Going Home Part 19

"Okay. Goodnight. Hey, Chris?"

"Now what?"

"Merry Christmas."

"G'night." He was already half-asleep.

The next morning I watched him go with the proverbial heavy heart. Departures always make me sad, and I felt so alone after he was gone.

Strangely, when I got back to the apartment I had a desperate urge to call Gordon and cling to him, but it seemed like a dirty trick, and I hadn't yet decided what to say to him. Basically, it was simple. "Gordon, I'm leaving. Chris and I are getting married." But how do you say that to someone? How do you even start?

I gave John Templeton notice on Monday and managed to avoid Gordon for the entire day, berating myself for being a monster and a coward. The rest of the week I spent at home with a bad cold, hovering between bed and the living room, where the packing cases for our move were rapidly filling up. I was going to leave right after New Year's, come h.e.l.l or high water.

I hadn't heard from Gordon all week, but I had decided that somehow I'd tell him at Hilary's on New Year's Eve. Maybe the champagne would make it easier for both of us.

She had another of her quiet, but stimulating gatherings. And at midnight, Hilary made a lovely toast, and held her gla.s.s up in honor of her guests. We rose and drank to her, and then everyone sat down again in small groups. The conversation was carried on in low voices, the room was bright with candlelight, and the magical sad/tender aura of New Year's Eve surrounded us all.

And then Gordon looked up and saw me watching him, smiled a tiny smile, and spoke softly so the others couldn't hear.

"To you, Gillian. May the new year bring you wisdom and peace. May your child bring you joy, and may Chris be good to you. Vaya con Dios." Tears sprang to my eyes as he lifted his gla.s.s and his eyes reached into mine. He knew.

The next time I saw John Templeton in the hall, he looked at me with a harried air of fatigue.

"Why is it that I always lose the best people I've got?"

"Thanks for the compliment, John, but you'll do fine without me. You did before." He only shook his head and moved on down the hall, and that was the last I saw of him until the farewell party they gave me on Friday. Gordon and I went together and we said little to each other. He had been kind but remote since the party at Hilary's and he seemed to have a lot on his mind. And then I caught the gist of what was happening as I said good-bye to the staff. Gordon was leaving too. As he took me home, I wondered why he hadn't told me. He must have been thinking about it for a while.

"When did you decide?"

"Oh, I've been thinking of it for some time." But he avoided my eyes and sounded vague.

"Are you taking another job?"

"No. I'm going back to Europe."

"Spain?"

"No. Eze. It's a little town in the South of France. It may have gone to h.e.l.l by now, full of pizza parlors and tourists. But it was beautiful ten years ago and I thought I'd go back and take a look. I want to spend the rest of my life painting somewhere like that, not wasting the years in this bulls.h.i.t jungle."

"I'm glad you're going, Gordon. I think it's the right thing."

He nodded, smiled, and kissed me on the forehead as he left me at the hotel.

"See you tomorrow."

"Fine, I'll give you a call." But he didn't look as though his heart was in it. We had agreed to spend my last day in New York together, Sat.u.r.day. I was leaving on Sunday morning.

That night, I went up to see Julie at the hospital, and it was the hardest thing I did before I left. What do you say? "Thanks for the job"? "Good luck"? "See you soon"? No, you just try not to cry.

We made small talk, but Julie's mind was wandering, and before I left she fell asleep. Her mind was greatly affected by the Demerol and whatever else they were giving her. She had shrunken, and faded, she looked old and gray, so tiny and frail in that bed.

I watched her sleep, and patted her arm, and she opened one eye and smiled. I kissed her cheek, and mumbled something without thinking, probably just "Thanks, Julie," and she closed her eyes again and drifted off. As I looked at her one last time, I heard myself murmur, "Vaya con Dios." The same thing Gordon had said to me.

28.

Sam and I were staying at the Regency again for our last two days in New York. And through some miracle we had ended up with the same suite. We were going to leave as we had arrived. In style. Except that so much had happened in the four months we'd been in New York that it was hard to believe we hadn't been back for years.

The phone rang as we were finishing breakfast. It was Gordon.

"This is your tour leader and social director, Mrs. Forrester. We have your schedule all planned for you," and I giggled, wondering what was coming next. "First, you will be picked up by the tour leader, and you will proceed to point one on the day's itinerary: 59th Street and Fifth Avenue, where you will be drawn by an ancient horse around Central Park. The horse may or may not die en route, and in case he does, your tour leader will place you on his shoulders and continue the journey. Please do not wear shoes with spurs, as your tour leader has very sensitive ribs. Thank you for your consideration, Mrs. Forrester. Next, you will go to the Hotel Plaza for lunch in the Edwardian Room, and after that you have a choice between (a) a quick stop at Parke-Bernet Auction Galleries, (b) a tour of the Museum of Modem Art, (c) a shopping tour, or (d) you may tell your tour guide to f.u.c.k off, and you may go home and rest. After that, you will be taken to the Sherry-Netherland Bar for one and one half drinks, please present your coupon to the bartender. And then you will be taken to La Caravelle for dinner, check your camera at the cloak room, and be sure to wear gold shoes, a sweater with a mink collar, or fox will do fine. After dinner at La Caravelle, you will then go to Raffles, where you will dance with your tour leader. Again please do not wear spurs; your tour leader also has sensitive arches. And after that you will go to one of New York's most charming hideaways, for our mystery surprise. And that, Mrs. Forrester, is the day we have planned for you. Welcome to New York." And it struck me again what a good man he was and what a h.e.l.l of a good sport.

