Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair (28 page)

I was stunned that she was here. “How did you get in?” I asked in a faint voice.

“Through the kitchen door.”

“But it was locked!”

“No, it wasn't, Mal.”

“But it was!” I cried, my voice rising shrilly. “I locked it myself.” As I spoke I cast my mind back to this afternoon. I had walked Nora across the kitchen, we had said good-bye
as I saw her out. I had then closed the kitchen door and swung the bolt. Demented I might be, but there was no question in my mind about that door. Who had unlocked it?

Sarah was standing there, looking down at me.

I said, “What are you doing here, anyway?” She had spoiled my plans, and I was furious.

Throwing her coat onto a chair, she came and sat next to me on the sofa, took my hand in hers. “Why am I here, Mal? Because I was worried about you, of course. Very worried.”

I stared at her speechlessly.

S
arah had obviously come to Indian Meadows for the weekend. As we went into the kitchen, I saw her suitcase, which she had dumped on the floor near the back door.

The first thing I did was to walk over and check that door. I turned the knob, and it opened. “I guess you didn't lock this before you came upstairs looking for me,” I said.

“No, I didn't, Mal. It was open, so I left it open. Sorry.”

“It's okay. I just don't understand. I did lock it earlier. It's a mystery.”

Sarah made no comment. She walked over to the pine cabinet, took out a glass, and poured herself a vodka. Looking at me, she asked, “How about you, Mal? Do you want one?”

“Why not,” I replied. If I couldn't kill myself tonight, I might as well get drunk. I could put myself out of my misery for a few hours at least.

Opening the freezer, I took out a tray of ice and gave it to Sarah, then went back and peered into the refrigerator.

“There's some hot pot here,” I said. “Nora made it this morning. Or I can fix you an omelette.”

Plopping ice cubes in our drinks and adding chunks of lime, Sarah said, “No eggs, thanks. I'll try the hot pot. What're you having?”

“The same,” I murmured, although I wasn't even hungry. I never was these days. After I had emptied the hot pot into a pan and put this on the stove over a low light, I said, “It's going to take about half an hour to heat up.”

Together we headed for the sunroom. Although it had a lot of windows and French doors, it was warm, centrally heated like the rest of the house. As we went in, I switched on the lights and noticed that it was snowing outside. The lawns had a coating of white; the trees looked as if they had just burst into bloom with white blossoms.

I sat down on a side chair with my back to the window.

Sarah took a big armchair, propped her feet on the coffee table, and lifted her glass in silence.

I did the same.

Sarah didn't say anything, and neither did I; we sat together like that for quite a while.

Finally rousing herself and focusing her eyes on me, she said, “My cousin Vera's coming back to New York, Mal.”

“Oh,” I said, looking at her swiftly. “Didn't she like the West Coast?”

“Yes, but her husband's left her. Moved in with another woman. Apparently he wants a divorce, so she's decided to pack up and come home.”

“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.”

I 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.

I
t 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.”