Acts of Love (35 page)

“Because I don't want to.”

“Is it so important, what you want?”

“It is to me. Look at you, doing what
you
want, refusing to try—”

“Doing what I can! This is all I can do!”

“I don't believe that. I don't believe—”

“Have you ever had anything happen to you that wrenched your life apart? That made you look at everything as if you were in a completely foreign place so that nothing looked the same, nothing felt the same? For two years I thought about this; I tried to see myself going back and putting together all the parts of my life that had once been familiar. But there was no way to do that.”

“You were afraid.”

“Is that so terrible? Of course I was afraid. I was terrified. I had no place anymore. There had always been a place for Jessica Fontaine; I knew it and so did everyone else. Doors opened, people welcomed me, everywhere I went
I belonged.
And then I didn't. I knew that the doors wouldn't open anymore, that no one would welcome me, and I'd be outside, where everything was foreign. Can't you try to understand that?”

“I am trying. I've been trying since I read your letters. You're a courageous woman; why didn't you even make an attempt? You could always run away; why did you do it before you were sure of what would happen?”

She shook her head. “You don't know anything about it.”

“That's possible. But I know that any woman who cares about the stage as you do, any woman who wrote as you did to Constance, about the power you felt on stage, about the—”

“I don't want to hear myself quoted by you!”

“You're right; I shouldn't do that. I'm sorry. I was trying to make you see how big the stakes are.”

“Good God, do you think I don't know that? My whole life is at stake! Years and years of building a life that protects me from—” She stopped.

“Memories and pain,” he said quietly. “I understand that. But are they so devastating that you won't even try to get back what made you great? When I said you'd locked it away, I meant that: what made you great is still there—”

“That's another dream. You keep spinning fantasies, as if you could change me by talking long enough. What was in me is gone. Why won't you believe that when I say it over and over again? Once I knew exactly what my body would do, how to move across a stage, how to sit and open doors and pour a drink  . . . It was an instrument that told an audience almost as much as my face and my voice. But that body is gone. And so is my face. Everything is gone; nothing is locked away. Now, I've said it all; you've forced me to say it all. Are you satisfied?”

He was silent for a moment. “I'm sorry. You're right; I shouldn't sit here and tell you what you want and what you don't want, or hold myself up as some kind of savior come to rescue you and return you to society.” He stood up. “It was important to me to tell you that I love you, and that this has been a wonderful week for me. I don't think I've ever lied to you; I never pretended that you still have the beauty and perfect body you once had. But the more I got to know you the less important any of that seemed. I cared about the way we talked together, the way you saw the world and shared it with me, the way your spirit soars and your face is transformed when you smile, and even more when you laugh. To me, you
are
magnificent, and I'm sorry you can't trust me enough to believe I mean that.”

He stood for a moment, a dark silhouette in the fading light of the fire. Then he bent down and kissed her, a light kiss, but not casual. “Good night, my dear,” he said, and then he left, taking the stairs two at a time to his room.

Jessica stayed in the corner of the couch, trembling, her thoughts in turmoil. The fire burned down again to a bed of glowing embers and the room grew chilly, but still she sat, her hands clasped as they had been when Luke held them. The inn slept and no sound was heard, but her thoughts were clamorous.

How long had it been since a man had said he loved her? Oh, so long, so many years. . . . But that was not what had thrown her into confusion. Something else had done that.

She was in love with him.

No, she thought quickly. Not quite. But so close that she knew she would be, deeply and passionately, as she had never been before, if she allowed it.

But she could not risk it. She had a life to protect.

You've pulled it around you like a shroud; you're smothering in it.

A shroud, she thought. What a terrible word. As if I were dead. Well, the old Jessica Fontaine is dead—everyone knows that—but I'm not; I'm alive and busy and happy.

You've surrounded yourself with mirages and illusions that keep reflecting back on themselves, and you've made them your reality.

Anger welled up in her. If that was her reality, it was her choice. Who was he to say it wasn't right for her? He had his own reality, his life in New York, and when he returned to it, there would be no reason for them to meet, ever again.

She took her cane from its place against the arm of the couch and crossed the hall to her room, telling herself to stop thinking, to put the evening out of her mind and go to sleep.

*  *  *

“Did you sleep well?” Luke asked politely the next morning when they met in the dining room.

“No.”

“Neither did I.”

Susan Fletcher came through the kitchen door. “It's rather mild today, and there's a sheltered place on the porch. Would you like to have breakfast out there?”

Luke looked at Jessica.

“Fine,” she said, thinking that breakfast would be uncomfortable anywhere, but since they had almost two hours before the plane would arrive, they might as well eat. “I'll get my sweater.”

“I'll do it,” Luke said. “Is it in your room?”

“On the bed.”

While he was gone, Susan led Jessica through French doors to a small round table on the porch, set with a white cloth and two place settings, very close together. “I assumed you'd want to be here.”

Jessica let out her breath in a long sigh. “How lovely it is.” The long, wide porch looked over a deep valley, still lush with tall grasses shining beneath the early-October sun, with the gentle rise of Turtleback Mountain across the way. The trees had passed the peak of their color and many were already bare, but on others clusters of red, bronze and gold leaves clung stubbornly, and the same colors were on the valley floor, strewn among pink wild roses, white yarrow and bushes with shiny red berries. To the left of the porch, through dense trees, a pond glimmered, and a man pushing a wheelbarrow followed a path through a clearing, then disappeared into another grove of trees. “It's so different from Lopez,” Jessica murmured. “We don't have valleys. Or mountains, for that matter.”

“Orcas is by far the most beautiful of all the islands,” Susan Fletcher said. “I hope you'll have time to see it.”

