“No!” Diana grabbed me by the hand. “River, what are you thinking? Once Jane gets a paying job she’ll save up money and move out of her little hermit’s room, and then what will we do?” Diana and I had become particularly close friends. When the time off from our jobs coincided, we spent it together, taking long walks in the park and drives into the country; mostly, though, we just hung around the house and talked. After I got to know her better, I asked for permission to paint her portrait. She was thrilled by my modest skill and insisted on hanging up the paintings I’d finished. You would have thought she’d done them herself.
“You mean I’ll be able to pay rent as I should have been doing all along?” I said. “I happen to love my little hermit’s room.” And it was true; the room was cramped, but I was happy to be an honorary member of the St. John household.
And what of Nico Rathburn? I hadn’t forgotten him or stopped worrying about him or missing him. Luckily though, in my daylight hours, I kept busy enough to keep regrets at bay.
Open Doors hired me as an administrative assistant to the director. The job was mainly secretarial. I kept the office organized and running smoothly, wrote articles for the little newsletter the office produced for donors, and learned to write grant applications. The pay was barely more than minimum wage, and Diana and Maria refused to let me pay more than two hundred dollars a month toward the rent.
“You need to save your money,” Diana said. “You’ve got to go back to school.”
“You can’t let your talent go to waste,” Maria agreed. “We won’t let you.”
So I really couldn’t complain. I had plans, work, and caring friends. Certainly the work I’d been doing taught me that I had it better than many, even most. I was determined not to drown in sadness and self-pity.
Another blessing of my new life was how little it reminded me of my old life. None of my housemates listened to the radio; they didn’t even own a television. I didn’t have to hear Nico’s music. My new friends didn’t care for gossip magazines, so I never had to stumble across one on the coffee table or, in a moment of weakness, open it to learn of Nico’s whereabouts. We did all our shopping at a local food co-op, so I never even had to glimpse a tabloid in the checkout aisle. We lived in an alternate universe, very different from the one in which Nico’s every move was broadcast to a voracious public. I might not be able to forget him, but I could steer clear of all reminders and hope that someday I’d miss him a little bit less.
At night, though, I would drift into dreams so vivid I felt I was actually reliving moments Nico and I had shared — his hands on my back, his smell, his taste on my tongue, his voice calling my name, his weight beside me in the bed — and I would startle awake. For minutes afterward, I refused to believe it had only been a dream. And then I couldn’t get back to sleep, my sadness so heavy and palpable I feared I might never sleep again. In those long, dark hours, Nico haunted me like a phantom limb.
One quiet day at work, when I was getting to the end of my filing, the phone rang. “Jane, is that you?” a voice asked. It was Rosalie. “I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me tonight.” She named a little bistro not far from campus. Though we’d become casual friends, Rosalie and I had never socialized outside of work before. Curious about why she might want to see me, I agreed to meet her.
“My treat,” she said as we pored over the very long menu. “It’s the least I can do since I’m here to pick your brain.”
This was an interesting start. “What about?” But before she could begin to tell me, I realized what she wanted. She would ask me about River.
Her opening question took me aback. “Are the two of you… involved?” She asked the question sweetly and shyly. That night she was wearing a soft butter-yellow sweater; her hair was loose around her face. Whenever she moved, the many charms on her gold bracelet tinkled, making gentle music.
I hurried to set her mind at ease. “Oh. No, not at all. We’re just housemates. River is more like a brother to me than anything else.”
Relief crossed her pretty face. She took a long sip of iced tea. “Can you explain him to me? Sometimes I think he likes me, but I can’t get him to… I don’t know… open up, relax, act normal.”
I had my suspicions about why River tensed up and turned hostile in Rosalie’s presence, but I wasn’t sure enough about my theory to share it with her. So I couldn’t offer an explanation, but I promised that I would try to feel him out on the subject.
As it turned out, River was home when I got in, reading the New York Times, in one of his expansive moods. “You don’t speak French, do you?” he asked when I took the chair across from his in the paneled living room. Neither Diana nor Maria was home yet. Apart from the circle of lamplight in which he sat, the house was dark. I told him I’d been planning to minor in French back at Sarah Lawrence, though I was a bit rusty.
“I’ve been studying the language for years, but I think I’ve hit a plateau. Would you practice speaking it with me? I’ve got to get fluent so I can make myself understood when I get to Haiti. Maybe we could speak French to each other whenever we’re around the house.”
“I’m not sure how much help I would be. I’d have to go back and study some more before I’d be able to put more than two words together at a time.”
“Would you do that?” I hadn’t really intended that as an offer, but I could see how important it was to him. “We could study together.”
“I could try,” I told him.
“You’re very generous, Jane. I’m grateful for your help.”
Satisfied, he turned back to the paper. I remembered my promise to Rosalie and told him I had a question for him.
He put down the paper, looking a little surprised. “About what?”
“I saw Rosalie tonight. She asked about you.”
