Seasons of the Heart

by Cynthia Freeman

  For the rest of the night Ann and Phillip sat by Evie’s bedside, listening to their daughter’s agonized breathing, saying nothing.

  If anything happens to her, Ann thought, she wouldn’t be able to go on living. To think that she was responsible for this horror…. The doctor could say that Evie’s agony was caused by a bacillus, but Ann knew it was her fault. Phillip certainly thought so—his angry accusations still echoed in Ann’s ears.

  Phillip’s reflections were no less anguished. Evie was the only worthwhile thing he had created in life. She was the only person in the world who needed him. The idea of losing her was intolerable.

  The two parents sat by their daughter’s bedside, isolated in their grief. It was as if they had become two strangers, no longer able to give to each other, even in this crisis.

  Day broke, but neither was aware of it. As Evie’s condition worsened, they prayed for her to live, each silently acknowledging the fact that without her there was no reason to go on.

  Finally the nurse came in again and told them they would have to wait outside while they did some more tests. In the corridor Ann suddenly remembered her office.

  “I have to call and let them know that I won’t be in,” she said. “Do you want me to call for you too?”

  “Later,” Phillip replied indifferently. He knew it didn’t really matter.

  Ann reached May Brubeck at the office, an older woman with no family. She was thoroughly reliable, and had keys to everything. “Don’t you worry about a thing,” May told her. “Just concentrate on getting that little girl of yours better and I’ll keep things running smoothly here.”

  “Thanks, May,” Ann said weakly. As she hung up the phone, she thought, Today, for all I care, the damned office can burn down—with my client files in it.

  Going back to the waiting room, Ann saw Phillip’s eyes were closed, but it was impossible to tell if he was awake or not. Well, so what? They had nothing to say to each other at this point anyway.

  All day, they alternated between Evie’s room and the hall. Ann wanted nothing to eat or drink; she felt that if she tried to swallow anything, she would choke. Phillip was pacing up and down like a caged animal.

  Evie’s condition remained the same. At seven, they called Simon. “No change, Dad. We’re going to spend the night.” At some point after midnight, Ann fell asleep on a plastic-covered chair. When she awoke, it was just beginning to get light. All around her she heard sounds of the hospital coming to life, but in her fatigue and terror they sounded threatening rather than reassuring.

  She decided that she could use some coffee, and she got some for Phillip, too. Waiting for the elevator to take her back up, she thought, I’ve barely thought of Phillip in all this. It must be as hard on him as it is on me.

  He was still asleep when she returned to the waiting room. His face was gaunt, the skin tightly stretched over his cheekbones above a two-day growth of beard. All at once, her heart went out to him. Oh, Phillip, why, when we need each other so desperately, can’t we just reach out? Why do we seem to have nothing to give each other?

  Swallowing the lump in her throat, she touched his shoulder gently. “Phillip, darling.”

  He opened his eyes, and for a moment had no idea where he was. Then he sat up and ran his fingers through his hair in an ineffectual effort to smooth it.

  “Coffee?”

  “Thanks,” he said, taking the lukewarm cup.

  “Phillip?” she said, sitting opposite him. “Can’t we at least talk to each other? For God’s sake, no matter what’s happened between us, we’re both Evie’s parents. We need each other. Or, at least, I need you,” she finished forlornly.

  Phillip looked at her silently. Ann’s hollow eyes and ravaged face bore testimony to the agony and self-reproach she had been suffering. He no longer blamed her for leaving Evie out in the storm. Meningitis wasn’t caused by a chill: Dr. Stein had been quite clear on the subject. Ann wasn’t a negligent mother. It was unfair of him to have said so.

  He wasn’t even angry anymore that she had interceded to get him a job. It was all so long ago….

  Just then Evie’s nurse came out into the hall.

  “Any news?” Ann cried.

  “No, Mrs. Coulter. Her fever is still hovering around 106. The doctor is coming in to check her.”

  Ann turned back to Phillip, her face devastated.

