"Tell me about yourself," she blurted, turning away to pour him a glass of tea. She heard the phone ring in the distance; she ignored it.
"What do you want to know?" The ice clinked as he tipped the glass.
She watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed. "Anything...everything." She flushed. That's not the kind of thing you ask if intending to maintain a casual relationship.
He looked at her consideringly. "How much time have you got?"
"The rest of the afternoon."
"Only if you'll let me take you out to dinner as a reward."
"Good heavens, reward for what?"
He grinned. "People love to talk about themselves. Not many care to listen."
He stretched out on the chair next to hers, legs crossed at the ankle, and began to speak, his forefinger occasionally tapping the enameled frame to underscore a point. What he told her that afternoon wasn't important—his early life and schooling, anecdotes about his father's quixotic temperament, the death of a favorite pet. Simple, ordinary things; no mention of his marriage beyond his earlier, throwaway reference. It brought to mind her childhood coloring books filled with figures bounded by black lines beyond which her crayons never, ever strayed.
"Did you mind being an only child?"
"No—no, I don't think so. I was too selfish to share. I still am," he added broodingly, as if to himself. "Oh, sometimes, at Thanksgiving or Christmas, I wished I had cousins grouped with me around the groaning board—or to shoot off smuggled fireworks with on the Fourth of July"
Beth laughed in recognition. "Like a Norman Rockwell cover."
"Exactly. But it probably wouldn't have worked out. You know how kids are: masters of one-up-manship, from the brand of athletic shoes they wear to the kinds of cars their fathers drive. My father had no appreciation of peer pressures—besides, it's hard to have cousins without aunts and uncles."
No mad aunts in attics; no alcoholic brothers. "Amity is an only child, too?"
"Yes. I love my daughter, Beth—she's very bright, very special in many ways—but I failed her, as a father and a man. Think of it—me, who chose teaching as a career." His laugh was bitter.
"She has a mother, too, you know," Beth said, gently probing.
"I can't fault Val." He chose not to amplify. His eyes darkened. "Believe me, if I could, I would."
He looked suddenly tired, older. Abandoning her timid attempt to breach his privacy, Beth reached over to press his hand."You're a good man, Karim."
"Not good enough," he muttered. "Not nearly good enough. But thank you, Beth—you're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time." He reached up to cup her cheek, to pull her close.
"There you are!" The voice calling from the sliding doors on the terrace was bright with false cheer. "I phoned, but—"
Beth and Karim sprang apart like a couple of teenagers caught necking on their parents' living room couch.
"Oh dear. I didn't mean to intrude. We'll just—”
"It's all right, Monica," Beth said. "I should have checked the messages on the machine..." She broke off. Monica's attention was riveted on Karim. "Have you met Karim Donovan?"
She shook her head, her eyes busily cataloging his physical attributes.
"He's just been appointed president of Peabody. We were just..." Beth's words trailed off. It's none of her damn business what "we were just". "Karim, this is Monica Davenport. She has the primary listing for the house." He nodded politely.
"Don't let us keep you from your clients, Monica. Just pretend we're part of the scenery," Beth said.
Fat chance of that. Monica turned to beckon a middle-aged couple out into the garden. Judging from the excitement popping her eyes, she would be on the phone to her mother as soon as she waved her clients goodbye—sooner if she could manage it.
“Monica’s mother is one of my mother’s closest friends,” Beth confided, “and I predict that by nightfall Mother will know that her widowed daughter had been discovered that afternoon entertaining an all but naked man at poolside.”
"Something tells me your mothers' friendship isn’t shared by their daughters," Karim muttered.
Beth grinned. "Mother could never understand why not—we were the same age and sex, after all."
"Isn't it funny how quickly adults forget what it's like to be a child? 'Hans, vy don't you go play mit the liddle Hitler boy? Adolph's the same age as you, ja?' "
"Monica wasn't that bad," Beth protested, laughing. "Mainly, she cheated. At cards, at all games for that matter—she always pinned the tail on the donkey right where it ought to be, and everyone knew you couldn't manage that without peeking—and later, with boys."
