Fidelity

17

Ted Forrest had been raised well. His parents had instilled in him the values of the old California upper class. Although he seldom went to chamber concerts, he was one of the orchestra’s most generous patrons. He had been to the art gallery in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco exactly twice-once when he was in elementary school and once for a charitable party held there-but there were plaques in the entrance wall and in one of the galleries acknowledging the support of the Theodore and Caroline Forrest Foundation. He also signed checks each year to museums in San Jose, Santa Cruz, and Napa, and two zoos. He helped sponsor annual pageants celebrating the founding of four towns in the central valley that were near family holdings. He occasionally went to those celebrations, partly because he liked the unjustified gaiety. There was always good food, a liberal pouring of local wines, and some kind of fiesta that involved the crowning of a queen. He liked getting a look at the young lady and her court, who were always the most impressive examples of the local livestock, raised on sunshine, exercise, clean air, and fresh vegetables.

Tonight he was forced to spend his charm on the chamber-music lovers. A few of them were bony retired female professors, librarians, and others completely alien to him, but there were also a number of people who were like Ted Forrest. They were men and women of his class who cared little about spending evenings listening to violinists, but felt that not to have an orchestra would leave their reputations for gentility diminished. Collier and Rowland were here with their nearly identical blond wives, who were cousins. Powers and his wife weren’t going to make it this time, supposedly because they had a prior engagement. Ted Forrest suspected that it was because Janice Powers couldn’t bear the thought of spending an evening so utterly in the power of Caroline Forrest. He had noticed years ago that Jan was usually willing to go places were she and Caroline were on an equal footing and there were enough people so they could avoid each other, but these evenings of Caroline’s required Jan to spend too many hours with her face set in a fixed, muscle-cramping smile.

Ted Forrest felt the same way about Caroline’s events. He also felt a certain relief that Caroline took such an interest in civic and philanthropic causes, because he knew it reflected well on him and preserved the Forrest family’s visibility in the region. Since the family’s livelihood depended entirely on the continued favor-or at least tacit approval-of politicians, it was essential to keep projecting the impression of money, influence, and conditional benevolence.

He stood at the head of the giant table in the grand dining room, looked down it at the forty-two faces, and held up his wineglass. “As always, I drink first to our superb musicians, gathered to us from all over the world, to our brilliant and renowned music director, Aaron Mills, and to our tireless, dedicated staff.” He sipped the wine to a smattering of applause, but he did not sit down. “No, you’re applauding between movements, because I’m not finished. Tonight I also offer a toast to our many volunteers, led by our able president Dr. David Feiniger, and to the generous donors who have supported the orchestra throughout the year. May your enthusiasm never wane.” He drank again and the clapping was much louder and more prolonged, as he had known it would be, because they were applauding themselves.

As usual, Ted Forrest had brought glory to himself, with little effort. It was like giving a shake to a tree exploding with blossoms. The petals simply fell around him. The orchestra crowd was easy because they were self-trained never to allow critical thoughts about any praise connected with the institution. They were satisfied with the chamber orchestra because it was an expensive entertainment that gave its patrons the reputation for being high-minded, intelligent, and public-spirited.

White-coated waiters from the catering company that Caroline had selected scuttled around behind the guests at the long table, serving and pouring and then deftly shooting a hand in to withdraw an empty plate here and there. Ted Forrest had an elderly lady from Germany on his left. For the first part of the dinner he addressed to her a great many pleasant observations, but because he hadn’t attended any concerts this year, they were vague. He commented mainly about the new chamber-concert facility made by a remodeling of an historic stone mansion a few miles from here, and his approval of music in general. He repeated a couple of comments about the season that he had overheard Caroline make to friends and that for no known reason had stuck in his memory.

It was far too late to ask the lady’s name, and he couldn’t manage to get her to volunteer it, what her reason for being here could be, or how she felt about anything other than the food, which she ate with enthusiasm. Forrest judged that she was probably an appendage of somebody high in the organization, just as he was, and that she preferred to keep still.

