by Belva Plain
“What if Happy finds out?”
“She won’t. Roxanne doesn’t want to hurt her because she likes Happy. Happy’s been good to her. It’s a funny thing, but there’s a very decent streak in Roxanne, too. I think she surprises herself with it. So we don’t know ourselves either, do we? Cliché number two.” Now that he had begun to speak, Ian seemed unable to stop. “It’s no excuse, but sometimes I think if I hadn’t—if Father hadn’t rushed me into marriage before I’d had a few more years of experience, I wouldn’t have done so much chasing. Again, no excuse. My God, if anything could be a lesson, this is it. Jesus! I blew Clive’s mind! My brother’s mind! I’ve got to tell him before he dies, got to …” His eyes brimmed and the tears ran over. “But I can’t say, can’t tell him of all people how it really was between her and me. I’d never had anyone like her. I knew I should end it, yet I wanted it to last forever. And then you know what, Dan? It died. These things always do. You never think they will, but they do. Suddenly something happens and they die. Dan, you’re the only other person who’ll ever know about Roxanne and me. That should tell you what I think of you. I trust you with this the way you trust me with what happened to your Tina. How is she?”
“Better. She’s doing much better.”
“That’s good. Thank God. That’s another thing that haunts me. When Clive said that about Father’s never having harmed a soul, I felt the shame and horror all up and down my back. I thought of Tina and Amanda. I know, I read about these people, but it doesn’t register. I don’t understand. I don’t recognize my own father. God! It’s one thing to fool with women, but to do what he did …” Ian groaned.
Dan said quickly, “You’re not responsible. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Dan, I’ve been hard to get along with. Restless and guilty and too stupid to be thankful for what I’ve got. You may not believe it, it’s queer, but you know, these blows seem to have knocked the loose parts of my head into some shape. I feel—I’m not putting it very well, but I feel different. I am different. You’ll see.”
The March wind came swooping around the corner of the house. Small broken branches went skittering down the drive. Ian drew up his coat collar and shivered. Suddenly his teeth began to clatter.
“You’re freezing,” Dan said. “Get in my car.”
“No, it’s my nerves. I’ll be all right, I’ll pull myself together.”
“Let Happy take you home. We’re going, too. We’ve all had too much this morning, and we’re not through yet.”
On the third morning the nurse, who had for a short while left his room, returned to find Clive dead of a massive internal hemorrhage.
A few minutes later Roxanne arrived; a few minutes after her, came Ian. It was the wife’s privilege to enter the room first alone, which she did, emerging quickly to let the brother have his turn. He was to remember, and knew as he stood there, that he always would remember, that small body, all yellow skin and bones, and that small hand already growing cold. He was to regret, and knew that too, that his brother had never been conscious enough for any last dialogue between them.
When the doctors had left and the burly guards had been removed from the hall, Roxanne and Ian went downstairs and out to the parking lot.
“I suppose,” she said, “you’re wondering what I’m going to do. Well, I’ll tell you. I’m going away. You won’t have to worry about my hanging around. I never want to see this place again. I feel like dirt here.”
“I don’t feel exactly clean either,” he said.
“There’s no comparison between us. At least you never lied to me.”
“Not to you, but to everybody else.”
“So you’ll make up for it now.”
“It’s too late to make up for it to him, if I ever could have.”
“Your trouble with him began a long time ago in kindergarten. If you weren’t so damn attractive to people, he’d have been a different person. His body played a lousy trick on him.”
And yours was a gift from the gods, Ian thought. But she had lost her power over him. He knew that surely, as they stood with only inches between them. Her rich hair glinted in the light, her heart-shaped face was nestled in a silk scarf printed with violets, and he could smell her perfume. But no throb of any kind responded.
His glance moved to her abdomen and, quick as always, catching the glance, she said, “Not to worry. I am his widow and so of course it’s his. He wanted it that way. He was a good man—and he was crazed when he tried to kill you.”
“Yes, I know.”
“He’s left money for me and my sister, too. I’m going to sell the house and go to live in Florida. Keep Michelle away from the fights and the drunken grandpa. You’ll be glad to know we’re never coming back.”
He could certainly not deny being glad about that. Yet, mixed with the inner turmoil of guilt and blame was a feeling of compassion, and he said, “I’m glad he’s left you provided for. It’s not as much as I promised you if we had sold the woods but—”
“You’re not going through with the sale?”
“No. I’ve called it off.”
“All of that money?” she asked curiously.
“I’ve lost interest. I’ve come to think that it’s crazy to want that much. It’s like stuffing yourself with six sirloin steaks or six pies while one is plenty.”
“Haven’t you changed, though!”
“Yes,” he said, “I have, but it took a damn lot to do it.”
“Want to hear something funny? I’ve changed, too. I really loved you, you know, and now it’s all gone. Just like that,” and she snapped her fingers. “And believe it or not, I’m going to miss Clive.”
“I know.” That was all he could think of to say.
“We won’t be seeing each other except in a crowd at the funeral or someplace,” Roxanne said. “So I’ll say it now and shake your hand. Good luck, kid. It was nice knowing you.”
