I was sure that was part of the reason they had been seeing a therapist together.
Now, especially after she had told me about her suspicions concerning Donald, I began to wonder if this marriage would even last much longer. My memories of my parents’ marital problems were still quite fresh and vivid in my mind, despite how young I was, or maybe because of how young I was. More than once, I had heard it said that we’re most impressionable at younger ages, and those impressions are so indelibly written inside us that we never lose them or their influences. That was certainly true for me. There was much I had not forgotten.
To date, Donald and Jordan’s conflicts were confined to sharp discussions, pouting, and temper tantrums that resulted in neither speaking much to the other. My parents were nearly physical about their fights, my mother tossing things at my father or flailing out and breaking something in the house. Doors were slammed, hands slapped on tables and even against walls. Sometimes it felt as if the walls were rocking like in an earthquake. Here, however, there was just a new and deeper silence that made the smallest movements—the clink of a teacup, the shifting of silverware, the closing of a drawer, or just footsteps—echo through what had become deeper and darker shadows.
From what Donald March had said to me about Ryder when we were in his office, I expected that he would bring it up again at dinner and, as at other times, attach some blame to Jordan. I was waiting for him to tell her that she should not have approved of my bringing Ryder here or should have at least talked more about him with me first. I made up my mind that I would come to her defense, but he didn’t do any of that.
In fact, Donald was more cheerful than ever at dinner. He was eager to talk about his business and his experiences with some of what he called the “colorful people” with whom he dealt, whether it was in making commercials, creating print advertisements, or product development. Maybe this was his way of warning me again about Ryder, this time quite subtly.
“Creative p
eople have to be a little off-center to do what they do,” he said. He was eating almost ravenously, which brought a smile to Jordan’s face. “I mean, it affects their temperaments. It’s no wonder so many of them are unstable when it comes to their family lives. I’m beginning to think there should be a way of licensing people for marriage.”
“But don’t you have to get a marriage license in every state?” Jordan asked.
“Yes, but I don’t mean that, exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
I waited to hear, too. “A test, maybe. We make people take tests to get a driving license, don’t we?”
Jordan laughed.
“It’s not funny,” he said. “I think it’s a good idea. There would be far fewer divorces and children living with single parents or being in the middle of bad marital spats.”
“What would be the test, Donald?”
“I don’t know. We should have psychologists and other experts come up with it. Maybe they should start with this state or this city,” he added, now looking at me. “The problem is more prevalent in the entertainment industry. It’s practically impossible, it seems, for these men and women to have decent families and still pursue their film and music careers.”
“I don’t think they’re any more distracted or busy than you are,” Jordan said, and I thought that would be the beginning of another one of their mean arguments, but Donald just smiled and sipped his wine.
“I agree,” he finally said, still looking more at me. “I’ve given all of that more thought and have decided to spend more time with you two. For starters, I’m going to do my best to avoid any weekend work.”
“Really? That’s wonderful, Donald,” Jordan said. She looked to me. I just smiled softly. I don’t know what she read in my face, but she turned back to him and warned, “Now, don’t just say these things to make us happy and do the exact opposite. That would make things far worse.”
“No, I mean it,” he said firmly. He leaned back and shouted, “Mrs. Caro!”
She came hurrying into the dining room, wiping her hands on her napkin and looking fearful.
“You have outdone yourself tonight. I have been through a dozen states and eaten in some of the best restaurants lately, and no one has made a better filet mignon. You marinated this perfectly.”
“Thank you, Mr. March.”
“I hope you saved some for yourself and Mrs. Duval,” he added.
She smiled. “My mum would always say a good cook better check the food he or she makes first,” she replied, and Donald roared.
Jordan looked at me. Like me, she had expected that his confrontational manner with Ryder Garfield would carry through the evening, but it was as though none of that had happened. I couldn’t recall when he was last this cheerful, in fact. Was it all because of the conversation we had in his office?
“When is your next concert, Sasha?” he asked.
“A week from Sunday.”
“She has a little solo,” Jordan said.
“Has she? I’m not missing that,” he said. He emptied his wine in a single gulp and poured himself another. “I think it’s time she attended a professional classical concert. The Los Angeles Philharmonic is performing Chopin and Shostakovich next month. I have a contact who’ll get us great seats. Would you like that, Sasha?”
“Yes,” I said.