Another Eden

by Patricia Gaffney

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Tasha if she herself hadn’t put on a little weight lately. But how petty—Tasha was only being kind. “Yes, perhaps,” she answered with a smile. “But it’s a busy time at the settlement house. I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s tired and a bit overworked.”

  “I hope it’s only that. I hope there is no other reason that you seem so sad.”

  “No,” she said slowly. “No, there’s no other reason.” How ironic that their roles seemed to have reversed. Once she’d tried to draw Tasha out, but she’d remained quiet and remote; now it was Tasha who wanted to draw her out, and she was the one resisting. But Tasha’s thoughtful overture blunted her enthusiasm—not strong to begin with—for investigating Mrs. Drum’s complaints about her treatment of the servants. Instead Sara asked, “And how are you these days? I don’t mean physically—you look wonderful, healthier and stronger than I’ve ever seen you.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Tasha beamed. “It’s because you take such good care of me.”

  She waved that aside. “I wonder….have you given any thought lately to finding a place of your own?” Tasha’s face fell. Sara said quickly, “Of course we love having you here, and you know you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. But—do you think it might be time to start thinking about becoming independent again?”

  Tasha didn’t answer. Sara sat on the edge of the bed and put a soft hand on her shoulder. “I’ve been thinking. How would you like to have a shop of your own? A boutique, somewhere on the Ladies’ Mile. You’d sell only the finest, most fashionable, most expensive ladies’ dresses in the city. You could employ seamstresses to work for you while you concentrated on design. You’d probably need a business manager, someone to help you with things like bookkeeping, and the actual running of the shop—Ben could advise you there, and he may even know someone who’d be interested in becoming your partner.” Tasha kept her face averted. “How does that sound? Does that interest you? I’d help you in any way I could, Tasha. Your talent is real, you know; with the right backing, I don’t know why something like this couldn’t work out well for you.”

  She put her fingers on Tasha’s chin and gently pulled her head up. “What’s wrong?” The full lips began to tremble; tears filled Tasha’s dark, heavy-lidded eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “Oh, no,” Sara whispered, “don’t, Tasha, don’t cry, it’s all right.” She wound her arms around her and held tight, soothing her as she would have soothed Michael. “Shh, I’m sorry I’ve upset you. We won’t talk about this now, all right? It’s too soon—I didn’t realize. It wasn’t a good idea—”

  “No, no, no,” Tasha broke in, wiping her wet cheeks with the sheet, “it was a good idea, it was. And you are an angel, I don’t deserve such a friend! But please, please, don’t make me do this. I’m still so afraid, please don’t make me go yet, I can’t, I just can’t—” She broke down again, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed.

  Sara’s arms went around her again automatically; she rocked her and said calming things while Tasha wept on her shoulder. Gradually the girl’s sobs diminished and she quieted, but she stayed where she was and didn’t move. A little later, limp and relaxed beneath Sara’s patting hand, she made a low, satisfied noise deep in her throat. It sounded like purring.

  “What? Say that again, I must not’ve heard right.”

  Sara dropped her packages on the elephant-foot Indian settee in the entrance hall and reached up to unpin her hat. The mirror over the settee was not a friend; it told her what she already knew—she was exhausted and she looked like hell.

  “Now? You want paid now, this minute? No? Well, what the hell do you want?”

  And Ben was angry at someone, she could hear his booming fury all the way from the red drawing room. That meant he would be more irritable, more insufferable tonight after his unlucky visitor went away. The last few weeks had been so awful, it was hard to imagine the domestic environment getting worse. He wouldn’t confide in her, of course—it would break some masculine code of honor to speak frankly to a woman, or at least to her—so she couldn’t be sure exactly what was causing his agitation. Labor unrest was the likeliest culprit, for lately it seemed as if the workers—the “communist mob,” he called them—were striking every business he owned. Things weren’t going well politically, either, and each night he came home with a new grudge against the city aldermen, the reformist mayor, or “that liberal bastard Cleveland.” Now it sounded as if money was a problem as well. How very interesting, she thought, laying her hat on the hall table. In all her years with Ben, money was probably the only thing that had never been a problem.

