Driving homeward, her mind was on the simple refreshments she had prepared for the meeting. Her father, ever a canny judge of human nature, had wanted the introduction to be an informal one at Peter’s own home.
“I want him to be the memorable centerpiece of the discussion in his own environment,” Amos had declared, “because he is the centerpiece. There are any number of syndicates that can slap up a mighty profitable heap of what Peter calls ‘glass boxes,’ but we want a work of art here. Not that works of art aren’t profitable. They can be even more so in the long run than are the merely mundane. We need to create something here that will bring people from all over to have a look, and maybe to emulate it. We want something to be proud of.”
Thinking about all this and feeling quite exhilarated herself as she entered her driveway, Cecile was at the same time vaguely troubled by something else, a sight that seemed to persist in her mind’s eye just as a midge bite continues to itch long after the midge has flown out of sight. What had she really seen that afternoon? It was the oddest thing to have seen—or to have thought to see—Mr. Balsan and Amanda walking with linked arms on Lane Avenue. It was in fact so very odd that she could only think she had imagined it. Yet there was that jacket, that beautiful, distinctive color; there was Mr. Balsan, so unusually tall; there was also Norma, who had annoyed her by squirming in her seat and who had been so unnaturally silent. All these things, of course, were conjectural. Not admissible, or not really so, in a courtroom. Quite probably she had not seen them at all.
At any rate, right now she was too busy to think anymore about it. At home Peter, already there ahead of her and very excited, had spread his papers on the library table, arranged the chairs, and checked the portable bar.
“Amos said Mr. Baker likes a bourbon and soda. Roland drinks Perrier.”
“May I listen in when the meeting starts, or is it strictly private?” Cecile inquired.
“It’s strictly private, as private as any conference or get-together of the CIA. But you’re thoroughly trusted, darling Cele, and you’re welcome. In fact, I’ll enjoy showing off before you.”
By eight o’clock the four men were gathered around the table. Peter, by request, was holding court, explaining, answering questions, and illustrating with eloquent gesture, while Cecile, in the leather wing chair against the wall, comprised the sole audience.
“The museum, according to my plan, must be the pivot, the center, as the terminal was in its heyday. The restored terminal becomes a museum, a cultural center for the city, just as the original terminal, surrounded by hotels, offices, and great stores, was the center of the city’s business. I don’t know how long it is since any one of you has explored the old pile, but I’ve spent a total of, well, I guess, three months’ worth of scattered days, and let me tell you, it is full of treasures. The ceiling—does any one of you remember it? Lord, they knew how to spend money back then before World War One. The murals alone are magnificent. Each section is a depiction of some American natural wonder, from Niagara Falls to the Sangre de Cristo Mountains—you name it. All they need is some cleaning and the right lighting, which they’ve never had. Now, the great thing is that these murals do not cover the entire ceiling but are concentrated in the shape of a fairly large, but not too large, cap around the center of the dome.”
Peter gave a bright, almost boyish smile. He was enjoying himself. This was the first time Cecile had heard or seen him in action; his fluency and his elegance as he stood there gave her a warm thrill. Sometimes she wondered whether it made sense to believe you could really know another human being, but whether it made any sense or not, she was often certain that she did know him through and through.
Immensely proud, he insisted on his independence; had not experience taught her that almost from their very first day? But there was no arrogance in his pride; far from measuring himself against other people, he measured himself only against an ideal in his head. Once he had told her that every human being, when he opened his eyes in the morning, should be able to look at something beautiful, if it was merely a row of spreading trees on a narrow street. That, then, was his aim, to preserve and create some kind of beauty where none had been.
“I see in that old terminal,” he was saying now, “a science hall, a museum, a community theater, and more. I would add wings for lecture halls, or anything else that comes to mind. Here,” he continued, indicating the sketch, “this is the hub of the wheel. From it, these roads connect with downtown and with the wetlands on the river. Along them I would have housing in every price range, nothing higher than three stories, small hotels to accommodate the people who will come to the great museum or to hike through the wetlands, or both.”
When he paused and narrowed his eyes for an instant, he seemed to be seeing, far in the distance, the finished project, the magnificent hub, the tree-lined roads, and the circumference of the great circle, all the way to the river. And of course, Cecile knew, he is seeing himself as the acclaimed creator. But why not? A composer must see in his mind’s eye the crowd applauding in the concert hall. The painter sees the quiet crowd lined up at the gallery doors.
“This will be a marvel for the city,” said Mr. Roland. “If we don’t do anything more than clean up the Lane Avenue area, we’ll deserve a medal.”
Everyone laughed. Amos had an I-told-you-so expression as he turned to the other two men.
“When, quite a while ago, my father-in-law first talked to me about this project,” Peter said, “one of the first things I thought of was that sick Lane Avenue area. It needs medicine, and plenty of it. Nobody should have to live like that.”
All nodded in agreement, and Mr. Baker reminded them that the next thing was to get the financing. “But I’m confident that, with a striking plan like this in hand, we’ll have no trouble.”
