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What would the meticulous Dr. Palmer’s reaction have been to her appearance this morning? He could never acknowledge that she could be anything less than perfect. The prestigious heart surgeon probably would have had a coronary himself.
Be fair, she reprimanded herself. Isn’t this what you always wanted? To be perfect in someone’s eyes? To sit up there, high on that proverbial pedestal?
Tell me, doesn’t it get lonely up there, alone in your ivory tower?
Be quiet, she imagined herself telling Jake. I’m happy now. Edward and I are perfect for each other. You shouldn’t put him down; he’s a lot like you—handsome, bright, driven by his career. Oh yes, there’s one more thing. Like you, he doesn’t want children. Except there’s one small difference. You don’t want more children, and he doesn’t want any. But any way you look at it, it comes down to no children in my life, now that I no longer have Cory or the ability to conceive. So you see? Edward and I are made for each other. What’s that, Jake? Why did I leave you, only to hook up with someone who’s a lot like you? The difference between the two of you is that he knows I’m around. He adores me. In his eyes I’m perfect.
She ran her fingers along the bridge of her nose. Well, almost perfect. Edward was always urging her to get that little bump removed. He didn’t see it as an addition to her character, as Jake always had.
Maybe she would have her nose fixed, after all.
Looking in the vanity mirror over the sink—oh, those damn, cruel mirrors!—she rubbed her hand against the side of her neck. With clarity she remembered the sick feeling she’d had when she’d first discovered the swelling. She’d tried to ignore it, hoping it was only a sign of another cold—the third in two months. But the swelling didn’t go away, and she was exhausted all the time, often waking up in the middle of the night in a sweat. It was Ellen who had insisted that she undergo tests, and it was Ellen who had diagnosed her with Hodgkin’s disease.
A chill spread through Laura’s body as she recalled her friend’s words. She remembered how the air in the room had been suddenly sucked away. This is what drowning must feel like, she’d thought with cold detachment. Even though Ellen had insisted that the prognosis was excellent, Laura had felt as though she’d been given a death sentence. It was then she realized that whether she lived for fifty more years or only one, she didn’t want to spend whatever time she had left in a one-sided relationship. She deserved more. It was then she had decided to leave Jake.
Her fingers left the base of her neck, slowly moving down between her breasts, to the left side of her upper abdomen. After the diagnosis, her spleen had been removed and she had undergone a regimen of chemotherapy. The scar from the surgery was gone, only a long telltale line remaining. The first time she’d spent the night with Edward, two years ago, he’d remarked that the surgeons had done an excellent job, that Laura was a good healer. She was a lucky woman, he’d added jokingly, telling her she’d be a good candidate for a facelift when the time came. She’d punched him playfully in the shoulder.
Her incision may have healed, but the wound from the chemotherapy would never go away. She recalled the oncologist’s words, that dark day a lifetime ago. Dr. Waring had told her, as gently as possible, that as a result of the treatment, Laura would likely never be able to have children.
A lucky woman. Lucky? She supposed she was. She was alive, wasn’t she? She had been in remission for almost five years, which according to many was the magic yardstick for being considered cured.
She pressed her hand across the flatness of her belly. Edward was always complimenting her on her slim, youthful shape. She was well preserved for an old lady of thirty-three, he liked to say in jest. Slowly, she inched her hand down to the satiny expanse of her firm thighs, trying to remember the last time she and Edward had made love. Sex was no longer an important part of her life, hadn’t been for a long time. Trying to conjure up the image of Edward’s face, she told herself she was lucky to have found someone who felt the same way she did.
A lucky woman. She frowned. When had she put sex on the back burner? When she left Jake, she admitted to herself. She’d once read that sex was often the last thing to go in a relationship; she now questioned if it had been the only thing, outside of being a mother to Cory, that had kept her in the marriage. If it hadn’t been for the sex, would she have left a lot sooner? She considered what her life might have been like. She might have met someone else and had a child of her own, before the cure for her terrible disease had left her sterile.
Tell the truth, Laura. It wasn’t only the sex that kept you and Jake together. At least not on your part. After he had proposed to her that night at Freeman’s Pond, they had lain under the stars for hours, talking about the future. Her happiness had been complete, and she had believed with all her heart that it would endure.
She removed her bra and rolled down her panty hose, every muscle in her body screaming in protest. She stepped into the shower. For a long while she just stood there, immobile under the rusty showerhead, allowing the steamy, now clear stream to beat against her face. After she had arrived at the house two days ago, she had immediately gone to work scrubbing down the upstairs bathroom, and afterward, replacing her aunt’s face and body soaps with her own special preferences. She’d always had a penchant for expensive toiletries—it was her one personal luxury, she liked to tell herself. But she found herself wondering why she had brought so many of her things here in the first place.
