Lost Joy
by Jennifer Feith
New York City, 1950
The gala was held in the grand ballroom of one of the city's most
luxurious hotels. The guest list was riddled with big, important
names--they wouldn't have stood for anything less. Broadway's finest
mingled with the socialites who paid to keep them in the spotlight.
The few media personages fortunate enough to be there tried frantically
to be in every corner of the room at once, determined to catch the
quote or the picture that would grace the front of the next day's
society pages.
Rumors surfaced, were denied, and spread even faster for their denial.
Those who had a bit more experience pretended not to be aware of the
stories that were circulated. Backbiting, betrayal, idle speculation--
they all knew the game. And Hilary Booth was one of its expert
players.
Her hand rested lightly on her husband's arm as she spoke briefly to
one of the reporters. She smiled, responded graciously, and managed
not to actually answer a single question. Seeming to catch the eye of
someone across the room that she simply had to talk to, she glided
past, leaving the journalist frustrated. Her manner was as light and
confident as if she hadn't known that a good portion of the whispered
conversations in the room concerned her.
Hilary turned to her husband with an affectionate smile they both knew
was a lie. "David, darling," she said, the false endearment sliding
past her lips easily, "would you get me a drink?"
His aristocratic features molded themselves into an expression that
matched hers. "Of course, Hilary." He stepped away, which was the cue
for the guest nearest Hilary to turn to her and strike up a
conversation. Hilary listened to the mindless chatter with half an
ear, hearing only new versions of the same stories she had already been
told about the other guests in the room. The rumors about her own
marriage wouldn't come up, of course, but anyone else's private life
was fair game.
"I heard we have some Hollywood types with us tonight." The other
woman was absurdly young and gushing. Probably hoping for a movie
break. As far as Hilary was concerned, Hollywood could keep to itself.
In fact, she sincerely hoped it would.
"I think I'll go see what's taking David so long with my drink," she
said pleasantly. "If you'll excuse me." She turned, but only took two
steps before she froze in place, the color draining from her face as
she locked eyes with the man leaning against the opposite wall.
"Jeffrey," she whispered.
He had been watching her for some time. Since she walked in, in fact.
He had heard all the rumors, of course. In fact, he'd barely been in
the city for two hours before he knew that Hilary's newest husband was
already supposed to be sleeping with another woman. Watching them now,
he was pretty sure the rumors were true. She was playing her part
right, but he thought he could tell the difference by now between
Hilary in love, and Hilary putting on a damned good show.
He didn't really want to go over to her. Some things were best left
alone, and the slowest wounds to heal were also the most painful when
reopened. Still, Jeff couldn't tear his eyes from her. So when she
turned, her eyes straying accidentally in his direction, it was too
late to look away.
She hadn't expected to see him here, that much was obvious. She
recovered her poise quickly, but there was no mistaking her initial
shock. And there was no mistaking the expression that replaced it,
either.
Anger.
Hilary was livid. They might not have said it out loud, but they had
drawn their silent boundaries very clearly, mutually deciding without a
word to put a country between them. Hollywood was Jeff's territory--
and New York was hers. How dare he come walking back into her world,
now of all times?
He was next to her almost before she knew he was crossing the room.
"If it's the gossip you're worried about, I wouldn't be." His voice
was low in her ear. "I don't think this crowd even remembers I was
part of your string of husbands. We weren't exactly in the spotlight
then."
Hilary's expression was polite, but her tone was ice. "That's
wonderful. Then we don't need to worry about starting a rumor that
might get back to Hollywood and distress whichever ambitious blonde
harlot--excuse me, starlet--you're seeing this month."
"Actually, I'm engaged." The words slipped out without thought.
Hilary's eyes narrowed. He wondered if the news hurt her. He hoped it
did.
"How lovely for you." Her voice was perfectly even. "It must be hard
to tear yourself away to come to New York, then."
"I didn't want to come here," Jeff responded. "It was my producer's
idea, and my agent loved it. I didn't exactly have a choice."
"Poor Jeffrey." She turned to go.
His hand on her arm stopped her. "I'm going to be here for a while,
Hilary. We're bound to run into each other again. We could at least
be civil."
The insincerity in her smile chilled him. "Of course, Jeffrey."
Her husband stepped up to them then, and Hilary slid her arm neatly
through his. "Look who's here, David," she said. "An old
friend...Jeffrey Singer."
Even David couldn't miss the venom lacing his wife's voice. He
searched for something neutral to say, and settled on, "I've seen some
of your movies."
Jeff and Hilary were silent. David tried again before realizing that
his faltering attempts at conversation were useless. He was saved by
someone across the room calling his name.