  She had one foot on the staircase when the voice of his visitor came to her clearly. She stopped short and whirled around. Alex! It was as if she had conjured him up, for he’d been in her thoughts all day—more so even than usual. But why was he here? What could he and Ben be arguing about? A dreadful possibility occurred to her. But no, that couldn’t be. I would never do anything to put you at risk, he’d said, and she believed him.

  It would be insane, supremely foolhardy to go to him now, in Ben’s presence. She should run upstairs as fast as she could, and pretend later for Ben that she hadn’t known he was here. Don’t, she told herself, shaking her skirts and patting at wisps of her hair. Don’t, Sara, she warned as she made her way down the hall toward the drawing room. The sound of voices was louder now, and angrier.

  “No one’s suggesting anything of the sort. It’s a matter of demonstrating to the partners—”

  “Well, that’s what it sounds like to me. Look here, McKie, you can tell Ogden and the rest that they’re not the only architects in this town, and if they don’t like my business I’ll take it somewhere else. Got that?”

  “All they’re asking for is a show of good faith. It’s been six months, and in all that time—”

  “Good faith? They want a show of good faith from Ben Cochrane? You listen to me, sonny, I made a million dollars before you were out of short pants. I’ll give ’em a show of good faith! That pile of crap can rust through to China for all I care. Tell ’em that. And tell ’em—”

  “Ben? I thought I heard your voice. Mr. McKie, what a surprise, I thought you were still in Newport.” She moved farther into the room, smiling, pretending the tension in the air wasn’t as thick as smoke. “Ben, you haven’t ordered any tea for our guest. Or perhaps you’d prefer something stronger, Mr.—”

  “Our guest was just leaving,” Ben snarled.

  “Oh?” She feigned surprise. “In that case, I’ll show Mr. McKie out, shall I?”

  “You do that.” He turned his back rudely and started to light a cigar.

  Sara risked a glance at Alex. His anger was poorly hidden. “I’ll give Ogden your message,” he said tightly, staring at Ben’s back. “I expect he’ll be in touch.” When Ben didn’t respond, Alex stalked out.

  She followed, high heels echoing on the parquetry floor as she almost ran to catch up. But in the foyer he stopped and waited for her, leaning against the ugly split-bamboo wainscot. She slowed as she neared him, twisting her hands. Embarrassment and an excess of feeling tied her tongue. She’d thought about him incessantly for four weeks. To see him now, like this, Ben’s ugly words still ringing in their ears—

  “What the hell is that?” He jerked his chin at something over her shoulder.

  She glanced around. “What?”

  “That.”

  “Oh. That. It’s new.” It was Ben’s latest decorative addition: two gas fixtures mounted on the newel posts at the bottom of the stairs. Carved oak griffins, they were, with chains in their mouths supporting a nest of four curling serpents each. From every serpent’s mouth a gas burner protruded. When it was lit, the flames looked like flickering tongues. “You mean you don’t like it?”

  He looked at her in blank amazement. The twinkle in her smoky eyes was subtle at first, then blatant. She had a dimple on the right side of her mouth; it quivered now as she tried not to laugh. Hi
s anger vanished into thin air—a mist burned away in the bright sun. “I love it,” he said tenderly. “It’s so …” She raised an arch brow. “So Ben.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. It was disloyal, patronizing, everything she’d resolved never to indulge in with Alex because he was dangerous, and he tempted her so powerfully, and this sort of intimate badinage between them could sow the seeds of her destruction as effectively as forbidden kisses. But she couldn’t help it: it was funny.

  Her laughter enchanted him. He smiled back, savoring it. He wanted to ask, How did you save yourself, Sara? She could have become someone like Daisy Wentworth, a sardonic, self-involved drunk. But she hadn’t. Because of Michael? What might she have been like if she’d never met Ben at all?

  He stopped staring at her to ask, “How is Michael?” because it seemed the safest subject.

  “He’s fine, completely well. Did you get the letter he sent, thanking you for all your nice gifts?”