Just how long was she planning to stay?
Still lingering in the air, the smell of cleaning disinfectant assaulted her nostrils, taking her back to that Saturday in December at the indoor community pool. It was the winter she turned twelve, and she had just finished her first period. Jake had accidentally-on-purpose bumped into her under the water. Pressing his body against hers, he dragged her poolside as if he were rescuing her from drowning. Big hero. All he wanted was to cop a feel off her newly budding breasts. But as angry as she was, she also felt a tingling in her stomach, although at the time she couldn’t identify the sensation. “I think she needs artificial respiration,” Jake announced to all their friends. She pushed him away and ran off to the lockers, Cassie and Cynthia following closely behind.
Like I said, some things in life don’t change.
It’s true, Laura thought now—some things never change. Jake was still the same cocky adolescent. Every time she thought about what had happened earlier that morning, she felt her blood churning.
There you go again, Laura. Can’t you ever tell the truth? Sure, you loved him and for you it wasn’t just the sex that kept you in the marriage, but let’s be honest here—the sex was good. Once again she caught herself thinking about the night he had proposed. Admit it, Laura, it wasn’t just the talking you remember so well. And speaking of sex, didn’t it feel nice, that day at the community pool so long ago, when he pushed his cool, bare chest against the thin layer of your bathing suit top? Haven’t you always regretted, one little bit, running off to the lockers before he had a chance to perform mouth-to-mouth?
She picked up her favorite soap, My Secret Sin, and her body sponge from the caddy over the faucet, and began washing her arms and legs. Gradually, the cleansing gave way to a slow massage, the nylon both fleecy and scratchy against her skin. The aroma of the scented suds merged with the memory of Jake’s woodsy scent, blotting out the last traces of disinfectant. She closed her eyes. Once again she tried to picture Edward’s face, and once again she failed. “Go away, Jake,” she moaned into the vapor. “Some things in life do change.” Oblivious to the groaning in the pipes behind the wall, she stood under the slow, hot flow, and then, dropping the sponge, slid her hand down her soap-streaked belly, seeking the softness below.
She was thinking of him three hours later as she sat at a table outside the Cafе St. Gabriel in Ridgefield, sipping a glass of chardonnay. Although Jake had always preferred to dine at what he called less “artsy” places like Joe’s Burger Hut or Mama Rosa’s Pizza Pub, he had taken her here from time to time to please her. A neighbor to Middlewood, Ridgefield was acclaimed for its restaurants, and the cafе was one of Laura’s favorites.
The trendy French restaurant hadn’t changed in the time she’d been away. Inside, heavy wooden beams lined the ceiling, and the far wall boasted a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace. The dеcor outside, with its provincial blue-and-yellow tablecloths, accentuated a French country motif and was as welcoming as it was inside. The day had warmed up unexpectedly, and the patio was filled with patrons enjoying what remained of summer.
A voice drifted into her consciousness. “Would you like something with your wine, Madame Logan?”
“Uh, no thank you,” Laura answered, startled out of her reverie by the sound of her married name. She’d taken back her maiden name, Matheson, when she’d left Jake. “I’m waiting for a friend.” She glanced down at her watch, a gift from Edward on her last birthday. The polished stainless steel case of the Cartier gleamed in the sunshine, the numbers on the mother-of-pearl dial showing that Cassie was fifteen minutes late.
“What about an appetizer in the meantime? May I suggest our house smoked salmon? Or perhaps you’d prefer the steamed mussels?”
She looked up at the stocky, well-dressed man hovering over her. They sure pay their waiters well, she thought, taking note of his Armani suit. “I’d like to wait for my friend, if you don’t mind,” she said, growing impatient with his persistence.
“Forgive my impudence,” he said, as if sensing her displeasure. “I was hoping you’d recognize me. You and Monsieur Logan used to come here sometimes. If memory serves me, he always ordered the sixteen-ounce sirloin with fries on the side.” Disapproval flashed in his eyes. “But you,” he continued, now smiling, “preferred our finer selections. As I recall, your favorite was the coq au vin.”
“Michel! Michel Dubois! I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you.” She flushed, embarrassed that she’d mistaken him, the proprietor, for a waiter.
“It’s the goatee,” he said, fingering a sparse spread of whispers on his chin. “It even confuses my wife. Bien, here’s your friend now.” He pulled out the chair for Cassie. “Will you be having your regular?” he asked as she sat down next to Laura.
