“Go right ahead, Mal, I’ll just sit here and watch my grandchildren frolicking in the water.” She sat on a white terrace chair, her eyes immediately focusing on the pool.
“I’ll come with you.” Andrew said to me. He took hold of my arm, and together we went through the French doors. Trixy followed us automatically, scampering along behind.
As we crossed the sunroom, Andrew whispered in my ear, “Want to try for the baby now? Or don’t you have time?”
Oh, you! You’re impossible! Incorrigible!” But despite my words, I smiled up at him.
Bending over me, Andrew kissed the tip of my nose. “I do love you, Puss,” he murmured, his expression suddenly serious. Then his face changed yet again, and a mischievous glint flickered in his blue eyes as he said, “Listen, I’m willing to try any time, anywhere. All you have to do is say the word.”
I laughed. “Tonight?”
“You’ve got a date,” he said.
CHAPTER TEN
CONNECTICUT, OCTOBER 1988
The birds had come back.
A great flock of them had landed on the lawn not far from the swimming pool, just as they had done yesterday. They perched there now, immobile, silent, creating a swath of black against the grass, which was strewn with fallen autumn leaves of burnished red and gold.
I could see them quite clearly through the windows of my studio. They looked for all the world like birds of prey to me. An involuntary shiver ran through me at this thought, bringing gooseflesh to my neck and face.
Putting down my paintbrush, I stepped around the easel and opened the door.
Observing the birds from the threshold, I could not help wondering why they still sat out there. Several hours ago, when I was in the bedroom, I had seen them land, and the amazing thing was that they continued to linger, not moving a single feather nor making the faintest twitter of a sound.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught a flash of color, and I swung around to look over at the house.
Sarah was coming down the steps of the terrace, carrying a tray. She was bundled up against the autumnal chill, dressed in an oversized gray sweater, gray wool pants, and black suede boots. A long, scarlet wool scarf was flung around her neck, and it was this which had caught my attention a second before.
“What were you staring at so intently?” she asked as she drew closer.
“Those black birds over there,” I answered, gesturing toward them. “They keep coming back.”
Pausing in her tracks, Sarah glanced over her shoulder and grimaced. “They look so strange,” she murmured. “So . . . ominous.”
“I know what you mean,” I said and opened the door wider to let her come into the studio.
“I thought you might like a cup of coffee,” she said. “Mind if I join you? Or am I interrupting your work?”
“No, you’re not, and I’d love a cup.” Turning away from the peculiar gathering of birds, I closed the door and followed her inside. Moving a box of watercolors and a jar of water, I made room for the tray on a small table in front of the old sofa.
Sarah sat down and poured the coffee. As she glanced up and looked through the window, she exclaimed, “Jesus, what are those birds doing on the lawn? There’re so many of them, Mal.”
“I know, and it is weird, isn’t it? The way they sit like that, I mean. But we do get a lot of wildlife out here these days. The wetlands down there near the beaver dam are a sanctuary, and Canada geese and mallard ducks come and occupy the pond, and sometimes a blue heron pays us a visit. Andrew’s even seen a hawk from time to time. At least, he thinks it’s a hawk.”
“Are those blackbirds?”
“Crows,” I replied. “Or maybe rooks. What do you think?”
“Search me, I’m not a bird-watcher, I’m afraid.”
I laughed, took a sip of coffee, and bit into a macaroon.
Sarah did the same, then looked over the rim of her coffee cup and asked, “Have you made your mind up yet? About going to London to meet Andrew next weekend?”
“I think so. I’d like to go, Sarah, since he’s going to be stuck there for another two weeks. That’s if you don’t mind coming up here with Jennifer and the twins. Actually, if you prefer it, you could move into the apartment in the city for the few days I’ll be gone.”
