Loving (1981) Page 4

  Perhaps her strange feelings were due to all the changes going on in her life. She was no longer a child. She was on her own. And she felt oddly grownup in a way she never had before. Her adulthood was no longer borrowed; it was real.

  The bell rang a few moments later, and suddenly all her grown-up feelings seemed silly. It was only Ivo after all, and what was so different about going to the opera with him? She ran to the door and let him in. He stood smiling on the doorstep, tall and handsome, and long and lean, the white mane dusted with snowflakes, and around his neck a rich, creamy silk scarf, which was in sharp contrast to the black cashmere coat he wore over tails. She stood back for a moment, smiling at him, and then clapped her hands together like a child as he stepped inside.

  "Ivo, you look Lovely!"

  "Thank you, my dear, so do you." He smiled gently down at her as she bent her head gracefully in the monklike velvet hood of her midnight-blue coat.

  "Are you ready?" She nodded in answer, and he crooked his arm. With a tiny smile she slipped her white-gloved hand into it and followed him back to the door. The house was eerily quiet. Gone the servants who would have held the door or taken Ivo's coat. Gone the polite bows, the instant service, the protection ... from reality ... from the world. For an instant Bettina stood very quietly as she hunted in her small navy silk evening bag for the key. And then she smiled up at Ivo as she found it and locked the door.

  "Things have changed, haven't they?" She looked wistful despite the bright smile. He only nodded, feeling her pain.

  But she seemed more herself as they chatted, going down in the elevator, and then in his car. The driver urged the car patiently through the endless holiday traffic, and in the backseat Bettina made Ivo laugh with tales of the people she had met a few months before in school.

  "And you mean you don't miss it?" He looked at her searchingly, his eyes growing sober. "How could you not?"

  "Very easily." This time her eyes were serious too. "In fact not going there anymore is a relief." The look on his face said that he didn't understand her as she looked at him and then turned away. "The truth of it is, Ivo, that my father saw to it that I never saw people my own age. They're strangers to me now. I don't know what they talk about, what to say. They talk of things I don't even understand. I'm an outsider."

  Listening to her, Ivo realized once again the high price she had paid for being Justin Daniels's daughter.

  "But what does that leave you?" He looked troubled, but she laughed a silvery laugh in the darkened limousine. "I'm serious, Bettina, if you don't belong with people your own age, then whom do you belong with?"

  She smiled gently up at him and whispered softly. "You." And then she looked away again and patted his hand. And for a moment an odd sensation ran through his entire body. He wasn't sure if it was excitement or fear. But it wasn't pity or regret. Certainly neither of those, and it should have been, he reproached himself. It should have been either, or both. He should have felt sorry for her, worried, concerned, not excited by her, as suddenly he undeniably was. But that was insanity. And worse than that, it was terribly wrong. He fought back what he was feeling and smiled at her while gently patting the gloved hand. There was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes when he spoke.

  "You should be out playing with children your own age."

  "I'll keep it in mind." And then after another pause, which brought them almost to the door of the Metropolitan Opera, she turned to him with a small smile. "Do you know, Ivo, this will be the first uninterrupted opera I'll have seen in years?"

  "Are you serious?" He seemed surprised.

  She nodded as she smoothed her gloves over her hands. "I used to dash out to the Belmont Room to make sure they had everything ready for Daddy and his party. Then, invariably, there were messages. I had to check the supper reservations and make sure everything was right there. That usually wiped out the second half of the first act. During the second act he'd think of thirty-seven things he'd forgotten to tell me during the first act, which meant more calls, more messages. And then I never got to see the end of the third act because he wanted to leave early to avoid the crowd."

  For a moment Ivo looked at her strangely. "Why did you do it?" Had she loved him that much?

  "I did it because it was my life. Because it wasn't all organizing and arranging and servitude, as you seem to think now. It was special and exciting and glamorous, and--" Then she looked embarrassed. "It made me feel important, as though I mattered, as though without me he couldn't go on--" And then she faltered and looked away as Ivo's voice grew soft.

