“Oh.” She said nothing more for a moment, then she murmured thoughtfully, “I must admit, I hadn’t thought of that.” There was another brief pause. I could visualize her digesting my point. “But we did have a terrible row, Mal.”
“No doubt one he manufactured,” I replied sharply. I had never liked Thomas Preston III. An Eastern seaboard uptight WASP, he was tight with a buck as well as his emotions, high on snobbery and low on brains. He was employed by a famous private merchant bank as a vice president only because the bank bore his family name and was run by his uncle. My beautiful, generous, talented, loving Sarah deserved much better; she deserved the best. Personally, I thought Tommy Preston was the worst, a poor excuse for a man. He wasn’t even all that good-looking; at least I could’ve understood it if she’d fallen for a pretty face.
I took a deep breath. “So, when are you coming out to Connecticut? Tonight or tomorrow?”
“I’ve just arranged to take one of my buyers to dinner tonight. I’ll come sometime tomorrow, is that okay?”
“It sure is, Sashy darling. July Fourth wouldn’t be quite the same without you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
After Nora had left for the day, I toured the house as I generally do on Fridays, checking that everything was in order in all of the rooms.
I was happy with the way things looked, and even though I say so myself, the house is beautiful; I stood in the doorway of each room, admiring what I saw, taking the most intense pleasure and gratification from our home.
In the sitting room, the antiques I had so lovingly waxed and polished that morning gleamed in the soft, early-evening light, the smooth wood surfaces darkly ripe and mellow with age. The pieces of old silver on display in the small dining room glittered brightly on the sideboard, and everywhere there was the sparkle of mirrors, the shine of newly cleaned windows. The many flowering plants and vases of cut flowers, which I had placed in various strategic spots throughout the house, added splashes of intense color against the cool, pale backgrounds, and their mingled fragrances filled the air with sweetness.
There was a lovely feeling of well-being about the house tonight. It was completely ready for the holiday weekend, comfortable, warm, and welcoming, truly a home. All that was missing was my family. But they would be with me tomorrow morning, to enjoy the house and everything in it and to fill it with their happy voices and laughter. I could hardly wait for Andrew, the twins, Diana, and Jenny to arrive. Andrew was going to drive them out very early, at least so he had said before leaving for Chicago at the beginning of the week.
After a few more moments of wandering around scrutinizing everything, I ran upstairs to our bedroom. Stripping off my clothes, I took a quick shower, toweled myself dry, put on a pair of white cotton trousers and a clean white T-shirt, then tied my hair in a ponytail with a red ribbon.
Later I would make myself a bowl of spaghetti and a green salad, but right now I wanted to relax after my hard day’s work. I would call Diana to check on her and the twins and then settle down with a book.
There is a long, low room opening off one end of our bedroom, and I went into it now. I had made it mine right from the beginning when we first bought the house. It is such a peculiar shape and size, I can’t imagine what it was ever used for before, but I have turned it into a comfortable sitting room, my private inner sanctum, where I sit and think, listen to music, watch television, or read.
Because of its odd shape and size, I painted it white with just the merest hint of green in the paint mix. The pale, apple-green carpeting I chose matches the green-and-white plaid I found for floor-length draperies, the sofa, and armchairs. There are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along one wall; pretty porcelain lamps grace two tables, skirted in pale-green silk, which stand on either side of the sofa. Some of my watercolors line the walls, and above the sofa hangs the portrait in oils of the twins I painted two years ago. Another oil, this one of Andrew, takes pride of place above the mantelpiece, and so my husband and children keep me company here the entire time, smiling out at me from their gilded frames.
All in all, it’s a charming room, pleasant and inviting, with its wash of white and pale greens, a room which benefits from a great deal of sunshine in the afternoons because of its southern exposure. Yet it has a restful feeling to it, especially at this hour of the day when the sun has set and twilight begins to descend. It is one of my favorite corners of Indian Meadows, and as with the rest of the house, decorating it was a labor of love on my part.
