Acts of Love

by Judith Michael

  He arrived in Seattle at ten o'clock—one o'clock in the morning. New York time—and took a taxi to Union Lake, where the seaplane he had reserved was waiting for him. They flew low over dozens of small islands, tiny islets and barren rocks thrusting out of the sea, and the pilot pointed out Lopez when it was still some distance away: a handful of lights in the darkness. Jessica's island, Luke thought, and suddenly realized how tense he was. She didn't want to see people from New York; she didn't want to see anyone except the cast of Pygmalion and her friends on the island. / should have called. J should have pushed Warren to give me her phone number. But if she'd refused to see me . . .

  The plane banked and Luke saw the island at an angle, a dark sliver in darker water. He was struck by its compactness, and it seemed an act of desperation to him that she had chosen it, abandoning one of the most bril-

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  liant acting careers in history, and one of the world's greatest cities, to settle on this tiny piece of land floating in waters invisible and unknown to the rest of the country. Coming in low, they passed over the cluster of lights. "Lopez Village," the pilot said. "Downtown, if they had a downtown." Luke had a quick impression of other lights widely scattered about the island: isolated ones in open fields and single ones flickering like tiny stars amid the forests. Private homes, he thought. And one of them was Jessica's. His hands were clenched. Almost there.

  They landed on an airstrip a few miles beyond the village. To the east a three-quarter moon was rising, its reflection a rippling pale ribbon that stretched across the black waters of Puget Sound to the dock where Luke stepped out of the plane. Angie's Cab Courier drove him along deserted roads winding narrowly through dark pine forests, then up a gravel drive to the Inn at Swifts Bay, where he had reserved a room. It was the inn where Jessica had told Constance she had stayed when she first came to the island, and Luke stood in the entry way trying to imagine her there.

  The inn was vaguely Tudor on the outside, but the atmosphere inside was a riot of cluttered Victoriana. In the living room, the shelves of an antique hutch were crammed with fuzzy white rabbits dressed in Victorian costumes; a blue velvet wing-backed chair was adorned with lace antimacassars; a round skirted table was piled with books on flower gardens, architecture and art; shelves flanking the fireplace were stuffed with books, pictures, memorabilia and island artifacts, and on the top shelf straw dolls stood watch over the scene below.

  Luke was smiling, thinking Jessica must have imagined she had walked onto a stage set, when his host came in, his hand outstretched.

  "Robert," he said, "and of course you're Lucas Cameron. You must be totally out on your feet; it's halfway to dawn your time, isn't it? I'd show you around—hot tub, video library, all the rest—but I assume you'd rather see your room." He led the way down a narrow hall. "I think you'll find everything you want; would you like coffee, by the way.'' Or tea or port.''"

  "Nothing, thanks; they fed us all the way across the country." Luke took a swift glance around the room, appreciating the care that had gone into it, and smiled at more rabbits on the bed. Rabbits were not his style, but he admired anyone who was not afraid of excess.

  "Will you be biking tomorrow.''" Robert asked. "Carl Jones rents bikes and delivers to our door."

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  "No, I've come to see someone. If I can find her address. Maybe you can help me."

  Robert's eyes narrowed. "You've come to see someone and you don't know^ where she lives? We respect people's privacy here; I doubt that I could help you."

  Luke nodded thoughtfully, and lied, which he knew, in a community this size, could come back to haunt him, but he was tired and it was all he could think of. "I had her address; I've lost it. I know she built a house on a bay about three years ago. Very private, she said, and the beach has a cliff on one side and a forest on the other. I'm a friend from New York. I haven't seen her for years, but my grandmother left her something in her will and I've brought it to her. I'd be grateful for your help. Her name is Jessica Fontaine."

  Robert shook his head decisively. "Jessica doesn't see people, especially people who just walk in off the street."

  "Of course she sees people; what are you talking about? Look, I'll say it again. I'm a friend. More important, my grandmother was probably her closest friend. She died a few months ago and I want to talk to Jessica about her. There isn't anything sinister in this; if she doesn't want to see me, I'll leave."

