"Catherine! I swear I will not be your friend one second longer if you don't stop fooling around and tell me."

Catherine looked at Leslie.

Leslie stared back at Catherine. "Well, it's only fair! I've told you everything. You know every single detail about every man I've slept with, all my broken hearts ... Come on, Catherine. Aren't I your best friend anymore?"

Catherine bent her head. She tore off a piece of baguette and rolled it between her fingers. "It's just that I'm embarra.s.sed," she said quietly. "You probably won't believe me. Leslie"-she was now sculpting the warm bread into a work of art-"I'm still a virgin."

Leslie whooped. "I don't believe it! My G.o.d. Catherine! Why? Or do I mean why not?"

Catherine played with the bread in silence. Finally she tossed it onto the plate and looked up at her friend. "I'm not apologizing," she said. "I'm not ashamed of it. I'm not like you."

"I know you're not. That's one of the reasons we've been best friends for so long. I'm not making fun of you. But Catherine, you are twenty-one."

"I know. I'm twenty-one and I know what I want in life and it's not to be swept off my feet by love! I just don't have time for love now, Leslie-or romance, or s.e.x, or any of that. I have to make my own way."

"Oh, Catherine. You're so hopeless. You take everything too seriously. You can fall in love with someone, go to bed with a man, without changing your entire life! I do it all the time! Where are your hormones? Don't tell me you haven't wanted to go to bed with that Dutch nephew! I want to go to bed with him, and I've only seen him in a photograph!"

Catherine grinned. "I suppose I do want to go to bed with him, Leslie, in my own way. But ... first of all, I have to work with him, and I can't afford to offend the Vandervelds. Besides, Piet's not around all that much. He's in Europe for months at a time. Also ..." She hesitated. "I don't know how to say this. I am attracted to Piet. Very attracted. I ... I dream of him. But something about him scares me."

Leslie studied Catherine. "Baby," she said at last, sympathetically. Then, with a rush of enthusiasm, she jumped up from her bed. "Oh, well, it's not the end of the world. Now you're in France, maybe you'll get lucky. There are absolutely mobs of gorgeous men downstairs. Come on, let's get beautiful. Maybe we'll both get lucky tonight."

"I feel like Grace Kelly at the least," Leslie whispered to Catherine as they descended the winding stairs to the ground floor of the chteau.

"I feel like Eliza Doolittle," Catherine whispered back.

The last time she had been so dressed up had been at a friend's graduation party in Newport. Tonight she had real jewels on and a turquoise gown that must have cost her mother more than several months' worth of Catherine's salary. After three years of working in the flower shop, she had forgotten how expansive the world of the wealthy could be, making time itself relax and drape and lounge and linger.

"Yeah, you're a real poverty-stricken flower girl!" Leslie said.

Catherine grinned. She wished Leslie could see how she looked during any normal working day.

Her work gave a depth to everything she experienced that made her both proud and irritated. She knew the bas.e.m.e.nt side of the world, the alley and back room side, the harsh smelly frantic side where leaves were savagely ripped from stems so the blooms would have all the water and nourishment. She was glad that she had learned all that. She prided herself on knowing secrets. At the same time, she wished she could forget it all and drift in the same dreamy world her friends inhabited-just for this one night.

"It's gorgeous!" Leslie said, linking arms with Catherine and pulling her close.

They were entering the grand salon, where c.o.c.ktails and hors d'oeuvres were being served to a glittering a.s.sembly of elegant people in formal dress. Various languages-French, Spanish, German, Dutch-flickered around them like colorful b.u.t.terflies. Silks and satins and taffetas rustled, perfumes and laughter drifted through the air, and Leslie and Catherine took flutes of champagne from a silver tray.

Catherine looked at the room. It was much grander even than Everly. The marble fireplace was intricately carved with garlands and figures and flowers. Along the melon silk walls hung vast oil paintings of former Croces playfully dressed as shepherds or nymphs. Enormous faience vases lushly packed with roses, lilies, delphiniums, stock, and greens were set about on antique tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ebony and rosewood.

