Ever since that call this morning, I have been numb from shock, full of grief, disbelieving. Now, suddenly, I felt drained. A vast emptiness settled within me. It was as if I were quite hollow, just a fragile shell.
I have never experienced such feelings before. No, that’s not true. I have. When my mother died with this same kind of suddenness, this awful abruptness that always leaves others reeling and lost. And when my second husband Michael Trent suffered an unexpected heart attack, a fatal heart attack, I was devastated, floundering, cast adrift then just as I am today.
Life is hell; no, death is hell, I muttered to myself, and then wondered why it was those I loved had always been taken from me with such breathtaking unexpectedness.
Pushing myself up out of my chair, I left the library. In the corridor, I poked my head around the door of Belinda’s cubbyhole of an office, told her I was going for a walk, and pulled an old wool cape out of the coat closet.
I stood on the back step and took several deep breaths. On this Monday afternoon at the beginning of October the weather was positively glorious, and mild, like spring. I glanced up. The arc of the sky was vivid blue and clear, and everything appeared to shimmer in the bright, golden sunlight. The trees had already started to turn, the leaves changing color from verdant green to yellow, russet, and scarlet; some were a deep, plummy purple, others a mellow gold tinged at the edges with the palest of pinks. It was fall, that special time of year when tourists from all over the world came to Connecticut to see the magnificent foliage, which was so breathtaking.
Moving quickly along the stone-flagged path, I headed across the lawn toward a small gazebo that stood at the edge of a copse of trees.
I loved this remote corner of the garden where everything was bosky, still and silent.
My grandmother had built this gazebo many, many years ago, long before I was born. It had been created for my mother when she was a child. She had grown up in this old colonial stone house which stood in the hills above New Preston, a picturesque little town in the northwest em highlands of Connecticut.
Climbing the three wooden steps, I went inside and sat down on the bench, pulling the cape around me, shivering slightly. Yet it wasn’t cold today. The sun was a huge bright orb, and in this part of the world we were enjoying an extraordinary Indian Summer, the likes of which had not been seen around these parts for a long while. I had shivered a moment before only because I felt the presence of ghosts here in this rustic little structure, saw them all . . . all of them.
I found myself falling backward in time to be with them. -Gran Rosalie, with her pretty pink complexion and snow-white hair piled high on top of her head, was sitting there so proudly, with such dignity, on the bench in front of the round table.
She was pouring tea from her old brown china pot with the chip on the lid, which she would not throw away because she said it made the -best tea. Gran was telling me stories about this lovely old house, Ridgehill, which had been in her family for generations. Built in 1799, it had been passed down from mother to daughter and had always been owned by a woman, never a man. That was the stipulation in the will of Henrietta Bailey, my great-great-great-great-grandmother. It was she who had built the house with her own money and who had been one of the most powerful matriarchs of the Baileys. My gran was a Bailey, descending directly from her; Bailey was even part of my name.
My grandmother had the most beautiful of voices, cultured, lilting, full of musicality. She was reminding me that one day the house would Ibe mine. Carefully, she explained about Henrietta and her will, told me how my amazing ancestor had wanted the women of the Bailey family always to be protected. So the house must pass from mother to daughter, even if there were sons. If there were no daughters then the house passed to the wife of the eldest son. I loved to hear the history of my family. I cherished Gran’s marvelous tales .
My mother was here now . . . all golden-light and brightness, a shimmering kind of woman with her abundance of red-gold hair, perfect, milky skin, and startling green eyes. His emerald eyes, my father called them.
Now he was with us too . . . the Irishman. Black Irish, William Dela
they was, my gran told me that. Black Irish and something of a
charmer, a twinkling rogue of a man, a man whom women fell for at the drop of a hat, at least so my gran said to me time and again when I was growing up.
He was tall and dark, with rosy cheeks, sparkling brown eyes, and a brogue as rich as thick dotted cream. The Black Irishman, the twin Iding rogue, had been a writer. I suppose I have inherited his penchant -for words, his flair for stringing them together so that they make some sort of sense. His had been a powerful gift; I’m not so sure that mine is -of quite the same magnitude. Gran always said that if it wasn’t, then it was only because I hadn’t kissed the Blarney Stone in County Cork, as my father had claimed to have done. Gran used to say it was surely the truth, for no one else she knew had such wondrous powers of persuasion as he.
He left us, though, my father did, one day many summers ago, telling us he would be back within three months. But he never did return, and I have no idea to this day whether he is dead or alive. I was ten years old when he went off on that journalistic forage for new material, traveling into the far, far blue horizons of the world.
twenty six years ago. Perhaps he was dead by now.
My mother had been sad at first; she had cheered up only when his letters began to arrive at regular intervals. She read parts of them to me as they came in one by one; but only small portions, skipping the intimate bits, I suspect. I’ve been brought up to believe that my father was quite a man with the fancy words, especially when it came to wooing women.
First he was in Australia, then he went to New Zealand, and finally he left the Antipodes and traveled to Tahiti. Fiji was another port of call as he wandered around the Pacific, God knows in search of what.
