Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair (5 page)

“Yes, Mom,” he mumbled.

Because he still sounded tearful, I tried to reassure him. “I love you, Jamie,”

“I love you, too, Mom,” he answered a bit more cheerfully, and then he dropped the receiver down with a clatter.

“Jamie, ask Nanna to come to the phone!” I exclaimed, then repeated this several times to no avail. I was about to hang up when Diana finally came back on the line.

“I think peace reigns once more,” she said, chuckling. “Oh, dear, I do believe I speak too soon, Mal.”

A door banged; there was the sound of Trixy barking. “I guess Jenny just came back from walking the pooch,” I said.

“Exactly. And I'd better prepare breakfast for my little troop here, then get the twins ready for their outing. And seriously, Mal, everything seems to be all right between them. They've kissed and made up, and Sue Ellen is happily contained in the bowl, swimming her heart out.” She chuckled again. “I'd forgotten what a handful six-year-olds can be. Either that or I'm getting too old to cope.”

“You, old!
Never.
And if you remember, their little spats never last long. Basically, they're very close, like most twins are.”

“Yes, I do know that.”

“I've loads of chores, Diana, so I must get on. I'll talk to you tonight. Have a lovely day.”

“We will, and don't work too hard, Mallory dear. Bye-bye now.”

“Bye,” I said and hung up.

***

My hand rested on the receiver for a few moments, my thoughts lingering with my mother-in-law.

Diana was a sweet and caring woman, truly loving, and I've always thought it was such a shame she never remarried after Andrew's father died in 1968, when he was very young, only forty-seven. Michael Keswick, who had never been sick a day in his life, had suffered a sudden heart attack that proved fatal.

Michael and Diana, who originally hailed from Yorkshire and went to live in London after university, had been childhood sweethearts. They had married young, and Andrew had been born two years after their wedding; it had been an idyllic marriage until the day of Michael's untimely death.

Diana once told me that she had met quite a few men over the years since then, but that none of them had ever really measured up to Michael. “Why settle for second best?” she had said to me during one of our treasured moments of genuine intimacy. On another occasion, she had confided that she much preferred to be on her own, rather than having to cope with a man who didn't meet her standards, did not compare favorably with Michael.

“I'd always be making mental notes about him, passing private judgments, and it wouldn't be fair to the poor man,” she had said. “Being on my own means I'm independent, my own boss, and I can therefore do what I want, when I want. I can come to New York to see all of you when the mood strikes me. I can work late every night of the week, if I so wish, and I can go up to Yorkshire whenever I feel like it. Or dash over to France on a buying trip, on the spur of the moment. I don't have to answer to anyone, I'm a free agent, and believe me, Mal, it's better this way, it really is.”

I had asked her that day whether Michael had been
her only love, or if she had ever fallen in love again. And she had muttered something and glanced away. Intrigued by the way she had flushed, albeit ever so slightly, and averted her head with sudden swiftness, I had been unable to resist repeating my question. After a moment's hesitation and an unexpected stiffening of her shoulders, she had finally turned her face back to mine. Her gaze had been direct, her eyes filled with the honesty I'd come to appreciate and rely on. I always knew where I stood with her, and that was important to me.

Slowly, she had said in the softest of voices, “The only man I've ever been remotely interested in on a serious level, and very strongly attracted to is . . . not free. Separated for the longest time, but not actually divorced, God knows why. And that's not good. I mean, it would be impossible for me to have a relationship with a man who was
legally
tied to another woman, even if not actually living with her. Untenable, really, and certainly no future in it.”

Her shoulders had relaxed again, and she had shaken her head. “I came to the conclusion a very long time ago that I'm much better off living on my own, Mal. And I
am
happy, whatever you think. I'm at peace with myself.”

Yet it has often struck me since that Diana must have moments of great sadness, of acute loneliness. But Andrew doesn't agree with me.

