Home for Love (21 page)

"Gracious, I haven't thought about any of this in years." Lucy Martin smoothed back a strand of blond-rinsed hair, tucking it firmly into her immaculate chignon. "Yes, I suppose there was quite a scandal before Mama and Papa married," she said in her careful, clipped voice. "Later they were so…settled, you know. Devoted to each other, of course."

"So your father
was
Michael." Kate tried to relax in Mrs. Martin's fussy living room. There were frilly pillows all about, and ruffles around the bottoms of the armchairs and sofa. She felt stifled in here, with the air smelling strongly of carpet deodorizer, but she had to find out about Michael and Eliza. Their story was the lifeline she'd been hanging on to these past few days. If she didn't think about them, she was afraid that the ache in her heart would completely engulf her. It was the unbearable ache of knowing that Steven didn't love her.

"Michael James Hobbes II," said Mrs. Martin. "That's all Papa had—his name and his ambition to be an actor. Not a penny to him. Well, my mother's family was utterly opposed to the match. Grandpa Trimble was making his fortune in department stores, you know. It's all gone now, unfortunately."

Kate leaned forward intently, pushing away one of the fat, frilly pillows that had worked its way under her arm. "About Eliza and Michael. How did they finally convince her family to give in?"

"They didn't." Mrs. Martin crossed her long, thin legs and smoothed her skirt. "They eloped. It was all very romantic. Mama climbed out the attic window— yes, the one in that house you're working on—and nearly broke her neck before she made it down the trellis. The family searched for her, of course, but by the time they found her, it was too late. She was already married to Papa."

"Did he go on acting?"

"All his life. He wasn't terribly successful at it. He wasn't tall or handsome enough to be a leading man with any of the major acting companies. But he was good. Yes, I believe he was quite good. And Mama always encouraged him." Mrs. Martin carefully lined up the rings on her fingers. Kate shifted as another pillow worked its way around her back.

"I'm glad—very glad to know that your parents were happy," she said.

"So am I," Mrs. Martin said with a tinkling laugh that didn't fit her tall, thin frame. "It's not the sort of thing you think about, but it's there, very comforting as you grow up. Would you like to see some family pictures?"

"Oh, yes—please."

Mrs. Martin brought out a leather-bound photo album and dusted it off. "I don't know when I looked at these last. There's Mama and Papa… that's me… my sisters Maggie and Joan…"

Eliza Rose Hobbes had a generous smile and a wealth of dark hair worn piled high on her head. Apparently she hadn't minded the fact that all that hair made her taller than Michael. He was a balding man with a distinctive handlebar mustache, very good-looking in his own way. The two of them smiled out from picture after picture, their love for each other vibrant even through the age-yellowed film. There they were posing on the wharves, biking through Golden Gate Park, glancing at the camera from a dance floor, and Eliza was wearing the burgundy ball gown Kate had found in the attic. The material fell gracefully from her broad but elegant shoulders, then swooped to the floor.

Kate's fingers hovered over the photograph. It evoked a much more recent memory, a magical moment in a hot, stuffy attic.

She perused the rest of the album with determined concentration. Pictures of Eliza's three little girls, playbills from obscure theaters that announced Michael James Hobbes in the roles of Othello or Hamlet or King Henry IV. Then a picture of the whole family with the house in the background. Kate's house, with all the bay windows, the madcap tower, the reckless profusion of gingerbread trim. Only it wasn't her house. It never really had been.

With effort she said, "Did you grow up there? On McClary Hill?"

"Yes," Mrs. Martin said. "The Trimble side of the family came round after a while. When they moved to another place, they left that house for my parents. Mama always loved it."

Kate sighed. "I know how she felt. Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Martin. Shall I send the boxes and the trunks over to you?"

"Please. I really should go through them. I had no idea they were still around." She shrugged and glanced at her watch. "You must excuse me now. I'm due for a hair appointment, and then my youngest daughter is having her engagement party tonight. So much to do…"

"Yes. Well, thank you again."

