What is Love?

What is Love?

Tessa Saks

 A Paper Modern Paperback

Text Copyright
©
2012 Tessa
Saks

All rights reserved. No part
of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN 978-0-9919282-1-7

Printed in the United Sates

“We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we
love,

never so forlornly unhappy

as when we have lost our love object

or its love.”

Sigmund Freud

The glass clouded
with iridescent sediment as the spoon swirled and blended the poison into a
drinkable mixture. Ellen stared at the toxic mixture and wondered how she could
even think about killing herself. She knew it was wrong for so many reasons.
Yet, here, now, she couldn’t come up with any other solution. She had run out
of options.

She pulled the glass
close, lifted it to her lips, and hesitated. Should she have put on a
nightgown? Would that be more appropriate? Strange how no one mentions what
people wear when they commit suicide. Except Marilyn. Everyone knew she was
found completely nude. Well, one thing was certain, Ellen Horvath would not be
found naked. It was bad enough when she had to strip down for doctors, in the
privacy of their offices. But to let her husband see her
 …
and the paramedics or worse, her staff. Not a chance. She
stood to change into her peach silk negligee, the one she bought for their
fortieth anniversary. She caught her reflection in the mirror. It didn’t matter
now. None of it mattered now.

She sank back into
the chair. The only thing that mattered was that this crazy plan worked.
Jonathan’s face flashed before her—the face she’d loved these past forty years.
The face she couldn’t live without. She picked up the glass and stared at the
murky liquid. It had been a difficult journey, convincing him to stay. She had
certainly tried. No one could fault her for trying. But she had failed. And
failure meant she would lose everything.

How could she live
with herself if that happened? How could anyone?

She set the glass
down and thought about what had brought her to this, the fateful day that had
started it all. Valentine’s Day. A ridiculous day filled with love and lies.
They say more divorces are started on Valentine’s Day than any other time of
year.

***

It was Friday,
February fourteenth, 1986, and Jonathan Horvath stood in the middle of the
Hallmark store, pulling out valentine after valentine. None expressed his
feelings for his wife:

To my wife, I
will always love you.

I will love you
forever.

You are my
eternal love.

His stomach soured.
The truth was that he didn’t love her. Not anymore. In all the years of tangled
living, something had been lost. Whatever it was they had once shared, they had
each taken back. Without awareness, they had each reined in their passion. Now,
with all the hearts and frills in front of him, it was real. So many lies, told
for so many years. Heartache. Pain. Deception. That’s all that remained. She
wasn’t the girl he had married. Who she was now—what she was—he couldn’t say.

A familiar voice
called out beside him. “‘To my wife, I love you forever
 …’
guess that one’s not for me …
not yet anyway.”

“Oh,
Samantha—darling.” He quickly stuffed the offending card back into a slot in
the display rack. “This is a surprise. What are you doing here?” He reached
out, gently touching her arm, the softness of her skin teasing his fingertips.

“You still give her
a valentine? That’s so sweet.” Sam’s mouth lit into a fake smile. Her body
pressed against his arm, taunting him.

He cleared his
throat. “Now, darling, I
am
still married.”

“Yeah, I know.” She
crossed her arms in defiance. “And I hate it.”

So do I
, he
thought, fighting his desire to take her in his arms and kiss her.

“Here, let me help
you,” Sam said with a mischievous grin while Jonathan reluctantly shifted back
to reality. She fingered the cards on the rack, peeking inside a few, pulling
out others and reading them, shaking her head in disapproval. He stared as her
buoyant cleavage surfaced with every forward movement.

“Oooh, here. This is
good.” She touched his arm as she read aloud, her voice rising in melody. “To
my darling wife, I love you for the warm sweet affection in your eyes, the
gentle caress in your touch, your kiss, your smile, I yearn to be with you …
I love you for more reasons than this card
can ever say, our love is the eternal kind—”

“Stop!” He ripped
the card from her hand. “I don’t think so,” he said as he shoved the card into
the rack.

“Oh? You don’t feel
love like that?” She refolded her arms across her chest and studied his face.
“Not the everlasting kind?”

“No, damn it—and you
know I don’t.”

