Summer Storm

by Letitia Healy

  Jane awoke the next morning to the unfamiliar sound of a steady, driving rain. It was, she thought sleepily, appropriate that the fine, warm, dry weather that had persisted almost unbroken during the time of her stay at the house on the ridge should finally come to an end at the same time that that period of her life had also come to an end.

  The fact that she would never again see that lovely house had kept her awake most of the night, but finally she had accepted the idea. The fact that she would never see Simon again was something that she was unable to face, not yet anyway. She told herself that in time she would be able to accept that, too. She must.

  She got up quickly and closed the French doors. The rain had brought cooler weather. After a quick shower, she dressed in a pantsuit and went downstairs to find Mrs. Morgan and some breakfast. She could no longer expect that good woman to wait on her "hand and foot," she told herself.

  She had to pass the open door of John's study on her way to the back of the house and the kitchen. John was sitting at his desk, talking on the telephone. A fire blazed in the fireplace. When he saw Jane, he put his hand over the mouthpiece and called out to her to come in. He finished his conversation quickly and hung up.

  "John, I don't want to interrupt your work," Jane said, "I was just on my way to the kitchen to beg a cup of coffee."

  "But you should have rung and had your breakfast brought up to your room… a cup of coffee, indeed. That's no way to get well and strong." And he pressed the bell on his desk.

  "John, you are spoiling me unmercifully," Jane protested. "I am well and strong and I don't need to be waited on."

  "Perhaps you no longer need it, but look at it this way, Jane. It gives me great pleasure to be able to provide you with these things. Now, would you deny me that pleasure?"

  Jane had to laugh. "All right, I give up. Do you want me to go back to bed and ring for my breakfast?"

  "Not at all, that would deny me the pleasure of your company. Just sit down and behave yourself and… ah, there's Mrs. Morgan now. Mrs. Morgan would you be kind enough to bring Miss Sullivan's breakfast in here and I'll have some more coffee, please."

  "Of course, sir," Mrs. Morgan said, and turning to Jane, "But miss, you could have rung for your breakfast. I'd have been glad to bring it up."

  "That's all right, Mrs. Morgan," John said, "we've already been through all that. It seems that Miss Sullivan is a very independent young lady. Do you think we could change that?"

  "I'm willing to try, sir," answered Mrs. Morgan with a twinkle in her eye, and then more seriously she said, "I think it's about time someone spoiled her a little," and she bustled out to get Jane's breakfast.

  After she was gone, there was silence and finally John said quietly, "I promised myself that I wouldn't ask any questions, but I must know the answer to one. About your reason for leaving Wade's house—did anyone harm you in any way?"

  Jane answered quickly, "No, no, nothing like that."

  "You must know that I was never happy about you working there, but I felt somewhat better when that young actor turned up. I somehow thought that he would look out for you."

  "David left yesterday morning," Jane answered quietly.

  After another pause John asked, "Did he leave because of you?"

  Strange, Jane thought, he was the second person to ask that question. Mono had also asked it.

  She answered haltingly. She really didn't want to think about what had happened at the edge of the ridge, and certainly didn't want to talk about it, but John did deserve some kind of explanation.

  "David and… and Simon… had an argument. Simon asked David to leave, but he needn't have— David had already decided to leave."

  "I see," John said softly, and Jane felt that, despite the small amount of information she had given him, he probably had guessed why David and Simon had had an argument. She found herself blushing.

  "Well," John said brightly, as Mrs. Morgan entered the room with a tray, "There's your breakfast. I had decided to give you a tour of the estate today, but this infernal rain has put a stop to that. Anyway, I have a lot of work to catch up on. I suggest that after your breakfast you have a look at my small library. I'm sure you'll find something of interest to read. You can curl up in that chair in front of the fire if you like."

  "But I don't want to interfere with your work," Jane protested.

  "You won't," he answered. "It will give me great pleasure just to have you in the room with me, but if you get tired of that, there's always the conservatory. It's nice there when it rains. Gives you the impression that you're sitting under a waterfall surrounded by jungle plants. I go there quite often myself to read."

  Jane was touched, not so much by his words, but by what he was revealing of himself—the loneliness of his life, despite all the material things that he had.

  After she had finished her breakfast and returned the tray to the kitchen, she went back to the study and started to browse among the books that lined the walls. She was surprised at the variety of books that she found there. There was a comprehensive collection of the classics, along with the better modern writers. She found many books that she had wanted to read, but had never got around to and had trouble making up her mind which to choose. Finally, she chose a volume of Katherine Anne Porter's Essays, and turning to John with a smile, she said, "I'm going to try the conservatory. I'm anxious to see if my imagination is as vivid as yours."

  She found herself a comfortable wicker chaise and settled down to read, but she found it difficult to concentrate. It was exactly as John had described, the steady drumming of the rain on the glass roof, the huge, arching trees outside that provided almost a second roof and the lush, tropical plants and flowers around her provided a kind of fairy-land setting. She found herself wondering what it would be like to live here. She knew that John Baxter was fond of her, and that she would only have to suggest to him that he hire her as a secretary or some kind of assistant and he would jump at the idea. And it wasn't as if he didn't need some kind of help. His cluttered desk was an indication of the amount of administrative work connected with the estate, and although she had no training in that kind of thing, she was sure she could learn.

