Pulling up along the shoreline, he only spared a brief glance for the harbour lighthouse, heralding the entrance to Katama Bay and beyond, his mind and body focussed on the task in hand. Later perhaps, he’d grab himself a coffee and take a stroll along the harbour and stare out at all the super yachts but now he had a letter to deliver.
Parking outside the stunning waterside property situated in the heart of North Water Street, any sympathy he had for the man he was about to serve disappeared as his eyes wandered across the professionally landscaped gardens and classically styled porch with views of the lighthouse. This wasn't someone to feel sorry for. This was someone who’d walked out on his wife and three kids leaving them all but destitute after he’d raided their bank account and sold their house out from under them.
Stamping a thin professional smile onto his lips, the smile he used to practice in front of the mirror in the gents before entering the courtroom, his feelings remained hidden as he grabbed the buff envelope and stepped out of the car into the bright sunlight. He had a job to do, only that. He wasn't the one to walk out on his marriage like the man in front of him, even now smirking at the sight of his suit and tie when all around were in shorts and t-shirts. He wasn't the one to walk out on his relationship – could a single afternoon even be termed a relationship? He wasn’t to blame for any of it but it sure felt like it was his fault as he recited his brief spiel before heading back to the car. He wasn’t to blame so why did it suddenly feel, after all these weeks, his fault?
Letter served, he pulled away from the drive on a squeal of tyres, not caring if he left a trail of rubber in his wake. If he could smear his thoughts on the road as easily, he’d be a happy man. No, he’d never be happy again, he added, swerving into a parking spot much to the annoyance of the car behind, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered except her and her reason for walking out on him. If only she’d tell him what he’d done, or what he hadn’t done; at least then he’d know.
Chapter Twenty Two
‘Well, I never imagined it would be like this, certainly not after all that brown.’
‘I know. Mum and I had our reservations, too, I can tell you.’
‘Mum?’ Sarah tilted her head, her eyes searching her face. ‘You had Pauline here?’
‘Yes, just before she had to go back to England, that is. She’d have stayed longer if I’d asked but she needs to move on with her own life just as I need to move on with mine,’ she added, starting to unload the bag of shopping Sarah had left on the kitchen counter. ‘We’re getting on fine, much better now I’m not being a bitch.’
‘You were never a bitch, just a little aloof.’
‘Yes, well. We’re friends now, more than anything,’ she said, pulling out a large box of macaroons. ‘It’s so good of you to bring some of my favourites back from Paris. It’s impossible to get decent mustard and as for mayo…’
‘You’re welcome, although it wasn't me. It was all Pascal’s idea. He seems to think that Americans live on donuts and coffee with a few hotdogs thrown in for good measure.’
She joined her in a laugh, her mind scrolling back to the last time she’d had a hotdog, although, in truth, she hadn’t even taken a bite before he’d whisked her away for an afternoon of passion. But enough of that. If she remembered him every time she heard the word hotdog, she’d go out of her mind and she needed every brain cell she could muster if she was ever going to play again with any degree of proficiency, or indeed talent.
She cringed every time she remembered just how much it had cost to transport the piano from the brownstone to Martha’s Vineyard, the surprising thing being, it fitted perfectly into the open-plan lounge. She’d asked the removals men to place it in the bay window with distant views over Katama Bay and that’s where it remained, its thin black wooden legs in sharp contrast to almost everything else in the room. The shiny top was almost invisible, piled as it was with an assortment of well-thumbed and annotated music sheets. But that didn’t matter to her. All that mattered were the pile of ever growing musical pieces from a variety of composers that she was learning to play again.
In a way, she was rewriting the rulebook on musical composition, when composition had never been a strong point. She loved to play the piano full stop. She wasn't a composer at heart. She had no wish to create new melodies and sounds when she had the work of the masters to play. But now she had to, if not rewrite then rework the notes of these masters so that they could work for her, a two-handed musician with a weak right hand and a barely there left one. It was madness. It had never been done before but if there was a way, she’d find it. She had the works of Godowsky to guide her with his interpretation of Chopin for the left hand, not to mention Ravel and Liszt but in a way she was working blind in the creation of a new, seamless way to make an integrated melody from the discordance of the poor fingers left to her.