  "That's probably true, you know, without you he couldn't have gone on. Certainly not as happily and comfortably and smoothly. But no human being deserves to be spoiled like that, Bettina. Certainly not at the expense of someone else."

  The deep green eyes flashed emerald fire now. "It wasn't at my expense." And then in irritation as she reached for the door, she snapped at him. "You don't understand." But he did. He understood much more than he told her. Much more than she wanted him to know. He understood the loneliness and the pain of the life with her father. It hadn't been all glamor and Arabian nights. For her it had been sorrow and solitude as well.

  "May I help you?" He reached out to assist her with the door handle and she turned to him with smoldering eyes, ready to say no, to push his hand away, to insist on doing it herself. It was a symbolic gesture, and he had to fight to keep the smile from his eyes. And then he couldn't resist laughing and reaching out a hand to rumple the soft caramel curls peeking out from her hood. "It might help if you unlock it, Miss Independence. Or would you rather just break out the window with your shoe and crawl through?"

  And then suddenly she was laughing too as she pulled up the door lock and tried to glare at him, but the moment of anger was already gone. The chauffeur was waiting outside to assist them, and she sprang from the car to the street, smoothing her coat and pulling her hood up against the sharp wind.

  Ivo held open the door of his box as they reached it and Bettina slipped inside. For a moment she was reminded of the evenings she had spent there with her father, but she forcefully swept aside the memories and looked into Ivo's blue eyes. He looked wonderful and alive and electric, and it felt good just to be looking into those blue eyes. She looked up at him candidly and patted his cheek gently, while he felt something tender inside him stir.

  "I'm glad I came with you tonight, Ivo."

  Everything stopped for a moment as he looked at her, and slowly he smiled. "So am I, little one. So am I." And then with chivalry and decorum he assisted her with her coat, and this time it was Bettina who smiled. She could still remember the first time he had done that for her, when she had come to the opera with him and her father more than ten years before. She had been wearing a burgundy-colored coat with a little velvet collar, and a hat to match, white gloves, and Mary Jane shoes. The opera had been Der Rosenkavalier, and she had been horrified to see a woman dressed as a man. Ivo had explained it all to her, but she had still been greatiy chagrined. Suddenly, as she thought of it, she found herself laughing, while she slipped out of her dark-blue velvet evening coat and turned once again to face Ivo's eyes. "And may I ask what's so funny?" He looked warm and already amused.

  "I was thinking of that first time I came here with you. Remember the woman 'trying to fake that she was a man?" And suddenly at the memory Ivo was laughing with her, and then as the memory faded she saw something very different in his eyes. He was looking at the dress she was wearing, and as he did so the night of Der Rosenkavalier seemed to die in his mind. The dress that she had worn beneath the midnight-blue evening coat was of the same deep, deep blue, but it seemed to float about her in a cloud of chiffon; the long full sleeves cast a kind of dreamlike spell about her arms, and the tiny waist exploded into billows of soft flowing fabric that fell to her feet. She looked infinitely delicate and startlingly beautiful as she stood before him, her eyes as bright as the sapphires and diamonds in her ears. "Don't you like the dress?" She
looked up at him innocently in barely concealed disappointment, and suddenly the laughter came back to his eyes as he reached out both arms. How young she still was in some ways. It always surprised him. It was difficult to understand how she had maintained a core of innocence beneath such a knowing veneer, and in spite of her constant exposure to men who couldn't possibly have escaped the kind of thoughts he was having now.

  "I love the dress, darling. It's beautiful. I was just ... a little taken aback."

  "Were you?" She twinkled at him. "And think, you haven't even seen the half." And with that she pivoted neatly on one heel to turn her back to him, and in sharp contrast to the long sleeves, high neck, and full skirt, the back of the dress was cut away, and all that Ivo seemed to see dancing before him was the most devastatingly perfect expanse of creamy flesh.

  "Good God, Bettina, that's not decent."

  "Of course it is, don't be stupid. Let's go sit down. The music is starting."

