Journey Of The Heart

“Forget the broom, and come with me.”

Cassie raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and followed Laura through the archway. “I’d forgotten how dismal this place was,” she said with a shudder. “You should probably renovate before putting it on the market. You could make a tidy profit. What about adding a breakfast nook at the back of the kitchen? And a skylight would do wonders.”

“I don’t want to spend the time, not to mention money I don’t have. Edward keeps asking when I’m coming home.” She pulled open the door to the pantry off the kitchen. “Voilà!” she sang out.

The pantry had been intended as a maid’s room when the house was built in the early 1900s. Layers of wallpaper and different markings on the walls indicated that at one time the room might have been used as a den, a guest room or even a sewing room. As a child, Laura would sneak in there to daydream, and in her fantasies, her mother would be sewing something special—a Halloween costume, a new party dress, Laura’s wedding gown….

Piled up in the middle of the room were dozens of boxes. “You should have seen what I threw out,” Laura said. “There were hundreds of rusty tins on the shelves, and over there—” she pointed to the far wall “—barrels of flour had turned black. I had to disinfect before moving in the boxes. These boxes, by the way, are my next project. I can’t just throw them away without first checking what’s inside.”

“You sure have your work cut out for you,” Cassie said. “I’ll be glad to help—but not tonight. This puppy is off to bed, and I suggest you do the same. It’s been a long day.”

Laura turned to her friend and hugged her. “Thanks so much for being here for me, Cass. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“You always say that, but the truth is, you’re the strong one here. You’re the fighter, the survivor.” Laura opened her mouth to protest, but Cassie cut her off with a quick peck on the cheek. “You don’t have to walk me to the door. I’ll let myself out. If I know you as well as I think I do, you won’t call it a night until you’ve gone through every box with a magnifying glass.”

Sometimes it seemed as if Cassie knew Laura better than Laura knew herself. But on one particular point, Cassie was wrong. Laura was not strong. There were times when she felt she couldn’t go on, times when she didn’t want to go on. Whenever she thought about going through life without having children…

She waited for the click of the front door before reaching for one of the smaller boxes in the middle of the room. Wrapped in silver cellophane, it was tied with a faded crimson bow. It was one of her own old memory boxes, she realized, one of the many she had not taken with her after she had married Jake and moved into his house. I wanted us to have a fresh start, she thought as she removed the bow.

She tore away the wrapping and hesitated. Weren’t some memories better left buried? As if taunting her to take that scary trip down memory lane, the box lay there, unadorned on the pantry floor. She took a deep breath and lifted the lid.

The first thing she pulled out was a snapshot of her and Cassie proudly dressed in full Girl Scout garb, marching down Saw Mill Road in the Veterans’ Day Parade. She smiled. Going down memory lane wasn’t so bad, after all. Next, she picked up a picture of Jake in his gold-tasseled uniform, playing the trumpet. That is, trying to play the trumpet. His cheeks were puffed out, his eyes bulging out of their sockets.

Then she picked up a photo of Cynthia.

Cynthia was wearing a white satin gown she had designed and made herself. With its deep décolleté, and a side slit that ended at the hip, it was so risqué that Cynthia’s mother had forbidden her to wear it. But Cynthia had been determined, and what Cyn wanted, Cyn got. The night of the Sweetheart Dance, she told her mother that Jake would be picking her up at Laura’s house. She put on a plain, high-neck dress, then drove over to Laura’s, where the girls spent hours on their makeup and fixing their hair. Laura had always felt awkward next to her chic, lithe friend, but she had to admit, by the time Cynthia had finished working on her, she looked good. In fact, for the first time in her life, Laura felt beautiful. She slipped into her gown, a fairylike creation of dawn-tinted crepe, and twirled around and around, feeling wonderful and weightless.

Cynthia then wriggled her body into her sleek, tight dress. She was not only sensuous, she was majestic, and wore her confidence like a crown. Laura looked at her with awe. “After you, Your Royal Highness,” she said, curtsying.

“You’re the one who looks like a princess,” Cynthia said, then added jokingly, “I’ll be watching you tonight, so don’t get any notions about my prince!”

