Within Reach (5 page)

“I get exercise. I walk wherever I can.”

“I’m talking about
organized
exercise.”

“I have ballet class three times a week.”

“That’s not a particularly social activity.”

Finally Danica understood. “You’re wrong there too, Mom,” she offered gently. “I’ve met some wonderful people dancing. Granted, they may not be the same type I’d be playing tennis with at the club, but they’re every bit as stimulating, if not more so. They’re refreshing. I like them.”

If she had been trying to make a statement, it went right over her mother’s head. Eleanor had evidently written off that particular subject. “Well, I hope so. By the way, did you know that Hiram Manley’s brother died?”

Later, walking back across the Public Garden, more slowly this time, Danica thought about the two hours she had just spent with her mother. She had looked forward to them as she always did. As always, though, anticipation exceeded reality. She wished Eleanor was the type of mother with whom she could share her heart and soul, but she wasn’t. Eleanor wouldn’t understand. As a result, Danica felt the same frustration, the same loneliness she always felt where her parents were concerned.

All her life she had hoped it would change. When she was a young child in the care of hired help, she had dreamed of the day when she would be old enough to travel with her parents. But when she had been old enough, she’d been sent to boarding school, then to live and train at Armand Arroah’s tennis academy, then to college. Even now, a grown woman married to a good friend of her father’s, she found family warmth to be elusive.

Pausing at the apex of the footbridge over the pond, she was staring into the dark water when a movement at its edge caught her eye. A young child, his mother kneeling beside him, was offering torn bits of bread in jerky thrusts to the congregating pigeons. From time to time he stole a bite himself, then fed one to his mother. Both were bundled against the wind, which ruffled the water in random gusts. Neither seemed to mind the chill.

Danica guessed the little boy to be three and tried to remember what she had been doing when she was three. She couldn’t. But she’d been in nursery school when she was four, and she had vague memories of that. By the time she was five she was enrolled in an exclusive private school in the suburbs of Hartford and was spending her summers at a select day camp. Her memory made little differentiation between the two. There were loud groups of children at each and a certain amount of regimentation. She played at friends’ houses, had friends home to play at hers. There was a jumble of birthday parties and clowns and magic shows, frilly dresses and Mary Janes.

When it came to memories of specific events, she had very few. She did remember going to Elizabeth Park to feed popcorn to the fish, though. Now she wondered what kind of fish ate popcorn; then she had simply been overjoyed by the fact. But it hadn’t been her mother who had braved the cold to share her excitement, who had set aside an afternoon to spend in unrushed play with her child. It had been the housekeeper.

Danica watched the little boy throw the last of his bread to the birds, then bat his mitten against his snowsuit. Moments later, when his mother swept him up into her arms and hugged him tightly before starting off down the path, she felt a pang of envy—envy of the child who had such a loving mother, envy of the mother who had such a warm, cuddly child.

Starting off toward Charles Street, she vowed that if she had a child, things would be very different from when she had been young. Money didn’t buy happiness. Neither did power. She didn’t care what obligations she had to cancel. She would spend time with her child.

Just thinking about it brought a lump to her throat. She had so much love to give, so much love to give that she sometimes thought she’d burst.

Chilled by the time she let herself into the town house, she settled into the leather couch in the den, tucked her legs under an afghan and watched while Marcus built a fire. When Mrs. Hannah brought her a cup of tea, she let it steep while she held it and absorbed its warmth. Only when she removed the tea bag and propped it on the saucer did she examine its tag.

“Happiness is a way station between too much and too little,” she read and smiled her sad agreement.

three

d
ANICA MADE THE TRIP TO KENNEBUNKPORT IN record time. It wasn’t that there was no traffic, for there had been. It wasn’t that she’d been in a hurry, for she hadn’t been. But she had been angry. And much as her better sense told her to slow down, she had found perverse satisfaction in stepping on the gas.

Even now, having left the highway at Kittery for the shore route, she burned when she thought of Blake. Over and over she replayed the conversations they’d had regarding the trip they were to have made together.

