"I'm sorry," I murmured, wanting to be polite.
Sarah went on, "Vera's flying to New York in about two weeks. To look for an apartment, and driving up here tonight it suddenly occurred to me that yours might be perfect for her. She has a teenage daughter, Linda, if you remember, and a housekeeper who's been with her for years. Your apartment is just the right size." took a sip of my vodka and said nothing.
"So, what do you think?" Sarah asked, eyeing me.
I shrugged indifferently.
"Do you want to sell it, Mal?"
"Yes, I guess so."
"You sound uncertain. But weeks ago you told me you never wanted to see New York ever again, that you hated the city. Why keep an apartment in a city you hate?"
"You're right, Sash. If Vera wants to buy the apartment, she can. Show it to her whenever you want. Or my mother can. She has a set of keys."
"Thanks, Mal." She smiled at me. "It'll be nice if I do you both a good turn."
"What do you mean?"
"Vera wants a nice place to live. And I'm sure you can use the money, can't you?"
I nodded. "Andrew's insurance policy is not a big one."
"There's a mortgage on the apartment, isn't there?"
"Yes," I said. "And one on this house."
Sarah gave me a long stare. "How're you going to manage?" she asked quietly, her concern apparent. "What are you going to do for money?"
I won't need it, I'll be dead, I thought. But I said, "There's a little bit coming from the advertising agency, but not much. Jack Underwood told me they're in trouble. They've lost a number of big accounts, and there are all kinds of financial problems at the London office. But you knew that. Andrew told you, when he came back in November."
"When did you talk to Jack?"
"He came out to see me a couple of days ago. He'd just returned from London. He's been heartbroken about Andrew-they were very close-and distressed about the agency. He and Harvey are leaving. They're going into business for themselves. Andrew had instigated the whole thing…" My voice trailed off, and I stared at her blankly, then sitting up, I finished in a stronger, firmer voice. "And so they're going ahead with their plans, even though Andrew's no longer here."
Sarah was silent. She sat sipping her drink, gazing out the window at the snow-covered lawns, her face miserable.
I got up and lowered the lights, which were a little too bright for me tonight. Then I sat down again.
"I'm worried about you, Mal," Sarah suddenly said.
"You mean about the money, the fact that I haven't got any?"
She shook her head. "No, not that at all. Auntie Jess and David will help you, and so will I. You know anything I have is yours. And your father and Diana will chip in until you're on your feet."
"I guess so," I said. Of course this would never be necessary; I would not be here.
Sarah said softly, "I'm worried about your well-being, about your health. But, most importantly, about your state of mind. I know you're in the most excruciating pain all the time, that your sorrow and suffering are overwhelming. I just want to help you. I don't know how."
"Nobody can help me, Sash. That's why it's better if I'm alone."
"I don't agree, honestly I don't. You need someone with you, to comfort you whichever way they can. You need someone to talk to, to cling to if necessary. You mustn't be alone."
I did not answer her.
"I know I'm right," she pressed on. "And I know I'm the right person. It's I who should be with you. We've known each other all our lives, since we were babies. We're best friends… I should be with you now when you need someone. It's me that you need, Mal."
"Yes," I said softly. "You're the best one. And the only one who knows how to cope with me, I suppose."
"Promise me I can come every weekend, that you won't try to push me away, as you have several times lately."
"I promise."
She smiled. "I love you, Mal."
"And I love you too, Sash."
A small silence fell between us once more.
"It's the nothingness," I said finally.
"Nothingness?"
"That's what I face every day. Nothingness. There's just nothing there. Only emptiness, a great void. For ten years my focus has been on Andrew and our marriage and his career, then later it encompassed the twins. But now that they're gone, I have no focus. Only nothingness. There's simply nothing left for me."
Sarah nodded. Her eyes had welled up, and she was obviously unable to speak for a moment. But also she would never offer me meaningless pap, the kind of empty words that I had heard from so many of late.