Cassie was as chic as ever, in a high-neck jade shell and a knee-length black skirt, her outfit complementing her lively green eyes and bobbed dark hair. Next to her Laura felt dowdy. In her shower that morning, it was as if Jake had sneaked in beside her, and afterward she had wanted to cover up as much of her flesh as possible, as though to compensate for having exposed herself to his eyes—and touch. Now, sitting in the golden September sun, she was uncomfortably warm in her gray cashmere turtleneck and black wool slacks. She should have reserved a table inside.
“Yes, I’ll have the regular,” Cassie said. “How are you, Michel? And how is Madame Dubois?”
“I’m fine,” he answered. “Madame is well, too. She’s in her last month, big as a bathtub and still growing. The doctor says twins for sure.” Laura’s back stiffened in her chair. As though he had taken her gesture as a personal rebuke, Michel took on a more formal demeanor. “It’s nice to see you again, Madame Logan. I’ll send a waiter over with the menus shortly. I hope you enjoy your meal.” He nodded at the two women, and after bowing his head, walked off to another table.
There’s something wrong with me, Laura thought. Other than not being able to have children. Other than I’m having wild fantasies about the most wretched man in the world, even though I’m engaged to the most wonderful man in the world. Why is it that everywhere I go, I seem to tick someone off? I can’t go through life alienating people this way. I can’t go through life pretending that people don’t have children.
Cassie instantly picked up on Laura’s frame of mind. “Did you see him bow?” she said, lowering her head as Michel had done, trying to make her friend laugh. “Give me a break! How pretentious can one get? Let me tell you, the man is as French as an English muffin.”
Leave it to Cassie. That woman could probably cheer up a turkey the week before Thanksgiving. “Tell me, is your regular still a gin-vermouth martini, straight up with an olive?” Laura asked, smiling in spite of her mood. “No, make that two olives. Not very French, either, I must say.”
“As if there’s anything French at all about this restaurant. Michel Dubois, my foot! His real name is Mike Dunbar and he’s from New Jersey.”
“Shhh! What if he hears you?”
Cassie waved her hand dismissively. “As if his day could be worse than mine. Last night, after I left your house, I got an offer on an estate for a smooth ten million, and this morning I found out that the mortgage company won’t finance. The whole deal fell through. That commission would have put a guest house, gazebo and pool in my backyard.”
“But you don’t own a house,” Laura said, laughing out loud at her friend’s outrageous fabrication.
“So I’ll buy one. I’ll buy your house”
“My backyard’s not that large, and you hate yard work.”
Eventually the joking settled down. Cassie sat back in her chair, her legs crossed at the knees, while Laura leaned forward, her elbows on the table.
“So tell me,” Cassie said. “How was the meeting with John this morning? Any surprises?” She stared across the table. “Laura?”
“What? Oh, John Collins. The lawyer. It went just as I suspected. No surprises. The money’s all gone. Every red cent.”
A server arrived with the martini, and Cassie took a healthy swig. “If it’s just as you expected,” she said after he left, “what’s got you so down?”
“It’s like you said. My aunt got a free ride, living in the house. I can’t believe she spent all the money from my parents’ insurance! The will stipulated that the money was to be used for expenses, which to me includes the upkeep of the house. It’s obvious she never made any repairs. What did she do with it all?”
“You already knew there was nothing left. John only confirmed it.” Cassie reached across the table and took her friend’s hand. “What’s really going on here? This is me you’re talking to.”
Two doves flew into the courtyard and landed near the next table. “I’ve decided to keep the house,” Laura said, watching the birds as they pecked at crumbs. “I know it’s a mess right now, and it’s dark and gloomy. But it’s not hopeless. I could make it into a kind of retreat. I could spend my spare time there, painting, gardening, relaxing…”
Cassie nodded her approval. “I was hoping you’d sell so I could make a big fat commission, but hey, this is much better. I’d love to have you back again, but what does Steady Eddy say? He doesn’t strike me as a small-town kind of guy.”
“It’s not like I’d be asking him to commute. We wouldn’t actually be living here. And if we change our minds, we can always sell.”
“You mean you haven’t consulted him?” Cassie narrowed her eyes. “Exactly when did you make this decision?”
“When you threatened to buy it,” Laura kidded. In truth, although she’d been mulling over the idea, only now had it crystallized into something tangible, something attainable. It had something to do with the sound of the cicadas in the yard, and the smell of the night air when the temperature dropped. She belonged in Middlewood, where she had grown up, and if she couldn’t move back permanently—Edward was a New Yorker through and through—at least she could visit. And she would paint, on weekends, over the holidays, on her vacations.