‘So, that’s why he was so surprised when we stopped at the grocery store to pick up clams for supper. I thought he was going to faint at the sight of all the seafood on display,’ she replied, picking up the box and messing with the ribbon. The use of her left hand was deliberate as she undid the little pink bow on top of the box of cakes and arranged them neatly on a china plate. Her hand wasn’t clawed and the pain was now only a thin hazy memory so, in a way, she was happy, at least happy with her surgery. If she’d been a normal person, she’d have been happy with her hand too because, now she was able to perform all the activities of daily living to near enough the same standard as before the accident. But she wasn’t a normal person. She wasn't content. She wanted more because deep inside she knew there was more to be had. Every action, every movement was a form of exercise. Stretching, kneading, manipulating the stiffness into submission and slowly, very slowly her hand, her fingers were finding a way.
She practiced every morning; scales, arpeggios, simple arrangements and now more complex ones, lovingly crafted snippets of well-known and lesser-known works. It was choppy and disjointed where before her music had been fluid and mercurial but, with only the birds in the trees outside the wrap-around porch to hear her, all she worried about was her technique and finger movements. The sound would come later, if at all.
Her eyes strayed from the piano to the white lounge with its palate of sea blue trim and rag rugs strewn across the highly-polished deep mahogany flooring. She’d dreaded opening the door three months ago to more brown. Life was hard enough without having to live in another throw back from the seventies. But it was as if someone had gone through the house with a large paintbrush and dolloped white paint everywhere. Any colour came from the rugs and the cushions, not to mention the tasteful seascapes dotted liberally over the walls. She loved it. She loved it so much she’d sent Sarah, Pascal and Anique tickets to come and visit, which was funny in itself as Sarah was still the owner, but not for long.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?’ she asked later, sitting on the porch with Anique blowing bubbles beside her while Pascal worked his magic in the kitchen.
‘No, and I’ll throw in Gramercy as well.’ Sarah reached for her coffee mug and, taking a sip, rested the white porcelain cup on her lap. ’To be honest, the money will come in useful,’ her eyes meeting those of her friend’s, one hand gently resting on her stomach ‘We’ll need more bedrooms shortly.’
‘I couldn’t believe it when you told me about baby number two, that man of yours must be relentless,’ she said, winking at her friend with a smile.
‘It takes two to tango, Cara,’ raising the cup to her lips for a second time. ‘Talking of which, what are the men like in these parts?’
‘Men, what men? And even if there are, I’m not looking. I’ve decided to become a nun.’
‘Ha, it’s a bit late for that, don’t you think? Nuns are virgins and it’s a long time since you’ve been able to keep your legs closed.’
‘I’ll be a new type then. The modern version. Yep, I like the sound of that. An independent woman with only herself to rely on.’
> ‘It all sounds a little bit lonely, don’t you think?’
‘What sounds lonely, ma cherie?’
They both turned around at the sound of Pascal coming out to join them, Cara’s old apron casually tied around his well-defined waist. He bent down and, pressing a kiss against Sarah’s lips snuggled up beside her, one hand on her stomach the other starting to tickle an excited Anique.
‘Cara says she’s giving up men.’
‘Really? Why? What have we ever done to you?’ his eyes crinkled up in amusement.
‘Not you particularly. Just men in general.’
‘Ah, men in general,’ he repeated, resting his elbow on his knee as he peered at her. ‘All men are the same, is that it? All men are out for what they can get at the expense of leaving the little woman home alone with the babies and the bathwater.’
Stretching up, Sarah pressed a kiss against his cheek, wiping a trace of flour from his chin. ‘She doesn’t mean you, Pascal. She doesn’t mean men in general, although…’ She turned her head and stared at her friend. ‘Although, she might very well be talking about one man in particular. Come to think of it, you were very quick to leave Gramercy?’
‘I had my surgery.’
