Unbidden the thought came that the man who waited on the other side of the door had created these changes in her body.
She shook off the thought, brushed her teeth, ran warm water and soaped a cloth. But just as she was about to scrub off her makeup, it struck her that her face had many shortcomings which would be emphasized without the makeup, so she left it on.
She threw up her arms and a yellow nightgown drifted down like a parachute in the wind, followed by a matching peignoir. Her hands slowed, tying the cover-up at her throat. It was so obviously new. Would he mistake her reason for wearing such frillery? Should she march out there and announce that Ada had bought it at the company store at an employee's discount and had given it to her for a shower gift?
Through the peignoir her new girth was disguised, and she soothed the front, thoughts skittering from one to another. She was putting off opening the door and she knew it. She closed her eyes and swallowed . . . and swallowed again . . . and felt a hidden tremor deep within her stomach.
Suddenly the memory of Jill Magnusson was there in full color behind her eyelids and Catherine knew beyond a doubt that had it been Jill here getting ready to join Clay, there would be no schoolgirl shyness.
She supposed Clay was wishing right now she were Jill Magnusson. A hint of self-pity threatened, but she barred it. She remembered that last, long look of regret on Jill's face as she looked back across the room at Clay before walking out the door.
At last Catherine admitted, I carry his child. But it should be her, not me.
The door was soundless. Clay stood with his back to her, gazing down into her open suitcase, his tie forgotten in one hand, toothbrush in the other.
“Your turn,” she said quietly, expecting him to jump guiltily. Instead he looked over his shoulder and smiled. His eyes made one quick trip down and up the yellow peignoir.
“Feel better?”
He had pulled his shirttails out of his trousers. Her eyes went down to them like metal shavings to a magnet, to the network of wrinkles pressed into the fabric by his skin. Then farther down, to his stocking feet.
“Much.”
They exchanged places and Clay moved into the bathroom, leaving the door open while he only brushed his teeth. In the suitcase, Catherine found a corner of her diary showing beneath the neatly folded clothing there. She tucked it away and closed the suitcase with a snap.
“Are you tired?” he asked, coming back from the bathroom.
“Not a bit.”
“Do you mind if I break into that champagne then?”
“No, go ahead. It might help after all.”
When his back was turned, she tugged at the top of her neckline; it was far from seductive, but not quite demure. His shoulders flexed and twisted as he worked away at the cork, and the wrinkles on the rear tails of his shirt did incredible things to her stomach, hanging free that way, shifting against his buttocks with each movement. The cork exploded and he swung the bottle over the loving cup.
“Here,” he said, coming back with bottle in one hand, glasses in the other. She held the glasses while he poured. But his shirt was unbuttoned all the way now, exposing a thin band of skin a slightly deeper shade than the fabric itself. She dragged her eyes back to the champagne glasses, to the tan, long-fingered hand that reached out to reclaim one.
“To your happiness,” he said simply, in his Clay-like, polite, usual way, while she wondered just what would make her happy right now.
“And to yours.”
They drank, standing there in the middle of the room. There was a lump in her throat, she realized, as she swallowed the golden liquid. She looked down into her glass.
“Clay, I don't want either of us to pretend this is something it isn't.” Rattled now, she put a palm to her forehead and swung away. “Oh, God.”
“Come on, Catherine, let's sit down.”
He led the way, set the bottle on the table beside the roses and strung himself out on a chair, lying low against its back, legs outstretched, ankles crossed, while she curled up opposite. He had a glimpse of her bare feet before she tucked them up beneath her in the corner of her chair. Together they raised their glasses, eyeing each other as they drank.
“I suppose maybe we're setting out to get drunk,” she mused.
“Maybe we are.”
“That doesn't make much sense, does it?”
“Not a lick.”
“It won't change a thing.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Then why are we doing it?”
“Because it'll make crawling into bed easier.”
“Let's talk about something else.”
“Whatever you say.”
She fiddled with her glass, then sat back, drawing circles with it upon her turned knee. Finally she asked, “You know what was the hardest?” Across the table, he was looking very relaxed.
“Hmm-mmm.” His eyes were closed.
“Your father's official welcome at the dinner table. I was very touched by it.”
Clay's eyes drifted open, studied her a moment before he observed, “You know, I think my father likes you.”
With a fingertip she toyed with the bubbles on the surface of her drink. “He still scares me in so many ways.”
“I suppose to a stranger he seems formidable. Both he and Grandmother Forrester have an air about them that seems rather officious and puts people on their guard at first. But when you get to know them, you realize they're not that way at all.”
“I don't intend to get to know them.”
“Why?”
She raised expressionless eyes to his, then dropped them as she answered, “In the long run that'd be best.”
“Why?”
His head lolled sideways, yet she suspected his catlike pose was not all real. She considered evading the issue, then decided against it. She leaned to take one rose from the bouquet and held it before her upper lip.
“Because I might learn to like them after all.”