For the second half of the dinner, he turned to his right to speak with the first violinist, Maria Chun. She was very pretty, with long straight black hair that swung when she moved, as though it were heavy. It might have been Forrest’s imagination, but he felt sure that she had read his mind, realized what he was thinking, and begun to despise him within the first few seconds of her arrival. Women did tend to make irrevocable judgments of that sort without letting much time elapse or wasting much thought reconsidering. He supposed it was possible that she had spent an entire life dividing her time between playing the violin and evading men over fifty. But Ted Forrest was the host, and he didn’t have the luxury of rejecting anyone or refusing to speak with them.

He said, “I’ve often wondered what you do in the off-season, when there are no concerts.”

“Oh, different things,” Maria Chun said. “Francisco, the other first violin, serves as a guest concertmaster for the symphony orchestra in Buenos Aires. Some of the others teach master classes in universities. Some go on tour.”

“I meant you, specifically. What do you do-give the Stradivarius a rest?”

“It’s a Guarnerius.” She didn’t take him seriously enough to be offended or surprised. “Rest isn’t good for it, or for me. I study, practice, and spend time with my husband and kids.”

“Oh?’ he said. “Tell me about them. How old are your children?”

“Ten and thirteen.”

“Are they musicians?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of? You mean we can’t expect a next generation of virtuosos?”

“My daughter Simone plays the cello. My son Anthony plays the electric guitar.”

“But you’re not satisfied. Parents can be pretty tough.” Ted Forrest was mystified by his own transgression, as he often was. She had mentioned the husband and kids to keep him from pursuing her. Why did these attempts to fend him off titillate him? He kept trying to learn more, to make his way into her personal life like a voyeur. He had a wife, and he had a girlfriend. He had no time for Maria Chun. What was he after?

“They’re great kids,” she said. “But neither of them really wants to be a professional musician. And it’s getting late to start. Most people who do this are pretty well launched into it by thirteen.”

“And what does your husband feel about this? I assume he’s a musician, too.”

“No.” She smiled with an unexpected amusement at the idea, and her smile made Ted Forrest jealous. “My husband is a professional hockey player.”

“Really?” Ted Forrest feigned amusement, mixed with a tiny bit of contempt. “What’s his name?”

“Gus Kopcynski. He plays for the Los Angeles Kings.”

Forrest was stung. He had heard of her husband, and it rankled. “I’ve heard of him.” Her husband was a star, a veteran who scored now and then, but was more famous for his assists and for the sort of body check that sent an opponent into the boards with bone-shaking impact. He was about thirty. He had the body of a fighter and a smile that was no less engaging when the gaps in his front teeth were showing. He was a man whom other men respected, a special man with toughness and world-class skill.

And suddenly Ted Forrest became nothing. He had, at times, attracted women with the very qualities Maria’s husband had, but he had never been the equal of her husband, and now he was well past his prime. He sometimes half-admitted to himself that to some women the compelling attraction was his money. Gus Kopcynski might not have the kind of money Ted Forrest had, but he had plenty by now, enough so Forrest’s had no attraction for this woman.

The next thing Forrest felt was a grip on his arm-hard, like a pinch. He kept himself from jumping, because he didn’t want Maria to see he was startled. Caroline’s face was no more than six inches from his ear, between him and Maria Chun. “I’m sorry, Maria, but I’ve got to borrow Ted for a moment. When I get back, I’d like to introduce you. Will that be okay?”

“Sure. Give me time to tune up, and I’ll be set.” She was up and walking before Ted could stand.

He smiled and said to the elderly lady on his left, “Excuse me, please,” but she didn’t seem to hear him.

He followed Caroline through the swinging door into the busy kitchen, past cooks and waiters and busboys and out the back door to the delivery entrance off the driveway. Caroline got a few yards from the house, where there were boxes of supplies piled, but no caterers were visible. She whirled and said, “You’ve been ignoring Monika Zellin, and she’s practically the guest of honor.”

“You mean the old lady?”

“Yes, Ted. I mean the old lady. I put her next to you on purpose because I thought I could count on you to be gracious.”

“I talked to her for an hour. Half the time she didn’t seem to hear me, and the other half she didn’t seem to understand English. Who is she, anyway?”

“She’s a famous composer, one of the few living women composers of the thirties. She was also a hero in the war.”

“Which side?”

