The House on Primrose Pond

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “Well, maybe I’d better be going.” Corbin stood and moved toward the bag of skates.

  “Let me give you back the ones we wore today.” She didn’t ask him to stay any longer; the day had been fun but also unsettling, and she wanted time away from him to think it over.

  “No, you keep those. And what size are Calista’s feet? I can leave a pair for her too.”

  “She doesn’t want to go skating.”

  “She doesn’t want to go skating with me,” Corbin said. He piled the skates into the sack and pulled the drawstring closed. “But she still might want to go skating.”

  Susannah stood looking at him. She had always been attracted by his electrifying good looks, but now she realized the aura of calm he projected was equally attractive. She had seen it at the meeting and she was seeing it now. Not that he was retiring—not at all. But he was steady, and so the drama other people created, the foam and churn of it, appeared to just wash right over him.

  He straightened up, put on his coat, which she had plucked from the rack by the door, and put his hand on the doorknob. She came to stand next to him, unsure of whether to hug him.

  “Remember before when you asked me what I wanted from you?” She nodded, embarrassed to be reminded of her little hissy fit. “Well, it was this.” And he leaned down to kiss her.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The kiss. The kiss. Susannah thought about the kiss for the rest of the day, and for the entire evening too. The kiss crowded out everything else; she was still thinking about it when she got into bed that night, and she was thinking about it when she woke up the next morning. It was light, sweet, and tender but had a trace of something more urgent, and more hungering too. A kiss that asked, and a kiss that promised.

  The kids noticed her preoccupation—“Mom, are you, like, sleepwalking or something?” asked Jack—and she was so distracted she had to ask him to repeat what he’d just said. Finally they were off to school and she was free to be alone with her thoughts. She had yielded to the kiss as if she’d been waiting for it—and truly, she had—ever since their long-ago encounter on that summer night. It made her replay and analyze other memorable kisses: her first-ever kiss at a ritzy bar mitzvah in Princeton, New Jersey; the first kiss she and Charlie had shared. That kiss had been a surprise—she’d known Charlie for a long time but had never thought of him that way—but kissing Corbin was not a surprise at all; it was the fulfillment of a long-banked desire. She had not dwelled on that desire, but clearly it had been there, waiting, and seeing him again brought it all rushing back.

  Still the kiss, while delicious, posed a whole new set of problems. First there was the guilt—wasn’t it too soon? And then there was Calista’s reaction. Her hostility toward Corbin had been so obvious. Susannah was having enough trouble managing her daughter as it was; adding Corbin to her life was going to make that even harder. But there was that pull he exerted, a pull she did not think she would be able to ignore. She had no clue as to how this would unfold.

  Feeling restless, she decided to drive over to Buns of Steel for Trim and Tone, which began at noon. That would be a good way to work off her excess mental energy; maybe she would stop thinking about Corbin and that kiss, at least for an hour. Dressed in cropped black leggings and a white T-shirt, Susannah felt at home with the other women in the room, mostly middle-aged mom-ish types like herself, though there was a pretty blonde who looked to be in her twenties and an admirably spry woman who must have been over seventy. When the class was over, she changed and waited for Martha to lock up the studio. Then they walked down the street to the sandwich shop.

  “So I did manage to get in touch with Harry,” Martha said when they had placed their order and nabbed a table. “And he said he wanted to meet you too. But he can’t let Deedee know; she’s super jealous.”

  “Jealous of what? My mother’s been dead for years.”

  “In Deedee’s mind, that doesn’t matter. Jim told me that Harry had a way with women, especially the ones he directed. Harry once said that he fell a little bit in love with every leading lady. It used to drive Deedee crazy—she’d been one of those leading ladies way back when, so she knew what he was like—and she’s tried to keep him away from his old theater friends.”

  “So that explains why she was so hateful.” Susannah picked at her salad; she should have ordered soup or something else warm.

  “I guess so. But Harry hasn’t been well and, on top of that, she’s isolated him. Honestly, he sounded kind of lonely when we talked. I told him about running into you after so many years and he said he remembers your mother quite well. He’d like to meet with you.”

  “I’d really like to meet with him.” So Harry had been “a little bit in love” with all his leading ladies—that meant her mother. Was it possible that his feelings for her had been reciprocated and that he and she had crossed a line?

  “What I’m thinking is this: Harry goes for physical therapy in Dover three times a week. Usually Deedee takes him, but I could offer to do it; she and I always got along all right and I think she’d appreciate a break. Once I’ve picked him up, I could come and get you and the two of you could talk on the drive there and back. I don’t think we could stop anywhere, though; Deedee wouldn’t like that.”

  “That all sounds perfect,” said Susannah. She pushed aside the salad. Maybe she’d get a cup of tea to warm up. “Just let me know when.”

  “It will need to be on a Friday. I don’t work at the studio on Fridays.”

  “Say the word,” Susannah told her. “And I’ll be ready.”

  When Susannah got home, the red flag on the mailbox was up. Inside she found a large manila envelope from George Martin. The letters he had promised! She tore it open eagerly, extracting both a handwritten note and a typed letter. She read the note first.

