Everlasting Page 8

  But none of them compared with Kit. She knew it couldn’t be true, but he looked like the handsomest human being she’d ever set eyes on, as handsome as a god. His hands, with their long, sturdy, thick fingers, seemed not like mere hands, but perfectly shaped, sexy, sensitive, tender, knowing. His eyes. Had she noticed last night what unusual eyes he had, like topazes, so reddish and striking set against his pale skin and blond hair? When he looked at her, she felt nearly ill with lust. Sitting next to him, she felt the strangest thing: a kind of homesickness for him, a terrible pulling melancholy that wouldn’t be satisfied until she was back in bed with him, naked, with his penis inside her and his breath against her face.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  Catherine grinned. “You’d be very smug if I told you.”

  He took her hand and held it on top of the table. This gesture, so public, made her breath stop. Surely he wouldn’t do this with others watching if he meant to abandon her tonight. And she could not see or think or plan or desire any further than tonight. Tomorrow she would be driven back to the airport with her three silly friends. Then she’d fly back to the States. The most she could hope for was that he would be on the same plane. But that was tomorrow. Like a child, she didn’t want to see past tonight.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked him.

  He was looking at her hand and gently stroking her skin with his thumb. He looked up and met her eyes. “I was wondering if I could convince you to stay in France for a few more days. I don’t have to get back to the States for a while. I think it would be very nice if you and I could spend some time together in Paris.”

  Catherine would always remember that moment, how it spread around her, opening up the world, as if with his words he had cracked her open. Open sesame: from within her heart light came pouring out. Light flooded out in waves, it illuminated the world. She smiled back at Kit, too stunned with joy to speak, feeling golden, glowing, a perfect thing in the universe, joy splitting her open to reveal a heart of dazzling light.

  * * *

  Kimberly Weyland was married that day in the ancient stone Catholic church, which was so small that the guests were crowded against one another and many had to stand. It was a splendid day for a wedding, which was fortunate, since according to custom the bride and bridegroom and wedding party had to walk to the church and back to the house. On the lawn blue-and-white-striped tents had been set up. There were tables of food on the lawn and the terrace as well as throughout the house. The Croces had invited everyone in the village to the wedding feast.

  Some of the party looked dimmed by the night before, with deep circles under their eyes, exhaustion making their faces slack. But Catherine—and, she fancied, Kit—looked better than they ever had in their lives, perfect, splendid, and shining. She wore a pale pink silk dress to the wedding, a dress the color of the maiden blush rose, but she didn’t wear it for very long. After the wedding and the toasts and feasts and laughter, when the dancing began again, she and Kit went up to his room. They spent the rest of the night there, sleeping and waking to make love.

  * * *

  The next morning she hurried to her room to organize her clothing and pack for the trip to Paris. Kit had rented a car, a little white Renault, and he was packing, too. The bride and groom had left the night before for their honeymoon. The party was winding down. Leslie wasn’t in her room when Catherine came in, and she hadn’t returned by the time Catherine was through packing, so Catherine carried her luggage down to the first floor and went to look for her.

  Leslie was in the front living room with a group of friends, drinking coffee and yawning.

  “Leslie, come here for just a moment.”

  Giving Catherine a quizzical look, Leslie excused herself from the group.

  In a low voice Catherine said, “Look, I’m not going back with Anne and Robin and Melonie—I’ve got to find them and tell them. I’m going into Paris to spend a few days with Kit.”

  “Oh, my God, how romantic! He’s yummy, Catherine. Good for you. Well, give me a call before you leave for home, okay? I want to hear every detail!”

  “I will!” Catherine kissed her friend on both cheeks.

  In a flurry she found the girls and told them her news, much to their squealing delight. Then a servant carried Kit’s and her luggage out to the Renault. They climbed into the red leather interior and rolled away from the wedding house, toward Paris.