“You know I love to play Mommy, how much I adore Jamie and Lissa, and I’m delighted to come up here. Frankly, these quiet weekends far from the maddening crowd are a blessing. I seem to be able to really recharge my batteries out here. And, God knows, I need to do that these days. There’s such a lot of pressure at work. So make your plans. I’ll hold down the fort, and very happily. In any case, I—” She broke off and stared out the window facing onto the lawn.
I followed her glance, then sprang up and ran to the door. I pulled it open and stepped outside. The birds had taken off in a great flurry all of a sudden, rising up off the lawn with a flapping and whirring of wings. I craned my neck backward to watch them soar upward into the gray and bitter fall sky. I saw at once that the span of their wings was very wide; they were big birds. They climbed up higher, wheeling and turning against the leaden sky, then circled over the studio, casting a dark shadow across its roof.
“They’re not blackbirds or crows,” I said. “They’re far too large. Those birds are ravens.”
“Shades of Edgar Allan Poe,” Sarah intoned in a low voice directly behind me.
She startled me. I hadn’t realized she had followed me to the door. I swung around to face her. “You made me jump! Gave me quite a start!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were standing there. And what do you mean, shades of Edgar Allan Poe?”
“Ravens are very Poe-ish,” she said, “always in his writings. They’re considered to be birds of ill omen, harbingers of death, you know.”
A coldness trickled through me. I felt myself shivering. “Don’t say things like that, Sash; you frighten me.”
“Don’t be so silly.” She laughed. “I’m only kidding.”
“You know very well I’ve never liked anything that’s macabre or ghoulish or has to do with the occult—” I didn’t finish my sentence. Sarah was staring at me, concern reflected in her eyes.
“What is it?” I asked. “Why are you looking at me like that? So oddly.”
“You’ve gone quite pale, Mal. I’m sorry, honestly I am. I’d forgotten that you’re a bit squeamish about those sort of things.”
“And you’re not,” I retorted, trying to recoup, forcing a laugh. But I was still cold all over, and irrational as it was, I felt a peculiar sense of apprehension.
“Only too true,” Sarah agreed. “The more ghoulish and scary something is, the better I like it, whether in a film or a book.” She laughed again. “Poe was my favorite until Stephen King and Anne Rice came along.”
“I’m afraid I have different tastes,” I remarked. Closing the door behind me, I walked back to the sofa.
Sarah strolled over to the long table under the window at the back of my studio and stood looking down at the watercolors spread out on it. “These are terrific, Mally!” she cried, sounding surprised. Her voice was suddenly full of merriment. “Oh, I love these drawings of the creatures in the wall! Here’s Algernon, the black snake, with his head in the cookie jar, or I should say the chocolate-covered cherry jar. And how adorable—Angelica in her Easter bonnet off to the Fifth Avenue parade, and the chipmunks making a cradle for the baby they’re going to adopt.” She turned around; her face was wreathed in smiles. “Mal, you’re brilliant, a genius. These are delightful paintings, full of charm and humor. You’ve missed your way. You should be illustrating children’s books.”
“That’s sweet of you to say, but I have my hands full with so many other things, quite aside from Andrew and the twins,” I said. “But I’m pleased you like them. I had fun creating the books, and Andrew helped me with the editing of the stories.”
“The kids are going to love the books when they find them in their Christmas stockings,” Sarah
said.
“I hope so, considering all the time I’ve put into them.”
“You ought to try to get them published, Mal.”
I shook my head. “I’m not sure they’re good enough.”
“Take my word for it, they’re good enough.”
“I wrote and painted them for Jamie and Lissa—just for them, and that’s the way I prefer it.”
After Sarah left the studio, I picked up my brush and went back to the portrait on the easel. It was of Diana, and I was painting it as a Christmas gift for Andrew.
I had done the initial drawings in July, when she was visiting us, and taken a number of photographs of her in this pose at that time. Working in oils for the past two months, I was now almost finished. I spent a good hour concentrating on Diana’s hair color, trying to capture the reddish lights in it, and once I felt I had it exactly right and couldn’t improve upon it, I put the brush down. I needed to step away from the portrait for a couple of hours, to get a new perspective on it; also, it was almost lunchtime, and I wanted to eat with the twins, Jenny, and Sarah.