Laura studied the photo, trying to recall the name of the boy who had taken her to the dance. That night, all she had thought about was that he wasn’t Jake. David? Donald? I guess some things aren’t worth remembering, she thought now with a twinge of regret.

But there were some things a person couldn’t forget.

An old pain came hurtling back. Cynthia had told her mother that she’d be spending the night at Laura’s.

Laura pulled out more snapshots. Here was Cyn waving goodbye after spring break. Laura remembered how she, Ellen, Cassie and Cynthia had huddled together at the station, as though New York was a thousand miles away. And here was Cyn walking down the aisle, wearing a stunning gown of silk and lace, which she had designed and sewn herself. And here was Cyn, hair and blouse drenched, holding her pink, naked one-year-old son after giving him a bath.

She fingered the photograph of Cynthia with Cory. It might have been the last one ever taken of her once-best friend.

She thought back to that final day, that final hour, that final moment in the hospital when Cynthia had opened her eyes for the last time.

“Take care of my men,” she’d said.

And Laura had. Eight months later she and Jake were married.

What was it Rhett Butler had said to Scarlett? It must be convenient having the first wife’s permission.

Oh, Cyn, I certainly made a mess of things, didn’t I?

Maybe resurrecting old memories wasn’t such a good idea. With each recollection came a fresh wave of pain.

Laura’s thoughts strayed back to her childhood. Aunt Tess had been a cold and stern caretaker. Yet in spite of the resentment Laura felt, she was filled with pity. Poor Aunt Tess. The woman had never known the meaning of happiness.

Before Laura could stop herself, she started to cry. Not the low, broken whimpering that, as a child, she used to smother by burying her head under her pillow, but deep, loud, heart-wrenching sobs that threatened to tear her body into pieces. Whether it was because of her reminiscing or because she was exhausted made no difference; her anguish was an acute physical pain that wouldn’t ease. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, rocking herself to and fro as if her spirit were the mother, her body the child. Through a small window in the kitchen, the late night’s moon cast its rays over the boxes. Outside, the wind had picked up, and she could hear the insistent tinkling of the chimes hanging from the eaves. She sat there for what seemed like hours, weeping for all the losses she and those she had known had endured, until finally her sobs dwindled into whimpers, and exhausted, she lay down and fell asleep.

Chapter Two

Morning was bright and crisp. Last night’s lusty wind had waned to a breeze, its cool breath lingering in the air. In the margins of the roads, sunlight streamed through the trees, exposing hints of autumn’s palette dappling the leaves. Summer was coming to an end.

Jake stood under the overhang outside the front door, pressing the bell. When no one answered, he tried the large brass knocker. He knew she was home. A Ford Taurus was parked in the driveway leading to the garage behind the house. On the rear bumper, a sticker indicated that it was a rental. “What normal person in New York City owns a car?” he imagined her saying.

He stepped back from under the overhang and glanced around. To Jake, the charming Colonial reproduction was a dignified testament to days gone by. He’d always been drawn to this style of architecture, with its direct outlines and sturdy proportions. Especially pleasing to his eye was the way the chimney jutted out from the center of the roof into the sky, majestically uniting hearth and heaven. He’d always believed there was beauty in this kind of design, and that in this kind of beauty lay truth.

Unfortunately, years of neglect had caused both aesthetic and structural damage. Alongside the house, pieces of clapboard had broken off, exposing wood studs. He looked at the broken fence and frowned. Laura hadn’t lived here in a long time, but the house still belonged to her, and she should have seen to its upkeep.

He walked down the pathway and rested his gaze on the window of Laura’s old bedroom. Was that where she was sleeping these nights? Or had she moved into one of the larger rooms? He couldn’t imagine her spending one hour, let alone one night, in her aunt’s room, even though it had once belonged to her parents.

He made his way around to the back of the house. The steeply pitched roof, which covered a lean-to and sloped down almost to the ground, was in need of repair. Several of the shingles had flipped over, and many were missing altogether. The yard here was as unkempt as it was out front. Weeds had overgrown any signs of healthy plant life, and the once trimmed bushes now resembled a forest. He vaguely remembered a garden, and for a moment he could have sworn he smelled roses. But the memory slipped away like a dream, and the scent was gone.