He looked at her, frankly curious. "How does a girl cheat with boys?"
"She reveals things 'by mistake' about other girls, things she knows damn well they wouldn't want known. Made-up things, if the situation warrants."
"You never did anything like that."
It was a statement, not a question. Pleased, she smiled. "I was too slow-witted, I guess, and hopelessly trusting. It never occurred to me until I was fully grown that Monica's revelations were deliberate. When caught at it, she was always terribly sorry—she even cried."
"An interesting talent. Is she good at selling houses?"
"Very."
"It figures."
"Maybe, but I'm not sure it's fair to blame her." Beth sighed and leaned back in her chair. "Growing up was hard for a girl back then, in a place like this. We were always expected to wait to be asked. Monica was just maximizing her opportunities. I envy girls now; they have so many more options."
"A mixed blessing, Beth, believe me."
They fell silent. In the distance, a power mower sputtered into life; a pair of chipmunks scampered, chattering, through the legs of the table. Inside, the phone began to ring. Karim glanced at Beth, who shook her head.
"It could be another Monica," he cautioned.
She shrugged. "Que sera, sera." He reached over to take her hand; she snuggled her fingers into his. "Sometimes it's hard for me to believe I'm a member of the original rock and roll generation."
Karim looked over at her, puzzled. "Did I miss something?"
"No, no, I was just thinking out loud, about growing up, about—"
"Bill Haley and the Comets?" He rapped out on the arm of his chair the classic opening bars about rocking around the clock, his head nodding to the beat.
Beth laughed."They were great, Karim, but a bit before my time. No, I was an Elvis Presley fan—the early Elvis," she amended hastily. "Not later when he got soft and sappy."
"Lord help us!"
"You sound like my mother," she said, snatching her hand away in mock reproof. "She thought him ignorant and vulgar and lewd and a terrible influence on young people; my father said he was just a good ol' boy doing what came naturally. I preferred my mother's opinion." She waited, then turned her head to stare at him. "Don't you want to know why?"
He smiled lazily. "Oh, I know why, Beth. Danger is exciting, and anything a kid's parents disapprove of is seen as dangerous, even something as fake as Elvis' gyrating-hip routine. That's another thing adults are quick to forget."
"It didn't seem fake to me at the time," Beth recalled wistfully.
"Of course not. Neither did Val's political activism when I first met her. It was in 1963—the March on Washington, remember? ‘I had a dream...' " he quoted softly.
"Yes, I remember. It was the summer Ralph and I were married."
"Val was a Colby graduate student from Chicago. She organized the group—even designed the huge flamboyant banners splashed across the flanks of the busses they came in. I was a teaching intern who went along for the ride. I thought she was splendid! A dark Valkyrie."
She's a brunette, a very beautiful one, my father used to say...
"Do you remember Colleen Dewhurst, Beth?"
"The actress? Sure. She's the one Georgina used to refer to as Mother Earth."
"That was Val, flash
ing smile, husky voice and all. There was nothing she liked better than a good cause to fight for. Civil rights, Vietnam protests—"
"I was having babies then," Beth said quietly, as if to herself.
"She was very disappointed when I accepted being drafted. It robbed her of the opportunity to help me escape to Canada or Sweden, or at the very least burn my draft card. After Vietnam came Central America, and most recently, animal rights. Amity tells me she's working currently on a campaign to set the nation's pets free."
Beth's eyes widened. "Good heavens, Karim, where would they all go?” She thought of Georgina's pampered trio. "How could they survive?"
"We're talking principles here, Beth; those are details. The day-to-day scut work of protest never appealed to Val. Not enough drama in it." He paused, frowning. "I'm not being fair. There's a lot more to Val than her overwrought and occasionally misplaced enthusiasms. Her work in feminist history is original and important—I always supported her in that. But she's never been able to subdue her yen for being on the barricades, the excitement of living on the edge, and sooner or later it surfaces.