Taking up a rag, I dipped it in turpentine and cleaned the brushes I had used this morning. When I finished, I turned off the lights, pulled on my heavy cardigan, and headed for the door. But before I reached it the phone began to ring, and I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“It’s me, darling,” Andrew said from London.
“Hi, honey, how are you?” I asked, smiling into the phone, glad to hear his voice.
“I’m okay, Mal, but missing you and the twins like hell.”
“We miss you, too.”
“You are coming over here next weekend, aren’t you?” he asked, sounding anxious.
“Nothing could keep me away! Sarah’s agreed to bring the twins and Jenny up here, and they’ll have fun together.”
“And so will we, Puss, I can promise you that,” my husband said.
PART TWO
* * *
KILGRAM CHASE
* * *
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LONDON, NOVEMBER 1988
On Thursday morning at nine-thirty I flew to London on the Concorde.
Andrew had insisted that I take the supersonic flight because it was so fast, only three and a half hours long, reasoning that since I was going for just a few days, it would give us more time together. He had overcome my objections with the assurance that his office was paying for my very expensive ticket.
I quickly discovered it was a terrific way to fly. I had hardly had a chance to eat a snack, relax, and read my Colette when we were landing at Heathrow. Another good thing about flying Concorde was the way the luggage came off the plane and onto the carousel so quickly. The porter I found was soon stacking my cases on his trolley and whizzing me through customs. As we came out into the terminal I was still blinking at the efficiency and speed with which everything had moved.
I looked around for Andrew and saw him before he saw me. He was standing just beyond the barrier, looking handsome and dashing with a trenchcoat thrown nonchalantly over his shoulders. He wore a gray pinstripe suit, a pale blue shirt, and a plain gray silk tie, and as always he was immaculate, not only in his clothes, but from the top of his well-groomed head to the tip of his highly polished brown shoes.
A rush of excitement hit me at the sight of him. It always did when we had been apart. He was the only man I had ever loved, the only man I would ever want.
Suddenly he saw me, and his face broke into smiles. I raised my hand in greeting, smiled back, and hurried forward as he moved toward me. A split second later he was holding me in his arms, hugging me to him and kissing me. As I clung to him I thought how extraordinary it was that less than four hours after leaving Kennedy I was standing here on English soil, embracing my husband.
We drew apart finally, and I said, “My bags are on the trolley,” looking over my shoulder as I spoke.
Andrew glanced at the porter and nodded.
“’Evening, guv’nor,” the porter said. “Got a car waiting, have you?”
“Yes, in the parking area just outside this building,” Andrew told him.
“Right ho!” The porter went trundling ahead of us, pushing the trolley. We walked after him.
Andrew turned to me and lifted a brow. “You’ve come for the duration, have you?”
“Duration?”
“Of my stay. You’ve certainly brought enough luggage.”
I laughed. “Only two cases and a makeup bag.”
“Rather large cases, though,” Andrew murmured, half smiling.
I threw my husband a flirtatious look and said, “But I’ll stay if you want me to.”
“Will you really, darling?” His face lit up, and there was a sudden eagerness in his eyes, excitement in his manner.
Instantly I regretted teasing him and explained in a more serious tone, “I’d love to stay longer than we’d planned, Andrew, but you know I can’t. I’ve got to go back on Monday.”
“Why?”
“I can’t leave the children for longer than a weekend.”
“’Course you can, darling. The twins’ll be fine. They’ve got Jenny and your mother, and Sarah to watch over them.”
“Sarah’s working during the week,” I pointed out.
“Your mother isn’t, and Jenny is very reliable. They’re as safe as houses with her.”
“But we agreed I’d only come here for the weekend,” I reminded him. I stopped. Staring hard at him, I said, “I shouldn’t have risen to the bait just now, and I shouldn’t have teased you, said I’d stay longer. Honestly, it’s just not possible. I’d feel uneasy, Andrew.”
