But he was beginning to wonder if he needed her. The past weeks had been extraordinary, like no other time in his life. Contentment wasn’t an emotion he had ever been able to sustain for longer than a matter of days, and that rarely, usually inspired by the completion of some long-planned seduction. Seduction wasn’t even on his mind these days—astonishing in itself—and yet he’d been content. He would go so far as to say he’d been happy. Why? Because a woman and her son had graciously invited him into their lives, and for the first time ever, he’d felt as if he was part of a family.
But it had all been a dream, and Cochrane’s return had precipitated his rude but overdue awakening. Long overdue. He understood now that there was a price to pay for the privilege of knowing Sara, and it was the obligation to know all of her. He hadn’t bargained on that. It was past time to back up, disconnect, because things were getting too complicated. Not long ago, the idea of an affair with her had seemed simple and neat and clean, satisfying and finite, a sharp, short-term pleasure. In and out like a prizefighter or a burglar or a quick surgeon. But now he knew too much. Felt way too much. Even Michael was a problem; if he severed the ties now, he would regret Michael’s loss very nearly as much as Sara’s. How had this happened?
He’d been a fool to let matters progress so far. His excuse was that he was in novel surroundings, everything was slightly skewed, and he’d lost his bearings. He’d let himself be seduced by Michael’s charm and Sara’s sweetness. But tomorrow he would be in New York, and by this time tomorrow night he would undoubtedly be with Constance, in bed with her if he wanted to be—stretched over her on her damn dining room table if he wanted to be. Then why was it so hard to even remember her face?
Constance was perfect—clever, uncomplicated, passionate, discreet; and she had the added advantage of not being in love with him. He’d made a career of accommodating women like her for years, not to mention something of a name for himself in New York society—lady-killer, gay blade, man about town. He wasn’t vain, but he could admit that he was probably a little spoiled. Mothers trusted him, though, because he didn’t go around seducing virgins; he was charming and kind to innocent girls, who usually responded by falling in love with him. But he played by the rules and only took willing widows and wives to bed. When the time came to settle down and marry, he intended to choose wisely: some gorgeous debutante with an impeccable background, a compliant nature, and a great deal of money. If he was in love with her, all the better, but he’d never made that a prerequisite. Cynical, maybe. But then, the only model he had of conjugal happiness was his grandparents. It didn’t inspire romantic idealism.
So what the hell was he doing with Mrs. Bennet Cochrane? She put him off his stride, she cramped his style; all his courtship habits, his venerable, time-tested moves were wrong with her, irrelevant. He’d lived like a monk for four weeks and he hadn’t even minded. Well—he laughed out loud, face turned up to the darkening sky. No sense getting carried away. He’d minded. Not a day passed when he didn’t think of making love with her. For once, though, he could see a distinction between lovemaking and seduction. As much as he wanted her, he wasn’t willing to compromise her, because she had become too dear.
And now he could add a new torment—sexual jealousy. A few months ago he’d found watching the Cochranes together fascinating; later it had irritated him; now it was intolerable. He knew too well what he himself would be doing tonight, right now, if Sara belonged to him and he hadn’t seen her in a month. A lurid picture flashed in his mind’s eye—of her naked, locked in passion with her bullish husband. It was an obscenity. He came away from the porch rail and bolted down the three steps to the mottled beach that was his front yard. Sara didn’t love her husband, she didn’t even like him. But—what if she found pleasure with him physically? What if his big, coarse body satisfied her?
Intolerable. His hands clenched as he swung his arms out, striding fast. The shoreline looked dirty to him, the graying waves angry and cold. Even the streaky sunset was niggardly-looking, a skimpy, grudging show that made him feel mean. He wasn’t accustomed to backing himself into corners and losing the controlling edge he maintained in his relationships with women. But here he was, infatuated with a woman he couldn’t bring himself to seduce, and driving himself crazy because she was spending time tonight with her husband.