“Do I?” She moved
away and studied him.
How can such successful men also be so stupid?
Of
course she knows he’s damn lucky that someone young and beautiful like her is
willing to be with him. As Mom would say: “Prey on their weakness.” Sam had yet
to meet a rich powerful man whose weakness wasn’t between his legs. That part
was easy. And yes, she knew he no longer loves his uptight, boring wife. How could
anyone love her? But what she didn’t know was when in the hell he would finally
pull the plug and dump her. Because then she could start her own plans. And
what plans! All that money! Her body tingled just imagining the things she
would soon buy.

She smiled at him.
He looked like a great big piece of silly putty waiting for her hands. Time to
apply Mom’s second rule: Men with big toys don’t like to share with others in
the sandbox. But even worse is when their toy is taken from them.

“Am I just a plaything
to you?” She planted her hands on her hips. “You know—a little side dish.” Sam
raised her hand to her cheek. “I wonder if you actually expect me to wait
around forever.”

“No, darling.” His
voice became soft and apologetic. “I don’t.” He reached out to take her hand.

She pulled it back
and leaned close, her breasts tight against his chest. “Well, just remember,
there are plenty of other men out there.” Her other hand grabbed his lapel and
her lips grazed his neck. She kissed his cheek, and turned abruptly and marched
out of the store.

He watched her hips
swaying in her tight red dress until she disappeared into the crowd of
lunchtime shoppers swarming the corridors of the Rockefeller Center concourse
in midtown Manhattan. As he imagined her thin naked body stretched out before
him, he couldn’t stop comparing her to Ellen. Sam’s body was unlike Ellen’s in
so many ways. Ellen’s body reflected her age. He knew it wasn’t a fair
comparison, for it wasn’t her fault she had aged so much, but he had to admit
she had let herself go these past years. She used to work out, play tennis and
swim. Not anymore.

But the more
important difference was the lack of excitement in her body. The lack of
sensuality or any form of eroticism in the way she behaved or moved, as if her
body served no other purpose than utility. Ellen wasn’t sexy. Her body wasn’t
repulsive, but was unappealing, in a bland way. The simple fact was, Ellen
looked better clothed than naked—not that he had seen her naked much these past
twenty years. She carefully covered herself in yards of chiffon or lace. No
walking around naked, as Sam liked to do. In fact, Ellen never did that. Even
in her youth, when she was fit, she shielded herself and hid discreetly between
the sheets, as if ashamed by the very idea of being nude.

It wasn’t just their
physical appearance that were so opposite. Sam was playful where Ellen was
serious. She was spontaneous where Ellen was controlled. She found the fun in
everything. Ellen found only flaws. Jonathan grinned, remembering Sam getting
caught in the rain and splashing about with joy. Ellen would be furious that
her hair was getting wet. They couldn’t be more opposite.

And Sam looked past
his age and saw the young man trapped inside his old man’s body. Ellen
constantly reminded him of his age and his responsibilities. She was oblivious
to how much he needed to be free. It was as if Ellen wanted to preserve him,
conserve him like an artifact and keep him old and weak. He was still young,
still energetic and daring, like a tiger in the wild—not in a cage. Why
couldn’t Ellen see this? Sam could. In fact, she encouraged it.

He sighed and
returned to his futile task. Forty years together. Would the next forty be just
the same? A heaviness pressed down on him as he stared at those endless hearts.

End it. End it now.
Yes—he would do that. He had to. He knew leaving would destroy her, but he was
destroying himself by living a lie. He would stop pretending. No more lies. No
more deception. They were finished and he knew it. And so he chose, as
countless men have done before him, the safest card he could find to carry him
through his last Valentine’s Day with her:

To my Wife

Happy Valentine’s
Day

He smiled as he
stood relieved by the knowledge that it was now time and he was ready. Then
with a lighter heart, he chose another card for Sam.

To the love of my
life, the light in my soul, the reason I live, my forever love.

I will love you
beyond eternity.

***

Ellen held her
breath as Maria, her dependable housekeeper for the past fifteen years,
strained to coax the corset smaller. A sudden sharpness pinched her ribs.
“Stop! That’s quite enough.”

The reflection in
the gilt mirror didn’t lie. Ellen frowned at the bulking form that oozed out
the bottom and top of her body shaper—a cinched-in marshmallow with arms and
legs. Well, at least she had a narrower waist.