Kate walked slowly to her car from Mrs. Martin's bland, ranch-style house in San Jose. The story of Michael James and Eliza Rose was now complete for her. They had loved each other. With their quiet happiness they had faded away in their children's memories. Even the one brief scandal had been relegated to a dim little nook of the past. But that was as it should be. Their happiness had allowed Lucy Martin and her sisters to grow up healthy, to go on to their own happy and busy lives. That was what real love could do.

Kate drove away quickly, but she couldn't escape her own thoughts. She hadn't seen Steven at all since that disastrous afternoon, for he was never at the house anymore. Kate had been working feverishly with Paula and Max to complete each room.

Her hands gripped the steering wheel. Steven's silence was terrible proof that she'd done the right thing that day. If he cared for her at all, then surely he would not have disappeared so completely, so abruptly from, her life.:

She wanted to call him. A dozen times during the past, few days she had picked up the telephone to dial his office. But what would she say?

Her palm thumped down on the horn, and a startled driver glanced over at her from another car. Her body still flamed whenever she thought of that last day with Steven. And since she thought about it all the time, she was in a dangerous state. The car swerved a little.

What if she'd stayed? That question haunted her. She knew the answer—or at least part of it. She would have become Steven's, completely and irrevocably. But afterward…

She had to pull over to the side of the street. A wave of desolation swept over her, so intense that she pressed her hand to her stomach. If only Steven had loved her. Oh, why couldn't he love her?

Kate had finished all her work on Steven's house, and she walked through it one last time. The sun room was just as it should be—light and airy, a rocking chair much like Kate's own sitting in front of the rounded windows. The kitchen was cheery, too, with marigold curtains and new checkerboard tile on the floor. Everything was arranged so that Steven could cook omelets with ease.

She quickened her pace as she went out to the hall. In the corner was a magnificent old grandfather clock. She had searched all over for it, making sure it chimed loudly every fifteen minutes. She hurried past it, going up the stairs. Here was the study she'd created for Steven. The carpet was a warm Turkish red, a perfect contrast to the rich gray fabric of the recliner. Shelves had been installed all the way to the ceiling, and held some, of the books she and Steven had purchased together. Everywhere she turned there were memories. Down the hall she came to the room where the Monet print hung in a place of honor. She had built the entire room around it, using subtle shades of blue and cloud white It was a peaceful place, welcoming contemplation, but Kate could find no rest there.

Now she was confronted by the closed door of Steven's bedroom. That was the one room she hadn't even touched. That last afternoon with him, when he had swept her up and carried her there in his arms— what had it really meant to him?

She ran downstairs to the library and grabbed her briefcase. This room, in tones of orange and earthy brown, was the most inviting of all. The wainscoting was finished at last, the shelves stocked with the rest of those musty old books. The decrepit sofa had managed to retain its place, but looked jaunty in new upholstery. Above it was displayed the wall hanging she and Steven had purchased at Fisherman's Wharf.

Everything should have been perfect. Kate had created a warm, homey atmosphere throughout the house. It was the sort of place where children should pound up and down the stairs, dogs should pad through the hall, a husband and wife should kiss hello and goodbye at the front door.

Kate gripped the edge of the mantelpiece. She stared at the neat row of M&Ms lined up along it. With an inarticulate cry she swept her hand along the mantel, scattering the candies everywhere.

She fled the house and went straight to Marietta Winfield's mansion on Nob Hill. Kate was grateful that she'd been invited for tea; she was seeking any refuge she could find. Today Marietta's dark, cluttered rooms offered solace, a retreat from color and life—and therefore a retreat from pain.

Marietta's silver tea service was enormous and elaborate. The butler had to lean over backward to support the weight of it, yet he deposited it without a rattle on the table. He vanished as silently as he had come.

The teapot was awe-inspiring, engraved with a pattern of large grape leaves. Marietta grasped the handle in both hands and lifted the pot, arms trembling with the effort. Kate reached out her own hand, but then lowered it. She waited respectfully as the spout hovered in the air, dipping down at last to splash the tea into the cups.

The sugar bowl was an easier proposition. Kate took the grape-leaf tongs and helped herself to two perfect little cubes. There were bite-size sandwiches with the crusts cut off, miniature jelly rolls dusted in powdered sugar, raisin cookies in shapes of stars, slivers of carrot cake. Arranging a suitable assortment on the plates under Marietta's supervision took a long while. But Kate found herself soothed by the prolonged ritual. For a moment she could believe that taking tea properly was her only problem in the world.