"Don't you dare rearrange those flowers!" Leslie whispered in Catherine's ear, making her laugh.

"I wasn't planning to! I was just toting up the cost in my head."

"How vulgar you've gotten, my dear!" Leslie said in her best Miss Brill's voice. "Really, darling, can't you let it drop for one night?"

"All right, I will. I promise. I know I should. It's been a long time since I've just enjoyed myself."

"Drink your champagne," Leslie ordered. "I'm putting a spell on you. The past three years have been erased from your life. The only thing you know how to do is be beautiful and charming at parties."

"I think I can manage that."

They joined a group of American friends. Lifted away into a mist of pleasure by their chatter and the bubbling champagne, Catherine relaxed. She let go. Now, tonight, was all that mattered, a world complete in itself, glittering, golden, dreamy, as free from the real world as a balloon cut free from its tie to the earth, to drift above spires, mountains, clouds.

The Croce family and the Weyland family and those in the wedding party dined in the formal dining room. The others ate in the library, at tables for eight covered with elaborately embroidered white tablecloths and set with the family's gold-rimmed white china, platinum-rimmed crystal, and heavy elaborate silver.

Catherine was so taken with the food, she could scarcely concentrate on the conversation. The first course was a fresh whole salmon with an elaborate herb sauce for each table; next a galantine of duck, an elaborate dish of cold ground pressed duck, pork, truffles, pistachio nuts, and ham, decorated with truffles and sparkling cubes of golden aspic; then a saddle of lamb with vegetables that had been shaped and sculpted into miniature works of art; then a leafy green salad. Each course was served with the appropriate wine, and finally, with the chteau's own champagne, came the pches cardinal, poached peaches coated with thick raspberry sauce and whipped cream, decorated with fresh whole raspberries.

Satiated, Catherine sat back in her chair, looking at the gold-embossed spines of the books behind the gla.s.s doors of the library. Surely she was incapable of doing anything else for the rest of the night, or perhaps for the rest of her life. She felt as though she'd never eaten so much before. But courtesy demanded that she respond when the pleasant French gentleman who had been seated next to her asked if he could escort her into the ballroom, so she rose and took his arm.

Four sets of high wooden doors had been pulled open at the end of the grand salon to reveal the ballroom, which had been decorated especially for the wedding festivities. The ceiling, which arched three stories above the dancers, was painted in mythical Greek scenes of love, hunting, and feasting. Like the long French windows that opened onto the terrace, and the high mirrors on the opposite walls, the ceiling gleamed with gilt.

At one end of the ballroom a band was playing Strauss waltzes. At the other end stretched a long table with drinks of every kind and more champagne than Catherine had ever seen in her life. The room was lined with striped love seats and chairs for those who wanted to sit and watch, but most of the guests were dancing, compelled by the delicious music. The French doors had been flung open to the early summer night. Outside, steps led down to the formal garden, at the center of which was an oblong pool surrounded by small fat flickering candles.

A man asked Catherine to dance. Then another. And another.

Soon her head was light from jet lag, dancing, and champagne. Her mother's strapless turquoise gown, with a tight waist and a flowing skirt whose chiffon fluttered out in a sea of rippling pleats, flattered Catherine, and she knew it. She held back her dark curls with rhinestone-studded combs, but her earrings, large drops of Persian turquoise surrounded by small diamonds, were real. She loved the feeling of them swinging against her neck as she danced or laughed. She was introduced to so many men and women, she finally gave up even attempting to remember their names.

Catherine's French was pa.s.sable-one thing she had learned from Miss Brill's-and most of the French guests spoke excellent English, so everyone mixed and mingled, until Catherine was certain she had danced with all of the forty or so young men in the room. They all seemed equally tall and handsome, courtly and clever, an entire team of beaming Prince Charmings. She forgot her real life and surrendered to the intoxication of the night and the music-and the champagne.

"May I?"

