Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair

  Walking into my little sitting room next door, I sat down and stared at my painting of Lissa and Jamie, then my eyes automatically swung to Andrew’s portrait above the fireplace.

  Though my grief was held in check, my sorrow contained, my longing for them had not lessened. There was an aching void inside and, at times, moments of genuine despair. And busy though I was with Indian Meadows, loneliness was a familiar companion.

  Last year I had finally found the courage to sort through Jamie’s and Lissa’s clothes and toys. I had given everything away—to Nora’s family, Anna’s friend, and the church. But I had been unable to part with my children’s two favorite possessions, Oliver, Lissa’s teddy bear, and Derry, Jamie’s dinosaur.

  Going to the bookshelves, I took down these well-cuddled toys and buried my face in their softness. Memories of my children momentarily overwhelmed me. My throat suddenly ached, and I felt the rush of tears. Blinking them away, I took firm hold of myself, placed the toys in their places, and went into the adjoining bathroom.

  After pinning up my hair under a cap, I took a quick shower. A few minutes later, as I toweled myself dry, I found myself glancing at the corner of the bathtub near the taps, as I frequently did. I had never found my art knife, after it had vanished the night I planned to kill myself. What had happened to it? It was a mystery, just as the empty tub and the open kitchen door were also mysteries.

  Recently I had confided in Sarah, who had listened to me attentively.

  When I had finished my tale, she had been silent for a moment or two, and then she had said, “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for these things, but I like to think it was something inexplicable, like a special kind of intervention, or perhaps the house itself looking after you.”

  Sarah and I had long agreed that there was an especially wonderful atmosphere in the house these days. It seemed to us that it was more benign and loving than it had ever been, and there was an extraordinary sense of peacefulness within its old walls.

  “It’s a house full of loving, friendly ghosts, just as Andrew once said,” Sarah had murmured to me only last weekend. We had stared at each other knowingly then, as we realized we were thinking the same thing: Andrew, Jamie, and Lissa were present in the house, for it was alive with our memories of them.

  Once I had dressed in my usual working clothes of jeans, a T-shirt, jacket, and penny loafers, I went downstairs.

  After putting on the coffee, I drank a glass of water, picked up the bunch of keys for the shops, and went outside. I stood looking around, breathing the air. It was fresh, redolent of dew-laden grass and green growing things; the scent of lilac planted around the house wafted to me on the light breeze.

  It was going to be a pretty day, I could tell that. The sky was clear, unblemished by clouds, and it was already pleasantly mild.

  As I struck out toward the ridge, a bevy of small brown birds flew up into the sky, wheeling and turning into the haze of blueness soaring above me. I heard their twittering and chirping as I walked, and in the distance there was the honk-honk of Canada geese.

  Since I had plenty of time this morning before opening up the shops, I sat down on the wrought-iron seat under the apple tree. Like the lilacs, this too was beginning to bloom, bursting with green leaves and delicate little white buds. Soon it would be in full flower.

  Mommy’s Place. That was what Andrew had always called this spot. I settled back against the seat and closed my eyes, and I heard their voices clear and resonant, saw their images so vividly in my head. They were here with me, as always. Safe in my heart.

  This was the fourth birthday I had spent without Andrew and the twins. I knew from past experience that it would be a sad day for me, just as their birthdays and special holidays were always tinged with sorrow, hard for me to bear without them.

  And yet despite my pain and loneliness, I had managed to go on living. One day I had finally come to understand that no one could really help me or do it for me. I had to find my courage myself.

  To do this I had reached deep inside myself, gone to the very core of my being, the center of my psyche, and there I had found hidden resources, a strength I had never known existed in me. And it was this strength of character, and a determination to start anew, to make some sort of life for myself, that had propelled me forward, brought me to where I stood today.

  Perhaps it was not the best place, but given the circumstances of my life, it was a good place to be. I was healthy mentally and physically; I had managed to open a business, become self-supporting, pay off my debts, and keep the house I loved. I had even been able to reduce the loans from my parents, Diana, and David. By the end of the summer I would retire the loans in full, I was certain of that.

