Random Winds (63 page)

“You’ve known her ten years,” Martin repeated, for no reason at all.

“Yes. It took me that long to persuade her to marry me. But I’m a persistent man.” And Simon laughed with the contentment of a man who can afford to laugh.

Martin looked up and saw the pity in Ned’s eyes. “An excellent likeness,” he said, it being necessary to say something more. He moved again toward the door. He was an interloper here, a trespasser and a thief who ought to run before he should be discovered.

“Mary will be here soon. She only went out on a few errands,” Simon said. “Can’t you possibly stay to tea?”

“Thank you. You’re very kind, but I have an appointment at my hotel and I really can’t.”

They shook hands. Martin nodded to Ned: “Perhaps I shall be seeing you in New York.” And he went out.

At the top of the rise where the road curved, he stopped the car and looked back. Through bare trees one could see the roof and one wing of Lamb House. There it lay, as it had lain for centuries. To the passerby it was a fine and honest house with nothing extraordinary about it, surely not the shimmer and glamor of the forbidden. Well, he had come for Claire, hadn’t he? And he had done his best. What happened next would not be of his making. As for the rest, the other business, he didn’t know. He couldn’t say. He could hardly feel. He was numb.

Mary came into the studio where Simon and Ned were still, arranging pictures.

“We had a visitor, darling,” Simon said. “If you took a hundred guesses, you couldn’t guess who.”

He looks so happy, Mary thought, it’s like coming home to a warm fire just to see his face when I walk in. “Well, then, you might as well tell me.”

“It was your former brother-in-law. From America. The doctor. Isn’t that strange? I invited him to tea, but he couldn’t stay.”

“Martin!” And she repeated softly, “Martin was here?” She looked at Ned.

He nodded. “He came to talk about Claire.” Ned spoke steadily and she understood that this tone was meant to steady her. “I think, Mother, I’ll go back and see her.”

Mary sat down. Her mouth trembled. She hoped no one would see it. And she said almost apologetically, “I’m just—stunned. I—seem to be shaking.”

“Well, of course!” Simon cried. “Oh, you’ve worried your mother, Ned. She may not have let us see it, but I’ve known it all along.”

“She oughtn’t to worry about me at my age.”

Mary said, “Of course I wasn’t happy about it at the beginning … Jessie and I … But, oh I do think Claire’s exceptional, and if you can work things out, why …” Her voice left her.

“Her mother
didn’t
like me at all.”

“Not you yourself, I’m sure,” Simon interposed. “Why would anyone not like you? I’m sure it was only because of that miserable feud. How a family can split itself apart over money! I’ve seen it time and again—it’s always a pity. And the longer you let a thing like that continue, the more impossible it is to mend it.”

Mary managed to collect herself. “Well, if it’s my sister who stands in the way, if that’s all, she’ll come around, Ned, no matter how she feels about me. She’d do anything for Claire, as I would for you.”

“And the father likes you, I could see that,” Simon observed. “An awfully nice chap, Mary! He took a great interest in your paintings, too.”

Ned spoke lightly. “Well, naturally, anyone who admires your work ranks on top with Simon.”

“So you’ll be leaving us! It’ll be restful here without you,” Simon joked back.

“Go to Claire,” Mary said, “if she’s what you want Even though being a doctor comes first with her, Ned, go to her. That’s what you first admired and why you were drawn to her, after all. Perhaps you’ve never thought about it like that.”

Ned bent down and kissed his mother. “I understand,” he said. “Thank you.” For a moment they looked into each other’s eyes before Mary turned away.

“I’m going up to the house,” she said. “That is, if you don’t need me here, Simon?”

“No, no. We’re almost finished. Go ahead.”

She went slowly up the path. Suddenly, not wanting to go inside, she sat down on a bench near the wall where in summer perennials would bloom. The beds were covered now with a mulch of dark wet leaves. She laid her head on the back of the bench.

Suppose he had come last year before I married Simon?
What then? Oh, Simon is everything that’s steady and good and male. There’s such peace and ease now in my heart But if he had come last year?

