who it was, he was as excited as Angela. There were more hugs, interrupted by a surprised Inella who stopped short and broke into a pleased smile at the sight of the newest arrivals and was immediately drawn to Melissa who was sitting on her grandmother's lap on the steps, having her snowsuit removed.

The tap of Elizabeth Forrester's cane announced her arrival from the living room. She cast a haughty eye over the assemblage in the foyer, stated to nobody in particular, “High time somebody came to their senses around here,” and tapped her way back to the dining room, where she ladled herself a cup of eggnog, added a tot of rum, then mumbled, “Oh, why the bloody heck not,” and tipped up the brandy bottle again with a satisfied smile.

The mistletoe was there again, everywhere. Catherine tried neither to avoid it nor seek it, but to ignore it, which was virtually impossible, for each time she looked up she found Clay's eyes seeking her across the room. Those eyes need not stray up to remind her of mistletoe. All evening she felt as if she wore a sprig of it in her hair, so suggestive were the glances they exchanged. It was odd, Clay staying away from her, always eyeing her across the room that way. Time and again she turned from conversation on which she had difficulty concentrating to the tug of his eyes on her back. And always, she would be the first to look away. The food was laid out upon the buffet and they found themselves elbow to elbow moving down the serving line.

“Are you having a good time?” he asked.

“Wonderful. Are you?”

He thought about answering truthfully, No, I'm miserable, but lied instead. “Wonderful, yes.”

“Aren't you going to eat anything?”

He glanced at his plate, realized he was halfway past the food and his plate was still empty. She stabbed a Swedish meatball out of the wine sauce and dropped it on his plate.

“A little sustenance,” she said, matter-of-factly, never raising her eyes as she moved on to the next chafing dish. He looked at the forlorn piece of meat all alone on the plate and smiled. She knew as well as he did what kind of sustenance he needed tonight.