  Ivo sighed to himself as he sat there. He wasn't sure which image of her he should be addressing, which he should be holding to in his mind. The child he remembered or the woman sitting there. There were several things he could offer the child. He could make room for her in his home. But as a woman, the problem was a good deal more complicated.... What then? A job at the paper? An evening at the opera, as her friend? He could help her find an apartment ... but then what? How would she pay? The problem was truly intolerable. When the first act came to an end, he realized how little of it he had heard.

  "Ivo, isn't it marvelous?" Her eyes were still dreamy as the curtain fell.

  "Yes, it's lovely." But he wasn't thinking of the opera, only of her. "Would you like something from the bar?" The others were already standing and forming a line at the exits. A trip to the bar was a must for all serious operagoers, not so much for what they drank, but whom they saw. But Ivo saw that she seemed to hesitate. "Would you rather stay here?" Gratefully she nodded, and they both sat back down.

  "Do you mind terribly?" She was instantly apologetic, but Ivo waved a nonchalant hand.

  "Of course not. Don't be silly. Would you like me to bring you something here?" But she only shook her head again and laughed.

  "You're going to have me as spoiled as I had my father, Ivo. Watch out! It becomes damn hard to live with." They spoke of Justin briefly and then Ivo remembered the stories Justin had shown him. The stories Bettina had written.

  "One day, if you want to, you can be an even greater writer than Justin."

  "Do you mean that?" She stared at him, as though too terrified to breathe, waiting, wanting to hear his answer, and yet much too afraid. But he was nodding, and she let out a very small sigh.

  "I do. Your last four or five stories. You know, the ones you wrote last summer in Greece ... they're extraordinary, Bettina. You could publish them if you wanted to, in fact I was going to ask you sometime if that was what you had in mind." He looked at her seriously, and she gazed at him, stunned.

  "Of course not. I just wrote them to--to write them. For no reason. Did Daddy show them to you?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he think they were good?" Her voice was dreamy and wistful now, and she seemed to have almost forgotten that Ivo was there. But he stared at her in astonishment.

  "Didn't he tell you?" Gently she shook her head. "That's criminal, Bettina. He loved them. Didn't he ever say?"

  "No." And then she looked at Ivo squarely. "But he wouldn't have actually. That kind of praise wasn't really his style." No, but bearing it was. Oh, yes, how he loved that, Ivo thought.

  Ivo was annoyed again as he thought of it. "Suffice it to say that he truly loved them."

  She smiled carefully at Ivo again. "I'm glad."

  Perhaps here was a way be could help her. "Are you going to try to publish them?"

  "I don't know." She shrugged, suddenly childlike again. "I told you, I dream about writing a play. But that doesn't mean I will."

  "It could if you wanted it to. One good strong dream is enough. If you hold it, and cherish it, and build on it. If you never give up that dream. No matter what." For a long time Bettina said nothing, and she averted her eyes. He moved a little closer, and she could feel him next to her, his hand just near hers where they sat. "Don't give up your dreams, Bettina ... don't ever, ever do that."

  When she looked up at him at last, it was with wise, tired eyes. "My dreams are already over, Ivo."

  But he shook his head firmly, with the smallest of smiles. "No, little one, they've only just begun." And with that, be leaned forward and kissed her softly on the mouth.

  Chapter 7

  It had been a strange and wonderful evening with Ivo. After the opera they had gone to dinner at La Cote Basque, and then they had gone dancing at Le Club. Ivo and her father had been members there since it had opened, but years later it was still a nice club and it was the perfect place to spend New Year's Eve. They had reverted to their old easy ways of friendship, only his kiss had confused her for a moment, but she pushed it from her mind. He was a very dear friend. For the most part it had been like old times. They talked and laughed and danced. They drank champagne and stayed on until three, when at last Ivo professed exhaustion and announced that he was taking her home. They were both oddly quiet in the limousine driving back to her apartment, Bettina thinking of her father and how odd it was not to have been with him, or at least called him to wish him a happy new year. They rode slowly up the East Side, until at last they reached her door.

  "Do you want to come up for a cognac?" She said it almost by rote, between yawns, but it was very close to four in the morning, and Ivo laughed.

  "You make it sound very tempting. Do you suppose you can stay awake long enough to get upstairs?" He helped her from the car and followed her inside.

