Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair (45 page)

“At an antiquarian bookshop in New York. It's quite old, as you can see. May I have it for a moment, please, Mal?”

“Of course.” I handed it to him.

He leafed through the book, found the page he wanted, and said, “This is one of my favorites, Mal. Can I read a few lines to you?”

“Yes, please do.”

Richard stopped, and no words came for a moment.

I said quietly, “How lovely . . .”

“And here are just a few more lines from the same poem, Mal, and again I think they are very fitting.” He touched my cheek and smiled that shy smile of his, then read from the book again.

I didn't speak for a moment; I just sat there quietly, and then I said, “Thank you, Richard, not only for my birthday present, but for sharing with me.”

“Can I take you out to supper tonight?” he asked, leaning back against the seat. “We could go to the West Street Grill in Litchfield.”

“Thank you, I'd love that.”

“See you later, then,” he answered, looking pleased. “I'll pick you up about seven,” he added, pushed himself to his feet and walked off briskly.

I watched him go, and then I looked down at the book in my hands and began to turn the pages, reading fragments of poems.

Later that week, on Friday morning, the boxes of books arrived from my printer, and I immediately called Richard. “The second volume of Lettice Keswick's diary has just arrived. Hundreds of them,” I told him. “And since you're a fan of her writing, I'd like you to have one of the first copies.”

“Thanks, Mal, that's great,” he said. “When shall I come over for it?”

“Right now, if you like. I'll give you a cup of coffee.”

“See you in half an hour,” he replied and hung up.

When he arrived I led him into the sunroom. “I have coffee waiting, and the book for you. I hope you like it. I think they've done a good job, but I'm curious to have your opinion.”

It took Richard only a few minutes to peruse the diary and tell me I had another success on my hands. “The layout is beautifully designed, for one thing, and the couple of pages I've read hold up. I suppose the entire diary is of the same high standard?”

“Very much so. It's such a marvelous record of everyday life in England in the seventeenth century. They were very like us, had the same hopes and dreams, troubles and worries.”

“People haven't changed much over the centuries,” he remarked, putting the book down on the table. “And you certainly stumbled on something very special when you found these.”

“There are two more books,” I confided.

“Diaries?” he said, looking slightly startled. “Don't tell me you have more of these treasures?”

I shook my head. “No, I don't, unfortunately, because the diaries are the best things she wrote. But I have her garden book and her cookbook, and I plan to publish those next.”

“I think Kilgram Chase Press is going to be in business for quite a while,” Richard said, smiling at me.

I shrugged. “I hope.”

After drinking his coffee, Richard asked, “What's the garden book like?”

“Interesting, because her plans for the gardens at Kilgram Chase are very detailed, as are her lists of the plants, flowers, and trees. But I don't think it will have the same appeal.”

“It might. People are very much into gardens these days, Mal. Look at the success of the Russell Page book on his gardens, and Gertrude Jekyll and her writings.”

“Maybe you're right.”

“Are there many illustrations?”

“Yes, I'll have to start copying them soon.”

He laughed. “
Lettice Keswick's Garden Book
might turn out to be just as big a hit as the first diary. And this—” He tapped it and continued, “I'd like to give this to our book editor at the magazine, if you don't mind.”

“No, that's fine. I'll get you another copy before you leave,” I said.

We sat drinking our coffee and chatting for a few minutes, mostly about Kilgram Chase Press and books in general. I surprised myself when I said, “I once did a book, Richard.”

A look of interest flashed across his face. “Was it published?” he asked.

I shook my head. “It's a special kind of book.”

“Do you have it here, Mal?”

“Yes. Would you like to see it?”

“I'd love to. I must admit, I'm very intrigued.”

I nodded and hurried out of the sunroom.

I was back within a few minutes. “Actually there are two books,” I said. “I wrote and illustrated them for Jamie and Lissa. I was going to put them in their Christmas stockings, but of course they were dead by then.”

“Oh, Mal,” he said, and his dark eyes looked stricken.

“One is called
The Friends Who Live in the Wall
, and the other is
The Friends Who Live in the Wall Have a Tea Party.
Well, here have a look,” I said, handing them both to him.

Richard sat for a long time poring over the books. Finally, when he put the second book down, he had the strangest expression on his face.

“What is it? What's wrong?” I asked, staring hard at him.

He shook his head. “Nothing. But Mal, these books are extraordinary, just beautiful. They're enchanting, so imaginative, and your paintings are superb. You
are
going to publish them, surely?”

“Oh, no, I couldn't! I could never do that! I wrote them for my children. They're . . . they're sort of
sacred.
The books were for Jamie and Lissa, and that's the way I want to keep it.”

“Oh, Mal, you can't. Not something like these little . . . masterpieces. Small children will love them, and think of the joy and pleasure they'll give.”

“No!” I exclaimed. “I can't, I won't publish them, Richard. Don't you understand?” I repeated shrilly, staring at him. “They're sacred.”

“What a pity you feel that way,” he said quietly.

“Maybe one day,” I murmured, suddenly wanting to mollify him.

“I hope so,” he said.

I lifted the books from the coffee table and wrapped my arms around them possessively. “I'll just put them away, I'll be back in a moment.” I hurried upstairs.

As I laid the books away in the cupboard and locked the door, I suddenly wondered why I had shown them to Richard Markson. Only Andrew and Sarah had ever seen them. I had kept them hidden away for over four years. I hadn't even taken them out for Diana or my mother.

Why did I show him something so personal, so intimate, so meaningful? I asked myself as I went back downstairs to the sunroom. I had no answers for myself. In fact, I was quite baffled.

W
hen he left for Bosnia, Richard had said he would be gone for ten days.

But in fact he had been away for almost the entire month. He had been scrupulous about calling me, and in a way I had been grateful to hear from him, to know that he was all right. But at the same time I felt I was being put on the spot.