"There, now." Marietta seemed satisfied at last and sat back. Her gray ringlets were caught about her ears with brown velvet ribbons, and her gown was adorned with a frivolous bit of lace at the collar.

"I just wanted to chat today, Kate—may I call you Kate? But I must confess I also have business motives. I still want you to be my interior decorator."

Kate smiled wonderingly over her teacup. "Even after the upset with Far Horizon Enterprises?"

"Most definitely." Marietta took a minute bite of jelly roll, patted her lips with a napkin and went on, "I enjoyed that thoroughly, you know. Brenda was in fits."

"I'm sorry—"

"No apologies needed." She waved her hand. "I haven't felt so energetic in years. You will take me on, won't you?"

"Only as a friend," Kate asserted. "I'll be happy to advise you on your house, and we'll work on it a bit at a time."

"I will pay you exactly what you charge everyone else. No more argument about it. You'll come to tea again," Marietta went on happily, "and you'll bring that nice gentleman, Mr. Reid."

Kate set her cup down with a little clatter. "I—I don't believe so," she stumbled, trying futilely to recover herself. Marietta set down her own cup.

"Dear me, how foolish of me. I didn't realize. Is it very serious, Kate?"

"Yes." The word came out involuntarily. She concentrated on a raisin cookie.

"Does he know?"

"He must!"

"Dear me…"

The two women were silent. Marietta stirred her tea thoughtfully, then spoke again. "I want to tell you something about the man who built this house, Kate. Joseph Winfield—my grandfather. He was one of the Bonanza Kings of the Comstock Lode. He knew how to take silver—just the
idea
of silver—and turn it into millions of dollars in stocks. He was a rascal, but he knew how to live. He knew how to face his fears head-on, even when he was a very old man. I should have been like him, I worshiped him so much. But I was a very timid, very uncertain young girl, Kate. I wasn't brave like my grandfather. Still… I fell in love. That should have given me some courage."

"And it didn't?" Kate asked softly.

Marietta shook her head until the ringlets quivered. "No. And yet I believe he could have loved me. I believe there was a possibility there, if I had known how to grasp it."

"What if you're ready to take the chance," she murmured, "and he's not?"

"I don't know what to tell you. I'm certainly not one who should give advice. But, my dear Kate, make very sure you know whose fear is stopping you. Yours or his. Make very sure. And now have another cookie:"

Kate did, then reached over and clasped the old woman's hand. "Thank you—for everything. Cookies and all."

"Then I have convinced you to come to tea—often?"

"Absolutely."

The slender, papery fingers gave Kate's hand an answering squeeze.

"Good. Tell me what I should do with that funny, lopsided lamp. Do you think I might be allowed to keep it? My grandfather was so proud of it…"

"Certainly you'll keep it. But you could put it on a new table if you like. I know just the person to provide it. Mr. Newberry is his name." She smiled, knowing instinctively that Mr. Newberry would get on very well with Marietta. He had dozens of pockets and a beagle named Fred. He would help Kate to bring some light into this house. She didn't want to think about anything else. She didn't want to think about Marietta's words, but they haunted her even as she chatted of lamp shades and curtain fringes.
Make sure you know whose fear is stopping you… make very sure
.

As Kate left Marietta's house, she forced herself to acknowledge her own fear. On her last day with Steven,
she
had been the one to run away. She hadn't been brave enough to stay and take a risk with him. Yes, the risk was monumental; perhaps Steven would never love her. But she had to give him a chance. She had to be with him, doing everything she could to convince him that he
did
love her.

Kate's heart lightened. She was suddenly filled with hope, and she spent the rest of the afternoon foraging through old bookshops. She found the ones hidden away on side streets, ancient signs with faded lettering tacked over their doors. Kate lurked in their dusty aisles, sneezing into her bandanna. She climbed ladders to the highest shelves while clerks hovered anxiously below. She shook her head and climbed back down again. But at last she found what she was looking for.