  And then she realized what she was doing. She had often thought how much John reminded her of her father. She had depended emotionally so much on her father, and when he had died she had made up her mind to make a life of her own. Well, her first attempt at that had turned out to be a disaster, but that was no excuse for withdrawing again from life, for accepting a safe little niche where she would be protected and cared for. No, she must put that temptation behind her.

  Then, suddenly, the tempo of the rain increased, setting up an insistent tattoo on the glass roof. Something in her body responded to the sudden passion of the storm. She felt again that surge of longing that Simon's kiss had stirred, and knew that no other man, certainly not John Baxter, would ever be able to make her feel like that. She gave a small moan of despair.

  The rainy weather persisted for one more day and then the skies cleared. It was cool and windy with great fluffy, white clouds scudding across a blue, blue sky. John kept his promise and took Jane on a tour of the estate. They rode in a jeep that enabled them to explore most of his land. Jane found it hard to comprehend that one man was the sole owner of such a vast territory. She mentioned this to John. They had taken a picnic lunch and had found a perfect spot to eat beside a small pond. Mrs. Morgan had outdone herself, filling a hamper with fried chicken, salads, crusty homemade bread, cheese, fruit and a bottle of wine. When they had finished and repacked the hamper, Jane sat with her back against a huge white birch and John Stretched out on the grass beside her.

  "My father always told me that it's in the Irish blood—the hunger for land. It goes back to the days when the English took our land from us. We were both so happy to have our little bungalow in Mississauga, with a small front lawn and a garden at the back. It wasn't much, but it was ours. I guess that's why I was so impressed when I fir
st saw…" and her voice died away.

  "When you first saw the house on the ridge and Simon Wade's property. Don't be afraid to say it, my dear. I would rather have you say that than say, 'when I first saw Simon Wade.' "

  He had turned his head and was watching her when he said this. He saw the blood drain out of her face and he sat up quickly and took her hand. "My dear, what a stupid, clumsy man I am. Please forgive me."

  Jane shook her head. "There's nothing to forgive, John." She tried desperately to keep her voice light and casual. "As you know, I led a rather sheltered existence before I went to work for Simon. It would have been unusual if I hadn't fallen under his spell, for a while. But I see now how foolish I was, and I assure you that's all over."

  John didn't answer. He simply raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he sat up and said briskly, "Have you made up your mind what you'll do when you return to Toronto?"

  Jane started, as if her thoughts had been far away.

  "Not really," she answered, "or rather, not specifically. I'll have to find a job. My qualifications are not that impressive, but surely someone will hire me."

  "I've been wanting to talk to you about that," John said. "I have many friends in Toronto, perhaps I could put you in touch with some of them."

  Jane smiled at him fondly, "Oh, John, haven't you done enough for me already?"

  "Not nearly as much as I would like to do," he answered seriously. "No, really Jane, I'm not talking about doing you any favours. Good help is hard to come by these days. For instance, I was talking on the telephone, just the other day, to a friend in the publishing business. He publishes a string of trade magazines and he was telling me that it's almost impossible to hire a good editor. Now, I know that you've never done this kind of thing, but you're intelligent, you're literate and, I know, you're willing to learn. I'm sure they would be happy to train you."

  Jane made no attempt to hide her enthusiasm. "Oh, John, that sounds perfect. If they would be patient with me while I learned, it sounds exactly like what I would most enjoy doing."

  "Then consider it done. I'll call my friend when we get back to the house." He picked up the picnic basket and then paused and faced her. "I don't have to tell you how much I will miss you if you go to work in the city, but I respect your reasons for wanting to do so. And after all, Toronto is only an hour's drive away. I warn you that I will be making the trip often."

  Jane laughed gaily and then realized that it was the first time during this week when she could honestly say that she was happy, well, almost happy.

  Jane was to leave for Toronto on Saturday. On Thursday John approached her and said with an embarrassed smile, "Since tomorrow night is your last night, at least for the time being, under my roof, I wonder if I could ask a favour?"

  "John, you know you have only to ask," Jane answered, smiling.

  "Well, if the weather stays as warm as it is, I wonder if we could dine on the balcony adjoining your bedroom? It's a pleasant spot and it will always be special to me because that was where we dined on that first evening when you came to my house."

  "That's a wonderful idea," Jane answered.

  "And I have one more favour to ask," John said. "Could you wear that same outfit, whatever it is that women call it, that you wore that evening?"

  It was on the tip of Jane's tongue to point out to him that that "outfit" as he called it, did not belong to her, that it had belonged to his former wife, but she didn't want to spoil the obvious pleasure with which he anticipated the dinner, so she simply smiled and said, "Of course I will."