  * * *

  Catherine and Kit stayed at the Crillon for three days and three nights. Now and then they forced themselves out of the room to walk onto the Place de la Concorde and up and down the Champs Elysées, or to attend a symphony concert at the Petit Palais, or to walk through the Louvre. One night they ate at La Tour d’Argent. But they had both seen Paris before, when they were younger. The only sights they really wanted to see were each other.

  They talked. They talked about important things. Catherine felt even closer to him when he told her about the side of his family he didn’t like—their complacency, their terrible restraint, which was often interpreted as snobbishness. In return, Catherine was able to talk honestly about her family for the first time since she had talked to Leslie about them years ago at school. He didn’t dislike her for her bitter feelings about her family. He told Catherine that in spite of his family’s faults, they were committed to helping him in a political career.

  “I thought all politicians were slightly crooked by definition,” Catherine said once.

  “I think you’re right. But maybe I can change that,” Kit said. “Perhaps I’m being idealistic, but I’d like to try.”

  His ambitions, his aspirations, made her slightly in awe of him. Humming along in the back of her mind was the question of what all this meant for her, about them. Oh, she knew she was getting ahead of herself, but how would she fit in? Could she be a political wife? She didn’t think she was the type to smile and shake hands with a thousand strangers. But she knew she would do anything to be with him, even that. But what if she wasn’t the right person to be the wife of an ambitious politician? What if he thought he should marry someone with real wealth or a more helpful political background? … She spoke none of these thoughts aloud, but they were always there, murmuring their self-centered queries in her ear.

  Mostly, though, they didn’t talk, or walk, or sightsee, or eat. Mostly they made love. It was crazy. They were obsessed. If they were doing anything else, they were thinking about how soon they could stop doing it so they could return to the hotel. Catherine felt that she was taking the sustenance of life from Kit. When she wasn’t attached to him, skin to skin, she felt as if she were dying, she could hardly breathe, she panicked, even though he was sitting right next to her.

  The odd thing was that she knew she hadn’t yet experienced the ultimate pleasure of lovemaking, and she thought Kit probably knew it, too. But that didn’t matter. She still wanted—needed—to make love to him. But by the second day in Paris she could hardly walk, and sometimes when she sat up on the bed her knees trembled. She felt hot and swollen between her legs and felt relief only when taking a bath—or, strangely enough, when making love. It was insane. She had sometimes seen odd couples together, the man well over six feet tall, broad and burly, with a wife who was only five feet tall, bird-boned, her hips the width of her husband’s thigh. How do they ever manage to make love? Catherine had wondered. Now she felt she knew, for although Kit wasn’t huge and she wasn’t tiny, it felt that way when he entered her. It felt primitive and bestial, even brutal. She would lie with her head turned to one side, eyes closed, whimpering, broken, in a glorious pain.

  “Do you want me to stop?” Kit would whisper, soothing her, smoothing her sweaty hair away from her face.

  “No, no, please don’t,” she would say.

  So he went on and on, as if he needed to be there, inside her, fastened on to her, and so he labored, holding himself back, working hard, both frenzied and desperately calm. It was as if they were cursed to make love e
very second of the day, as if they would die if they stopped making love. As Kit worked against her, eyes closed, concentrating, grimacing, breathing heavily, exhausted, trembling, swollen, shuddering, she knew they were doing more than making love. It was as if they were making a vow with their bodies and sealing it with the glue of their sex.

  * * *

  Finally, of course, they had to stop. They had to leave Paris, go home—and not together. The time came when they showered and dressed in respectable clothes. They packed their luggage and checked out of the hotel. They dropped off the little rented car, which they hadn’t used.

  Suddenly, too soon, it was over, and they were at the airport.

  Kit was flying to Boston, Catherine to New York. Her plane left two hours before his, so he came with her to her terminal.

  The hardest thing for Catherine during their Paris stay had been to keep herself from saying to Kit, “I love you.” For she knew she loved him. Even though she had never loved a man before, except for schoolgirl crushes, she knew this absolutely. All her life, she’d had trouble finding out what she knew, what she wanted to do with her life, who she was, but when she met Kit she was certain at once. She was supremely confident. She wanted him, and the more she had him, the more she wanted him. For once in her life she had found the perfect thing.

