Everlasting Page 21
“Why are you so twitchy?” Leslie asked, suddenly focusing on Catherine.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s just jet lag,” Catherine lied.
“Well, perhaps you ought to go home and get some more sleep.”
And it would be fine with you if I left now, wouldn’t it! a wicked voice in Catherine’s head taunted. Aloud, she said slowly, “You’re probably right, Leslie. I should just go home—”
“Unfortunately, I have to go, too,” Piet said.
“You do? Why?” Catherine asked, shocked.
Piet smiled directly at her. “You don’t know why?”
“Well, no—”
Catherine stared at Piet. She knew her cheeks were flaming. She could see Leslie looking at her with a mixture of envy and curiosity on her face. Catherine couldn’t speak. She looked at Piet, and their gaze was a kind of touching, a stream of heat flaring between the two of them.
“Catherine.” Leslie’s voice was sharp. “What’s gotten into you?”
Catherine tore her gaze away from Piet’s eyes.
“Why do you have to go now?” Leslie asked Piet, her voice sweet. “It’s so early.”
“I apologize, Leslie, I should have warned you. I thought Catherine would understand—but perhaps she thinks I never sleep. I buy the flowers for the shop at the flower district every morning. I have to be there between five and six—and if I don’t turn in around ten o’clock, I’m useless.”
“God, how dreadful for you!” Leslie said. “I usually don’t go to bed until four in the morning, and I sleep till noon.”
Leslie and Piet chattered easily as they paid the check. Catherine was still quiet. If Piet hadn’t known how she felt about him before, he’d know now. She wandered out of the restaurant after her friends like an amnesiac.
She didn’t bother to listen to Piet and Leslie as they talked on the drive back across to the East Side. She leaned her head against the back of the seat.
“Oh! Well! Here we are! I didn’t realize—”
Leslie’s shrill cheerfulness startled Catherine.
“Would you like to come up for a drink? Both of you? Either of you? Oh, no, I forgot, early days tomorrow. Well, it’s been lovely, and Piet, I hope I see you again. Catherine, I’ll come to the shop in the afternoon. Kiss kiss.” Leslie pecked the air on both sides of Catherine’s face.
Catherine watched Piet walk Leslie to the door and kiss her on both cheeks. Then he was back in the van with her. Alone.
“I’ll take the van home with me,” Piet said. “That way I can drive it back to the shop in the morning, take out the pedestals, then go for the new flowers.”
“Fine. That’s fine, Piet,” she said tonelessly. She didn’t look at him.
Minutes later he was pulling the hand brake. Catherine blinked, disoriented.
“Piet. You’ve parked in the alley behind Blooms—I thought you were going to drive the van to your place.”
“I am. In a while.”
She turned to look at him. From a lamppost at the end of the alley a light burned, casting their faces in a silvery glow. As if they were on the moon, or in a dream. “There’s something I want to show you.”
“What?” Piet’s voice was so casual, she forgot her embarrassment. “Let me show you.”
Piet slid out of the driver’s seat, came around to help Catherine down from the high step of the van, then slid open the side door. The small overhead light beamed on but was diffused by the crush of petals against the ceiling of the van. Eight sturdy but graceful white iron stands, used to raise flower arrangements to eye level, supported white baskets holding hundreds of creamy pink roses, some still fully in bloom, their petals spread open, arched backward as if in surrender; the floor of the van lay inches deep in rose petals. The sweetness of the roses swept out at Catherine like a drug.
“Ah,” she said, breathing deeply.
“Come inside,” Piet said. In one swift movement he was up inside the van, and before she could speak, he had put his hands on her waist and lifted her up. He pulled the sliding door shut. She heard the click of the lock. The overhead light went out.
Catherine leaned back against the front seat of the van, her arm touching Piet’s as he leaned beside her. The rose petals slipped like pieces of silk against the bare skin of Catherine’s legs. As her eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness, the tiny room that the back of the van made came clear to her, and it looked like a cave of roses. Roses above her, branching, curving, spreading, roses beneath her, soft, slithery rose petals dropping in silence, slowly, a feathery brush of flower against her face, her arm, her ankle.