“Actually, I just decided now,” she said. “So tell me, what do you think?”
Cassie smiled broadly. “I think it’s a wonderful idea! So why the blues?”
“Repairs aren’t cheap. And don’t forget the property taxes.”
Cassie let out a derisive laugh. “You can’t be serious. Steady Eddy would lend you the money in a heartbeat. He’d even give it to you, no strings attached. What kind of marriage are you entering into? Don’t tell me he’s making you sign a prenup!”
“I suggested it, but he wouldn’t hear of it. One thing about Edward, he’s very generous. But the house is my responsibility, not his.”
“He’s going to be your husband. Why not let him help? You said it yourself, repairs aren’t cheap. You’ll need to completely revamp the plumbing, not to mention the roof. And I imagine you’ll want to paint and redecorate.”
“I don’t want Edward’s money,” Laura said firmly. “Besides, I’m not helpless.” Ideas were forming in her head faster than she could speak. “I could do a lot of the work myself. Like painting the rooms and tiling the kitchen floor. I could do it over time. As for the immediate problems, like the plumbing and the roof, I could take out a loan. It’s not as if I have a mortgage to pay. Aunt Tess’s room is the largest, so I’ll use that as my studio, once I figure out how to bring in more light. I wonder how much it would cost to double—no, triple—the size of the window. You’re in the business, Cass. You could probably refer me to someone who would cut me a good deal.”
“Oh.” Cassie’s eyes went cold. “You don’t need me to cut you a deal with him.”
“Don’t ‘oh’ me. I have no intention of going to Jake for help. But even if I did, it would be strictly business.”
“Right. Strictly business. I should have known. Your glum mood has nothing to do with Michel’s wife being pregnant, and it has nothing to do with money.”
“Don’t give me that look,” Laura warned. “I know what you’re thinking.”
Cassie raised her hand defensively. “I know you don’t want to hear my opinions about Jake, but I have to tell you, I’m worried. You finally have your life in order, and there’s a great guy waiting for you in New York. I’d hate to see you screw it up.”
“If you think Edward is so great,” Laura said testily, “why do you always refer to him as Steady Eddy?”
“You know I’m only teasing. I think Edward’s perfect for you. You’re both so…organized. It’s a match made in spic-and-span heaven. And you’re always saying he has your best interest at heart, which is something Jake never did.” Cassie studied her friend’s face. “Trouble in paradise?”
“No, of course not. Edward and I are fine. Look, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I know I’m being ornery. It’s just that coming back here has revived old feelings as well as old hurts. But don’t worry, it’s just a momentary lapse into the past. Call it a momentary lapse of sanity, if you want. Forget I ever mentioned Jake. I’ll bring in a team from New York to work on the house.”
“Can you?”
Laughter suddenly erupted from the table next to theirs. “Can I what?” Laura asked, studying the man seated there. With his classically handsome profile and short-cropped dark hair, he bore a striking resemblance to Edward.
“Can you forget you ever mentioned him?”
Laura’s gaze left the scene at the next table and fell back on the two doves. They were now less than a foot away, squabbling over a crust of bread.
She didn’t answer.
Laura knew what Cassie had been thinking.
She picked up another carton. She was planning to spend the afternoon going through the boxes in the pantry, keeping the good memories, discarding the rest.
Her thoughts returned to the conversation at lunch. Cassie was wrong. Laura had no intention of jeopardizing her relationship with Edward.
Steady Eddy, Cassie called him.
So what if he liked things just so? So what if he was…fastidious? So was Laura. They were completely compatible. There were no ups and downs, no roller coasters in this relationship.
And no surprises, either. She sat down on the faded linoleum floor, imagining what the meticulous doctor would say about the way she was dressed now. She knew exactly what he would say—in a breezy but disapproving tone—about her old gray sweats and bunny rabbit slippers.
She debated calling him. She wanted to talk to him about keeping the house, certain he’d agree it was a good idea. A home in Connecticut would make a wonderful place for entertaining. A wonderful place to schmooze with the bigwigs who worked at the hospital—as long as he didn’t have to mingle with neighbors.
She decided she would call him later.
She sliced open the top of the box with a knife. Inside was a bundle of envelopes bound together with a stretched-out rubber band. With a start she realized that these were the letters Cynthia had given to her for safekeeping. Letters written to Cynthia by a man whose existence Jake had never suspected. Letters given to me so that Jake wouldn’t find them, Laura recalled with hostility. She’d always felt like an accomplice in her friend’s deception, and had resented Cynthia for involving her.