  “Oh, Phillip—it’s all my fault. If only I had been on time to pick her up from school. Oh, Phillip. What if—what if she dies?”

  Her voice broke on the last word, and she buried her face in her hands, her body shaking with sobs.

  Phillip’s heart suddenly melted. Without thinking, he got up and took her into his arms, rocking her back and forth like a child. “It’s all right, darling. It wasn’t your fault, Ann. We’ll just do what we can to help her.”

  Ann shook her head. “Why couldn’t I have been content with our life? Why did I think I had to work?”

  “Ann, please don’t keep on punishing yourself.”

  “But, Phillip, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve just about ruined our lives. And now Evie’s—” Her voice broke.

  “Don’t think about that, Ann. It doesn’t help anything.”

  “I have to think about it! I’m going to sell the agency. It’s just not worth what it’s doing to us.”

  “Let’s talk about these things later. Right now, let’s just help each other through this.”

  The sound of his deep voice soothed her. Phillip was still there for her. He had not let her down.

  “I love you, darling,” she whispered.

  Side by side, they walked down the hallway to Evie’s room. The door stood open, but a curtain was pulled around the bed. Several nurses were rushing to and fro with instruments, while Dr. Stein hovered over the little girl.

  Stricken anew with fear, Ann grabbed the arm of one of the nurses. “What’s happening? Please tell us!”

  “Her fever is still rising. The next couple of hours will be critical.”

  They were allowed one glimpse of Evie. She had ceased to toss and turn; instead, she lay very still under the oxygen tent.

  Fresh tears came to Ann’s eyes. “Come on, honey,” Phillip said, “we’re just getting in the way in here. They’ll call us the second anything happens.”

  The waiting room was like a prison now. Ann paced distractedly, unable to sit for more than a minute or two, jumping nervously every time a nurse or doctor passed by. All she wanted to do was to stand by her daughter’s bedside, watch her breathe, touch her hand—but they wouldn’t let her. Phillip stood at the doorway, smoking cigarette after cigarette.

  Suddenly Dr. Stein appeared. “Good news, folks. It looks as though she’s turned the corner. Her fever is starting to drop.”

  In a voice so soft as to be almost inaudible, Phillip breathed, “Thank God. Thank God.”

  After Dr. Stein left, Phillip turned to Ann, saying, “I want you to forgive me. I don’t need anything except you and Evie, alive and well. That’s all I want. I know I’m not easy—I allow my own stupid frustrations to get in the way of our relationship. But I’m grateful to you for all that you’ve done, proud of you. And, Ann—I do love you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  AFTER EVIE CAME HOME from the hospital, Ann spent several days devotedly tending her, content to play wife and mother. But soon her obligations at the agency began to pile up. Phillip didn’t mention her vow to sell the agency, and now Evie was well. Ann knew it wouldn’t be easy to change their lives. Phillip couldn’t afford even their own rent without her earnings, and anyway it was out of the question to simply close up shop; she had a long lease and people working for her who depended on her. For a while she swayed back and forth between her conflicting impulses until one day, when she was speaking to Gil Cooley, he said casually, “Here’s a deal, Annie. Live like a prince for peanuts.”

  “No more deals, Gil.” Ann smiled wanly. “I’m even thinking about giving up the agency.
”

  “That doesn’t sound like you. The old Annie would have been champing at the bit, demanding to know what I had in mind.” He tapped some papers he was holding. “It’s on Marina Boulevard.”

  “Marina Boulevard? Oh, well, I couldn’t afford it anyway.”

  “This one you just might be able to.”

  In spite of herself, Ann had to laugh. “Gil, what are you trying to do to me?”

  “Take a look,” he said, tossing her the packet.

  Ann scanned the closely typed pages, taking in the essential details in a glance. The house in question was a sixteen-room French villa, with six bedrooms and elaborate parterre gardens and a stunning view of the Bay.

  She looked up. “It’s obviously a beautiful house. So what? I’d like to own Buckingham Palace, too, but it’s not exactly within my means.”

