by Belva Plain
Yes, they had.
“Next time, cold sober, it will be even better, I promise.”
“You’ve got your nerve.” He had laughed, been flattered, and also in an odd way, curious. For she had reminded him of Lily in a fashion: snub-nosed, frail as a bird, all pink-and-white.
This was the curiosity: He almost never thought about Lily! In those rare moments when she crossed his mind, he always remarked how rare those moments were. And now here was this girl.
Well, well, so it happened. Each time he went to her he vowed it would be the last, and then, after a week or two without seeing her he went back and was always regretful. The whole business made no sense. It was underhanded, and he wanted his life to be straightforward. Devoutly he wished he had never gotten involved with her; devoutly he wished he knew how to release himself from what was threatening to become a tight relationship. He did not understand how he could be doing this to Ellen.
It was Ellen, finally, who had released him from it. Now, walking around his grounds with his hands in his pockets, he had an awful, unforgettable vision of her face when she discovered it. He wished there was a sponge that could wipe one’s mind clear of such memories. Her tears and her rage, her baffled, utter astonishment! And after the lashing storm, in a dead calm had come the searching questions, searching of him and of herself: Why, Robb? Is there any way I have failed you? Tell me honestly if I have, and how.
Of course she hadn’t and he had told her so, explaining as best a man can how these things happen. It is an accident while failing to watch your step: you fall into a pit and have a hard time climbing back out. It was a lame enough explanation, yet not entirely untrue. There was enough written about adultery: one of the hazards of being a male animal, you might say, if you had a liking for bitter jokes.
In the end, the hard-won end, they had made their peace. He, having given his heartfelt, profound apologies, received forgiveness and the hateful affair was never mentioned again. It was dead and buried. Life returned to normalcy. And so most of his thoughts on this fine morning were good ones.
Of course, there was always the old sorrow about Penn, but as long as Penn himself was not sad, you had to be satisfied. It was a godsend that they had been able to find a fine boy like Rusty who could come every day from the village to be his companion. And if the time should arrive—well, there was a good place all ready, thanks to Dick Devlin, a good home, all paid for, all signed and sealed.
Ellen was at work again at her writing and drawing. He was glad about that. She was a very talented woman and must not waste her talent. Yes, it did rankle a little that, because of her work, she had not spent enough time on this house. Some of the rooms were as barely furnished as if the family had moved in only yesterday. But he would not quibble about it. He knew very well that Ellen did not love the house, but she never reminded him, as many women would, that it had not been her choice. Then perhaps she had finally become accustomed to it? He didn’t know. He never asked her.
Still, he reflected now, there were occasional moments when he wanted to. So much these days was written about “communication”! He had never given the subject much thought; when people loved each other, you would expect “communication” to come naturally. Yet sometimes, especially this last winter during those evenings when the cold rain seemed endless, strange unspoken questions came to the tip of his tongue. Where has the passion gone? The sweetness? It is all so pleasant. It is all so dutiful.
But what do you want, Robb? Your questions are naive. Things change with time. Don’t you know that? It’s the same for everybody, so stop your petty search for trouble where there is none. As things go in this world, you have nothing to worry about.
Julie was walking toward the stable. “Hi, Dad. Ready?” she called. “The ladies are waiting.”
Mounting Duchess and My Lady, the golden beauties, they started downhill toward the riverfront path. In places where it narrowed, Julie rode ahead and Robb had the pleasure of watching her perfect posture, her elegant jacket and black curls, Ellen’s curls, under the riding cap. Child of privilege, he thought. Yes, give her everything he hadn’t had. That’s only what everybody wants to do, isn’t it? Sad to say, though, everybody can’t do it.
If my parents could see where I live now! I used to ride Joey, the farm horse, imaging myself as Lawrence of Arabia on an Arab thoroughbred.
“Why are you laughing?” asked Julie as he came alongside.
He told her. “I’ve loved horses all my life,” he said. “That reminds me. I’ve brought something for you. I meant to keep it as a surprise for your birthday, but that’s too long to wait. I’m going to give it to you before you go back to college tomorrow morning.”
In one of those shiny magazines filled with expensive articles to buy, he had seen a pair of antique crystal horses. They were treasures that she would keep forever. He loved being able to give fine things.
“What are you going to give Mom for her birthday?”
“I don’t know. Have you any ideas?”
“Not really, but I’ll think and tell you.”
“She never wants anything.”
“She always says she has everything.”
“Well, now she’s happy in her work again. If you love your work, maybe you do have everything.”
The remark was sententious, and he knew it was. But apparently Julie did not think so, because she replied enthusiastically.
“Even when I was very young, I always felt that about you, Dad. I felt that you were really enjoying yourself when you stood up to speak in court. I didn’t understand a lot of what you said, but I knew you loved it.”
When she was very young! And she barely nineteen!
“I’ve definitely decided what I want to do with my life. Of course, you already know it’s journalism. That’s nothing new. But what I’m interested in now is the environment. I want to be an investigative journalist who goes after people who damage the world. Who let the cities go to ruin and tear up the countryside and poison the air and the water, who wipe out the animals, and all that. You know what I mean, Dad. You’ve said it yourself. And I’m going to do it.”