"I'm sure that's what led to her sexual experimentation. She met a woman at a conference, was attracted to her, slept with her. I might have accepted that—yes, I might have," he added, as if trying to convince himself, "if she hadn't continued sleeping with her, all but flaunting the relationship. Val couldn't understand why I objected. She insisted it had nothing to do with me, justifying it on the grounds that they were the same sex—as if they were of a lesser gender—and therefore it shouldn't count."
He shook his head. "I couldn't believe my ears. This, from a feminist? I told her sex was sex, and that as far I was concerned she was committing adultery."
Beth was appalled. This was a world of which she knew little and had experienced nothing. "That's when you separated?"
"Yes, but not in the sense you mean. We moved into separate bedrooms, but we had Amity's—" He stopped abruptly. His mouth tightened; his shoulders hunched;
his eyes slid away. It was like watching a turtle pull into its shell. "But although we continued to live together in the same house, in essence Val and I became polite strangers. Sometimes, unable to decide, say, whether to broil or poach a salmon steak, we even prepared separate meals.
"They were bad times, Beth, but the last four years were worse. For all of us." He squinted out across the pool, but Beth doubted it was the sparkle of sun on water he was seeing. "I was exhausted, and—" He shrugged.
Another stop; another retreat, Beth thought.
"I didn't move out physically until I came to Peabody at the beginning of the winter semester."
"Oh." Only six months. Given how recent their separation was, Amity's hostility seemed less perplexing.
He turned to face her, the expression in his intelligent hazel eyes once again direct and purposeful. "It's over between us; it has been for a long time." He smiled wryly. "Thus endeth the Book of Karim. Are you still game for dinner?'"
"Sure. Polly's Place?"
Her defiant tone wasn't lost on him. "Sunday is family night, isn't it? You are game."
"By now," she said, consulting her watch, "Monica has already phoned her mother; by dinnertime, there will be nothing left to tell anybody—unless you're planning on dining in Andy's trunks."
"I'll have to go home and change—it's gotten too hot for the flannels I came in. A quick dip and I'm off."
He dove into the pool. She traced his seal-like progress underwater and soundless emergence at the far end, where his feet pushed him off into a vigorous backstroke that brought him quickly back to her. She threw him a towel. He crossed over, vigorously rubbed himself dry, then leaned down and kissed her. It was a fleeting kiss, his lips touching coolly, tasting of pool water, gone before she could respond.
She watched Karim stride toward his car, an arm raised in farewell. Open one minute, shuttered the next. Something troubled him: should his reluctance to share it trouble her? More to the point, would she be troubled if she knew what it was?
He didn't seem a dangerous man, but how was she to know? The only remotely dangerous man she'd ever fancied was Elvis Presley.
Chapter Seven
Polly came out from behind her desk to greet them. "Good evening, Mrs. Volmar, Mr. Donovan. Lovely evening, isn't it? Your table will be ready in a momentPerhaps you'd like to look at tonight's specials on the blackboard while you're waiting?"
Her smile was practiced; the expression in her eyes courteously attentive. It wasn't until Beth turned back to see if anyone she knew was seated in the main dining room that she caught Polly's frank look of speculation. Two tables of old friends waved greetings at her. Beth waved back.
"The Hearth Room isn't full," she whispered to Karim, "why do you suppose—"
"Mr. Donovan?" A dark pretty girl glided up beside them."Your table is ready." She preceded them into the wide glassed-in veranda, stopping at the table overlooking the pond. The mallards had babies now. As Beth watched the ducks conduct their fluffy brood into the reeds, her vision blurred. She rooted for a tissue in the pocket of her linen skirt.
"Kris will be here shortly to take your drink order, Mr. Donovan. I hope you enjoy your dinner." The usual phrases, smoothly delivered. "And, hey," she blurted sotto voce, "Congratulations!"
"Thank you, Meredith." He pulled out Beth's chair. "She's a graduate student; pays her own freight. Nice girl. I helped her with her course selection when— Beth? Is anything wrong?"
