Secrecy

  The ball is back in our court again, Charlotte thought. There was a long, tired pause before Cliff answered tentatively, “As a matter of fact, Bill, it could be a healthy thing. That swamp is not so many acres removed from those poisons you just mentioned. Who knows whether—”

  Bill interrupted him. “It is not a swamp. It’s a marsh, a natural marsh, and you know better than to talk such nonsense.”

  “Well, suppose you’re right about that, Dad,” Charlotte began, trying another tack.

  “No supposing,” Bill said. “I am right.”

  He spoke gently to her with the reproving little smile of correction that she had always called his “fatherly” smile. It was devastating to be here quarreling with him!

  “Okay,” she responded. “You’re right, it’s a lovely, natural wetland. But the town doesn’t want it. The library doesn’t want it. And the library is the twenty-carat diamond in our crown. What do we do? Throw the diamond away?” Her own smile pleaded.

  “Yes,” Bill answered quietly.

  “But we have a tremendously advantageous tax deal that makes the difference between day and night for the whole undertaking.”

  “We can lower our expectations. The project doesn’t need to be all that big and all that grand.”

  “I don’t understand you, Dad. It’s big, but it’s not grand. And anyway, that isn’t the point. The point is that we’ve been working for almost a year, all of us, although seventy percent of the work has been Roger’s. It’s he who went to banks and combed the city for investors, won them with his energy and his enthusiasm.” Her voice rose with the anger of frustration; she was on the verge of furious tears. “You’ll ruin him! You’re humiliating him and making fools of us all.”

  Bill threw up his hands. “My God! Do you think I want to harm you? Or for that matter, harm anyone? Do I want to harm my brother? I’m not asking much, only that you don’t accede to this last condition. Talk of humiliation! This would humiliate me and all I’ve stood for. Can’t you see that, Charlotte? Can’t you, Cliff?”

  “No,” Cliff said, “I can’t.”

  “Talk to the library board,” Bill urged. “We’ll go together, you and I. We know everyone on the board.”

  “Will you do it, Cliff,” asked Charlotte, “even though I’m sure it will be a useless errand? They’ve made their wishes perfectly clear.”

  “They have. We’re down at the finish line, final contracts being drawn, people coming up from Boston for the closing, only a month away. Great timing, I must say.”

  “Well, try it, anyway,” Bill said, with a long, tired sigh.

  “All right, but it won’t work, I tell you.”

  “I won’t sign if it doesn’t work, Cliff.”

  “I think you’re crazy,” Cliff muttered. “It’s one thing to have convictions, and I’ve always respected yours, but now I think you’re a stubborn damn fool and I’m fed up.”

  “Think it over, Dad,” Charlotte urged. “You’ve always been able to see all around a problem. So do it, and we’ll talk again in a few days.”

  “You’re not staying? Going back to Boston now? You just got here.”

  “Yes, I have things to do.”

  She could not get out of there fast enough. What an unspeakable, unheard-of mess! A disaster, unless Dad—but Big Bill had never been known for easily changing his mind.

  In the following week Charlotte’s mood went from exasperation to fear and worry.

  “Is it possible that something is happening to my father?” she asked Roger when he returned from a hasty, unsuccessful trip to Kingsley. “I don’t understand it. Is he getting sick, or what? He’s always been so involved in the world, so reasonable.”

  “You don’t mean Alzheimer’s or something, I hope. No, he’s as involved as anybody can be. He was actually quite reasonable as he sees it. A lot of people might agree with him. Lovers of nature, of wildlife, migrating waterfowl—”

  “Don’t tell me you agree with him.”

  “Of course I don’t. If this were an estuary under a flight path, or a tidal basin of any size or importance, I would. I’d be among the first to say, ‘Hands off.’ Your dad’s just got his proportions wrong, that’s all.”

  “And so you got nowhere with him.”

  “Well, not very far.”

  “That means nowhere. Please don’t spare my feelings. Tell me the whole story.”

