Gift of the Golden Mountain Read online

  Karin bit her lip; they had been through this before and it had never been resolved. "I did go to Europe with you after graduation . . ."

  "I give Kit credit for managing that, at least," May said, too sharply. She had been glad, then, for Kit's manipulations, for thinking far enough ahead to arrange for Karin to work in her company's New York office over spring vacation, so she could earn spending money for the trip.

  "It was good of her, May. It really was." Then Karin, too, moved away from the subject of Kit, and brought herself back to the one at hand. She continued, carefully, "Money really hasn't anything to do with it, I don't think. At least, not where we are concerned. It's just that I've never had a truly good friend before, a woman friend. And you are that . . . and sometimes I worry that the money, your money, could interfere. And I couldn't afford to have that happen."

  May smiled at the small pun, and remembered Kit telling her, at the end of their sophomore year, when Karin refused their offer of a summer at Kit's house in the south of France, about how money could be a problem, and especially between good friends. That summer May had gone to Thera instead. Kit had arranged that, too. She joined a research team from Berkeley that was exploring the only active seabed volcano in the Aegean. Kit was so goddamned good at arranging things, May knew that as well as anyone alive.

  "Are you worried that someday I might wonder if it's me you care about, or my money?" May asked.

  "That's too simple," Karin answered. "It's not just you and me, it's other people too."

  "Like Sam Nakamura?"

  "I suppose," Karin said thoughtfully. "He probably thinks I am, well, taking advantage . . . and that there couldn't be any equality, that you naturally have a superior position . . ."

  "Why should he assume that?" May bristled.

  "Don't be angry," Karin told her, "because of his background. When you're poor as a kid—the way I was, and the way Sam was—and even more when you feel that your race sets you apart, makes you different . . ." She glanced at May to see if the mention of race had registered. May nodded for her to go on. "You come to think that people who have money know something you don't know. Like there's a secret you haven't been let in on. Sam was calling you my 'rich friend' and my 'benefactor' even before he met you."

  "Sam has a chip on his shoulder," May put in drily, but when she saw Karin's frown she added, "But he is gorgeous, with that wonderful tight body of his and that satin-smooth face and those black, black eyes that I swear leave burn marks when he turns them on full blast. And he has been helpful, and generous with his time and muscle power. Actually, I'm sorry he dropped off the gymnastics team—I'd love to see him in full muscular glory in white tights . . . Okay? Is that good enough?" Karin grinned, so that May couldn't resist adding, "But you have to admit he has an edge of arrogance."

  "Not arrogance so much as something like wounded pride," Karin said, drawing out the words slowly, "but that's because he has this very distorted idea of what it means to be wealthy, and because you seem so sure of yourself. He thinks people with money are automatically secure, never frightened like the rest of us."

  May looked at her steadily. "That's ridiculous," she began, her voice rising.

  "I know, but I also know that you do appear to be full of confidence. And I think—I'm not sure about this, but I think—you don't know what it's like to feel inferior."

  Karin's face relaxed into an impish smile. "Do you remember in our junior year," she suddenly remembered, "when our History Forum made that trip to Washington and toured the White House? Lord, I'll never forget . . . I mean, I'll never forget the moment when we were all sitting in that elegant little anteroom, and no one knew why we were told to wait there . . . and suddenly Jackie Kennedy appears and in that breathy, cultivated voice of hers asks which of us is Miss Reade, and then asks if you would like her to give us a tour! You would have thought the rest of us had swallowed our tongues, but you just said something perfect, and the two of you went sailing off together chattering like old friends, the rest of us in tow. You were different, May! You are!"

  May laughed. "Don't you know how that happened? Didn't I ever tell you? I knew right away why we were getting the royal treatment. Kit gave piles of money to the Kennedys. Think about it, K—that whole production smacked of Kit's little behind-the-scenes maneuverings. She arranged the whole thing with her usual precise manipulation, it's how she controls . . ." May caught herself then, made herself stop before she had moved into that other subject, the one that she could no longer talk about to Karin, not since they had come West and Kit had had a chance to spend time with Karin.

