Something To Be Brave For Read online

  Something To Be Brave For

  Priscilla Bennett

  © Priscilla Bennett 2017

  Priscilla Bennett has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This novel is dedicated to all the survivors of abuse. There is hope.

  “To move, speak and breathe—go out and come in unwatched, and free from danger!” Harriet Beecher Stowe

  For my husband and children with abounding love and gratitude.

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  PROLOGUE

  Beacon Hill, Boston

  Christmas Night 1997

  You’re curled up in a ball on the Persian carpet under the grand piano, clutching one of its ebony legs in your fist. Your nose and lips are bleeding, your knees are rug-burned, your silk dress is torn. You’re not sure exactly how long you’ve been here. You’ve never been a good judge of time, and adrenaline has a way of slowing time down – or does it seem to speed it up? – and the light is so dim that you can’t read the tiny face of your watch, but you’re sure you haven’t heard the church bell toll midnight, and anyway, you really don’t care what time it is. You just know you’re running out of it.

  The piano is a Steinway concert grand, built in 1919; the engraved nickel plate above your head says so. It’s the only piece of furniture in this house that is truly yours. The rest – the Louis Quatorze chairs, the ormolu coffee table – all belongs to Claude. Except for a pair of crystal sconces of Versailles-wannabe make, a gift from a grateful former patient, his money paid for it, just as it paid for your house, the place on Nantucket, and all the other “goodies”, as he calls the property and objects he owns… “Your” piano. It’s a strange thought, since these days nothing seems to belong to you, not your houses, your clothes, your furniture, not even your friends. Or, for that matter, your life. Two weeks ago he brought home the Mary Cassatt that hangs over the sofa. The painting’s subject sits in an opera box, holding an embroidered fan in her lap. She’s wearing a low-cut pink taffeta dress, a pearl choker, white gloves, and a broad smile. Claude said that the woman reminded him of you sitting in your box at the opera, though this girl’s a young, beautiful, poised strawberry blond, whereas you, while young, are a beaten, bruised, post-panic-stricken twenty-five-year-old redhead tending as best she can to a swollen lip and a nose that, whatever its other qualities, feels broken.

  The rough odor of narcissus bulbs from their pots on the windowsills claws at your throat, and your jaw is stiff. In your peripheral vision you sense the glimmering green and silver and red of the family Christmas tree, shining with Rose’s paper and tinfoil-and-ribbon decorations, but you are too injured to turn and look. With your tongue you take inventory of your teeth. All there: good. One less trip to the dentist, and you hate dentists – the screaming drill, the exposed nerves, all those gleaming instruments arrayed with cold precision on a stainless steel tray, much like the tools your husband uses when performing surgery, and just as deadly.

  Come to think of it, depending on how badly your nose has been smashed, you may need plastic surgery, though you don’t imagine Claude would be your first choice for the job. He seems more disposed to destroying your looks than saving them, which is puzzling, because he cares so deeply about appearances, including yours. No, that job may have to fall to your father – Claude’s mentor – though at the moment you’re not exactly keen on letting him at you with his knife either.

  You’re sure there’s something more you should be doing to protect yourself from what feels like the inevitable – something more than curling up under a piano – but you can’t seem to put your finger on it. In fact you can’t seem to focus on anything right now but your broken body. You wish you had your glasses, but they’re upstairs lying on the candy-striped carpet in Rose’s bedroom, the lenses crushed, the frames bent. And do you really want to see all this more closely?

  You listen hard and hear nothing but the muffled growl of studded tires on snow crunching along your quiet little street: somebody driving home to their own family, no doubt.

  You’ll be all right.

  You’ll stay here until morning, and you’ll do whatever you have to do to feel safe; you’ll survive. It’s what you’ve done before, and it’s what you’ll do again.

  Right?

  This is nothing new.

  Calm down. The worst is over.

  Try to believe it. You have to. What other choice is there?