I stood up. "Let's not talk about this anymore."
We ate supper in the kitchen. Actually, only Sarah ate-I just picked at my food. I had lost my appetite, and it had never come back. But I had opened a bottle of good red wine, and I drank plenty of it as the meal progressed.
At one moment Sarah looked at me over the rim of her glass and said, "Not now, because I don't think you're up to it, but later, in six months or so, maybe you could work. It would keep you busy. I know it would help you."
I merely shrugged. I wasn't going to be around in six months, but I could hardly tell her that. I loved her. I didn't want to upset her.
"You could work out here in the country, Mal, doing what you love."
I stared at her.
She continued, "Painting. You're very talented, and I think you could easily get some assignments illustrating books. I have a couple of friends in publishing, and they'd help; I know they would. You could also sell some of your watercolors and oils."
"Don't be silly. My paintings are not good enough to sell, Sash."
"You're wrong, they are."
"You're prejudiced.",
"That's true, I am. But I also know when someone's good at what they do, especially in the artistic field, and you're good, Mallory Keswick."
"If you say so," I murmured, pouring myself another glass of Andrew's best French wine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It snowed again on Sunday.
Even though I was low in spirits, I could not help noticing the beauty of the grounds at Indian Meadows. They were breathtaking. They resembled a monochromatic painting in black and white below a crystal-clear sky of the brightest blue washed over with golden sunlight.
As I walked down to the pond with Sarah, my heart tightened. I thought of Lissa and Jamie, and how much they would have enjoyed playing in the snow with Andrew, making snowballs, building a snowman, and sledding down the hill below the apple tree.
I missed them all so much; my yearning for them was constant, ever-present in my heart.
But now I pushed my heartache away, burying it deep inside me, hoping to conceal it. I did not want to burden Sarah. She was so loving and understanding, and she worried about me all the time. I felt I must act as normal as possible around her today. She was going to Paris tomorrow with her fashion team from Bergman's, and I wanted her to leave feeling that I was in a better frame of mind.
"I've never seen so many ducks here before!" she exclaimed when we got to the pond. "There must be at least two dozen!"
"Yes, and they're mallards. They've made Indian Meadows their home this winter," I answered. "Obviously because we're feeding them every day."
As I spoke I put the shopping basket I was carrying down on the snow, took out the plastic container of scratch feed and turkey-grower pellets, and went to the edge of the pond.
The ducks took off immediately. Some rose up into the air and flew to another part of the property, others hopped onto the portion of the pond that was frozen and waddled away.
Our first winter at Indian Meadows, Andrew had installed a recirculating pump at one end of the pond. Electrically operated, it constantly churned the water surrounding it and thus prevented that area from freezing, even when it was below zero.
Sarah came and stood with me as I scattered the grain at the edge of the water, then she took a handful herself and walked
to the frozen part, throwing it down for them.
"Silly ducks," she said, looking at me over her shoulder. "They're not coming to eat."
"They will, once we leave."
She joined me again and stood staring at the pump agitating the water.
"This really works," she said, glancing at me quickly. "What a good idea it was, to put it in for the ducks and the other wildlife that come around in winter. How did you know about it?"
"Eric told Andrew. In fact, they installed it together. This kind of pump is mostly used by farmers, who need to keep small parts of their ponds unfrozen, so that their cows can drink in winter," I explained.
"Hi, Mal! Hi, Sarah!"
We both swung around and waved to Anna, who waved back as she walked toward us across the snow.
She was as heavily bundled up against the weather as we were, dressed in a crazy collection of clothes, and I had a flash of Gwendolyn Reece-Jones in my mind's eye.
Like Gwenny, Anna was sporting lots of bright primary colors this morning, noticeable in the three scarves wrapped around her neck. These were turquoise-blue, red, and yellow, and they matched her long jacket, which looked as if it had been made from an Apache blanket. On her head was a royal-blue woolen ski cap with yellow pom-poms, and she wore a pair of jodhpurs, riding boots, and green wool gloves. Could she be colorblind?