  She wanted him to know that. She hoped she’d told him with her body, but she wanted to tell him in words. So before leaving the hotel, while Kit was in the shower, she took a sheet of hotel stationery and wrote:

  Dear Kit,

  These days with you have been the most wonderful days of my life. Even if I never see you again, I want you to know that. I love you. I’m sure I’ll love you the rest of my life.

  Catherine

  There was much more she wanted to say, but when she rehearsed it in her mind, the words seemed overblown and sentimental. This was simple and honest. She folded the note into an envelope, and just before she got on her plane back home, she handed it to Kit.

  “Wait till I’ve gone to read it,” she said.

  “I’ll call you when I get home,” Kit replied.

  They embraced tightly. She did not think she could pull away. But when her plane was called, she wrenched herself from him and walked through the gateway to the ramp.

  * * *

  It was afternoon when she arrived back in New York. She went right to the apartment, showered, then lay down on the bed to wait for Kit’s call.

  The next thing she knew, it was morning. She woke up, stunned. Had she slept so soundly that she’d missed hearing the phone ring? She was amazed at the power of her disappointment. She wanted to weep.

  But she had to go to work, and once there she was able to relive the trip during coffee breaks, when she told Mrs. V about the wedding, the flowers, the château. Kit knew she worked during the day. He would call when she got home tonight.

  But he didn’t call that night, either, although she sat in an agony of suspense, waiting, eating her dinner right next to the phone so she wouldn’t miss its ring. By midnight she was miserable. What had happened? Should she call him? She didn’t know his number, but she could call directory assistance in Boston.… No, she wouldn’t call. She wouldn’t chase him. He would call tomorrow. She stretched out on her bed, pressing against the pillow, reliving her days and nights with Kit in Paris.

  The next morning at eight o’clock Catherine let herself into the shop with her own key, then locked the door behind her. The shop wouldn’t open for two hours, but this was when Piet and Mr. Vanderveld returned from the flower market on Sixth Avenue. As usual, they had been there since five-thirty, looking over the day’s flowers and choosing the best ones at the best prices. Now Piet was carrying them in from his van to the cooler. Mr. Vanderveld was at a church consulting with a client about decorating the church and the adjoining hall for a wedding and reception. Mrs. Vanderveld was sitting at the counter at the front of the shop, muttering over her account and order books.

  “Good morning, Catherine,” she said. “I think Piet needs help in the back.”

  Catherine tossed her purse under the counter and went behind the curtain. Today the shop looked and smelled like a luscious jungle; they were preparing for several weddings. Buckets of Queen Anne’s lace stood at the back of the shop, waiting to be used as fillers for the less hardy, more precious roses, gladioli, peonies, lilies, carnations, delphiniums, and iris that filled the large cooler at the back. Bags of potting soil leaned against the walls and table legs, waiting to be filled into vases and pots. As usual, utensils were everywhere.

  Catherine put on her smock and tied her thick hair back up off her head. It was already hot inside and out today, and everything was swollen with heat.

  Piet came through the opened double doors at the back of the shop, his arms loaded with a heavy cardboard box of flowers. Catherine hurried back to pull open the wooden cooler door for him. A rush of fresh sweet-scented air mixed with the sour, familiar odor of mildewed wood spilled over her, and she inhaled happily. Her eyes fell on the curve of Piet’s back as he bent to put down the box. Already he had taken off his shirt, and his back gleamed bronze and smooth. She wanted to run her hand over his back in the way one instinctively reaches out to stroke a cat. She wanted to slide her fingers along the glistening sweat that slid over his skin.

  She was grateful to her body for that, that small rush of lust. It told her she was not totally obsessed with Kit.

  “You need to start cutting the roses,” Piet said, straightening up. “And those damned frogs have to be unpacked.”