  You’re making it, Mal, I said under my breath. You’re not doing badly at all.

  I got to my feet and went down the hill toward the compound of barns. As I drew closer, I noticed that the pond was alive with wildlife this morning, mostly the mallard ducks and a few geese. Later in the summer the blue heron would come and pay us a visit, as it usually did. We had all grown attached to it, awaited its arrival eagerly. And brief though its stay was, we loved having it with us. It had become a sort of mascot, and I was thinking of using the name Blue Heron for another label, a line of locally crafted baby clothes.

  Unlocking the door of Lettice Keswick’s Kitchen, the café-shop, I went inside and was instantly greeted by the delicious smells of apples and cinnamon.

  Switching on the light, I stood in the doorway for a second, admiring the café. Painted white, with dark beams floating above, it had a new floor of terra-cotta tile, so much easier to keep clean, we had discovered, and bright red-and-white checked curtains at the few small windows. It was fresh, cheerful, and inviting, with many green plants everywhere and metal shelving filled with our specialties.

  Walking forward, I let my eyes roam over some of the shelves stocked to the hilt with jars and bottles of the Lettice items. Marvelous jams and jellies—apple and ginger, rhubarb and orange, plum and apple, apricot, blackberry and apple, pear and raspberry. There were jars of mincemeat, lemon curd, chutneys, pickled onions, red cabbage, beets, and walnuts, and piccalilli, a mustard pickle which was a favorite of mine and which originally hailed from Yorkshire.

  Also, we carried a small selection of pastas, wild rice, and couscous, imported English biscuits, and French chocolates. And Nora’s pasta sauces, recent additions.

  She had turned out to be something of a miracle in the kitchen, and had found her true vocation. Aside from the pasta sauces, mostly with a tomato base, she made all of the other Lettice products in our own café kitchen. I was very proud of her and of her cooking.

  The Lettice Keswick line had caught on quickly, become a huge success here in the shop and in the catalogue. The latter, which Sarah and I had started seventeen months ago, had been another big hit, so much so we were both still reeling.

  Only last week I had had to hire three new employees to work in the packing and dispatching department; Eric had taken on two new waiters for the café, since I had just promoted him. He had become the manager of the shops and the café and was now in charge of the twelve other people who worked at Indian Meadows.

  Pushing open the kitchen door, I glanced inside. Everything shone brightly in the early-morning sunlight; I nodded to myself, went on upstairs, gave the cookware and tabletop shop a cursory glance, and headed back to the main floor.

  Once outside again, I paid a visit to the Indian Meadows Boutique, unlocked the door, looked inside quickly, and then progressed to the Kilgram Chase Gallery.

  Although I loved all of my shops and all of my products, in a funny sort of way this little gallery was my favorite. Perhaps this was because it was reminiscent of Yorkshire and Andrew’s childhood home. In any case, it had been well patronized so far, and it was hard for me to keep the merchandise in stock. Everything was sold before I could turn around to order more.

  The gallery’s biggest hit, though, had bee
n and still was Lettice Keswick’s Journal, published under my Kilgram Chase Press imprint last summer. In the year it had been out, it had sold almost thirty-five thousand copies in the gallery and through the catalogue. Sarah told me that her friends in publishing in New York were quite astounded, although they were admiring of the book and found it fascinating. Apparently so did everyone else.

  Once more, I gave the gallery only a cursory glance and, closing the door behind me, made my way back to the house. Things down here were in good order; at seven Anna would be floating around, at nine Eric and Nora would arrive, and by nine-thirty the rest of the workers would be here.