“Not Ma!” he had exclaimed when I first voiced this opinion. “She's busier than a one-legged toe dancer doing
Swan Lake
alone and in its entirety. She's up at the crack, behind her desk at the antique shop by six, cataloguing her stock of antiques, bossing her staff around, and floating over to Paris to buy furniture and paintings and
objets
at the drop of a hat. Not to mention wining and dining her posh clients, and fussing over us, her dearest darlings. Then there's her life in Yorkshire. She's forever
racing up there to make sure the old homestead hasn't tumbled down.”

Shaking his head emphatically, he had finished, “Ma,
lonely
? Never. She's the least lonely person I know.”

At that time I had thought that perhaps she keeps herself so frantically busy in order not to notice her loneliness, perhaps even to assuage it. But I hadn't mentioned this to Andrew. After all, he was her son, her only child, and he ought to know her well, if anybody did. And yet there have been times over the years when I have noticed a wistful expression on Diana's face, a sadness in her eyes, a look of longing, almost. A yearning, maybe, for Michael? Or for that love who was not entirely available? I wasn't sure, and I have never had the nerve to broach the subject.

Nora startled me, and I jumped in my chair as she came crashing into my office. I sat bolt upright, gaping at her.

“Sorry I'm late, Mal,” she exclaimed, striding forward and flopping down in the chair opposite my desk.

For a dainty, petite person she could certainly make a lot of noise.

“Phew! It's hot today! A real scorcher!” She fanned herself energetically with her hand and gave me a smile. Then her face dropped as she took in my expression.

“Oh, sorry, did I give you a start when I came in?”

I nodded. “You did. But then, I was miles away, I must admit. Daydreaming.”

A look of incredulity swept across Nora's face. Narrowing her eyes, she uttered a dry little laugh. “Daydreaming! Not you, Mallory Keswick! That's the last thing you'd be doing. You're a human dynamo. I've never seen
you
waste a minute.”

Her words amused me, but I made no comment.

Rising, I said to her, “How about a glass of iced tea,
before we get down to the task of putting this house in order for the weekend?”

“Sounds good,” she answered, immediately jumping up and leading the way out of the office. “I didn't stop at the market stand on the way here. It's better I buy your vegetables and fruit tomorrow, Mal. They'll be fresher for Monday's barbecue.”

“That's true. Listen, are you and Eric coming? You haven't really given me a proper answer.”

She swung her head, looked over her shoulder at me, gave a quick nod. “We'd love to, and thanks, Mal, for including us. It's good of you.”

“Don't be so silly, you and Eric are like part of the family.”

She didn't say anything, just moved on into the kitchen, but there was a small, pleased smile on her face, and I knew she was happy that I'd asked her again, that I had not taken no for an answer.

Nora, who was about forty, was a slender pixie of a woman, with unusual, prematurely silver hair, an intelligent but merry face, and silvery-gray eyes. She had been my helper for the past year and a half, almost since we had moved in, and her husband, Eric, who worked at the local lumberyard, did carpentry and outdoor chores for us on weekends. Married for nearly twenty years, they were childless, and both of them doted on the terrible twins, as I jokingly called Jamie and Lissa at times.

Nora was a practical, down-to-earth, no-nonsense woman, a real Connecticut Yankee with her feet on the ground, which made us totally compatible, since I tend to be pragmatic and plain-speaking myself.

Utterly without pretension, she refused to be called a housekeeper. “Too fancy for me,” she had said the day I had hired her. “Let's just say I'm your helper, Mal. All right if I call you Mal, isn't it?”

I had nodded, and she had continued, “It's friendlier. Anyway, that's the way it is in the country. First-name basis.” She had laughed then. “
Housekeeper
sounds a bit formidable to me. Makes me think of a woman in a black dress with a grim expression and a bunch of keys tied to her belt.” The silvery-colored eyes had twinkled. “Maybe I've read too many gothic novels.”

As far as I'm concerned, Nora Matthews can call herself anything she wants. She is invaluable to me; I couldn't manage without her.

Pouring two glasses of iced tea, Nora remarked in her clipped way, “Fourth's going to be a lot hotter than today. Weather forecast says we're in for it. Better think about dressing cool on Monday. Lightweight all the way.” She eyed my T-shirt and shorts. “You've got the right idea. Stick to that outfit for the barbecue.”

