by Jane Peart
A strangely pensive expression crossed Clare’s face. A rather wistful smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, don’t they say? My stepfather didn’t value beauty much. That’s why he didn’t feel they should spend the money to send me to college. ‘She’s got nothing going for her but her looks,’ I overheard him tell my mother. You know, that devastated me.” Clare shrugged. “Most teenage girls would have died for what I had then. But I wanted something more. I wasn’t sure just what…but I believed eventually I would know.” She sighed. “That’s why I wanted to succeed at modeling, I guess. To show my stepfather. I guess I’m still trying to prove something to him.”
Coryn didn’t know how to respond. She had never heard about this incident before. So she said nothing. Her mother stood up, moved away from the mirror. She did a model’s pirouette in the center of the floor then and cupped Coryn’s chin lightly with cool fingers. “Thank you, darling, for your help. Come on, let’s go downstairs and do your father proud. He’s always happy to show off his wife and daughter.”
Coryn was cheered by the lilt in her mother’s voice. The sadness was gone from her eyes, the radiant smile was in place. Everything was all right again. Everything was fine. Wasn’t it?
It was frightening to think anything was wrong with her mother. Her mother so confident, so charming, so with it. Ah, but there was something definitely missing now…something vital and important. Coryn just wasn’t sure what.
As they went down the curving stairway together, Coryn thought of the memory her mother had just shared. Although it had happened years ago, it had shaped the direction of Clare’s life. Her mother had never talked much about her childhood or her parents. Coryn had never known either of them, both had died before she was born.
In the front hall stood a glittering decorated Christmas tree. Gold and white angels, gilded pinecones, silvery bows and frosted bells hung from sweeping branches. Another example of her mother’s artistry. Each of the rooms looked like a picture in one of those glossy-paged architectural magazines. The house smelled of cedar, cinnamon and some kind of spicy potpourri placed in porcelain bowls on tabletops and other surfaces in the spacious living room and dining room. The scent of burning apple logs crackling in the open fireplace mingled with scented candles alight on the mantelpiece and buffet table.
Door chimes began to ring with frequency. For the next hour, guests arrived, and flowed in chattering clusters through the festively decorated rooms.
Coryn dutifully circulated, stopping to speak to people who had not seen her for months, answered questions about her job, her life in L.A., smiling.
The buzz of conversation, the clink of glasses and sounds of laughter, merged around her. Groups of well-dressed people milled through the house, helping themselves to the plentiful food and drinks. The atmosphere was festive, but instead of making Coryn feel happy, she became increasingly anxious. It was ridiculous to feel depressed in the midst of all this gaiety, but she couldn’t seem to help it. Then, as though she was expecting him, she turned toward the front door just as Mark Emery walked into the house.
Mark had sat in his car out in the driveway for a good ten minutes before getting out and going up to the house. He’d sat there asking himself why he had come to the Dodges’ open house. The minute he had driven up the hill and seen the lights blazing out into the winter darkness, cars parked along the parkway and on either side of the street, he had almost turned around and gone home. From the number of cars, he realized it must be a big party. Judging from the make of the cars outside, he guessed that their owners, and the guests, must be some of Rockport’s most affluent. His economy station wagon was hardly in the same league. Why hadn’t he turned around and left? Because Coryn had asked him and because he wanted to see her again.
When he saw her, something happened. That same sense of recognition that he had felt in the S.F. Airport. Only then, they’d never met before. It was an uncanny sensation. It had been more than momentary attraction. What it might become, he didn’t know.
As he walked into the house, he spotted her immediately, standing by the Christmas tree in the foyer. The lights sent sparkles glinting through her hair. When she saw him, her eyes lit up, too, and she smiled—almost as if she were waiting for him.
Suddenly there seemed to be no one else in the room, just the two of them.
Mark was a little stunned by his own reaction as Coryn moved gracefully toward him. He noticed she was wearing her hair differently tonight, swept up from her slender neck and back from her ears where blue pendant earrings swung. She looked altogether lovely.
“Hello, Mark, I’m glad you came,” she said.
For a minute they’d just stood there smiling at each other. He was aware how blue her eyes were and of the perfume he remembered that seemed to move with her like a lovely cloud. Then Coryn’s father came up and greeted him heartily. Coryn made the introductions.
“Good to meet you, Emery. My wife mentioned you might stop by. Come with me, there are some people you ought to meet,” and he took Mark’s arm and walked him away to introduce him to a group of guests.
Some time later Mark found his way back to Coryn. “Can we find someplace to talk? I came to see you.”
“Dad has a way of taking over.” She smiled.
“He’ll make a good politician.”
“You think so?”
“Has all the right stuff.” Mark grinned.
Coryn led him to a windowed alcove in the living room and they sat down. “I guess that remains to be seen. I don’t think he’s decided. I’m not sure my mother is that for it.”
“Politics is hard on families. I saw that when I worked at the Sacramento Bee. Sometimes a choice has to be made and the families get the short end.”
“Families mean a great deal to you, don’t they?”
“Yes. I think they are important. Growing up in a solid family is everything for a child.”