  1

  Earlier Christmas night

  Claude said he wanted to give the Christmas party as a thank you to his office staff, but that really meant that he wanted to entertain and impress his favorite patients. “Darling, it will be so much fun with Mitzi and Gillian coming,” he’d said. “Your parents are coming, too. And we even have free entertainment, you know.”

  “We do?” I’d replied, thanking God Gillian would be here. Gillian Beckerman, my best friend from childhood and my father’s surgical fellow (and now colleague) who taught me to sail and introduced me to the world of old black-and-white films when we were girls.

  “Yes, Lola Winter has volunteered to perform. She’s wonderful, and your father will love her jazz. It will set just the right tone.”

  I preferred Christmas carols at Christmas time, but I understood very well what “the right tone” meant, so I said, “It sounds fabulous. What a great idea!”

  As long as your husband’s happy, you don’t have to worry. If he wants a party, then you want one, too. You’ll get into party mode – everything will be glowing and bright with women laughing and men talking, and Lola Winter’s signature bebop will lift the party into something people will talk about the next day. Claude will be happy for at least a week, maybe two weeks.

  The first to arrive were my parents.

  “May we entrée? It’s such a short walk, but I’m practically frozen,” my mother said, stepping into our mirror-tiled foyer, the heels of her black satin shoes clicking on the black-and-white-checked marble floor.

  “Of course, we’re so happy to see you. Come in and warm up. Merry Christmas,” Claude said, taking her hand and kissing it. I remembered the way he’d kissed my hand at our first meeting.

  “Oh, you are so charmant,” my mother said. “Katie is so lucky.” She flashed a smile at me, pulled off her gloves, and slipped them into the side pocket of her coat. At fifty, her looks had slipped almost imperceptibly from late summer to mid-autumn: the inevitable fade of color, the facial muscles loosening their grip and the grave aspect of approaching old age coming forward. Still, you could see the beauty she had been in her day.

  “No, I’m just an admirer of great beauty,” said Claude.

  “Well, I made a Büche de Noël especially for you, Claude. I know it’s one of your favorite Christmas things. Jack, give it to him, please.”

  Father stepped up, smiling, proffering the wrapped and beribboned box. “Merry Christmas, Claude.” He gave me a peck. “Merry Christmas, Katie.”

  “How thoughtful of you, chère Amelia, you always remember,” Claude said. “Please, let me have your coats.” He snapped his fingers for the maid, who
had just come inside after checking to see that the balsam wreath on the front door was still hanging straight. Claude had instructed her to check the wreath every time the door was opened because it tended to fall out of line just a bit with the door’s motion.

  My mother turned, giving me a professional scan. “Katie, you look divine in that green silk dress. Doesn’t she, Claude?”

  “Katie is divine in all ways,” he said.

  “It’s so Christmassy in here… well, except for that sash,” said my mother, eyeing my dress. “The proportion is all wrong. It shouldn’t be folded that way. It should be a touch wider, with a bigger bow, but I love that it matches your ascot, Claude. There,” she said, tugging at the sash at my waist. “That’s much better.”

  My mother’s sense of style had developed when she modeled hats at Chandler and Company in downtown Boston when she was sixteen. That’s where she met my father.

  “What an eye. I never would have noticed,” my father said, deadpan. His Ferguson bow tie was slightly askew – perhaps the maid should keep an eye on it? Father was silver haired now, nearing sixty, with a strong jaw, and lips slightly turned down at the corners, suggesting more than affirming taciturnity: a well-built man gracefully segueing into old age, full of confidence and with a glance that slipped across surfaces as delicately as a scalpel, leaving – depending on his mood – only a little less blood in its wake than one of his knives would.

  “Of course you wouldn’t, Jack,” chided my mother, possibly missing his tone. “Clothes don’t mean anything to you. And why should they? What you do is much more important than some silly dress.” She turned toward Claude. “You were so clever to have music tonight. Jack doesn’t really like celebrating holidays or going to parties. He cringes at the thought of it. He’d much rather be sitting in his study with some book, but when he heard Lola was going to play, he couldn’t wait.”