‘But you could have gone back after? It would have been easier to keep up with all those check-ups you’ve been telling me about. New York is where your consultant works out of, isn’t it?’
‘Sarah, please.’
‘Sarah nothing,’ she slammed back. ‘If it was me with a secret, you’d be all over me like a rash. I thought we were friends. I only want to help but if…’
‘Ladies, ladies come on now. Supper is ready.’ But Pascal might as well have held his breath for all the attention he was getting. With a sigh he stood up and, tucking Anique under his arm, headed for the door.
‘I’ll just pop this little one down for the night. Come on ma petite, bed time. We’ll leave your maman and Tante Cara to sort out the world and the humble man that inhabits it,’ he added, pressing her brown curls into his chest before pressing a kiss against her forehead.
If rooms could sigh they’d sigh at the sight of the six foot four architect, with more abs and pecs than was humanly possible under the well-washed and stretched t-shirt, hugging his little daughter under his chin. But instead of sighs, there was silence as the two women finally locked eyes and smiled. It was Cara that was the first to speak.
‘His name is Matisse and he’s the worst, slimiest git to walk the planet and the worst of it is...’ Turning away she headed for the piano and, sitting down, reverently opened the lid and started to play the mournful notes of Mozart’s 23rd piano concerto, her attention now focussed on the keys under her fingers. ‘And the worst part of it is, I can’t forget. I can’t forget a minute of it, not even one second, and I don’t even want to. How can a man be so beautiful and kind and horrible at the same time? If he’d just been horrible, I’d have coped but he was the worst kind of horrible,’ her fingers changing from Mozart to the soft swell of Chopin’s Tristesse, the melancholic notes running away under her hands like water over stones. Her fingers stretched to the limit of their endurance as they tried to keep up with the demands of the half-diminished chords leading up to the resounding climax.
‘He’s all I think about, even now when all I want to think about is my music. All I want to remember is Aaron but it’s as if Matisse’s shadow is pushing him out of the way, making what we had less important somehow. Aaron is the man I loved. Aaron is the man I married and planned to spend my life with. But the questions. The questions invade my head and push out any notes, or at least any notes worth listening to,’ she said, crashing her hands down on the final cords, the sound echoing around the room before diminishing into silence. ‘If Aaron was my past and my present, how is it I can’t seem to face even one day without thinking about another man? I don’t know where to turn. I don’t know what to do except practice but now,’ she lifted her hands off the keys and turned them palm upwards in a kind of supplication. ‘But now music isn’t enough anymore.’
‘Are you sure he’s such a slime ball, Cara, really sure? Because if there’s any room for doubt?’
‘There’s no room for doubt. I saw it with my own eyes, Sarah. He was all set on turning Northtonly into some posh resort with an 18 hole golf course, as if we need any more golf courses in the world. Pauline would have been out on her ear with tuppence ha’penny to call her own and I’d have been none the wiser until it was too late.’ She closed the lid gently, setting her hands gently on top. ‘I slept with him, Sarah, I slept with him and he stole my heart. He stole my heart, my soul, my everything. Without him pushing me to do something about my hand, without him pushing me to make the seemingly impossible possible, I’d never be here playing again. I owe him everything and he’s taken it all,’ her voice dissolving into the same place her music had only seconds before.
Sarah, reaching across, pulled her into a deep hug, her hand brushing the heavy burnished hair away from her face in the same way she did for Anique a thousand times a day. But before she could gather any words together that might help what seemed to be a pretty helpless situation, she heard her husband walking along the corridor whistling the last few bars of Tristesse.
‘Supper’s on the table ladies. Who’s that you’re listening to, I’ll have to download it, it’s beautiful,’ he said, walking into the room only to pause at the doorway his eyes on the closed keyboard, his face a picture of surprise and then delight. ‘Mon Dieu. I never realised. When Sarah said you were good, I never realised just what she meant!’