  “I did. I thought I recognized his mother’s hand in that.”

  “No, no, it was his idea, I only addressed the envelope.”

  “Ah. So he’s all well, is he?”

  “Oh yes, he’s even looking forward to school starting again.”

  “What school?” he asked deliberately.

  “That—hasn’t been decided yet.” She should never have told him of Ben’s threat; she saw that clearly now. That was one of the private nightmares she wasn’t used to sharing with other people. Telling someone else, even Alex, made her feel even more vulnerable, more at risk. “How are you?” she asked quickly. “How have you been?”

  “I’ve been looking for you.” She frowned. “Sometimes I think I see you, on the street or in a restaurant, riding by in a cab. But she turns, and it’s never you.”

  She took a deep breath. “Alex, please—”

  “I’ve got a new commission,” he hurried on. “I’m to build another house in Newport, this one for Marshall Farley. Sara, you ought to hear what he wants. It makes Eden look like the caretaker’s lodge.”

  “Oh, dear. Ben will be very cross when he hears that. But that’s wonderful for you, Alex! Congratulations.” She looked at him quizzically. “Aren’t you glad?”

  “Yes, of course, it’s wonderful. As you say.”

  She couldn’t see beyond the bland impassivity of his beautiful eyes to know whether he meant it or not. And they couldn’t speak frankly to each other because she’d decreed too many subjects off limits. “I’m sorry about Ben,” she said quietly. “He can be terribly rude sometimes. He’s been under a lot of pressure lately—”

  “Don’t apologize to me for him, Sara. Ever.”

  “No, but—I take it he owes money to your firm. Would you mind telling me if it’s a lot?”

  He hesitated. It would be stupid to alarm her; but on the other hand, she had a right to know the facts. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. I mean, I think he could pay if he wanted to. And, yes, it’s rather a lot. All the firm wants is a gesture at this point, a fraction of what he owes to prove his good faith.”

  “And he won’t pay them anything at all?”

  “He wants to delay. The building contractor is in the same position we are, so work on the house has stopped. For now.”

  “Good lord. I had no idea.”

  He studied her while she looked away, digesting his news. She looked more intrigued than worried. “You don’t seem all that concerned,” he noted, curious.

  “At the prospect of Ben going broke?” She put her fingers to her lips, trying to imagine it. She couldn’t. “Frankly, I can’t make it real. But the money’s always been an abstraction to me—I suppose because there’s so much of it. Not that I don’t enjoy spending it.” She smiled, gesturing toward the Lord & Taylor shopping bags on the settee by the door. “Anyway, I’m sorry you haven’t gotten paid. It doesn’t affect you personally, does it, Alex? I mean, they still pay you, don’t they?”

  “Most definitely,” he assured her, smiling gravely.

  “Well, that’s all right, then.”

  And that seemed to be that as far as her interest in Ben’s finances was concerned. Alex could think of nothing to say. It was obvious that he ought to leave. Standing in her foyer like criminals, trying to say everything and not being allowed to say anything at all—he felt stupid and thwarted and resentful. The only dignified thing to do was go away. She probably wanted him to go but was too polite to say so. “How have you been?” he asked, stalling. “You look well.” She didn’t quite roll her eyes, but her disbelief was obvious. “More than well,” he insisted. “You look beautiful.”

  “Alex.” She shook her head with a pitying smile.

  She wasn’t being coy, he realized, she really didn’t believe him. He would have given anything to be allowed to convince her. “Doesn’t he ever tell you that, Sara?” She gave a little laugh, and he had his answer.

  “How long have you been back in the city?” She could stall, too.

  “A week. I leave again in a day or two.”

  “Oh? But not for Newport, I take it, not if work on the house has stopped.”

  “No, I’m going to California.”

  “California? Is it because of your grandfather?”

  “Yes, he’s dead. Finally.”

  “Oh, no. Alex, I’m truly sorry.” She reached for his hand impulsively and surrounded it with both of hers. “You told me he was ill—”

  “I also told you not to feel sorry for me.”

