“I have to go to the mainland,” he said. “Something’s come up.”
“What?” she asked.
“A glitch in a programme I sent to a firm in Brisbane recently. They have hundreds of thousands of dollars tied up in this system, and they say they need me to sort out the problem. I’ve got a contract with them. I have to go.”
“Yes, of course,” she said hollowly. “When?”
“I’ve phoned the airport. They’ll hold this morning’s flight for me. It means I have to leave now. I’ll just shower and change. Can you come along and drive the car back?”
“Yes. I’ll get dressed and make you some coffee. You’ll have time for that?”
“Just coffee, nothing else. Celeste. . . I’m sorry about this.”
“Don’t be.” She gave him a quick smile. “You’d better hurry.”
He caught her chin in his hand on the way to the door and dropped a kiss on her lips. “Thanks.”
She dressed in a pair of sun-coloured trousers and a blouse, letting her hair dry on her shoulders. Then she ran down the stairs and made coffee, handing Ethan a steaming cup when he appeared wearing a dark suit with a white shirt and dark tie, and with his hair damply sleek. He drank the coffee standing up, then snatched up a briefcase and overnight bag and said, “Let’s go.”
He drove fast and smoothly, seemingly giving all his concentration to the task. When Celeste looked at him, there was a faint frown line between his brows, and she had the impression he was already wrestling with the problem, whatever it was, that he had to solve. Tactfully, she refrained from talking.
At the airport he turned in his seat and gave her a sudden, piercing scrutiny that she didn’t quite understand. He put a hand behind her head, pulled her close to him and kissed her thoroughly, his lips almost bruising. As he drew away, he said softly, “Well, we’ve established one thing this morning, I think. I don’t make you sick.”
She bit her lip. “No.”
“Right.” He stayed there just looking at her, then stirred and said, “I’ve got to go. I’ll phone as soon as I know what day you can expect me. When I get back. . . we’ll talk.”
She watched him cross the road and go through the doors to the terminal before she slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
She made herself some breakfast, feeling remarkably hungry, and sat eating it on the patio. When she took her empty plate and glass inside, she found Mrs. Jackson in the kitchen, wiping shelves with a damp cloth.
“Good morning.” The woman smiled. “You’re up early these days.”
“Yes. You must have thought me dreadfully lazy before.”
“Of course not. It was obvious you needed to rest. I expect you were awake half the night a lot of the time, weren’t you?”
“How did you guess?”
“I’ve been through it,” the woman said simply. “Believe me, I know all about it. The sleepless nights, the days that you have to drag yourself through. You’re lucky you had Mr. Ryland to help you.”
Rinsing her dishes, Celeste said, “Yes. He’s been very good.”
“Mind you, there have been times when I’ve wondered. . .”
“Wondered what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Your husband was his brother, wasn’t he?”
“Stepbrother.”
“Yes, well, he was bereaved, too, wasn’t he? Mr. Ryland. He hasn’t been himself since. Very tense, I thought. I must say, I’ve heard him speak to you a bit sharply once or twice. Sorry, dear, I wasn’t meaning to eavesdrop, but you know you can’t help hearing things sometimes. It’s not a big house.”
“I understand,” Celeste said.
“Yes. It just didn’t seem like him, somehow. I mean, he’s never said a cross word to me. But of course, relatives are different, and we humans are funny critters. Take out our worst feelings on our loved ones, don’t we? When we lost our girl, you know our marriage almost broke up over it. You’d think it would bring us closer, but grief can be very selfish sometimes—does strange things to people. She was sick, you see, for three days. And we didn’t think, at first, it could be serious. But it was. Meningitis. Afterwards, my husband kept saying I should have noticed sooner how sick she was. He was beside himself, didn’t know what he was saying. But I felt guilty enough already without him— Well, it’s all over now.”
Celeste shivered. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured.
“Oh, we box along all right,” Mrs. Jackson said, with her usual brisk manner. “Only. . .” A look of infinite sadness crossed her face. “Things will never be quite the same.” Changing the subject, she said, “Mr. Ryland’s in his workroom, is he?”
“Ethan had to fly to the mainland,” Celeste said. “He had a phone call very early and left on the morning flight.”
“I see. Well, I’ll give his workroom a good going over, then, and maybe do the windows.”
“I’ll go up and change my bed,” Celeste said, her cheeks warming as she remembered the state of it. “I’ll get his sheets for you, too,” she offered. “Oh, there’s no need for you to—”
“It’s all right. No trouble,” Celeste assured her. Ethan’s bed had not been slept in. Somehow she didn’t want Mrs. Jackson to realise that.
She had never been in his room before. It had white-painted furniture like hers, but the bed cover was deep olive green, and a mat of the same colour lay on the floor. A digital clock glowed on the table by the bed, and alongside it was a large framed photograph of Alec. A laughing, full-length picture, taken when he was younger and still physically fit, standing with his hands casually in the pockets of a parka, a backpack strapped about his shoulders. And tucked into the frame, obscuring his legs, was an envelope with his writing on it.
Celeste stood looking at it, going slowly cold all over. She knew what it was. The last letter he had ever written to Ethan. The one that had arrived after his death.