  "I'm not sure ... mmm ... all of a sudden I'm so sleepy...." But she was smiling as they rode up in the elevator. "Sure you don't want another drink?"

  "Positive."

  And then she grinned at him. "Good. I want to go to bed." And as she said it she looked twelve years old again, and they both laughed.

  The house was eerily empty as she turned her key and flicked on the light as she opened the door.

  "Aren't you afraid to be alone here, Bettina?"

  She looked at him honestly and nodded. "Sometimes."

  His heart ached again as he looked at her. "Will you make me a promise? If you ever, ever have a problem, you'll call. And I mean immediately. I'd come right over."

  "I know you would. It's a nice feeling." She yawned again, sat down on a Louis XV chair in the hall, and kicked off her elegant navy-blue satin shoes. He sat down on a chair facing her, and they both smiled.

  "You look beautiful tonight, Bettina. And terribly, terribly grown up."

  She shrugged, looking much like the young girl she was. "I suppose I am grown-up now." And then with a chortle she tossed one of the navy satin shoes in the air. She caught it again, barely missing a priceless vase that sat on a little marble ledge. "You know the weirdest thing of all, Ivo?"

  "What?"

  "I mean aside from the loneliness, it's being responsible for me. There is no one, absolutely no one, to tell me what to do, to give me hell, to give me praise, to figure things out for me ... none of it. ... If I had just broken that vase, it would have been my problem, no one else's. That's a lonely feeling sometimes too. Like no one gives a damn." She looked pensively at her shoe, and then dropped it to the floor again, but Ivo was watching her intently.

  "I give a damn."

  "I know you do. And I care about you too."

  He said nothing in answer for a moment. He just watched her. "I'm glad." Then he stood up and wandered slowly over to where she sat. "And now, contrary to your theory, I'm going to tell you to go to bed, like a good girl. Shall I walk you upstairs to your room?" She hesitated for a long moment, and then she smiled.

  "You wouldn't mind?"

  He looked oddly serious when he shook his head. She walked toward the stairs i
n bare feet, her shoes lying forgotten on the foyer floor, and threw her blue velvet coat over her arm, as Ivo followed the naked oval of her back up to her bedroom. But he was in control now. In the course of the evening he had decided what he was going to do. She turned to look over her shoulder at him when they reached the top of the stairs.

  "Are you going to tuck me into bed?" She was half teasing and half serious, and he wasn't quite sure what else he saw in her big green eyes. But he wasn't going to ask questions.

  She ran a hand tiredly over her eyes, and she suddenly seemed very old. "There's so much I have to do, Ivo. Sometimes I'm not sure how I'm going to do it all." But as she said it he patted her shoulder, and she looked up at him, smiling.

  "You will, darling. You will. But what you need first, mademoiselle, is a good night's sleep. So good night, little one. I'll let myself out." She heard him walk softly down the carpeted hall, and then there was silence as she knew he had reached the stairs, and at last she heard his heels click on the marble floor below, and he called out "Good night for the last time before he closed the front door.

  Chapter 8

  Bettina followed the woman upstairs and down, smiling pleasantly, opening closet doors, and standing by as the real estate agent extolled the apartment's virtues and then unabashedly indicated its flaws. Bettina didn't have to be there for the performance, but she wanted to be. She wanted to know what they were saving about her home.

  At last it was over, after almost an hour, and Naomi Liebson, who had been there three times that month, prepared to leave. There had been other visitors as well, with other realtors, but so far this was the most definite bite.

  "Aahh just don't know, honey. Aahhm not really, really sure." Bettina tried to smile again as she watched her, but the charm of showing the apartment was beginning to wear thin. It was exhausting escorting this army of would-be buyers through the place every day. And there was no one to relieve the tension for her. Ivo had been in Europe on business for three weeks. There had been an international conference in China, and as it had been the first of its kind, he had to go. After which he had business appointments in Europe: Brussels, Amsterdam, Rome, Milan, London, Glasgow, Berlin, and Paris. It was going to be a long trip. And it already felt as though he had been gone for years.