"Excuse me."
The voice was unfamiliar. Startled, she turned to face a slender man, of medium height, with wavy chestnut hair, dark eyes, white teeth, and a dimple that showed when he smiled. He was smiling. "You look lost in a dream."
"I was. They're beautiful," she said, meaning the swans.
"Yes." Gently he intoned the single syllable.
"I'm the preservation consultant," he continued. "René Duval. I've been asked to collect you. The meeting's about to begin."
She nodded. "Where's Martin, my assistant?"
"He's waiting inside."
Turning her back on the swans, she followed René up to the house. Upstairs, around an old table which looked as if it had come from the school, they sat—Jeanne, Martin, Mrs. Fayerweather, René, Mrs. James, the architect, and several other board members. Jeanne learned about plans to pay for the restoration. Private sources were being asked for pledges in expectation of a matching grant from the Massachusetts Historical Commission. Eligibility was assured, for The Mount was listed on the National Register. The board had originally hired René to prepare the nomination, Jeanne learned. Now he was arranging a detailed schedule of the restoration to submit to the state in request for funding.
Even as Jeanne listened carefully to Mrs. Fayerweather and took down the information that Rob was expecting, she found herself paying close attention to René, watching for mention of his name, hoping he would speak. But he did not.
"We're dedicated to making an historic and cultural center," Mrs. Fayerweather said to Jeanne. "We think a summer stock theater will attract people to The Mount. We think that the community can support such a theater. We'd like to construct an outdoor stage and housing on the grounds for a company in residence. If you decide that you're interested in us, and vice versa, then you can be involved in the planning and the design."
"What kind of arrangement are you looking for?" Jeanne asked.
"Whatever is most beneficial to the two of us. We're new at this, but that means you have more of an opportunity. And René and Chris here"—Mrs. Fayerweather nodded to the architect—"have pointed out to us that the natural slope of the land makes it an ideal site for an amphitheater. In fact, that's what first interested us in the idea."
"What kind of productions do you have in mind?" Jeanne asked.
"Oh, I don't know. Something that will attract people. Shakespeare, or maybe musicals."
"But you know," Jeanne spoke softly, "that's not what we do."
Mrs. Fayerweather's cheeks turned red. She looked flustered. "Well, I-I don't know," she stammered. "Naturally that will have to be discussed."
"Naturally," Jeanne said calmly. Yet she felt annoyed. How well recommended could the Green Heron have been, she wondered, if they know so little about our productions? "Make no promises," Rob had said. That also means "Make no conditions," she thought.
"You'll have to take that up directly with the artistic director," Jeanne continued. "Unfortunately, he couldn't be here today and sent me in his stead. For your information, I brought up brochures describing our last two seasons. You'll see that we're devoted to modern European theater, twentieth-century classics or plays by contemporary playwrights. If you have any questions, I'll be happy to try to answer them."
* * *
"I wonder if I came on too strong," Jeanne confessed to Martin after the meeting. They were driving in her car to Mrs. Fayerweather's, where they had all been invited to dinner and where she and Martin were to stay the night.
"I don't think so. They seemed interested even after you showed them the brochures. But we're dealing with some real characters. Like that lady who seems to have a fixation on Shakespeare, and kept going on about 'historically incorrect productions.'"
"I guess she just wanted a chance to mouth off, since it's not even an issue with us," said Jeanne.
"She acted as if she believed that Shakespeare isn't Shakespeare unless it's performed by men in tights."
Jeanne smiled. "Now, Martin," she remonstrated, but he continued shamelessly, "The other one that drove me crazy was the one that wants us to do My Fair Lady." In a high, affected voice, Martin mimicked, "'It gives me chills when Freddy sings On the Street Where You Live. He's so sweet; Eliza should leave the professor for him.' Rob will be glad that we went instead of him," he commented. "You don't think anything will come of it, do you?"
