For All Their Lives (41 page)

Today had been grueling, but now she was relaxed. Carolers would come by, Alan had said. He'd also said it would take all evening to open her presents. Her eyes lighted. His wouldn't take that long. She made another face at herself in the mirror.

Life was worth living again.
Are you happy? Do you ever think of me?
She wondered what would happen if she walked into his Senate office on some pretext or other. Would he sense something? Her heart thudded in her chest. Maybe she would do just that someday. Someday when her heart was healed. Just one more look so she could drink her fill of him before she buried him once and for all. She deserved a last look.

Casey took one last look around the room. It was exquisite, done by a decorator during her first series of facial operations. When she'd returned from the clinic, she'd gasped. First at the beauty and then at what it must have cost. Alan had beamed. It was a creamy confection, a bonbon. The long narrow windows were draped in mauve with scalloped valances that matched a quilted bedspread of the same delicious color. The carpet was champagne to match the silky, scalloped skirt of her dressing table and chaise lounge. Today, while she was out, creamy white poinsettias in baskets with huge satin bows had been delivered. The fireplace, in which a log always glowed, was gas fueled to keep the room clean, Alan said. The log was for decoration. They'd made love here in front of her fireplace, and it was a slow, lazy, satisfying love, but only for Alan. She tried to respond, tried to feel something, wished for it, prayed for it, but it didn't happen. She pretended. It was enough for her to snuggle, to feel Alan's arms about her, to sleep in the crook of his arm. She vowed to work harder at her feelings, and if that didn't work, she would seek out a competent doctor or therapist for help. All in the new year.

She was loved. Someone cared about her. She wiped at the tears forming in her eyes. She couldn't let them trickle down her cheeks, for if she did she would have to reapply the pancake makeup.

“He loves me,” she murmured as she glided out of the room. It was twenty-nine minutes past six on Christmas Eve when she descended the steps to ask Alan Carpenter if he would marry her.

A
LAN, FORBIDDEN DRINK
in hand, eyes on the door to the library, felt his heart lurch in his chest as Casey paused a moment, her eyes on the shimmering Christmas tree. Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle her exclamation. She ran to him and threw her arms about him. “Alan, it's so beautiful! Did you do it all? Oh, it's so . . . so. . .
us
.” She kissed him warmly. “Thank you, Alan, for all this,” she said, waving her arms about.

“Do you like the smell?” Alan asked anxiously. “I heard somebody say, just recently, that Christmas trees don't smell like Christmas trees anymore. People spray scent from a can. This smells,” he said, awe in his voice.

“We could get drunk on this scent. At least I could,” Casey said happily. “Alan, who are all these presents for?” She ran to the tree and dropped to her knees. She was being the little girl she'd never had a chance to be, poking and probing each gaily wrapped gift. When she shook a small box, trying to guess what was in it, Alan beamed with delight.

“Who do you think they're for?” Alan asked fondly.

“The housekeeper, the chauffeur, the gardener, the cook. Is there one here for me? Which one? Does it have my name on it? Alan, there are no cards on these. How do you know who gets what? Oh, I see, by the color scheme: red, gold, silver, green. How clever of you. It's all so wonderful! Quick, tell me now, which one is mine? I must shake it!” she babbled.

In his life he'd never been this happy, Alan thought. The look of pure rapture on Casey's face was almost more than he could bear. She
would
be satisfied with just one present. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. How he loved this wonderful young woman. “They're all for you!” he said huskily.

“All of them!” Casey gasped. “You're joking, aren't you, Alan? As a child I never got more than one present. One Christmas I didn't get any at all. Are we going to hang up our stockings, Alan?”

“Dear girl, they're already up, how could you have missed them? They're filled too,” he said proudly. Thank God I remembered, he thought.

“For me!” she repeated again. “How . . . when . . . why?”

“Because you deserve every one of them. I wanted to buy out the stores for you. I want you to have . . . everything life has to offer.”

“I already have that. I have you. Alan, this is all so wonderful. But you didn't have to do all this. I don't know what to say,” Casey said, tears brimming in her eyes.

Alan's voice was husky, just as choked as Casey's. “I did it for myself too. It's been years since I celebrated Christmas. It used to be my favorite time of year. I wanted to do this, I needed to do it. For both of us. It's done, so let's just enjoy our evening. Dinner is at seven-thirty.”

“Are we having plum pudding and all that?” Casey teased.

“Not on your life.” Alan laughed. “There is nothing traditional about our dinner this evening except maybe the silver and china. We are,” he drawled, “having your favorite dinner. Pizza, egg rolls, tacos, and hot dogs. Banana splits for dessert.”

