She lay in the wreckage screaming and helpless. Finding the strength to crawl along the kitchen floor on her belly, she grasped at the knob to the downstairs door, lifted herself, and staggered down the wooden stairs, slipping near the landing, banging her head. The noise from the kitchen followed her. She groped for and found the fuse box, opened the metal door, and pulled the master switch, plunging everything into darkness.
She lay on the cold floor of the basement, wondering if she had died. The house was uncommonly still, the air conditioning silenced. Every part of her seemed to ache and it was the pain finally that convinced her that she was still alive. In the darkness she could not tell if it was tears or blood that rolled down her cheeks. She could not even determine which was more pervasive, her pain or her anger.
Trying to stand, she fell back. Her knees gave, but she followed a beam of daylight from the partially opened door and dragged herself up the stairs. The kitchen was a shambles. Avoiding the wreckage, she staggered to the bathroom to survey the damage to her body. There were some bruises visible on the side of her head. A crisscross of cuts ran over her thighs. The blood had caked and there were welts and bruises on her arms. Her scalded hand smarted.
But the physical pain paled beside her anger. She had no illusions about what had occurred. The bastard had booby-trapped the kitchen. As she cleaned herself and suffered the stings of antiseptic on her cuts, she felt an irresistible urge for revenge. As she had suspected when she had locked him into the sauna, she knew she had the capacity to kill. Without guilt. Without remorse. Hadn't he attempted to mortally injure her by tampering with her kitchen? By making it a weapon?
After her thirst for revenge came determination, a hardening of the will beyond anything she had ever experienced before. 'You will never stop me,' she told her image in the mirror.
She -cleaned up the kitchen as best she could and, using tools from his workshop, pried out the plugs and disconnected all the appliances he had tampered with, including the electric stove. One sink was still operating. She did not call an electrician. There was no time. Besides, surveying the situation, she decided that she could still prepare the dinner without using any of the appliances, although she had to go to the store and buy a hand- operated meat grinder and several slicing and grating gadgets.
'Fuck technology,' she whispered to the mute appliances, checking carefully to be sure that the gas stove and oven had not been tampered with. Miraculously, the gas stove had escaped. She would need that.
As she worked long into the night, she felt a grudging admiration for labor-saving devices that had been created for the benefit of the modern woman. The irony, she knew, was that these devices had been invented by men, making women obvious conspirators in their own destruction. Such thoughts kept her attitude positive and her resolve unweakened. She reveled in her independence, her creativity, her resourcefulness.
She slept in her clothes and with one hand on the handle of a cleaver, knowing that if he gave her the slightest opportunity she would use it on him. The surety of that knowledge brought odd comfort. She heard him come into the house, but he had not paused, bounding up the stairs to his room, in his wake the sound of Benny's nails clicking on the marble foyer. To further fortify herself, over each entrance to the kitchen she had stretched a taut line, on which she hung pots and pans, set to make a loud clatter at the least provocation.
She lay on the cot, eyes open, listening for the slightest sound. Let him come. She was ready. . . .
At dawn she was up again, putting the final touches on the
She had kept her head. She was proud of that and when the three servants showed up - two white-gloved waiters and a maid - she felt the euphoria of victory. Nothing was impossible.
She sat at the head of the table like a presiding magistrate. She had carefully dressed in an old Galanos and had brought in a hairdresser to do her hair. Her guests, echoing her own thoughts, pronounced her beautiful and she felt high-spirited and witty, joking with the Greek ambassador on her right and the Thai ambassador on her left. She had high expectations that the after-dinner toasts would offer exaggerated compliments to her charm, her looks, and, most important, to her culinary ability. Mr. White, the
She sensed how impressed they were with the house, its possessions, the lovely silver and china displayed on the table. The beef Wellington was perfect, and she was certain that some supernatural force had intervened to assist her.
'I cannot tell you all how happy I am,' she told them as the waiters, skilled in the impeccable French service, served each guest a slice of beef Wellington. She could not remember ever being happier. This would be the first of many dinner parties, she decided. She would be more than a great caterer of Washington, she fantasized. She would be a great hostess. After all, she had the grand house, the charm and attractiveness, and would be, or was already, one of the great practitioners of the noble art of cookery. She would surpass Julia Child, become a great world culinary authority. International celebrities would vie with one another to be invited to her table, and her books would be published throughout the world.
'I hadn't realized,' the Greek ambassador said as his fork slipped into the tender beef, 'what an extraordinary woman you are.' He looked at her with an expression of fawning admiration. For the first time in her life she felt a sense of power. This was her conception. Her party. It vindicated her willingness to go through the fires of hell to keep this house, this ambience.
Pleased, she looked around the table at her guests -the men in black tie, the women in expensive gowns - realizing how much this house made a statement in the pantheon of Washington. It was something she had always believed, sensed, but now she saw its real value and understood the true reason for her private war. In Washington, perhaps everywhere else, a person is known by the neighborhood he keeps, the size of his house and the possessions therein. For someone like herself struggling for personal fulfillment, it meant a head start.
The idea warmed her and she felt herself softening. Perhaps some compromise could be worked out with Oliver. Now that she felt more secure, there might be more room to relax her demands. If only he would give her space. His presence crowded her. His living in the house was a constant irritant.
The Greek ambassador continued to address her. She nodded. Her mind was drifting. If only she could make Oliver understand how important this house was to her. There was, she decided, ample room for compromise. Despite what was happening now, Oliver was a practical man, a reasonable man. Compassionate, too. Her decision had cut too deeply. Both of them had overreacted. Besides, hadn't they once loved each other? ...
Benny's bark intruded. Hearing it prompted an instantaneous reflex, a shiver of dread, the sound was
Oliver's clarion and, for a moment, she felt the odd panic.
