Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Diana once told me that she had met quite a few men over the years since then, but that none of them had ever really measured up to Michael. “Why settle for second best?” she had said to me during one of our treasured moments of genuine intimacy. On another occasion, she had confided that she much preferred to be on her own, rather than having to cope with a man who didn’t meet her standards, did not compare favorably with Michael.

  “I’d always be making mental notes about him, passing private judgments, and it wouldn’t be fair to the poor man,” she had said. “Being on my own means I’m independent, my own boss, and I can therefore do what I want, when I want. I can come to New York to see all of you when the mood strikes me. I can work late every night of the week, if I so wish, and I can go up to Yorkshire whenever I feel like it. Or dash over to France on a buying trip, on the spur of the moment. I don’t have to answer to anyone, I’m a free agent, and believe me, Mal, it’s better this way, it really is.”

  I had asked her that day whether Michael had been her only love, or if she had ever fallen in love again. And she had muttered something and glanced away. Intrigued by the way she had flushed, albeit ever so slightly, and averted her head with sudden swiftness, I had been unable to resist repeating my question. After a moment’s hesitation and an unexpected stiffening of her shoulders, she had finally turned her face back to mine. Her gaze had been direct, her eyes filled with the honesty I’d come to appreciate and rely on. I always knew where I stood with her, and that was important to me.

  Slowly, she had said in the softest of voices, “The only man I’ve ever been remotely interested in on a serious level, and very strongly attracted to is . . . not free. Separated for the longest time, but not actually divorced, God knows why. And that’s not good. I mean, it would be impossible for me to have a relationship with a man who was legally tied to another woman, even if not actually living with her. Untenable, really, and certainly no future in it.”

  Her shoulders had relaxed again, and she had shaken her head. “I came to the conclusion a very long time ago that I’m much better off living on my own, Mal. And I am happy, whatever you think. I’m at peace with myself.”

  Yet it has often struck me since that Diana must have moments of great sadness, of acute loneliness. But Andrew doesn’t agree with me.

  “Not Ma!” he had exclaimed when I first voiced this opinion. “She’s busier than a one-legged toe dancer doing Swan Lake alone and in its entirety. She’s up at the crack, behind her desk at the antique shop by six, cataloguing her stock of antiques, bossing her staff around, and floating over to Paris to buy furniture and paintings and objets at the drop of a hat. Not to mention wining and dining her posh clients, and fussing over us, her dearest darlings. Then there’s her life in Yorkshire. She’s forever racing up there to make sure the old homestead hasn’t tumbled down.”

  Shaking his head emphatically, he had finished, “Ma, lonely? Never. She’s the least lonely person I know.”

  At that time I had thought that perhaps she keeps herself so frantically busy in order not to notice her loneliness, perhaps even to assuage it. But I hadn’t mentioned this to Andrew. After all, he was her son, her only child, and he ought to know her well, if anybody did. And yet there have been times over the years when I have noticed a wistful expression on Diana’s face, a sadness in her eyes, a look of longing, almost. A yearning, maybe, for Michael? Or for that love who was not entirely available? I wasn’t sure, and I have never had the nerve to broach the subject.

  Nora startled me, and I jumped in my chair as she came crashing into my office. I sat bolt upright, gaping at her.

  “Sorry I’m late, Mal,” she exclaimed, striding forward and flopping down in the chair opposite my desk.

  For a dainty, petite person she could certainly make a lot of noise.

  “Phew! It’s hot today! A real scorcher!” She fanned herself energetically with her hand and gave me a smile. Then her face dropped as she took in my expression.

  “Oh, sorry, did I give you a start when I came in?”

  I nodded. “You did. But then, I was miles away, I must admit. Daydreaming.”

  A look of incredulity swept across Nora’s face. Narrowing her eyes, she uttered a dry little laugh. “Daydreaming! Not you, Mallory Keswick! That’s the last thing you’d be doing. You’re a human dynamo. I’ve never seen you waste a minute.”

  Her words amused me, but I made no comment.

  Rising, I said to her, “How about a glass of iced tea, before we get down to the task of putting this house in order for the weekend?”