The solution was obvious: forget about her. Retreat slowly, carefully, so no one got hurt— Michael, he was thinking of—and then forget about both of them. He’d done it before, often enough to know exactly how, which move to make first, which to delay, at what pace to proceed. He could start immediately. This trip to New York was perfectly timed; he could use it to inaugurate his strategic retreat. When he got back he’d be different, distant—but just slightly, subtly. If he did it skillfully enough, they would hardly even notice his withdrawal until it was done.
But the whole prospect made him feel tired. He had no energy for it. He didn’t want to give anything up; he wanted more, not less. Since he couldn’t have it, why not compromise? Maintain the status quo, neither advance nor retreat; be a steady, faithful friend to Sara and an engaging, summer-long companion to her son, no more and no less. Where was the harm in that? That’s what he would do. No need to take matters to such extremes. Moderation in all things: that was the key.
He’d reached the point where the giant sea rocks tumbled out of the water to the thickening forest line, blocking the beach. He was glad to turn back anyway, because he was hungry again. The retreating surf was erasing all the shoals left by the high tide, but the sucking erosion of shell and shale no longer depressed him. The dregs of the sunset looked peaceful, not petty. The moon would be almost full tonight. And in four days he would see Sara again. At Daisy’s party.
Ten
“…I PRAY THE LORD my soul to take. God bless Mummy, God bless Daddy, God bless Mrs. Drum, God bless Mr. McKie, and God bless Charlie O’Shea.” Charlie was Michael’s best friend. “Mum, is it all right to ask God to bless a dog?”
“I can’t think why not.”
“God bless Gadget. Oh, and God bless Mrs. Wentworth.” That was the end of the prayer; to his mother he added, “Even though sometimes she smells funny.”
“Michael,” Sara admonished, but not very severely, because he was merely stating a fact, without malice, and he was far too polite ever to hint of such a thing to Daisy herself.
She tucked the covers around him and combed the silvery hair back from his forehead. “You like Mr. McKie, don’t you?”
“Oh yes, I like him a lot. Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think of God-blessing him until what he told me, though.”
“What was that?”
“Well, first of all, what’s the worst thing that can happen to an architect? The very worst thing?”
“Mm, I can’t think.”
“The building falls down!”
“Of course. No question, that would be the worst.”
“So do you know what they used to do if it did? They killed the architect!”
“Gracious.”
“This is back in B.C., during the time of King Hanner—Hammer—”
“Hammurabi?”
“Yeah. So that’s why I’m God-blessing Mr. McKie. Just in case.”
“Good idea. Go to sleep now, sweetheart.”
“Mum, you look so pretty.”
Sara cocked a skeptical eyebrow; Michael was a seasoned staller at bedtime. “Thanks.”
“Are you going to dance tonight at Mrs. Wentworth’s party?”
“No, probably not.”
“Why not?”
She didn’t want to tell him, not right now, that she wasn’t going to Daisy’s at all. “I don’t know, sweetie. Maybe I will.”
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the flower in her hair.
“A camellia.”
“Let me smell. Mmmm. Mummy?”
“What.”
“You’re sad sometimes, a
ren’t you?”
Her face went very still. “Oh,” she said evenly, “everybody’s sad once in a while. Why would you ask me that, darling?”
“Because I told Mr. McKie you were sad a lot. I told him I try to cheer you up, but sometimes you just pretend to be happy.”
She leaned over to kiss him, whispering so he wouldn’t hear how close she was to tears. “I love you very much. You make me happy, and you always cheer me up. What would I do without you?
“I don’t know. Mummy, do you think Dad loves us as much as we love him?”
“I know he does. I just spoke to him on the ’phone and—he said so.”
“He did?”
She nodded, swallowing hard. “Now off you go to sleep.”
“Will you see Gadget tonight?”
“Yes, and I’ll tell her you said hello.” She kissed him again and stood up.
“Mr. McKie’s back, isn’t he? Will we go on our walk tomorrow?”
“Yes, and yes. Now, go to sleep. Good night.”