Suddenly he looked awfully glum, but he made no further comment. We walked on in silence.
Making a snap decision, I stopped again, turned to him, and said, “Look, I’ll stay on until Tuesday, honey. I think that’ll be all right. Okay? Is that okay with you?”
Smiling, he nodded and exclaimed, “Mal, that’s great, just great!” Then taking hold of my elbow firmly, he hurried me forward.
We went through the glass doors of the terminal, crossed the road, and entered the parking area where the porter was already waiting with my suitcases on the trolley.
I shivered. It was a damp November night and quite cold, typical English winter weather.
A dark green Rolls-Royce moved slowly toward us and braked. A uniformed chauffeur jumped out, nodded to me, and said, “Good evening, madam,” and went to help the porter load the bags into the trunk before I even had a chance to acknowledge him.
Turning to the porter, I said, “Thanks for helping me,” and walked over to the Rolls. Andrew tipped him and followed me. Bundling me into the car, Andrew then stepped in behind me and closed the door. Immediately he took me in his arms and gave me a long kiss, then pulling away, he said, “It’s so good to have you here, Mal.”
“I know. It’s the same for me,” I answered. “Wonderful to be here with you.”
The chauffeur got in and turned on the ignition. A few seconds later we were leaving the airport buildings behind and heading out onto the main road in the direction of London.
As the car sped along, I glanced at my husband. My eyes lingered on his face, and I saw, on closer examination, that he looked much more tired than I had realized. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and in repose, his face appeared unexpectedly weary. A general air of fatigue enveloped him.
Frowning, I said, “You’ve had a much rougher time than you’ve told me, haven’t you?”
Andrew gave a quick nod, squeezed my hand, and inclined his head in the direction of the driver, obviously not wanting to speak in front of him. He murmured, sotto voce, “I’ll tell you later.”
“All right.” Opening my bag, I took out two envelopes with Dad printed across their fronts in uneven, wobbly, childlike letters. Handing them to Andrew, I said, “Lissa and Jamie have each written you a card.”
Looking pleased, he put on his horn-rimmed glasses, opened the envelopes, and began to r
ead.
I leaned back against the soft cream leather of my seat and stared out the window. It was just six-thirty, and dark, so there was not much to see. The road was slick with rain, and the traffic at this hour was heavy. But the Rolls-Royce rolled steadily along at a good speed, and I knew that in spite of the rain, which was now falling in torrents, we would arrive at Claridge’s in an hour, or thereabouts.
* * *
Later that evening, after I had called Jenny in New York, unpacked, showered, redone my makeup, and changed my clothes, Andrew took me to dinner at the Connaught Hotel.
“For sentimental reasons, Mal darling,” he said as we walked from Claridge’s to the other hotel, which was situated on Carlos Place.
It was still cold and damp, but the heavy downpour had long since ceased, and I was glad to get a little air after being cooped up on the plane. Anyway, I always liked to walk in London, especially in Mayfair around the dinner hour.
The traffic was far lighter and the streets were much less crowded; in fact, they were almost empty at this time of day. There was something charming and beautiful about this lovely old part of London. Certain streets in Mayfair were still residential, although some of the elegant Georgian mansions had been turned into offices; nonetheless, the section was very special to me, and it held many fond memories of my courtship.
Once we were settled at our table in the restaurant of the Connaught, Andrew ordered a glass of white wine for me and a very dry martini for himself. As we waited for the drinks to materialize, he started to talk about the London office of Blau, Ames, Braddock and Suskind, and without any prompting from me.
“I think I got over here just in the nick of time,” he explained, leaning across the table, pinning me with his eyes. “The place is in a mess, as I sort of indicated to you on the phone the other night. It’s been badly managed for the last few years. Joe Braddock’s son-in-law doesn’t know his ass from his elbow, and Jack Underwood and I will have to do a lot of fancy footwork in order to keep it afloat.”