"Gordon Harte, you are something else. What time do we start?"

"How about eleven?"

"Well. . . ."

"Make it eleven-thirty. I'll meet you in the lobby."

"Oh, listen, Gordon?"

"Yes?"

"I promised Sam I'd take her to the zoo 'one last time.' "

"No problem. When?"

"I have a sitter for her now."

"After her nap? Say around four?"

"That's fine. Ask her if I can come too."

"I think that can be arranged. See you soon, and thanks."

Gordon appeared in the lobby at eleven-thirty sharp, looking terribly pleased with himself.

"Well, Mr. Tour Leader, what's next?"

"The hansom cab, but first your chariot awaits," and as we pushed through the revolving doors of the hotel I looked for his car, and wondered who belonged to the outlandish fire engine red Rolls Royce parked smack in front of the hotel. It had license plates with a "Z" at the end, which meant it was rented, probably for some Texan, or at least someone with a sense of humor.

"Madame," and there was Gordon holding open the door of the red Rolls, with a sweep of his arm, and a huge grin. The chauffeur stood by in a liveried uniform, looking as though he took the whole scene seriously. It was absolutely absurd, and I stood there and whooped. I laughed so hard I felt like doubling over. I looked at Gordon, and back at the car, and then laughed until tears ran down my face.

"Oh, Gordon, really."

"Come on, get in. I thought your last day in New York should be memorable," and so it was. Once inside the Rolls, there was a bar, a television, a stereo, a telephone, and a vase with a red rose. It was definitely something from a Rock Hudson-Doris Day movie.

We did all the things Gordon had planned, except that after lunch we went for a walk instead of choices (a), (b), (c), or (d), and then we went to pick up Sam at the hotel. She was thrilled with the red car, and the first thing she said was, "Is it a present? Can we keep it?" with wide eyes. Gordon and I started to laugh again.

"No, sweetheart, it's just for today, kind of a joke. It's a present from Gordon, just for today."

"I don't think it's a joke. I like it."

"Samantha, you remember that when you're a big girl," Gordon said with a serious expression and I added the suspicion that she probably would.

When we got to 64th Street and Fifth Avenue, the chauffeur stopped the car and whipped around to my side to let us out, and we headed for the zoo. Gordon was carrying a camera I hadn't noticed before.

"I want to take some pictures. Do you mind? I won't if you'd rather not."

"No, it's okay. I'd like to have some myself. But be sure you take one of the car," I said grinning over my shoulder, trying to keep track of Sam.

"I don't have any pictures of you, Gillian, and I'd like to have some. . . . Who knows, we may not meet again. . . ."

"Oh, Gordon, don't be silly. Of course we will," but I wondered too.

"Eze and San Francisco are not exactly next door to each other, my dear. And when you leave someone, you never know what will happen. When I say good-bye, I always believe that it will be forever."

"That's funny, when I say good-bye I always tell myself that we'll be seeing each other again."

"Do you believe it?"

"No, I guess not. Not deep in my heart," and I felt sad then. I looked up at Gordon, but he looked away.

So for an hour Gordon took photographs of Samantha with balloons, Cracker Jacks, on the pony ride, watching the seals, and of me. They were quick photographs. He kept catching us with our mouths full of Cracker Jacks, and our eyes closed, or a hand up, or laughing. He shot, and he shot, and he ran around the other way and took more pictures . . . click, click, click, click, click, click . . . the last day in the life of Gordon and Gillian . . . "sing me no songs, tell me no tales, cry me no tears" . . . but remember me kindly.

The last photograph on the roll of film was taken by the chauffeur of all three of us as we stood in front of the open door of the red Rolls, Samantha holding a bright red balloon, and I realized as we stepped into the car that it would be the only photograph that would include Gordon.

The rest of the day went according to the "tour leader's" plan, and at midnight we were ready to leave Raffles and head for the big "mystery surprise." The Rolls was still with us, and we headed uptown and East, toward what I a.s.sumed correctly would be Gordon's apartment.

