Heart and Soul

by Liza Gyllenhaal

  With Miranda, all touching halted after the sexual act was complete. Last night with Cassie, exploring each other had been just the beginning. She’d run her fingers across his chest, caressing his nipples, massaging the lightly matted muscular surface.

  “Was it my imagination,” Jason asked in a near whisper, “or did the earth actually move beneath us? I thought I heard something crash.”

  “Oh … my God … that’s right.” Cassie sat up in the dark and fumbled for the light. The photograph of Cassie’s graduation that Miranda had left in her safe-deposit box had fallen off the bedside table and lay shattered on the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” Jason said, pushing up on an elbow. “I’ll buy a new frame for you, Cassie.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Cassie replied, slipping out of bed to gather the pieces of glass, silver, and the oddly bulky picture and backing together; she slid them carefully into the shallow drawer of the bedside table. “I’ll just have this one fixed. I was so touched that Miranda kept this picture—and actually had it framed. It makes me realize that, in her own way, she did care about me and Mom and Dad.”

  Of course Jason would never tell her that he’d never seen the picture before, that Miranda had never displayed it … or anything else that had to do with her family or her past.

  “Listen, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, okay?” Miranda told him when he tried to find out more about her childhood in Raleigh. “It was just your typical boring middle-class upbringing. I never really was a part of the family—I was always the half sister with a stepfather. It was pretty dreary, darling, believe me.”

  Would he ever be able to tell Cassie the truth about her sister and his marriage? Jason wondered as he turned off the highway and started down the long circling drive around the lake that led to the house. He glanced across at her again, and she caught his look with a smile. No, he told himself, as he turned his attention back to the road, sometimes the truth was too ugly. Sometimes silence was the kindest response.

  The bright sounds of the restored jewelry box broke into his thoughts. Cassie turned to the backseat with the prettily carved gift poised triumphantly in the air.

  “What do you say, Heather?” she asked lightly. Jason glanced in the rearview mirror to see his daughter look hungrily from the music box … to Cassie.

  “Okay, I’m sorry,” Heather answered grudgingly as she reached out to reclaim her birthday present. She didn’t really hate her aunt all that much. At times—like when Cassie read her stories at night or helped her with her homework—she didn’t hate her at all. Ever since her birthday party the day before, she was beginning to think she might even—almost—like her.

  When Cassie heard the word “cottage,” she immediately thought of something small and shingled, a porch or two, and a chimney plumed with smoke. What she saw instead as they crossed a small stone bridge that connected the island property to the mainland was a majestic white-brick colonial farmhouse, meticulously restored, a large barn converted into guest apartments, an Olympic-size pool, a pagoda, half a dozen gardens, and at least one tennis court. Beyond the house and outbuildings, fields of wildflowers nodded in the light breeze. At the bottom of the sloping hill they were climbing, the lake shimmered as one of the first sailboats of the season tacked into the wind.

  “What were you expecting?” Jason asked Cassie as he saw her slightly dismayed reaction to the property. Far more than the town house and the East Hampton beach house, the Berkshire cottage was Jason’s creation. Miranda had been against buying it from the beginning.

  “It’s hardly more than a farm, for chrissakes,” Miranda complained when she first saw it. Jason had fallen in love with the rural solitude of the Berkshires five years before, when business dealings in Boston gave him an excuse to commute back and forth on his motorcycle. Though it took him several hours longer than the Massachusetts Turnpike—and half a day more than the shuttle—racing down these lush back roads and rolling hills restored his sense of humor and self in a way that nothing else could. He had learned about the farm from associates in Boston—it was in an estate sale of one of the senior partners of his law firm there—and made an offer the afternoon he first saw it. He’d intended it as a surprise birthday present for Miranda.

  “Nobody goes to the Berkshires anymore,” Miranda would complain whenever Jason suggested they weekend there. “They’re all in the Hamptons.”

  “That’s precisely why I like the cottage,” Jason would reply, “because nobody will be there but us. Don’t you ever want to get away from it all, Miranda? Lie out in the backyard and look up at the stars? Swim naked in the lake at midnight?”

  “You know I prefer the pool, even at the beach,” Miranda replied. Although Jason had wanted to keep his Berkshire retreat as natural as possible, he’d put in the Olympic-size pool, tennis courts, sauna, and Jacuzzi to make the farm more palatable to Miranda. Not that it had helped much; she still had found every possible excuse not to visit.

  “It’s … wonderful,” Cassie murmured as the car slowed in the cobbled courtyard in front of the house. Despite the showiness of the pool and tennis courts, it was obviously a home that had been carefully tended for many years. Arbors of roses arched around a side door; rhododendron bushes flanked the entranceway. The pungent aroma of freshly clipped box hedges and newly mowed grass drifted in the cool mid-May breeze.

  With Heather trailing behind, Jason spent the afternoon showing Cassie the property: the boat house, the pebbled swimming beach with its brightly colored umbrellas and chairs, the small fish hatchery where Jason and his groundskeeper were trying to breed freshwater trout, the old original barn—which Miranda had declared an eyesore and demanded relocated out of sight of the house—now housing a noisy contingent of pigs, geese, wild turkeys, hens, and a cock. They ended at the stable and paddocks. Four thoroughbred horses grazed quietly in an adjoining field.