They were still silent for a moment after he left them. Finally, Jeff
spoke. "I'm going to the cemetery tomorrow."
Hilary started. "What?"
"I'm going to see her. I haven't been to the grave since I left New
York." His expression twisted. "Maybe you should come. It would be a
fittingly gruesome family reunion."
Hilary regarded him coolly. "Maybe I will."
There were flowers on her grave.
Somehow it made Jeff feel better. Not much, though.
He hadn't really expected Hilary to show up, so he was surprised to
hear her walk up behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to confirm
that it was her.
Somehow, here, he couldn't summon much of the bitterness that had been
between them the night before. He gestured to the flowers with one
hand. "Come here often?"
"When I can." She glanced around; the cemetery really was a beautiful
place, tucked away in the middle of the heartless city. "I'd also
noticed you send some from time to time."
Jeff nodded. "Usually right before I drink until I can't see, much
less feel."
"I tried that." Hilary stared past him. "It never worked."
"Doesn't work too well for me, either."
They fell silent. Jeff stared at the headstone without really seeing
it--not that it mattered. The words were already burned well into his
memory.
Carolyn Booth Singer
November 12, 1942-October 17, 1945
There was no other writing. They hadn't been able to agree on what it
should be.
"I found out something recently." Hilary's voice cut through the
silence. "'Carolyn' means 'joy.'"
Jeff laughed humorlessly. "It's appropriate. She was everything that
was good in either of us. There wasn't much left after she was gone."
She didn't respond. After a moment he shrugged and decided to ask a
question he'd been wondering about. "Are you going to get a divorce?"
Hilary looked startled, and he couldn't blame her. "Not right away,"
she said finally, a wry twist to her lips. "David and I have an
understanding. We still have...benefits to reap from this marriage."
She glanced over at him. "What about you? Are you in love with your
fiancee?"
He sighed heavily. "I think I thought I was. No. I'm not. Neither
is she, I think."
"But you're going to go through with it." It wasn't a question.
Jeff shrugged. "Her father has some influence in Hollywood. And being
linked with me doesn't hurt her career, either." He looked straight at
her. "And she doesn't want children. All the others did. I'm not
going through that again."
Hilary stared at him for a moment. "I don't think I know you anymore."
"Funny." He smiled. "I was just thinking last night how well I still
know you."
She studied him a bit longer. "I don't think I like you very much."
"I thought we'd established that." He was still smiling cheerlessly.
"For what it's worth, I don't like you very much either. Even when I
couldn't take my eyes off you last night. You're still a very
beautiful woman, Hilary."
"She looked like you," Hilary said unexpectedly. "She had my coloring,
but it was your face."
"Damn it, Hilary," he swore. He didn't say anything else, but he
thought from her expression that she knew what he was feeling. It
might have been four years since they'd seen each other, but it could
be many more and it wouldn't matter. It didn't even matter if they
couldn't stand each other. He would never be able to completely sever
his connection to Hilary. They were too many parts of each other.
They didn't say anything else. But when they turned to leave the
cemetery, they went together.
They exchanged few words, but it was Hilary who gave the cab driver the
name of Jeff's hotel. Their lovemaking was fast and raw. Her
fingernails scored his back as she cried out his name, and his teeth
left a mark on her shoulder. When it was over, Hilary watched him as
he got dressed.
"How long are you going to be in town?" she finally asked.
"About a month," he said.
"A month?" She couldn't quite keep the distress out of her voice.
Jeff turned. "Too long? Or not long enough?"
Hilary looked away. "It will be easier when you're gone."
It wasn't really an answer to the question. "We can be discreet.
David doesn't have to know." He shrugged. "If you care."
She glared at him. "Neither does..." she frowned, realizing she didn't
even have a name, "...she."
"Rebecca," he told her. Hilary decided she hated the name.
Jeff's voice was...pleasant. She wondered if he'd learned that
deception from her. "I think I'm going to drink myself into a stupor,"
he said, pleasantly. "Would you care to join me, or do you need to be
home?"
Hilary stared at him for a moment. She still hadn't gotten used to the
man Jeff had become...even though she had seen shades of him before
they finally separated.
"David won't be home tonight," she said finally. "Pour me a drink."
Without asking what she wanted, he chose a bottle from the selection
lining the windowsill. Brandy--her favorite brand, too. He poured a
glass for her and chose vodka for himself.
He settled into a chair across the room from her and lifted his glass.
"To Carolyn," he said grimly.
"To Carolyn," she echoed.
Simultaneously, they tilted back their drinks and swallowed.
THE END