Return to Peyton Place (38 page)

Looking back on it, Connie thought it was probably Matt who had broken the ice and started things moving again. She walked home with a livelier step, and when she opened the door she was struck by the stagnant odor of the house. It smells like a place where life has come to a standstill, she thought. It's wrong, it's all wrong. I must do something.

As she passed the living room she saw Allison lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, her eyes full of nothingness. Connie went into the kitchen and began to heat the coffee.

She went to the living-room door and said to Allison, “I'm heating the coffee. Would you like a cup?”

“I don't care.”

“Well, have one then, darling. I like company.”

She filled the cups and brought them in and set them on the coffee table next to Allison's sofa. Allison sat up and Constance sat down beside her.

“It's cold out,” Connie said. “And I think it's going to snow. I'll be glad when this year is over and Mike will be able to stop commuting to White River. It's only nine miles, but when winter comes I begin to worry.”

Allison did not say anything.

Connie sipped her coffee. “Mmm, that tastes good. I needed something hot. Would you like some cookies?”

“No, thank you, Mother.”

Connie looked up then and saw the first snowflakes flatten themselves against the windowpane. Allison followed her glance, saw the snow and got up. She went to the window and looked out.

Allison had lost weight. Her face had lost the last of its youthful flesh. Looking at her, Connie thought, You're a woman now, Allison. She followed Allison to the window. They stood side by side and looked out at the snow falling from the dense, low, late afternoon sky.

“Why is snow always exciting?” Allison asked, hardly realizing she was speaking aloud.

“Maybe it's because it reminds us of childhood,” Connie said, “of the days when the world was our oyster and life was a beautiful dream without end.”

“It has ended for me,” Allison said, and, throwing her arms around her mother, she began to cry. Constance held her close and stroked her hair.

“Cry, baby,” she said, “cry.” She held her daughter in her arms and thought, She's crying the last of her youth way. Perhaps after the shock of being born, Constance thought, there comes the shock of realizing one is adult, of accepting age and its responsibilities and surrendering to the idea of death.

“Oh, Mother,” Allison sobbed. “I loved him. I loved him.”

Then Constance led her to the sofa and held her hand. They looked at the fire, and Allison spoke at last and told Connie all about herself and Lewis.

When she was finished, Constance kissed her and dried her tears. Then she said, “Now you must live for him, Allison. And don't think you're the first woman who ever had to make that decision. You haven't a child to live for, as I had. But you have your talent. You must start working again, darling.”

“I'm going to try, Mother. I'm going to try.”

And in the days that followed she did try. As the snow fell and drifted around the house, she sat for hours before her typewriter, staring at the blank, white paper. But what little she wrote she scratched out. It's so hard to get back into it, she thought. Usually she ended up by drawing pictures on her note pad.

“But at least,” Connie said to Mike, “at least she's trying. And she's talking more.”

Mike was home all day now, for Christmas vacation had begun; his determinedly cheerful presence was good for Allison. They spent hours sitting at the kitchen table talking about Allison's work, and her inability to get her second novel started.

“Maybe I've got second novel fever,” Allison said.

“Could be,” Mike granted. “But I think writing is like any other job. When you've been away from it for a long time, it takes a while to get back into the swing of it. You're not so different from the lumberman who has had a three months' layoff. He has to get his muscles toned up again, and you've got to get your mind and temper toned up.”

“Sometimes I think I'm written out and don't have anything more to say.”

Mike laughed. “If you never moved out of Peyton Place, you'd have enough material to keep you going for two lifetimes.”

On Christmas Day, surrounded by the debris and litter of gift wrappings, they were having dinner when there was a sharp rapping on the door.

Mike raised his eyebrows and stood up. Constance said, “Now who can that be?”

“Probably some kids out for tricks or treats,” Mike said. Bending down quickly, he kissed Constance and said, “And a Happy Halloween to you, my dear.”

“Oh, if I only had something to throw,” Connie said, as he walked to the front door. The rapping continued and Mike shouted, “I'm coming, I'm coming.”

There was a silence after the door had been opened. Then they heard Mike say, “You are either Rita Moore or the loveliest apparition I've ever seen.”

Allison jumped to her feet as she heard Rita's clear, ringing laugh.

“It can't be anyone else,” said Allison to her mother's inquiring look.

Rita swept into the room. She was wearing a black greatcoat lined with fur, its high, wide collar framing her beautiful face that glowed with the cold.

“Well, I'm glad to see you on your feet,” she said to Allison. “I heard in New York that you were doing the Elizabeth Barrett Browning bit.” And before Allison could answer, Rita turned to Mike and handed him the wicker hamper she was carrying. “Here, Mr. MacKenzie, it's full of champagne and I don't think it will have to be cooled. The taxi I took from White River was refrigerated.”

“Taxi!” Allison said. “How did you get anyone to drive you over here on Christmas Day?”

“Not only drive me over, darling. But he's going to wait at some crony's house and then drive me back in time to catch the Boston train. And it cost me only twenty-five dollars, one autograph and my best smile.”