“That’s what you’re doing for Ginny, isn’t it?”
“Trying to.”
“She’s a sweet child. You must be doing it right,” Coryn said then changed the subject. “Have you had something to eat, to drink?”
He shook his head.
“Let me get you something.” She got up, saying, “I’ll be right back.”
All around him the party sounds swirled. Mark glanced around the room. This was a part of Rockport he’d only seen from a distance, as a reporter covering fancy fund-raising dinners and political events. He was sure the movers and shakers of the town were here tonight, with their expensively gowned wives. The Dodges belonged to this social scene. He didn’t. Did Coryn? When they had dinner together in the airport restaurant, he had sensed, under her composure, a restlessness, a longing for something more. Her discontent with her job in L.A. had evidently resulted in her decision not to return. What would she do now? He knew he wanted to find out. To do that he’d have to get to know her better. Where that would lead was the question.
In a few minutes Coryn was back with a plate of sandwiches, deviled eggs, and balancing two cups of punch.
“So how does it feel being back in Rockport?” Mark asked.
“I don’t think it seems real yet. I made the decision and I have to live with it but I’m not sure what comes next.”
“The new year is always a good time for new beginnings, isn’t it? Or at least it’s supposed to be. Making resolutions and all that.”
She made a small groan. “Making resolutions has never been my strong suit. It brings a lot of stuff to the surface. Old mistakes you don’t want to repeat.”
“New Year’s resolutions can be sobering. I mean that in the most literal sense. I always think I’m going to make some. I rarely do.” He paused, “I guess Rockport seems awfully provincial to you after L.A.?”
“No, I don’t think that’s my problem.” She attempted a laugh. “If you could say I have a problem.”
“Has it changed much?”
“
I suppose. It’s different. There’s more going on now…culturally, I mean. The Civic Light Opera, Old Town, the Nautical Museum, the Repertory Theater…”
“Speaking of which…” Mark reached into his jacket pocket and held up two tickets. “The newspaper gets courtesy tickets. These are for their opening production of the year. Chekov’s Uncle Vanya. Would you like to go?”
“Chekov? That’s awfully ambitious for an amateur group, isn’t it?”
“They’re pretty good. I saw their last performance. Maybe you don’t like Russian plays?”
“They do tend to be somewhat dark. All heavy drama, family secrets, hidden motives. Whatever happened to local theaters putting on Charlie’s Aunt or A Christmas Carol?”
They both laughed.
“Ironic, isn’t it that Dickens wrote so often about the ideal, happy family when his own home life was so terrible.”
“Maybe everyone has his or her own fantasy of what constitutes a happy family,” Coryn suggested.
“Tolstoy wrote, ‘All families are unhappy in their own way.’ In modern terms…all families are dysfunctional in their own style. What’s dysfunctional to one person may seem normal to another, depending on the circumstances.”
Coryn did not comment. Her idea of a happy family had always been her own. Now she wasn’t so sure. It was like seeing a distorted image reflected in a mirror. That’s how she’d felt since she came home. It had not shattered, thank God. But there was definitely a crack in the mirror.
Their conversation turned to lighter things yet Mark had the feeling that there was so much more they had to talk about. He had the strong sensation something was on the brink of happening between them. A man who knew Mark came up to discuss some current local event and claimed his attention. Coryn excused herself.
At length he felt he had stayed long enough, especially since he knew he and Coryn wouldn’t have another chance to talk alone. He felt a little lift, thinking she looked somewhat disappointed when he told her he was leaving.
“Well, this has been very enjoyable but I better go. I told Mrs. Aguilar I’d be home by eight. In time to read Ginny her story and tuck her in.” Mark grinned. “Start the new year right by being on time for work tomorrow morning.”
“I’m glad you could come, Mark,” Coryn said as she accompanied him into the hall. At the door she said, “Tell Ginny ‘hi’ for me.”
“I’ll do that. She’s talked a lot about the day here with you and your mother, baking cookies and all.” He halted a second then asked, “So, would you like to go with me next Thursday?”
“To the play?”
“Yes, Uncle Vanya.”
“Yes, thank you. I’d like to, very much.”
“Thursday night, then. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty. Curtain’s at eight.”
All the way home Mark thought about Coryn. He hadn’t been sure about asking her out but when the conversation had turned to talk of plays, it just seemed natural to do so. Well, it wasn’t a big deal. He’d found Coryn Dodge interesting, intelligent, a good conversationalist. And it would be interesting to see how a local group handled Chekov.
Okay, cut out the rationalization. Admit it. He was attracted to Coryn Dodge. No doubt about that. Furthermore, she was the first woman he’d felt that kind of attraction for since Shari. It wasn’t as though he was falling in love or anything.
And yet, there was a kind of truth stirring. Unsettling. If this did develop into something serious, how would he feel? How would he handle it?
Was it too soon?
Soon? It had been three years. Three years was a long time to be alone. He knew his life was incomplete. He knew Ginny needed a mother. They both needed to be a family. But he didn’t want to make a mistake. Loneliness wasn’t sufficient reason to marry again.