  As I walked up the hill, I told myself yet again how lucky I had been with the business. Every different project had worked well here. Each of the shops was a success; all of our products were popular; the catalogue just grew and grew; and the café was a runaway success with locals and strangers alike. Whenever I mentioned the word lucky to Sarah, she would guffaw loudly. “If you call working twelve to fourteen hours a day, seven days a week for over two years lucky, then yes, you have been,” she would exclaim. “Mal, you’ve made Indian Meadows the success it is because you’ve worked nonstop around the clock, and because you have tremendous business sense. You’re one of the smartest retailers I’ve ever met.”

  Of course she was right in certain ways. I had poured all of my energy and drive into Indian Meadows, and I had been highly focused. Tunnel vision had turned out to be a handy asset to have.

  But despite all of the hard work, not only on my part, but on the part of the entire staff, I still believed in the element of luck. Everyone needed a bit of it, whatever the business or artistic venture.

  When I got back to the house, I stopped at one of the white lilac trees and broke off a small branch. I carried it into the kitchen. I filled an old jam jar with water, tore off stems of the lilac, and arranged them in the jar, then I carried the jar outside.

  I made for the huge maple tree near my studio, where I had buried my family’s ashes on August 19, 1989. Kneeling down, I removed the jar of drooping flowers from within the small circle of stones I had arranged three years ago and replaced it with the jar of lilacs.

  I knelt there for a moment, staring down at the flat paving stone made of granite, which I had placed there in October of that same year.

  Engraved upon its dark surface were their names.

  Andrew, Lissa, and Jamie Keswick. And Trixy Keswick, their beloved pet. And underneath was the date of their murders, December 11, 1988, and below the date were those beautiful words of Rupert Brooke’s, which my father had recited to me the morning I had laid them to rest:

  “There shall be in that rich earth a richer dust concealed.”

  * * *

  “Happy birthday, Mal,” Nora said, coming into the kitchen.

  “Thanks, Nora,” I answered, swinging around.

  She came forward, gave me a quick hug, and then stepped away.

  Eric, who was behind her, said, “Happy birthday, Mal,” and thrust a big bunch of flowers at me. “We thought you’d like these, your favorites.”

  “Thank you so much, it’s so sweet of you both.” I took them from him, hugged him, and lowered my face to smell the white lilac, tulips, narcissi, and daffodils wrapped in cellophane paper and tied with a big yellow bow. “They’re beautiful. I’ll put them in water.”

  “No, I’ll do that!” Nora exclaimed, taking them from me before I could protest and marching over to the sink.

  Turning to Eric, I said, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  He shook his head. “No, thanks, though. I should get down to the café, I’m running a bit late this morning.”

  “Yes, you’d better do that,” I shot back. “Otherwise the boss might be mad at you.”

  He grinned, saluted, and hurried out.

  Nora stood at the sink, arranging the flowers.

  I sat down at the kitchen table and took a sip of my second cup of coffee.

  Nora said, “I see you mother’s car is out front. Did she stay over last night?”

  “Yes, she did. She wanted to be here for my birthday today. Sarah took Mr. Nelson back to the city.”

  “I’m glad they were all here yesterday for lunch . . . it was nice, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, thanks to you and all the lovely things you made.”

  “Oh, I didn’t do much, Mal,” she murmured. “Anyway, it was my pleasure.”

  “I thought I’d bring my mother down to the café at about twelve-thirty today, Nora. After lunch she’s got to drive back to New York.”

  “Can I make you something special?”

  I shook my head. “My mother loves your Cobb salad, and so do I. Why don’t we have that?”

  “No problem.” She pushed the last spray of lilac into the vase she had found on the draining board, swung her head, and asked, “Where do you want me to put these?”

  “In the sunroom, I think, since I spend so much time there.”

  She carried the vase of the flowers away, came back to the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, and stood drinking it near the sink. After a moment she said, “I liked that woman your father brought by yesterday. Miss Reece-Jones. Is he going to marry her?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t ask me, Nora, I’ve no idea.”

  “Pity, if he doesn’t. They seem well suited.”

  “I think they are.” I studied her over the rim of my mug. Nora had always had a way of zeroing in on people, making quick and accurate assessments of them. She was rarely wrong.