  “Sounds good,” she answered, immediately jumping up and leading the way out of the office. “I didn’t stop at the market stand on the way here. It’s better I buy your vegetables and fruit tomorrow, Mal. They’ll be fresher for Monday’s barbecue.”

  “That’s true. Listen, are you and Eric coming? You haven’t really given me a proper answer.”

  She swung her head, looked over her shoulder at me, gave a quick nod. “We’d love to, and thanks, Mal, for including us. It’s good of you.”

  “Don’t be so silly, you and Eric are like part of the family.”

  She didn’t say anything, just moved on into the kitchen, but there was a small, pleased smile on her face, and I knew she was happy that I’d asked her again, that I had not taken no for an answer.

  Nora, who was about forty, was a slender pixie of a woman, with unusual, prematurely silver hair, an intelligent but merry face, and silvery-gray eyes. She had been my helper for the past year and a half, almost since we had moved in, and her husband, Eric, who worked at the local lumberyard, did carpentry and outdoor chores for us on weekends. Married for nearly twenty years, they were childless, and both of them doted on the terrible twins, as I jokingly called Jamie and Lissa at times.

  Nora was a practical, down-to-earth, no-nonsense woman, a real Connecticut Yankee with her feet on the ground, which made us totally compatible, since I tend to be pragmatic and plain-speaking myself.

  Utterly without pretension, she refused to be called a housekeeper. “Too fancy for me,” she had said the day I had hired her. “Let’s just say I’m your helper, Mal. All right if I call you Mal, isn’t it?”

  I had nodded, and she had continued, “It’s friendlier. Anyway, that’s the way it is in the country. First-name basis.” She had laughed then. “Housekeeper sounds a bit formidable to me. Makes me think of a woman in a black dress with a grim expression and a bunch of keys tied to her belt.” The silvery-colored eyes had twinkled. “Maybe I’ve read too many gothic novels.”

  As far as I’m concerned, Nora Matthews can call herself anything she wants. She is invaluable to me; I couldn’t manage without her.

  Pouring two glasses of iced tea, Nora remarked in her clipped way, “Fourth’s going to be a lot hotter than today. Weather forecast says we’re in for it. Better think about dressing cool on Monday. Lightweight all the way.” She eyed my T-shirt and shorts. “You’ve got the right idea. Stick to that outfit for the barbecue.”

  “Aw, shucks, Nora, there goes my plan to wear my new cocktail dress!” I exclaimed, arranging a suitably disappointed expression on my face.

  Swiftly, she glanced at me. Her brow furrowed. Nora was never absolutely certain about my humor, never knew whether I was teasing her or not.

  I burst out laughing. “This is exactly what I intended to wear. Shorts and a T-shirt. You know very well they constitute my summer uniform.”

  “I guess so,” she muttered.

  For a split second I thought that I had offended her, teasing her in this way, but then I saw a glint of hidden laughter in her eyes, and I relaxed.

  “Come on, let’s get this show on the road,” I said, adopting a bustling manner.

  “Beds first?”

  “You bet,” I answered, and gulping down the last of my iced tea, I followed her out of the kitchen.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Four hours later I carried a turkey sandwich and a Diet Coke
out to the low wall which surrounds the terrace in front of the sunroom.

  Selecting a corner which was well-shaded by one of the large old maples, I sat down and took a bite of the sandwich, enjoying it. I was starving, having been up since before dawn. Also, besides changing all the bed linens, Nora and I had done a marathon job of cleaning the bathrooms and the bedrooms. The hard work had helped to give me an appetite. Not only that, I wanted to fortify myself for the rest of the day; there was still the entire downstairs to clean.

  I take great pride in Indian Meadows.

  I love it most of all when everything sparkles and gleams and looks perfect. Diana has always said I should have been an interior decorator. She thinks I have great talent for putting furniture and things together to create unique and attractive settings. The idea doesn’t appeal to me; I don’t think I would enjoy doing this kind of work for clients in the way that Diana buys antiques, paintings, and beautiful objects for the customers who patronize her prestigious antique shop in London. I am sure it would be far too frustrating, trying to please other people, not to mention convincing them that my taste is superior to theirs.