“No!” Casey squealed.

“Uh-huh.” Alan grinned. “Cook's having a hissy fit, but she agreed. Tomorrow is our real dinner, but no plum pudding.”

Casey dropped to her knees next to Alan's chair. She looked up at him adoringly. “I love you, Alan,” she whispered.
Ask him now. This is the right time, the perfect time. Tell him you want to spend the rest of your life with him. Do it.

“How can you love an old man like me? I'm overweight, almost bald, have a terrible disposition, and you hate my smelly cigars.” I'm entitled, he thought, to hear her answer. He needed to
hear
her say the words.

“Yes, you are overweight, and I'm going to personally see that you lose it. Age is a number, Alan, one I have never paid attention to. I will never pay attention to it. I love your shiny head. Hair doesn't make a person. We'll have to work on the cigars though. Will you marry me, Alan? I want it more than anything. Please, Alan, don't look at me like that. You said you were going to retire and perhaps do a bit of consultation work. We could spend all our time together. I can make you happy. Alan? You aren't saying anything. You . . . you said you loved me. Were you just . . . did you say that so I would . . . please say you meant it,” Casey pleaded.

“Darling girl, I love you as much as life. I think we should wait awhile and discuss this when we aren't so emotional. This evening is going to our heads. Later, we'll talk. After midnight, when it's Christmas Day.”

“See, you're doing it again,” Casey teased. “You can twist me around your finger. Am I so pliable?” She giggled, laying her head in his lap, certain everything would be fine.

Alan stroked her hair. It felt as soft as corn silk. His chest felt heavy. He hadn't expected a proposal, never dreamed she would want to marry him. Maybe what he was contemplating was wrong. Of course, his inner voice chided, saddle her with an invalid. She means it when she says she'll take care of you. Out of gratitude. She deserves more. She's young, healthy. She'll want children someday. She has to get on with her life, and you have to get ready to die. You know what the odds are of your surviving this operation. You can't do that to her.

“I have an idea,” Alan said brightly. “After dinner how would you like to go caroling? Just the two of us. I think I remember ‘Silent Night.' And I can do a robust ‘Jingle Bells.' How about you?”

“Oh, Alan, I would love to go caroling, but I thought you said carolers would come here. How will that work if we aren't here?”

“I'll have the cook and butler offer them toddies and they can offer the donation for the church as well as I can. Let's do it!” he said exuberantly.

Casey clapped her hands. “I am so very happy, Alan. For such a long time I didn't think I would ever be happy again. I wouldn't be if it wasn't for you. I want to ask a favor of you. I have no right, I know that, but . . . if we get married, I want us to be completely happy. We will be, I know that, but a child . . . how much money do I have left, Alan? Is it enough to start a search for Lily's son? Can we bring him here? You have so much love, Alan. That little boy, he's three now. I think of him all the time, alone, with no one to love him. We could love him, Alan. You have enough money to support us, don't you?” she asked anxiously. “If you don't, I can go back to work. Part-time. One little boy won't cost much. Can we . . . would . . . do you object?”

Alan fought the head rush he was experiencing. A package. A family. What he'd always wanted. He could love a little child. But time was simply running out for him. He felt the urge to bellow like a bull. It could have been so perfect.

“Of course I have enough money left,” he said. “Tomorrow . . . I can bring up the subject . . .”

“That's right, you said your friend was very influential. You never did tell me his name, Alan. Is he powerful enough to set the wheels in motion?”

“Dr. Carpenter, dinner is served,” the housekeeper said from the doorway.

“Marcus Carlin. He's a Supreme Court justice. We've been friends for years.” He reached out for Casey's arm, but she toppled sideways, her face bone-white. His arms around her shoulders, Alan held her close. “What's wrong?” he asked hoarsely.

“I . . . I guess I caught my heel in the hem of my skirt. I thought I was . . . going to fall on my . . . on my face . . . You know how paranoid I am about hitting myself. I guess it was a combination of the heat and the pine scent. I'm fine now, Alan,” she said shakily.

Mac's father. He would sit at the Christmas dinner table. He would probably mention Mac's name. Her step faltered, but Alan's grip on her arm was secure. She tried to smile. The concern she read in Alan's eyes made her try harder.

Alan squeezed her arm. “Good. The color is back in your cheeks.”

“Oh, Alan, the table is beautiful,” Casey sighed.