"I have no idea. I don't think Mrs. Fayerweather is really so bad underneath her bluster. She seemed open to us when she found out more about us. She's trying hard to please, and she's insecure. She certainly seemed to like you, Martin. At least, she was exclaiming over you when I came into the meeting."
"I know. I guess I'll turn on the charm tonight."
"Do you want this proposal to go, then?" asked Jeanne.
"Well, there might be an opportunity for me. For you, too, Jeanne. Maybe you could be artistic director for summer stock."
"It's way too soon to speculate about that," Jeanne said.
Mrs. Fayerweather's party was so much as Jeanne had imagined that she pinched herself to make sure that it was real—a room furnished in chintz, a fire burning in the fireplace, sherry for the ladies and more serious drinks for the men. Martin, however, asked for sherry. He was instantly claimed by Mrs. Fayerweather, who had called him "adorable." He's not a bad actor, Jeanne thought, watching him, cornered by their hostess, fill the role of a bright young thing. "You must meet my daughter," Jeanne heard Mrs. Fayerweather say.
Suddenly pensive without knowing why, Jeanne stood before the fire. The constantly altering flames were hypnotic. She felt a light tap on her shoulder. It was René, the preservation consultant.
"I wanted to speak to you alone," he said in a voice so low he almost whispered. "I think they'll give you what you want eventually. They'll just make it difficult for you along the way."
"Do you think so? How do you know?"
"I've been working with them for about six months. I'll do what I can to help you."
"Why?" asked Jeanne. "Are you interested in the project?"
"It was my idea."
"Were you the one who recommended us?"
"No, I don't know about theater companies. I don't know who gave them your name."
"I wonder who did. Certainly no one who was there today."
"Why don't we sit down," he suggested. Just then, however, they were interrupted by one of the board members who said that she wanted to thank them both for coming. Then she went on to speak to someone else, and they resumed their conversation. Jeanne learned that René was American on his mother's side, but had grown up in Paris. His father still worked for UNESCO there. René had gone to lycée and studied architecture at the École des Beaux Arts. Then he had taken a master's degree in historic preservation at Columbia. He had left New York, it turned out, just when she had moved there, although he still travelled to the city frequently on business. Some of his projects were joint endeavors with New York firms. He contracted his services to municipalities and not-for-profit organizations like The Mount Restoration. He was visiting another property tomorrow.
"So you won't be at the morning meeting?" Jeanne asked.
"No," he replied, shrugging his shoulders and frowning. "I wasn't told about it. I guess it doesn't involve me."
They talked through a dinner of cold meats, breads, and salads served buffet-style. Jeanne sensed that his interest in her was genuine, but he was polite, not intrusive. His manners made an impression on her. He ate with appetite and scrupulous precision, cutting his meat carefully before conveying it to his mouth with the fork turned down, European-style. At one point, discussing the restoration, he set down his plate on the coffee table. With a ball-point pen on a paper napkin, he sketched the footprint of the house for Jeanne and drew in the wavy contour lines of the site. "Here is where we might put the theater," he said, marking it in. "Chris and I are thinking of a relatively simple structure, a shell with an elevated stage."
They discussed the possibilit
ies as they finished eating. Before coffee was served, however, René rose abruptly. Jeanne remained seated with her plate in her lap, and when he looked down at her, she felt awkward.
"Don't let me disturb you," he said. "I must be going." In a voice pitched in a lower tone, he continued, "Will you allow me to see you on a personal basis when I come to New York? I'd like to take you out to dinner. I'm thirty-two years old and single."
Jeanne laughed. "What a proposal! Like from the Old World."
"Well, I did grow up there."
"I know."
"Is anyone in love with you?"
A wave of sadness washed over her. She didn't reply. She felt him watching her expression. "Perhaps I'll see you," she said. "You can try."
"Will you give me your number?"
While he took away their plates, she wrote it for him on a corner of the napkin he had drawn on. Then she tore the piece off and gave it to him. The rest of the napkin she saved. After he left, she thought, He didn't even shake my hand.