“Night. But don’t close the door tight, okay?”
“Have I ever?”
“Night, Mummy.”
“Good night, my love.”
Leaving his door ajar—because he was afraid of the dark, and she always left the hall light on for him—she tiptoed out. As she passed one of the maids on the way downstairs, she said, “I think I’ll go outside for a while, Maura.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll just be in the back—in case Michael wakes up and calls me.”
It was a perfect night—warm, star-flecked, with a brilliant three-quarter moon coasting between wisps of cloud as sheer as gauze. An old stone wall separated Sara’s backyard from Daisy’s; above it Japanese lanterns winked in the branches of the beech trees. The party was beginning; Sara could already hear the murmur of voices, and now the high, light sound of a woman’s laughter. Soon there would be music.
Sitting in Michael’s swing under the willow tree, she smiled down at the useless extravagance of her new dress. Another evening gown was the last thing in the world she needed, but she’d bought it anyway at Worth’s boutique in the Casino, because she’d wanted something special to wear tonight. Now no one would see it. She stroked her hand over the soft skirt of buttercream duchesse satin, sighing and feeling a little sorry for herself. It was for the best, though, it really was, because the secret vision she’d entertained all week—of herself dancing with Mr. McKie on Daisy’s lawn in this beautiful gown—was an illicit one that richly deserved its sad fate: oblivion.
Tears sprang to her eyes as she thought of Michael’s ingenuous question tonight, not for herself but for him. The grave error she’d committed eight years ago in marrying Ben had turned her life into a penance, but she’d refused to let Michael pay it with her. She had vowed at his birth that he was going to be a normal, happy child, and that she would not allow Ben to spoil anyone’s life except hers. But, perhaps inevitably, Michael had become the battleground on which their marriage was fought, a consequence that filled her with intense and terrible guilt. What kind of family model was she exposing him to in the name of stability and normalcy? He was an astute child, preternaturally so; he must realize that something was tragically wrong between his mum and dad. But he was also unfailingly and exquisitely polite; delicacy or good breeding, bone-deep and pathetically inappropriate, had always prevented him from acknowledging the essential wrongness of his home life in any way. Or maybe it was kindness. Or fear. Or hope that by not paying attention to it he could make it go away. Her heart broke for him; she wanted to cry and cry for days.
She heard a soft rustling, incongruous with the sounds of merriment next door, and looked up. A man was walking toward her from the house. Her spirit shriveled during the instant when she thought it was Ben—then soared when she realized it was Alex. She waited for him without moving, feeling the sudden leaping race of her pulse. Tall, lean, dressed in formal black, he moved with a panthery sleekness she never tired of watching, the set of his shoulders delineating masculine elegance under his expensive jacket. Even when he reached her, she didn’t speak; she was content just to look at him and to marvel, a little fearfully, at the deep pleasure she felt in being with him.
Her silence unnerved him. He’d heard she was ill, but that couldn’t be true—he’d never seen her more beautiful. Her face, so grave in repose, softened with a slow, bewitching smile, and he wanted to touch her, pull her to her feet and kiss her long white hands and then her lips. “Sara,” he said, softly, forgetting that that intimacy had been forbidden him. She whispered, “Alex,” and then he did touch her, just the side of her face with his fingertips. Her skin was silky and cool—then warm. She lifted her hand, but dropped it again, quickly, before it could touch his. He stepped back.
“Are you all right? Mrs. Wentworth said you weren’t feeling well.”
“Oh—no—I’m sorry, did you come here from Daisy’s? I’m not ill, I…” She wavered, then decided to tell him. “It’s Ben.”
“He’s here?” he said sharply.
“No, no. He called, a little while ago. I mentioned I was about to go next door to Daisy’s party and he—asked me not to.”
“Why?”
She thought of making something up, but what was the point? “He doesn’t approve of her. He suggested I make an excuse, and so I did.”
They regarded each other grimly across a moonlit, four-foot distance. “You could go anyway,” Alex said, aware of a simmering anger.