  Karin, too, decided it best to sidestep the issue. In a small voice she said, "The point is, you didn't know that Jackie Kennedy was going to appear, but you just took it in stride."

  "That," May said firmly, "had nothing to do with growing up with money. But it had everything to do with my father." She stood then, pretending to stretch, and turned to look out at the back garden. She began, as if to herself: "I went with my dad to ail of the hearings . . . he was forever being called before one committee or the other. They had all of these names—Internal Security or Un-American Activities—but it was all the same, really. We would get out of the car and reporters would be there, cameras being shoved into our faces, questions being shouted at us. And then we'd walk into one of those big meeting rooms, filled with people and all of them would be staring at us. My heart would be beating so loud that I thought everybody would be able to hear it . . . There's Porter Reade and his kid, you could hear the murmur run through the hall. All I had to hold on to was his hand, and every now and then—when he would feel me shaking—he would squeeze it, so I would remember what he told me. 'It's okay to be scared,' he said, 'just as long as you don't let the sons of bitches know.' So I'd stand very straight, my mouth clamped tight so my lips wouldn't tremble, and I'd look the sons of bitches in the eye until they looked away."

  She turned then, her eyes bright but dry, and made herself laugh. "After that, Jackie Kennedy was a piece of cake."

  "Oh May," Karin said, her voice full of the emotion that May had drained from hers, but the sound of the doorbell severed her sentence.

  May waited in the dining room, shuffling through the forms that had to be filled out that day if she was to start classes on Monday, but listening to hear who might be at their door on a Saturday morning. She did not recognize the voice, which was low and resonant and male, but she did recognize Karin's flustered laughter. That meant he was attractive.

  She was right. "May, this is . . . Karin began, leading the way into the dining room, and hesitated because she didn't know his name.

  "Hayes Diehl," he said, "Sam Nakamura told me about the cottage you have for rent."

  He was tall and thinner than he should be, May thought. His pants rode low on his hips, and she noticed the belt had been tightened a notch. His face was more interesting than good-looking, forehead high, mouth a little wide, his eyes a solid blue, with laugh wrinkles. His hair was a fine, light brown and fell into his eyes; he brushed it back absently, as if the gesture were a habit.

  "Hayes is in law school," Karin said.

  "Which means I'll be around for a couple of years, so I'd like to find some agreeable digs," he said. "Can I see the cottage?"

  He saw the look that passed between the women, and asked, "Or is it still for rent?"

  "I think so," Karin said, uncertainly, still looking at May.

  "Yes," May said, "Of course you can see it," and she led the way out the back door and across the lawn, moving from one stepping stone to the next to avoid the wet grass.

  "No dogs, please God," Hayes Diehl said.

  May asked, "Is that a question or a prayer?"

  "It's one of the problems with my current apartment," he answered. "The landlady has two Dobermans who maintain a curfew and accept no excuses. One minute past midnight and you don't get in."

  Laughter spilled out of Karin, who was pulling up the rear.

  Ma
y turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised, and asked, "Dobermans who tell time?"

  "They even know which way to set their clocks for Daylight Savings," he answered.

  When the door to the cottage was pushed open, a musty smell rushed at them. May propped the door with a stone so the air could get in. There was one very large room with a Pullman kitchen at one end, and at the other a huge stone fireplace that rose to the top of the vaulted ceiling. A single bed filled an alcove. "The sofa makes into a queen-sized bed," Karin explained, "and there is a bathroom and a large walk-in closet—and that's about it. It has more charm than space, I'm afraid." It troubled Karin that she and May had not come to a decision about the cottage, or if they would let Sam have it.

  Hayes stood silently in the middle of the room, taking his time, looking carefully but not, as May had expected, checking out any of the details.

  "You said the Dobermans were 'one' of the problems," she broke in.

  "I'm also active in the Stop-the-Draft movement." He grinned. "My landlady calls me 'a rabble rouser.' Actually, I'm not very good at rousing, but I have been involved politically in the peace movement—I guess I'm what the papers would call an antiwar activist, in case that's a problem for you."

