"Plain, Belva - Harvest" - читать интересную книгу автора (Plain Belva)

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Plain, Belva
Harvest / by Belva Plain
p cm
ISBN 0-385-29926-5 I Title
PS3566L254H3 1990 813' 54—dc20 90-34417 CIP
Manufactured in the United States of America Published simultaneously in Canada
September 1990
10 987654321 BVG
HARVEST
1



During the proceeds of the morning's errands, soap from the drugstore, rolls from the bakery, socks and shirts from the boys' store, she was waiting to cross Main Street when she saw his car. There were not that many pearl-gray Cadillac convertibles in town, and it caught her attention seconds before she recognized her husband or saw that a woman was in the front seat beside him. And she stood there, watching, as slowly, through noontime traffic, the car moved past. Sunlight struck the proud MD license plate, and the chrome on the car's fins gleamed discreetly.
Then the familiar, shameful, angry, frightened cry rose in her: Who was she? He likes rich things, my husband does. Rich but not gaudy. His tastes are quiet and refined, even in women.


But no, not always! That girl at my mother's cousin's funeral— the one with three shades of hair and rhinestones all over her skirt—my God, he had to flirt, even at a funeral, even with her.
She began to tremble, dropping the bag of socks. Someone picked it up. A male voice with a smile in it spoke to her.
"Got your arms full, haven't you? Oh, it's you, Mrs. Stern! You don't remember me? Jed Bauer from the hospital?"
One of the interns, she thought, collecting herself. "Yes, of course. Thank you."
The light was still red. It would probably take another minute to change, a segment of time that he, a polite young man, would think it necessary to fill with pleasantries.
"Children all well, I hope?"
"Oh, yes, busy. Back in school."
When the traffic stopped and they crossed the street, he was still talking, feeling an obligation, no doubt, to show respect to the wife of Dr. Theo Stern.
"I've never had a chance to thank you, Mrs. Stern, for being so kind to my wife and me."
"Was I? When?"
"Yes, at the party you had for the new interns last winter. We'd just come east from Idaho, and my wife—she's from a small town—was really nervous that night, but you gave her such a welcome, made her feel right at home. We never forgot it."
Then Iris remembered them, the young bride, still really a girl, in the homemade dress, a girl with a hesitant voice, a gentle face, and scared eyes. She had recognized the girl's bewilderment, had felt it.
Iris smiled up now into an equally gentle masculine face, honest and somehow innocent. No guile, no flattery had been intended at all.
"Idaho. Are you pretty well settled here now?"
"We're getting there. Jane's working and I'm learning a lot. Will you give my regards to your husband? I hardly ever see
•-

him, but I'll never forget the one time I watched him operate. It was my first experience with plastic surgery. I knew the patient. He almost had to rebuild her face after an accident. I thought he must be some kind of magician, a master magician. Is this your car?"

"The station wagon. Right here. Thanks so much for the help, Doctor. It was nice to see you again." Her voice was still clear and natural. How was it possible?

Huddled over the steering wheel, she sat without energy or will to start the engine. The master. The magician. But where had he been going at noon with a woman? Still, perhaps it was innocent, just giving someone a lift? And yet, and yet . . . His wandering eyes, his courtly compliments, the trace of gray in his dark hair, the trace of a Viennese accent in the fluent English he had learned at Oxford . . .

She thought of their months-long estrangement; it had been five years ago, and she had put it well behind her. The reconciliation had almost been worth the pain of the long quarrel. Were they now to slip back and go through it all again? She thought: I haven't the strength this time.

She took out a mirror. Why? To reassure herself? For she knew what was in the mirror: a slender, sturdy woman, thirty-six years old, with straight dark hair worn in short wings away from the temples; large, dark almond eyes, unblemished skin, a nose too prominent, and good teeth. Pretty enough in a very quiet way, not a woman whom anyone would turn to look after. If I looked like my mother, she thought, it would be different.

And yet, Theo loved her. Knowing that, still she felt cold. The chill trickled down her spine. She talked to herself.

No one really knows anything about anyone else. My husband is one of the best-known plastic reconstruction surgeons in the New York area. My father is one of the most successful builders. I have four children and a house that my father built for us on two acres of greenery. I'm in good health, at least as far as I know. So I have everything, haven't I?