Sitting down at the country French bureau plat, I pulled the phone toward me and dialed our apartment in New York. After speaking briefly to Diana, I wished my children a loving good night, told them I would see them tomorrow morning, and hung up.
Rising, I crossed to the sofa, stretched out on it, and picked up the book I was reading. This was two novels in one volume, Cheri and The Last of Cheri by Colette; I had always had a love of her books, and lately I had begun to read her again. And so quickly I found my place, looking forward to becoming a captive of this author’s imagination once more.
I had read only a couple of pages when I heard the sound of a car in the driveway. Putting the book down, I got up and hurried to the window, glancing at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece as I did, asking myself who it could be. Very few people came calling on me unannounced, especially at night.
Although the bright summer sky had dimmed considerably, it was still light, and much to my surprise, I saw Andrew alighting from the back of the car, his briefcase in his hand. I dropped the lace curtain, flew out of the room, and tore down the staircase at breakneck speed.
We met, he and I, in the long entrance gallery and stood staring at each other.
He had his luggage with him, and I exclaimed, “You came straight from the airport!” My surprise at his sudden unexpected arrival was quite evident.
“That’s right, I did,” he answered, eyeing me carefully.
I gazed back at him, searching his face, trying to determine his frame of mind; I wondered if he was still angry with me. I saw nothing but love and warmth reflected there, and I knew instantly that everything was all right between us.
My eyes remained fixed on his face as I asked, “But what about Jamie and Lissa, and your mother and Jenny? How are they going to get out here?”
“I’ve arranged for a car and driver to pick them up tomorrow morning, very early,” he explained, and moving toward me, he took hold of me, drew me into his arms, and embraced me tightly. “You see, I fancied an evening alone with my wife.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you did,” I exclaimed, clinging to him harder.
We stood holding each other like this without speaking for a second or two. Eventually I said quietly, “I’m sorry for being petty about Jack Underwood, or rather, about his girlfriend. I don’t mind if they come for the Fourth, really I don’t, Andrew.”
“I was petty too, Mal. Anyway, as it turns out, Jack can’t come after all. He has to fly to Paris on business, and Gina wouldn’t dream of coming alone. Listen, I’m sorry we quarreled. It was my fault entirely.”
“No, it was mine,” I protested, genuinely meaning this.
“Mine,” he insisted.
We pulled apart, looked at each other knowingly, and burst out laughing.
Bending toward me, Andrew kissed me lightly on the mouth, then taking hold of my arm, he said, “Let’s have a drink, shall we?” And so saying he propelled me in the direction of the kitchen.
“What a good idea,” I agreed and looked up at him, smiling broadly, happy that all was as it should be between my husband and me and that he and I were about to spend an evening alone together for once.
When we got to the kitchen, Andrew slipped off his jacket, undid his tie, and threw both on a chair. I took ice out of the refrigerator and made two tall glasses of vodka and tonic with wedges of lime, and handed one to him.
“Cheers, darling,” he said, clinking his drink against mine.
“Cheers,” I answered, and I
couldn’t resist ogling him over the rim of my glass. Then I winked.
He laughed, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and said, “Shall we sit on the terrace?”
“It’s a bit hot out there,” I answered, then seeing his face drop in disappointment, I added, “Oh, but why not, the garden’s so pretty at this time of day.”
“My grandmother used to call this hour the gloaming,” he remarked as we walked through the sunroom heading for the terrace beyond the French doors. “It’s an old north-country word, I think. Or perhaps it’s a Scottish term. You know my mother’s mother was originally from Glasgow, before she went to live in Yorkshire, after her marriage to Grandfather Howard. That’s why she dressed my mother in so much tartan when she was little, and then me.” He chuckled. “She loved me to wear a kilt and a sporan and a little black velvet jacket. She always chose the Seaforth Highlander’s dress tartan. Her father, my great-grandfather, had been in the Seaforths, you see.”