  “Amelia’s right about that. Nothing like good jazz,” my father said. “Miles Davis, John Coltrane.”

  “Chet Baker,” I said.

  My father looked at me and frowned. “What a strange thing to say. Chet Baker is jazz on a good day, if he happens to have one.”

  “I stand corrected,” I said.

  “Well, let’s go in,” Claude said brightly. “Katie, darling, some champagne?”

  “Ah, there’s my little Rosie!” my mother said, turning to the sound of quick footsteps. “Where have you been hiding, chipmunk?”

  “I’m here, Grandmamma,” Rose said, running up and hugging my mother. She was fresh from her bath, hair still slightly damp with sweet tendrils hanging on her neck. Her eyes were shining with the thrill of being in the middle of things and among the grown-ups on Christmas. Her girlfriends Tina and Karen were downstairs in the playroom.

  “Rosie, you look so lovely in your red velvet Christmas dress!” said my mother, giving the garment a quick once-over to see if adjustments were needed. (Apparently not.) “Let’s go see the tree, and then you must show me everything Santa brought you.” Over her shoulder she called, “Katie, you’ve outdone yourself this evening. The house looks magnificent!”

  Guests trickled in for an hour. Women draped in furs – sheared, shaved, dyed, natural: if once it had been on an animal, it was reincarnated as a coat for a slightly less predatory species. The rack in Claude’s study sagged under the weight of an ill-fated wild kingdom.

  As people arrived, Claude played host, introducing me to one beautifully-styled woman (and escort) after another. He passed a tray of caviar, poured champagne, and wished everyone a Merry Christmas. “Here – try the golden Iranian caviar. It has a sweet, nutty flavor – unbeatable.” He placed a loaded melba round on a waiting pink tongue like a priest administering communion, and his gorgeous South American parishioner chewed, swallowed, squealed and threw her arms around his neck.

  “Look, Claude, I had this custom made.” She held up her clutch. “Your initials and scalpel are set in diamonds. Isn’t it cute? I take it wherever I go so you’re never too far away.” She turned to me and gushed, “I hope you understand and appreciate how truly beloved your husband is. He’s the kindest, most giving man in the world.”

  “Oh, you couldn’t be more right,” I said, smiling at a tiny daisy cluster of Iranian fish eggs that had missed their mark and landed on her chin.

  “Now, now, Cassandra,” Claude said. “You’re an angel, and I love this purse. You’re so creative. It’s better than Judith Leiber’s.”

  I excused myself to check on the help and headed off down the hall toward the guest bathroom. I was intercepted by Anne Marshall, president of the Nantucket Garden Club, waving me down, her David Webb leopard, lion and black-panther bracelets clinking like little dry bones on her tiny tanned wrist.

  “Hey, girl, don’t forget the Garden Club meeting next week. We’ve got the Daffodil Flower Show to start planning for in April.

  We kissed cheeks.

  “Can’t wait. I love that show.”

  “I was in to see your husband last week. He lasered my eyes – no more dark circles. Aren’t they fab?”

  They did look good in her cute-kitty oval face.

  “Say, how about another little shopping spree?” she said. “We’ll start on Newbury Street. Can I call you?”

  Anne was the most impressive shopper I’d ever known, her needs limited only by her husband’s ability to pay for his infidelities.

  Here’s the bathroom.

  I came out of the cool, quiet space and returned to the living room, where I ran into Mitzi, another neighbor from Nantucket, and her companion, a Wall Street shark who owned a large collection of Impressionist art. Mitzi was wearing a blue diamond pendant worth more than most people’s houses, and her flawlessly tanned face rose above it, smooth, serene, composed, its native beauty long since put to rights. “I’ve been nipped, tucked and lifted more times than a bedsheet at the Parker House Hotel,” she’d often said.