So many, many ifs! When we were young and that doctor with the Spanish name invited him to go on for three more years: if I hadn’t been willing to wait and he had chosen me instead, would he have come to hate me for it afterward? If. If. And if we had spent our lives together, would I still feel this softness going through me at the thought of him? I wonder. Could there possibly be any joy now between us after so much grief: after Jessie, and then that poor dead woman Ned told me about? Could there?

Always, always, what we could have done or should have done, and what we blame ourselves for having done or not having done. Do we truly have choice? Or is it all written beforehand in the stars or the genes? God knows.

Two small hot tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and she wiped them away with her knuckles. At least she could hope: maybe it will turn out well for Ned. She’s an extraordinary girl, that Claire. You have to admit that, even though the union of those two will be a burden for the rest of us. But they must do what’s right for them. They’ll only know whether it was right long years after they’ve done it.

And I? Simon and I will stay here, in this house that I love so much. After we’re gone, some movie star will probably buy it. But until then, we’ll be here. Alex would be glad to know that. Perhaps, where he is, he does know it. I used to think that was nonsense, but now that I’m older, I’m not so sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore.

“I thought you’d gone inside,” Simon said.

“I was going to, but it’s so warm and lovely here. One can almost imagine it’s summer.”

He bent and kissed her. “Mary. Mary Fern. Are you pleased about Ned?”

“Whichever way he wants it, if it works out well for him, I will be.”

“You’re a good mother, the kind of mother everyone should have and the kind of wife. Do I tell you often enough?”

“You do, my dear, yes you do.”

“I’ve been thinking, would you like to go to America?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been there since I came here to marry Alex. They say it’s so changed.”

“What doesn’t change, my darling?”

“Highways and tract houses—all built-up, I read. And still, the fall must be the same, and those hot Augusts when the grass burns brown and the locusts drill all afternoon.”

“Well go to California, take some of your work to show and have a bit of vacation at the same time. And stay in New York for a while.”

“Not New York,” she said quickly. “Let’s just pass through it. I never liked New York.”

“Whatever you say, as long as we’re together.” And he sat down on the bench beside her. In the windless afternoon not a twig stirred. A mild sun broke through the clouds, and above iron-gray winter hills, pale fire striped the sky.

Ned and Claire were to be married very quietly on a Saturday evening at Jessie’s house. Two of Claire’s friends from Smith, along with the husband of one of them and a London friend of Ned’s who was on business in New York, made the sum of the guests. Because of the smallness of this group and the resultant intimacy of the occasion, there had been tacit agreement that Martin would not be present. Instead, he was to give a little dinner for the bridal couple at his apartment the night before. To this, and for the same reason, Jessie had not been invited.

“It will be much more
comfortable
for everyone that way,” she had said sensibly, and Claire had agreed.

“That’s just what Dad said, too.”

The mantel in the library had been cleared of its ornaments. On the afternoon of the wedding Jessie covered it with a flowery spray of white: stephanotis, roses and carnations, twined together with narrow white silk bows. Claire had insisted on wearing a very simple suit, but Jessie had managed to persuade her that it ought at least to be white and silk and adorned with one of Jessie’s own handsome necklaces.

Jessie hummed. She would not have believed, some months ago, that she could actually feel happy at Claire’s wedding to this particular young man; but her terrible concern over her daughter had outweighed everything else and the sight of that daughter’s face during these last weeks had brought enough joy and ease to cancel out whatever doubts or regrets still lurked.

“The rest,” she said now, half aloud, “is in the lap of the gods. So far so good, anyway—” and she fastened the last bow.

The house was quiet. The cook was busy in the kitchen, Claire was out having her hair done and Jessie was placing
the flowers on the dining room table when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll answer, Nora!” she called.

She opened the door. Her hand was still on the knob and that steadied her in the instant of recognition.

The woman on the doorstep smiled uncertainly. “Jessie, may I come in?” asked Mary Fern.

Jessie was curled in the wing chair. She must be lost in a room without a wing chair, Fern thought.

“I didn’t come for the wedding,” she said. “I didn’t even know this was the day. Ned’s letter mentioned sometime this month but in the circumstances, naturally, we didn’t expect to be asked.”

“You have a right to come to your son’s wedding if you want to. No one told me you might want to.”