Crusading youth, he thought, and was moved by her purity and fervor.
Rounding a wide curve, they came to a place where he always liked to pause. From here you could look up the hill to where the house stood in the perfect spot below the crest, alone and proud.
“I thought they were going to build many more houses on this land,” Julie observed.
“They were, but the area hasn’t yet caught people’s imagination.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
To the left of the grassy slope marched the burgeoning woods. To the right the ground fell away to where, out of their present sight, lay acres of orchard, pasture, and corn.
“It’s too beautiful to clutter it up with houses, I think. Don’t you? Even our house spoils it.”
“Well, you can’t keep the countryside empty forever.”
“We don’t have to gobble it all up, either. I told you I’m going to fight for the environment.”
“Good for you. I’m on your side.”
The horses stamped, wanting to move on, and they proceeded at a trot along the path.
Robb was silent. What would be bad about buying up the whole piece of land? A large house deserved a spacious setting. From the very first sight of this place, he had thought of it as a family home for the generations. Why not?
As things stood, Devlin and his crew might well be glad to get it off their hands. It was idle land, if only temporarily so, but men like those didn’t like to hold anything unprofitable, even for a short time. It might be stretching things, but this land was worth a stretch, and he could make it.
It is fantastic, literally like a dream, the way money, once you get started, increases. You borrow, you buy, you sell, you blend your profits and your borrowings, you stay ahead, and you salt away.
“What would you say if I were to buy this land?�
�� he asked.
He had amazed her. “Buy it, Dad? The whole thing? Wouldn’t it cost a fortune?”
“Depends what you call a fortune. I believe I can do it.”
“Oh, it would be gorgeous! But—” And she turned in the saddle, questioning him with her soft green eyes. “But are we so rich, Dad?”
“Not rich, but comfortable.”
The miracle of his life! His wealth, he had every reason to believe, was greater than that of all the Fowler firm’s partners put together. It made him feel comfortable to be so secure that he could afford to be modest. So he repeated the phrase.
“Not rich, but comfortable.”
And, with Duchess and My Lady, they rode on through the fragrant morning.
From her desk, Ellen had a long view. When she saw the horses come away from the river path, she laid down her drawing pencil and walked to the window. It would make a painting, something that Winslow Homer would have done. The colors were striking: the apple green of new grass, the blond horses, and Julie’s red jacket.
Ruefully, she reminded herself that this was Julie’s last day of vacation. Tomorrow the house would return to its hollow quiet. Most of the time, she could actually hear that quiet, so that Penn’s often raucous voice, or the sounds of Mrs. Vernon’s friendly chat with the mailman came as a shock to the ear.
When she thought of Mrs. Vernon, who after all these years still retained her titled widowhood, she thought of the word “blessing.” This “blessing” had not considered for even one moment a departure from the family that she considered her own. So here she was, enjoying after her fashion a generous salary, her own three-room suite, and Rusty’s help with Penn.
“It does my heart good to see you doing your work again,” she had remarked yesterday. “I was about to give up hope that you’d ever get back to it. Whatever made you?”
Ellen thought wryly now, nothing and no one but Philip Lawson. With him in mind she had planned this room as her sheltered workplace, rearranging a dressing room that must have been planned for a woman who changed her clothes three times a day. With him in mind, she had managed the move to this house, and done it so gracefully that Robb had come to believe that she liked it.
She was no martyr. It would be ridiculous to think of martyrdom while living in so much luxury. No, it was simply a practical acceptance of reality. She could have gotten her way, with a disgruntled man and a troubled, victimized daughter as the price, but that would have been too steep a price. Not in those precise words had Philip said so, but she had not mistaken his meaning.
He knew—oh, he knew too much! It was possible even that he knew her, Ellen, better than she knew herself. But she must stop playing these tricky little games: Did he look at me as if—? Did we really look at each other as if—?
She had not taken Penn to see him more than a dozen times in the five years since they had left home. On several Sundays Robb had suggested inviting him for one of their old-time lunches, but she had made excuses, and after a while, Robb had stopped asking.
The outer door closed now with a thundering echo. There was too much marble everywhere; could that be the reason for the echoes in the house? Julie’s greeting resounded from below.
“Hi, Penn. Come on, I’ll play the piano for you.”
Penn still loved her. But who did not fall in love, first with Julie’s open face, then with her open mind and humor, and last, when they knew her, with her open heart? “A treasure,” Robb said.
He came in now and sat down on the sofa to remove his boots. His face had a fine flush from the sun. He looked healthy, and she told him so.
“Nothing like outdoor exercise. I wish you’d try riding,” he said.
“I take long hikes. Julie and I must have covered five miles yesterday.”
“Where? Down by the river?”
“I don’t always, but yesterday we did.”
“This is a paradise, isn’t it? We stopped the horses a couple of times just to gaze. The house looks positively regal standing alone at the top of the hill.” When she had no comment, for “regal” would hardly have been her adjective, he continued, “A house this size needs to have land around it. The proportions are wrong otherwise.”