On the beach, in the sun, they lay looking out at the lazy waves. All morning Sally had been engrossed in a book, the first she had been able to read since last December. She was functioning again. Now, having put it aside, she mused.
“I still can’t understand how Clive could have set out to kill his own brother. He really had to have been insane.”
“Not necessarily,” Dan said.
“Then what?”
“Oh … nothing.”
“You’re hiding something. You have a secretive look.”
“Uh-uh.”
“That morning at Clive’s house, you and Ian were talking a long time out by the garage. What was it about?”
“Business.”
“Dan Grey, I do not believe you. You’re keeping secrets.”
“If there is a secret, Sally, don’t ask me to tell it because I never will. Never.”
That she knew, so she asked no more, but lying back on the towel, let the sunlight warm her bones. And suddenly Dan spoke into the stillness.
“Can you believe that morning, that scene? It’s like a title for a book: The Day Our World Turned Inside Out.”
“I wonder whether Dr. Lisle ever thought I was the person who murdered Oliver. And I’ve always had a hunch Amanda thought so.”
“Well, now they both know you didn’t.”
“But why did Oliver slump against the wall when he hadn’t been shot?”
“I think because he was terrified. He knew he was caught. Oh, Sally, think of it, we were going to see Larson on Wednesday so you could give yourself up! How you suffered, how brave you were! If anything ever happened to you—”
“Darling, nothing will.”
He sat up. “Let’s go back to the room. We came here to celebrate.”
She laughed. “It’s only two in the afternoon!”
“I don’t give a hoot what time it is. Come on, I’ll race you in.”
Chapter Twenty
September 1993
The great house had come back to life. At the entrance, on a high stone gatepost, there h
ung a sign on which in elegant brass lettering was written: THE HAWTHORNE ECOLOGICAL MUSEUM AND STUDY CENTER. On this mild Sunday afternoon in late September, the dedication ceremony was taking place in the auditorium that had been created where the Greys had once had their dinners, read their books, and entertained their guests. A crowd had filled all the chairs, and standees overflowed into the hall. Speaker after speaker, experts from the universities, community leaders, and finally the mayor, praised with eloquence the preservation of the earth, the education of the young, and the vision of Oliver Grey.
“Tirelessly he gave of himself. We have all been the beneficiaries of that vision and his great heart. Among his many gifts, this building, along with the grand forests that his family has now so generously given to the state in perpetuity, to be kept forever wild, is his most enduring monument.”
Above the mayor hung a posthumous portrait of Oliver Grey. Sally remarked how accurate it was, catching as it did an expression that in some way had managed to be at the same time austere and benign. How extraordinary everything was today! And when she met Dan’s smile over the heads of Susannah and Tina, who were sitting between them, she smiled back. They had come a long way.
After the speeches, the crowd dispersed through the building to see the classrooms and the exhibit halls with their displays of wildlife, vegetation, and rocks. On the expanded terrace, where the caterer’s crew served refreshments, the Greys were expected to hold court for an hour or so.
Happy, a sun-streaked blonde in rosy health, was exceptionally pretty today and Sally told her so. “Pink becomes you,” she added.
“Last of the summer dresses, last that I can barely fit into, anyway.”
Happy was pregnant and full of rejoicing because she was carrying a boy. “Yes, after all these years. How I longed for one! And Ian is so excited I don’t recognize him.”
He was indeed a changed man. The swagger was gone, and in its place had come a subtle moderation, as if he had overnight grown into maturity.
They were surrounded by well-wishers, sincere friends, celebrity hunters, and the merely curious; it would take years before the great Grey murder would cease to be a thrill. So they stood patiently, shaking hands and making the pleasant small talk that people expect of each other on such occasions.
“Do you remember me?” a woman said. “Joan Lennon, three houses down from Clive and Roxanne. We were good friends in the short time we knew them. Such a tragedy!”
Yes, they remembered her.
“I just came back from Florida, my mother lives down there, and I thought you might like to hear that I ran into Roxanne.”
At that, they were both interested. It had seemed unpardonable to Sally and Happy that Roxanne never wrote or even let anyone know where she was, although neither Ian nor Dan had been at all concerned.
“She asked to be remembered to you. She looks absolutely wonderful. Well, she always did, didn’t she? She has a beautiful apartment with her sister, a lovely girl. Roxanne keeps an eye on her. And she has a man, a good-looking older man who seems quite crazy about her. I heard he’s going to marry her. I’m glad for Roxanne. She had such a bad time, poor girl, and then losing the baby right afterward. It was awful. Somebody said it was an abortion, not a miscarriage, but of course I suppose you know much more about it than I do.”
“No,” Sally said, “we don’t.”
“No? Well, it is a woman’s private business after all, isn’t it?”
“I do wonder why we never hear from her,” remarked Happy when the woman left them.
“I always had a vague feeling that there was something unfortunate in her life that she didn’t want us to know about,” Sally said. “Something ugly that she was ashamed of.”
Uncomfortable with such conjectures, Happy merely shrugged. Like Dan, she was cheerfully inclined to think the best of everyone and everything.