“Yes, you’ve told me all about your Scottish ancestry before,” I said, glancing at him over my shoulder.
He grinned at me. “Oh, sorry. I do seem to have a bad habit of repeating family history.”
“It’s not a bad habit,” I said, “just a habit, and I don’t mind.”
Once outside we settled down at the circular table with the big white canvas market umbrella, where we usually ate meals in the summer months. We sipped our drinks and were silent for a while, comfortable in this silence, as happily married people frequently are, content simply to be together. Words were not necessary. We communicated without them, as we always had. Andrew and I usually seemed to be on the same wavelength, and often he would say something I had been thinking only a few seconds before, or vice versa. I found that uncanny.
It was not as stiflingly hot outside as I’d expected it to be, now that the sun had gone down. Although the air was balmy, there was a soft breeze moving through the trees, rustling the leaves. Otherwise everything was absolutely quiet, as tranquil as it always was up here atop our lovely Connecticut hill.
The lawn which flowed away from the terrace wall on this side of the house sloped down to a copse of trees; beyond were protected wetlands and a beaver dam. Soaring above the copse and the stretch of water were the foothills of the Berkshires covered with trees densely massed and of a green so dark they were almost black tonight under that midsummer sky now completely faded. Its periwinkle blue had turned to smoky gray edging into anthracite, with wisps of pink and lilac, saffron and scarlet bleeding into one another along the rim of those distant hills.
Andrew lolled back in the chair and breathed deeply, letting out a long, contented sigh. “God, it’s so great here, Mallory. I couldn’t get back fast enough . . . to you and this place.”
“I know.” I looked at him through the corner of my eye and said in the quietest of voices, “I thought you’d call me from Chicago . . .” I let my voice trail off, feeling suddenly rather silly for even mentioning it.
A half smile flitted across Andrew’s mouth. He looked somewhat amused as he said, “And I thought you’d call me.”
“Aren’t we a couple of stubborn idiots.” I laughed, and lifting my glass, I took a sip of my drink.
He said, “I don’t know how my stubborn idiot feels about me, but I adore her.”
“And I adore mine,” I responded swiftly, smiling warmly at him.
He smiled back.
There was another small silence. After a short interval, I said suddenly, “Sarah’s broken up with the Eastern seaboard’s greatest snob.”
Andrew chuckled. “Yes, he is that. And I know about it, be—”
“How?” I cut in peremptorily.
“Sarah told me.”
“She did! When?”
“Today. I called her this afternoon, just before I left Chicago. I asked her not to come out here tonight, if that was what she was planning to do. I explained that I wanted to get you alone, to have you all to myself for a change, that I was a bit sick of sharing you with the world at large.”
Leering at me wickedly, he continued, “That’s when she said she wasn’t coming at all, because she had just finished with Tommy Preston that very morning. I’m afraid I couldn’t persuade her otherwise. She was quite adamant about staying in New York for the weekend.”
“I got her to change her mind. She’s going to drive out tomorrow sometime.”
“That’s good to hear, and I’m glad you had more success than I did. To tell you the honest truth, I’m not surprised in the least that she’s finished with Tommy. He never measured up, in my opinion.”
“I wish . . .”
“Wish what, darling?” Andrew leaned closer to me, searching my face, no doubt picking up on my wistfulness as he observed my sad expression.
“I wish that Sarah could find a really nice guy to fall in love with, so that she could get married and have babies, just as she wants to. I really do wish we knew somebody for her.”
“So do I, Mal, but we don’t. In the meantime, I think she’s quite happy in her own way. She does love her job, you know, and that’s quite a career she’s carved out for herself as fashion director of Bergman’s.”
“That’s true. Still, I do think she’d like to be married.”
“I suppose she would.” Andrew fell quiet. A thoughtful expression settled on his face; he finished his drink in a fast little gulp, put his glass on the table, and turned to me. “Talking of careers and jobs, I’ve just had another offer.”