  “That’s right, you did.” She studied him curiously. “May I feel sorry for him?”

  “Sure. I like him better myself now that he’s dead.”

  His flippant tone didn’t fool her. “What did he do to you, I wonder,” she said softly.

  “Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”

  She dropped her eyes. A sharp sorrow stabbed through her without warning. “Yes, maybe.” But he would never tell her, because she could not allow such an intimacy. Everything she wanted from him was forbidden, everything she wanted to give him. Years ago self-denial had become a way of life, but she’d never been tested in quite this way. This was too hard.

  “Sara.” He brought her clasped hands to his chest. Her sadness made him feel desperate. “Sara—”

  “Oh—excuse me.”

  She jerked out of his grasp and stepped back in haste.

  Tasha stood at the foot of the staircase, poised motionless between the spitting serpents’ tongues. The look in her gypsy eyes was dark and unreadable. “It’s Mr. McKie, isn’t it? How nice to see you again.”

  He wanted to say something smooth, something casual, to lessen the intense awkwardness of a situation that seemed to have turned Sara to stone. But he couldn’t think of the woman’s damned foreign name, so he only muttered inaudibly and bowed to her. She returned a slow, deliberate nod, then moved off down the dim corridor and out of sight.

  Immediately Sara turned her back on him and walked to the other side of the foyer. In the mirror over her head, he saw that she’d gone deathly pale. She clamped one hand over her mouth and shut her eyes tight. He went to her but didn’t touch her—touching her was what had brought on this catastrophe. “Sara? Sara, I’m sorry, that was all my fault. What does it mean? What’s going to happen?”

  She spun around. Color returned to her cheeks like two slap marks. “I don’t know! Nothing. Nothing did happen. Oh, Alex, for God’s sake, go away.” He turned to obey, and she clutched at his arm to stop him. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know what I’m saying!”

  “What will happen?” he repeated. “She won’t say anything, will she? To Ben, I mean.”

  “No—no. How could she? There’s nothing to say.

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He ground his teeth. “I can postpone this trip, there’s no reason—”

  “Don’t be silly. You must go, of course.”

  The mask of her composure slipped back into place so easily, he
wanted to shake her. “Let me write to you.”

  “No.”

  “Sara—”

  “No, and I can’t see you again. You have to go now, Alex, don’t you see?”

  “Sara, this is—”

  “Please, if you care for me at all—!”

  “All right.” There was nothing else to say anyway. He opened the door, but when he looked back her mask had slipped a little; for a fleeting second he saw all the hopeless tenderness in her eyes. And so, for once, he said the very thing he was thinking at the moment he was thinking it. “I’m in love with you.”

  Her eyes went liquid with sorrow. He saw his truest emotions mangled and twisted into weapons that pierced to the heart, and knew he’d committed the ultimate unkindness. He couldn’t bear it. He pulled the door closed, blocking out the sight of her.

  Sara stood still for a long time, staring at the pattern in the oak door frame, listening to the soft hiss of the gaslights. Finally she turned—to go upstairs, she thought, but her legs gave out and she found herself slumped on the settee beside her shopping bags. The comforting numbness retreated, and all at once tears blinded her. She groped for her handkerchief. A “broken heart,” they called this. She felt broken. Split. Alex had ripped open all the scarred-over hurts that had been sleeping for years, and she was bleeding. Why, why hadn’t he left her alone?

  She couldn’t stay here where any passing servant might see her—Ben might see her, or Tasha. No—Tasha had already seen her. But she must get up, pretend nothing was wrong. As much as she longed to take refuge in her room until she had her emotions in check, she had to be seen, now, no matter what it cost. She got up and crossed to the mirror—and gasped softly when she saw her face. True panic brought sweat to the palms of her hands. How could she explain this? Maybe it was better to hide after all, run upstairs and escape. No. A stronger instinct warned her she had to see Ben now, without further delay.

  She used her soaked handkerchief again. No need to pinch her cheeks—they were already flushed. She took several deep breaths, squared her shoulders, and tried to arrange her features into a look of self-possession. It might serve. It had to serve.