After completing a circle of the entire property, he found himself back at the front door. Where could she be at eight in the morning? Wanting to apologize for his outburst at the chapel, he’d come by early to make sure he’d catch her at home.

A movement at the living room window caught his eye. Suspended from a swag of faded green velvet, white lace curtains flapped in the breeze like laundry on a line. He cut across the lawn, crashing his way through the overgrown grass and weeds.

What was wrong with that woman? Maybe this wasn’t New York, but she just couldn’t go around leaving her windows open! He pushed aside the fabric and peeked inside. Why was there a light on? He knew she liked it bright, but drawing the curtains would have supplied all the light she needed. She must have left it on all night. His concern mushroomed, and he sprinted back to the front door to try the bell again.

This time if she doesn’t answer, he told himself, I’m going to climb in through the open window.

He knew he was being irrational—she could be asleep, or in the shower—but still, he had the unsettling feeling that something was wrong. It was that radar again, the radar she’d always said was between them. Normally he didn’t go in for all that psycho mumbo jumbo, but it was weird how she used to finish his sentences or tell him what was bothering him when he tried to keep it all inside. Maybe now the radar was working the other way. How else could he explain the nagging in his gut?

Maybe I can pick the lock, he thought, not thrilled with the prospect of climbing onto the splintered wood ledge of the living room window. He pulled out the Swiss Army knife from his back pocket. Rattling the knob to test its give, he was surprised when it turned in his hand. It didn’t make any sense. Laura had always been too trusting and a little naive, but she would never have left the door unlocked all night.

He entered the hallway and scrambled up the steep staircase, his footsteps thumping loudly on the threadbare carpet. “Laura!” he called, convinced she was lying unconscious somewhere in the house. “Laura!”

Once inside her childhood bedroom, he allowed himself a moment to think. On the nightstand was a photograph in an expensive-looking frame. His eyes lingered on the couple in the picture. Laura looked exquisite, in a long black-pearl satin gown that slid off her right shoulder, her hair swept back into an elegant knot. The man standing next to her was dressed in full tux, his arm resting familiarly on her exposed shoulder. On the window behind them, a heavy brocaded green curtain served as a backdrop.

In a flash Jake recalled the green velvet swag in the living room. What if she hadn’t left the window open? What if someone had broken in? What if…?

He ran out of the room and down the stairs, taking them three at a time. But she wasn’t in the living room, or anywhere else, as far as he could see. And then, standing in the hallway, just outside the kitchen, he heard a faint, low moan coming from the pantry, no louder than the mew of a kitten.

He rushed into the small room and for a moment his heart stopped beating. She was lying on the floor, motionless. He bent low and nudged her gently.

She blinked her eyes open and stared at him blankly. “What are you doing here?” she sputtered, her blue-green eyes coming to life. “How did you get in?”

“The question is,” he began, “what are you doing here?” A small naked bulb hanging from the ceiling, and a haze of sunlight from the kitchen window provided the only light. Looking at the boxes, he tried to assess the situation. Dozens of photographs were piled in a heap, and in a far corner, a stool lay overturned. “Are you all right? When I saw you lying there, I was afraid…I thought…”

“Of course I’m all right!” She pulled herself to a sitting position. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t I look all right?”

“Don’t move. You may have a concussion, or a broken bone—”

“As I recall, we’re no longer married. I stopped taking orders from you years ago.”

“As I recall, you never took orders from anyone, least of all me.” He had intended his remark to be as caustic as hers, but the relief flooding through him had washed away the sting. She wasn’t hurt. A little irritable and a whole lot rumpled, but she was okay. He eyed her critically. She was still wearing the black linen suit she’d worn at the service, only now it was dusty and wrinkled. Her hair was a mass of stringy tangles, her complexion pale and pasty. Under reddened eyes were large puffy bags, a sure sign that she had been crying. “Actually, you don’t look so hot,” he said matter-of-factly. “What did you do, spend the night here?” When she didn’t answer, he reached out and touched her cheek. “My God, you’re like ice! You did sleep here. Here, let me help you up.” He kneeled behind her and placed his arms around her belly, just above her hips.

