From Here to There (5 page)

 "Don't ridicule me, Phillip." She stood up and began pacing. "It's not a dream man. I mean, he's not perfect; it's just he's physical. He knows how to do things. He... he's..."

 "I get it. A real man," Phillip finished sarcastically, raising his brows. He was beginning to feel the effects of the whiskey, and it dulled a little the pain of her words but made it at the same time more difficult to follow her line of reasoning, that is, if she had a line of reasoning, something he was beginning to doubt.

 "I know there are all kinds of real men," Helene tried again, "but I want a man... like the ones in Montana, the ones who go out and meet nature on its own, who..."

 "Ah a fantasy. Those who live a modern Louis L'Amour lifestyle," he finished with an angry laugh as he dropped onto the sofa, laying one arm along its back. He recognized the look on her face as surprise for the name he had used. “Yes, I know the author and the books he wrote.” He looked darkly into his glass at the amber liquid. "I can't believe this. Everywhere in the world women are saying they want men who will understand them, men with culture, men who are sensitive, and you're telling me you want a caveman?" He swirled the liquid.

 "You are ridiculing what I'm saying," she accused. "Maybe I deserve that, but I'm trying to explain why this is all wrong for me, and you're laughing at me."

 “One thing I definitely am not doing is laughing.”

“Ridiculing, making fun of me.”

“It's either that or slug you, baby," he said. "I'll be honest, I've considered both."

 "You wouldn't hit a woman," she said the uneasy look back on her face. Evidently, he decided wryly, she wasn't completely certain of that.

 He looked up at her. She was so beautiful, so desirable in her uncertainty and now anger. Auburn hair hung down over her shoulders, golden eyes stared back at him, darkened with a touch of fear. He looked away, not wanting to consider what he'd lost by being the wrong man.

 "No, I wouldn't," he agreed finally, "but I'll tell you this. You've come as close to driving me to it as any woman ever will."

 "I'm sorry, Phillip, but I can't make any of this up to you. I wish I could, but I can't live the life you'd have every right to expect of your wife. I should have realized it sooner, but I didn't, so what can I do now? Will multiple
mea culpas
satisfy you?"

 "Don't be ridiculous." He sipped his whiskey and broodingly watched her. "There's nothing anybody can do now--except face the music. I'm going to look like an idiot no matter what story goes around, and you can bet the stories on this one will be juicy. It's not hard to imagine the speculations people will be making."

 "I'm sorry," she repeated, going over to the window and staring out at the lights of Boston as the city slowly awoke to the nightlife. "I should have realized all this sooner, but all I can say now is I'm sorry."

 He rose smoothly from the sofa. "Isn't there any way we can at least try to work this out?" he asked, coming to stand beside her, not touching.

 "It wouldn't be fair."

 "To whom? You or me?" He felt angry again. He moved away from her and put the sofa between them.

 "I can't be the wife you want, and you can't be the husband I need." Nervously she ran her fingers along the smooth, metallic chrome window sill. "I think a quick annulment and putting this behind us is the only answer. I've admitted I've been a fool. I will tell people whatever you want, explain it was my fault, which it is; but I know I can't make amends to you."

 He wanted to yell at her, curse her out in words she'd probably never heard, but none of that would change anything. He'd long ago learned to walk away from the battles he couldn't win, saving his energy for those he could.

 "All right," he said finally with a sigh of resignation. "I'll leave you to explain it. I think I'll go away for awhile."

 "To Europe?" she asked, with an almost wistful tone to her voice.

 "No," he said quickly, his voice sharp. "I'll go someplace but not there."

 She pursed her lips, apparently trying to think of something more to say, something that would soothe the hurt she'd caused. Before she could find the words, he'd crossed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms. For a moment, he felt her fighting him, pushing against his shirt. Her strength was nothing compared to his. He bent his head angrily claiming her lips for one last kiss, his tongue surging into her now open mouth. For a moment it seemed the kiss was real, but he knew that was as big a farce as the wedding. He released her and pushed her from him.

 "The limousine is waiting," he said tersely as he turned to stare out the window.

 "I really am sorry," she whispered. He could hear the tears in her voice before she ran out the door and out of his life.

#

 In the limousine, Helene dried her eyes, only to have more tears fill them. Phillip had surprised her, both with his anger and fierceness, then the fire of his kisses. The last kiss had made her so aware of the hard muscles in his body, the steel beneath the silk shirt. She knew it was true then that she'd never known him at all. For the first time she wondered what forces had shaped him.

 The chauffeur smiled at her in the mirror. "Where to Miss... or I guess it's Mrs. now, isn't it? Although these days everybody's a Ms, I figure to be safe."

 She tried to smile back as she considered her options. She had to face her parents sometime, but how would they feel if she turned up on what was supposed to be her wedding night? Still there was no way to delay the inevitable. Her apartment was sublet. She could take a hotel, but that seemed foolish, and she wasn't at all certain this late on a Saturday in August she could find a room anywhere in the vicinity of Boston.

