He smiled. “Yes, she is, and I started to say that she’s been looking for a house for me to buy, but the houses are all far too big for me.”
“Oh, so you live alone then, do you?” Sarah asked, throwing him a quizzical look.
“I’m single,” he said. “And I certainly don’t want a large house to roam around in alone.”
“That’s understandable,” Sarah murmured. “I’d feel the same. But of course I come here every weekend to be with Mal.” There was a little pause before she said, “I’ve never been married, have you?”
“No, I haven’t,” he said. “I’ve roamed the world as a journalist, been a foreign correspondent until recently, and I guess I was always too involved with my job to think of settling down. I came back to the States three years ago and took a job with Newsweek.” He pursed his lips, gave a half shrug. “I decided I’d had enough of foreign places. I wanted to come back home to little old New York.”
“Are you a New Yorker?” I asked.
“Born and bred. You are too, aren’t you, Mal? And you, Sarah?”
“Yes,” I answered. “We are.”
“We’ve been friends since we were babies,” Sarah informed him, laughing. “Actually, you could say we’ve been inseparable since our prams. Anyway, what brought you up to this neck of the woods for weekends?”
“I was a boarder at the Kent School before I went to Yale, and I’ve always loved it up here. To my way of thinking, the northwestern highlands of Connecticut are God’s own country.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CONNECTICUT, JANUARY 1993
The night I met Richard I was quite certain it was Sarah he was interested in, not me. But within a few weeks of knowing him, he had made it absolutely clear he was drawn to me. He liked Sarah as a person, he said, found her delightful, in fact, but that was as far as it went.
I was so taken aback, I found myself stuttering that she was going to be hurt and upset. Richard assured me otherwise; he pointed out that she had no interest in him either.
This, too, had amazed me; after all, she was my oldest and dearest friend. I knew her intimately, as well as I knew myself. I was quite convinced he was wrong in his reading of her.
But he was right.
When I asked Sarah about Richard, she admitted he was not her type. “A nice man, too nice, Mal,” were her words. “I’ve got a horrible feeling I always fall for the rats like Tommy Preston.”
Once I recovered from my surprise, I found myself agreeing to go on seeing him. But I did so cautiously. I realized it would take a long time for me to allow him into my life. I had been alone for four years now, and I saw no reason to change the situation.
But as Sarah said, Richard was a nice man, warm, kind, and thoughtful, and he did make me laugh. That dry humor of his constantly brought a smile to my face, and I discovered I looked forward to seeing him on Friday or Saturday, or sometimes Sunday, when he came up for weekends. And yet, for all that, I did withhold part of myself.
I think he knew it, of course. He was too astute not to understand that I was afraid of a relationship, in many ways.
He knew all about me and what had happened to my family. He had never come out and said so, had merely alluded to it. But he was a newspaperman, and a very good one, and he had been living in London in December of 1988. The murders of my husband and children had made headlines there, as well as here.
One of the things I liked about Richard was his sensitivity. On a Saturday evening in January, when I had known him for about three months, I came across him in the sunroom, looking at a framed photograph of Jamie and Lissa.
He held it in both of his hands and was gazing at it intently; there was such a tender look on his face I was touched.
I came in on him unawares, and he looked startled and embarrassed when he saw me. Swiftly he put the photograph back on the table, and still looking uncomfortable, he gave me a small, almost shy smile. He seemed about to say something, then he stopped.
“Say it,” I said, walking over to him. “It’s all right, really. Say what you’re thinking, Richard.”
“How beautiful they were . . .”
“Yes, they were. I used to call them my little Botticelli angels, and they were just that. They were adorable, mischievous, naturally, at times, but very bright and funny and . . . just great. They were great, Richard.”
He reached out, put a hand on my arm gently. “It must have been . . . hard for you, heartbreaking . . . I’m sure it still is.”
“Excruciating at times, and I suppose it always will be. But I’ve learned to go on living somehow.”
A troubled expression flickered in his eyes as he said, “Look, I’m sorry, Mal, sorry you caught me staring at their picture. The last thing I want to do is cause you pain by making you talk about them.”
“Oh, but it doesn’t cause me pain,” I said quickly. “I love to talk about them. Actually, most people think like you do, and they avoid mentioning Jamie and Lissa. But I want to reminisce about them, because by doing so it helps to keep them both alive. My children were born, they existed on this planet for six years. And they were such joyous little beings, gave me so much love and pleasure, I want to keep on remembering them, sharing my memories with my family and friends. I know I always will.”
“I understand, and I’m glad you’ve confided in me, Mal,” he said, “that you’ve shared this. It’s important to me. I want to get to know you better.”
“I’ve been very damaged,” I murmured and went and sat on the sofa.
He took the chair facing me and said, “You’re very brave.”
“I’m very fragile. There are parts of me that are breakable, Richard.”
“I know that, Mal. I’ll be careful . . . I’ll handle with care, I promise.”
It seemed to me that after this discussion we drew a bit closer, but not that much, because I would not permit it. Deep down I was afraid of getting involved with him on an emotional level, if indeed I was capable of such a thing. I wasn’t sure that I was.