“Why are you doing the Heimlich maneuver?” she snapped. “I’m not choking.” She tried to stand, but her legs gave way, and she fell back against him.

In one fluid motion, he was standing again, sweeping her into his arms.

“Who do you think you are, coming in here and manhandling me like this! Put me down!”

“I see you’re feeling better. Back to your old self again.” He rotated the front of her body into his chest, pinning her arms between them. “Still the same hell-bent ball of fire, all right. It’s good to know that some things in life don’t change.”

“You have some nerve,” she hissed, squirming in his arms. “Where are you taking me?”

“No need to thank me,” he said, releasing his grip and dumping her onto the living room couch. “I wouldn’t want you to exert yourself.” He felt her eyes burning on his back as he walked over to the window and banged it shut.

“Now what are you doing?” she called as he retreated into the hallway.

He returned with a bright red afghan. “To answer your question, I’m taking care of you. Apparently, you have forgotten how. Now, are you going to cover yourself or do I have that honor?”

“My fingers…” A look of pain flashed across her face, stripping away the veil of her defiance. “These pins and needles feel more like knives.”

He pulled the blanket over her legs and sat down at the foot of the couch. “Serves you right for leaving the door unlocked.” He reached over and began kneading the life back into her fingers. “It’s payback time. Instant karma.”

“Ouch! That hurts! I suppose you’re enjoying this.”

“Keep still.”

“I thought you didn’t go in for all that stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Karma and all the other mystical forces of the universe. And for your information, karma is about ethical consequences, not stupid mistakes. And it’s never instant. Although sometimes I think that nothing ever changes, at least not in one lifetime. You even said so yourself. But don’t worry, maybe there’s truth to this reincarnation theory. Maybe next time around, you’ll finally get it right…. Am I babbling?”

“If you’re going to quote me, do it right. My exact phrase was ‘Some things in life don’t change.’ And yeah, you’re babbling.”

“All better,” she said, pulling her hands away. “You missed your calling, Jake. You should have been a doctor. Tell me, Dr. Logan, will I be able to play the piano now that you’ve saved my hands?”

On the coffee table, several charcoal pencils were neatly lined up next to a sketchbook. He leaned forward and picked up the book. “And they’re such talented hands,” he said, leafing through her drawings. “I see you haven’t given up your art.”

“I did give it up, when we got married. I started again after the divorce. Remember my dream? To make a living from my painting? I never gave that up.”

The way she talked, you’d think their marriage had been one long exercise in sacrifice—on her part. He picked up one of the pencils and rotated it in his fingers. Laura had always been quick to delegate blame. That, apparently, hadn’t changed. He studied her carefully. Maybe some things in life never changed, but some things sure as hell did. This new Laura, well, he hadn’t completely figured her out yet, but something was different. She was still headstrong and stubborn, with a quick, hot temper, but he saw something else, something he’d never seen before. The old Laura wouldn’t have wasted a minute feeling sorry for herself, as her puffy red eyes and the splotches on her cheeks clearly indicated.

He lowered his gaze. Even though she lay curled under the blanket, he could picture the curves of her shapely legs. He couldn’t erase from his mind the sight of her when he’d dropped her onto the couch. Her rumpled black skirt had been pushed up high above her knees, exposing the smooth, creamy flesh of her thighs. It had always amazed him how quickly she could arouse him with just a turn of her leg, a flash of her eyes—that was another thing that hadn’t changed.

He thought back to the night he had proposed, when she had come to him so eagerly, so ready. They had always been friends, good friends, and Cory had adored her. It was only natural that they would drift closer and eventually marry. He would have been content with just companionship, and Cory needed a mother, but what she brought to the marriage was an added bonus.

No, they’d never had problems in that department.

In the hallway, the grandfather clock rang out four short chimes, indicating that it was a quarter past the hour. “Doesn’t that thing bother you?” he asked, replacing the pencil in its ordered, straight row. “It would drive me crazy, ringing out like that every fifteen minutes.”