He pulled into his driveway. Mrs. Aguilar had left the porch light on for him, otherwise the house was dark. He felt letdown somehow. It would be nice to have someone to come home to again.
Sighing heavily, he got out of the car. He better get to bed, he was due at the paper at seven-thirty.
Chapter Ten
Coryn had mentioned her theater date with Mark Emery to her parents. Casually. But inside she felt excited. With Mark she was on new ground. That he was such a contrast to Jason made it even better. It proved something. In fact, Jason was becoming more and more a thing of the past. A bad mistake she wanted to forget.
A recent phone conversation with Sheila had confirmed the wisdom of her decision not to go back to L.A., to break with him.
They had finished discussing the disposal of some of Coryn’s belongings she didn’t want shipped when Sheila said, “Oh, by the way, Jason phoned asking about some CDs of his that were missing from his collection. Wanted me to check if they were among ours, see if you’d taken them with you. Get that? What a nerve! I told him off but good. He didn’t even ask about you, if you were coming back or what.” Coryn felt the sting of humiliation but only said, “It doesn’t matter, it was over between us even before I left.”
“I never could understand what you saw in him. Shallow, arrogant jerk,” Sheila retorted.
They talked a little longer before hanging up. Yet Jason’s indifference hurt. Hadn’t she meant anything to him? She had been so foolish. Echoing Sheila’s question, what had she ever seen in Jason?
Thursday evening Coryn dressed with special care. She put on the new pink cashmere sweater her mother had given her for Christmas, and fastened in the pearl studs, her father’s present. When she was ready a full half hour before he was due, she realized how much she was looking forward to being with Mark.
The play was labored, but the cast tried hard.
Mark and Coryn were swept into the vestibule of the theater with the flow of the departing audience. They stood for a minute near the box office.
“Heavy, “ Mark said.
“Very,” she replied
“I should have known what we were in for. Did it seem as long to you as that summer did to Uncle Vanya?”
Coryn laughed. They started walking across the street to where Mark had parked his car.
“Still,” Coryn said, “I must say it was well done, for a nonprofessional cast.”
“You’re right. I guess you saw a lot of theater when you were in L.A.”
“Actually not,” Coryn replied, recalling that Jason liked to go to high-visibility restaurants or dinner clubs where he could see and be seen. By whom, she never really knew. Jason often table-hopped when he was with her, rarely introducing her to anyone. She had been so naive. Taking him at his own estimation. Simply glad to be with him. She had liked the feeling of other women’s envious gazes following them. Who were these people he had tried so hard to impress? Probably only self-important climbers like himself.
“I’m glad I don’t have to write the review,” Mark said as he unlocked the passenger-side door and opened it for her to get in. He got in the driver’s side. “I don’t know why, but I am hungry. At least my stomach didn’t fall asleep. How about you?”
“That sounds great.”
“Al’s?” he asked.
“Sure, why not?” They both laughed.
A sign boasted: Breakfast Served 24 Hours. Once in the red-vinyl booth Mark asked her, “What will you have-the Lumberjack, or the Woodsman’s Special?”
“What’s the difference?” She looked for a clue in the menu description.
“Lumberjack has hotcakes on the side, the Woodsman hash browns.”
“The Woodsman then.”
Their order given, the waitress left. For a minute they were quiet. Mark looked over at her. Coryn looked prettier than ever tonight. Pink was becoming to her, gave her skin delicacy and warmth. As if conscious of his regard, she lowered her eyes and her long lashes made tiny crescent shadows on her cheeks. She asked, “How is Ginny’s eye?”
Mark grimaced. “It’s an every morning hassle,” he said in a low voice. “She doesn’t like to wear the patch to school. Says the kids make fun
of her. It always seems to disappear just as we’re getting ready to leave.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand it. I’m sure Mrs. Aguilar puts it out in plain sight along with her clothes the night before. It’s a mystery.”
“Probably The Borrowers.” Coryn smiled
Mark frowned. “The Borrowers?”
She laughed. “It’s a famous book series for children. I used to love it when I was Ginny’s age. It explained all the things that disappear in a household. No one can ever find what happens. But the secret is there is a tiny family that lives behind the walls that take things—put them to their own use…”
Mark still looked puzzled.
“Oh, well, scratch that!” Coryn laughed. “It’s probably not a ‘guy thing’.”
Their orders came, heaped plates smelling deliciously, were set in front of them. For a few minutes conversation slowed while they ate hearty food. Then they talked about all sorts of things.
Mark was easy to talk to. He was knowledgeable about what was current in books and films, politics. He was matter-of-fact, not arrogant, and clearly interested in hearing her opinion on various subjects. Coryn realized this was a different kind of date. She felt relaxed, instead of trying to make an impression, she was being herself. It was like talking to someone she had known for a long time, a friend. Coryn had never had a man friend. The idea intrigued her.
Over coffee Mark asked, “So, what is the real reason you decided not to go back to L.A.? When we were in San Francisco, I got the idea you felt you’d outgrown a small town like Rockport.”
Coryn hesitated. Tell Mark the truth? Yes, she could trust him to fill in the blanks. He was perceptive enough.