  Robert contemplated him. "I'll think about it. Sleep well; breakfast is at eight."

  Furious, Luke started to say something, but fatigue washed over him and he turned on his heel and closed the door of his room behind him. He paced three times from the fireplace to the sliding terrace doors and then he could not stay upright any longer and he went to bed. In spite of his anger, he slept soundly and woke with a start to the crowing of roosters, not knowing where he was. I hear roosters crowing in the morning (actually, they keep it up all day; are they supposed to do that?). And then he knew: he was on Jessica's island and soon he would be with her.

  He dressed in chinos and an open-necked short-sleeved shirt and would have refused Robert's enormous breakfast to get started immediately, but he did not want to seem insulting. He ate as much as he could, then pushed the swinging door and went into the kitchen, where Robert was cooking while his partner, Chris, served.

  "Not allowed," Robert said cheerfully. "No guests behind the scenes."

  Luke nodded. "I want to thank you for breakfast; it was wonderful.

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  But I can't wait any longer; I need to know how to get to Jessica's house. I have only today and tomorrow morning; I have to be back in New York Sunday night."

  Robert flipped a pancake. "I called her, but she wasn't home. You did know her in New York.''"

  "I did."

  "Socially?"

  "Yes."

  "And your grandmother was her closest friend? Big difference in ages."

  "They had a lot in common. And they loved each other."

  Robert used his spatula to lift the edge of a pancake and look at its underside. He stirred something in a pot at the back of the stove. "She's a very nice person, very quiet, a good neighbor." He glanced at Chris, who nodded, then he turned back to Luke. "But she lives alone and she doesn't have any social life and we think she ought to. We've tried but she's turned us down. Very nicely, of course, but very definitely. So we worry about her. Well, she's on Watmough Bay on the south shore of the island. You might miss the driveway because it looks like a trail that doesn't go anywhere, but watch for her sign: it's the picture of a fountain."

  "Thank you. I'll call a taxi."

  "Oh, take the truck. Nobody's using it; it just sits there. Stop in the village, though, and get some gas; I think it's pretty low."

  "That's good of you." His anger was gone. He had had an excellent breakfast, the sun was burning through early-morning clouds, he had transportation. And he was on his way to see Jessica. He felt wonderful.

  The truck sat high off the ground and Luke saw the panorama of the island as he drove on two-lane roads between forests and open fields. He caught glimpses of water through the pines until, suddenly, the road curved and he was at the water's edge, small waves lapping gently at narrow beaches where driftwood bleached white in the sun and dune grasses waved in the light breeze. A few minutes more and he was surrounded by forest again, dense pines and firs rising from a floor of ferns. At last he came to a broad open space of grassy fields beside the water, with a cluster of one-story buildings, all of blue-gray wood. Once again he thought of a movie set: a tiny village scattered over an almost treeless plain beneath an enormous sky. There was a food market, a real estate office in back of the

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  barbershop, a bakery, an artist's cooperative, a bookstore, a post office up the road, a fire station, a hbrary that looked as if it had once been
a school-house, a bank, a church, a thrift shop, and, oddly, an espresso stand. Two weathered buildings were the Lopez Historical Museum and nearby was an even more weathered performance pavilion.

  At the gas station, he leaped from the truck and while he was filling the tank, several people greeted him, commenting that he must be staying at the Inn at Swifts Bay since Robert had loaned him his truck, and wishing him a good visit. Amused, Luke paid and drove on. A small community, he reflected, increasing his speed. A place that respects privacy. He laid Robert's map on the seat beside him and followed it, driving around the island to the south shore and Watmough Bay.

  He was clenching the wheel as he slowed down, looking for a sign with a picture of a fountain. And he found it where the forest was most dense, hiding whatever might be within or beyond it: a beach, the water, a house. The sign was a wooden rectangle, darkened by rain and sun, with a deeply etched fountain that matched the one on Jessica's letters to Constance. There was no numbered address and no name.