But as the weeks passed and we continued to see each other when he came up on the weekends, the relationship did develop, and we kept discovering new things we had in common.
He had seen the grave under the old maple tree down by my studio, although I had never shown it to him. Perhaps Sarah had. In any case, one lovely April day he brought me a bunch of violets and asked me to put them on the grave. “For Andrew and the children,” he said.
This was yet another thoughtful gesture on his part, and it moved me enormously.
After this I began to relax a little, to trust him even more, at least on a certain level. But the barriers I had erected were hard to scale, even harder to break down. As I found myself more and more drawn to him physically, I discovered I was still unable to open up my heart to him.
It was Sarah who pointed out to me how involved with me Richard was, but I pooh-poohed the idea.
“We like each other, we find each other attractive, we enjoy being together. In lots of ways. But that’s all there is to it, Sash. We’re just good friends.”
She gave me a skeptical look and changed the subject, drew me into a discussion about the catalogue and some of the new items we were including.
Much later on that particular April Saturday, as I got ready for bed, I thought about her words again. And I was convinced she was wrong about him, that she was exaggerating. Loving me as she did, Sarah wanted me to be happy, and in her opinion Richard Markson was part of the answer to that. But she was off track. He was a lovely man, I was the first to say so, but I know I could never care for him in the way he deserved. It just wasn’t possible.
* * *
In May Richard came to see me on the morning of my thirty-eighth birthday, and I was very surprised to see him. It fell on a Tuesday this year, and he was the last person I expected to see strolling over to join me on the wrought-iron seat under the apple tree at eight o’clock in the morning.
“Why aren’t you in New York
? At work?” I exclaimed as he came and sat down next to me.
“Because I’ve taken the week off to prepare an outline for a book.”
“You’re going to write the Great American Novel?”
“No, a nonfiction book.” He smiled at me. “Anyway, Mal, this is for you. Happy birthday.” He leaned closer and kissed me. “I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I will.” I looked at him and smiled, and opened my gift. “Oh, Richard how lovely of you to think of this!” I exclaimed. “Thank you so much.” I sat staring at the dark red leather binding of Collected Poems by Rupert Brooke. Opening it, I looked inside, slowly turning the pages. “What a beautiful volume. Where on earth did you find it?”
“At an antiquarian bookshop in New York. It’s quite old, as you can see. May I have it for a moment, please, Mal?”
“Of course.” I handed it to him.
He leafed through the book, found the page he wanted, and said, “This is one of my favorites, Mal. Can I read a few lines to you?”
“Yes, please do.”
In your arms was still delight,
Quiet as a street at night;
And thoughts of you, I do remember,
Were green leaves in a darkened chamber,
Were dark clouds in a moonless sky. . . .
Richard stopped, and no words came for a moment.
I said quietly, “How lovely . . .”
“And here are just a few more lines from the same poem, Mal, and again I think they are very fitting.” He touched my cheek and smiled that shy smile of his, then read from the book again.
Wisdom slept within your hair,
And long suffering was there,
And, in the flowing of your dress,
Undiscerning tenderness.
I didn’t speak for a moment; I just sat there quietly, and then I said, “Thank you, Richard, not only for my birthday present, but for sharing with me.”
“Can I take you out to supper tonight?” he asked, leaning back against the seat. “We could go to the West Street Grill in Litchfield.”
“Thank you, I’d love that.”
“See you later, then,” he answered, looking pleased. “I’ll pick you up about seven,” he added, pushed himself to his feet and walked off briskly.
I watched him go, and then I looked down at the book in my hands and began to turn the pages, reading fragments of poems.
Later that week, on Friday morning, the boxes of books arrived from my printer, and I immediately called Richard. “The second volume of Lettice Keswick’s diary has just arrived. Hundreds of them,” I told him. “And since you’re a fan of her writing, I’d like you to have one of the first copies.”
“Thanks, Mal, that’s great,” he said. “When shall I come over for it?”
“Right now, if you like. I’ll give you a cup of coffee.”
“See you in half an hour,” he replied and hung up.
When he arrived I led him into the sunroom. “I have coffee waiting, and the book for you. I hope you like it. I think they’ve done a good job, but I’m curious to have your opinion.”
It took Richard only a few minutes to peruse the diary and tell me I had another success on my hands. “The layout is beautifully designed, for one thing, and the couple of pages I’ve read hold up. I suppose the entire diary is of the same high standard?”
“Very much so. It’s such a marvelous record of everyday life in England in the seventeenth century. They were very like us, had the same hopes and dreams, troubles and worries.”
“People haven’t changed much over the centuries,” he remarked, putting the book down on the table. “And you certainly stumbled on something very special when you found these.”
“There are two more books,” I confided.
“Diaries?” he said, looking slightly startled. “Don’t tell me you have more of these treasures?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t, unfortunately, because the diaries are the best things she wrote. But I have her garden book and her cookbook, and I plan to publish those next.”
“I think Kilgram Chase Press is going to be in business for quite a while,” Richard said, smiling at me.
I shrugged. “I hope.”