We arrived and went upstairs. He opened the door, stepped in ahead of me, flipped some switches, lit candles, and then came back to help me with my coat. The room looked lovely-it was full of flowers, and there was champagne in an ice bucket on the coffee table, in front of the couch. He lit the fire and turned on some music, and it all looked perfect. Kind of a funny scene for a lady about to go off and get married to someone else three thousand miles away, and expecting that man's child. But it was lovely. I knew that life with Chris would have its own kind of beauty, many tender moments, and many problems too. But life with Chris was of another texture; it would not be of candlelight and champagne. Sadly enough, one rarely marries the candlelight and champagne. One marries instead the blue jeans and rumpled T-shirts, the Coca Cola and burnt toast, and one puts away the candlelight and champagne in a magic box. In the long run, I guess Coca Cola and burnt toast are easier to live with.

As though he had read my thoughts, Gordon handed me the champagne cork and said "for your magic box." I took it and smiled back at him, and then he took the cork back for a moment and wrote something on it. When he returned it, it had the date, only that, nothing more.

"I don't want to confuse your children in fifty years with a lot of initials they won't know." It was kind of a sad thing to say, because I knew he meant it.

"When are you leaving for Europe?"

"Oh, I'd say in about a month."

"How does Greg feel about it? Have you told him yet?"

"Yes, I called him yesterday, as a matter of fact. You know something, Gillian, I think he's impressed. I think I've finally gone and done something that my son approves of. I'm 'abandoning' all the materialistic things he holds me in contempt for, and doing something he thinks he understands. He said he'd come over and see me next summer. I think he means it."

"I'm sure he does. I can't blame him. I wouldn't mind a summer in the south of France myself."

"What, and leave sunny California?"

I tried to smile and then looked at him for an interminable moment. "Gordon, will you write to me?"

"Maybe. I'm not very good about that though. And I don't think Chris would think it such a great idea. But I'll let you know where I am." He had already taken his distance, and it showed.

"Chris won't mind." . . . And I want to hear from you . . . please. . . .

"Don't be so sure. He's no fool, and he doesn't like me. That much I know. And I don't blame him. I wouldn't like me either, in his shoes. Gillian, don't leave yourself open to where he has an excuse to hurt you." I nodded silently and he poured two more gla.s.ses which emptied the bottle. Louis Roederer 1956, the champagne of Charles de Gaulle. And Gordon Harte.

We emptied our gla.s.ses and then sat looking silently into the fire, each with our own thoughts. We had been so very civilized, so controlled, and had said so much with the way we looked at each other, and so little with our words. And I knew that leaving Gordon was going to be one of the most difficult moments of my life . . . that last instant . . . that very last look. I had already been through that once, with Chris, and in its own way this would be no easier.

I turned toward his profile next to me on the couch. The splendid head was turned slightly away from me, the beard jutting out, the eyes closed, and then his hand made a brutal gesture, and there was the sound of tinkling gla.s.s as his gla.s.s crumbled in the fireplace. I knew what he had meant by the gesture. Perhaps by hurling the gla.s.s away and watching it smash it was easier to understand that what we had had was over too.

Gordon stood up without speaking, got my coat, and we walked slowly toward the door.

All the way back to the hotel, we sat without speaking, holding hands, and looking out at the city rolling by. Leftovers of the last snow still lay in the gutter, freezing one more time, getting a little grayer.

The car stopped at the hotel, and Gordon moved to get out as the driver held open the door on my side of the car.

"No, don't get out. Please." My voice sounded hoa.r.s.e. Gordon took me tightly in his arms and kissed the top of my head. I moved my face up to his and we kissed, my eyes squeezed tightly shut, tears oozing slowly out of the corners toward my hair. I opened my eyes then and saw that Gordon was crying too. . . .

"I love you, Gordon. . . ."

"Good-bye, my darling. Know always how much I care."

I stepped out of the car and ran toward the revolving door, never looking back . . . good-bye . . . good-bye . . . au revoir, not adieu. . . .

But there was no point thinking of what I might have had with Gordon. I had chosen Chris. I loved Chris. And I went up the elevator, with my eyes tightly closed, whispering to myself . . . I love Chris . . . I love Chris . . . I love. . . .

29.

The flight to California was peaceful and a little strange. I felt as though I were suspended in a coc.o.o.n between two worlds, a special place in which to hide and think. I had five hours to totally abandon Gordon's world and reenter Chris's, and I was grateful for the few hours I had to belong to no one but myself. It was eerie how the metamorphosis took place.

As I soared high over the skysc.r.a.pers of New York, my heart tugged painfully as I looked down to the rapidly shrinking places which had meant something in the past few months. And as though I were sliding down to the other side of my rainbow, I began to feel excitement grow within me as we circled low over the peninsula, nearing San Francisco. I was going back to Chris. . . . to Chris . . . to Chris!

I looked at Sam and squeezed her hand. I had the feeling that we had finally made it home. Hallelujah, baby!