Whenever he phoned me from Sarajevo, I became self-conscious, almost tongue-tied, certain that he was expecting an answer to the proposal he had made before he left.

I cannot give him one.

I was still ambivalent about my feelings for him. I liked him, cared for him, in fact. After all, he was a good man, and in the ten months I had known him he had proved to me that he was a good friend. Then again, we were compatible, had common interests and enjoyed being together. Yet to me that was not enough for marriage, or even a trial marriage, as he suggested.

I am afraid—afraid of commitment, attachment, bonding, intimacy on a daily basis. And ultimately I'm afraid of love. What if I fell in love with Richard, and then he left me? Or died? Or was killed doing his job? Where would I be then? I couldn't bear to suffer the loss of a man again.

And if I did marry him, as he wanted me to, and did so without loving him, there was still the possibility, no, the probability, of children. How could I ever have other children? Lissa and Jamie had been so . . . perfect.

This was how my mind was turning this morning, as I walked toward the ridge carrying a mug of black coffee. I lifted my eyes and looked up at the sky as I usually did.

It was a murky morning, overcast, and rain threatened up in the hills. Yet the sky was a curious color, etiolated, so bleached-out it looked almost white. No thunder-heads rumbled above; nonetheless, the air was heavy and thick, and I sensed that the weather was going to break after a blistering August. Anyway, we needed the rain.

Sitting down under the old apple tree, I sipped my coffee and let my eyes roam around. They rested briefly on the cluster of red barns, now my compound of little shops, and I felt a small swell of pride as I thought of their great success. Then my gaze moved on to scrutinize the long meadow, finally settling on the pond. Mallard ducks and Canada geese clustered around the edge; and on the far bank the blue heron stood there proudly on its tall legs, a most elegant bird. My heart missed a beat. It was a welcome sight.

I smiled to myself. We had waited all summer long for the blue heron to pay us a visit. It had been sadly absent, but here it was this morning, looking as if it had never been away.

After finishing my coffee, I sat back, closed my eyes, and let myself sink down into my thoughts. Hardly a few minutes had passed when I knew what I must do, knew what my answer to Richard must be.

No.

I would tell him no and send him away.

Besides, what use to him was a woman who could not love again? A woman in love with her dead husband?

“Life is for the living,” I heard Diana's voice saying, somewhere in the back of my mind.

I pushed that voice to one side, trampled on the thought. I would send Richard Markson away, as I had always known I would.

But perhaps he had already gone away of his own accord. I had not heard a word from him for well over a week now. In fact, he had stopped calling me on a regular basis once he'd quit Bosnia.

He had stayed in that war-torn country for ten days, as he had always intended to do. And then he had moved on, had flown to Paris. It was his favorite city, he had told me when he had phoned. He had worked there once, as Paris correspondent for
The New York Times
, and he had loved every minute of his four-year stay in France. Four years was a long time. He undoubtedly had many friends there.

Maybe Bosnia and Paris had cured him of me.

Maybe I wouldn't have to reject him after all.

That would certainly be a relief, if I didn't have to tell him no to his face, if he just stayed away and never came back, or if he let our relationship peter out.

Maybe he had picked up with an old flame. That would be a relief, too. Wouldn't it?

“Hello, Mal.”

I sat up with a jerk, so startled I dropped the coffee mug I was holding. It rolled across the grass and disappeared over the edge of the hill.

Speechlessly I gaped at him.

“I'm sorry if I took you by surprise,” Richard said, towering over me.

“You made me jump, scared me!” I exclaimed. Taking a deep breath, I asked, “And where did you spring from?”

“My car. I parked over by the house.”

“No, I meant when did you get back from Paris?”

“Last night. I drove straight up here from Kennedy. I was going to call you, but it was late. So I decided to come and see you in person this morning.” He paused, looked at me closely. “How are you, Mal?”

“I'm fine,” I replied. “And you?”

“Great,” he said. “But I could use a cup of coffee. Shall we go to the café?”

I dangled the bunch of keys in front of his nose. “Not open yet. It's only eight-thirty. I was just on my way to unlock the doors.”

“Oh, God, I'm on Paris time . . . for me it's already the afternoon.”

“Come on,” I said, “Walk me to the shops. I'll open up, and then we can come back to the house for that cup of coffee.”

“It's a deal,” he said, and stretched out his hand.

I took it, and he pulled me to my feet.

We walked down the hill in silence. Once we were at the bottom, I opened up the café, the Indian Meadows Boutique, and the Kilgram Chase Gallery, and pocketed the keys.

“That's it,” I said. “Let's head for the kitchen. I'll make you some breakfast, if you like. How do scrambled eggs and English muffins sound?”

“Terrific!”

I smiled at him and then moved away from the cluster of barns, heading for the house.

“Mal.”

I stopped and turned around.

Richard was still standing near the gallery door.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

Shaking his head, he hurried over to me. “Nothing's the matter. I just wondered . . .” He stopped. “Do you have an answer for me, Mal?”

I didn't say anything at first, having no wish to hurt
him. Then I murmured slowly, quietly, “No, Richard, I don't.”

He stood staring at me.

“That's not true. I do,” I corrected myself. “I can't marry you, Richard. I can't. I'm sorry.”

“And you won't live with me? Try that?”

I shook my head, biting my lip. He looked so crestfallen I could hardly bear it.

Richard said, “You know, Mal, I fell in love with you the first moment I saw you. And I don't mean the night ten months ago when I came to dinner, that day I helped Sarah change her tire. I mean when I
first
saw you, the
first
time I came to Indian Meadows. You were unaware of me; we never met. You just bowled me over. I wanted to be introduced to you, but one of my friends in Sharon said you were . . . off limits.”