It was beautiful, Alan thought. Colorful was the second thought that popped into his mind. The cook had set the table with Christmas plates, bone china with delicate poinsettias in the center. The napkins were fine red linen tucked into fragile pale green crystal wineglasses. The linen tablecloth was ap-pliquéd around the hem with miniature red poinsettias with tiny pearls set in the middle. He wondered where it had come from. Probably one of those things his wife Marie had bought and saved for a visit by the Queen of England. Marie had always referred to things like the tablecloth as “the good stuff.” There were trunks of good stuff in the attic. The centerpiece was just right, a wire-shaped Christmas tree filled with small poinsettias. His eyebrows shot upward when he saw the cook wink at him. In all the years she'd been with him, he'd never once thought of her as a romantic. Why, he wondered, was he finding out all these things now, when it was too late?

“I'm going to eat everything . . . at once,” Casey babbled. How could she even think of food now? She felt sick to her stomach. She did her best to pull herself together. She wasn't about to spoil all of Alan's efforts because of Mac's father.

She stuffed herself.

Alan picked at his food. Casey didn't notice.

She was halfway through her banana split when she laid down her spoon and said, “I think I've changed my mind about Lily's son. For now. Later, when things are more . . . stable, I'll . . . I have to start to curb my impulsiveness. I just didn't think it through. Please, don't say anything to your . . . friend tomorrow. The time isn't right. Promise me, Alan.”

“Of course, if that's what you want.” He felt relieved. He hated the thought of asking Marcus for a favor. Marcus was such a shit when it came to using his influence. He would have done it for Casey though. There was nothing he could refuse her.

“Is coffee by the tree all right with you?” he asked her.

“Absolutely,” Casey said, glad to be able to move, to try and get her nerves under control. She could hardly wait to get outdoors and walk. Marcus Carlin coming here.

She forced a lightness into her voice she was far from feeling. “How is it you never mentioned Mr. Carlin before? Most people would brag if they claimed a friendship with a Supreme Court justice. What's he like, Alan? How should I act around him?”

Alan laughed. “He's a bit pompous, but a good friend. We try to see each other at least once a year, and of course we go back to Yale for homecoming when we can. I've heard others say that we belong to the Good Old Boys' Club. There were five of us. Dennis Melnic is CEO for some big rubber company in Ohio; Clyde Barrows owns a string of hotels; Frank Simpson is a pediatrician; and of course, Marcus. We send Christmas cards. Frankly, I didn't think you'd be interested in my old college friends.”

“Alan, I want to know everything about you, and that includes your friends. When we come back from caroling, I want to sit by the fire and hear all your war stories about your college days. After all, I told you all about me.”

“We weren't wild and wicked, if that's what you're thinking. We were a rather boring group as I remember. As a matter of fact, when we met in later years we didn't seem to have much to say to each other. The others finally started talking about their children, and I didn't have any.”

“You poor thing,” Casey teased. “That means you had to suffer through the pictures of the kids and the dogs and cats. How many are there all together? Children, I mean?”

“Let's see,” Alan said, ticking off on his fingers. “Dennis has five, Clyde has four, Frank has three, and Marcus has a son, Mac. I think he's the most successful. He's a United States senator. Lovely little wife. Their child has Down's syndrome. I've met Mac, but none of the other children.”

Something strange and alien clutched at Casey's heart. “It sounds as if you're fond of Mr. Carlin's son,” Casey said quietly.

“I don't know if fond is the right word. I've only seen him five or six times. He's quite likable. Handsome young man. I seem to recall him being an unhappy youngster. Something to do with his mother's breakdown and her return to her girlhood home. I always thought Marcus was too strict with the boy, but then I never had children, so I don't know if my opinion is worthy or not. I was surprised when Mac got married. No, that's not what I meant to say. I think I was surprised at his choice of bride. They were like oil and water. Marcus liked her, but I . . . I decided to reserve judgment. In any case, he came back from Vietnam a real hero. Marcus puffed up like a walrus. I suppose I would have too if it was my son.” Alan sat up and clapped his hands. “I think it's time to get our coats. What will it be first, ‘Silent Night' or ‘Jingle Bells'?”

Casey giggled. “If we get stuck on the words, we can keep saying ‘Jingle Bells' over and over. No one will know the difference. Is that okay with you?”

“Wonderful,” Alan said, holding Casey's coat for her. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was go caroling. His chest felt so heavy, and the cold air wasn't going to help. The singing would probably bring him to his knees. At that moment he realized how old and sick he really was. He wished he could renege and sit in front of the fire with Casey curled up alongside of him. Just thinking about going outdoors made him shiver.

“Oh, Alan, it's snowing!” Casey cried excitedly. “Look, it's staying on the ground. You knew! You knew it was snowing and that's why you suggested we go out. You are the most wonderful man on this earth! This is so perfect, I don't ever want it to end. What could be more beautiful than a white Christmas?”