The sun had come out, and as Susannah walked home she heard icicles dripping from the trees in audible plops. Jester, Alice’s horse, had come to the barn window. Susannah did not cross the field to get closer; the snow was very deep. But she could see him looking at her and she paused for a moment, looking back.
The phone was ringing as she walked into the house, and she hurried to answer it. Martha Dineen was on the other end of the line.
“I’ve been meaning to call to thank you,” Susannah said. “I really appreciate what you did with Harry.”
“He really enjoyed it too. And given what’s just happened, I’m especially glad he had that chance to talk with you.”
“What are you talking about?” Had Deedee found out about their visit?
“It’s Harry. You see, he’s died.”
“Died! When? How?”
“He had a stroke. Last night. It was sudden. And fatal. He was gone by the time the ambulance got there.”
Like Charlie, flashed across Susannah’s mind. And then, “Oh, no. How very, very sad.”
“I know.” Martha was weeping; she really had been fond of him. “The funeral is tomorrow. I’d ask you to come, but there’s still Deedee to consider . . .”
“Of course,” said Susannah. “I don’t think she’d want to see me.”
“No, I suppose not.” Martha sniffed. “Anyway, I just thought you’d want to know.”
“Yes,” Susannah said. “I did. Thank you—for everything.”
She said good-bye and stood motionless in her kitchen. Was he or wasn’t he?
Whatever the answer, he would not be able to tell her. This realization left her feeling cheated and resentful. After all her relentless, even obsessive searching, this was all she was going to get? Had the story been a novel, she would have put it down in disgust. No satisfying arc, no closure. But she was a novelist, and she knew better than most people just how seldom life yielded the cohesion of art.
THIRTY
Susannah was still in the kitchen brooding about Harry when Calista phoned. She knew it must have been at Alice’s prompting, but she didn’t care. “I miss you,” she blurted out. “I wish you would come home.”
“I know you do, Mom. But I’m really happy here. Alice and I are having the best time. She’s teaching me to cook all these really cool French dishes and she’s got the most amazing collection of vintage clothes; I’ve been making patterns using her pieces.”
“That’s another reason to come back—your sewing machine is here.”
There was a short pause. “Actually, it’s not. I came over and got it. Along with all that fabric and stuff. Jack helped me.”
“He did?” First the clothes and books; now the sewing machine? Was Calista moving in with her? “When?” Susannah felt vaguely betrayed; Jack had not even mentioned it.
“Yesterday. Jack said you had gone to the supermarket.”
“I see.” She felt as if she was going to cry, and she did not want Calista to hear.
“Listen, Mom, I know you’re upset. But I guess you’re doing what you have to do—I mean with Corbin. And I’m doing what I have to do. Can’t we leave it like that, at least for now?”
No, we can’t! Susannah wanted to wail. Hearing Calista sound so mature and reasonable was making her feel even worse; she was the adolescent here, and Calista the adult. “I still wish you would give him a chance. I can invite him over for dinner. You can get to know him.”
“Not yet,” said Calista. “I’m just not ready.”
What could Susannah say to that? They talked for a few more minutes about school, and then said good-bye. Susannah did not ask if and when they would speak again; she was not sure she wanted to hear the answer. When the phone rang a minute later, she pounced. Maybe Calista was calling back to say she’d changed her mind or—
But it was not Calista calling; it was Corbin. “I’m going to have to postpone dinner tonight,” he said. “I’ve got a big meeting with the people at Wingate first thing on Monday morning and I’ll need the whole weekend to prepare. But let’s get together Monday night. Either we’ll have something to celebrate or you can help me drown my sorrows.”
“All right.” She was disappointed but maybe just a little relieved too. How was she going to manage to have a relationship that drove her daughter from the house? And it had been such a crazy day besides; Monday would be calmer—she hoped.
Jack came downstairs and flopped on the couch. “Can we make a fire? We haven’t made one in a while. Maybe we could even toast marshmallows. Or make s’mores.”
“Of course we could!” Susannah jumped up. She still had one child under her roof; she should make the most of any time he wanted to spend with her. But she saw that the basket holding the wood was empty.
“No fire?” Jack sounded disappointed.
“We can still have a fire. I just have to go out to the shed to get some wood.”
“I’ll go,” he said, so ready to be the man.
“Are you done with your homework?” she asked.
“Not exactly . . .”
“Something tells me that means no.”
Jack sighed. “It means no.”
“Tell you what. Finish your work while I get the logs and start the fire. When you’re down, we’ll make the s’mores.”
“Can we play checkers too?”
“Checkers too.” Imagine that a kid with a whole arsenal of electronic entertainment at his disposal would want to play checkers; that was Corbin’s doing. See, Jack liked him. Why couldn’t Calista?
Susannah put a flashlight into the pocket of her parka and zipped up her boots. Then she ventured out. The lock on the shed door would not yield at first, but after a couple of frustrating, curse-inducing attempts, she was finally able to get it open.
Inside the shed it was cold and pitch dark; she flipped the flashlight on. Better. The wood was arranged in neat stacks, the pale ends of the cut logs facing out. In the far corner, she saw a faded blanket, speckled with wood shavings, covering up something that might or might not have been more logs.