“Ah, Amanda and Todd!” she exclaimed. And as they approached, “You’re late. We thought you might have changed your minds.”
“I wouldn’t have missed this for anything,” Amanda said. “This gloomy pile turned into something so lively! It was worth the trip. Besides, I wanted Todd to see you all. You hardly got in more than a hello and good-bye at that little wedding of ours.”
They seemed well matched; Sally had decided that, the first time she saw them together. Eyes told you so much, and she liked the way Todd’s twinkled behind his glasses. He’s got more humor than Amanda, she thought, and Amanda’s so earnest, so energetic; they’ll balance each other.
“Where are the girls?” Amanda inquired.
“Nanny’s taken them down to the duck pond with stale bread.”
“You’re keeping Nanny on?”
“I have to. I’m back at work, doing that book of animal photos. It’s a huge job. And you?”
“I’m enlarging the home. Todd got hold of a great architect and we’re putting on an addition that will make room for twenty more girls.”
It was good to be talking about lives that were moving, producing. So they spoke together, until Todd and Happy drifted toward another group. Then the two who were left almost at once returned to the theme of that December afternoon three years before.
Amanda wanted to know what had been done with Hawthorne’s furnishings.
“Everything was auctioned in New York. The sale was fabulous. People scrambled for the stuff. All the money goes to the foundation, paying for teachers and lectures and maintenance.”
Amanda looked out over the lawns and gardens, then up at the stone walls where ivy rose to the second story.
“That window, second from the corner, that was my room,” she said.
A shiver went through Sally and she did not comment.
“Whatever happened to the carousel?” Amanda asked.
“Sold with the rest of the stuff. I believe it brought more than seventy-five thousand dollars.”
Amanda said hesitantly, “I have to confess that once I thought perhaps you—you knew something about—” She stopped.
The two women looked at each other for a moment, Amanda with the startled, embarrassed expression of someone aware that perhaps she had said too much. Sally, comprehending, finished the sentence for her.
“You thought, at first, that it was I who shot Oliver.”
“I meant—” and here Amanda stammered a bit, “if you had a reason … no, this is absurd. Please forget I said it.”
Sally smiled. “It’s okay, I’ve forgotten.”
The man was dead and there was no need for anyone, not even Happy, who was so dear, to know what had happened to Tina. Except of course that Amanda really knew.
Often, she reminded herself, how frail the thread is on which one’s fate is hung. If Clive hadn’t lost his mind and taken a gun in hand, then she, Sally Grey, would very probably not be standing in this place today. Tina would not have been discharged by Dr. Lisle, and the second-grade teacher would not have stopped her on the street the other day to tell her what a successful, delightful little girl Tina was. If, in that Paris antique shop, Dan had not been looking at the carousel …
If and more ifs, back to infinity. But today is now; the idea is always to look forward.
And she looked out ahead, to where her girls in their white dresses were coming back across the lawn. Tina was holding the little one by the hand. They were laughing. Beyond them rose auburn hills and forest and endless trees in their autumn splendor.
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from the Belva Plain title
PROMISES
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Chapter One
“Turn,” said Isabella with pins between her lips.
In the pier glass, looking down, Margaret could watch careful fingers working over a cascade of white silk. Looking up, she saw her own disheveled, curly red head and her shoulders rising in unfamiliar nakedness over an intricately tucked and pleated frill.
Margaret’s mother sighed. “I don’t know how you do it, Isabella.”
“Sewing is recreation for me, Jean. And to make a wedding dress for my own daughter-in-law, whom I knew before she was born—how many people can have a pleasure like that?”
Affection shone from Isabella’s eyes. They were opalescent and wide-set, like her son’s. Like Adam, she was erect and dignified. But where she was talkative, he was silent. His intelligent face with its even, symmetrical features, was somber, a somber, romantic face. Mysterious. Heroic. Margaret had fallen in love with it when she was fifteen years old.
If Adam ever leaves me, she thought suddenly, I shall die.
He had last telephoned on Monday, just after she had come home for spring break. Before that, he had not called since the previous Thursday. But they had always talked to each other every evening after eight. They would talk just under three minutes, yet it seemed, although two states lay between his university and her college, as if he had his arms around her.
When had it begun to change? Or had it really changed? After all, he was on the final stretch of the hard road toward his degree. So perhaps she was only imagining things. A word unspoken, a glance evaded, a telephone call missed—if you were looking for signs, you could find them, couldn’t you? You could always force something out of nothing merely because you were too sensitive. Yes, that was it. She was too sensitive.
And she looked around at the familiar room as if its very familiarity might reassure her. An extraordinary warmth was here. It came from the house itself, this solid Victorian on this broad midwestern street, built by her great-grandfather and meant to last, complete with front porch and wooden gingerbread. It came from the two women, both plain, kind, and unexceptional, who had known widowhood since the Korean War, had each worked and reared a child alone. It came from the cheerful shrills of children playing in the yard below.
From where she was standing, Margaret could see the group playing some ancient circle-game, with Nina in the center, taking charge. At six, she was the neighborhood leader. Such a delightful, demanding person she was, Jean’s little orphaned niece!