  “What if I told you that you could get this place for nothing down?”

  Seeing that Ann was hooked, Gil told her the story. For many years, the house had been inhabited by an elderly lady, along with her two pampered pug dogs and her unmarried son. At the excellent age of ninety-three the old woman had died, leaving her estate divided between the pugs and the son, now seventy-two. Unfortunately, the son had terrible emphysema and had just been waiting for his mother to die to move to the south of France. All he wanted was for probate to be granted, and the house sold, so that he could spend what years remained to him in peace. He figured he didn’t have many left, so he wasn’t going to waste a lot of time holding out for a price.

  Ann felt the old, familiar excitement rising in her. “Gil, do you think we could swing it?”

  Gil regarded her with amusement. “Face it, Annie—you’ve got this business in your blood.”

  Ann debated whether or not to take the plunge. It would mean selling at least one of the Victorians, but houses in the Marina were blue-chip investments. The area would always be valuable if only because of its proximity to the Bay.

  After checking with Phillip, who told her to do whatever she felt best, she put Hampton House up for sale, since it was the most valuable of the three rentals she owned.

  Meanwhile, the house in the Marina went on the market at $55,000. Ann was almost frantic, waiting for bids on Hampton House, afraid that someone else would snap up her find.

  Three weeks later a buyer surfaced for Hampton House, and, miracle of miracles, qualified for the financing. Ann more than doubled her original investment. The minute the papers were signed, she bid $40,000 for the Marina house. It was the only bid to date and, after no more than a day’s hesitation, the owner signed. Since the house had such a high appraised value, the bank gave her a loan of $37,000 at 5.5 percent for thirty years—almost 100% financing.

  Within days Ann Coulter—the former Ann Pollock who had never had more than three dresses at a time to her name—owned a house on Marina Boulevard. For a moment she fantasized living there herself, but she knew it was just a dream. The house was strictly an investment. If the market appreciated in the next couple of years the way Ann anticipated, it could make their fortune. For the time being she leased it to an engineer from Chicago. He almost balked at the huge security deposit Ann demanded, but houses such as this one were almost impossible to find and he soon gave in.

  It was Ann’s last thought of closing the agency. Evie had fully recovered, and Consuela was coming in every day and staying to start dinner. Even Phillip didn’t seem to expect his wife to change, and in fact, since Evie’s illness, went out of his way to be nice to Ann. It was as though he had finally stopped opposing her, and the result was that she found herself loving him with the same intensity that she had in those first, all-too-brief early days of their life together. More important, she liked him again. The only problem was that Ann totally misunderstood the reasons behind Phillip’s change of attitude. She thought he had become adjusted to her career; to her success. The truth was that he no longer cared.

  When Evie was sick, he realized that his resentment of Ann’s achievements, his feelings of inadequacy, didn’t really matter. Only Evie was important, and all Phillip wanted to do was live with her in peace. If the way to achieve peace was to stop interfering in Ann’s life, then he would. He could even admit that he loved her and admired her.

  As Phillip became more content, life for everyone in the Coulter household improved. And in the happier atmosphere Evie grew and flourished. She danced her way into high school: pretty, popular, and well-adjusted. She took ballet and piano lessons and talked endlessly on the phone.

  Ann couldn’t have asked for more in a daughter. She rationed her time so as to give Evie the best of it. She bought tickets to the ballet, the symphony, and the theater, and even bought extra tickets so that if she couldn’t make it herself, Evie could go with a friend.

  The only cause for sadness in these years was Simon’s increasing frailty. He suffered a series of small strokes which left him so weak that he couldn’t get out of bed. His speech was affected, he couldn’t feed himself, and the worst indignity was he became incontinent.

  It was almost tragic that Simon’s mind remained as sharp as ever. He cursed his weakness, he hated being dependent, and for the first time in his life he became irritable and unreasonable. In the end Ann and Phillip were relieved when Dr. Stein said it was no longer safe for Simon to remain at home. They put him in a nursing home, and Phillip and Evie visited him several times a week. Even Ann, busy as she was, went once a week, and as the country moved into the booming sixties, Ann was busier than ever.

