Acts of Love (27 page)

“I keep them in the freezer. These are last night's leftovers.”

Luke pictured her at dinner—not a casual fast-food meal to be gulped down while perched on the edge of the chair, but a thoughtfully chosen one, elegant, carefully prepared, artistically arranged—and eaten alone, with no conversation, no way of sharing the pleasure of good food and wine. It did not occur to him that he frequently ate alone; all he knew was that once again he felt an ache of sadness for her.

Jessica looked up and met his eyes. “The salad,” she said coldly.

“Getting there,” he said casually. He sliced the endive into thin strips and added them to the salad greens he had torn into pieces. He looked around for something in which to wash them. “In the cabinet on your right,” Jessica said, and he took out a salad spinner and spun the greens dry, then took a tomato from the basket. “Slices or wedges?”

“Slices.”

Jessica adjusted the flame under the pot on the stove, ground beans in the coffee grinder, filled the coffeemaker with water and plugged it in. Her movements were brisk and economical but almost automatic; she was uncomfortable with Luke there, opening and closing her drawers, rummaging in her cabinets, using her utensils, running water in her sink. He was calm and quiet, for which she was grateful, but he was tall, with a powerful presence, and he took up a lot of space. It had been a long time since someone had taken up space in a room where she lived. We'll eat and then he'll go, she thought. The rain will stop soon, and I'll never see him again.

From beneath a covered towel she took a loaf of dark bread with a rough, floury crust and picked up a bread knife.

“I'll slice that,” Luke offered. “Or would you rather I did something else?”

She took a breath. He insisted on being part of everything. “I just have to do this and set the table.”

“Let me set the table, then. Would you mind? It was the one task Constance always trusted me with.”

After a pause, she nodded, reluctantly, he thought, and began to slice the bread. Luke walked around the counter to the dining space and opened cabinets. “Which settings would you like?”

“Anything you want,” she said indifferently.

Annoyed because he wanted her to take some interest in their table, Luke shrugged and chose from the neatly stacked place mats two that were woven like tapestries in russet, blue and gold. He found blue napkins to match, and silver napkin rings. The round table was polished black granite with four white-cushioned chairs spaced around it, and Luke set the place mats before two chairs at right angles to each other, facing the windows. Then he changed his mind and set them on opposite sides of the table. In another cabinet he found six shelves of china stored in protective zippered cases, and below them two drawers crammed with silver, the kind of china and silver used for dinner parties in New York. Now they were here, as if she had not been able to decide what to give up. But how often were they used?

It came to him that Jessica's house and cabinets had the same look as his apartment on the day he had become aware of its emptiness and had thought he should entertain more. Her telephone had not rung once since he had arrived; no neighbors were close by. This small house on the edge of the water, its back turned to the people of Lopez Island, seemed as isolated and solitary as a castaway in the middle of a vast and indifferent ocean.

He unzipped the quilted cases and took out two plates of white china bordered in an intricate floral pattern, two matching salad plates, and cups and saucers. From the drawers of silver he chose an openwork sterling pattern, then reached up to the open shelves above.

“What kind of glasses?” he asked.

“Red wine. And water, if you'd like.”

He put them on the table, then took two sterling candlesticks from another shelf, and opened drawers until he found candles and matches. “Do you need help with the wine?”

Her silence said she did not need help with anything, but in a minute she appeared, holding a bottle and a corkscrew. “Would you like to open it?” She handed it to him, looking at the table. “How nice it looks. No wonder Constance trusted you.”

He poured their wine. “I'll get the food.” He brought in the platter of sliced duck, the salad bowl, and a basket of bread. “There's soup next to the stove,” Jessica said, and he brought the tureen to the table while she set out soup bowls. Luke filled them and then he pulled out her chair and held it for her.

It was as if he had opened another door to the past. Somehow, without thinking about it, her back became straighter, her head came up, and when she put aside her cane and sat down she moved with grace and fluidity. But in an instant it was gone and Luke saw that she was in pain.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “What can I do?”

She shook her head. “Please sit down.”

The rain had lessened, but the wind still whipped it against the windows with a sound like a steady swishing of long skirts, and the sky was almost black. Luke lit the candles and their reflections danced in the windows. Jessica glanced at them and saw the faint glow of her face and Luke's. A moment of contentment came upon her unawares, overriding her annoyance at Luke's intrusion and the pain that had shot through her hip when she stood straight. It was good to have a companion with whom to share wine and food.

Of course, she knew that from a past filled with more than her share of companions. And Luke was pleasant and considerate. But he did not belong there and she knew that contentment was something that did not last. She would be glad when he was gone.

The soup was minestrone, thick with vegetables and pasta, steaming hot, and it was all Luke needed to confirm his feeling of having found sanctuary. If I needed a place to hide, he thought, this would be it. How distant it was from everything! How remote he felt from his apartment and office, from the Vivian Beaumont Theater, from New York, from everything and everyone in his life. “I haven't felt this relaxed in a long time,” he said. “Thank you.”

She nodded. They ate in silence. They finished their soup, then filled their plates with sliced duck and salad. Jessica held out the bread basket and Luke took another slice. “A wonderful lunch. Do you do your shopping on Lopez?”

“Most of it. If I need anything special, Robert gets it for me when he shops in Friday Harbor.”

“You must have been able to stock up, then, when you worked on
Pygmalion.”

She gave him a startled look, and it suddenly struck him: If she was this isolated, not even answering her telephone, how could she help direct a musical? But it was not a question he could ask her, and he did not want to dwell on the fact that he had read her letters, so he moved smoothly on. “What about your house? It seems wonderfully well made. Did the architect come from Lopez? And the contractor?”