Harry Snady’s death should have curbed her desire to investigate further. But it didn’t, and she went over to inspect. After all, she might yet find something that confirmed Harry’s identity as her mother’s secret lover.
Whatever it was she saw could not be reached easily, and she had to climb—or crawl, really—over some of the logs to get to the blanket. When she pulled it away, she found a very beaten-up-looking overnight case. The pattern was instantly recognizable—it was part of a set that her mother had owned. The case was covered in dust and the sticky residue of spiderwebs. And it was locked—of course.
Using the blanket, she wiped it down as best she could and looped the strap over her shoulder. Then she picked up two of the most accessible logs and brought everything inside. Jack was waiting by the door.
“I was getting worried,” he said. “You were gone so long.”
“Was I?” Susannah put the overnight case down; she hoped he wouldn’t ask about it.
“And you’re, like, all dirty. What were you doing out there, Mom?”
“Welcome to country life.” She tried, lamely, to make a joke of it. “Woodsheds are funky places. Anyway, I’ve got the logs. Want to bring them over to the fireplace?”
Jack took them while Susannah stuffed the overnight bag in the pantry behind several rolls of paper towels; she would deal with it later. That didn’t happen, though; first they made the s’mores and, with them, a pleasant, chocolaty mess that required cleaning up. Then Jack wanted her to quiz him for a history test he had the next day, and by the time they were done, she was tired and a little achy too; in climbing over those logs she had bruised her knees. She needed a hot bath and bed. Besides, she didn’t want Jack coming in and asking what she was up to. The overnight case would wait until the morning, w
hen he’d gone off to band practice.
But in the morning her plans were derailed again. Jack overslept and missed the ride that would have taken him to practice, so Susannah had to drive him.
When she got home, she discovered that something had broken or burst in the washing machine—it had been nothing but trouble since she’d moved in—and now two inches of sudsy water was quietly pooling on the basement floor. After a few frantic calls to washing machine repairmen, she managed to get one of them to come right over—and pay him double time for coming on a weekend.
As she opened the door to let him in, she saw that the raccoons had struck again: the garbage cans were lying on their sides and a trail of eggshells, coffee grounds, apple cores, and orange peels was littered festively around the yard, the red and orange bright against the snow. Alice had given her the name of someone who could deal with the animals, but she had never gotten around to calling him.
What else could go wrong? It almost didn’t matter; she just had to inspect that bag. Jack was still out, so, leaving the mess in the yard for later, she hauled the overnight case out of the closet and took it into the kitchen. The lock was rusty and would not budge, but after she whacked at it with a hammer a few times, it popped open with an emphatic little thwock; now she could finally unzip the damn thing and look inside.
The bag was not very full. A little digging yielded a very sheer white nightgown, yellowed now, with a big ruffle around the neckline and a long, bedraggled satin bow. Underneath was a pair of white satin bedroom slippers with marabou trim at the toes. The feathers were matted and a bit damp; they smelled faintly of mold.
Although this had certainly been her mother’s bag, Susannah did not recognize either of these items, neither of which looked like anything her mother would have worn; she had to wonder whether Claire had loaned the bag to someone else. Then, at the very bottom, she found a tiny bottle of Chanel No. 5, the once gold liquid now turned to the color of burnt sugar. But Chanel No. 5 had been Claire’s signature scent; it was the only fragrance she wore, and Susannah recalled the numerous birthdays and Mother’s Days when she or her father would present Claire with that iconic white box whose unadorned black lettering seemed the epitome of elegance.
Susannah set the nightgown and slippers on the table and regarded the flacon of perfume. If it had belonged to her mother, it was likely that the nightgown and slippers had been hers too. Maybe she had used this overnight case when she went to Quebec with her lover, the nightgown and slippers worn only when she was with him, a different woman leading a different—and secret—life.
Finally, she put the bottle down too. Was there anything she had overlooked? The case seemed empty, but there could have been something else at the very bottom. Susannah reached her hand in once more. There was something down there, some scrap of fabric, maybe a pair of underpants or a slip. What she pulled out, however, was a red silk bow tie, quite creased, with a subtle pattern woven into the silk. A bow tie. Why was it in here, with the nightgown and the slippers? Because it was another precious artifact, worn by her mother’s lover when they were together? She knew that he was a poet, that he was married, and that he might or might not have been Harry Snady. And now she knew that he wore a bow tie.
Just, she realized with a thudding shock, like Dr. Dave.
THIRTY-ONE
Susannah sat down on a kitchen chair. Was it really possible that Dr. Dave, David Renfew, Alice’s adored husband, had been her mother’s lover? She suddenly, urgently wanted it to have been Harry, especially now that he was no longer alive. Dave was dead too, but Alice was very much alive—Alice, who had infiltrated her family and alienated her daughter.
Abruptly, Susannah got up and brought everything to her room. This new revelation was so startling, so disruptive, she didn’t know what to do; she had to talk to someone. Corbin. He’d know just what to say. But he didn’t pick up, so she left a message saying only to call her back as soon as he could. She knew he was busy preparing for his big meeting the next day. Still, she hoped he’d find the time to get back to her sooner than that.