“Blake?”

“Mmmm?” He had been looking in the mirror read-justing the knot of his necktie.

“How does next Wednesday sound for taking a drive to Maine?”

He had stuck his chin up and tugged some more. “Next Wednesday, uh, next Wednesday’s fine.”

“It’s still a week off. We could make it Tuesday or Thursday if you’d rather.”

“Nope.” He had smiled at his image. “Wednesday’s okay.”

That weekend she had asked him again. “Blake?”

“Hmmm?” This time he had been engrossed in the Sunday paper.

“Is Wednesday still okay?”

“Wednesday?”

“Maine?”

“Oh.” He had noisily turned the page. “As far as I know it’s fine.”

On Tuesday morning, unable to help herself, she had raised it a third time. “Blake?” He had been in the library making a fast phone call before leaving for work.

“Yes, Danica.”

His slight impatience hadn’t deterred her. It wasn’t often she asked things of him, but their driving together to Maine meant a lot. “I’m counting on you for tomorrow.”

“I know,” he had said evenly and had been out the door soon after.

Late that afternoon, though, he had called from the office, announcing that he had to fly to Atlanta in the morning instead. She hadn’t argued then or later when he came home to pick her up for a dinner party. She had been the patient, understanding wife right through the moment when she had kissed him goodbye and waved him off to the airport.

Inside she was seething.

Now, approaching the house she had set such stock in, she felt the anger finally sweeping away. In its place was an overwhelming hurt, an abject loneliness, a sense of loss. She’d had a dream—for years and years, it seemed—but it didn’t look like it was going to come true.

Pulling from the main road onto the curving driveway, she brought the Audi to a halt before the front door of the house. Either her timing was particularly good, or having turned off the car, she simply relinquished the taut hold she’d had on herself. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and unable to do anything else, she draped both hands over the steering wheel, dropped her head forward and cried.

Michael Buchanan had quietly kept an eye on the Lindsay house since the day he had last seen Danica. Oh, yes, he knew who she was now. A quick call to the realtor had given him the identities not only of Danica’s husband but also of her father. A more lengthy call to his sister, Cilla, who lived and worked in Washington, had told him more. Anything else he learned had come from a study of newspaper microfilms on file at the public library.

Danica Lindsay was very definitely off-limits. Not only was she married, but she was the daughter of a man his father had never seen eye to eye with.

Still, he hadn’t been able to put from mind the image of her standing so alone on the sand. He hadn’t been able to forget the haunted look he had caught on her face before she composed herself. The realtor, his sister, the papers, had given him biographical facts. What they hadn’t touched on was whether she was happy.

And he cared. Something had happened that morning on the beach, and he couldn’t turn his back on it.

Okay, fine. So he couldn’t court her as he would have liked. But she was going to be his neighbor for whatever period of time she chose to spend in Maine. And he intended to be her friend.

For a while all he had seen when he passed her house had been pick-up trucks and vans in the driveway. Lately, though, they had been there less often. Today there were none.

But there was a car, and on sheer instinct he knew it was hers. It fit her…a silver Audi coupe…classy, sporty but dignified. He saw the red brake lights go off and he knew she was in the car. At the end of her driveway he pulled up and watched, unable to see much more than a shadow in the driver’s seat. When the shadow seemed to wither into itself, he frowned. Then, driven as much by confusion as by concern, he climbed from his Blazer and walked up the drive.

The morning’s brightness was his ally. With each step he took, the shadow in the front seat of the Audi took on greater color and form. Danica. Wrists dangling over the top of the steering wheel. Blond head fallen against her arms. Shoulders quaking.

He picked up his step, trotting the last few yards, then, as softly as his thudding heart would allow, tapped two fingers against her window.

She looked up with a start and he saw her tears.

He felt a tightening inside. He tried to open the car door, but it was locked from the inside and Danica had put her head back down on her arms. She was frightened. No, embarrassed. But he didn’t want her to hide. Not from him.