"Anna, I love your jacket," Sarah exclaimed as Anna drew to a standstill next to us. "It's not only beautiful but very unusual. Is it authentic American Indian?"
"Not really," Anna said. "Well, maybe in its design."
"Did you get it out West? Arizona?"
Anna shook her head. "No, I bought it from Pony Traders."
"Pony Traders," Sarah repeated. "What's that? A shop?"
"No. Pony Traders is a small crafts company, up near Lake Wononpakook. I know one of the two women who own it, Sandy Farnsworth. They make jackets, capes, skirts, waistcoats, even boots and moccasins. Everything has an Indian look to it. And I fell in love with this jacket."
"I don't blame you, it's great," Sarah responded. "I'm off to Europe tomorrow, but maybe when I get back you'll take me up to meet them. Perhaps I'll put in an order for the store."
"Hey, that'd be fantastic," Anna said. Turning to me, she went on, "I thought you might like to come in for a cup of hot chocolate, or coffee, whatever you'd like, Mal." She eyed the basket and added, "I see you've got carrots for the horses. Why not come to my barn first?" was about to decline her invitation but changed my mind. She was trying to be nice, and I didn't want to offend her. She had always been so sweet with my children and had spent a lot of time with them when they rode, helping them to handle their ponies correctly. And so I said, "I won't say no to a cup of coffee, Anna. What about you, Sarah?"
"I crave the hot chocolate, but it'll have to be black coffee," Sarah said, grimacing at Anna. "I'm always watching my weight."
Anna laughed and shook her head, "You're a beautiful woman, Sarah. You don't have to worry."
Together the three of us walked toward the small renovated barn where Anna lived. It had been months since I had been here, and as I followed her inside, I was instantly struck by its rustic charm and comfort.
She had a big fire going in the fieldstone hearth, and her black Labrador, Blackie, lay stretched out on the rug in front of it. He got up when he heard us and came trotting over, nuzzling at Anna's legs and wagging his tail furiously at me.
"Hello, Blackie," I said, stroking his head. The Labrador looked past me to the door, his tail still wagging. I experienced a sudden pang as I realized he was expecting to see Trixy, who had always accompanied me wherever I went on the property.
I think Anna had probably realized the same thing. She looked at me, her eyes worried, and said in a brisk, cheerful voice, "Come on, give me your coats, and I'll get us the coffee. It's already made. Would you like anything to eat?"
Sarah muttered, "I would, but I won't."
"Just coffee, Anna, thanks," I said. I sat down on the sofa in front of the fire.
"Can I look around, Anna?" Sarah asked. "It's ages since I've seen your home."
"Sure, feel free. Go up to the sleeping loft if you like."
I leaned my head against the Early American quilt that covered the back of the big red sofa and closed my eyes, thinking of Lissa and Jamie. They had loved Anna, had loved to come here for milk and cookies and special treats. She had loved the twins in return, had always spoiled them, and had cared for them like they were her own.
Later, walking back up the hill to the house, Sarah said, "The barn looks great. Anna's done wonders with it. It's packed to the hilt with stuff, but somehow she's made it all work."
"Yes, she has," I murmured, shrugging further into my quilted coat, feeling the nip in the air all of a sudden.
"You know, Mal, she's very pretty, all that blonde hair, those soft brown eyes, doe eyes. Very appealing, really. But she could be absolutely stunning if only she wore a bit of makeup, especially eye makeup. Blondes always look so faded, so washed-out, if they don't do their eyes right."
"I know exactly what you mean, Sash. But I don't think she really gives a damn how she looks most of the time."
"No incentive, you mean?"
I shook my head. "No, I don't mean that." I hesitated thoughtfully, then said finally, "I think Anna's happy with herself. And with the way she looks these days. Healthy, full of vitality, no black eyes or bruises. She had a really bad experience with that guy she lived with, before she came here. And I think she gave up on men a long time ago. He used to beat her up constantly. He was extremely abusive, actually, and she was smart to get away from him when she did."