“If we can get one of the important chains to put up a hotel between the museum and the river, we’ll have it made,” said Amos.
“The hotel must be in keeping with the rest of the plan, though,” Peter warned.
Amos teased him. “No seventy-story glass boxes stood on end?”
“And no casinos, either,” Peter answered, laughing. “No imitation rajah palaces.”
“So,” said Roland as the meeting adjourned, “it’s settled and we all agree. We’re on our way. But not a word, not a breath, outside of this house. I can’t emphasize that enough. I really can’t.”
“We all know it,” said Amos. “Don’t worry.”
Once the other men had left, he was jubilant. “You’ve made amazing progress,” he told Peter, “and I’m proud of you, especially when I think of all the other work you have to do, and what you have been through this past winter,” he added soberly.
That last was quite true. Regardless of the vacation under the palm trees and regardless of all their determined efforts, these last months had been far from joyful for Peter and Cecile. The vacant room upstairs was a daily and nightly reminder of loss. Almost, as they passed in the hall, it seemed to be asking a question: Will you ever be able to fill this room with life? One good thing about this grand project, Cecile liked to think, was that it kept Peter’s mind busy as he worked at his desk almost every evening. As for herself, she had the blessing of work all day. But the evenings, at least until Peter left the desk, were very, very quiet….
Amos clapped Peter on the back. “You’ll be one of the most prominent architects in the U.S.A. if you can accomplish this. And with that thought, I’m going home. Good night.”
“You didn’t dream,” Cecile asked later, “when Dad first talked about this, that you were going to care so much about it, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. To tell you the truth, I started to work on it because I felt an obligation. I didn’t feel that it was my kind of thing. But now I see that it is very much my kind of thing. I feel challenged, Cele, and I enjoy the feel.”
“I know. You looked so happy tonight. You deserve to feel happy.”
“We both do, Cele. A
nd we will be. We’ll be ourselves again.”
Much later while in bed, she remembered the thing that had bothered her earlier in the day. And touching him on the shoulder before he should fall asleep, she told him about it.
“Such an odd thing happened. At least I thought it was. When you all mentioned Lane Avenue, it came back to me. I’m almost sure I saw Amanda and Mr. Balsan walking there arm in arm.”
“On Lane Avenue? You’re sure?”
“Well, I think I am. It was the coral-colored jacket that caught my eye. The scenery was otherwise so drab that it stood out like a bright speck in a mass of brown mud. And I thought I recognized Mr. Balsan, too. Such a very tall man in a dark business suit would be conspicuous on Lane Avenue, wouldn’t he?”
“He certainly would.”
“So what would they be doing there? And being there together? Doesn’t make any sense, does it? The more I think about it, I’m sure I couldn’t have seen what I thought I saw. It’s impossible. And yet—”
“No, Cele, when you’re dealing with human affairs, almost anything you can think of is possible. But I very definitely wouldn’t mention it to a soul. Just forget about it.”
“Of course,” said Cecile.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
On Lane Avenue on the other side of a dirty windowpane, an ancient oak, which a farmer might have planted before the Civil War when the avenue was a dirt road, flared red in the October sun. Indoors the room had had some rudimentary sanitizing by a hand-held vacuum cleaner, but otherwise it remained a slum, its sallow green paint peeling and stained, its scuffed baseboards and broken light fixtures serving as reminders of the numerous families who had been tenants here.
None of all this, not even the broken light fixtures, distressed Amanda. To begin with, they never occupied the flat at night. It was strictly an afternoon meeting place, and only for two, or at most three, afternoons in a month. But it was secret, it was safe, and one could import one’s own comforts.
These at present took the form of a cheap couch wide enough for two, a pair of equally cheap soft armchairs, and between them, a low, collapsible table on which lay a handsome wicker picnic basket fitted out with cutlery, fine china, and proper glassware fit for any drink from water to Château Lafite-Rothschild, if such were to be on the menu.
Today’s menu, provided by L.B., consisted of grapes, imported cheese, French bread, and a wine that, if not exactly Château Lafite, was not too many notches below it. L.B. knew how to celebrate.
“An anniversary,” he said, “or half an anniversary. Six months to the day since that April storm, Amanda. Could you have dreamed then that it would ever come to this?”
Wrapped in a plaid robe, he lay on the sofa, while she, at the table, ate grapes. When she looked over at him, his eyes were fastened upon her with a look of profound tenderness.
“No, never.”
How could she possibly have dreamed of this betrayal, this crime? It was a crime before God, nothing less, and she was aware of it every day. Yet life had never been as full and gratifying as it was now.
She had never known what it was to love. Longing for it, trying to imagine it, she had even begun sometimes to think that romantic love was nothing more than a trick of the arts, invented and vividly sustained by gifted dramatists and musicians inspired by the troubadours of long ago. But this cynicism came to her only when she was in a mood of profound discouragement; in most of her moods, knowing better, she had merely longed and hoped. Then suddenly, the miracle had happened.
Her memory reeled backward to that night of horror when the moon had stood on the windowsill, to the astounding event in the vacant house, and then—yes, then, before that, to her own growing physical awareness of the man whom she had once feared and disliked. Who was to explain the how or why of all this?
