Danielle Steel: Zoya

“Why do you stay married to her?” The whole world seemed to be getting divorced, and then she remembered before he even answered her, with a look of regret.

“We're both Catholic, Zoya. She'd never agree to it. I tried about ten years ago. She had a nervous breakdown, or so she claimed, and she's never been the same since. I can't leave her now. And, well …” He hesitated, and then decided to be honest with her. She was a woman he could trust, in the past year they had become fast friends. “To be honest with you, she drinks. I couldn't live with myself if I were responsible for something happening to her.”

“It doesn't sound like much fun for you,” an icy Boston debutante who drank and wouldn't give him a divorce. Zoya almost shuddered at the thought, but she saw a lot of women like that at the store, women who shopped because they were bored, and never wore what they took home because they didn't really care how they looked. “It must be lonely for you,” she looked at him with gentle eyes, and he reminded himself not to say too much. They had to work together every week, and he had learned that lesson long since. There had been other women in his life, but they never meant very much to him. They were just someone to talk to once in a while, or to make love to occasionally, but he had never met anyone like Zoya before, and he hadn't felt this way about a woman in years, or perhaps ever.

“I have my work to keep me going,” he smiled gently at her, “just like you.” He knew how hard she worked. It was all she lived for now, that and the children she loved so dearly.

By 1943, they were having dinner together every Monday night, when they left Simon's offices. It became an opportunity to discuss at greater length whatever they had done that day, and they usually ate at the little restaurants just off Seventh Avenue.

“How's Matt?” He smiled at her one night that spring.

“Matthew? He's fine.” He was three and a half, and the light of her life. “He makes me feel young again.” It was ironic that she had thought she was too old to have a child when he was born, and yet he gave her the most joy of all now. Sasha was out so much, it was almost as though she were gone. She had just turned eighteen. He had seen Sasha once, and was stunned by how beautiful she was. But he suspected what a handful she was for Zoya too. More than once Zoya had said that she could barely keep her in school. And Nicholas was still in London, and she prayed for his safe return night and day.

“How are your children, Paul?” He didn't talk about them much. His daughters were both married, one in Chicago, and the other on the West Coast, and his son was somewhere around Guam. And he had two grandchildren in California he seldom saw. His wife didn't like to go to California and he was afraid to leave her alone at home.

“My kids are fine, I guess,” he smiled, “they're so long gone from the nest, we don't hear from them much. Their childhoods weren't easy anyway, with Allison drinking so much. Something like that changes everything,” and then he smiled at her, he always liked hearing her news. “What's new at the store?”

“Not much. I opened a new department, for men this time, and we're trying out some new lines. It's going to be nice to get to Europe again, after the war, so we can try new things.” But there was no end in sight as it raged on across the Atlantic.

“I'd love to go back to Europe again sometime. By myself,” he grinned at her honestly. Baby-sitting for his wife was no fun, as she made her way from bar to bar, or hid in her room, pretending to be tired instead of drunk. Zoya wondered why he put up with it. It seemed to be a terrible burden on him, and she said as much when he took her home and she invited him up for a drink. He had only been in her apartment once before, and he remembered only an impression that it was cozy and warm, the way she was when she looked at him. He went up happily in the elevator with her, and sat on the couch in the library as she poured him a drink. She had called out to Sasha when they arrived, but the maid was out and Sasha wasn't home yet. Only Matthew was there, asleep in his room with his nanny.

“Tfou ought to take a holiday somewhere sometime, Paul. Go to California and see your children by yourself. Why should your life be crippled by what your wife does?”

“You're right, but it's not much fun alone.” He was always comfortable and honest with her, as he was now as he sipped his drink, and watched Zoya where she sat. She was wearing a white dress and her hair was pulled back like a girl's.

“No, it's not much fun to do things alone.” She smiled. “But I'm getting used to it.” It had been brutal getting used to a life without Simon.

“Don't get used to it, Zoya. It's lousy.” He said it with such vehemence, Zoya looked startled. “You deserve more than that.” He had spent his life alone and he didn't want to see it happen to her. She was vibrant and beautiful and alive and she deserved more than the loneliness he knew too well.

But she only laughed and shook her head. “I'm forty-four years old, I'm too old to start again.” And she knew that no one would ever measure up to Simon.

“Bullshit, I'm almost fifty-five, and if I had the chance to start again, I'd leap at it.” It was the first time he had said that to her, as he stretched his long legs out before him, his shock of white hair smoothly combed, his eyes alive as he looked at her. He always loved being with her. He looked forward to their hardworking Mondays all week. They were what kept him going.

I'm happy like this.” She was lying to herself more than to him. She wasn't happy, but it was all she had now.

“No, you're not. Why should you be?”

“Because it's all I have,” she spoke quietly, wise enough to accept her life as it was, rather than longing for a past that was gone forever. She had done that before, and she wouldn't do it again. She had to be content with what she had, her children and her work, and once a week her talks with Paul Kelly.

He was looking hard at her then, and without saying a word he set his glass down, and went to sit next to her, staring at her intently with the blue eyes that bored into her. “I just want you to know something. I can't do a damn thing about it, and I can't offer you anything right now, but Zoya … I love you. I have since the day we met. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me.” She looked stunned as he looked at her, and then without saying another word he took her in his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth, feeling his heart soar and his whole body ache for her, “You are so beautiful … and so strong …”

“Don't say that, Paul … don't …” She wanted to push him away, but she couldn't bring herself to. She felt so guilty for wanting him, it seemed to deny Simon's very memory, and yet she couldn't stop herself as she kissed him again, and clung to him as though she were drowning.

“I love you so much,” he whispered, kissing her again, his powerful arms holding her close, feeling her heart beat against his chest, and then he looked at her and smiled. “Let's go somewhere … away … anywhere … it would do us both good”

“I can't”

“Yes, you can … we can.” He held tightly to her hand and felt himself come alive again. The years seemed to fall away from him as he looked at her. He was young again and he wasn't going to let her get away from him. If he had to live with Allison for the rest of his life, then maybe at least, for one shining moment, he could have Zoya.

“Paul, this is crazy,” she pulled away from him, and walked around the room, seeing Simon's face in their photographs, glancing at his trophies, his treasures, his art books. “We don't have a right to this.”