Resolutely, she dragged her gaze away and began to strip the bed. When she took the sheets downstairs with her own, Mrs. Jackson was in the laundry, removing a load from the washing machine that she must have put on when she first arrived.
“I’ll change the beds,” Celeste told her, and walked away before the woman could argue.
She did hers first, then went back to the linen cupboard and pulled out clean sheets for the other bed. As she made it up, the letter and the photograph seemed to burn into her consciousness. She was quite unable to ignore them.
At last she smoothed the cover over the pillows, and straightened. Her eyes were compelled to the envelope. Ethan had once practically challenged her to read it. Did that constitute permission? She shrank from the idea, but at the same time it drew her. Later, when she had asked to read it, he said he doubted she was well enough to take what it contained. Now she was well. She felt strong, alive, even angry. She had a right to know just what she had to fight against for Ethan’s love.
Downstairs the vacuum cleaner hummed, and she thought, Not now, not while Mrs. Jackson is in the house. She carefully removed the envelope from the photo frame and took it into her own room. Opening the drawer of the bedside table, she slipped it inside.
When the housekeeper had left, Celeste made herself lunch and washed up afterward. Then she spent some time staring out the window of the living room, watching the sunlight play over the blue water, the trees moving gently in the slightest of breezes. Jeff appeared at the top of the path, and she quelled a feeling of annoyance mingled with relief as he waved and came towards her.
“Ethan isn’t here,” she said, going to meet him. “Did you want to see him?”
“Not especially. Came to see you, as a matter of fact.” He regarded her curiously. “Recovered all right from last night?”
Her head jerked up and she flushed, before she realised what he meant. “Yes, thanks. And thank you again for taking me. I really enjoyed it.”<
br />
“Want to do it again sometime?”
“Maybe,” she said noncommittally.
“You were up early,” he commented.
Her eyes swung to his face. “How do you know?”
“Saw you and Ethan in the water,” he said.
“You were up early, too. Why. . . why didn’t you come in and join us?”
“Well. . . I thought you might be shy. Haven’t seen you swimming like that before. It kinda looked like a private party. So I just turned around and went home again.”
Fleetingly worried and embarrassed, she was sure he had done just what he said. Jeff was no voyeur. She said, “I’m sorry if we spoilt your morning swim.”
He grinned. “Don’t worry about that.” He paused. “You look. . . different.”
“Do I?” She glanced away from him. “Ethan’s on the mainland—for a few days, I think,” she said, and explained about the early morning call.
“You can rely on me for company,” Jeff promised, “if you get lonely. As a friend,” he added, with emphasis.
She smiled at him, knowing he had guessed at something between her and Ethan, but would refrain from asking. “Thanks,” she said.
“Want me to go away?” he asked her quizzically.
“No, of course not!” She invited him to sit down, and they chatted for a time before he got up, stretched and said, “I’m for a swim. Care to come, too?” Slanting her a grin, he added, “With or without your swimsuit.”
She laughed. “No, I don’t think so, thanks. I’ve had a swim today.”
“Oh, yes,” he murmured, with a wicked look, and she said with dignity, “It was nice of you to call. Enjoy yourself.”
Jeff shrugged and left good-humouredly, and she sat on in the lounger for a while. Then she went up the stairs and into her room, and slid out the drawer of the bedside table.
She opened the envelope slowly and walked to the window, unfolding the three flimsy sheets of paper. The writing was scrawled and agitated, some words difficult to read.
My dear Ethan,
Finally I must admit to myself what I have been trying to hide for years—that I am not, perhaps have never been, the man that others see. To put it brutally, I am in every way a failure.
Failure is not something I have ever been able to accept. All my life I’ve needed to be the best, the first, the one who was on top. I have no fancy for dwindling into old age, leaving the field clear for young men with brash aspirations and the ability to fulfill them.
When I lost, for all intents and purposes, the use of my legs, I lost a large part of myself, my inner self, as well. I can’t describe, even to you, how that felt. It was as though every reason for living had been taken away and replaced by a deep, endless black hole. I thought for a time that I could fill the hole. I piled into it everything that I could think of—a new job, a young wife, different kinds of research, more writing. I told myself this hollow shell was still living, still breathing and moving and achieving. For a time I thought that Celeste, with her vibrant sense of life, her colour and spirit—and her youth, yes that, too—would bring me back to life. Instead, I pulled her into the black hole with me. She never did love me, she only thought so when she was young and innocent and inexperienced, and I was old enough to have known better. But I wanted her, loved her, for a number of complicated reasons that I’m afraid took no account of her own needs. I wanted to wear her like a gage on my sleeve. But I expected too much. She was not able to return to me what I had lost, and no one should blame her for that. Least of all me. I have been possessed by frenzied jealousies about my wife. You may have realised this from my letters to you. At this moment my brain seems clear, although I am very tired, and I see now that none of it was her fault. Objectively, I suppose I should be surprised that she has not left me before this. She has been unhappy, and the fault is mine.