He sat up a little straighter in his chair. “What did she want to know?”
I decided the direct approach would be best. “Whether or not you like her.”
“What is this? Eighth grade?” River’s tone was gruff, but I thought I detected a fleeting smile.
“She wouldn’t have to ask me if you didn’t send her so many mixed signals. You go beet red whenever she gets near you, but you’re standoffish and rude to her. I don’t blame her for being confused.”
“I’m not blind. I can see she likes me, but I’ll never go out with her.”
“But why not? You find her attractive, right? Unless I’m totally off base.” It had occurred to me once or twice that River might be gay, and yet there were those blushes, that trembling. “Don’t you think she’s pretty?”
Even the question caused River’s hands to shake a bit. “I can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t think Rosalie is pretty.”
“And sweet,” I added.
“Yes, she’s sweet. She always has a kind word for everyone at Ebeneezer. I see how nice she is with Marshall — you know, the man in the Red Sox cap who comes in every day?” I nodded. “I’ve seen her sit down beside him and help him put an Ace bandage on when he sprained his ankle.” River’s blue eyes were bright, and his voice lively.
“So?” I asked. “What’s holding you back?”
He folded his newspaper neatly and set it down on the table beside him. “Don’t you think it’s strange that so many people base the most important decision of their lives, their choice of a life partner, on something as frivolous as physical attraction? Doesn’t it seem like an obvious explanation for the divorce rate? When it comes right down to it, what does physical attraction have to do with compatibility, with shared purpose?”
“You don’t have to marry her. Just get to know her.”
“I don’t have time to waste on someone who clearly won’t be a good match for me,” River said. “What if I got… attached to her? What would I do then? I’m leaving for Haiti in a few months.”
“Bring her with you?”
“Do you know who Rosalie’s father is? Herbert Davidson, of Davidson-Worth Pharmaceuticals. Her pare
nts are obscenely wealthy, and she’s their only child. She won’t have to put in a day of work in her life if she doesn’t want to. She only started coming to Ebeneezer to fulfill her service requirement.”
“You said yourself she really seems to care for the people there. Who’s to say she won’t do volunteer work all her life? Maybe she’ll pour all her money into good works.”
“I’m not looking to get involved with a society woman who occasionally writes a check to charity or who puts in a few hours a week at a soup kitchen.” He turned the full force of his gaze on me. “Since I was ten, maybe younger, I’ve felt that my life had a bigger purpose. I can’t waste time — not when there are children contracting dysentery because there’s no clean drinking water, or people dying of AIDS because drug companies like Davidson-Worth only care about profiting on the misfortunes of others. Can you imagine Rosalie building a shack in a developing country with her bare hands and living in it, not just for six weeks or a year, but for the rest of her life?”
I struggled for a way to phrase my answer. “If you gave Rosalie a chance, she might surprise you. I think people can change. Especially with kindness and love. She could influence her father, talk him into donating medicine to Haiti or opening some kind of free clinic.”
“You’ve watched too many Hollywood movies. Or listened to too many love songs.”
“That’s not it,” I said. “I’ve seen… I’ve felt…” But I couldn’t say any more.
River looked at me questioningly for a moment, then turned back to his paper.
“Okay then. I’ll tell Rosalie she’s wasting her time.” I got to my feet. “Good night.”
“Isn’t it a little early for bed? Wait here.” He ran off in the direction of his bedroom and came back with several textbooks. “Here. You can study these. To brush up on your French.”
I took them, a bit regretful that I’d agreed to help him. That night, as I lay in bed looking through the first of the two textbooks, trying to remember how to conjugate être, I kept myself awake by remembering the St. John family’s many kindnesses to me. Diana and Maria were more like sisters than my own sister had ever been, and that made River a sort of brother. He needed my help, and I would do what I could to give it to him.
The night was the coldest so far that fall. I burrowed under my blankets, wishing I had a fluffy down comforter like the one on my bed at Thornfield Park. When I woke up the next morning, I found the textbook still open beside me in the bed.
CHAPTER 24
Several unremarkable months passed. I worked long hours at my new job and felt reasonably capable and useful. I put away a little money but despaired of ever having enough to go back to school. The leaves on the spindly trees along our street turned gold, then blew away. I got better at my job and, to tell the truth, a bit bored with it. I spent my spare time sketching and painting, hanging out with Diana and Maria, and helping River practice French as best I could. Our conversations in French became a nightly event; we often stayed up to speak our halting phrases to each other long after his sisters had gone to bed. When the St. Johns left to spend Christmas in Greenwich with their extended family, Diana invited me along, but I declined. I spent the holiday alone, reading novels, trying not to wonder if Nico was back at Thornfield Park sharing the holiday with Maddy. I was overjoyed when Diana, Maria, and River returned with Tupperware containers of turkey and stuffing to share with me.