After the accident, there had been no reason for Laura to keep the letters, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to dispose of them. They were a part of Cynthia, and Laura hadn’t been ready to relinquish any part of her friend, as if preserving a memory, even a shameful one, could somehow bring her back.
No, that wasn’t it at all. She had kept them because she was angry. Angry with Cynthia for deceiving Jake. As long as I held on to my anger, Laura rationalized, I could justify loving my best friend’s husband. I kept them to remind me of her guilt, hoping to dispel my own. I would not have married Jake if Cynthia had lived.
Cynthia had also asked her to keep a few mementos as well, but no matter how curious Laura had been, she had never once considered going through her friend’s things or reading her letters. She carried the small carton into the kitchen, without further examining what was inside.
The garbage trucks would be coming by on Monday. Several of her aunt’s cartons were already lined up next to the door, to be taken out to the curb for removal. Why on earth had Aunt Tess kept all this stuff? Why would anyone hang on to torn curtains and linen? Who would keep old shoes and hats? These cartons were Aunt Tess’s links to the past, Laura realized, thinking about her own memory boxes. Laura hadn’t thrown those out, either, when she’d left home.
She picked up another box. Inside was a child’s tea service, complete with cups and saucers, sugar bowl, creamer and teapot. Had the set belonged to her mother? She tried to picture her aunt and mother as children sitting at their kitchen table in Ridgefield, hosting a tea party for themselves and their dolls. But Tess had been six years older than Laura’s mother. Would she have been interested in a child’s tea party? Maybe what Reverend Barnes had said was true. Maybe Aunt Tess had been a warm and doting sister, Caroline’s true caretaker.
Laura remembered another child sitting at a different kitchen table, passing a cup and saucer to a fair-haired woman. The child, wearing a brightly colored party dress, could not have been more than three years old. I was that child, Laura realized. Fingering the delicate bone china, she tried to bring the memory into focus.
The sound of the doorbell broke into her daydream. She wiped her hands on her sweatpants. Back in New York, she never would have answered the door dressed like this, but this was Middlewood. Pretentious was not a word in the town’s dictionary.
The doorbell was ringing insistently, and Laura hurried through the hallway, calling “I’m coming! I’m coming!” She threw open the front door without asking who was there—something else she would never have done in New York. Under the overhang outside the front door stood a tall, thin boy. Laura hadn’t seen him in five years, but she recognized him immediately. Although he wore a frown, and his cheeks were smudged with dirt, his face was still the mirror image of Cynthia’s, and like Cynthia’s eyes in her final year, his were filled with sadness.
Chapter Four
“I heard you were back and I was wondering if you wanted to be on my paper route.”
Cory’s shoulders were almost level with hers. He’s so tall, Laura thought. Tall like his father. But it was Cynthia’s face she was looking at, her high exotic cheekbones, her gold-flecked hazel eyes, her smooth olive skin. “I think we should talk about this,” Laura said, trying to imitate the serious tone in Cory’s voice. “Come on in.”
He glanced inside. Shrugging, he stepped into the hallway.
She motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I have peanut butter cookies and cake. Marble cake with vanilla frosting. Why don’t you wash up at the kitchen sink while I fix you a snack?” she suggested, glancing at his muddy hands. “So, tell me. Are you still in Peewee? No, of course not. You’d be in Little League by now.”
“Nah, baseball’s dumb. All they do is swing a stupid bat and run around a field.” He turned on the faucet. Underneath the sink, a pipe rattled. “How come the water’s brown?”
“Give it a few seconds. It’ll run clear.” She filled a plate with cookies and squares of cake from yesterday’s gathering and placed it on the table. “I won’t be needing the paper during the week, but maybe you have a weekend deal?”
“Sure, no problem. Lots of people only get the paper on the weekend. You know, for the comics.” The clanking of the pipes suddenly stopped, and clear water began gushing from the tap. “Tommy’s grandmother saw you at the funeral. I’m sorry about your aunt. She said you looked different, skinnier. I mean, Tommy’s grandmother said it, not your aunt. She’s dead. I don’t mean Tommy’s grandmother. She’s alive. Anyway, I’m sorry. I mean, about your aunt.”
“Thank you, Cory,” she said, suppressing a smile. She searched through her memory. Tommy? Tommy Pritchard? Wasn’t he that short, frail-looking kid who’d been in Cory’s kindergarten glass? “And how is Tommy these days?”
“He’s okay.” Cory turned off the faucet and wiped his hands on a dishcloth, leaving a dirty stain in the floral pattern. Eyeing the cookies hungrily, he sat down.