  “I’ve told it to you,” Roger said patiently. “There’s nothing to add. We went over all the stuff about the toxic muck around the mill, the contaminated water, dioxins, all the reasons for which the town, including him, had been fighting the disposal company. He insists that this area is too far away to be affected, so we argued back and forth and finally I left.”

  It was embarrassing that her father should appear so stubborn, so stupidly stubborn, before Roger, and she said so.

  “Let’s not call it stupidity. Let’s call it just a blind spot.”

  She knew that while Roger was giving comfort, he himself could be feeling none. He had to be deeply distressed, or maybe close to frantic. The interest he had aroused and the monies raised among his family’s and his own connections—what was he to do about them now? And she felt, although it was not her responsibility, deeply and miserably responsible.

  “Well,” Roger said, “let’s give it a rest for a week or two. How about a picnic basket on the Fourth? We could go hear the Boston Pops, if you want. It’ll be our thirteen-month anniversary. Come on, cheer up, we’re not beaten yet.”

  “Charlotte, I wish you didn’t look so distressed,” Pauline said gently. “It’s not your fault.”

  “It’s my father’s fault, though, and that concerns me.”

  She had just gotten off the telephone with Bill. A new idea having occurred to her, she had rushed to convey it as a solution: reforestation, creating a bird and wildlife sanctuary. But he had turned it down as a “disturbance of nature’s balance.” And she had spoken to him in dreadful anger as she had never done in all her life, or had any reason to do. Now, at the drawing board, unable to concentrate, she sat staring into space.

  Pauline put her hand on Charlotte’s shoulder and reasoned with her. “Listen to me. I know you plan to be married in late summer. But you’re in no shape to organize even the simple little wedding you want. You know what I think you should do right now? Postpone it by a month. Roger’s told you that he can’t, and it’s obvious that he can’t, go anywhere now. To marry and stay here, wrangling and wrestling with this project, is no way to start life together. A few weeks will make all the difference. I’m sure they’ll straighten this out somehow.”

  “You really do believe it?”

  “Yes. With all that money at stake and the Heywood prestige, something’s got to give.” Pauline attempted a cheerful laugh. “Even Bill Dawes.”

  Maybe. Maybe so. And Charlotte was exhausted.…

  “Go to Italy. You can honeymoon someplace else this fall. Go to Italy, see your mother, and—I’ve got a splendid thought. There’s a week’s lecture course in Florence on Renaissance building. You’d love it. I’ve got the announcement in my desk downstairs.”

  “Yes,” Roger said, “Pauline’s right. This has upset you far too much. Just leave it to me and Cliff. We’ll work it out.”

  Sadly, she acknowledged, “Yes, Cliff’s always approachable.”

  Her father was, too, except for those sad, silent spells that she had always attributed to Elena’s leaving him.

  In any case, now was no time to go delving into what was not fathomable. How can you see inside another human being if he doesn’t want to let you see?

  “Go, darling,” Roger said again. “It’ll do you good. In the fall we’ll go back to Italy together, or anywhere else you’d like.”

  ELEVEN

  “Once you get on that plane and head out over the Atlantic, your spirits will rise with it. You’ll see,” Roger had promised.

  Charlotte had doubted that a mere change of scene cou
ld make much difference. Nevertheless, from the moment the plane had lifted off and she had settled in for the long flight, she had begun to feel a faint enthusiasm. His parting kiss was still fresh on her lips; in her tidy carry-on were two new books, the camera that he had given her for her birthday, and a small box of her favorite chocolates.

  By the time she entered Rome, her spirits had definitely lightened. The charm and strangeness of the foreign place produced a sense of adventure, so that slowly she felt a return of confidence and optimism seeping back into her veins. She would find on coming home that order had been restored. Roger would have solved the problem.

  Now relaxed, she drove through sun and wind, with the top down, from Rome toward Venice. The back roads wandered through Umbria’s vivid summer, past vineyards, hills, and the ancient stones of hilltop villages. All history was here. It was enchanting, and she began to sing.