  I prefer to be an amateur decorator creating a home which pleases Andrew and me, just as I paint for my own pleasure, for the satisfaction and gratification it gives me.

  Nora never joins me on this wall for a picnic. Invariably, she eats her lunch inside, preferring the cool, air-conditioned interior. Certainly it is much more comfortable inside the house today; it is positively grueling out here. A great yellow orb of a sun seems to be burning a hole in the fabric of the sky, which is of such a sharp and brilliant blue it almost hurt my eyes to look at it.

  The wall where I’m sitting is wide, with big flat stones along the top, and it is very old, built by hand by a local stonemason many years ago.

  In Yorkshire, drystone walling, as it is called, is an ancient craft. All of the stones have to be perfectly balanced, one on top of the other, so that they can remain tightly wedged together without the benefit of cement. It is done by the crofters on the Yorkshire moors and in the lush green dales, but it is a dying craft, Diana says, almost a lost art. I’m sure it is here, too, and more’s the pity, since these ancient walls are beautiful, have such great character.

  I am extremely partial to this particular wall on our property, mostly because it is home to a number of small creatures. I know for a fact that two chipmunks live inside its precincts, as well as a baby rabbit and a black snake. Although I know the chipmunks well and have spotted the bunny from time to time, I have never actually seen the snake. But our gardener, Anna, has, and so have the twins. At least, that is what they claim, most vociferously.

  Ever since my childhood, I have loved nature and the wild creatures who inhabit the countryside, and I have encouraged Jamie and Lissa to respect all living things, to treasure the animals, birds, and insects that frequent Indian Meadows.

  Unconsciously, and very often without understanding what they are doing, some children can be terribly cruel, and it always makes me furious when I see them hurting small, defenseless animals, pulling wings off butterflies, grinding their heels into earthworms and snails, throwing stones at birds. I made my mind up long before the twins were born that no child of mine would ever inflict pain on any living thing.

  To make nature more personal, to bring it closer to them, I invented stories about our little friends who inhabit the garden wall. I tell Jamie and Lissa tales about Algernon, the friendly black snake, who has a weakness for chocolate-covered cherries and wishes he owned a candy store; about Tabitha and Henry, the two chipmunks, married with no children, who want to adopt; and about Angelica, the baby bunny rabbit, who harbors an ambition to be in the Fifth Avenue Easter Parade.

  Jamie and Lissa had come to love these stories of mine; they can’t get enough of them, in fact, and I have to repeat them constantly. In order to satisfy my children, I’m forever inventing new adventures, which entails quite a stretch of the imagination on my part.

  It’s struck me several times lately that perhaps I should write down the stories and draw pictures to illustrate them. Perhaps I will, but only for Jamie and Lissa. This idea suddenly took hold of me. What a wonderful surprise it would be for the twins if I created a picture book for each of them, and put the books in their Christmas stockings.

  I groaned inside; how ridiculous to be thinking of Christmas on this suffocatingly hot summer’s day. But the summer will soon be drawing to an end; it always does disappear very quickly after July Fourth weekend. Then Thanksgiving will be upon us before I can blink, with Christmas not far behind.

  This year we are planning to spend Christmas in England. We will be staying with Diana at her house in West Tanfield in the Yorkshire dales. Andrew and I are really looking forward to it, and the children are excited. They are hoping it will snow so that they can go sledding with their father. He’s promised to take them on the runs he favored when he was a child; and he is planning to teach them to skate, providing Diana’s pond has frozen solid.

  I was ruminating on our winter vacation ten minutes later when Nora poked her head around the sunroom door. “It’s Sarah on the phone,” she called.

  “Thanks,” I called back, but she had already disappeared.

  I slid off the wall and went inside. Flopping down on a chair, I picked up the phone, which sat on a nearby end table. “Hi, Sarah. When are you coming out here?”

  “I don’t think I will be coming,” she replied.

  I thought she sounded woeful, a little glum for her; she was normally so cheerful.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, gripping the phone a bit tighter, instinctively aware that all was not right.