Again he rapped softly on the window. “Danica? Are you all right?” Her shoulders lifted. She seemed to be trying to get control of herself. Either that or she was crying all the harder. He didn’t know which and spoke with a hint of panic. “Open the door, Danica.”

Blotting her eyes with one hand, she opened the door with the other. Taking a shuddering breath, she laid her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes.

Michael pulled the door open all the way and hunkered down. “What’s wrong?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and furrowed her brow as if she were in pain.

“Are you sick?”

She shook her head and held up a hand. “Give me a minute.”

On instinct he lifted his hand and closed it around hers. Her fingers curled around his thumb and held tight.

He spoke very softly. “Right about now I think I’m supposed to whip a neatly folded handkerchief out of my pocket to give you. At least that’s what a real gentleman would do.” He stuck his hand in his jacket pocket and, even as he drew out a crumpled super-market check-out slip, knew there was no point in looking further. He had never been one for neatly folded handkerchiefs. “Guess I’d strike out as a real gentleman. Have you got any Kleenex?”

She released his hand and turned in the seat to fumble in her pocketbook. Moments later she was pressing a tissue under first one eye, then the other.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be silly. We all have our moments. Something upset you, that’s all.” He glanced around. Hers was the only car in sight and the house looked deserted. “Is there anyone I can call?” She shook her head. “You’re alone.” Fresh tears welled in her eyes. “Ahhhh. And that’s the problem, or part of it, at least?”

Chin tucked to her chest, eyes closed again, she pressed a finger to the spot between her eyes and nodded. When once more she was composed, she sniffled and looked up. “I was really hoping my husband would come. At the last minute he rushed off to Atlanta on business.”

“I’m sure he had to,” Michael offered gently. “From what I understand, he’s an important man.” When Danica looked up in surprise, he smiled. “I know who your husband is. And your father. You weren’t planning on keeping them a secret forever, were you?”

She responded to his gentle teasing. “It was kind of nice to be a nobody for that little while we talked.”

Michael wondered if she remembered “that little while we talked” as clearly as he did. He had spent many an hour thinking about it. “You would never be a nobody.”

“You know what I mean. Not Blake Lindsay’s wife. Not William Marshall’s daughter. It isn’t often that I get to be with people who see me for
me
.”

“I will.”

Somehow she knew it. Looking into Michael Buchanan’s eyes now, she felt the same warmth, the same lightness she had felt that first day on the beach. “I’d really like that,” she said, breaking out into a slow smile, then sniffling and looking down self-consciously. “I must look awful.”

“You look wonderful.” Very gently he brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb, then pushed himself up and held out his hand. “Come. Time to go in. That is why you’ve come—to see the house—isn’t it?”

She gave him a sheepish grin. “Right.” Putting her hand in his, she let herself be helped from the car. “My decorator’s been checking. She says things are nearly done.” For the first time she looked around, tipped her head back, took a deep breath—slightly uneven from her recent tears—of the ocean air. “Mmmm. Nice. An improvement over the last time.”

“It’s warmer. And sunny. No fog.” Michael remembered that fog and the way it had given a mystical quality to his meeting Danica. He still felt it—a kismet of sorts. Much as he told himself he was crazy, he couldn’t shake the feeling.

As they walked up the flagstone path to the door, Danica admired the landscape around the house. White pines dotted the yard, standing guard over clusters of bayberry and staghorn sumac. Though it was still too early for any of the flowering shrubs to blossom, the scrubby junipers looked fresher, in the first stages of rejuvenation.

Unlocking the door, she stepped inside, then walked slowly from one room to another in silent appraisal of the work that had been done. Michael followed her, standing in the doorway of each room she entered.

The house was almost identical to his own, which wasn’t surprising given that the same architect had designed and the same contractor built them some twenty years before. Both were of a modified Cape style, sprawling and open, fashioned to take advantage of the spectacular view of the sea. The structural changes Danica had made—breaking through walls between kitchen and living room and foyer—only served to enhance the sense of freedom and space.