"No fear of that. Even if both of us had complete changes of heart I'd still go on with the shop. I have to do it. It means a lot to me. Actually, I was about to ask you the same question. You'll marry again one day-"
"No."
"You may feel that way now, but-"
"No. I'm never going to get married again."
Her head was bent over the book, and her tumbled hair hid her face. After a moment Karen said gently, "How long has it been?"
"Two years. I know what you're going to say." Cheryl turned to face her, tossing her hair from her forehead. Her face bore an expression Karen had never seen on it before, a blend of dedicated exultation and of pain. "Everybody says the same thing. You'll get over it, time heals all wounds… But I won't. My life isn't ruined or anything like that. I'm a very happy person, really. But I'll never love anyone but Joe."
The flat finality of her voice would have forestalled argument, even if Karen could have thought of anything to say. She was astounded. To think that Cheryl, outwardly so cheerful and matter-of-fact, nourished this unrealistic, sentimental delusion…
Karen had no doubt that it was a delusion. Love was not eternal, grief did not endure. "Men (and women) have died, and worms have eaten them, but not for love." She was as convinced of those cliches as she was sure the sun would rise next morning. All the same, she felt a dull ache of envy.
"I'm so sorry," she began. "I shouldn't have raised the subject-"
"Oh, it's just as well we got it out in the open," Cheryl said calmly. "People are always trying to fix me up with other guys. It's a waste of time; you might as well know that from the start."
"So that's why Tony…" Karen stopped and bit her Up.
"Tony is a good friend."
"He is also the best-looking man I've ever seen. A real hunk, as they say. I wondered why you hadn't mentioned that little detail."
"I guess he is handsome," Cheryl said indifferently. "Joe wasn't. I mean, most people wouldn't consider him good-looking. Tony likes you, Karen. I could tell."
"I'm not so sure," Karen murmured. She was seeing several things in a new light.
"You're the one who is likely to remarry. A beautiful, educated person like you-"
"I doubt it. I didn't like being married."
The statement surprised her almost as much as it did Cheryl. "Really? Wasn't there anything-"
"No. Now that I think about it, there wasn't much about being married that I liked. I didn't own anything. Everything I had was a gracious, patronizing gift-money, clothes, food, the house, even my time. Jack's work came first, and I got what was left over."
"Not all men are like that," Cheryl said earnestly.
"And there must have been something--I mean, don't you miss…"
Cheryl's delicacy amused Karen. In her new role as partner she was trying to be more refined. "Sex? Yes, I do miss it. But, to put it as nicely as possible, there wasn't much to miss."
"That's putting it nicely, all right. But I get the picture. You mean he…"
"I think the word would be competent," Karen said musingly. "Marginally competent. It came as a shock too, I can tell you. He was very amorous before we got married. Once it was legal, he seemed to lose interest."
Cheryl let out a gurgle of laughter. "You're funny, Karen. You say things so elegantly, but they sound much more insulting than if you'd cut loose and used a lot of four-letter words."
"I should be ashamed of myself," Karen said with a smile. "We're always complaining about men thinking of women as sexual objects, and here I am doing the same thing."
"Was Mark…" Cheryl stopped with a gasp, and turned away. Karen had a glimpse of a beet-red, horrified face before Cheryl's hair swung down to hide her features.
"I'm sorry," said a muffled voice from behind the hair. "Me and my big mouth. I should have it amputated."
"Forget it." Karen laughed and put an affectionate arm around Cheryl's hunched shoulders. "This is like those old college bull sessions, where we all sat around and let our hair down."
"I never went to college," Cheryl muttered.
"I never finished. So what?"
Cheryl looked up. Her face was still crimson. "Pretend I never said that, okay? I don't want to know anyway. I mean, my own brother… He never told me any personal things, Karen. Honest."
"I said it's all right." Karen had no intention of answering the implied question. It had set off a sharp stab of memory that was humiliatingly physical in its intensity. "Was Mark…" Oh, he was, she thought. He certainly was.
"We'd better get to bed," she said lightly. "We should be bright and sharp tomorrow for our session with the realtor."
"Right. Listen, how would you feel about a place with living quarters upstairs or at the back? For us, I mean. I'd pay a bigger share of the rent-"
"Why should you pay more if we share…" Karen's breath caught. "I'm a selfish, thoughtless jerk. I keep forgetting about your little boy."
"I don't talk about him much. But I think about him all the time."
The words were quiet and unemotional, but they struck a chord that vibrated deep down in Karen's very bones. Her fingers closed over Cheryl's shoulder. "We'll do it. Come hell or high water, burglars or bankruptcy, you'll have him with you in time for kindergarten this fall."
It was an extravagant promise, a promise she had no right to make; factors over which neither of them had any control could make it impossible to keep. But she was filled with shame at her selfishness. Preoccupied with her own emotional problems, she had failed to consider Cheryl's.
Yet who would have supposed that beneath the other woman's smooth, bright facade there was a layer of sensibility as fragile, and as damaged, as the shattered silk lining of an antique garment?
She ought to have known, or at least suspected. Friendship deserved more than she had given.
CHAPTER NINE
FALLS CHURCH was, as Cheryl put it, a bust. The buildings they inspected were too expensive, too rundown, or in the wrong area. They left their names with a realtor who promised to notify them if anything turned up and headed for home, feeling somewhat deflated.
"We've just begun," Cheryl said consolingly. "Shall we have a quick look at Alexandria? You never know…"
Karen consulted her watch. "I'm afraid there's not time. Rob is totally unreliable, and I'm going to be late as it is."
As matters turned out, she was even later than she had expected. They finally found a parking place several blocks from the house; and as they approached it they saw something on the doorstep. It resembled a pile of rags rather than a human being, and Cheryl said pitifully, "Oh, it's one of those poor old bag ladies, shopping bags and all. I feel so sorry for them."
"That's no bag lady." Karen came to a stop and clutched Cheryl. "That's Mrs. Grossmuller!"
"My God, it is!" Cheryl clutched back. They stood huddled together, staring, until Karen let out a nervous laugh.
"What are we going to do? We can't stand here like a couple of Victorian damsels in distress."
"Let's walk around the block. Maybe she'll go away."
But Mrs. Grossmuller had seen them. Rising with monolithic dignity, she beckoned. She wore what must have been her "town" clothes-a rumpled, tarnished black suit of decidedly antique vintage, and the most incredible hat Karen had ever seen. It measured a good two feet across and was heaped with limp pink moire bows, with an almost naked ostrich feather crowning the pile.
"Don't laugh," Karen said out of the corner of her mouth, as they obeyed the summons.
"Laugh? I'm more likely to howl like Alexander. Why, hello there-Mrs. Grossmuller, isn't it?"
"I have been waiting a considerable time." Mrs. Grossmuller brushed at her dusty skirt. "You are very late."
Her dignity was so extreme it was difficult not to apologize; but Karen managed to refrain from doing so. Being at a loss for words, she fell back on the formula she used with customers. "Can I help you with anything?"