"I remember your telling me about it at the time. Well, I guess it's better to be on your own without a man than-" She broke off and stared at me, looking horrified, then grabbed hold of my arm. "I'm sorry, Mal, I'm so thoughtless."
I turned into her, put my arms around her, and hugged her to me. "You can't keep watching yourself, Sash, watching every word and what you say all the time. Life does intrude, I'm very aware of that."
"I'd give anything to make you feel just a little bit better," she murmured. "Anything, Mal, anything at all." She stood gazing at me, her dark eyes moist, brimming with emotion, all of the love and friendship she felt for me spilling out of her.
"I know you would, Sarah darling, and it is easier when you're around," I replied. I wanted to reassure her, and so ease her worry about me.
The stillness in the house was so acute it was tangible.
I stood in the middle of the long gallery, listening to that stillness, letting it wash over me, and I began to feel less agitated than usual.
Ineffable sadness dwelt within my heart, and yet I felt oddly comforted all of a sudden.
It was the house, of course.
It had always been a peaceful place, tranquil, benign, enfolding my family and me in its loving embrace. Ever since I had first set eyes on it, I had thought of it as a living thing, an entity rather than an edifice. I had never believed we had found the house all by ourselves, rather, that it had beckoned to us, drawn us to it, because it wanted us to occupy it, to love it and give it life.
And we had for a while.
My children had laughed here and run along its twisting corridors and played in its many rooms; Andrew and I had loved each other here and loved our family and our friends, and for a short time the house had truly lived again, had been happy. Certainly it had given us joy.
I walked from room to room, looking at everything for the last time before locking the outside doors and switching off the lights. Then I slowly climbed the stairs to my upstairs sitting room.
When I pushed open the door and went in, I saw that the room was dim and filled with shadows. It had grown much darker outside in the last hour or so since Sarah had left. But the logs spurted and hissed in the grate and threw off sparks, and there was a lovely warmth up here on this icy night.
I turned on a lamp and undressed, put on
a nightgown and robe.
After pouring myself a vodka, I sat down in front of my portrait of the twins and studied it for a long time. I really had captured them on the canvas; this realization pleased me.
Eventually, my gaze settled on Andrew's portrait hanging over the fireplace. It was not quite as good as the one I had done of the twins, but the likeness was there, and I had caught his extraordinary blue eyes perfectly. They were exactly right.
I finished my drink, poured another one, lingered over this, then drained the glass suddenly, in one big gulp.
Rising, I went into the bathroom. I turned on the taps and ran a bath. When it was full, I took off my robe, threw it across the bath stool, and walked across to the sink.
My art knife was there, where I'd put it earlier, its razor blade encased in a sheath of plastic. The blade was sharp, very sharp. I knew. I had used it for cutting thick paper, posterboard, and sometimes canvases. It would do the job nicely.
I had read somewhere that this was a painless way to die, if one can think of dying as painless. Lying in a tub of water, slitting each wrist, bleeding gently until unconscious, until death came. Painless.
Picking up the knife, I examined it before stepping over to the bath. I placed it on the edge of the tub near the taps and lifted my nightgown.
As I began to pull it up over my head, I heard the faintest sound. It was laughter. Someone was laughing. In the next room. I was so startled I was frozen to the spot. Finally I let the hem of my nightie fall.
I went out into the sitting room.
Lissa stood there in the center of the floor wearing her nightgown.
"Mommy! Mommy!" she cried and laughed again, her light, tinkling laugh. It was the same laughter I had heard a moment ago.
"Lissa!" I took a step forward.
She laughed and ran out into the corridor.
I rushed after her, calling her name, shouting for her to stop, to come back, as I followed her down the stairs, along the entrance gallery and into the kitchen. She wrenched open the back door and flew out into the snow, laughing, saying my name.
It was dark outside.
I couldn't see her.
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