  Then, suddenly, she had to laugh. Her mother had not changed! Had she ever really expected Elena to change? Here I’ve come all this way, Charlotte thought, and when I telephone her house in Rome to say I’ve arrived, what do I hear? A servant tells me that she isn’t there. Where is she? I’m given a telephone number; I call and I find that she’s at a villa near Verona. She will join me in Venice. Why in Venice? That’s not important, Elena says. She’s taken hotel rooms for us. It’s an absolutely magnificent place, right on the Grand Canal, and I will adore it. She can’t wait to see me, it’s been so long.

  Indeed it has, Charlotte agreed. And as suddenly as she had begun to laugh, was sober.

  The bed had a brocaded pink silk canopy to match the walls. Two chairs were covered in rose-colored velvet. On a table stood a bouquet of crimson gladioli and a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. Now if Roger were here, she thought, we would really enjoy this champagne and this bed, this sumptuous, extraordinary, this positively royal, bed!

  Her posture belied this attempt at good cheer. Actually, she was standing stiffly in the center of the room, both welcoming and dreading the meeting. There was too much emotion in these meetings with Elena, a summoning back of things that her mind had stored away and wanted to forget.

  We meet in passing, in temporary places, she reflected, whether here, or in New York, or all the way back to those rooms in Florida so long ago. We meet in expensive places, always with suitcases ready for departure. Even at home during the years in Kingsley, where now, with after-knowledge, she was able to see so much more clearly, Elena had been in some vague way a temporary presence, unsettled, discontented, poised to leave. Always she had been looking for something.… For what?

  And Charlotte, parted from Roger for no more than three days and already longing for him, felt a rush of thankfulness for steadfast love. In every way he had supported her; he was healing her.

  But enough of this. She must unpack, hang up some clothes, and take out Elena’s gift. A final watercolor rendering of Dawes Square in a delicately gilded frame—Elena had a penchant for gleaming objects—it was certain to please her.

  Presently she looked at her watch. It was time to go down to the lobby. The concierge smiled. They, like waiters in expensive restaurants, knew whom they were looking at and did not waste their smiles. Shrewd eyed and courteous, they were expert at intimidation, so that the unsure—the girl Charlotte had once been—would think immediately that her clothes were unsuitable or that something else was wrong with her.

  Now, in her hard-won strength, she sat down, crossed her legs—good legs in smart shoes—held her polished handbag on her white linen lap, and was sitting so when Elena came rushing through the front entrance.

  They embraced, the daughter looming half a head above the mother. Then, following Elena’s custom, they separated to observe each other. There were lines around Elena’s eyes, the faintest threads. Surely those too-luxuriant eyelashes were false. And Charlotte was shocked by the stab of passing time. People like Elena were not supposed to grow old.

  “My God, Charlotte, you’re positively fashionable! You look stunning. But where’s the famous Roger?”

  “Business. He can’t get away right now.”

  “Oh? Everything else all right?”

  “Of course. Couldn’t be better.”

  Elena’s keen eyes examined her daughter, missing no nuance of expression. Apparently satisfied, she bubbled over, “Look, I’m tearing, you’re making me smear my eyes. Oh, this is wonderful! Do you like your room? I suppose you’re wondering why I had you stay at a hotel. It’s quite a story. I’ll tell you when we sit down. Let’s go outside. You’ve never been in Venice. Don’t waste a minute. You must start at San Marco. It’s a marvelous day, so let’s go. We’ll sit there and have a drink and talk.”

  This stream of words flowed until they reached the great square with the church, the cafés, and the pigeons that, Charlotte reflected as she gazed, would be familiar to anyone in the world who had ever received a postcard picture of Venice.

  “So,” Elena commented, “now tell me about yourself. You never say anything in your letters.”

  “Nor do you,” Charlotte said gently. “Maybe you should begin by telling me what you’re doing in Verona.”

  “Not Verona. I’m in a villa near Verona. Well, I might as well put my cards on the table.” Elena sighed. “I left my husband last week. There wasn’t enough time to inform you because everything happened so fast.”