  We had been best friends all of our lives, ever since we were babies in prams being walked on Park Avenue by our mothers, who were also friends. We had attended the same kindergarten and then Miss Hewitt’s. Later on we had gone off to Radcliffe together, and we have always been extremely close, inseparable. I know Sarah Elizabeth Thomas as well as I know myself, and so I understood that she was upset about something.

  Since she had remained totally silent, I asked again, more insistently, “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s Tommy. We had a foul row last night, the worst we’ve ever had, and he’s just informed me, by phone no less, that it’s over between us. Finished, terminated, kaput. He doesn’t want to see me . . . ever again. And he says he’s going to L.A. this afternoon. To be succinct, Mal, I’ve been dumped. Dumped! Me! Can you imagine that! It’s never happened to me before.”

  “I know. You’ve always done the dumping. And I’m sorry you’re upset. I realize you cared about Tommy. On the other hand, I’ve always felt—”

  “You don’t have to say it,” she cut in softly. “I know you never liked him. You were always a bit wary of him. I guess you were right. As usual. How come you know men better than I do? Don’t bother to answer that. Listen, recognizing that Tommy’s a bit of a louse doesn’t make it any easier for me. I sort of—liked him.”

  Her voice had grown tiny, and I knew she was on the verge of tears.

  “Don’t cry, it’ll be all right, Sash,” I soothed, using the nickname I had given her when we were children. “Admittedly it’s cold comfort, but it is better this way. Honestly. Tommy Preston the third isn’t worth weeping over. The break was bound to happen sooner or later. And preferably now than later. Think how awful it would be if you married him and then this kind of thing happened—”

  “He did ask me,” Sarah interrupted. “Half a dozen times, to be exact.”

  There was a sniffling sound, and then I heard her blowing her nose.

  “I know he proposed. You’ve told me about it—numerous times, actually,” I muttered. “And I’m glad you were cautious and didn’t plunge. But why aren’t you coming for the weekend? I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t come by myself, Mal. I’ll feel like a spare wheel.”

  “That’s ridiculous! You’ll be with me, your very, very b
est friend, and Andrew, who loves you like a sister. And your godchildren, who adore you. And Diana, who thinks you’re the greatest thing since Typhoo tea.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, but then, you know that,” she said, and I heard the laughter surfacing in her voice. “However, I think I’ll stay in Manhattan and lick my wounds.”

  “You can’t do that!” I protested, my voice rising. “You’ll only pig out on ice cream and all those fattening things you love to eat when you’re upset. And just think of the hard work you’ve put in, losing ten pounds. Besides, it’s going to be hotter than hell in Manhattan. Nora told me they predict a hundred and twenty degrees in the shade.”

  “I’m afraid J take Miss Nora’s weather forecasts with a grain of salt, Mal.”

  “Honestly, it is going to be hot in the city. I heard it on television myself. Last night. Just think how much cooler it will be out here in Sharon. And then there’s the swimming pool, some shady corners in the garden. You know how much you love it here. This is your second home, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Nevertheless, at the moment I think I prefer the blistering sidewalks of Manhattan, the lonely confines of my stifling apartment. At least I can wallow unashamedly in my memories of Tommy,” she intoned dramatically. “My lost love, my greatest love.”

  Her theatricality, such an integral part of her personality, was coming through all of a sudden, and I was relieved. It told me she wasn’t quite so heartsick as she had first made herself out to be at the outset of our conversation. I began to chuckle.

  “Don’t you dare laugh at me, Mallory Christina Jordan Keswick. Stop laughing, I tell you!” she cried indignantly. “I’m heartbroken. Heartbroken.”

  Still laughing, I whooped, “That’s a load of cod’s wallop! “This was one of Andrew’s favorite expressions, and I had made it my own over the years. “You’re no more heartbroken about him than I am. Your pride’s injured, that’s all it is. I’ll tell you something else, I bet if the truth be known, that . . . that . . . that little creep was always intending to go off to the West Coast for the July Fourth weekend. To see his family. You’ve always said he dotes on his mother and adores his sisters and constantly complains about their recent move to California.”