“From the Gordon Agency again?” I asked eagerly, knowing how much he admired this advertising group.
He shook his head. “No, from Marcus and Williamson.”
I sat up a bit straighter, staring at him. “That’s a fantastic agency. What’s the offer?”
“A great one, as far as the money’s concerned. But they didn’t offer me a partnership. Unfortunately.”
“Well, they should have, you’re the best in the business,” I shot back. “And I guess you didn’t take it, did you?”
“No. I didn’t want to move just for the money. In all honesty, it would have been worth considering only if Marcus and Williamson had offered me a slice of the pie. Also, to tell you the truth, I did have rather a pang at the thought of leaving Babs.”
This was the name everyone on Madison Avenue used for Blau, Ames, Braddock and Suskind, and I did understand how Andrew felt. He had been with them for a number of years, and he was sentimentally attached. He also earned a big salary and had many privileges and benefits aside from being a partner in the firm. But I knew only too well that he thought the agency had begun to stagnate of late, and he had grown increasingly restless this past year.
I voiced this now.
He listened quietly to everything I had to say. He respected my opinion. I was ambitious for him; I always have been. Now I enumerated some of the reasons why I thought he ought to consider leaving, not the least of which was his frustration with Joe Braddock, the senior partner.
When I finished, he nodded. “You’re right, you make a lot of sense. I agree that Joe is hardly the most visionary of men, and especially when it comes to the future of the agency. He’s in a time warp these days, living in the past and on past glories.”
After taking a sip of his drink, he went on, “Joe didn’t used to be like that, and certainly not when I started there twelve years ago. I guess he’s just getting too old.” He gave me a long, rather thoughtful look. “Tell you what, I’m going to talk to him, mention the various offers I’ve had this past year. It can’t do any harm.”
“No, it can’t,” I agreed.
He hurried on, “Actually it might shake him up a bit. Perhaps he’ll come around to my way of thinking about certain aspects of the agency. I know Jack Underwood and Harvey Colton would like me to have a go at Joe. Actually, Mal, they deem it high time he retired, and I’m afraid I have to agree with them. On the other hand, he is the last of the original founding quartet, the only one still alive, and something of an industry g
iant. It’s going to be a tough situation to deal with.”
I reached over and squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you’ve decided to talk to Joe. I’ve wanted you to do that for the longest time, and it’ll work out, you’ll see. Now, do you want another drink, or shall we go inside and I’ll make supper?”
He nodded. “I’m starving! What’s on the menu?”
“I was going to prepare spaghetti and a green salad for myself, but if you prefer something else, I can defrost—”
“No, no,” he interrupted, “that sounds great. Come on, let’s go inside and I’ll help you.”
Much later, when we had finished dinner and were drinking the last of the wine, Andrew said, “You remember that time my mother talked to you about the only man she’d been seriously attracted to since my father’s death?”
“Of course I do. She said he was separated but not divorced—”
“And therefore verboten as far as she was concerned,” Andrew interjected.
“That’s right. But why are you bringing this up now?”
“I think that man might be your father.”
I gaped at him. I was so taken aback I was momentarily speechless. Quickly I found my voice. “That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard, Andrew. What on earth makes you think such a thing all of a sudden?” I knew he had to have a good reason for this comment, since my husband was not given to flights of fancy, and least of all where his mother was concerned.
Clearing his throat, he explained, “Last Tuesday morning, after you’d gone out and just before I left for Chicago, I asked my mother if she could change a hundred-dollar bill for me. She told me to get her wallet out of her handbag in her bedroom. So I did, but there was an envelope caught in the flap and it fell to the floor. When I picked it up I couldn’t help noticing your father’s name on the back and his return address in Jerusalem. I thought it a bit odd that he was writing to my mother. Anyway, I put the envelope back in her bag and took the wallet to her. Obviously I didn’t say anything. How could I?”