  "No," May said, and Karin broke in to add, "The hot water heater works fine and the stove is okay, too. I'm afraid the refrigerator is a little small, and noisy."

  He said, "I would like to rent it," surprising both of them.

  "You haven't asked how much," Karin chided.

  "How much?" he asked.

  "Two-fifty a month," she told him, and he said, "Does that include the birdbath?"

  It was May's turn to laugh. He looked at her, as if he were trying to remember something, and then he said, to make sure they knew he was serious, "I do want to rent it."

  May shot a glance at Karin, who looked away, so she said, "Don't you think it's going to be a little cramped for the two of you?"

  He looked puzzled. "Two?" he asked, confused.

  "I thought you said Sam told you—" Karin began, then started over. "I had understood that Sam was looking for someone to share the cottage."

  A look of surprise passed over his face. He thrust his hands into his pockets and for a moment looked away, but recovered quickly. "Sam was talking at his usual fifty miles a minute, and my brain doesn't operate at those rpms—I must have missed a turn." He grinned then, and shrugged. "It looks like I'm going to have to make peace with the Dobermans."

  At that moment Sam pulled into the driveway. He was driving the "Winged Victory," his old Dodge truck, well past its prime, which he had painted a bright blue, with Day-Glo pink angel wings sprouting majestically from each door.

  "Hayes," he said, jumping out of the car in one long fluid motion, smiling with real delight. "Sorry I'm late . . . you've met my friends."

  "I talked my way into the cottage," Hayes told him, "and it is as terrific as you said it was, but a little tight for space, I think. I've got too many elbows, need a room for each." His tone was easy, friendly. It was clear that Sam had not told Hayes about the plan to share the cottage. May glanced at Karin, and wondered if she realized that Hayes was saving face for Sam.

  Saving face. Her father had taught her how important it was to give people a graceful way out. Why had she remembered that now? She wondered if Hayes was doing it because Sam was Asian. Did that mean that Caucasian-Americans perceive Asian Americans as requiring a different kind of treatment? And isn't that racist?

  May was lost in thought, and Hayes had squatted to rub the ears of a friendly black dog which had wandered into the yard. A silence seemed in danger of settling in, so Karin asked, "Are you two old friends?"

  Sam spoke before Hayes could: "We went to high school together. Actually, I know Andy better—Andy is Hayes's younger brother. You are what, three years older?" he asked, turning to Hayes, but not waiting for an answer. "I remember you were a senior when I was a freshman. They called Hayes 'Big Diehl,'" he told them, "and Andy was 'Little Diehl.'"

  Sam was acting now, he had figured out what must have happened and his high spirits had crashed. "You ladies should know that Hayes here really was a Big Deal—Rhodes scholar, Ivy League, Peace Corps, all round Big Man. Now he's leading the charge against the Establishment."

  Hayes shifted uncomfortably. "No, now I'm just hungry and I think I'd better be moving . . ."

  "You can't do that," Sam cut in, his voice suddenly urgent. "How about a cup of coffee?" he asked, and when it appeared that Hayes was going to decline, he insisted, "Listen, pal, I'm sorry about the cottage—that it wasn't right, I mean. I should have figured . . . but listen, really, no harm done. Let's all go down to the Cafe Med for an espresso. I'm buying." It was not a casual invitation; May wondered haw Hayes would get out of it.

  To her surprise, he didn't try. "Sure," he answered. May couldn't resist saying, "We promise to have you home by midnight."

  Hayes and Karin and May laughed together; Sam wasn't in on the joke. Karin, contrite, quickly invited them to the house for coffee. "It's silly to go out," she said to Sam, "when we've just brewed a whole pot. And I was just about to make French toast."

  Sam started again almost as soon as they were settled around the little table in the dining alcove off the kitchen. "Let's play get acquainted," he announced with game-show cheerfulness. "You first Hayes, why don't you start by giving us a rundown—really, May and Karin want to know, don't you?"

  Hayes was fingering a ginger jar, taking the lid off and then putting it back on again, as if it were a puzzle.

  Sam smiled too brightly. "Hayes is reticent, refreshingly reticent."