He seemed to be mulling that over, but he only tipped his glass again, then shut his eyes.
“Do you know what your Grandmother Forrester said to me tonight?”
“What?”
“She said, 'You are a beautiful bride. I shall expect beautiful children from you,' as if it was an official edict and she'd brook no ugly grandchildren spawned with her name.”
Clay laughed appreciatively, his eyes again scrutinizing Catherine from behind half-closed lids. “Grandmother's usually right—and you were, you know.”
“Was?” she asked, puzzled.
“A beautiful bride.”
Immediately Catherine hid behind the rose again, became engrossed in studying the depths between its petals.
“I didn't know if I should say it or not, but—dammit, why not?—you were a knockout tonight.”
“I wasn't fishing for a compliment.”
“You make a habit of that, you know?”
“Of what?”
“Of withdrawing from any show of approval I make toward you. I knew before I said that that you'd turn defensive and reject it.”
“I didn't reject it, did I?”
“You didn't accept it either. All I said was that you were a beautiful bride. Does that threaten you?”
“I—I don't know what you mean.”
“Forget it then.”
“No, you brought it up, let's finish it. Why should I feel threatened?”
“You're the one who's supposed to answer that question.”
“But I'm not threatened in the least.” She swished her rose through the air offhandedly. “You were a terrific-looking groom. There, see? Does that sound like I feel threatened by you?”
But her very tone was defensive. It reminded him of a child who, taking up a dare, says, “See? I'm not either afraid to walk up and ring Crazy Gertie's doorbell,” then rings it and runs to beat hell.
“Hey, what do you think,” he said in a bantering tone, “are we supposed to thank each other or what?”
> That at last drew a smile from her. She relaxed a little as if maybe the wine were now making her sleepy.
“Do you know what your mother said to me?” Clay asked.
“What?”
He mused silently, as if deciding whether or not to tell her. Abruptly he leaned forward and occupied himself with refilling his glass. “She said, 'Catherine used to play wedding when she and Bobbi were little girls. That's all those two would play, always arguing about who'd be the bride.'“ Then he lounged back again, propped an elbow on the arm of the chair, rested his temple against two fingers and asked lazily, “Did you?”
“What does it matter?”
“I was only wondering, that's all.”
“Well, don't wonder. It doesn't matter.”
“Doesn't it?”
But abruptly she changed the subject. “One of your uncles mentioned that you usually go hunting at this time of year but that you haven't had much chance this year because of the wedding interruptions.”
“It must've been Uncle Arnold.”
“Don't change the subject.”
“Did I change the subject?”
“You can go, you know, anytime you want.”
“Thank you, I will.”
“I mean, we're not bound to each other, and nothing has to change. We can still go our separate ways, keep our friends, just like before.”
“Great. Agreed, Stu and I will hunt all we want.”
“I wasn't really thinking about Stu.”
“Oh?” He quirked an eyebrow.
“I was talking about her.”
“Her? Who?”
“Jill.”
Clay's eyes turned to gray iron, then he jumped up, stalked to the dresser and clapped his glass down hard. “What has Jill got to do with it?”
“I saw you standing in the foyer together. I saw the two of you kissing. I include her when I say you're not bound to me in any way.”
He swung around, scowling. “Listen, our families have been friends for years. We've been—” He stopped himself before he could say lovers. “I've known her since we were kids. And furthermore, her father was right there in front of us, and so was Grandmother Forrester, for God's sake.”
“Clay”—Catherine's voice was like eiderdown—“I said it's all right.”
He glared at her silently, then swung toward his suitcase, shrugging his shirt off as he went, flinging it carelessly across the foot of the bed before disappearing behind the bathroom door.
When Clay returned, Catherine was sitting on the far edge of the bed with her back to him. The wilted gardenia lay discarded on the bedside table while she brushed her hair. His eyes traveled across the white satin sheets to the robe lying on the foot of the bed, to the back of her pale yellow nightgown, to the brush moving rhythmically. Without a word, he doubled his pillow over and lay down with both hands behind his head. The brush stilled. He heard her thumbnail flicking across its bristles, followed by a clack as she laid the thing down. She reached for the lamp and the room went black. The mattress shifted; the covers over his chest were pulled slightly in her direction. He had no doubt that if he reached out, he'd find her back curled against him.
Their breathing seemed amplified. Sightlessness created such intimacy. Clay lay so rigid that his shoulders began to hurt. Catherine huddled like a snail, involute, acutely aware of him behind her. She thought she could hear her eyelids scraping on her dry eyeballs with each blink. She shivered and pinioned the satin sheet tightly between her jaw and shoulder.
A rustle, barely audible, and she sensed his eyes boring into her back—invisible though it was.
“Catherine,” came his voice, “you really have a low opinion of me, don't you?”