Catherine was released from the arms of her current partner into the presence of a new man, an American, with a pleasant face ... a really likable face....

She leaned back a little as they began to dance, to get a better look at him. He was tall and handsome, in a kind, easy way. There was nothing smug or insolent in these good looks. He looked gentle, with a thatch of blond hair and lushly lashed, almost amber eyes.

Now here was a man she could go to bed with, she thought, and promptly stumbled and stepped on his foot.

"You look like a golden retriever," Catherine babbled to cover her embarra.s.sment.

"Do I?" the man replied. His hands were firm and warm as he steadied her easily. "I'm Kit Bemish," he said.

"I'm Catherine Eliot," she replied.

The band was playing a waltz, and Kit Bemish waltzed beautifully. Catherine's gown breezed and belled around her as they danced. He led her with such ease that her own body felt light and graceful.

"I think I'm getting a little silly," she confessed sotto voce. "All the champagne."

"We'll get you some water," he responded solemnly. "If you drink a gla.s.s of water for every gla.s.s of champagne, you won't get a hangover."

"I never knew that!" Catherine said. Suddenly, that seemed like great wisdom.

Kit grinned. "One of the more useful things I learned at Harvard."

When the dance ended, Kit escorted her off the dance floor. He got them each a tall gla.s.s of sparkling water, then took Catherine's arm and led her out the long doors onto the terrace. The night air was fresh and mild after the warmth of the ballroom.

"You're a friend of Kimberly's?" he asked.

"Yes. We were together at Miss Brill's School for Girls. G.o.d, that sounds so insipid, doesn't it? It was a million years ago. And you?"

"I've known Philippe Croce since we were about ten. We spent several summers on international sailing expeditions that were also supposed to be floating summer schools." Kit laughed. "We sailed and swam all day and spent perhaps five minutes on lessons at night. At least Philippe learned English and I learned pa.s.sable French. We haven't sailed together for years, though." Kit sighed.

"That must have been wonderful fun."

"It was. And it was a great way to see the world. One year we sailed the Mediterranean, another year we were off the coast of Newfoundland, another year down in the Caribbean. It was rather unreal, though. Just men, wearing only swimming suits, no schedules, lots and lots of days when we never looked at a watch and the hours just drifted by...."

"Sounds like you'd like to be there right now."

"I wouldn't mind a week or two of it. I could use some unreality. I'm in law school at Harvard. My life is divided into tight little segments. Oh, I like it, it's what I want to do. It's just that being with Philippe again brings back memories...."

They walked in silence to the end of the long reflecting pool. Candlelight streaked the still water.

"I like remembering my school days, too, but not as much as you seem to," Catherine said. "I was always so confused. I didn't have any idea what I wanted to do when I grew up."

"I've always known."

"You have! That's amazing!"

"Maybe only predictable. My father's a lawyer, my grandfather was a lawyer and a judge. I always knew I'd go into law. But not to please them. They didn't pressure me, and they certainly always showed me there were other options in life. I think my mother kept sending me on the summer sailing school in hopes that I'd develop an interest in diplomacy. She loves traveling. My father hates it. I think at the back of her mind she hoped I'd grow up and live abroad so she could come visit me."

"Instead you're going to become a lawyer."

"Yes."

"And then? Do you want to be a judge?"

Kit hesitated. He looked down at Catherine, and she felt his scrutiny, his caution. "No. I want to go into government. Politics."

Catherine returned Kit's gaze. In the candlelit night, his face was gentle. "You don't seem the type to be interested in power."

"I'm not." He hesitated again. "I don't talk about it much. I always end up sounding like some sanctimonious drip. It's just-in my family, there's a tradition. 'Not for self alone.' I know I'm fortunate, extraordinarily lucky, but I also know this world is in a bad state and getting into a worse one. I want to change that." Kit looked at her. "I want to change a lot of things. I want-" Kit stopped. "Sorry. I'm boring you."