“This is delicious,” she said at last.
“Yes.”
It was a warm summer night, but the heat Catherine felt was the flare of heat from Piet’s body next to hers. He was like a dark sun, making the flowers bloom in the darkness of night.
He moved slightly, covered her hand with his. After a moment he moved his hand up her arm, slowly, as if tracing a line, his fingertips light against the vein that throbbed in her arm. He moved his hand up her arm, to her shoulder, her neck, and then he lifted her hair and moved to kiss her lightly, on her neck.
“Piet. How did you know?”
“I’ve been watching.”
She turned to him, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him to her with such urgency that they toppled over, sprawling against each other among the roses.
“For a long time,” Piet said again, kissing her, his knee pushing her legs apart, “I’ve been waiting.”
It was quickly so hot inside the van, so moist from their breath and sweat, that their skin grew slippery, and as they moved together they were covered with an aromatic film, as sweet and slick as attar, the oil of roses.
They slept in the van until the first light awakened Piet. He drove Catherine back to her apartment.
“Come to my place tonight,” Catherine said. “I’ll fix something for dinner.”
“It will have to be early,” Piet replied, stifling a yawn.
Catherine laughed and nuzzled him. “Piet, I think I’ve worn you out! Look, take the day off after you buy the flowers. Sleep all day.”
“All right,” Piet said, kissing her softly. “Good night.”
It was odd to be in her apartment, awake and dressed, at five-thirty. Her head felt light and buzzing. She walked from window to window of her apartment, looking out at the New York City streets as if her building were a ship newly landed in a foreign port. Now the streets appeared to be paved with silver, and window boxes blazed with geraniums and petunias like jewels. In her bedroom, she stripped off her clothes and crawled naked between white sheets.
* * *
In the early afternoon, Catherine awoke, clearheaded and light-hearted. She sang as she showered and dressed, hummed as she hurried into her office. She worked steadily until late that afternoon, when Leslie knocked on Catherine’s office door.
“Is this a good time?”
“Yes. Come in,” Catherine said. “We’re really slow today.” She kicked off her heels and curled up on the opposite end of the sofa from Leslie.
“You look like the cat that got the cream,” Leslie said.
“I am the cat that got the cream.”
“Well, it’s about time. So, how was it?”
Catherine grinned. “Absolutely perfect.”
“Lucky you. I can’t believe you waited all these years. I wasn’t even sure you were interested in him until I saw you with him last night.”
Catherine told Leslie about Ned in England and, in a different tone of voice, about Piet the night before. “I’d better make an appointment to see a gynecologist.”
“Do it right away. Believe me, it’s not something you want to wait on.”
Something in Leslie’s voice made Catherine ask, “Leslie. Are you pregnant?”
“Not now I’m not!” she answered, standing up with a surge of energy. “Let’s go for a walk. I hate just sitting. Can you leave for a while?”
They walked out into the afternoon sunshine, heading for Central Park. Perhaps it was the motion that freed Leslie, or the way walking kept them from meeting each other’s eyes, or perhaps it was the bustle of the city around them that put everything in its proper perspective. But finally Leslie was able to tell Catherine why she had come to New York.
“I love Paris. It’s my place. I feel more at home there than I do here. But I had to get away for a while.”
“Why?”
“I had an abortion. Just three weeks ago. Oh, I’m fine—I’ve never felt better, it was done in a doctor’s office and I wasn’t very far along. I didn’t want to marry the father, and I don’t think he would have married me. Well, we’d only just met. It was all a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened. I don’t feel guilty, and I’d have an abortion again, but I do feel just—sorry. Sorry it all happened.”
“I’m sorry, too, Leslie. Sorry you had to go through all that.”