“Don't sound so wounded. There's no reason to be. Just to keep the record straight—it should have been her who was the bride today. Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I couldn't tell how she belongs? I felt like a square peg in a round hole. And seeing you and her together brought me back to reality. I was becoming rather swept off my feet by all the lavish trappings around me. I'll answer your question now. Yes, I did used to play wedding with Bobbi when we were kids. I'm an old pro at weddings, so this time I found myself really getting into the act. But I'm not pretending anymore. I see things for what they really are, okay?”
Goddammit, thought Clay, I should thank her for giving me permission, but instead it makes me angry. Goddammit, I shouldn't feel like I have to be faithful to a wife, but I do.
Catherine felt the bed bounce as he tossed onto his side and punched his pillow.
Somewhere outside a jet went over, its faraway whine and whistle ebbing off into oblivion. The bed was very large; neither of them had much sensation of sharing it physically, except for the sound of their breathing, far away from each other and in opposite directions. But the animosity between them was a much more palpable presence. It seemed like hours had gone by and Catherine thought Clay had gone to sleep. But then he flung himself onto his back again so abruptly she was sure he'd been wide awake all this time. She was stiff and cramped from staying in her tight curl for so long, but she refused to budge. Her shoulder got a cramp and she had to relax it. The sheet slipped off, and at last giving up, she eased onto her back.
“Are we going to get in each other's hair this way every time bedtime arrives?” he asked coldly.
“I didn't mean to get into your hair.”
“Like hell you didn't. Let's at least be honest about it. You meant to bring a third party into bed with us and you succeeded very well. But just remember, if she's here it's at your request, not mine.”
“Then why do you sound so angry?”
“Because it's playing havoc with my sleep. If I have to go through this for the next year, I'll be a burned-out wreck.”
“So what do you think I'll be?”
Against his will, as he lay brooding, Clay had been resurrecting pictures of Catherine at the ceremony. The way she looked when she'd come around the living room doorway, when they spoke their vows, when she'd discovered all the girls from Horizons there, when he'd kissed her. He remembered the feel of her slightly rounded stomach against his. This was the damnedest thing he'd ever been through, going to bed with a woman and not touching her. All the more absurd because for the first time it'd be legal, and here he lay on his own side of the bed. Dammit, he thought, I should've watched the champagne. Champagne made him horny.
He finally concluded that they were being quite childish about all this. They were husband and wife, they'd been through some decidedly sexual teasing during the course of the evening and were now trying to deny what it was that was keeping them both awake.
What the hell, he thought, things couldn't be worse. “Catherine, do you want to try it again, with no strings attached? Maybe then we can get some sleep.”
The muscles in her lower abdomen cinched up tight and set to quivering. She shrank to her side of the bed, turning her back on him again.
“The wine has gone to your head” was all she said.
“Well, what the hell, you can't blame a guy for trying.”
She felt like her chest bones might burst and fly into a thousand pieces. Angry with herself for wishing the night to be more than it was, angry with him for his suggestion, she wondered what exquisite torture it would be to turn to him and take him up on his invitation.
But she remained as she was, curled into herself. In the long hours before sleep she wondered over and over again if he had any pajamas on.
Chapter 20
Catherine was awakened by the sound of draperies opening. She sat up as if a hundred-and-twenty-piece band had struck up a Sousa march beside her bed. Clay stood in the flood of sunlight, laughing.
“Do you always wake up like that?”
She squinted and blinked, then flopped backward like an old rag doll, covering her eyes with a forearm.
“Oh God, so you did have pajamas on.”
He laughed again, free and easy, and turned toward the
view of the awakening city washed in pink and gold below them.
“Does that mean 'good morning'?”
“That means I wasted a perfectly good night worrying about a dumb thing like whether or not you were wearing pajamas.”
“Next time just ask.”
Suddenly she was pulling herself off the bed, and running for the bathroom door which thwacked shut behind her.
“Don't listen!” she ordered.
Clay leaned an elbow against the window frame, chuckling to himself, thinking of the unexpected charms of married life.
She came out looking sheepish and went immediately for her cover-up.
“I'm sorry if I was a little abrupt about that, but this little feller in here has made some sudden changes and that's one of them. I'm still not used to it.”
“Does this confidence mean you're not mad at me anymore?”
“Was I mad at you? I don't seem to remember.” She busied herself doing up the front of the garment.
“Yeah,” he said, moving away from the window, “I made some underhanded suggestion and you got huffy.”
“Forget it. Let's be friends. I don't like fighting much, even with you.”
He confronted her now, barechested, giving her hair the once-over so that she started combing it with her fingers.
“Listen,” she explained, “I'm not at my best in the morning.”
“Who is?” he returned, rubbing his jaw. Then he turned toward a suitcase and rummaged inside it, beginning to whistle softly through his teeth. Mornings she was used to her mother scuffling around the house with an air of martyrdom and tiredness as if the day were ending rather than beginning. And the old man, with his belching and scratching, drinking coffee royals and muttering imprecations under his breath.
But this was something new: a man who whistled before breakfast.
He stopped on his way to the bathroom, holding a leather case of toilet articles.