Mike stood next to her with the hamper of champagne in his hands. “You should have phoned, Miss Moore. I'd have been glad to come over for you.”

“Oh, Mr. MacKenzie,” Rita said, “you are nice.”

“He's like that all the time. A regular boy scout,” Constance said.

“You've gathered, Rita, that these are my parents,” Allison said. “Mike and Constance Rossi.”

“Rossi,” said Rita. She turned to Mike. “And I've been calling you MacKenzie. I am sorry.”

“Oh, that's all right,” Mike said. “Of course, I'd have killed anyone else.” Mike took the hamper into the kitchen.

Rita joined them at the table.

“Now,” Allison said, “what in the world are you doing here of all places?”

“Well, I was in New York and I heard about your smashup and I just decided I wanted to have a good old-fashioned white Christmas dinner and so I came. Besides, I've been curious about the background of your story.”

“How does it look to you?”

“It looks awfully like New England,” said Rita. “Is it supposed to? I mean, when anything is so like I expect it to be, I'm sure it must be a fake.”

Mike came in with the champagne and four glasses. “By the time we've finished this bottle, Miss Moore,” he said, “I'm going to be able to tell you just how much I adore you. Right here in front of my wife I shall tell you.”

“That's the best way,” Rita said. “It's no good having secrets from your wife.”

“That's the way I figure it too,” Mike said.

“And after the second bottle,” Connie said, “you can take off your shirt and show our guest your tattoo. You know, dear—the one with the beard that says ‘Rita and Mike Forever.'”

“You mustn't be edgy, dear,” said Mike to Connie. “I plan on going off with Miss Moore for only a year or two. But I am definitely coming back to you.”

“That's what I call devotion,” Connie said. And she was thinking, I could kiss you, Rita Moore. Because Allison was laughing. She was alive again, and it was because of Rita, walking into the house so unexpectedly, and bringing with her the bracing air of the outside world.

It was the world that Allison had been trying to hide from, that she had been unwilling and afraid to face. It had brought her a success that frightened her, and a love that had ended in tragedy.

When they had finished the second bottle, Connie said to Rita, “I know this will break your heart, but I'm going to take Mike away now. I think you'll want to spend some time alone with Allison.”

“I suspect I'm being taken off to the kitchen to be put to work.” He headed toward the kitchen door, saying, “The next sound you hear will be the sound of breaking china.”

“They're nice,” Rita said. “You've had more luck than most of us, Allison.”

Allison made a gesture with her hand, as if to say, That's what you think, and she smiled a bitter smile.

“Full of self-pity, aren't you, kid? You smashed up and your man got killed, and now you're hurt because the whole world didn't crumple up and die with you. And if you stay here much longer, it'll go right on without you, for good and all.”

“I'm trying to get back to work again, Rita. It just won't come.”

Allison's hand was on the table. Rita reached across and tapped it with her long tapering finger. “It will come,” she said, emphasizing each word with a finger tap. “It will come because it must. This is the final lesson, Allison. That is what success means for people like us— that when everything else is gone, friends and lovers and husbands, we have got our work. It's the only constant thing in our lives. And when we betray our talent, then we might as well give up and return to the original chaos.”

She emptied the champagne bottle into their two glasses.

“I've got to get back to White River. My lovesick taximan is probably frozen to death by now. And besides, my husband is waiting for me at the White River Hotel.”

“Are you married again, Rita?”

“I've been married for two weeks, child. If you weren't snowbound in the Rockies, you'd have heard about it.”

“Are you happy?”

“Well,” Rita said. “I don't know what's happy any more. I tell you, love, we're cozy together. We understand each other. And it's a nice change. I mean, Jim isn't a fairy and he isn't a gigolo. He's really the first husband I've had in years who works for a living. Some morning I'm almost tempted to get up and pack his little lunch pail for him.”

“I'm glad you came, Rita. You've helped me a lot,” Allison said.

“Now how did I do that?” Rita asked.

“By reminding me,” Allison said, “that the world isn't full of mobsters waiting to cut me down. And by showing me that work will exorcise all the ghosts that haunt me.”

“Here's to Love and Work,” Rita said, raising her glass.

“I'll drink to that,” Allison said.

The taxi horn sounded, a loud blast that shattered the silence of the snow. Mike and Constance came out of the kitchen. Mike helped Rita into her coat. She kissed Allison good-by. “There are a lot of people working for you, love. Don't ever forget that.”

Allison went to the window and watched Rita walk down the snow-filled walk to the waiting taxi. She felt the cold through the glass and leaned her head against it.

I won't forget, Allison said. And I won't disappoint you.

She stood at the window and watched till Rita's taxi was out of sight, then she went to the kitchen door and looked in on Mike and her mother.

“I'll be up in my room, working, if you want me for anything,” Allison said.

Constance smiled. “I think we'll manage, dear.”

They watched her walk up the stairs to her rooms. Constance sighed her relief, and as Mike took her in his arms, she said, “Happy New Year, darling. I have the feeling it's going to be a great year.”