Other women? More exotic women? Not long after my mother received a letter from him postmarked Tonga communications had abruptly ceased. We never heard from him again.
When I was small I used to think that my mother was suffering from a broken heart, that she was endlessly yearning for my father. I had not known then that eighteen months after William Delaney had set sail for those exotic isles of Micronesia, she was already falling in love with Sebastian Locke.
Now, leaning forward on the bench, I squinted slightly, narrowing my eyes, peering out into the sunlit garden .
In my mind’s eye I saw him quite clearly, walking across the lawn toward me, just the way he had done all those years ago.
Sebastian Locke, heading in my direction, long-limbed, slender, the embodiment of nonchalant grace, walking toward me.
That summer’s afternoon, the first time I ever set eyes on him, I thought he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. He was far more handsome than my father, which was saying a lot indeed. Sebastian was tall and dark-haired like my father, but whereas William’s eyes were velvet-brown and depthful, Sebastian’s were a clear, vivid blue, the brightest of blues. Like bits of sky, I recall thinking that day, and they had a piercing quality to them. It was as if they could see right through you, as if they could see into your mind and heart. I really believed he knew exactly what I was thinking; even last Monday I had thought the same thing over lunch.
Sebastian was wearing white gabardine pants and a pale blue shirt on that stifling July day in 1970. The shirt was made of voile, almost flimsy in weight. I’ve liked voile shirts on men ever since. The shirt was open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up, and his face and arms were tan. His body was tanned as well. I could see it through the voile.
He was a lithe man, very fit, athletic.
ad leaned against the posts of the gazebo and smiled at me. His teeth were very white and even in his sun-bronzed face, his mouth sensitive, and the vivid eyes were set wide apart in that arresting face.
Those eyes regarded me unblinkingly, and with great interest for a few seconds. It was when he said, “H
ello, young lady, you must be the famous Vivienne,” that I had felt myself becoming hot around my face and neck. Then he had stretched out his hand toward me. As I had taken it he had nodded slightly, as though acknowledging me yet again.
He held onto my hand much longer than I expected, and as I looked up into that open, clean-cut face, my own very serious in its expression, my heart had skipped several beats.
And of course I had fallen hopelessly in love with him. I was all of twelve years old at the time, but I felt much older on that particular day. Very grown up. After all, it was the first time a man had actually made me blush.
Sebastian was thirty-two but looked much younger, extremely boyish and carefree. Vaguely, I somehow knew that he was the kind of man men automatically gravitate to; somehow I understood that he had carisma, sex appeal, thatje ne sais quai the French forever talk about.
In any case I was all agog over him. I never did get him to admit it to me, but I was certain he felt something special for me that day.
On the other hand, he might have liked me simply because I was the daughter of my mother, the beauteous Antoinette Delaney, with whom he was having a grand love affair at the time.
That afternoon, when he had sauntered up the steps of the gazebo and seated himself next to me, I had known he was going to play a huge part in my life, in my future. Don’t ask me how the young girl that I was then sensed this. She just did.
We had talked about horses, which he knew scared me to death. He had asked me if I would like to come to Laurel Creek Farm in Corn wall to learn to ride.
‘I have a son, Jack, who’s six, and a daughter, Luciana, who’s four.
They’re already astride their ponies and doing well. Say you’ll come and ride with us, Vivienne, say you’ll come and stay at the horse farm.
Your mother’s a fine equestrienne, as you well know. She wants you to ride as proficiently as she does. You mustn’t be afraid of horses. I will teach you how to ride myself. You’ll be safe with me.”
He was correct in that, I did feel safe with him, and he did teach me to ride well, showing much more patience and understanding than my mother. And I loved him all the more for that.
A long time later, many years later, I realized he had been trying to make us into a family, that he had wanted my mother for himself.
For always. But how could she have been his forever? She was married to William Delaney, and he had gone missing far across the ocean.
Until she got a divorce she could never remarry. Not Sebastian. Not anyone.
Still, Sebastian had tried to blend us into a tight-knit little circle, and in certain ways he succeeded.
That afternoon, staring up at him, I had only been able to nod mutely as he talked about horses, tried to reassure me about learning to ride. I was rendered speechless by this man, totally mesmerized by him.
I was under his spell.
And I was forever after, for that matter.
It was Belinda who broke into my memories and my golden dreams, who scattered my beloved ghosts to the far corners of Gran Rosalie’s garden.
“Vivienne, Vivienne!” she called as she hurried down the path, waving frantically. “It’s the New York Times. They’re on the phone.”
I leaped to my feet on hearing this and raced toward her. We met in the middle of the lawn. “The New York Times?” I repeated, searching her face, my heart sinking.
“Yes, they’ve gotten wind of it . . . wind of Sebastian’s death.
They seem to know that the police were called in, that the circumstances are suspicious. Etcetera, etcetera. Anyway, the reporter wants to have a word with you.”
The mere thought of tomorrow’s headlines around the world sent a chill surging through me. And of course there would be headlines.
A famous man had died, a man of conscience and compassion . . .
the world’s greatest philanthropist. And he might have been murdered.
