“I promise I won’t go a moment over sixty,” Stefan grasped her shoulders cheerfully from behind and gave a tidy squeeze.
“It’s all this talk of murder,” Jupiter clicked his tongue. “She’s a sensitive girl, n’est pas?”
Laraine concocted an elaborate yawn and Nicole made optimistic eyes at Mr. Verona.
CHAPTER 11
Going over the Queensboro Bridge, Claire turned clear around in her seat to get a good look at the skyline. The sky had turned overcast but the heavens were lit. New York lived and breathed a great mucky glow of its own. She sighed. That’s my town from here on in, she realized, pleased. Oh, it would all work out. She felt better now, all snuggled up in the leather upholstery soft as butter. There was something about a posh car. It made you forget all about tomorrow. Rather like late-night television. She looked over at Stefan. He smiled back, concerned. He wasn’t so bad, really. Just a hell of a snob. But then so had she been, back in the Munich days. She stroked the nice leather. There was nothing wrong with being a snob. It showed you were discerning. Perhaps Stefan was only so happy-go-lucky on the outside. Maybe he was as wracked by doubts and inconsistencies as she. After all, she hadn’t given him much of a chance.
As though reading her change of heart with some devious instinct, he leaned over and placed one hand on the seat beside her knee. He wore a heavy gold ring with a lapis lazuli stone.
“That’s an interesting ring,” she admired.
Stefan chuckled. “My great-grandfather’s ring.”
“Is that so?” Claire imagined herself, years down the road, wearing such a ring herself. And Stefan, dignified Stefan, one day passing his own heavy ring down to their son. The only trouble was, the son looked remarkably like a miniature Johnny Benedetto. “Honestly,” she said out loud, “sometimes I get so confused. There really is something to be said for the oblivion of drunkenness.”
“Only you’re not drunk, are you?” he said, meaning something else. Of course, he wasn’t stupid. He hadn’t got to where he was by being dim-witted.
“You’re the type who’s always thinking,” he eyed her fondly. “That brain never stops.”
“Oh, it stops, all right. It just does so at teeming intersections.”
“You know what you need?”
“What?”
“A good dose of security. That’s what.”
“I’ve got all the security I need. I’m living with my parents, after all.”
“I mean real security. Financial. Then you’d be free to pursue your art.”
“I could always get a job, Stefan.”
“Or marry someone with a lot of money.”
Claire switched on the radio. Why was he saying things like this to her? Did he like her that much? Financial security was an attractive commodity. He knew she knew that. Albinoni’s adagio for strings came on. One of her dad’s favorites. Now her parents didn’t have much more than a pot to piss in and yet they had everything. At least, if you looked at it a certain way they did. Her mother always said there was no security in the world. Just look at Mrs. Dixon. Whatever it was, Mary always had a handy point of reference among her friends. That poor woman. She’d looked after her bedridden mother for years until the poor old thing had died. There was no money left after that and she wasn’t getting any younger, so when Rudy Dixon came along, nice big house, good job with a fine company … she’d accepted his marriage proposal with relief. Finally someone to look after her. Security. And what had happened? Not two years into the marriage, Rudy had had himself a massive stroke and Mrs. Dixon spent the next thirty years looking after helpless Rudy and cleaning that big house herself. No, there were no sure things, no security in the world. Banks did fail. Stocks and bonds collapsed. You were better off taking your chances with someone you loved.