  “Beautiful Katie, you’re a dream. Look at those bones and that nose. I still can’t believe your husband didn’t help at least a bit.”

  “No, really, it’s all natural, I promise.”

  “William, look at that tree. It should be over on Boston Common, it’s so big. Oh look, mistletoe, what a cute touch! I’ll have to get Claude underneath it. He’s such a genius, and I’ll bet he’s a fabulous kisser. Now where is that handsome husband of yours, Katie? I hope you’re taking good care of him – oh! There he is.”

  While Mitzi made her way over to Claude, I went downstairs to check on Rose, who was playing with Anne Marshall’s twins. Her girls, Tina and Karen, attended Beacon Hill Playschool with Rose. “They’re having so much fun, Mrs. Giraud,” our part-time housekeeper, Katrina, said. The girls shrieked in unison as they snorted and mooed through a verse of Old MacDonald Had a Farm.

  “Go back to your party! You don’t have to be concerned about a thing.”

  At the top of the stairs, I turned and Claude gave me a start, coming up from behind. He put his hands on my waist and despite myself, I stiffened.

  “Look at you, so beautiful. I love you,” he whispered, and he ran his nose up the side of my neck, his chest pressing against my back through his black dinner jacket. He circled an arm around me and let his hand drift up discreetly until his fingers were just touching my breasts.

  “It’s past Rose’s bedtime,” he whispered in my ear. “Shouldn’t you put her to bed?”

  “Oh, Claude, she’s having so much fun playing with the girls, let’s allow her to stay up a bit longer. It’s Christmas.”

  His arms tightened almost imperceptibly around my waist.

  “Oh, here’s Sally!” I exclaimed.

  Claude let go of me, intercepted a waiter’s tray of foie gras, and offered it to her. Sally, his office manager, scooped up a generous amount with the silver butter knife, spread it on a toasted triangle, then popped it into her plump mouth. “What a wonderful party,” she said, looking around and gently spitting liver-specked crumbs. “It look
s like office hours with all these familiar faces. A room full of ‘afters’.”

  “Sally, I’m glad you’re here, it’s been a while! I’ll leave you two to office-chat while I check out Lola.”

  “Come see us soon, Katie. We miss you at the office.”

  In the living room, I looked at my watch – nine o’clock and it felt like midnight. And here comes Barrett Browning of the Globe’s “Best Dressed” column.

  “Katie, you look divine. Whose dress are you wearing, and don’t tell me it’s yours. Ha ha! I want to put it in my column.”

  “Barrett, how sweet – I just can’t remember. Ask Mitzi. She’s wearing Chanel.”

  I grabbed a flute of champagne and sank into an armchair. I downed it – is there anything as easy to drink as champagne? – and beckoned for another when the waiter circled by me again. I let the party go its own way and contemplated the bookcase on the other side of the room. On its shelves sat my eight volumes of A Comprehensive History of World Art, whose somber span of pages concealed my secret stash. At the piano, Lola Winter’s new breasts chez Claude shimmered and bobbed, a red rose nestled in between them, as she leaned over the keys. I closed my eyes. Her rendition of You Go to My Head went to my head like sweet smoke, sending me to safe, exotic places. Places that weren’t here.

  As the song ended, I felt a hand on my arm and opened my eyes. I was drifting, getting a little tight. “Oh, Gillian, there you are.”

  “Sorry, I got hung up with a patient, and then Cooper called and said he couldn’t make it tonight. Psychiatric residents are chained to the hospital this time of year. All sorts of crazy things happen around the holidays – seasonal affective disorder, depression, you know – all that.” She waved the thought away, then planted a warm kiss on my cheek.

  “I can imagine. It must be difficult dealing with all the insanity – oops! No pun intended. But you look phenomenal, sort of like Katharine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story – Cooper must be agreeing with you.”