The meeting the following morning was with the assembled board. Jeanne found herself going over much the same ground she'd covered the previous afternoon. "I guess at least we opened a dialogue," Jeanne remarked to Martin as they began the trip back. She was driving, and he sat next to her in the passenger seat, his eyes shaded by aviator sunglasses with mirrored lenses.
"I guess so." He sighed. "I'm expected to meet the heiress when she comes home from boarding school for Christmas vacation. I'm supposed to take her out. The official story is that I'm advising her about colleges. That's a joke. I don't even know if I plan to graduate."
"You won't go back to Juilliard?"
"It depends on what happens with my acting career. Some of our most famous alumni were dropouts.”
"You know, I never thought of not graduating from college," Jeanne mused. "I wanted my degree."
"Maybe you should tell that to the Mademoiselle," Martin said. "Madame will find your advice much more congenial, I'm sure. I noticed, however, that your attention was already engaged last night."
Jeanne's hands trembled slightly on the steering wheel. "What did you think of him?" she asked casually. She couldn't bring herself to mention René by name.
They came to a stop sign. She glanced at Martin. He was looking in the mirror mounted to the visor, adjusting his sunglasses. "Cute catch, I guess, if you like the prissy French type."
"Come on, Martin, that's not fair."
"Oh man, she's serious. Ooh la la!"
"Listen, Martin, I want you to promise me. Don't say anything to Rob about him yet. I haven't decided if I'll see him, but I want to keep my private life private."
"So he's asked you out," said Martin sagely. "Jeanne, you're too transparent. Of course you'll see him."
"Do you promise?" She heard herself sounding upset.
"Oh—kay," he drew the word out for emphasis.
"Then let's drop it. Since you already know so much about me." Yet, as Jeanne said this, she was thinking of how much Martin didn't know about her.
Martin pressed her no further. He turned on the radio, and they were absorbed by their own thoughts. Why, Jeanne wondered, had René asked her not if she was in love, but if she was loved? Did he think it more indelicate to inquire after her own feelings? Did he feel so certain of himself that he only asked to be made aware of rivals?
He had drawn her out, not only with questions, but with an interest that she had sensed in his eyes when he looked at her. Martin was right, of course. If René phoned her, she'd see him.
She stopped at a farmstand, and they both bought maple syrup. In fact, she was glad to be returning to New York. She considered how trips out of the city helped to sustain her enthusiasm for urban life. They prevented her from going stale, from feeling trapped. She had only been gone one day, but she was returning in possession of fresh choices. There was not only the project and the possibilities it might offer to her; she'd given her telephone number to a new man.
She thought of how Paul's performance and its aftermath already seemed distant. She looked back on Althea and their non encounter with impatience. Althea's attitude now struck her as rigid and stifling, bent as she had seemed on tragedy. Jeanne had foreseen a miserable outcome in Althea's pacing, and when she had applied it to herself, she had fled. She had desired peace, she thought, yet she was at war.
She pictured Paul on the stage, with her and Althea separate in the audience. He performed his remarkable parts and vanished. The interlude became the past.
She wondered if this was the way it would end, with them on one side of the curtain but unknown to each other, and Paul on the other. She tried to imagine a future where she and Althea would be able to speak easily, to embrace lightly. It wasn't in the name of freedom that she had made love to Althea with Paul's encouragement, although she had felt free.
Yet she was not free. Not as long as she would find herself running from Althea rather than face her, or as long as the barrier of silence remained between them. With no clear plan in her mind, Jeanne vowed that when she arrived in New York, she would call her estranged friend to invite her to lunch.
Chapter 16
On the Tuesday after Paul's performance, Althea forced herself to be busy, but she was really waiting all the while for him to phone. He didn't call in the morning, nor at noon. At one o'clock, her phone's ringing startled her, and she jumped up to answer it.