“Aw, shucks, Nora, there goes my plan to wear my new cocktail dress!” I exclaimed, arranging a suitably disappointed expression on my face.

Swiftly, she glanced at me. Her brow furrowed. Nora was never absolutely certain about my humor, never knew whether I was teasing her or not.

I burst out laughing. “This is
exactly
what I intended to wear. Shorts and a T-shirt. You know very well they constitute my summer uniform.”

“I guess so,” she muttered.

For a split second I thought that I had offended her, teasing her in this way, but then I saw a glint of hidden laughter in her eyes, and I relaxed.

“Come on, let's get this show on the road,” I said, adopting a bustling manner.

“Beds first?”

“You bet,” I answered, and gulping down the last of my iced tea, I followed her out of the kitchen.

F
our hours later I carried a turkey sandwich and a Diet Coke out to the low wall which surrounds the terrace in front of the sunroom.

Selecting a corner which was well-shaded by one of the large old maples, I sat down and took a bite of the sandwich, enjoying it. I was starving, having been up since before dawn. Also, besides changing all the bed linens, Nora and I had done a marathon job of cleaning the bathrooms and the bedrooms. The hard work had helped to give me an appetite. Not only that, I wanted to fortify myself for the rest of the day; there was still the entire downstairs to clean.

I take great pride in Indian Meadows.

I love it most of all when everything sparkles and gleams and looks perfect. Diana has always said I should have been an interior decorator. She thinks I have great talent for putting furniture and things together to create unique and attractive settings. The idea doesn't appeal to me; I don't think I would enjoy doing this kind of work for clients in the way that Diana buys antiques, paintings, and beautiful objects for the customers who patronize her prestigious antique shop in London. I am sure it would be far too frustrating, trying to please other people, not to mention convincing them that my taste is superior to theirs.

I prefer to be an amateur decorator creating a home which pleases Andrew and me, just as I paint for my own
pleasure, for the satisfaction and gratification it gives me.

Nora never joins me on this wall for a picnic. Invariably, she eats her lunch inside, preferring the cool, air-conditioned interior. Certainly it is much more comfortable inside the house today; it is positively grueling out here. A great yellow orb of a sun seems to be burning a hole in the fabric of the sky, which is of such a sharp and brilliant blue it almost hurt my eyes to look at it.

The wall where I'm sitting is wide, with big flat stones along the top, and it is very old, built by hand by a local stonemason many years ago.

In Yorkshire, drystone walling, as it is called, is an ancient craft. All of the stones have to be perfectly balanced, one on top of the other, so that they can remain tightly wedged together without the benefit of cement. It is done by the crofters on the Yorkshire moors and in the lush green dales, but it is a dying craft, Diana says, almost a lost art. I'm sure it is here, too, and more's the pity, since these ancient walls are beautiful, have such great character.

I am extremely partial to this particular wall on our property, mostly because it is home to a number of small creatures. I know for a fact that two chipmunks live inside its precincts, as well as a baby rabbit and a black snake. Although I know the chipmunks well and have spotted the bunny from time to time, I have never actually seen the snake. But our gardener, Anna, has, and so have the twins. At least, that is what they claim, most vociferously.

Ever since my childhood, I have loved nature and the wild creatures who inhabit the countryside, and I have encouraged Jamie and Lissa to respect all living things, to treasure the animals, birds, and insects that frequent Indian Meadows.

Unconsciously, and very often without understanding what they are doing, some children can be terribly cruel, and it always makes me furious when I see them hurting
small, defenseless animals, pulling wings off butterflies, grinding their heels into earthworms and snails, throwing stones at birds. I made my mind up long before the twins were born that no child of mine would ever inflict pain on any living thing.

To make nature more personal, to bring it closer to them, I invented stories about our little friends who inhabit the garden wall. I tell Jamie and Lissa tales about Algernon, the friendly black snake, who has a weakness for chocolate-covered cherries and wishes he owned a candy store; about Tabitha and Henry, the two chipmunks, married with no children, who want to adopt; and about Angelica, the baby bunny rabbit, who harbors an ambition to be in the Fifth Avenue Easter Parade.