  May saw the annoyance in Hayes's eyes; he was not going to answer, she could tell, and she wondered why. Sam's barbs were purposeful, she knew that, though it took her awhile to realize that he was punishing Hayes for not wanting to share the cottage.

  "Karin is a getting her master's in art history," May cut in, wanting to take the lead away from Sam, "and I'm in geology."

  "Geology?" he repeated, and once again it seemed as if he was trying to remember something, groping for some connection. "Nick Vergetti!" he said, "That's it. You were on the Thera project he ran a couple of summers back—I knew I'd heard your name before. Nick said he'd never seen anyone fall so hard for a volcano in his life."

  She laughed, pleased. "Well, that particular volcano is easy to fall for—there is a very credible theory that the lost city of Atlantis is buried there, under a blanket of volcanic ash and pumice—you know Nick?"

  "He's a family friend. I was supposed to meet him in Greece that summer, but . . ." he paused, as if he had suddenly run out of steam, and ended lamely by saying, ". . . it didn't work out."

  "So," Karin said, smiling, "you guys should already have met."

  "Fate," Sam cut in. "Real Kismet Kids, the two of you. The jet set crowd, summers in Greece, winters on the Cote d'Azur. Ah, the good life."

  Abruptly, he changed the subject. "How does Andy feel about going to 'Nam?" he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer. Instead he explained to May and Karin, "Andy is my age, you could almost say we grew up together. Andy got me in trouble in more ways than I care to remember . . . to give you some idea, his last big splash—literally—involved a truckload of bubble bath and five naked girls on Ocean Beach. I won't go into the details, but that was Andy's style."

  Hayes carefully sectioned a piece of French toast, dipped it deliberately in syrup, and answered Sam's question. "Andy seems to feel that Vietnam requires his services."

  "Jesus!" Sam blurted. "Didn't anybody tell him to head for graduate school, like the rest of us?"

  Karin was frowning. "Not every male at the University is there to avoid the draft," she said.

  "However," Hayes put in, smiling at Karin to take the edge off, "that does happen to be a good reason for being here. I don't think we should be in Vietnam at all. I wish my brother agreed with me."

  "So do I," Sam said, suddenly sobered. "God, it must have
been rough, trying to reason with Andy—I mean, once he sets his mind to something . . ."

  "I know, he wrote the book on stubborn," Hayes said, and having reached this agreement both of them seemed to relax.

  The conversation moved from one subject to the next, without any particular plan, as it does when people get to know each other. Karin started to break more eggs to make a second batch of toast, and Sam pulled her away, telling her to take it easy for a while and let him take over. The talk drifted aimlessly. At one point Sam asked Hayes, "Didn't you manage to pick up some tropical bug in Africa or something, when you were in the Peace Corps?"

  "He seems to know all your secrets," May said to Hayes. He didn't answer, he was looking out the window, seeming to concentrate on the birdbath where several small birds were flicking water over themselves.

  Then he said, in a whimsical tone: "It's only a little asthma I got skating against the wind in Flanders."

  May had been sipping coffee, and she choked. It took her awhile to get her breath. Karin rose to pat her on the back, but she was laughing, both of them were laughing so hard they couldn't stop, and May couldn't catch her breath. Hayes watched, amused and puzzled. Finally, Karin was able to gasp, "Tristram Shandy!"—and the two dissolved into another round of uncontrollable laughter. Sam gave May a glass of water and waited.

  Finally May, dabbing her eyes, was able to speak, to explain how she and Karin had read Tristram Shandy out loud to each other in college, how much fun they had with it. They had memorized several passages—including the one about skating against the wind in Flanders. It had become their personal code—for a while they used "skating against the wind" to describe any ridiculous situation. If they missed the last bus from town, that was "skating against the wind." When Karin, fuzzy from staying up two nights in a row studying, had accepted not one but three dates for a Saturday night and all of them showed up, that was definitely "skating against the wind." And now, with Hayes coming out with their phrase without any warning whatsoever, well . . . She laughed weakly. "You can see how incredible . . ."