I shrivelled inside at the mere thought of those headlines. The press would turn his life upside down and inside out. No one, nothing, would be sacrosanct.
“The reporter wants to talk to you, Vivienne,” Belinda said more urgently, taking hold of my arm. “He’s waiting.”
“Oh God,” I groaned. “Why me?”
“Why me?” I repeated later that evening, staring up at Jack.
“Why did you elect me to be the spokesperson for this family?”
He had just arrived for supper a few minutes ago, and we were in my small den at the rear of the house, a room he preferred: It was intimate , warm, with its red brocaded walls and old Persian carpet.
He hovered in front of me, his back to the fire, his hands in his pockets.
Returning my stare, seemingly at a loss, he did not answer. Then shaking his head in a thoughtful way, he started to speak, stopped, frowned, and pursed his lips.
“Well, Vivienne,” he said at last, “I’m not sure why.” He shook his head again. “Liar,” he said emphatically. “I’m a liar. And a coward.
That’s why I sicced the Times on you. I didn’t want to talk to them myself.”
“But you’re the head of the family now. I’m not,” I protested.
“And you’re a journalist. A respected journalist. You know better how to deal with the dreaded press than I do.”
“Luciana could have spoken to them. She’s Sebastian’s daughter.”
“You’re his ex-wife,” he shot back.
“Oh, Jack, please.”
“Okay, okay. Look, she’s been out of it all day, ever since we got here. She can barely speak to me, never mind the New York Times.
You know how fragile she is. The least little thing upsets her.”
“It always has. I never even expected her for supper tonight, even though she accepted. I knew she wouldn’t come,” I retorted. When we -were children growing up together, Luciana had usually been the one to hang back, to drop out, to claim tiredness, even sickness, when she didn’t wish to do something, or if she was faced with a difficult situation. But fragile she wasn’t. I knew that for a fact. She was strong. And tough. Not that Luciana ever let anyone know this.
Dissembling came to her readily and with great ease; she was a facile liar, an expert spinner of tall tales. Her father once told me she was the cleverest liar he had ever known.
“How about a drink?” Jack said, cutting into my thoughts about his half sister.
“Of course!” I exclaimed, jumping up. “How rude of me. What would you like? Your usual scotch? Or a glass of wine?”
“Scotch, please, Viv.”
I went to the antique Georgian table near the door, which held a few bottles of liquor and a bucket of ice. I fixed his scotch, a vodka on the rocks for myself, and carried them back to the fireplace.
Handing him his glass, I sat down.
He muttered his thanks, took a great gulp of the amber-colored alcohol, and stood nursing it in both hands, ruminating.
“It’s been a terrible day,” I said. “The worst day in a long time. I still can’t quite accept the fact that Sebastian’s dead. I keep expecting him to walk in any minute.”
Jack made no comment, merely sipped his drink and rocked back and forth on his heels.
I regarded him over the rim of my glass, thinking how unsympathetic and without emotion he was. I experienced a little spurt of anger. Jack could be so cold, cold as an iceberg. At this moment I hated him, as I had sometimes hated him as a child. His father had been found dead this morning, and in the most peculiar circumstances.
Yet he was behaving as if nothing had happened. And he certainly wasn’t showing any signs of grief. It struck me as being most unnatural, even though father and son had never really been close. I had been distressed for the entire day, fighting tears, engulfed by sadness. I mourned Sebastian, and I would go on mourning him for a long time.
Suddenly, without preamble, Jack said, “They took the body.”
Startled by this announcement, I gaped at him. “You mean the poli
ce took the body away?”
“Yep,” he answered laconically.
“To Farmington? For the autopsy?”
“You got it.”
“I really can’t stand you when you’re like this!” I exclaimed, and I was surprised at the harshness of my voice.
“Like what, sugar?”
“For God’s sake, come off it, you know what I mean. So cold and hard and detached. Half of it’s pretense anyway. You can’t fool me.
I’ve known you for the best part of your life and mine.”
He shrugged indifferently, drained his glass, went and poured him self another drink. Walking back to the fireside, he continued, “That detective, Kennelly, told me we’ll get the body back tomorrow.”
“So quickly?”
He nodded. “Apparently the Chief Medical Examiner will do the autopsy
first thing tomorrow morning. He’ll take out tissue and organs, plus
blood and urine samples, and”
Shuddering, I shouted, “Stop it! You’re talking about Sebastian!
Your father. Don’t you have any respect for him? Any respect for the dead?”
He gave me an odd look but made no comment.
I said, “If you have no feelings for him, so be it. But just remember this, I do. I will not permit you to speak of him in such a heartless, cold-blooded way.”
Ignoring my remarks, Jack said, “We can have the funeral later this week.”
“In Cornwall,” I murmured, trying to adopt a softer tone. “He once told me he wanted to be buried in Cornwall.”
“What about a memorial service, Viv? Should we have one? If so, where?
More importantly, when?” He grimaced. “As soon as possible.
I have to get back to France.”
Though he was infuriating me again, I held myself still.
Exercising great control, I responded calmly, “In New York. I think that would be the best place, certainly the most appropriate.”
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