It was someone wanting to sell cable to her. "I don't even have a television," she explained. After she hung up, she reproached herself for her nerves. But just after two, when the phone rang again, she wasn't any steadier. Finally, it was Paul on the line.
The connection was faint, impeded by static and other, rumbling noises that sounded like traffic.
"Paul?"
"Yes, Althea?"
"Where are you?"
"I'm calling from the other side of the world."
"What?"
"I won't be able to make it this afternoon."
"Oh." Her spirits sank.
"What?" The line between them buzzed. "Althea, I can hardly hear you, and anyway I've got to run. I'm sorry about this afternoon."
Where are you really? Althea wanted to ask, but restrained herself, sensing that if she did, he wouldn't answer. Instead she pressed him in a different way. "What about tomorrow? Can you meet me then?"
"Ummm, yeah. Say about three."
"Great. Do you have a preference?"
"No, you name it."
Althea had to tell him twice before he heard it. It was too much of an effort to speak any longer, and Paul didn't offer to call her back. Her goodbye was strangled by the click of his hanging up. Slowly she placed the receiver in its cradle. She suddenly felt light-headed. "I'm calling from the other side of the world." His presumption is incredible, she thought. After all, he's dancing tonight in New York. An amused smile, mocking at her own expense, curved her lips. She wondered, Having broken one date, will he keep the next one?
It seemed like such a small thing—the prospect of tea in the afternoon—but to Althea it was not. After she had managed to reschedule their date, she realized how pitiful it was that it should mean so much. It showed up, by contrast, the emptiness of the rest of her life, as much an indication of its poverty as the balance of her bank account.
She wanted to cry. I've been by myself too long, she thought. She looked into her heart and recognized her wish, deep, secret, and primitive, that a man would appear in her life and deliver her. She realized that her wish was like those childhood dreams where simply to pronounce one's desire is to have it be fulfilled. But understanding her wish did not wean her from it. Her wish was like a dream of being freed all at once, as if by the flick of a wand or the gaze of a lover. Though it was a dream of freedom, it imprisoned her. She realized that she could not grow away from it.
She considered her life. It was in order to free herself for the rigors of art that she was avoiding the traditional anchors of middle-class adulthood. She had neithe
r husband, nor house, nor family, nor well-paid, worldly career. She had truly believed that she had to give up in order to receive, as if the artist's gift of creativity were a love that one must renounce the world for. But the fact was, she reflected, that she had to live in the world in order to make her art, and the truth of her circumstances was that the world humbled her. Since arrogance was now an attitude she was no longer able to afford, she thought that she would have liked to be approved of, but she didn't know how to change her situation.
She had vowed that in art if in nothing else she would please herself. But now that she felt the anguish of "nothing," she wondered why the choice had to be so unrelenting. It was not her art that was wrong, but her attitude, yet the attitude had always seemed so much a part of the process. She reflected on how she had become so singular. Sometimes it seemed to her when she looked around that she had lost touch with her own generation, achievers of security and success. Her sense as a child of not feeling at home in the world had been preserved in her as an adult. She experienced her difference as a disability, and it made her unhappy.
Now that Paul had cancelled their date, she had the afternoon to fill. She vowed that she would make her time mean something; she would paint. Since the night of Halloween, when she had faced her paintings again, she had been working on them slowly and steadily when she was not teaching. She was bringing them to completion, she could tell. Perhaps by the end of the month, she allowed herself to hope, they will be finished. For the greatest joy in my life now, she reflected, is that my art has returned to me.
All afternoon she applied herself, too absorbed to track the passage of hours, until she felt a headache and was too tired to see her paintings clearly. Outside it was already dark, she realized. Abruptly she stopped. She began the ritual of cleaning up, scraping her palette, washing her brushes. Just as she had dried her hands, the phone rang again. As she picked it up, a woman's voice answered her, that at first she didn't identify.
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