  Luke parked the truck off the road and walked down the trail of packed earth and forest grasses, barely wide enough for a car. The trail curved and he saw the gleam of water and then a low house of stone and wood. A woman was in the garden that stretched along one side of the house. She was cutting roses, moving in and out of sunlight and shadows, laying each rose in a basket that hung on her arm.

  Luke's heart was pounding as he strode toward her. Then, abruptly, he stopped. He was hidden by flowering bushes and a large spruce tree, and he stood there in the dimness, puzzled and let down. This wasn't Jessica; he obviously had the wrong house. Unless it's her housekeeper. Or maybe a friend.

  He stood still, less than twenty feet from her, frowning as his eyes grew accustomed to the sudden shifts in sunlight and shadow through which the woman moved. She was not tall, or perhaps she was, but her back was stooped and she limped, leaning heavily on a cane. Her face was thin and drawn, deeply lined and so pale it was almost colorless. What could be seen of her hair beneath her brimmed woven hat was pale silver-gray, cut short, leaving her frail neck exposed. She wore a simple white cotton dress that almost reached her ankles; it had a scoop neck and short sleeves, and when

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  she reached out to cut another flower and Luke saw the curve of her arm, the strong, mobile wrist above her gardening glove, and then looked again for a long moment at her face, he knew that of course it was Jessica.

  A shadow of Jessica. A faded image. A photograph, dulled and brittle with age. But she was not old. She was forty.

  He stood there for a long time, his thoughts in turmoil. His expectations and certainties of what he would find had been so vivid that he felt as if he had been betrayed. He remembered how he had envisioned this moment when he was on the plane to Seattle. He had finished looking at Jessica's books and had lain back, half-asleep, imagining himself ringing her doorbell, being greeted by the woman whose pictures he had been poring over so recently, hearing again the vibrant musical voice that he had never forgotten. He had seen himself giving her the carton that was now in the back of Robert's truck, sitting in her house and talking about Constance and then about herself: about what had brought her to Lopez and when she might come back to New York. He had imagined hours of conversation filled with the intelligence and passion, the wit and sophistication, that had filled her letters.

  Instead he had found a woman so plain she was almost homely, as insubstantial as a mirage, looking far older than her years, moving clumsily, without grace or vitality. He watched her limp around the corner of the house and out of his view, but he continued to look at her garden and the strip of beach and the bay beyond. Her roses were magnificent, tall and strong, their colors intense, and Luke thought their velvet richness had made her look paler still. He tried to remember what her eyes had looked like, but they had been hidden by the brim of her hat, even when she'd looked in his general direction. But he had seen enough of her face to know that there had been no passion in it, and, though she had been absorbed in her flowers, it was a quiet absorption, without fervor, that of a recluse who did not smile very much or string words together into conversations. She was a woman to whom he would never give a second glance if he passed her on the street. She was so unlike the woman of his imagination that he could not fathom now what had so captivated him in her letters. In fact, he could barely remember what she had written that he had found interesting or intriguing. What had led him to make this crazy trip?

  He turned and almost ran back to the truck. Turning around in Jessica's driveway, he used Robert's map to find roads through the center of

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  the island that would bring him to the inn in the shortest time. He saw Robert and Chris in the garden behind the house as he retrieved his suitcase, but he did not talk to them; he wrote a brief note, enclosing money for his one-night stay, and left the inn. Halfway down the driveway he remembered that he had no way back to the village. But anger and confusion kept him going along the road until he found himself beside a row of small houses facing a narrow beach cluttered with seaweed. He stopped at the first house and asked if he could use their telephone to call a taxi.

  Within twenty minutes he was at the village and had called the seaplane. He had over an hour and so he walked the three miles to the airstrip. On the way, one of the men who had greeted him earlier stopped and asked him if he wanted a ride.

  Luke shook his head. "Thanks, I'd rather walk. I'm catching the seaplane."