“Well, it comes down to choosing your life, doesn’t it?” Leslie said. They’d entered the park now and slowed their stride as they walked along a sidewalk dappled with sun and lacy shadows from the trees overhead. “I’m serious about painting, Catherine. I always have been. You know that. Part of the reason I came back to New York was to remind myself what I’m escaping. I’ve visited Robin and Terry the past few days, and they’re happy and sweet as always, but Catherine—they’re just like we knew they’d be. Paper-doll husband, home, and children. Textbook life. It gives me the creeps. Just seeing them makes me want to run screaming back to Paris.”
Catherine laughed. “Oh, Leslie, you’re too hard on them.”
“You don’t understand!” Leslie stopped on the pavement and grabbed Catherine by the arm, turning Catherine to face her. “I want to choose my life,” she said hotly.
“I do understand, Leslie. Let go. I’ll tell you about something I did.”
Sitting in the sun on a bench in Central Park, she told Leslie about blackmailing P. J. Willington. Somehow, she was not surprised by Leslie’s whoop of laughter.
“How wonderful! How brave! I’ve always wanted to do something like that.”
“It’s illegal, Leslie. It’s wrong.”
“What does illegal mean? Laws are made by men.”
“Still—”
“We’re mavericks, you and I, Catherine. And that sometimes means making our own rules.”
Listening to Leslie, Catherine felt something inside her relax. It was as if she’d been offered absolution, sufficient for her own needs. As they walked back to the shop, Catherine linked arms with her friend.
“Oh, God, Leslie, I wish you lived in New York! I miss talking with you! It’s so hard to sort things out.”
“I think you’re doing beautifully,” Leslie said as they entered Blooms, where Piet stood, relaxed and idle, waiting for Catherine.
* * *
Catherine lay naked on her bed, facedown, legs spread, hands grasping at the sheets. It was late, after midnight, and hot and dark in her bedroom. She was covered with sweat. Behind and above her, Piet moved. They’d been making love for hours. Several times she had stopped him from doing certain things. “Don’t,” she’d said. “I can’t.” And he had stopped at once. Now he was only touching her back, her waist, her hips, lightly, but she knew what he was doing. Piet had a way of slowly making love that was like gently tracing lines all over her body. Yet when he chose, he could touch that one spot in her that made her plunge, blinded, deafened, crying, into a dark realm of such extreme pleasure that she cried out in terror. Now he flattened his body on top of hers so she could feel the scratch of his hairy chest, the rod of his penis against her skin. She was wet, shuddering against him. He took her too far, too deep, he made her feel too much, yet she knew she would want him over and over again.
In early August Leslie went back to Paris. Piet always took two weeks off in late August to visit his family in Amsterdam, and when he told Catherine he was going this year as usual, she was both disappointed and relieved. Disappointed, because she knew she’d miss him ferociously. Relieved, because his absence meant she could rest, sleep, see Ann on the Vineyard, recover herself.
At first, after they became lovers, she couldn’t help but worry what working together now would be like. He was still her employee. And with all her employees, Jesus and Manuel and Lina, even with Sandra and Jason, Catherine knew that she had to maintain just the slightest distance. She felt like the captain of a ship who at times had to be obeyed or they’d all go down, yet because of her youth and femininity it was hard work. She could laugh and joke with her employees, she could even fall apart occasionally, but she had to recover quickly. Her clothes, her Miss Brill’s voice, above all her competence, earned her her workers’ respect. But she knew that would be weakened if they sensed her lust for Piet.
But a day went by, then two days, then a week, and she realized that Piet hadn’t changed toward her at work at all. In the shop he was completely natural and unassuming with her, cool and deferential as he always had been. She was grateful, yet she also wondered at his composure after the nights they spent together.