Jessica smiled. The residents of each of the islands staked their claim to theirs being the most beautiful. We all need to think our own place is the true paradise, she thought. Even when it's an exile. The thought startled her, and she knew surprise was on her face when Luke came through the French doors.

“What a lovely setting,” he said, and placed Jessica's sweater around her shoulders. She waited for him to ask what had surprised her, but he did not. “Another ideal retreat.”

“I hope you'll see some of our island before you leave,” Susan Fletcher said.

“I hope so. I think we'll have time. It depends on how soon breakfast is ready.”

“It's ready now.” She went through the French doors and by the time Luke and Jessica had seated themselves, moving their place settings slightly apart, she was back with juice and coffee. “Pancakes on the way.”

Luke drank his juice and surveyed the view. He seemed content to let the silence go on. Susan Fletcher served their breakfasts, gave them a swift glance, then left, and once again the silence was complete. “There should be birds,” Luke said, and at that they heard one, then two, and then a third.

“Perfect timing,” Jessica said, and they laughed together, and she waited for him to say something about the night before, but he did not.

“We can take a drive around part of the island,” he said after a few minutes. “I'd like to see as much as possible, if you would.”

“Yes, I'd like that.”

“I read the history of the islands last night. Did you know there was something called a Pig War on San Juan Island?”

“Yes, but wasn't it really just a quarrel over the shooting of someone's pig?”

“That was it. An American farmer shot a British farmer's pig and the British government of Canada, which claimed the San Juans then, issued a warrant for his arrest. American troops came in to prevent it; they camped on one end of the island and British troops camped on the other. But not a bullet was fired.”

“Except at the pig.”

He chuckled. “And the whole thing took thirteen years to resolve.”

“Thirteen years?”

“Sometimes it takes people a long time to change their minds.”

Jessica shot him a quick look, but he seemed absorbed in cutting a piece of pineapple. “Did anyone win?” she asked.

“Not in any traditional sense. They negotiated a boundary that gave the San Juan Islands to the U.S., but by then I'm not sure how much the British cared.”

“Grown men acting like little boys,” Jessica said. “Marching in with guns. Couldn't the boundary have been negotiated without armies?”

“Probably. If we could go back and act it out that way, then we'd know.”

“That might make a good play. Maybe there were even three scenarios.”

“Like points of view in
Rashomon.
You know, it does have possibilities. Maybe I'll try it sometime.”

“To write it?”

“Yes.”

“But . . . you're a playwright?”

“Mostly as a hobby. I've written two in the past six years. I don't have a lot of time. But I find it very satisfying.”

“You haven't tried to produce them?”

“I wouldn't do it myself and I haven't shown them to anyone else. I'd like your opinion, though.”

“I'm not an expert on what makes a good play.”

“I think you are. No one could understand better what makes characters live, and whether they lend themselves to the interpretations of fine actors.”

Once again Jessica felt herself being drawn into his life, away from Lopez. But he must know it won't work, she thought. After last night, there's no reason for him to stay another day.

“I brought them with me, as it happens. Those quiet afternoons on your terrace, I reread them. I think they're not bad. But of course I'm a little close to them.”

She smiled absently. The truth was, she wanted to read them. It would give her a different way of knowing him. And she didn't care whether that made sense or not. “Could you leave them with me when you go back to New York? I'd return them quickly.”

“Of course,” he said without hesitation, and she felt a brief pang of disappointment. “But you could read them today and tonight, if you'd like. It seems I'll still be here; the airline is booked until the first flight tomorrow morning. I've overstayed my welcome in your studio, but I'm sure there will be plenty of rooms on Lopez; October is hardly high season.”

“No, of course you won't do that. It would be absurd for you to move again.”

“Thank you; that makes it much simpler,” he said easily.

Jessica gazed across the valley at Turtleback Mountain. She and Luke both knew that there was regular ferry service from Lopez to the mainland, and rental cars available for the drive to Seattle. Why weren't they talking about that?

Susan Fletcher removed their plates, asking if they wanted anything else. “No, everything was wonderful,” Luke said. “We'll be leaving in a few minutes. Can you recommend a good driving tour? We have about half an hour.”

“I'll bring you a map.”

The moment for talking about the ferry was gone. Luke and Susan Fletcher bent over the map, marking roads with a pen; and on their drive around the island there were shops and homes and restored public buildings to discuss. The plane was waiting when they arrived at the airport and on the flight back, Luke and the pilot talked while Jessica was silent. Her car was parked at the airstrip on Lopez and they drove to her house. Driving home together after a trip, Jessica thought. How domestic that sounds. How domestic it feels.

“I'd like one more ride together,” Luke said. “Could we do that?”

“Yes, what a good idea.”

They saddled the horses and rode for two hours, as fast as the trails would allow. The ride had a valedictory feel, and the sadness that went with it. As if in sympathy, the sky grew hazy and then darkened to a dense gray fog that swept in from the sea, obscuring everything beyond the nearest trees. They slowed the horses to a walk as Luke said, “Rain when I got here; fog when I leave. But what a glorious week of sunshine in between.”

The house was muffled, like a cocoon, the windows gray with fog, the rooms dark. Hope ran ecstatic circles around them as Luke turned on lamps, moving with easy familiarity from one to the other, creating small circles of light that pushed away the gloom. He took Jessica's suitcase to her bedroom, then ran his hand over his hair, drenched from the fog. “I think we need to get dry.”

Jessica was looking out the living room window. “Yes.”

From across the room, he said, “What do you see?”

“Fog.”

“And you find it interesting?”

She was silent. Luke went to her and put his hands on her shoulders. Her muscles tightened, but she did not move away. He ran his hand over her hair, as he had his own; it was soaking wet and plastered to her head, and she felt his fingers following the contours from her forehead to her neck. “Is it that you don't want me to look at you?”