"No!" Catherine objected, putting her hand on Kit's arm. He looked down at her. "I know what you mean, how you feel, at least a little, I think. That's why I like what I'm doing now, working in a flower shop. It sounds pretty insignificant, doesn't it? But few things can claim to be as good as flowers are. There's nothing soiled or evil or degraded about them. They make people feel loved, and cheerful, or consoled, they brighten our spirits, our day, our thoughts of the future-" She caught herself and laughed. "So you see? I do understand. I mean, it's not the same level, and it's much less complicated, but-" She paused, unsure of just what she meant. "But I do understand," she said finally.

She realized she was still holding on to his arm. All this eager understanding plus this lover's clutch-what would he think? She started to pull away.

But Kit said softly, "Hey." He slid his hand down to hold hers. His skin was warm and electric.

They walked around the pool and gardens, talking in a companionable way. For Catherine, it was a new and delicious sensation to feel both safe and excited at the same time. She had forgotten how charming a well-educated man could be. After a while they went back into the ballroom for another mineral water, and realizing they were hungry again, they took plates of smoked salmon, cheese and raspberries and bread, and sat on the terrace, eating. They talked. They had friends in common. New York and Boston were not so far apart. They had much in common, a similar sense of humor, of perspective.

They danced again. By now the tone of the party was changing. The quieter couples danced in solitary worlds of their own, drawing closer and closer to each other with each dance. The rest of the party was getting silly and boisterous and outrageous, performing stunts on the dance floor, spilling champagne. Catherine had lost track of time and was glad to let it flow.

She liked Kit's voice. It was low and even and calm. He was not glib or flirtatious; he didn't pepper each sentence with a compliment or a s.e.xual innuendo. Still, as she listened to him, as his body grew more familiar to her as they danced, she felt s.e.xual desire rising within her as if each of his gentle words were rain, wetting and nourishing something hiding deep inside her, something so fragile it would not respond to harsh light, a bright sun, or a torrent of seductive speech. Something within her lifted, responding to him.

From time to time, when she pulled her head back a bit as they danced so that she could look into his eyes, she realized that for once she was not afraid. Once, after she had looked at him as they danced, searching his eyes for a clue to the nature of this man, he gently brought his hand up and pressed her head against his shoulder, as if she were a child. He stroked her hair. He let his hand linger on her head, so gently it brought tears to her eyes. It felt like the times when she had been a child with a nanny who had touched her so fondly, and she remembered being loved.

The next time she drew her head back to look in his eyes and smile at him, he bent and kissed her, lightly, on the lips.

Suddenly she was impatient. She brought her hand up to press his neck. They wrapped their arms around each other and kissed as they danced. When they stopped kissing, she was breathless, eager, greedy. She wanted the people around her to disappear. She wanted to kiss him again, she wanted to undo the studs of his tuxedo shirt to see his chest, his belly. And more. At last.

"Do you want to come to my room?" Kit asked.

"Yes," she said.

Taking her hand, he led her out of the ballroom onto the terrace. She started to object, but quickly she realized that he was taking her the long way around the large house so no one would suspect where they were heading. He was a gentleman.

Fortunately he was not sharing a room. It was tiny and spare, with only a narrow single bed, but that was enough.

He didn't turn on the light when they entered. Enough moonlight came in through the two open windows to paint their bodies and the bed in a silver sheen. Kit kissed her mouth, her face, her neck, and stroked her arms and back. He was being courteous, going slowly, gently, but Catherine was ravenous, almost ill with desire. She needed to go through with it before her courage failed. It occurred to her at one point to tell him that she was a virgin, but quickly she decided against it. She knew enough about him already to know that if she did, he might have second thoughts. He might tell her she should save herself for a husband or some such nonsense. And she did not want to ruin this.

"Do I need to use something?" he asked.

At first she didn't understand the question. When she did, she grew hot with shame. If she said yes, he would know she wasn't on the Pill like every other sophisticated female her age. If she said no, and he didn't "use something," she could get pregnant. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes.