 "Back to Concord," she said with resignation. Better now than later. Better never than later, but she didn't have that option.

 As the car drew nearer to Concord and her family home, she considered how she would tell her parents. There had to be a better way than how she'd sprung it on Phillip. No, there probably wasn’t. There was no politically correct way to say you'd left your husband before the honeymoon had begun.

 The chauffeur opened the door, his eyes agleam with curiosity. Absently Helene thrust some bills into his hand, even though she knew he'd already been well paid by Phillip. "Thank you," she said, keeping her voice carefully modulated with the tone taught at Porters Boarding School. She smiled as she thought they'd missed one class-- the socially correct manner in which to explain leaving your husband before he became a husband.

 She slid in the front door, ignoring the expression of dismay on the face of Reagan, her parents' butler. She could hear angry voices in the dining room as she made her way down the hall. She wondered sarcastically what her parents found to argue about after the perfect wedding.

 As she entered the room almost silently, at first they didn't see her. "I've given you the best years of my life, Robert," she heard her mother saying. "How dare you do this to me now, on this day of all days!"

 "You've never given anything without getting full measure in return, Florence," her father retorted. "I've given you all the luxuries you could have asked for. I will continue to be sure you are well taken care of; but now it's time for me to find some personal happiness, and I--" He stopped when he saw Helene in the doorway.

 Helene smiled faintly. "Hello."

 "What on earth are you doing back here tonight?" her father asked.

 Her mother raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Did you forget something? Where is Phillip?" she asked, frowning.

 When Helene didn't answer immediately. Her father ran his fingers through his hair and laughed uneasily. "Not good form to leave your groom on your honeymoon," he said with a humorous twist. "Or is he with you?"

 "No, I'm alone."

 The door leading to the kitchen opened. Uncle Amos used his back to lever it open, in his hands was a large plate with a stack of sandwiches. When he saw Helene, his face reflected surprise for only a moment. "Brought us something to eat. Figured we all needed a little something to relax."

 "How terribly considerate," Helene's father muttered under his breath.

 "Well, are you or are you not going to tell us why you're here?" her mother demanded.

 "Do you have any wine?" Helene asked, looking toward the cabinet. Phillip's whiskey might not have been such a bad idea after all.

 Her father frowned but poured her a glass, then looked expectantly at her.

 She hoped to find a little courage in the ruby liquid. "I've left Phillip," she said finally when she could think of no easier words.

 "Left him?" her mother echoed. "What on earth are you talking about? You just married him."

 "It was a mistake."

 "A mistake?" Her father frowned, obviously trying to make sense out of the words and lost somewhere back around hello. “What did he do? He didn’t hit you did he?”

 "Phillip didn’t do anything. I just don't love him. I can't be the sort of wife he needs. I don't
want
to be the sort of wife he needs." She knew they would never understand, but she had to try.

 "Lord, Helene," her father said, slapping his forehead, "couldn't you have figured that out before the wedding. How's this going to look?"

 That seemed to be everyone's first concern. "Unpleasant," she admitted, "but there's nothing I can do about that now. I will return everyone’s gifts, of course. I'm sorry for hurting you, but I can't live a lie and that's what staying married to Phillip would have meant."

 "This is as insane as anything I’ve heard of." Her father looked around the room as though possibly the answer for the insanity that had struck his family might be found in a corner or in a painting.

 Their chef, Georgie, entered, a tray with coffee pot and cups on it. When she saw Helene, she nearly dropped everything, "What are you doing here?" she asked, as though no one before her might have thought to ask the question.

 "Never mind that, Georgie," Helene's mother said with a mournful sigh. "Could you get us some tea?"

 "First you want coffee and sandwiches. Now tea." She threw up her hands. "You know we have an agreement. No cooking after. Well I was supposed to be off-duty half hour ago." Georgie looked at Helene with questioning eyes.

 "Well, excuse
me
," Helene's mother grumbled, "but just exactly who's the cook and who's the mistress around here?"

 "I am no man's slave," Georgie retorted, lifting her head proudly, her eyes narrowed as she glared at Helene's mother. "If you don't like my work, you can fire me."

 "No, I didn't mean that." Helene's mother's voice became instantly placating. "Forget the tea. You know we love your work."

 Georgie nodded and then looked again at Helene. "You don't look so good."

 "Thanks," Helene said, feeling as brittle as a piece of glass.

 "Maybe I will make you some tea. You look like you could use it." The cook walked out mumbling to herself.

 "If it only weren't so difficult to find reliable help," Helene's mother sighed. "I would fire her. I swear I would."

 Helene laughed, almost amused despite her upset. "You would not. Georgie's been with us since I was seven. Twenty years and you know you wouldn't have her any other way. Half the time you spoil her unmercifully."

 "It's the only way to keep good help. You can't believe the competition among my friends for reliable servants. Ernestine would kill to get the chance to hire Georgie."

 "The trials of the rich," Uncle Amos inserted with a grin as he bit into a sandwich.