  "Well, they take their time. You look pretty angry, friend. Robert's truck break down on you?"

  "No. It was fine." He walked on; then, aware of his rudeness, he turned around. "I've got some problems to work out. Thanks for asking." Wallowing in my anger, he thought. Couldn't even return kindness with simple politeness.

  But why was he so angry.? He stood looking out over the water. Why so much anger.i^

  Because he felt cheated. He'd come to this island to find Jessica Fontaine, whom he hadn't been able to get out of his mind since he'd begun reading her letters, whom he'd decided, in some kind of wild illusion, that he was in love with, and instead he'd found . ..

  A different Jessica Fontaine, almost unrecognizable. Not the one he wanted. Nothing like the woman he wanted. Nothing like any woman he'd ever wanted or even looked at twice. Damn it, I kpew her. I knew how she sounded, how she felt about things, what she did with her days, the people she saw and worked with .. .

  / saw her pictures. I knew how she looked.

  Except that I was wrong.

  He pictured himself standing there, rigid with that sense of betrayal, watching the sky to see if the plane were coming, and he knew he was being petulant and shrill— like a kid who didn't get the Christmas present he expected —but he could not control it. Disappointment coursed through him;

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  he felt he could not breathe with the pressure of it. He had to get away from here, from the images he had carried in his mind all these months and then had built to a full-blown fantasy. As if I'd written a play and begun to direct it with one person missing . . . and when she showed up she was someone else. He gazed at a sailboat ghding through the harbor. Beyond it was the ferry from the mainland, and beyond that the tiny speck in the sky that was his plane, sunhght gHnting off it so that it looked like a star and then a spodight that grew larger as he watched. He kept his eyes on it, but what he was seeing in his mind, what, in spite of himself, he was reliving over and over, were those long moments when he had stood in the forest, watching Jessica cut roses and lay them gendy in her basket.

  T

  he Magician opened to a sold-out house in Philadelphia on a rainy night in early September, nine days after Luke returned from Lopez Island. They had spent two days in dress rehearsals, for the first time with costumes, full sets and props; Luke had calmed Rachel's terrors at the idea of a real live audience, settled a tiff between Cort and Kent, and taken Abby t
o dinner because, she said, that was what her directors always did. And then it was opening night. The audience filled the theater and the lights came up on stage for act one.

  Luke stood at the back of the theater beside Monte and Kent. He had focused on this night every moment since returning from his trip, except for the brief act, on his first day back, of stowing the box of Jessica's letters in a closed cabinet in his library. From then on, he had plunged into every aspect of the play, resolving the problems that still cropped up, soothing frayed nerves, refining the way his cast delivered their lines. Even so, at odd times, images kept intruding: the dark shape in a dark sea of Lopez Island from the air, forests and farms from the high front seat of Robert's truck, a weathered sign carved with an engraved fountain beside a faint path that led through dense trees to a house, a beach, a rose garden ... But each time he would wrench his thoughts away, as he had wrenched the wheel of Robert's truck to turn from Jessica's house, and will himself to see nothing and think of nothing but his play.

  Now, in Philadelphia, it seemed that Lopez and Jessica were as remote from him as were Tricia and Claudia and New York's hectic social life. In

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  the darkened theater he leaned forward, tense and watchful as his actors moved past their initial hesitation and stiffness and settled into the rhythm and interlocking emotions of their lives on stage. Halfway through the act, Luke met Monte's eyes and they smiled.

  At intermission the three of them mingled with the crowd in the lobby and those smoking outside until the bell rang to announce act two. "They love it," Monte said as the audience trickled back to their seats. "Good vibes all around. Nobody's bored and as far as I can tell nobody's leaving."

  Kent came in with the audience, a beatific smile on his face. "They like it. They lif(e it. Some of them were trying to guess how it would end. Can you imagine? They were talking about Lena and Daniel and Martha as if they were people they knew, trying to figure out what they'd do next. God, there's nothing like that in the world."