“Very funny. When I put you there, I didn’t think you’d spend your time chatting with the help.”

“You mean Maria Chun?”

“You know I do. Maybe I’m underestimating her. You seemed positively dazzled. Don’t embarrass me, Ted. Just don’t.” She spun and hurried back through the kitchen, and was lost behind a sudden convergence of taller figures in white coats.

Ted Forrest took a step toward the kitchen door, then stopped. It was a perfect opportunity. He walked down the back lawn into the darkness, took out his cell phone, and dialed. He waited through five rings, then heard Hobart’s voice. “Yes.”

At the sound, Forrest felt an onset of dry-mouthed fear. He wished he hadn’t called, but now that the connection had been made, Hobart would see his number on the bill. “Hi,” he said as casually as he could. “It’s me. Can you talk?”

“It’s not a good idea to call me.”

“I know, but I wanted to know if it’s done. Is it? Do I need to get you the rest of the money?”

“No. I’ll tell you when it’s done.”

“All right. I just didn’t want to keep you waiting if it was.” It was such a blatant, childish lie that he began to sweat. He could hear Hobart breathing, but Hobart didn’t deign to respond.

After a few seconds, Hobart said, “There’s nothing about this that needs your attention. No more calls unless you have something urgent and important to tell me. It’s an unnecessary risk.”

“Since I’ve already called, can you tell me anything?”

“I’ve found her. I’ve seen her. I looked around the office, and I could tell she’s trying to keep the agency open. That means she’s got people around her most of the time, so it will take longer. I’m working on it. Satisfied?”

“You’re taking care of it, though? I don’t have to worry?”

“Not as long as you don’t draw attention to yourself.”

“Okay, then. I’ll just wait until I hear from you.”

“Do that.”

The telephone went dead. Forrest looked at his watch, holding it close to his face so he could decipher the glowing radium dots and lines. It was nine thirty. As he walked back toward the house, he heard distant applause. When it subsided, he heard the high, clear tone of a violin.

He went in through the kitchen to the dining room. The waiters had closed the big oak doors on the far side so they could clear dishes without fear of making noise. Ted Forrest made his way past them toward the door to the foyer, slipped through and quickly closed the door behind him. He walked to the high portal that led to the immense formal living room, stepped in, and stopped with his back to the wall.

The only other person standing was Maria Chun, who was playing a strikingly complicated passage with lots of rapid fingering and the bow bouncing up and down the strings. Her eyes passed across him, but he could tell that they were not seeing him. They were looking inward at some memory of the music she was playing.

Caroline’s eyes found him. She was sitting in her usual chair near the back of the room, where she could oversee the proceedings. She had given the seat beside her-his seat-to a woman from the chamber-series patrons’ group. He could tell Caroline’s eyes had been on the door, waiting for him. They narrowed and she turned away, staring at Maria Chun.

Ted Forrest backed out of the room, and in a moment he was through the foyer and in the library. He went out the French doors to the rose garden. He could see that even the circular part of the drive at the front of the house had cars parked along the edge of it. There were a couple of chauffeurs down near the end of the driveway standing between their big dark-colored cars smoking cigarettes.

Forrest walked up the two-hundred-foot paved path that led to the garage. He decided he liked the sound of Maria Chun’s violin wailing and chirping in the distance. Maybe next year he would try to make it to a concert or two. That, of course, would depend to some extent on the state of his truce with Caroline. He wasn’t going to want to sit next to her for hours if she was in the avenging-bitch mode she was in tonight.

He kept walking, beginning to enjoy the night air. The garage was far from the house because it had originally been the stable and carriage house, and the Forrests of the time had not wanted odors and horseflies too close. He went in through the side door and the motion detector switched on the light. The high ceiling and painted rough-hewn rafters were all that remained from the carriage-house days, but the garage felt like a link with his family because Caroline had not brought decorators and architects in to embellish or disguise it. He got into his BMW, pressed the remote control to open the garage door, and started the engine. He went out slowly, the engine just above an idle so the sound of it didn’t interfere with Maria Chun’s recital, and then coasted, letting the natural slope of the driveway build his momentum.