  “Do you ride?” Jason asked as one of the horses trotted up to the fence.

  “I usually manage to stay on,” Cassie replied, watching as Jason caressed the horse’s mane and scratched knowingly behind its ears. She remembered the gentleness of his touch the night before and—though she had tried all day to fight it off—felt a powerful surge of longing break through her resolve. As if reading her thoughts, Jason glanced at her, his gaze lingering on her lips.

  “Okay, let’s go, then,” he said, swallowing hard. “Heather, you ride with me on Juno. I’ll get some help, and we’ll saddle up the horses.”

  The trails led around the lake, winding through the hills, sloping across the fields, meandering down dirt roads still muddy from a recent rain. The golden slanting sun of late afternoon filtered through trees that were just starting to sprout their green leaves. Here and there a wild patch of daffodils—or a hedge of forsythia—dabbed a hillside with color. The cooling air was filled with the promise of spring: the rich scent of pine needles and fertilizer, the sound of blue jays and a distant chain saw. They rode until it was almost dark, arriving back at the stable just as the sun was turning the lake a dark, volcanic orange.

  They all made dinner together from provisions stocked by the caretaker couple who lived in the gameskeeper house across the lake: vegetable soup, grilled ham-and-cheese sandwiches, a salad of wild greens, and bowls of strawberry sherbert topped with freshly picked strawberries.

  The temperature had fallen swiftly after sunset, and they ate in front of a roaring fire Jason built in the living-room fireplace. The room was furnished—as was most of the house—with starkly simple Shaker furniture, originally built, Jason explained, less than five miles from the house.

  “There used to be several Shaker settlements in the Berkshires, some very large and powerful. But it was a religion bound to die out. They believed in chastity, you know, the men and women living in separate quarters.”

  “How odd,” Cassie said, feeling the smooth work of the ladder-backed rocker she was sitting on. “What they created was so beauti
ful. It seems to be made with such love.”

  “Mommy hated these chairs,” Heather said sleepily. “She hated this house, too. She said it was way out in the boondocks. Is that a bad thing, Daddy?”

  “That depends, pumpkin, on where you want to be,” Jason said, getting up and pulling his daughter into his arms. “And I think I know where you ought to be about now.”

  After Jason carried Heather upstairs, Cassie cleared away the dishes, rinsing them in the double tin sink in the oak-paneled kitchen. There was no dishwasher. No food processor. But the room was large and cheerful with a big Franklin stove in one corner and an impressive collection of antique pewter mugs and earthenware bowls running across a top shelf. Cassie had a hard time imagining Miranda here; she could hear her ridiculing the austere rooms with their rough wooden floors and tiled fireplaces. Her sister clearly hadn’t spent all that much time in the house—there was no sign of her signature chintz or porcelain pieces—and yet Jason obviously loved the place.

  She wiped down the countertops, then went back into the living room, put another log on the fire, wrapped herself up in an afghan blanket that had been draped over her rocker, and curled up in front of the fire. She hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, and between the trip up and the long ride that afternoon, she was bone-tired. She meant to just close her eyes for a moment. She was grateful for a few minutes alone to think about Miranda and Jason … to try to imagine them together in this house.

  Everything was moving very quickly—her need for Jason, her growing, almost painful physical desire for him—and soon she was going to have to come to terms with what Jason meant to her. No, that she already knew: he meant everything. But what did she mean to him? All that they had done so far together—each word, each kiss, every touch—was shadowed by Miranda’s memory.

  Poor Jason, she thought sadly as her thoughts began to drift, having to settle for a half sister … only half as good … only half a life.

  Seventeen

  She was asleep when he finally came back downstairs. She was curled up in front of the fire, her head resting on the crook of her elbow, the firelight casting the room in a warm glow, shadows dancing along the ceiling and walls. Shadows…

  He knelt quietly near her, careful not to touch her, and studied her face: the fine infrastructure of cheekbone and chin, the velvety expanse of skin, the spun-gold hair. He tried to memorize the exact curve of her eyebrows, the slight indentation at her temple, the lovely complexity of her chin and throat. His gaze and thoughts strayed to her hips … her waist … her thighs … and he felt the heat that he had been trying to tamp down all day within him start to rise. He tried to remind himself why it should end here, why it should never have been. He forced himself to remember who he was and what he had done in the past. He pushed himself to think of the darkness, of the shadows. He heard himself say: “Miranda…”

  Cassie stirred. She was suddenly cold, unaccountably sad. Something had jarred her awake from her deep, dreamless sleep. Then she remembered: he had said Miranda. She saw Jason watching her, his expression so dark that she quickly sat up. She pulled him into her arms.

  “It’s okay,” she said, although it wasn’t. Miranda. That one word was like a blow, a sharp cruel punch that knocked the breath out of her. She wanted to cry. For herself. For him.

  “It’s not…” Jason started to say as he pulled her tightly to him, breathing in the smell of her hair.

