was right and they could work out their differences later.
Leaving the office, she decided to go upstairs to the apartment and rest over the lunch hour; she was feeling a curious light-headed sensation, brought on no doubt by her emotional turmoil. But when she reached the apartment, Carrie and Lucy were watching TV at blast-off volume, each word blaringly clear as she lay in her bed next to her daughter's room. Unable to relax, she rose from the bed. Straightening the pleated skirt of her white linen suit which wrinkled if you even looked at it and slowly walking to her daughter's room, she opened the door and said, “Why don't you play outside? It's such a nice day.”
No one responded, since they couldn't hear her with the TV broadcasting for the entertainment of the entire city block. Molly moved closer. “Don't you think it would be a nice day to play outside?”
Carrie looked up, said, “Okay, Mom,” and with a smiling wave went back to her Batman and Robin program.
Molly turned the volume down herself and said, “You girls should go outside on a beautiful summer day like this.”
“Sure, Mom. Turn the sound up a little, will you? I can't hear.”
“I'm trying to rest.”
“Sorry, Mom, we'll move closer. Lucy did you see that Batmobile burn out of the cave? I want one of those, Mom.” Both girls' eyes were glued to the TV screen.
“I'll get you one this afternoon,” Molly replied, mildly sardonic, “right after I fuel up the Rolls.”
“Great, they have them at Children's Palace, on sale this week. Six ninety-five.”
She was absolutely adorable, Molly thought with unconditional motherly pride, gazing at her daughter sprawled out on the bed, her chin resting on her crossed arms, her pale hair pulled in a spiky ponytail. Just like her father. And in so many ways she was oblivious like him to the angst of daily living. She should try and develop a similar competence at avoiding anxiety.
“I'm going to try and sleep for a while.”
“We'll be quiet, Mom,” her daughter said to Batman and Robin.
But she couldn't sleep and only managed to wrinkle her suit past wearing. As she was changing, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and noticed her unusual pallor. She rationalized it away as the result of all the tumultuous activity of the past weeks and her erratic eating schedule. She'd eat a good lunch for a change, and restore some color to her cheeks; she'd make something nutritious and nourishing. But when she opened the refrigerator door, a peculiar smell assailed her nostrils, triggering an instant wave of nausea. She hastily pushed the door shut. She'd have soup instead, she decided, driven to a seated position at the kitchen table by the passing queasy sensation. Her mother had always made her chicken noodle soup when she wasn't feeling well. Wouldn't it be just her luck, she reflected, working up her energy to prepare her lunch, to have picked up some damn exotic virus in Jamaica? But when the bowl of soup wafted its warm aroma through the kitchen, she wondered whether Campbell's had changed their recipe; the odor was distinctly different. After two spoonfuls she felt worse instead of better. She called the office then, said she'd be an hour late, and went back to lie down.
Who wouldn't feel less than in peak condition after the unsettling events of the last weeks? She'd dealt with kidnapping, murder, and terror. She couldn't expect to experience a shocking journey into a hellish world without suffering some physical reaction to the horror of it all. Now that her life was restored to her normal activities, in a matter of time, this nausea and dizziness would disappear. A few more days, and she'd be perfectly fine.
At least the paparazzi had departed from her doorstep, intent, no doubt, on their next morsel of gossip, and her sidewalk was restored to its familiar quiet. She was relieved of that additional tension. And there was comfort in knowing overnight wonders in the scandal sheets were simply that-a sudden flash of interest-eyed, speculated, probed, and then as rapidly forgotten. Would it be possible, she wondered, her reflections more placid now as she began dozing, to become inured to their dogged curiosity as Carey was? Would she no longer notice them after a time? Would she become as sensational as the sensational Carey Fersten? Or as worldly? Could she marry a man she loved beyond reason but didn't really know? And on that unanswered question, she fell asleep.
The next morning an extravagant basket of exotic lilies was delivered. The scrawled note was brief: “Day one and counting. Six to go. I love you.” Carey's sentiments were like him: direct, without apology, and imbued with a provocative vitality.
She set the flowers on the foyer console. She found herself more vulnerable than she expected to Carey's thoughtfulness. But she remained painfully aware of his engaging charm. He was familiar with the game of love, an expert at the chase. He had, after all, set records for acquisition.
If she married him, would she begin hearing whispers of his affairs once the passionate glow of their love softened? Or more aptly, with his track record, how long would it be before she heard the whispers. And would she ever be able to come to terms with Sylvie's possessiveness? Knowing Carey's affection for Egon, surely Sylvie would enter their lives on occasion. She had to weigh his charm against her vulnerability, his past against her hopes for the future. She had to find some reasonable answers to the confusion that preyed on her heart.
In the meantime, she received a daily floral offering and love note. But as the third day passed, and then the fourth, she found herself no nearer a resolution; the same combination of anxieties relooped through her brain without even a basic sorting process to eliminate her minor concerns.
Her dilemma was like the bad ending in a movie she'd recently seen in which the protagonists walked away from each other because neither had sense enough to go for the brass ring. She hated the movie after she saw the ending; she hated the characters for their small, bleak view of happiness. But this wasn't a movie, it was her one and only life, and she was afraid the pain would come too soon to compensate for her brief moment of happiness.
She was well and truly bewildered.
And then, he didn't call; even though she hadn't wanted him to call, he actually
As if life wasn't miserable enough, the phone rang on the morning of the fifth day and Jason Evans's lubricated voice greeted her hello. What now? she thought. Does he want a pound of my flesh before the renewal is up?
He was sending over the papers on her repaid note, he said.
“Repaid?” Molly had to stifle the squeal coming up from her lungs.
“Yeah, last month by Phoenix Ltd. I thought you knew.”
She'd die before giving Jason the satisfaction of knowing she was completely ignorant of the repayment. She dissembled shamelessly. “In the excitement of my vacation in Jamaica-I just returned a few days ago-the note completely slipped my mind. You know how it goes, Jason, it's fun, fun, fun.” She tried one of those trilling laughs, but winced at the brittleness. Jason didn't seem to notice; brittleness, no doubt, was a way of life for him.
“How's your love life?” he said with his usual subtlety.
“Probably better than yours, Jason, although possibly not as quiet. You don't like them to talk, do you? Until they say, ‘Drive me home, Ken.'”
“Cute.”
“When I want to discuss my love life with you, Jason, I'll give you a call.” And she hung up on him with a satisfaction so profound, she felt giddy.
How had Carey accomplished the payment? she wondered. The answers to her naive questions were obvious. Carey Fersten had a reputation for doing pretty much what he pleased, she reflected, an uneasy resentment simmering beneath her gratitude. However benevolent his action, his presumptuous meddling in her financial affairs reinforced all her nagging insecurities. She refused to concede her hard-won independence to a man who ordered the world to his perfection.
She didn't want, didn't need, wouldn't tolerate an authoritarian husband.
She had lived through too many unhappy years with Bart, who viewed a woman's role as somewhere between