“You get used to it. A person can get used to anything…. Jake?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry I yelled at you. I know you were only trying to help. It was a stupid thing to do, falling asleep in the pantry. Cassie was here, and after she left, I forgot to lock the front door. I was so tired, and it was such a long day—”

“Forget it. I’m just glad you’re all right.”

She sat up and wrapped her arms around her bent knees. “Jake?”

“What?”

“Do you remember this afghan?”

He grinned. She must be a mind reader. Once again, he recalled the night he had proposed, when he had said he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, when he had said he wanted her to be a mother to Cory. They had taken the blanket out to Freeman’s Pond and lain under the stars, talking, dreaming, planning. “Yeah, I remember.”

“We had some good times, didn’t we?” she asked, her eyes meeting his. “I mean, they weren’t all bad, were they?” Without warning, two plump tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Laura…”

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she said, her lips twisting down. “Ever since I’ve been back, I’ve been crazy. Maybe it’s remembering how my aunt treated me. Maybe it’s just being here in Middlewood after so many years. Either I’m laughing or crying, or doing both at the same time.”

He pulled her toward him, closing the distance between them. Stifling a sob, she slipped into his arms and buried her face against his neck. Her tears flowed easily. He held her in his embrace, feeling the last of her defenses melting away like a late-spring snow. The scent of her natural perfume floated in the air, and he inhaled deeply. And then, ever so slowly, his hands traveled a wavy path down to the small of her back.

“Oh, no.” She stiffened in his arms. “I can’t do this.”

“You can’t do what?” he asked, feigning ignorance. He knew what she was thinking. Was it his fault she had misinterpreted his intentions? “Let someone take care of you? You act as if it were a sign of weakness.”

She wriggled out of his hold. “What do you want from me? Why did you come here?”

He looked at her coolly. “You know what your problem is? You don’t need anyone. You like playing the martyr.” He teased her lips with his fingers. “Tell me, doesn’t it get lonely up there, alone in your ivory tower?”

“Stop it,” she said, recoiling from his touch. “Answer me, Jake. Why are you here?”

He leaned back into one of the sofa pillows and sighed heavily. “You probably won’t believe me, but I came to apologize.”

“You, apologize? For what?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“For yesterday. I shouldn’t have said the things I said. You had your reasons for walking out of the marriage, even if I don’t agree with them.”

“So, we’re back to that again. Your apology makes me sound like the bad guy.”

“Come on, Laura. This isn’t easy for me. Don’t make me grovel.”

“Now that would be interesting.” She stared at him, and then shrugged. “Apology accepted. I’m still not sure what you’re up to, but I have to admit, humility becomes you.”

This was the Laura he remembered, all right, all spit and vinegar. But he was willing to overlook her attitude. For the sake of peace, he told himself. It had nothing to do with how her lips had felt under his touch, as soft as a whisper. “Truce?”

“Truce.” She picked up a stray goose feather and blew it into the air. It spiraled to the floor, landing in the same spot where it had been lying. “Last night Cassie had a fight with a pillow—the pillow lost. I should probably clean up these feathers before I start tracking them through the house.”

He made a motion to rise. “Sit. I’ll take care of it.”

“No, leave it. Given the condition of this place, getting rid of a few feathers would be a drop in the bucket. Cassie says I should renovate before I put it on the market, but I think I should just clean it up as best I can and sell it the way it is.”

“So that’s it? You’ve decided to sell?” Although he hadn’t spent much time in the house, he felt a sense of loss. It had been his father’s first restoration project, long before Jake was born.

Dotted with old Colonial-style homes, Middlewood had once been a sleepy little New England town. Charles Logan, Jake’s father, was going to restore these old homes to their original beauty and make his fortune in the doing, but the business had never become the success he had envisioned. Eventually Jake’s parents grew tired of the harsh northeast winters and retired to Florida, leaving the business to Jake. Under his adept management, restoration gradually gave way to construction, and the business flourished.

“I haven’t decided anything,” Laura said. “I’ve even been considering keeping the house, but the thought of living here, in these conditions…”