“I can go tighter.”
Maria braced her stand and reached for the laces.

“No more. I do need
to breathe.” Ellen attempted another deep breath.

Maria backed away.
“And eat. Poor Señora, you spend all day with hair and makeup people, you don’t
eat.”

“I won’t be eating
much tonight, not with this jittery stomach.”

“I get some—”

“No, I’m fine.”
Ellen reached for the sparkling gown hanging on her armoire. “Just nerves.”

Maria raised her
arms and dove up into the mass of metallic organdy and tulle, separating the
layers into an opening. She lifted the giant puff over Ellen’s head, shifting
and shimmying until it fastened.

Am I just nervous
about tonight? About pulling this off? What if I fail? What if everyone sees me
make a mistake?
Ellen caught her image in the mirror. No. She’s Ellen
Horvath. This is her big night. She wouldn’t fail. She’d never failed at
anything. And tonight, after all her careful planning, this gala would show New
York society her talents and prove her abilities to lead. To belong.

“Oh, you look so
beautiful.” Maria crossed her arms over her heart.

Ellen faced her
reflection and smiled at the shimmering aura of gold and crystal—eighteen
thousand dollars for a couture gown was a small price to pay to look this
radiant. For the first time in so many years, she felt beautiful. And
Jonathan … he would see her beauty. He would take her in his arms and kiss
her—a deep lingering kiss. Like they used to, like when they were first married
all those forty years ago. Ellen glanced toward her bed. Her stomach flinched
again.

“Maria, could you
lay out my cream silk nightgown, the special one, with all the ruffles. It will
need steaming. And chill a bottle of Dom … or whatever we have in the
cellar. And glasses … leave two flutes in his bedroom.”

Maria nodded. The
corners of her mouth turned up, creating a dubious smile.

Was it funny?
Was
Maria laughing at the thought of Ellen and Jonathan together for the night?
Was it so absurd? So unlikely?
Ellen looked at herself in the mirror again
and shuddered. Could she really pull this off? This big night … the
gala … society watching her every—What had she gotten herself into? She
closed her eyes and slowly inhaled, pulling her shoulders back and elongating
her spine. She couldn’t fail. Impossible.
Come on. This night, and its
success, is entirely up to you. Get in the game.

Ellen reached into
her vanity drawer and glossed a deeper scarlet onto her lips.
“Maria. I
need heavier perfume.” She handed Maria the glass-cut bottle for an all-over
spritzing. “And set some candles in Jonathan’s room—lots of beautiful candles.
After all, it’s Valentine’s Day.”

***

The New York
Hospital Foundation’s Valentine Gala has always been a top priority for New
York’s social elite. The fact that Ellen was this year’s executive chairman and
had meticulously planned the event over the last twelve months did little to
calm her jumbled nerves—so much depended on its success. With that in mind, she
and her seven committees and fifteen subcommittees had chosen the much loved
Great Hall and Temple of Dendur at the Metropolitan Museum as this year’s
location.

According to the
gala tradition, the longest-married—and therefore oldest—couples would flaunt
their decades of devotion by what they wore. Tradition required all women to
wear red gowns, with the exception of those women in marriages of forty years
or more. They are permitted to wear gold as a symbol of honor. Finally, Ellen
had earned the right to wear a gold gown. She had worn red for the previous
galas and now it was her night to shine and show off her successful marriage.

Ellen and Jonathan
settled into their limousine, ready for the night ahead. Ellen turned to
Jonathan and smiled, waiting for a response. He opened his newspaper, blocking
her gaze. In the awkward stillness, she longed to have him caress her hand, to
say, “I love you.”
Why is it so difficult to be affectionate? Why the wall
of tolerable formality?
She sat back and readjusted the folds of her dress.
But then, what couple is affectionate after forty years? Certainly not any that
she knew.

The limo pulled
away, creeping along the extensive driveway heavily lined with oak trees that
rose together forming a generous canopy, their
allée
as Ellen fondly
referred to them. They approached the street as the filigree, wrought-iron
security gates opened with the familiar clanking and screeching, releasing them
from the confines of their twelve-acre estate.