After drinking his coffee, Richard asked, “What’s the garden book like?”
“Interesting, because her plans for the gardens at Kilgram Chase are very detailed, as are her lists of the plants, flowers, and trees. But I don’t think it will have the same appeal.”
“It might. People are very much into gardens these days, Mal. Look at the success of the Russell Page book on his gardens, and Gertrude Jekyll and her writings.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Are there many illustrations?”
“Yes, I’ll have to start copying them soon.”
He laughed. “Lettice Keswick’s Garden Book might turn out to be just as big a hit as the first diary. And this—” He tapped it and continued, “I’d like to give this to our book editor at the magazine, if you don’t mind.”
“No, that’s fine. I’ll get you another copy before you leave,” I said.
We sat drinking our coffee and chatting for a few minutes, mostly about Kilgram Chase Press and books in general. I surprised myself when I said, “I once did a book, Richard.”
A look of interest flashed across his face. “Was it published?” he asked.
I shook my head. “It’s a special kind of book.”
“Do you have it here, Mal?”
“Yes. Would you like to see it?”
“I’d love to. I must admit, I’m very intrigued.”
I nodded and hurried out of the sunroom.
I was back within a few minutes. “Actually there are two books,” I said. “I wrote and illustrated them for Jamie and Lissa. I was going to put them in their Christmas stockings, but of course they were dead by then.”
“Oh, Mal,” he said, and his dark eyes looked stricken.
“One is called The Friends Who Live in the Wall, and the other is The Friends Who Live in the Wall Have a Tea Party. Well, here have a look,” I said, handing them both to him.
Richard sat for a long time poring over the books. Finally, when he put the second book down, he had the strangest expression on his face.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked, staring hard at him.
He shook his head. “Nothing. But Mal, these books are extraordinary, just beautiful. They’re enchanting, so imaginative, and your paintings are superb. You are going to publish them, surely?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t! I could never do that! I wrote them for my children. They’re . . . they’re sort of sacred. The books were for Jamie and Lissa, and that’s the way I want to keep it.”
“Oh, Mal, you can’t. Not something like these little . . . masterpieces. Small children will love them, and think of the joy and pleasure they’ll give.”
“No!” I exclaimed. “I can’t, I won’t publish them, Richard. Don’t you understand?” I repeated shrilly, staring at him. “They’re sacred.”
“What a pity you feel that way,” he said quietly.
“Maybe one day,” I murmured, suddenly wanting to mollify him.
“I hope so,” he said.
I lifted the books from the coffee table and wrapped my arms around them possessively. “I’ll just put them away, I’ll be back in a moment.” I hurried upstairs.
As I laid the books away in the cupboard and locked the door, I suddenly wondered why I had shown them to Richard Markson. Only Andrew and Sarah had ever seen them. I had kept them hidden away for over four years. I hadn’t even taken them out for Diana or my mother.
Why did I show him something so personal, so intimate, so meaningful? I asked myself as I went back downstairs to the sunroom. I had no answers for myself. In fact, I was quite baffled.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CONNECTICUT, AUGUST 1993
When he left for Bosnia, Richard had said he would be gone for ten days.
; But in fact he had been away for almost the entire month. He had been scrupulous about calling me, and in a way I had been grateful to hear from him, to know that he was all right. But at the same time I felt I was being put on the spot.
Whenever he phoned me from Sarajevo, I became self-conscious, almost tongue-tied, certain that he was expecting an answer to the proposal he had made before he left.
I cannot give him one.
I was still ambivalent about my feelings for him. I liked him, cared for him, in fact. After all, he was a good man, and in the ten months I had known him he had proved to me that he was a good friend. Then again, we were compatible, had common interests and enjoyed being together. Yet to me that was not enough for marriage, or even a trial marriage, as he suggested.
I am afraid—afraid of commitment, attachment, bonding, intimacy on a daily basis. And ultimately I’m afraid of love. What if I fell in love with Richard, and then he left me? Or died? Or was killed doing his job? Where would I be then? I couldn’t bear to suffer the loss of a man again.
And if I did marry him, as he wanted me to, and did so without loving him, there was still the possibility, no, the probability, of children. How could I ever have other children? Lissa and Jamie had been so . . . perfect.
This was how my mind was turning this morning, as I walked toward the ridge carrying a mug of black coffee. I lifted my eyes and looked up at the sky as I usually did.
It was a murky morning, overcast, and rain threatened up in the hills. Yet the sky was a curious color, etiolated, so bleached-out it looked almost white. No thunder-heads rumbled above; nonetheless, the air was heavy and thick, and I sensed that the weather was going to break after a blistering August. Anyway, we needed the rain.
Sitting down under the old apple tree, I sipped my coffee and let my eyes roam around. They rested briefly on the cluster of red barns, now my compound of little shops, and I felt a small swell of pride as I thought of their great success. Then my gaze moved on to scrutinize the long meadow, finally settling on the pond. Mallard ducks and Canada geese clustered around the edge; and on the far bank the blue heron stood there proudly on its tall legs, a most elegant bird. My heart missed a beat. It was a welcome sight.