For years I have known that this time must come. I have staved it off as long as I can, fooling myself and others that I’m no less than I ever was, that the quick, virile brilliance of youth can be compensated for by the wisdom of maturity. It may work that way for some. For myself, I find that my life has taken a wrong turn, and I can never go back. My new directions turned out to be dead ends. I’ve been gradually desiccating ever since that day I slipped down a cliff in New Guinea, in both body and brain. Even, perhaps, in my heart. How many times I’ve wished that I had died there. If I had known then that I would never properly walk again, never be able to go back to the work that I loved, that I would even be incapable of fulfilling the natural expectations of a lovely young wife, I think I would have lain down and allowed it to happen. Now, it’s a matter of taking charge of the business myself.
“Oh, Alec,” Celeste whispered. She went unsteadily over to the bed, then sank to the floor with her back resting against the mattress, and forced herself to read the rest. Her eyes misted. Something was scrawled in pencil across the final page, overlaying the penned words at an angle. She would decipher that later.
There’s someone waiting to take my place. I know the young man who stands ready to supplant me. He has all that I had in my own youth. And already, in middle age, I feel so old and so spent. He comes to my house with his enthusiasm and his confidence and his pretense at respect for me, and I hate him for his cleverness, for his energy, for his two good legs. And, yes, for the smiles that Celeste gives him. And what else, I ask myself, does she give him when he carries a tray for her into the other room? Even if I followed them, they would hear me with my cane and my dragging feet long before I got there. And how can I blame her, my pretty butterfly, for being what she is, for preferring someone young and fit and on his way up, to a twisted cripple who is about to be thrown on the scrap heap?
Because that’s where I belong now. I’ve been fooling everyone, including even myself, that I was a fully functioning human being. Tonight I looked at the last year of my life—the last eight years—and saw a wasteland. There is nothing worth saving from all those years. It’s a sham. He must know, or guess, something is wrong. As I said, he’s clever. And perhaps I hate him more because I think that he’s kind-hearted, too. He will feel that he’s wasted a good deal of time. At his age time is precious. If he has done nothing, is it because he’s sorry for me, afraid of hurting me? One thing I could not take is pity. That would be wormwood and gall. I’m not going to wait around for the moment of truth. It may be a far, far better thing that I do—not that this is a sacrifice for others. More a salvaging of my own pride, perhaps. I’ve always had plenty of that. But it will free all three of us. Him, me, Celeste. Perhaps you, too, Ethan. You need no longer be the recipient of my maudlin, self-pitying missives, of which, tonight, seeing as clearly as I do, I am ashamed. I am ashamed of other things, too. My dear Celeste—there is so much I would change if I could, for her sake—
But you will know what to do. I trust you. I send you, finally, my love.
Alec.
“Oh, my poor, poor Alec!”
She laid her head back, trying to keep the stinging tears at bay, but after a while she rested her arms on her knees and let her head drop and wept for a long, long time.
When she stopped, her limbs were stiff and it was getting dark. She shivered and closed gritty, swollen eyelids, rubbing them wearily. Then she stumbled to the door and went into the bathroom. After splashing her face with cold water several times she had a shower, cleaned her teeth and went back to her room.
The letter still lay on the bed. She picked it up, about to put it back into the envelope, when she remembered the black, pencilled scrawl across the last page. She switched on the bedside light and turned the page, peering down at it.
The writing was quite different. Not Alec’s. Ethan’s hand, she realised, large and decisive and somehow angry. And in the same moment she saw what the two words were.
She’ll pay.
Chapter Fourteen
When the telephone rang, Celeste remained huddled on the bed as she had been for some time, her knees drawn up, her arms hugging her legs. She could hear the bell, knew there was an extension in Ethan’s workroom. But it would be him calling, and she didn’t want to speak to him just now.
Half an hour later it shrilled again, and then at intervals until twelve o’clock. By then she had replaced the letter in its envelope and put it back in his room, tucked into the photograph frame, and methodically prepared herself for bed. The last time the phone rang, she pulled the pillow over her head until it stopped. Then she went to sleep.
She was barely awake when the ringing started again. She got up, taking her time, and pulled on her wrap before going downstairs to answer it.
She had barely placed the receiver at her ear when Ethan’s voice said, “Celeste? Where were you last night?”
She said coolly, “I went to bed early.”
“Are you okay?”
“Perfectly, thank you. I’d had a late night previously, remember.”
There was a short, baffled silence. Then he said, “I remember.”
Celeste moistened her lips. “How is the programming problem?”
“It’ll take a few days to sort out. Look, I wish this hadn’t come up.”
“It couldn’t be helped,” she said graciously. “I understand.”
“Are you sure you’re all right? Did I wake you?”
“No, I was awake.”
“Someone’s waiting for me, but I had to contact you first. I was worried.”
Carefully, she said, “I know you’ve had reason to worry about me, but there’s no need, now. I’m quite recovered.”
“If I hadn’t thought so,” he said, “I wouldn’t have. . .”
She was glad he couldn’t see her burning cheeks. “I know,” she assured him steadily. “You have been remarkably forbearing.”
“Celeste,” he said urgently. “There’s so much to say, I can’t even begin on the phone. Believe me, I’ll be back as soon as I can possibly manage it.”
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