  After rinsing out the mug, she said, “Got to get down to the café kitchen. See you later, Mal.”

  “Thanks again for the flowers, Nora. It was so thoughtful of you and Eric.”

  She nodded. “Try and have a nice day.” she said quietly, then hurried out.

  Over lunch at the café, I said to my mother, “Do you think Dad will marry Gwenny?”

  My mother stared at me for the longest moment before answering. Finally, she said, “No, I don’t think he will. But I wish he would. She’s very nice.”

  “Yes, she is, everyone seems to like her. But why do you think he won’t get married?”

  My mother bit her lip, looked reflective for a moment, then she said slowly, choosing her words with care, “Because your father’s a bachelor at heart.”

  “Oh, so it’s nothing to do with Gwenny, you just think he prefers to be single?”

  “Put succinctly, yes.”

  “But he was married to you.”

  “True, but he was never there—” She cut off her sentence and gave me an odd look.

  “Dad wants his cake, and he wants to eat it too, is that what you’re trying to say, Mom?”

  “No, I’m not, actually. I don’t mean to imply that your father is a womanizer, or that he’s promiscuous, because he’s neither. He’s just . . . a bachelor at heart, as I told you a minute ago. He prefers to be on his own, free to roam the world, digging about in ancient ruins, doing as he pleases. He’s a bit of a loner, you know. If some woman comes along, and he likes her, well, then, I suppose he gets involved. But basically, he doesn’t want to be tied down. I think that sums it up.”

  “I see. Well, I guess you should know,” I murmured, pushing my fork into the Cobb salad.

  My mother watched me for a moment or two and then said, “Yes, I really do know all about your father, Mallory, and perhaps now is the time to discuss my marriage to him. I know it’s bothered you for years, I mean, the fact that we separated when we did.”

  “No, not that, Mom, not that at all! I don’t understand why Dad was always away when I was a child growing up. Or why we didn’t go with him.”

  A small sigh escaped her. “Because he didn’t really want us to go along on his digs, and anyway, as you got older you had to go to school. Here in the States. He insisted you were educated here, and so did I, to be truthful.”

  “So he went away on these extended trips for his work, and came back when he felt like it. Ho
w could you put up with that, Mom?”

  “I loved him. And actually, Edward loved me, and he loved you, Mal, he really did. You were the apple of his eye. Look, I strove very hard to hold our marriage together, and for a very long time.”

  “You say he went off on his digs, and I understand. After all, that’s his work. But there were other women when I was little, weren’t there?”

  “Eventually,” she admitted.

  I confided in her then. I told her about my memories of that Fourth of July weekend so long ago, when I had been a little girl of five; told her how that awful scene in the kitchen and their terrible quarrel had stayed with me all these years. Buried for so long because it was so painful and only recently resurrected, jolted into my consciousness four years ago.

  She listened and made no comment when I finished.

  My mother simply sat there silently, looking numb and far away, gazing past me into space.

  At last she said, in a low, saddened voice, “A friend, I should say a so-called friend, told me Edward was having an affair with Mercedes Sorrell, the actress. I’m ashamed to admit that I believed her. I was young, vulnerable. Poor excuses. But anyway, I became accusatory, vile, really, and verbally abusive to your father. You remember that only too well, it seems. It was jealousy, of course. Later I discovered that it wasn’t true. It had been a lie.”

  “But there were other women, Mom,” I persisted. “You said that yourself.”

  “I suppose there were sometimes, when he was away on a dig for six months or longer. But it was me he loved.”

  “And that’s why you stayed with him all those years?”

  She nodded. “Anyway, your father fought hard against the separation, resisted it for a long time, Mal.”

  “He did?” I said, my eyes opening wider. I stared at her.

  My mother stared back.

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” she said after a second’s pause. “And yes, he did resist the separation; what’s more, he never wanted a divorce. Not only that, we continued to have a relationship for a long time after we separated.”