Then, on a dark late-afternoon in February, I arrived home from work and found River there, much earlier than usual. There was just a single light on in the living room. He sat in his usual chair, but he wasn’t reading or doing homework. Instead, he appeared to be waiting. When I entered the room, he got to his feet. Though I couldn’t have said why, I felt uneasy, as though I’d been caught doing something wrong.
“Jane,” was all he said. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper that he had folded into a tight little rectangle. He unfolded it and handed it to me. “Jane Moore.”
It was a statement, not a question. I took the piece of paper, which had been ripped from a magazine. It was a photo of me I’d never seen before; I was in my wedding dress, holding hands with Nico. We were on the way up the steps of the courthouse. I had been caught unaware, looking right into the camera, my expression anxious. Nico was midstride, his dark hair windblown. He looked impatient, a vivid reminder of that day. At the sight of him, I was clutched by a feeling like that precarious moment just past the top of a roller coaster’s highest hill when gravity takes hold and the car barrels downward.
What would River say now that he’d unearthed my secret? There was no denying the woman in the photograph was me. I said the first lame thing that popped into my head. “But you don’t read magazines.”
“I guess you’ve been banking on that.” He took back the piece of paper as if it were a weapon with which I might harm myself. “Why did you lie to us, Jane? Why didn’t you tell us your real name?”
“When I first met you, I was afraid Nico might find me. I was paranoid that anyone I met might try to contact him or the press. And later when I knew you and your sisters better, my real name didn’t matter. I’d broken off with my old life completely.” I motioned toward the slip of paper. “Where did you get that?”
“One of the clients from the soup kitchen brought it to me,” he said. “Darva recognized you. She knew all the details. I guess your story was all over the news for a while there. It’s amazing you’ve managed to camouflage yourself so well until now.” He looked at me quizzically. “I’d never have believed you were a rock star’s girlfriend.”
Even if those last words hurt, I didn’t give myself time to register it. “All over the news?” Suddenly I was gripped by the desire to know where Nico was, how he was doing, if he was all right.
“He was looking for you. It was a big story. Prince Charming searching for his Cinderella.” River took a closer look at my face. “Why look so panicked? You know how it all turned out. You evaded his clutches. By now, the story has died down, according to Darva.”
But I was being swept by waves of emotion. The first was joy: Nico had looked for me? The second was fear: Had he stopped looking for me? Had he given up and found someone else to take my place? I didn’t dare ask; the answer might split me in two. “How long ago was that picture published?”
“October, I think. Darva said she was going to throw out a pile of old magazines, and she happened to browse through one and there you were. She could hardly believe it.”
“What if she says something? What if she turns me in?”
“Why would she do that? It’s not like you’ve committed a crime. Darva’s sixty-six years old with a history of mental illness. She can barely pay for her blood pressure medication. I don’t think she’s about to get on the phone with the National Enquirer.”
I felt less sanguine. Darva — who I couldn’t recall at all from my soup kitchen days — might expect to get a little fame, even a little money of her own, from her part in my story. Why wouldn’t she call the Enquirer or tell twenty of her best friends?
“Besides,” River continued. “What’s this Rathburn character going to do? Throw a net over your head and drag you back to his mansion? He doesn’t own you. You left of your own free will.”
He was right, of course. Still, a picture of Nico had turned me to Jell-O. What if he came to New Haven and tried to convince me to go back to him? Could I resist? And yet the thought of Nico climbing the stairs to the apartment I shared with Maria, Diana, and River was absurd. We might as well be living in completely different worlds.
River watched me carefully. Who knows what emotions he saw cross my face? There was a long silence. “You’re still infatuated with him,” he finally said. “I never would have believed it. Any of it. If I hadn’t seen your picture, if I wasn’t looking right at you…” There was something in his voice that I couldn’t quite identify. He almost sounded hurt. But why would he be? “Don’t you know that the ultrarich are
the enemy of everything you’ve been working for these past few months?”
This was the last place I’d expected our conversation to go.
“That Rathburn guy got all his money — millions, possibly billions, right? — by playing a guitar and singing. Doesn’t that seem frivolous to you? He could live on a tenth of his income and give the rest away without even feeling it.”
I didn’t disagree with everything River was saying, but calling Nico frivolous struck me as absolutely off base. “His music gives a lot of people pleasure, or he wouldn’t be so rich.”
“Pleasure.” River thrust his hand deep into his pockets. “Pleasure’s all some people live for, but you’re not just ‘some people.’ You’re better than that. You know that, right? You’re cut from a different cloth. You’re not thinking about going back to him, are you?”
“I think it’s a bit late for that,” I said. “I’ve missed my chance.” I was too focused on all that I’d just learned about Nico to wonder what River had meant about my being “better than that.”
He changed tack. “What kind of man tries to trick a woman into marriage under false pretenses? And who keeps his first wife hidden in his attic like some kind of animal?”
“He was trying to keep her out of an institution,” I said, but I could hear how weak the argument sounded. After all, it had been more complex than that, selfishness mixed in with selflessness.