“No, I’ve told Ben I won’t.”
“Do you always do what your husband tells you to do?”
She felt his anger and smiled softly to defuse it. “No. I always do what I say I’ll do.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, but gradually his stiff posture relaxed. She hadn’t known, hadn’t allowed herself to suspect how much she’d missed him until this moment. But he shouldn’t be here; she should send him away. Instead she asked, “How did you find the city?”
“Hot. Busy.” Meaningless.
“Is Mrs. Cheyney still in town?” Now, what had possessed her to ask that?
“Yes, I believe so.”
His tone was so casual, she knew immediately that he’d seen her. And she already knew that they were lovers, had known it since the moment she’d laid eyes on the beautiful Constance. Jealousy was a brand-new emotion to Sara. It felt like hell.
“My grandfather’s dying. I found out yesterday.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry.” She stood up uncertainly. “Does he live in New York?”
“No, California.”
“Will you go and see him?”
“No.”
She’d been going to touch his arm, to console him. Now she drew back, confused.
He let his breath out in an odd sort of laugh. “Don’t waste sympathy on me. I really don’t care.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He’s been dead for years as far as I’m concerned.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because he’s a—” He stopped, stymied. Mrs. Cochrane wasn’t the sort of woman a man cursed in front of, and he only knew obscenities to describe his grandfather.
“Was he your father’s father?” she asked.
“No, my mother’s.”
“Is she living?”
“No.”
“Your father?”
“No. Grandpa’s the last.” His lips curled when he said the word; he wasn’t even aware of it.
“You told me once you had no family.”
“I don’t.” He turned away jerkily. Why was he telling her any of this? He could feel another revelation filling up inside him like some perverse balloon, swelling, ready to burst. “My mother and father never married. He died before either of them knew she was pregnant.” He sagged against the rough trunk of the tree in horror. He had never so much as hinted of that truth to anyone, ever. And now he’d told Sara. It was as if he’d deliberately jumped from a high building, or stuck a gun in his mouth and pull
ed the trigger. He felt nauseated, sick with remorse.
She touched his sleeve, but he wouldn’t face her. So she spoke to his dark back. “Alex.” It felt right, calling him that—but of course, in a few minutes she would have to stop. “I’m so sorry. I know how you feel.” She couldn’t help smiling when he let out a sharp, rather rude sound of disbelief. “I do, actually. My mother married my father for his money—she thought. He was a duke; she could be excused for thinking he was wealthy, I suppose. She got herself pregnant on purpose, and he did the gentlemanly thing.” Alex turned around in slow motion. “But the joke was on her, because his fortune turned out to be nonexistent. And then he added insult to injury by getting himself killed in a horserace a year after the wedding.”
Her ironic smile turned wistful. “I like to think that he saw me, knew me, during the first five months of my life. The last five of his. When I was little, I used to imagine him holding me and feeling an amazed sort of love for me, a warmth he couldn’t resist, even though he must’ve known his pretty wife had tricked him.”
She backed up and sat down in the swing again. “So. A few more months and we’d have both been born on the wrong side of the blanket. Shocking, isn’t it?” She laughed softly. “Don’t tell anyone about me, will you? Especially Ben. It would tarnish his image of me. Or rather, of just plain Sara Cochrane.”
Alex felt like sitting down. So he did, on the ground in his evening clothes, forearms dangling between his knees, back against the willow tree. Sara laughed again, he suspected at him, and this time he laughed with her. “Why did you tell me that?”
“So you would feel better.”
He digested that. “And no one else knows it?”
“God, no. I thought I would take it to my grave.”
The willow leaves threw delicate moving shadows against the pale oval of her face. It was the finely arching brows that gave her that look of quiet composure, he decided—that and her straight, unsmiling mouth. But he was learning that she was a mixture of open-heartedness and deep cynicism, kindness and extreme wariness. “What was it like growing up?” he asked. “Were you happy?”