During the two weeks Piet was in Amsterdam, Catherine was struck anew at how essential he was to the smooth running of her business. Now she had to rise at four-thirty and get to the flower district to buy the flowers for the day. It took knowledge, skill, and rapport with the wholesalers to do the job well. Some flower wholesalers offered better prices on their flowers if the transaction was paid in cash rather than charged to the house account. Catherine had to compare flowers at various wholesalers, judging by touch and instinct which were tight and fresh, keeping in mind the orders for the day and which arrangements called for closed or open flowers. Back at her shop, she missed Piet in the basement. He managed the workers with a mixture of good humor and fierce authority that Catherine could never hope to imitate. Even in August, Blooms required one man who did nothing but wash containers, unpack nonperishables, and keep the shelves clean and stocked, one man to clean and condition the flowers that came into the shop from the market, and one or two delivery men who could set up Jason’s often intricate, fragile arrangements in hotel lobbies and meeting rooms without destroying them. The delivery men had to know how to get around New York quickly, how to speak politely and intelligently with hotel managers, yet they had to be strong enough to carry all the heavy containers. And these men didn’t always find it easy to take a young female boss seriously.
After giving them their orders for the day, she had to talk with Jason about the day’s arrangements, touch base with Sandra about which clients were expected. By midafternoon she was exhausted, and by evening all she wanted to do was sleep. She couldn’t wait for Piet to return.
Late in August she met his plane and drove him back to her apartment. They made love quickly and greedily, then slept. When they awoke, Piet presented her with an unusual necklace of bronze and beads and little bells, which she kissed him for but secretly didn’t like. Over scrambled eggs, she screwed up her courage and asked, “Piet? Now that we are … involved … is there anything you’d like to change about work?”
He seemed surprised. “No. What would I want to change? I’m happy.”
“But I know you have a lot of money. Why are you working for me when you have so much money? You could start your own store. You could become partners with me.”
“I’m planning, Catherine.”
“Well, don’t be so secretive! Tell me!”
“I will when things are worked out. Right now everything is vague. Don’t worry. I’ll let you know if I foresee any changes in my life.”
Piet was able to keep his private life utterly separate from his working life, and that both frustrated and pleased Catherine. He continued to rise early to buy the flowers and to leave the shop early in the afternoon while she worked into the evening. As the autumn unfolded, they saw each other several times a week. Piet would come to
her apartment, they would eat dinner, make love, fall asleep. They had little time for small talk or evenings out; they were both so busy with work and so eager to spend what time they had making love.
In September New York’s social season began. Catherine’s desk was piled high with engraved invitations on creamy vellum and carbon-smeared invoices on onionskin. She had to meet with prospective clients, usually for tea at their offices or homes, where she could look at the room to be decorated. This year, she found herself full of energy, bright ideas, charm, patience, and tact. In response, her clients recommended her to friends, and she began getting more calls, more business. She loved it. She worked hard.
Ann called Catherine from Boston often that fall to tell her how much she loved college. Shelly had returned from his camping trip to start his junior year, then dropped out after a month. He told his father college was too much of a drag. Shelly’s friend Todd had dropped out, too, and they were heading back to California in Todd’s van. Catherine’s father called her to complain.
“Dad, there’s nothing I can do. Shelly’s on his own now.”
“But, Catherine, we’re afraid he’s smoking pot.”
“All the kids are smoking pot! Come on, Dad—” Catherine drummed her fingers with impatience.
“But San Francisco. Hippies. Who knows what Shelly might do? You know he’s always been hard to handle.”
“Yes, and he’s a grown man now. He’s responsible for himself. There’s nothing we can do.” Catherine softened her voice. “Let him go. You know, I heard from Ann last night. She got an A on her history exam.” Talking about Ann always cheered their father up.
Blooms did a staggering amount of business over Christmas and New Year’s. People who never bought flowers wanted flowers now, and those who always bought flowers wanted something special. People who didn’t know what to buy for presents, or had forgotten a gift, came rushing desperately into the shop and went out smiling, laden with an unusual plant or a sheaf of fresh-cut flowers. Women too busy with shopping and parties and Christmas balls and charity dinners and celebrations had Catherine come in to decorate their homes for Christmas.