  “But I thought you were so happy with Mario.”

  “I was and I wasn’t. I suppose at bottom it was a question of boredom, getting fed up, I with him and probably he with me, although he never said so. But he never wanted to do anything except practice medicine. I’ve always told you how he hates to travel, how I could never get him to come with me to America. Goodness, it would have been a miracle to get him to your wedding. Thank heaven, I don’t have to worry about that now. It’s not that we had a bad life, you know. The apartment was perfect, and—well, you’ve seen his picture. He’s as good looking as your father, but in a different way, much more sophisticated. However, it’s all been quite amiable. Possibly—even probably—he was relieved. We should have done it sooner. We had no little children, nothing to keep us, after all, so I just left.”

  “You just left.”

  It was astonishing to Charlotte. As you trade in your car or reupholster your furniture, you end it.

  Her astonishment must have been very visible, for Elena resumed quickly, “It’s a hard subject for you and me, considering our past, isn’t it? You could write books about those things. People do write them, don’t they? But books never really explain things properly. Sometimes you can hardly explain them to yourself while they’re happening.”

  Elena’s delicate wrists, each embellished by two or three gold bangle bracelets, rested on the table. Her face, circled with glossy black curls in her timeless style, was bent as though she were examining the rings on her fingers. Then abruptly, she raised it and looked straight at Charlotte.

  “The truth is that I met someone,” she said. “His villa is where I’m staying. That’s why I thought you might prefer a hotel, you see. Things get complicated. You do see, don’t you?” she asked anxiously.

  Sad, thought Charlotte. Sad.

  “Yes,” she said, it being simpler to agree.

  “You’ll meet him sometime. He’s Swiss-Italian. In the winter he goes to his house in Gstaad. He’s an investor, some sort of banker—I don’t know much about those things. You’d like him. He’s cultured and charming, a little younger than I am, but …” Elena threw out her hands palms up.

  That most probably was the reason why a twenty-five-year-old daughter was to be kept out of sight. With a soft pity Charlotte saw again, in the afternoon light that had no pity, the tiny lines that were around her mother’s eyes and the parentheses around her mouth.

  Elena caught her glance. “You’re looking at my smile lines? I’m having them taken care of next month. I’m going to a first-rate clinic in Switzerland.” She gave Charlotte a rueful, apologetic smil
e. “You don’t know yet how terrible it is to see fifty approaching. Five more years, and my cheeks will start that little drooping, those little pockets that squirrels have when they’re holding a nut in their mouths.”

  “You know you’re being silly, don’t you? At eighty-five, after a few more face-lifts, you’ll still be young,” Charlotte said, thinking almost tenderly, A careless, foolish child. And nobody, least of all I, can really know what made her that way, any more than you can explain why Claudia should have had the son she had.

  “White becomes you,” Elena observed. “There’s nothing like white linen in the summer. Yes, you do look wonderful. Glowing, the way people do when they’re in love. I always say the glow is unmistakable. But you never give me any details. You were a secretive child. You still are. All you write about is your job and that project in Kingsley.”

  “Well, all right, I’ll tell you. I am very much in love. Here’s his picture.” Charlotte was amused to hear herself saying what people always say: “It’s only wallet size and doesn’t do him justice.”

  Elena examined it critically before giving her opinion. “He looks as if he’s probably tall. A nice, strong face. Yes, a very nice face. Serious, I think, like you. You were such a serious child. Is he like that too?”

  “Yes and no,” Charlotte replied, seeing them walking through Boston without umbrellas in an April downpour, soaked and loving the rain, laughing like a pair of teenagers.

  Elena’s musings interrupted these bright images. “Love. Sometimes, Charlotte, I find myself wondering whether I ever really knew it. Maybe I didn’t and only thought I did. Is that possible, do you think? Oh, well! What does your father say about Roger?”

  “Dad likes him.”

  Perhaps, though, he didn’t like him as much as he had at the start, not after reaching this impasse. It was a case, the last time the two had talked, of an irresistible force meeting an immovable object.