  Friday evening turned out to be warm and hazy with the promise of a full moon. Jane retired to the cream and gold bathroom around six o'clock, and while soaking luxuriously in a warm bubble-bath could hear all sorts of activity through the adjoining bedroom to the stone balcony. When she had donned the ivory satin nightgown and peignoir, she spent some time trying to arrange her hair in a sophisticated style, but finally gave up and brushed it out down her back, as it had been on that first night when she had come to John's house. As before, the humidity defied all her efforts to smooth it out and it curled in tiny tendrils around her face.

  When she emerged from the bathroom all was quiet. John was already on the balcony, his back towards her, looking out over the expanse of the formal gardens below. The blue haze of twilight covered everything, and low in the sky hung the full, golden moon.

  Mrs. Morgan had surpassed herself. The dinner was superb. As they ate the silences between them lengthened. They were both thinking that this was their last evening together for now, and since the future was so uncertain, perhaps for some time to come.

  When they had finished the waiters came to clear the table. They brought with them a wine cooler containing a magnum of champagne and two glasses. John handed her a glass of champagne and they went to the railing of the balcony and looked down at the garden, now bathed in moonlight, and at the bright sky, illuminated by the full moon, which seemed caught in the branches of a huge oak tree.

  John gave a short, embarrassed laugh. "You know, looking at this setting, you would swear I arranged it. Perhaps the gods are with me. I don't know why they wouldn't be, because I swear my motives are the best. Jane, what I'm trying to say in my usual awkward way is that I would like you to marry me." When Jane turned to him in surprise, he put up one hand, as if to stop her from speaking. "No dear, don't say anything yet. Please listen. I know I don't have much to offer you. Oh, material things of course, but they don't matter. The only thing important that I can give you is my very deep love. You must know that. I have never been in love before. What I felt for my first wife was a strange kind of infatuation. She was a dancer; you must have noticed the paintings in your room, the room that was hers. She was a really talented ballet dancer, but she lacked the discipline to become great. And she was beautiful, oh, so very beautiful, but it was only on the surface. You are so different. You are beautiful, of course, but the- depth of your beauty comes from within and it takes an old codger like me to see this, otherwise, I am sure that Wade would never have let you get away from him. I know you don't love me, I'm not that stupid, but I believe that in time we could achieve a good relationship. I would do anything for you and ask nothing in return, only that you be here, near me, allowing me to do what I can to make you happy."

  Jane sat on the railing of the balcony, trying to collect her thoughts. For a long while she said nothing. John came over and refilled her glass, and still she said nothing. Finally, in a choked voice she said, "But that wouldn't be fair."

  John, who had been walking towards the wine cooler with the bottle of champagne in his hand, wheeled around and said, "Fair? What on earth do you mean by fair?"

  "That you should give everything, and I give nothing in return," Jane answered, almost in a whisper.

  John laughed, without mirth. "Oh, my dear child, and you really are a child. Give, take, what do those words mean? You could give me pleasure beyond anything that I have ever imagined, if I could have you here always where I could see you, where I could do whatever I could to make you happy. Don't you understand?" His last words sounded as if they were wrung from him.

  Jane's mind was in a turmoil. She couldn't understand the philosophy behind John's thinking. She couldn't imagine someone wanting to give so much, with no hope of receiving anything in return. She still loved Simon, she knew that now with a certainty that could not be denied. That this love was hopeless was a fact that she had long ago acknowledged. All of this was her problem, and not something that she could legitimately allow to influence her relationship with John. It was just too confusing.

  She put her face in her hands. John came over to her and put his arm around her shoulders. "Dear Jane, the last thing I wanted to do was to cause you unhappiness."

  Jane reached up and covered his hand, resting on her shoulder, with hers. "John, you could never cause me unhappiness. It's just that I'm confused at the moment. Will you let me think about what you have said?"


  Chapter Thirteen

  John had offered to accompany Jane to her house when she moved back in, but Jane had refused. As she unlocked the door and stepped into the entrance hall, she had to admit that having him with her would have eased the trauma of entering the place she had shared with her father for so many years. The sense of loss enfolded her like a cloud. It was so… so empty. But John meant too much to her to use as a buffer against loneliness. The phrase "to use" came back into her mind. It had been her reaction to what Mona had told her about Simon. Simon had "used" her and she had promised herself that she would never do that to another human being, especially not to someone who meant as much to her as John did.

  The professor had kept his word. The house was clean, almost too clean. Perhaps if there had been a few newspapers or magazines lying around, it would have made Jane feel a little better. A small pile of mail was on a table in the entrance hall, probably put there by the cleaning lady. There were a few utility bills, the usual junk mail and one letter in a business envelope addressed to her. Jane's heart turned over as she looked at the postmark. It had been- mailed in Oban. Her fingers shook as she tore it open. Inside was a cheque for the wages that were due her when she had left the house on the ridge. It was signed by Simon, but there was no covering letter. She stood with the cheque in her hand, looking at the signature, as if by so doing she could somehow conjure up the person who had signed it. Finally, she put the cheque in her purse and said aloud, "What a fool you are!" Then she thought to herself, this will never do, if I start out by talking to myself, what will I be like a year from now?