  As it turns out I had only a single letter from Claire; I made a copy for myself and am sending you the original. I feel it belongs to you more than to me. Your mother was an intelligent and sensitive woman who shed a special light all those around her were privileged to see.

  Clearly he thought well of Claire, and he might have been in love with her. But not in an erotic or romantic way. George could have been that stock character, the gay male confidant to a straight woman, but she couldn’t remember her mother even mentioning him. Of course there were a lot of things Claire had not mentioned. Susannah was only beginning to discover some of them now.

  October 29, 1977

  My dear George,

  So here I am, plucked from the bucolic loveliness of Primrose Pond, and plunked down in hopelessly bland and suburban New Jersey. Yes, the town has that quasi-quaint, college-y feel to it: an “art” cinema, a couple of galleries, a hand-churned ice cream shop, and at least three secondhand-book stores. But I pine for the pond, George. And I pine for you too. You’ve been a good friend to me—one of my closest, really—and I appreciate all you’ve done for me, especially in these last few months.

  Our new-old house was found for us by the university and we got a terrific deal on it. And did I tell you that they paid all the moving costs and will pick up the taxes for the next five years? This will mean we can keep the house on the pond. Even though I don’t know when—or if—I’ll get back there, I still consider the place my spiritual home and it makes me feel good to know that it remains, in a legal sense, mine. I should add that Warren wants nothing to do with it and would be only too glad to sell it. But he is humoring me, you see—now more than ever. What’s she getting at? I can imagine you wondering. What kind of secret is she hinting at? Well, I won’t keep you in suspense another second.

  I’m pregnant, George. Pregnant and soon to be “great with child.” I’m over-the-moon happy but also frightened, anxious, and, if I may be completely candid, more than a little nauseated. Never mind the taste, even the smell of certain foods is enough to send me bolting from the table, desperate for a bathroom; I
should start carrying motion-sickness bags in my purse, just in case. But my doctor assures me that the morning (in my case afternoon and evening as well) sickness is an indication of a high level of hormonal activity—a good thing too because it’s the presence of all those hormones that will keep this little lad or lass firmly in place until his or her debut is at hand.

  So now you know. It will be a big change, but I am ready for it. So ready. A new chapter, a whole new book really. Think of me and send news of you when you can. I’ll send you pictures as I get bigger and more walrus-like, and if you ever get down this way, you have to stop off and see me. Warren too.

  Sending you boatloads of love,

  Claire

  Susannah set the letter down on the table where she could see it. The white typing paper had yellowed slightly and there were some mold spots dotting the bottom; maybe it had languished in a basement for the last forty years? No envelope either, just the one single-spaced page, and the signature, in surprisingly fresh-looking blue ink. The pregnancy to which Claire referred had culminated in Susannah’s birth in the spring of 1978. There was something shockingly intimate about seeing the news delivered in this way, to a friend whom she had known nothing about until recently. And the letter detailed Claire’s own reactions, but not her father’s. He would have been happy too, wouldn’t he? So why did Claire leave him out, other than to say he was “humoring” her?

  Reading these two new clues in her ongoing search made Susannah only that much more eager to meet Harry. With George and Todd ruled out, he was looking more and more likely as a candidate. And the fact that he was a director made him a strong contender too. Claire had always gotten so much pleasure from those amateur productions. The stage was a big enough place for the wild sweep of her emotions.

  Sitting next to her father in that darkened theater all those years ago, Susannah would watch the woman she knew to be her mother yet did not fully recognize in her public role. Sometimes it had to do with the way she looked: a wig to change her hair color, padding to round her out. But more than that, it had seemed to Susannah that her mother was more alive and more present in her world of make-believe than she often was with them. How could she ever hope to compete with that?

  Later that evening, Martha called. She had arranged to take Harry to Dover not this Friday, because Deedee had something planned for them, but the following one. She would pick him up first and then be by around ten in the morning to get Susannah. “Harry says he can’t wait to meet you,” Martha said.

  “Tell him I feel the same way.”

  When the phone rang again, she thought it was Martha calling to fine-tune their plan in some way. But it turned out to be Corbin. They had not spoken since their kiss and Susannah felt a kind of adolescent awkwardness overcome her; maybe it was because their connection had been forged when she was still a teenager. And she wasn’t sure just how much she wanted to encourage him. But then she just plunged in. “Skating with you was so much fun. I had a wonderful time.”

  “Me too,” he said. “So I was hoping we could follow it up with dinner. Nothing too fancy. Just one of the local spots.”

  “I’d really like that,” she said. “How’s Saturday?” Did she want to do this? Yes. But was she ready to do this? That remained to be seen.

  “Great. I’ll pick you up around seven.”

  Susannah put the phone down. Saturday night Calista was likely to be out, which meant Susannah would not have to deal with her animosity toward Corbin—at least not then. She’d been spending a lot of time with Alice during the days, but in the evenings she’d been gravitating toward that older crowd. Susannah was not thrilled about either of these developments, but she’d been in touch with Antoinette Benoit and, so far, Calista had been going to school and had even had a couple of sessions with the school psychologist.