"It's all right," he said, pulling her against him. She still had not managed to reply. "I'll take care."

They undressed each other. Their clothes fell in silky piles around the floor. They stood together, naked in the moonlight, warm and aching, aching and soothing at once, like invalids with a fever that was lightened by a cool cloth. Everywhere they touched, the heat grew more intense, but that touch soothed the ache.

He brought her to the narrow bed with its coa.r.s.e white sheets and lay next to her, kissing her, stroking her, touching her. Finally he entered her. At once her desire abated as pain took over. It made her angry. She had to keep herself from crying out. At the same time the pain sobered her enough so that her natural curiosity took over and she thought: So this is what a man looks like, acts like, sounds like, when he is making love. She watched him. He looked as if he were in as much pain as she was. She had never heard that s.e.x hurt men. His suffering looked so private. Suddenly he arched away from her, his chest rising up and back. He groaned and fell against her. She was suffused with a great boiling sense of triumph. Triumph?! She felt utterly smug about it. Gently she stroked his back and head, as if he had done something wonderful.

"Do you want me to move?" he asked, murmuring, his voice so low she could scarcely hear him even though his mouth was next to her ear.

"No," she whispered. She luxuriated under the heaviness of his body against hers. As she turned, smiling, she saw through the window that day was dawning. The sky was filled with a golden-white light that glimmered and deepened as if reflecting the way she felt now inside her skin: warm, and shining, and infinitely full of beauty.

Kit slept, then made love to her again. This time he went more slowly. He watched her face and seemed to be listening to her body, as if trying to lead her on whichever path pleased her most. When they finished making love again, she knew she had not experienced the wild ecstasy she'd always read about, but still she felt satisfied, pleased right to the bone. Somehow, curled against each other on that narrow bed, they managed to sleep.

When she awoke, it was full day. Catherine had no idea what time it was, but the sun was mercilessly bright. For the first time she was embarra.s.sed. She was naked in bed with this man. No doubt her mascara was smeared, and she couldn't even imagine what her hair looked like. When she looked down at her body, she was surprised: it was as if overnight she had been coated with a rosy bloom, for her b.r.e.a.s.t.s seemed fuller, the nipples fat and swollen with heat, her skin flushed.

She looked at the man lying next to her. He was firm and muscular, with golden furlike hair on his chest and belly. He was so tanned that he seemed to be wearing a white swimming suit around his pelvis, except for the dark golden nest of pubic hair and the p.e.n.i.s curled in it. She touched the hair on his thighs. It felt like spun gold, like the delicate silk of a milkweed pod.

He opened his eyes and saw her looking at him and smiled. He pulled her to him for a kiss.

"G.o.d, I'm hungry," he said. "I'd sell my soul for a cup of coffee and a gla.s.s of orange juice," he went on, sitting up. "That champagne ... G.o.d, we're going to have to get dressed in order to get breakfast." He rose and stretched, seemingly without any self-consciousness about his nakedness in front of her.

Catherine sat up, pulling the sheet around her. She wasn't sure what to do now. Was she supposed to just leave? Maybe now that he saw her in daylight he didn't like her. Maybe she hadn't been "good in bed." Perhaps she had cheapened herself by going to bed with him so quickly. She looked at the swirl of turquoise chiffon abandoned on the floor.

"Where's your room?" he asked.

"Down the hall. The one next to the corner. I'm sharing with a friend."

"Well, look," he said, grinning, "put this on." He took a white long-sleeved shirt from the cupboard and draped it over her shoulders. "It's not great, but it'll cover you, I think. Stand up. Good. If you don't mind, I'll keep my robe-I need to get to the bathroom, and that shirt covers a lot more of you than it does of me."

Catherine stood and busied herself with the shirt. She felt the white cotton falling to just below her bottom. She wasn't nearly as concerned with what others would think, seeing her wandering down the hallway in a shirt, as she was about the fact that he was lending it to her. He had to see her again, if only to get his shirt back.