She was almost grateful for the mess in both the basement and the yard; she had something to do with her restless energy, some problem she could attack—and solve. The water from the ruined washing machine—she was having a new one installed next week—was gone, but there were still plenty of gummy or soap-slick spots that needed scrubbing. Then the raccoon-generated debris in the yard took half an hour to clean up.
Around dinnertime, Jack called to ask if he could spend the night with a boy in his grade named Grant.
“It’s a school night,” Susannah pointed out.
“I know, but his mom says it’s okay and we’ll take the bus together tomorrow. He lives closer than we do, so I can sleep a little later.” When he sensed her wavering, he added, “Please, Mom? I really want to.” It was the first time he had mentioned Grant, and Susannah was glad his circle of friends was widening. She said yes.
That meant Susannah was alone. Alone and quietly frantic. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She didn’t even feel she could call Alice to check in on Calista; she didn’t trust herself to talk to her.
Too agitated to read or write, Susannah turned on the television and found a good station out of Boston that played old movies; tonight’s offering was one of her favorites, All About Eve. With pillows behind her and an afghan over her legs, she tried to settle down to watch the film. It was working, sort of, and she thought that it would have been nice to have some company, even of the nonhuman variety; for the first time since she’d gotten here, she considered the idea of a pet. Alice had the ever elegant Emma. And Polly had recently acquired a sleek Siamese cat with ash-tipped paws and tail. Still, a pet was a major responsibility; she’d have to mull it over some more. But at least she was thinking about something besides her mother and the two men she might have been involved with.
Bette Davis had just told her guests to fasten their seat belts when Susannah heard the noise outside. It sounded like something scratching or shuffling, and her first thought was, Those damn raccoons. Good thing the guy Alice had recommended would be here next week too, along with the brand-new Maytag.
The noise got closer and whatever it was out there sounded, well, bigger than a raccoon. Could it be a moose? Or a bear? Since Corbin had put in that motion-sensitive camera, she and Jack had seen pictures of several deer, an owl, a fox, and a moose that may or may not have been the one she’d already seen. Then she heard a loud thump and a very distinct word: Shit. It wasn’t an animal out there. It was a person.
Petrified, she muted the television. Then she unmuted it again; she didn’t want him—because it was almost certainly a man—to know she was on to him. Was he a burglar, a rapist, a murderer? Her phone was in the kitchen, charging; she could creep over, get it, and call nine-one-one. In a few silent, terrified seconds, she managed to reach the kitchen; then something smacked hard against the window and, in her terror, her hand shot up and the phone flew out of it and across the room like a missile. She screamed.
“Susannah! Don’t yell! It’s me—Corbin!” The voice was muffled, but she could still hear it.
“Corbin!” She ran over to see and, sure enough, Corbin was standing outside, head and shoulders caked with snow. But what was he doing here? Quickly, she went to the door and unlocked it.
“You scared me—” she began.
“I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—I just—” He came into the house stumbling a little.
“Why didn’t you ring the bell or call me to let me know you were coming?”
“Sorry,” he repeated. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Flopping down on the couch, he unzipped his jacket and sent a little spray of snow flying. Then he leaned over and put his head to his knees. Anne Baxter had just given a brilliant audition and Bette Davis was in a lather; Susannah clicked the television off and stared at Corbin.
He was drunk,
that’s what he was. Now that she stood closer, she could even smell the liquor on him. “Corbin,” she said, sitting down next to him. “Corbin, what’s happened?”
“Wingate,” he mumbled into his knees. “The meeting. Monday.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “You’ve been getting ready. Preparing.”
“Oh, I’m ready.” His head shot up. “Ready, willing, and able.”
“So then why are you . . . drunk?”
“Drunk? Who said I was drunk?” He looked around the room for his accuser, ready to take him on. “I’m not drunk. No way, José. Nyet.”
“Darling.” She took a different tack, her voice gentle and low, her hand on his knee. “Won’t you tell me what happened?”
“The meeting,” he moaned more than said.
“I already know about that.” They were back to square one; getting information from someone this wasted was not easy.
“No,” he said. “No, you don’t. Yeah, there’s going to be a meeting. But I’m not invited.”
“What are you talking about?” Was this more drunken rambling? He did sound more coherent, though.
“Wingate. That snake. That bastard.” He started breathing heavily. “He wanted me off the committee. Out. Done. Finito.”
“But why?” She had seen him at the town hall meeting, remembered how everyone looked up to him, admired him.
“I scare him.”
“What do you mean, you scare him? Did you threaten him?”
“No!” He looked insulted. “You know me better than that.”
“So then what—”
“Wingate needs a puppet—someone he can control. That’s not me.” He leaned his head back on the couch, closed his eyes, and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “I’m tired . . .” he said. “Really tired. All that work I’ve put in on the case. Two of my employees down at the store just up and quit—no warning, no explanation. And those applications just sitting on my desk—it’s like they’re sneering at me.”
The House on Primrose Pond Page 25