Sarah and Pascal were like any other couple in that they told each other everything. Well, not exactly everything. Sarah wouldn’t dream of letting him know the plans she had for sending Anique to Roedean while Pascal had conveniently forgotten to mention he’d registered her for the local nursery down the road. But these were all problems and conversations for the future. Now they were curled up together on the large chenille sofa discussing Cara and the conman she’d fallen for, before moving onto talk about her music.
‘If I ever get to meet him, I’ll tell him a thing or two, that’s for sure.’
‘D’acord, ma petite. But perhaps it’s Cara that should do the telling. Perhaps she needs to meet him just once more in order to move on with her life and her music. That playing of hers, I honestly thought it was the radio. How can she even do that?’
‘I’m sorry to sink your ship, Pascal,’ she replied, idly stroking the dark hairs backwards and forwards on the arm lying lightly around her waist. ‘It wasn’t that good. Oh it was good to you and everything but to Cara, to anyone classically trained it was choppy, and lacking in that extra something her music always had.’ Her hand paused, her fingers choosing and then gently tweaking one of the hairs with a smile. ‘So she plays better than me does she?’
‘Non, ma cherie, she could never do that,’ he said, swooping down and finding her lips.
Chapter Twenty Three
So this is her house. So this is her life. This plain white clapboard house is where she wakes up each morning and, rolling out of bed, walks to the window to see what the weather is doing.
He smiled, remembering their conversations on the weather. He wouldn’t have believed about the English and their fixation on the weather if he hadn’t seen it for himself. He got that it rained, and indeed snowed, in the UK with annoying regularity. He still had the cost of the helicopter trip on his conscience if not his credit card bill, for goodness sake. But never leaving the house without a tube of sun cream, a brolly and a woolly hat in the bottom of your bag was, to his mind, a touch obsessive.
He leant on the door of his car, his gaze scrolling over the clean lines and on up to the grey shingle roof, not dissimilar to his parents’ house. But any similarity with his parents’ house both started and ended with the roof, his smile turning to a frown. For a start, they didn’t have the large wrap-around porch with wicker rockers and a swing bench, large enough for the whole family. Th
ey also didn’t have a jetty with room enough for ten decent sized cruisers or direct access onto a private beach, just as they didn’t have a backyard large enough for a soccer game or indeed croquet, his eyes now on the funny upside down hoops pegged into the ground that he’d only ever seen in those historical dramas his mother liked to watch on Netflix.
There were so many things that puzzled him about her, not to mention her stepmother as he remembered how cagey she’d been when he’d tried to get her to give away Cara’s address. Where had all the money come from when Pauline was on her beam end? No one could have been more delighted than him when he’d heard about Pauline’s windfall, but wasn't this last minute reprieve all a little too convenient?
He slammed the door shut with a bang before locking it and making his way across the herringboned paved drive as he tried to marshal his thoughts. He only had a couple of hours if he was going to catch the ferry back and he hadn’t given any thought to what he was going to say to her after all these weeks. If he’d been more organised, if he’d had more time to plan, he’d have made a list of the questions he wanted to know the answers to but, like everything else in his life at the moment, it was all very last minute. If he hadn’t spotted the music shop hugging the sidewalk half a mile back, he would have had no idea as to where she lived. If he hadn’t come up with some crazy mistruth about coming over from the mainland the check if the piano had been tuned properly, he wouldn’t have been able to squirrel her address out of the young girl holding the fort while her father was at lunch. All if’s, buts and maybe’s just like the questions he hadn’t quite worked out to ask her. It was all so bloody impossible, primarily because the last time he’d seen her he’d been spooned up close with his head buried into her skin and now… and now he felt a stranger, an interloper. No, not an interloper. The enemy.
The door remained resolutely shut under his hand, his finger finally pinned to the doorbell in one last attempt. Stepping back, he glanced up at the sightless windows. Was she hiding behind one? Even now, was she examining him to find out what changes the last few weeks had wrought on his looks? Heaving a sigh of regret, it didn’t really matter if she noticed a few more grey hairs scattered across his temple or the new lines that punctuated their marks across his brow. Coward or not, there was nothing he could do except leave but he’d be back. Now he knew where she lived, he’d be back.
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 53