As he passed the two chauffeurs, he gave a friendly wave. He didn’t know who either of them worked for, but he approved of servants who knew what they were doing. They had let off their passengers at the front entrance, then parked far down the drive to leave the most desirable spaces for people who had driven themselves. Now they were on their feet watching the house for signs of their employers, and not smoking inside their cars.

He reached the open gate and pulled onto the road, giving his car some gas. The sensation of speed raised his spirits, and he found himself thinking of Powers’s wife Jan. At the time of their fling twenty years ago, he had anticipated that he would feel remorse. Powers had been his friend since early childhood, and Janice was practically still a bride at the time. She had barely turned twenty. It was true that he did occasionally feel he owed Powers some guilt. But the surprise was that the strongest and most sincere feeling he had was joy at having Powers’s wife. It was a victory over Powers, better than any other kind of victory there was, and he still felt it strongly every time he saw them together.

He had also anticipated the probability that there would be awkwardness between him and Jan after they had been in bed together. Since he and Powers would be friends forever, the awkwardness might be a problem. It didn’t turn out to be the sort of problem he had expected. He had been younger then, and not known himself very well yet. The awkwardness was real and it had lasted for two decades so far, but it wasn’t exactly unpleasant. Jan had trouble meeting his eyes, and if he touched her hands they would sweat, and she always tried to avoid being alone with him, even for a minute. He found her discomfort interesting, even flattering.

The part he didn’t anticipate showed how little imagination he’d had when he was young. It had never occurred to him that being close friends with her husband meant that through the years he would be forced to watch her age. Already she wasn’t the beautiful, tempting young bride he had seduced. She was forty and beginning to show a broadening of the hips, a few wrinkles ruining her forehead and upper lip, and a slackening of the skin of her neck.

The girl he remembered was better. Powers had been in New York on some kind of business. Ted Forrest recalled that there was some meeting connected with property that Powers had inherited, some legal papers to sign. In the morning, Forrest watched Caroline drive off toward San Francisco to shop, then made a telephone call to Powers’s hotel in New York. Powers was out doing whatever he was there for, but the hotel clerk made it clear he was still registered. Then Forrest drove to Powers’s house for a surprise visit to the little woman.

He had a new Corvette. When he pulled up to the house he stopped directly in front of the door so when she opened it she saw the car, a waxed and shining image of speed and freedom. He told her that her husband had asked him to be sure Janice got out of the house while he was away and had some fun. Forrest talked about Powers as he drove her to a restaurant above the ocean at Half Moon Bay. They had a bottle of wine with lunch, and he kept filling her glass as he told funny stories. By then none of the stories included a mention of Powers.

They drove a few miles to another spot he knew that had the best view of the ocean. When they arrived, he extravagantly rented a room on an upper floor with a balcony, so she could see it. And the view really was spectacular. The horizon line of the deep blue Pacific seemed so high it appeared to be over their heads. As they were on the balcony sipping drinks he had made from the minibar, he put his arm around her waist. She gave a slight jump with an almost-silent intake of breath and stiffened a bit. He kept his hand there and waited. He could tell she was thinking, trying to decide what to do, what to say. He gave her ten seconds, then kissed her.

As he thought about that day, the rest of it came back to him. He remembered her saying no a couple of times, feebly. And he remembered rolling over in bed and reaching into the pocket of the pants he’d left on the floor to get the condom, then seeing the shocked, almost-angry expression on her face. “You brought that?” she said. “You knew?”

He said, “I hoped.”

After that, she was different-better, really, because she’d had to stop pretending she didn’t know that this wasn’t an accident. The sex was certainly better-spiteful, selfish, greedy. They stayed as late as they dared. On the ride home she told him that she hated him, and that she would do everything possible to be sure she and her husband never saw him again. But it was a long, long ride home, and by the time he turned to go up the driveway to her house, they were agreeing when they should meet again. It lasted a couple of years, and then it ended, by another agreement, when she was pregnant with her first child.

Ted looked at his watch. He could be sure that Caroline’s ordeal would last at least another couple of hours, and probably three. He took out his cell phone and dialed. This time it rang only once.

“Hi,” he said. “I escaped.”

He could hear the sweet young voice say, “I’m so happy. How long can you stay?”

It was good to hear somebody say things like that again.