  A new fashion was sweeping the flower industry, a sort of minimalist movement that involved the exact placement of one or two or three flowers in an unusual container. Now the shop had to buy almost as many figurines and containers as flowers. One design that Mr. Vanderveld had come up with to satisfy his customers’ desire for something modern was a piece of bark with a thimble-size container for water and one rose or lily, even a glad or iris with its stem cut off, surrounded by pebbles, stones, moss, shells, and a china frog or bird glued to the surface. Mr. Vanderveld hated these things, but his customers considered them works of art and bought them as fast as he could make them.

  Quickly Catherine unpacked the horrid little mushrooms, water creatures, and leprechauns. She tossed the box out the back door into the dumpster. Already the alley reeked. She took up a bundle of long-stemmed roses, laid them on the table, and turned to get the knife to cut and split the stems. Just then Piet tried to pass her, his arms lifted high to protect a sheaf of lilies. They were caught facing each other in the narrow aisle, their hips nearly touching, and although they’d shared this kind of intimate instant many times over the past three years, this time Piet did not ignore it. He stood still, and he looked at Catherine.

  With his arms lifted high, she was aware of the thick tufts of dark hair under his arms and the way the veins and tendons ran around the muscles of his arms like vines around a tree trunk. She felt that he was daring her.

  “I need a knife,” she said. She was surprised at how low her voice was. “No matter how much I clean and arrange this place, Mr. Vanderveld always manages to mess it up and lose everything.”

  Still Piet looked at her, arms high, not moving, but now with a smile beginning on his wide mouth. She could feel the heat of his body.

  “Piet,” she said, caught in his heat, and stopped, confused.

  “Catherine,” a man said, but it was not Piet who spoke. Catherine looked toward the front to see Kit Bemish standing just inside the curtain.

  “Kit!” For a moment Catherine was paralyzed with joy. He was wearing chinos, a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a striped tie, loosened at the collar in concession to the heat. How handsome—how magnificent—he was.

  “Mrs. Vanderveld said I could come on back. I apologize for interrupting your work, but—”

  “No! Oh, don’t worry, it’s fine, it’s all right!” Now the wave of shock had passed, and Catherine could
move. She rushed toward Kit, smiling, and threw her arms around him. “I’m so glad to see you! I can’t believe it! Why didn’t you call?”

  He didn’t put his arms around her. His reserve surprised her, and then she realized he would never embrace a woman passionately in front of another man. She dropped her arms, drew away. She heard Piet slam the back door.

  She said quickly, “Let’s go over to Nini’s for coffee. There’s really no room to talk here.”

  At the door she paused long enough to introduce Kit to Mrs. Vanderveld and promised she’d be back in fifteen minutes.

  “Too bad I don’t have a little more time,” Catherine said, smiling smugly as they settled into a booth. “My apartment’s so close. If we had even half an hour—”

  “Two coffees, please. Is that what you’d like, Catherine?”

  Catherine looked at the waitress impatiently. “Yes, fine. Kit. Now! Why didn’t you call? How long can you stay?”

  Kit had seated himself across from her. Now he reached out and took her hands in his.

  “Catherine.” He looked down and cleared his throat. His face was flushed, and Catherine’s heart cartwheeled inside her.

  “Catherine. I came here because I have to tell you something I couldn’t tell you on the phone. Catherine—what happened in Paris … I didn’t mean for it to happen. It shouldn’t have happened. I’m almost engaged to someone else. Haley Hilton. I’ve had, this, um, understanding with her for two or three years now, that we’ll get engaged and married when I’ve finished law school.”

  Catherine pulled her hands away.

  The waitress put two white porcelain mugs on the table between them. Kit waited until she had scribbled the bill, dropped it next to his spoon, and left before speaking again. Then he kept his voice low.

  “I’ve been going crazy the past few days, Catherine. What I had with you in France, what I felt for you … Catherine, I think I was falling in love with you.”

  “Then fall in love with me! Forget Haley Hilton,” Catherine said, puzzled.