Of course. Jessie would be correct in all things. They had, after all, both been brought up to be. But what were the real thoughts in that elegant, small head and behind that cool face? Suddenly Fern was sorry she had given way to her unreasoned impulse.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. If I’m not welcome, Jessie, just say so and I’ll go.”

“Have I said you were unwelcome?” Jessie asked brusquely.

“No, but—well, you see, we’re only passing through the city … We’re flying to California Monday morning … And I was sitting at lunch just now … I had such an overpowering sense of your presence … You were not a mile away … I got up and walked out of there thinking I must see you, even for a minute, even if you were to slam the door in my face …” She stopped. Tears stung her eyes.

“Well, I didn’t slam the door in your face.”

A basket of needlepoint stood on the floor next to Jesse’s chair. She picked up the unfinished work. “I have to do something with my hands. I don’t ever seem able to sit still and do nothing.”

“Then you haven’t changed.”

“None of us ever do, do we?”

One could take that remark in many ways. Fern made no answer, and silently the two women sat, Fern stiffly and uneasily, while Jessie poked the needle in and out.

Presently Jessie spoke. “I’m told you’ve made a great success with your paintings.”

“Yes,” Fern replied simply.

“So Father was wrong! A pity he didn’t live to see himself proven wrong for once.” She looked up at Fern. “You think I’m vindictive? Maybe so, but the truth is the truth, all the same.”

“He would have been proven wrong about you, too,” Fern said gently. “Ned’s told me about you.”

“Has he?”

“Yes. And this house is lovely. Mellow, like Lamb House.”

“Hardly like Lamb House! So you’re still living there?”

“Still there. For me, after all, it’s home. And Simon loves it too.”

“You’re happy with Simon?”

“He’s very good to me. He’s strong and kind.”

“That’s not answering my question, is it?”

Fern threw her hands out. “Oh Jessie,” she said.

Jessie thrust the needlework away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m upset. You’ve upset me.”

Fern started to rise. “I know. It wasn’t a good idea. I’d better go.”

“No! Stay there! I wouldn’t forgive myself if you were to leave like this. Now that you’ve come we must finish what you’ve started.”

“Finish? How?”

“Clear it up. Freshen the air. Whatever you want to call it. What I want to say is, I’m not angry anymore. I don’t hate you, Fern. And I haven’t for a long, long time.”

Fern got up and walked to the end of the room. On a round table in a corner stood a group of photographs, mostly of Claire from babyhood to the present; among them was one of Fern’s and Jessie’s mother, her pensive face surmounted by a World War One feathered hat. For a long time Fern stayed looking at the remembered face. At last she turned back to her sister. Her voice quivered.

“I don’t know whether you’ll understand—but you’ve relieved a pain that has been so sharp—so sharp, Jessie, You can’t know.”

“Maybe I can.” Jessie stood and put her hand on Fern’s arm. “Maybe I can.”

Fern’s arms went out and Jessie’s head, which reached no higher than Fern’s shoulder, came to rest on it. Fern’s hand moved over the curly head; her other hand lay on the misshapen little back. So they stood, holding one another, while something miraculously, slowly, eased in the heart of each.

“It’s so simple after all, isn’t it?” Fern murmured. “Why didn’t we do it before?”

“I don’t know. Damn fools both, I suppose.” Jessie wiped her eyes. “Sit down and talk to me. I want to hear about your daughters. I want to know more about the man who’s going to marry my daughter. In one hour give me the story of the last twenty-five years. Can you do it?”

She can still charm, Fern thought as they talked. The wit was there as it had been years ago in Cyprus; the eagerness was there along with the laughter.

“Remember when Aunt Milly came to visit and we put the kittens in her bed?” Jessie cried.

“I wonder what Cyprus is like today?”

“I passed near it last summer on my way to a client in Buffalo but I didn’t drive through. I want to remember it as it was for us, with the tower and the iron deer and lemonade on the lawn.”

So they talked, while the hour passed. They spoke of everything and everyone except the man whose name would best remain unspoken.

Then Jessie said, “You’ll need to go back and dress for the wedding. You and Simon be here at seven, will you?”