  “Jason…” She turned away, hugging the blanket to her. “We have to … we should talk … about Miranda.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t know. We’re moving so fast. I feel a little stunned. I just think we should talk about what’s happening.”

  “What’s happening is I want you,” Jason said, touching her shoulder. “Now. Rather desperately, as a matter of fact.”

  “So that you can forget?” Cassie turned to look at him, the terrible question clear in her eyes.

  “No, Cassie, no…” he told her, but he knew she didn’t believe him, wouldn’t believe him until he told her the truth about Miranda. And that he could never do. He would have to convince her some other way. He would have to make her forget. He took her right hand in both of his and held it to his lips. He opened her palm, smoothed back her fingers, and brushed his lips across the soft mound of skin. He felt her shudder as he ran his tongue over her palm. He heard her moan as his right hand moved up her leg.

  “Please,” she murmured, unsure herself if it was a protest or a plea.

  “Please, what?” he asked roughly, his hand drifting up the inside of her thigh.

  “Please … Let’s just talk for a while.”

  “Talk…” Jason ran his hand through his hair and sat up beside her.

  “Yes, you know. I say something. Then you say a few words. It’s not that hard once you get going.”

  “Sure. Fine,” he said, but he felt as though he were drunk, everything off balance, out of focus. He wanted her so badly it was ridiculous, a physical craving that was just barely within his power to control. He got up and busied himself with the fire, putting on another log, all the while trying to pull himself together. It occurred to him that he was frightening Cassie with his outsize needs, his terrible longing. He wasn’t acting normal, he knew, but then he had long ago left behind the signposts of acceptable human behavior. For so many years his world had been ruled by hate and anger, the need to control and the desire for revenge. Now, faced with someone good, his passion was all-consuming. He was starved for love and suddenly panicked that his hunger would only drive Cassie away. Slow down, he told himself, follow her lead, find her pace. Don’t let her see how desperate you are.

  “So…” Cassie said, feeling a little ridiculous. “What … should we talk about?” She felt as though she knew him so thoroughly in some ways. She knew him by touch and taste. She was uncannily attuned to his presence. Even with her back turned, she would know when Jason walked into a room. Yet in so many ways he was a stranger. She knew nothing about his past—his upbringing and background—except for the fact that he had married her sister.

  “Whatever you say,” Jason replied, taking a chair a few feet away from her. He loved the way the firelight painted her face a warm rose, the way the shadows played against her skin.

  “Okay … where did you grow up? Did you come from a large family?”

  “Bronx. Five kids. Dirt poor. My father was a second-generation Italian stone worker. Unfortunately there were not a lot of stones to work in the fifties, so he took odd jobs. We all helped out.”

  “You were the oldest?”

  “It shows that much?” Jason laughed. He felt himself relaxing a little as his thoughts turned back to his childhood. “Yeah, I was the oldest with a vengeance: aggressive, ambitious, determined to get ahead.”

  “College?”

  Jason nodded.

  “But how did you manage? Without any money, I mean?”

  “I had a—what should I call him?—a patron. Senator Haas, though he was just a junior assemblyman then. I worked for his office a couple of summers when I was in high school. He took a liking to me.”

  “Haas! My parents idolized him,” Cassie said. “He represented everything they believed in—civil rights, freedom of speech. It must have been wonderful to work with a man like that.”

  “Yes, I learned a great deal from Anthony Haas.” If Cassie had not been so caught up in her own memories at that moment, she would have heard the irony in Jason’s tone.

  “And after college? How does one get a start as a real estate mogul, anyway?”

  Jason laughed and said, “A stint in Vietnam is pretty decent training. I learned the basic business tactics there: guerrilla warfare, camouflage, midnight raids.”

  “It’s really that cutthroat?” Cassie asked.

  “No, I was just kidding, honey,” Jason told her. It had been a long time since he had talked about his work to anyone who was
n’t directly involved in it. Miranda, once she had been satisfied that what he did was immensely lucrative, had only pretended to listen to his talk about deals and closings. Early on in the marriage, he had stopped trying to explain the complex, fragile layers of loans and contracts, tax breaks and union deals that comprised the real raw materials of his empire. Now, sensing Cassie’s genuine interest, he tried to think of a way to explain the essence of his work.

  “I’m really just a broker in a way. A middleman. I’m the one who brings everyone—bankers, investors, architects, contractors—together. I’m like the glue—the one that everyone sticks to.”

  “So what was your first big building? That must have been quite a feeling. Seeing that go up.”

  “But what about you?” Jason replied. “Do you remember the lead in your first story?”

  “You just rather abruptly changed the subject,” Cassie said, studying his profile.

  He turned to meet her gaze. He smiled. “It’s my turn now,” he told her. “Tell me about yourself. Your parents. Growing up…”

  “But you already know all that from Miranda. I’m really not interesting … What about your first building? Where was it?”

  “I guess … I’m a little ashamed to admit that I don’t really remember all the details. It was a long time ago … twenty years or so. An office complex in Manhasset out on Long Island. Nothing very glamorous or exciting.”

  “But you must have been so proud. And your parents—your father, a stone worker watching his son put up entire buildings—they must have been thrilled.”