“They're from Seattle, but they both have homes here. It
is
well made; I watched every inch of it go up and Constance gave me advice about what to demand and what to watch out for. She told me she'd built a house once, but she didn't tell me where.”

“She told you that? She never built a house. We talked about it when I thought I might build a weekend place on some land I own near Millbrook, but I never had time and neither did she. What kind of advice did she give you?”

“The hickory floor was her idea, and rounded corners instead of sharp ones, and the corner fireplace in the bedroom. I designed the kitchen because she didn't know I needed—she didn't have any thoughts about kitchens, but she had dozens of other ideas. Do you think she just made them up?”

“From old dreams that never came to pass.” Their eyes met and they smiled together. “She probably thought of your house as the closest she'd get to one of her own. I'm sorry she never got to see it. She would have felt very much at home.”

“I described it to her in my letters, but one night she called and said she was picturing me in my living room but I hadn't been at all specific about the pieces of art I'd put around the room and would I please correct that immediately.”

They smiled again. It was easy and safe to talk about Constance, and so they did, loving her, missing her in almost the same ways, while the wind and rain lashed the windows, and the candles slowly burned down. The dog came for scraps and Luke and Jessica fed her until there were no more and she curled up and slept. They finished the bottle of wine and Luke, without asking, brought the coffeepot from the kitchen and filled their cups. “We always talked about the plays I directed,” he said, sitting back and stretching out his legs. “Each time, she helped me get going when I hadn't yet found a way to focus everything. I missed her the most when I was working on
The Magician.
I missed her sitting beside me, reading a scene aloud, wearing those spindly reading glasses that sat at the very end of her nose; I missed her imperious finger tapping the table to make sure I got whatever point she was making; I missed her laughter when we shared a private joke—” He took a drink of coffee. “Sorry; I didn't mean to get emotional.”

Jessica drew a long breath. He had brought Constance into the room and her sense of loss stabbed sharply. After a moment, she said, “What is
The Magician?
I never heard of it.”

Luke looked up. “A new play by a young man named Kent Home. He's a brilliant writer, which is amazing considering that he's unbelievably callow and usually not likable, but somehow he's written a magnificent play. So good, in fact, that it actually tamed Abby Deming.”

“Abby was in it?”

“Is. We opened three weeks ago and it looks like we'll have a long run.”

“Who else is in it?”

“Cort Hastings and Rachel Ilsberg. They've mostly done television, but they're fine, Rachel especially.”

“What theater?”

“In Philadelphia at the Forrest Theater for one week. And then the Vivian Beaumont.”

“And the reviews were good?”

“Raves. Even Marilyn Marks got high praise, in
The New York Times
and
The Wall Street Journal”

“Did she do sets or costumes?”

“Both. You worked with her, didn't you?”

“She did the set for
Virginia Woolf.
I liked her; she actually asked Constance and me where the doors would be best for our entrances and exits.”

“We had to move a door in her set for
The Magician.”

“Then she didn't check first with Abby or with you. She may have gotten burned on
Virginia Woolf,
everyone accused her of playing favorites by designing with Constance and me in mind.”

“She did.”

“Yes, but if you're the one she's playing favorites with, it seems quite reasonable.” She smiled as Luke laughed, but then, suddenly, a warning clanged within her:
Getting too close, getting too comfortable, opening doors that shouldn't be opened. Change the subject, change the subject, change the—
But Luke's laughter filled her house with a sound it had not heard and she brushed aside the warning.
It's not important, because pretty soon he'll be gone.

“Who was stage manager on
The Magician?”
she asked.

“Fritz Palfrey. And Monte Gerhart produced.”

“Monte and his masks.”

Luke chuckled. “He took them off for
The Magician;
I think I got to know him pretty well. And we worked well together. When did you work with him?”

“On
The Children's Hour.
I thought he was a bumbling fool.”

“But, as you said, that's a mask.” Luke leaned forward and refilled their cups. “Monte was the one who wanted Abby Deming; I'd heard too much about her temper to want her. I'd never worked with her, but—”

“Oh, it was real. Awesome, in fact. I've seen her whip a cast into battle formation and turn a rehearsal into a civil war. Monte must have known that.”

Luke heard the change in her voice: she was allowing its full resonance to come through instead of consciously keeping it flat. She sat forward, her hands curved around her cup, her arms resting on the table. In the candlelight the lines in her face seemed as deep as if they were carved, making her look even older than before, with not even a shadow of her former beauty. But Luke was not focusing on her face. Her head was tilted slightly, as if she were listening to the past, and in her pose he saw her hunger for news of the world she had left. It was as if he saw a door open. Now they no longer had to stay safely on the subject of Constance. Now they could talk about anything.

“Monte probably heard the same stories I heard,” he said. “But he took Abby to dinner and she looked into his eyes and that seems to have done it.”

“I've seen her do that. There's something quite biblical about Abby when she's with a man, as if she's giving him the choice of paradise or being turned into a pillar of salt.”

Luke burst out laughing. “She was like that with Cort. And, from what I saw, with Kent, too.”

“Did he rewrite scenes for her?”

“Only when we all agreed it was needed. She wasn't as demanding as I'd expected. Constance probably demanded more in her time than Abby, at least in
The Magician.”

“Constance understood character better than most playwrights. One time she made Hulbert Lovage rewrite the whole second act of
Madame Forestier.”

“That was a beautifully written play.”

“Because he's a fine writer. He went through a bad time, writing dreadful plays and insisting they were fine and everyone else was wrong. His agent and his wife tried to get him to take a year off, even two or three, but he refused; he just kept writing, saying that his plays were perfect, that they didn't need one word changed. It was thoroughly depressing. Then, somehow, he pulled out of it; it was one of those mysteries that make us realize how unfathomable the universe of the mind really is.”