“The yard is very generous, I think. By the way, when are they ever going to get started on some more building?”
“Well, it’s still a kind of slack time in this part of the country.” Robb hesitated, shifted himself on the sofa, and no doubt without meaning to, warned her that something was coming. “That being the case, I was thinking that this is the perfect time to take the whole business for ourselves. The more I think, the more the idea appeals to me.”
“Buy the whole thing?” she cried. Her heart fell. And then it beat like a little red-hot engine. “I’m stunned. What can you be thinking of?”
“I think it’s plain what I’m thinking of. It’s a good proposition, a smart buy.”
A prolonged argument was indeed on the way, and she was already tired. “Robb,” she said, “let me tell you something about yourself. I don’t mean to be unkind, but the fact is you are a compulsive buyer, a spender, like some of those people you read about who go through the malls with a dozen credit cards in their pockets, buying stuff they don’t need. They like it, so they want it.”
“I am hardly in that position,” he said stiffly.
“Don’t act insulted. There are plenty of people about whom you would never guess by their appearance that everything they seem to own, fancy houses, fancy furniture, imported cars, the best of everything—they do not own. Some bank does.”
“That’s not our case, and you know it isn’t.”
“There has to be an end,” she said, trying to be patient. “We do not need acreage. We are not raising sheep on a ranch out west.”
“You would think I was talking about two thousand acres or something. Plenty of people, not famous people, have estates of two hundred or more.”
“Yes, people of substantial wealth. A man who owns factories, or—”
Ellen’s patience was leaving her. There was scarcely a day when he was not coming up with another expensive purchase. Last week it was a greenhouse. Who in the world was going to tend it? Not he, who spent his days in the courtroom or in the office. And not she, who had her own path to follow. And losing her carefully nurtured patience, she burst out, “You have delusions of grandeur! That’s what’s the matter. You’re a lawyer in a small city doing very, very well, but you’re not a captain of industry, and why should you be? Why aren’t you satisfied the way you are?”
“Must we flounder through all this again? Let’s not repeat what we did when I suggested this house in the first place, and see how it has turned out.”
“How has it turned out? I don’t like it. And I wonder what some other people think about it. If you or I could be a fly on the wall, we would know what they’re saying. I was ashamed before your senior partners when we had the housewarming. What do you think the Fowlers and Mrs. Harte had to say when they were on their way home? It’s much more costly than anything they have. Yes, what do you think they thought? It’s a silly, pompous, show-off place, and we don’t belong in it.”
He looked as he might if she had punched him. And she was immediately, painfully, sorry. For years she had played her decent part in spite of everything—everything—and now she had spoiled it. For the first time she had lost her temper, and she was deeply sorry.
Nevertheless, it was true. Everything she had said was true. But she did not say anything more, and they were both standing there in bewilderment when they heard the piano strike a hard final chord and stop. Julie was coming up the stairs. Neither of them had to tell the other that she must not know what had passed.
So they had a normal lunch, and afternoon, and dinner. In the morning they had the final breakfast, and the final good-byes at the airport.
“It was a wonderful time,” Julie told them. “Love you both. See you soon.”
They kissed her, she waved, a
nd went down the jetway. They waited until her backpack was out of sight. Then, having come in two cars, for Robb needed his own to go on a business trip, they spoke their own cool good-bye in the airport’s parking lot and went their separate ways.
Robb headed south toward the Gulf. This powerful, mighty engine, built for the auto routes of Europe, would take him to his destination by late afternoon. Traffic, seldom congested in this area, was exceptionally light, probably because of the hurricane warnings. When he had phoned the office, even his secretary had told him he was taking a risk. But this was his only free opportunity for the next few weeks. And besides that, he wanted to get away. The argument yesterday morning had left him restless and tense.
Not wanting to relive it, he turned on the radio. The hurricane, with winds of a hundred fifteen miles an hour, was approaching the coast. On the other hand, there was a chance that it might veer outward and dissipate over water. In short, nobody really knew what was going to happen.
He drove on through the familiar terrain, this level land on which he had grown up and learned to know these gray-board hamlets, these busy little towns that served the farms, and the larger towns, actually small cities now, with prosperous streets and pretty new suburbs. He drove with a mind divided, one part alert to the road, and the other dozing, so to speak, out of a wish to escape from the dregs of a bad mood.
His psychological daze was harshly interrupted by a long line of halted cars and the presence of police. Apparently, there had been an event far up ahead, either an accident or some road repairs, that was to keep them standing there. So he shut off the engine and sat back to contemplate the sky ahead. Every few minutes he looked at his watch. Then he saw something. In the line of cars parallel to his, in the car almost neck and neck with his, he saw Lily.
There was no mistaking her. It was not one of those situations in which there is first a shock of recognition, followed by doubt: Is it, or is it not? He had only the shock, without doubt. There were the sandy hair, the small frame—even in the neat little American car, she looked small—and the profile with its impertinent, upturned nose. All of a sudden, he recalled his old name for her: Flower Face.