  Then she had what she considered a brilliant idea. It was so obvious, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. Before she could change her mind, Susannah tracked down Alice’s number and called it. “Alice? This is Susannah Gilmore. I’ve been meaning to ask you over for tea; how is this Friday?” Her meeting with Harry Snady was not until the following week, so this Friday was wide open. “Terrific. How’s four o’clock for you? Great. I’ll see you then.”

  She’d been so obtuse, treating Alice as a competitor when it would have been smarter—much smarter—to enlist her aid as an ally.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Thank you so much for inviting me,” said Alice as she took off her cherry red coat and handed it to Susannah. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve brought Emma. I take her with me everywhere.” The dog sat by Alice’s feet and looked up at her.

  Actually, Susannah did mind; not that she had anything specific against the dog, who seemed unusually well behaved, but she thought Alice should have asked her first. Now she was already on the defensive before she had even uttered a word.

  She hung Alice’s coat in the closet near the door and brought her guest into the dining room, where the table had been laid for tea. Tea had seemed like just the right meal to offer.

  “I love how you’ve mixed together all these patterns.” Alice held up a blue-and-white-flowered plate to admire it. “Charming.”

  “Thank you.” Susannah paused before going into the kitchen to get the water going. “I’ve been collecting them for years.”

  “So how are you getting on?” Alice asked when Susannah had returned with the tea and a plate of scones she’d baked that morning. “Are you settling in all right?”

  “It’s going to take some time,” Susannah said.

  There was a silence during which Susannah wished she could think of something interesting, or even tangentially relevant, to say. She just felt so stilted, so ill at ease—and she was in her own home. Alice, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort, was stirring sugar into her tea.

  “Do you have raccoons?” There! Susannah was pleased with herself; she had thought of something.

  “On occasion,” Alice said. “Do you?”

  “Yes,” said Susannah. “At first I just saw the evidence—cans overturned, garbage all over the yard. But just the other day I saw a pair. And they were so bold, not frightened of me at all. One of them kept on digging through the trash. The other just looked at me, but in a kind of menacing way. He kind of scared me, actually.” City girl spooked by a raccoon: she laughed a little, remembering.

  “I’ll give you the name of the fellow I use to deal with them,” said Alice.

  “He doesn’t kill them, does he?” Susannah didn’t want the raccoons in her yard, but she didn’t exactly want them dead either.

  Alice shook her head as she buttered a scone. “Traps and relocates. Very humane.”

  “Oh, good.” Susannah took a scone. It was a little dry. Did Alice notice?

  “I like what you’ve done with the house. I think your mother would have approved.”

  “Do you? Did you know her well?” Susannah was instantly engaged. Of course Alice had known her mother; pursuing those three men had made her temporarily forget about an obvious source.

  “I did and I liked her. Both of your parents used to come to our Fourth of July party. I can remember seeing your mother standing on the lawn; I might even have a photo somewhere. I bought Dave a camera for Christmas one year and he would not put it down! I used to call him Jimmy Olsen—the photographer in the old Superman comics—to tease him.”

  “You still miss him a lot, don’t you?” She had wanted to ask about the photograph. But this came out instead. Had she overstepped and offended her?

  “Naturally.” Alice seemed not insulted, but matter-of-fact. “And I’ll always miss him. Just like you’ll always miss your husband—Charlie, was it?”

  “Will I?” Susannah put her teacup down. She didn’t want to think that she would always miss Charlie. Or at least not be blindsided with the kind of grief that c
ould still occasionally come over her.

  “Of course. But that doesn’t mean you won’t find a way to be happy. The two emotions can coexist very nicely. Or at least that’s what I’ve observed.” Alice reached for the teapot to refill her cup. “Corbin Bailey is a very fine man. I imagine he could make any woman very happy. He’s had that drinking problem under control for some time now; I don’t think he’s in any danger of it coming back again.”

  Susannah actually felt her mouth opening slightly, a small O of astonishment. “What are you talking about?” She had no reason to hide her connection to Corbin, but she did not like the way Alice had introduced the subject. And though his so-called drinking problem was news, and of considerable interest, to her, she was certainly not going to discuss it with Alice.

  “Eastwood has a handful of streets, two churches, one library, one post office, and as much gossip as a town three times its size. Everyone knows everything here; it’s awfully hard to keep a secret.”

  “We just went skating once. It’s hardly a secret.” How about the kiss? Did Alice know about that? Or their date tomorrow night? She really hoped not.

  “Skating together is a lovely thing to do. Like dancing on the ice. Dave and I used to skate.”

  “You said that your late husband took a picture of my mother. I’d love to see it, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “I’m sure I can find it. Let me have a look when I go home.”

  “There’s no rush.”

  The dog, alerted to something outside, lifted her head and uttered a low throaty growl. “Emma!” Alice spoke firmly. “Stop that right now.” Emma looked chastened and put her head back down on her paws. “Your father used to come over to our house sometimes to play chess with Dave. And I’d see your mother down at the pond in the summer. She loved to swim, loved the sun.”