when you've taken care of the apartment, the furniture, whatever you have to do, you'll go away for a while, just to restore yourself and get some rest."
"You make it sound like I'm a hundred years old." And she didn't ask him how he thought she was going to pay for the trip. There was almost nothing anymore. She was cooking for herself in the vast kitchen, and she was not doing much else. She wasn't buying anything, going anywhere. In fact, just that morning, she had been thinking of selling her clothes. The evening clothes at least. She had two closets of them. But she knew that if she told Ivo, he'd have a fit.
"I mean it, I want you to go away somewhere. You need it. This has been an enormous strain. We both know that. If I could, I'd send you away right now, but I know that you have to be here. Will you promise me to think about it?"
"I'll see." She had survived Christmas by forgetting It entirely, and spent the holidays packing up her father's books. Somehow now she couldn't think of much else. The rare books were going to London, to auction, back whence they had come, and hopefully they would bring a good price. The appraiser said they were worth several hundred thousand dollars. She hoped he was right.
"What did Parke-Bernet tell you?" Now Ivo looked tired too. He came by to see her almost every day, but he hated her news. Selling, packing, getting rid of, it was like watching her unravel her whole life.
"The sale will be in two months. They'll make space for it in the schedule. And they are very pleased with our things." She handed Ivo his usual Scotch and soda and sat down. "Can I interest you in some dinner?"
"You know, I'm very impressed with your cooking. I never knew you could cook."
"Neither did I. I'm discovering that there are a lot of things I can do. Speaking of which"--she smiled at him as he took a long swallow of his Scotch--"I've been wanting to ask you about something."
He smiled as he sat back against the couch. "What's that?"
"I need a job." The matter-of-fact way she said it almost made him wince.
"Now?"
"No, not this minute, but when I finish all this. What do you think?"
"At the Mail? Bettina, you don't want that." And then, after a moment, he nodded. At least he could do that much for her. "As my assistant?"
She laughed and shook her head, "No nepotism, Ivo. I mean a real job that I'm qualified for. Maybe a copy girl."
"Don't be ridiculous. I won't let you do that."
"Then I won't ask you for a job." She looked determined. And the agony of it struck him again and again. But the truth of it was that she would need a job. She had faced it, and he was going to have to face it too. "Well see. Let me give it some thought. Maybe I can come up with a better idea than something at the Mail."
"What? Marry a rich old man?" She said it in jest and they both laughed.
"Not unless you audition me first."
"You're not old enough. Now, how about dinner?"
"You're on."
They exchanged another smile, and she disappeared into the kitchen to put on some steaks. She quickly set the long refectory table that her father had brought back from Spain, and she set a vase of yellow flowers down on the deep-blue cloth. When Ivo wandered into the kitchen a few minutes later, everything was underway.
"You know, Bettina, you're going to spoil me. I'm getting used to stopping here every night on my way home. It beats the hell out of frozen dinners or sandwiches on stale bread."
She turned to laugh at him as he said it, pushing back her rich coppery locks with the back of one hand. "Ha! When did you ever eat a frozen dinner, Ivo Stewart? I'll bet you haven't eaten dinner at home once in ten years! Speaking of which, what's happened to your social life since you started to baby-sit for me? You never go out anymore, do you?"
He looked vague as he touched the bright flowers on the table. "I haven't had time. Things have been awfully busy at the office." And then, after a moment, he looked at her again. "And what
"You make it sound like I'm a hundred years old." And she didn't ask him how he thought she was going to pay for the trip. There was almost nothing anymore. She was cooking for herself in the vast kitchen, and she was not doing much else. She wasn't buying anything, going anywhere. In fact, just that morning, she had been thinking of selling her clothes. The evening clothes at least. She had two closets of them. But she knew that if she told Ivo, he'd have a fit.
"I mean it, I want you to go away somewhere. You need it. This has been an enormous strain. We both know that. If I could, I'd send you away right now, but I know that you have to be here. Will you promise me to think about it?"
"I'll see." She had survived Christmas by forgetting It entirely, and spent the holidays packing up her father's books. Somehow now she couldn't think of much else. The rare books were going to London, to auction, back whence they had come, and hopefully they would bring a good price. The appraiser said they were worth several hundred thousand dollars. She hoped he was right.
"What did Parke-Bernet tell you?" Now Ivo looked tired too. He came by to see her almost every day, but he hated her news. Selling, packing, getting rid of, it was like watching her unravel her whole life.
"The sale will be in two months. They'll make space for it in the schedule. And they are very pleased with our things." She handed Ivo his usual Scotch and soda and sat down. "Can I interest you in some dinner?"
"You know, I'm very impressed with your cooking. I never knew you could cook."
"Neither did I. I'm discovering that there are a lot of things I can do. Speaking of which"--she smiled at him as he took a long swallow of his Scotch--"I've been wanting to ask you about something."
He smiled as he sat back against the couch. "What's that?"
"I need a job." The matter-of-fact way she said it almost made him wince.
"Now?"
"No, not this minute, but when I finish all this. What do you think?"
"At the Mail? Bettina, you don't want that." And then, after a moment, he nodded. At least he could do that much for her. "As my assistant?"
She laughed and shook her head, "No nepotism, Ivo. I mean a real job that I'm qualified for. Maybe a copy girl."
"Don't be ridiculous. I won't let you do that."
"Then I won't ask you for a job." She looked determined. And the agony of it struck him again and again. But the truth of it was that she would need a job. She had faced it, and he was going to have to face it too. "Well see. Let me give it some thought. Maybe I can come up with a better idea than something at the Mail."
"What? Marry a rich old man?" She said it in jest and they both laughed.
"Not unless you audition me first."
"You're not old enough. Now, how about dinner?"
"You're on."
They exchanged another smile, and she disappeared into the kitchen to put on some steaks. She quickly set the long refectory table that her father had brought back from Spain, and she set a vase of yellow flowers down on the deep-blue cloth. When Ivo wandered into the kitchen a few minutes later, everything was underway.
"You know, Bettina, you're going to spoil me. I'm getting used to stopping here every night on my way home. It beats the hell out of frozen dinners or sandwiches on stale bread."
She turned to laugh at him as he said it, pushing back her rich coppery locks with the back of one hand. "Ha! When did you ever eat a frozen dinner, Ivo Stewart? I'll bet you haven't eaten dinner at home once in ten years! Speaking of which, what's happened to your social life since you started to baby-sit for me? You never go out anymore, do you?"
He looked vague as he touched the bright flowers on the table. "I haven't had time. Things have been awfully busy at the office." And then, after a moment, he looked at her again. "And what
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