  Shortly after Kennedy’s assassination, while the country was still in mourning, Ann received an unsolicited bid for the house on Marina Boulevard—$150,000. She didn’t need a crystal ball to see that America was entering on a new decade of expansion. She began to review the citywide real estate listings with exhaustive intensity. There were small office buildings available in the outlying districts, but she kept coming back to a particular downtown property on Post Street, between Grant and Kearny. It was an old building, in poor repair, eight stories, with storefronts below.

  At first she balked at the $850,000 price tag. It was astronomical, considering what such buildings had gone for a few years before. But she had a clear profit of over $100,000 from the Marina Boulevard property. The real question was whether she could get financing. The sum was out of Gil Cooley’s league, and he had to take her to another bank, but in the end her solid balance sheet won the day. With the $100,000 down, the office building was hers.

  Within a year she sold it for $1,250,000. With the profits, she bought another office building on Sansome Street for a little over a million. This time, five months later, she sold it for $1,750,000. Real estate was like wildfire, prices flaming higher and higher, and Ann continued to buy and sell at a frantic pace.

  One day she discovered that she was a millionaire—and she continued to speculate. She never stopped to think whether a particular move was brilliant; she just followed her instinct. The first time she heard herself acclaimed as a real estate tycoon, she was amazed. All she had been after was a secure financial future for her family.

  Yet, by December 1964, even Ann realized she was riding the crest of the wave. That morning, she had sold one of her buildings in the Potrero District for close to $1,500,000 and for the first time since she went into business, Ann wondered if it was time to spend some of her hard-won savings on her family and herself.

  They still lived in the modest house on Bay Street, still drove secondhand cars, still shopped at the Emporium. She owned no jewels or furs. Of course Phillip didn’t seem to care about luxuries, but they might be fun, and Evie was old enough to appreciate living in a nicer neighborhood.

  Ann was still mulling over the possibility of moving when once again fate stepped into her life.

  There was a house she had been shown several years before. At the time she had thought that the couple who bought it were the luckiest people in the world. Now, miraculously, it was for sale again. Ann no sooner heard the price
than she was on the phone to the agent.

  Built in 1922 by an eccentric millionaire, the house was a delicate off-white brick with a gray slate roof. In front of the French windows on the third floor were hand-wrought iron balconies which had been brought from a château near Versailles. The entrance was guarded by antique filigree iron gates, and the broad steps to the house were flanked by a pair of stone dogs.

  When the door was opened by a Chinese houseboy, she handed him her business card and said, “I am Mrs. Coulter. Mr. Cook, the agent handling the house, is expecting me.”

  The servant bowed her in and shut the door behind her as Ann stepped into the foyer. An oval Aubusson rug lay in the center of the room, whose floors were the same creamy marble as the entry stoop. The walls were rose-colored silk, and magnificent paintings lined the curving staircase. A stained-glass skylight flooded the foyer with brilliant hues.

  “The elevator is this way,” the houseboy said, moving silently over to what appeared to be a closet.

  As soon as they were inside, he touched a button and the grille moved back into place. Then the elevator rose to the third floor.

  As it opened, Ann caught a glimpse of the Bay through the broad windows before the boy led her to the library where Don Cook was waiting. The elegant room was book-lined with a beautiful Louis XV marble fireplace.

  “I’m Ann Coulter. You must be Donald Cook.”

  Cook was pleased that the well-known realtor was apparently looking to buy the place herself. If half of what he had heard was true, she had the money.

  “Let me take your coat,” he said. Then: “I know you must be anxious to see the interior. Why don’t we take a little tour before we start talking business?”

  They went back down the hall to the foyer, then passed through an archway into the drawing room. It was a spacious, well-proportioned room, one entire wall of which had been replaced by glass doors opening onto a terrace which had the same spectacular view of the Bay as the windows on the landing.