There were a hundred ways, large and small, in which this man and this woman, during the long summer, had met and merged. At very first there had been her own faint hope and fear that he would summon her to him. He, too, had fought between hope and fear that he would summon her, and that she would accept him. Like her, he had fought with himself and lost, and been radiantly glad of it ever since.
“I knew you wanted me,” he had told her, “as much as I wanted you. Both of us knew how right we were for each other.”
How different he was from the Lawrence Balsan who sat at the head of the table in his gloomy dining room! And she glanced now at today’s small gift, a book of American poetry with a rosebud wrapped in wet foil alongside it.
“Take the rose home,” he said, having followed her glance. “You can say you found it on somebody’s fence, the last of the season. Maybe it will keep until we meet here again. And there are some poems of Edwin Arlington Robinson’s in the anthology. You might like them. They’re unusual.”
She smiled, and he caught that, too; his dark, vigilant eyes saw everything.
“You’re smiling?”
“Yes, because I’m not altogether used to it yet, your being so different from what I thought I knew.”
“I’ve been bottled up, I guess. Who knows why? I’m no psychologist. And it isn’t important. What’s past is past.” He paused. “And who knows anyway what is cause and what effect? All I can tell you is I married too young, we were too different, then she died, and I tried to do the best I could for the children. I haven’t known love since I was in my twenties, and even then it was nothing like this, Amanda.”
Again L.B. paused, while between Amanda and him the name Larry wrote itself in tall letters. “I knew it was wrong, and I fought it. One time, the first time, last Christmas, I gave in. That dinner, that sudden whim, was arranged for you. Did you know that? I wanted to put things off, but I wasn’t able to anymore. I wanted to see you glow, not that you needed an occasion or a setting, because you glow right here in this hovel. And after that when you came that Sunday morning, I didn’t want to be alone with you, and I was nasty.”
“Yes, you were. Haughty and cold. But that’s what I had always thought about you from the first time I saw you.”
“Here’s what I thought the first time. I saw a fire that wouldn’t be hard to set ablaze. And it made me very uncomfortable—in the circumstances.”
“However would you know anything like that about me? I was a proper young lady that day. I even held a pair of gloves in my hand. I wasn’t wearing them, but I had them.”
“I can’t explain. I seem to sense things, that’s all—for instance, the second time. On that afternoon last April in the storm when we walked into the old vacant house, I felt what was going to happen. I myself had no intention of making it happen, that I swear. But all the same, I felt it.”
They had had this dialogue more than once before. It was as if, still stunned by events, they had a need to go over and over them. Were they repeating themselves merely to marvel, or was it to exonerate themselves—if that were possible? Amanda wondered.
Other people, many people in these days, revealed their transgressions on radio and television in talk shows. Unashamed, unafraid to speak in public, they told of affairs such as one young man’s with his mother-in-law. A newspaper reported a woman’s affair with her husband’s father; when it became known, she committed suicide. And Amanda shuddered.
Huddled there in her silk robe, she had a too-familiar sensation of sinking in her chest. It was sad that a woman could be so deeply, blessedly in love and yet in the midst of it, have all these sudden poignant moments of sadness. How would she bear it if everything should come to an end? This man, this love, had become the very core of her life.
“What are you thinking about, my Amanda?”
“That you and I are an unfolding story. We’re not writing or reading it, we’re living it, and I am praying, desperately praying, that it will have a happy ending.”
“It will have. I know this is wrong. It’s like any adultery, only more so. But listen to me and remember that nobody is being hurt and nobody will be. As long as no one is harmed, a
ny sin is forgivable. If that were not so, half the world would be damned and doomed. Oh, come here, darling. Take off that robe and come here.”
“I don’t want to leave here,” she whispered.
“Even a place like this?”
“Even a place like this.”
Somewhere, not far away, a wood fire burned, sending its tart fragrance through the open window. Sunlight, sifted through moving leaves on the ancient oak tree, speckled the ceiling. In perfect peace and satisfaction, Amanda thought, a woman rests beside her lover, but an ignorant young girl assumes that this is the way it always is. And the swift, unpleasant contrast to that honeymoon, a hundred years ago, darkened her memory.
L.B.’s voice dispelled the darkness. “You deserve a better place. This room is dead, and you are life, Amanda.”
“Yes, with you, I am.”
Whatever zest she had once possessed—and she knew she had possessed that quality in an extra-generous amount, knew it not only because other people had told her so, but because she herself had felt it—during these last years she had felt it slipping away. So gradually had this slippage occurred that she had not actually realized the total loss of it until L.B. had so splendidly revived it.
There was no end to her yearning. She carried it, and it carried her in its own rhythm, just as a tide declines and swells again.
“It’s time,” he said. “We have to go.”
“Ah, no! A whole week. It’s like a year.”
“I worry,” he said thoughtfully. “You meet so many people. Yes, I’m jealous. A woman like you, all radiant, your eyes, your hair—what man wouldn’t be jealous?”