She dabbed at her eyes and gave him a watery smile. "I'm such a fool, Karim, it's just.… This table...you remembered."
"I warned you I liked to fuss."
"So you did." She blew discreetly. "I bet my nose is turning pink. It always does."
"Beats having a ring at the end of it."
She smiled. "Like the piggy-wig standing in the wood."
"You see? That's one of the many advantages of dating a mature woman." He leaned towards her. "I doubt if Meredith has ever heard of Edward Lear, much less The Owl and the Pussycat."
"I never thought of it that way. I don't think Merrill Longyear did either," she added dryly.
"His loss, Beth. Shared memories grow mellower over time, like a good red wine. Speaking of which.…"
The wine they shared at dinner was white, not red. An Australian chardonnay. Long before they finished the bottle, Beth had decided she would ask Karim in that evening; the wine just made it a little easier.
She handed him the key to her door, and after closing it behind them, he followed her into the kitchen. She turned on the lights, and began fussing with the coffee maker. "More coffee, Karim?"
"Thank you, no. The two cups I had at Polly's will keep me tossing in bed—" He stopped abruptly. "Two is one more than I usually have."
Beth knew her bright fixed smile was inappropriate. She began trotting, briskly, pointlessly, from one counter to another, putting away a forgotten hot pad, refolding a dishtowel. Karim stepped out of her way to lean silently, arms folded, against the refrigerator, his hazel eyes following her erratic progress across the white tiled floor. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, and when she finally noticed the blinking light on the answering machine, her forefinger shot out to spear the playback button.
"Mom, call me." It was Andy. His voice sounded odd. "Daisy's run away, and Housa's frantic. I don't want to leave her and the kids alone. Please get back to me as soon as you hear this."
Beth stared at the machine. Before she had time to digest the message, it beeped the start of the next one.
"Mom? God, I hoped you be home by now. I have to start looking for Daisy. Don't call, just come."
Beth felt Karim's hand on her shoulder. "I'll take you. Maybe I can help."
She turned to rest her cheek against his broad chest. "Dear little Daisy.…"
He notched his chin on her head. "She's your eldest grandchild?"
"Yes. She's six—almost seven, as she keeps reminding me. Such a fierce little thing. Al
l bones and wiry muscle—like a marionette, Housa says." Beth picked up her purse."They don't always see eye to eye."
They hurried to the door. "Your car or mine?" Karim asked.
Beth paused on the doorstep. "Karim, I don't know how to say this without.… I think I'd better go alone."
"But Beth, another pair of eyes—"
She shook her head. "I'm sure their neighbors have offered to help." She hesitated, searching for words. "Andy doesn't know you, and he doesn't know about me as someone other than his mother."
"In other words, you don't want him to know about us. Not that there's much to know."
Beth lifted her cheek from his chest and replaced it with the flat of her hands. She looked up into his brooding hazel eyes.
"Karim, please. I'm his mother. Right now that's all he wants; that's what Housa needs." She stepped away. "I must go."
"Beth?" She turned to see him kneading his brow. "I'm sorry. It's just that a lost child—" His hand fell to his side, its cupped fingers unfolding as if letting go, but of what she had no idea. "I wasn't thinking. Call me?"
"Of course." She looked back from the open garage door. Something about his posture—his dangling hands, the lowered thrust of his head—signaled a need for reassurance. "We'll find her," she called. "Daisy's stubborn, but she's not foolish."
".…she's not foolish, Housa," Beth found herself repeating to her daughter-in-law twenty minutes later.
Housa's face was mottled from crying;
her breath came in gulps. "I've tried—so hard—to be—a good—mother, Beth."
Beth squeezed her limp hands. "I know you have, darling, and you are."
"She hates me."
"Daisy does no such thing, Housa, and don't you dare let her know you think that. She's a wonderful child, but inside that little chest beats the heart of a con man."
"What are you—trying to say?" The gulps were lessening.
"I'm saying I doubt she ran away out of despair over your maternal awfulness. I think she's trying to get back at you for something. Dana did that all the time."
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