Crazy in Love (21 page)

“You’re absolutely right, sweetie. Clare will kill me when she finds out I knew and didn’t tell her, but I don’t blame you one bit. I am so happy. I feel better than I have since my heart attack.”

I kissed her again and left, proud of any credit I deserved for making her better, proud of myself for getting pregnant. None of the considerations Nick and I had endlessly discussed—his tough schedule, my determination to follow him into the city, the things we wanted to do before we had children—mattered now. We were having a baby; I was already thinking of names. Perhaps Bennison Symonds for a boy; we could call him Ben. For a girl, it would be harder. Maybe Penitence Symonds, in honor of Pem. We could call her Penny. Or Letitia Symonds, in honor of Pem’s mother, who had celebrated her ninth birthday on the boat from England. We would call her Tia. I could imagine holding Tia on my lap, telling her about her brave great-great-grandmother, for whom she was named, and about her great-grandmother Pem. About her grandmother Honora. Would she know Pem and Honora? Driving along, I was thinking of the baby in my womb as twins, Ben and Tia, and I was telling them family stories the whole way home.

That day I called London fourteen times. The client’s office had long since closed for the day, and the sleepy night operator lost her patience with me: “I told you once, and I told you again, missus, there’s no one here and there’s no one likely to be here until Monday.”

“Try that extension one more time,” I insisted. But there was no answer.

“Where’s your mother?” Pem asked for the first time in several days. Her blue eyes glittered. She refused to sit down; she walked through the house, breaking leaves off houseplants, chasing flies with a swatter, making little sandwiches and then hiding them. She had the wanderlust; she could not rest. Late in the afternoon I found her in the garden, picking roses. Her hand bled from the thorns.

“Pem!” I cried. “Let me see your hand.”

She offered to me, and I examined, the shredded palm. I led her into the house, took hydrogen peroxide and cotton balls from the medicine chest, and settled her at the kitchen table.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” I asked when she didn’t flinch.

She shook her head. The spirit had left her again.

“Tell me about the three steamers to Newport,” I said.

She regarded me for a few seconds, then shrugged. “There used to be three steamers that left the dock in Providence for Newport, and if you weren’t there by nine o’clock, they’d be jammed.” She told the story with no expression in her voice; I had never heard it told with less than great drama, excitement, verve. Now there was nothing.

“What were they called?” I asked.

“I don’t remember,” she said.

“Pem, you’re going to have another great-grandchild,” I said, hoping the news would give her something happy to think about. I knew Nick would forgive me for telling her before he knew. She looked at me as though she didn’t understand. “I’m having a baby,” I said.

“Where’s your mother?” she asked.

Then I felt angry. I had lived with this woman ever since I was small. We had lived together through all the good and bad times of each other’s life. I remembered sitting beside her at Granddamon’s funeral, letting her squeeze my hand when the choir sang “Ave Maria,” his favorite hymn. She had let me reminisce about my father, making him sound like a hero and martyr, without ever contradicting me, even though I was aware she had never really liked him. We had made apple pies, Christmas cookies, the Fourth of July cake, and many special family dishes. She had always asked me about the cute boys in my class, something Honora never did, and I had always told her.

I leaned close to her face, staring directly into her eyes. “I said I’m having a baby.”

She said nothing. We were having a staring contest; she refused to look away.

“Do you know who I am?” I asked. “What’s my name?”

“Clare. No, Georgie. You are Georgiana Swift.”

“Who am I?”

“Why, you’re my granddaughter,” she said, giving a slight laugh to let me know she considered it a foolish question.

“Do you understand what pregnancy is?”

“Nine months of misery. Heh, heh,” she said, pleased with her witticism.

“I think you’re mean,” I said. “I know you miss Honora, and so do I. But I’ve just told you that Nick and I are having a baby, and you won’t act happy. Aren’t you happy for me, Pem?”

“Yes, I’m happy for you, Georgie,” she said. She lowered her head and started to cry.

“Then why does it make you cry?” I asked, taking her bandaged hand.

“I love the Point,” Pem said. And although she said nothing more, for the first time I realized that she knew she was in jeopardy.

13

SOMEONE RANG THE FRONT DOORBELL. NO
one ever rang Honora’s bell. Everyone just knocked and walked in. An Avon Lady, I thought. Or someone collecting for charity. I opened the door, and there stood Mark Constable.

“Oh,” I said.

“I hope you don’t mind, me coming early,” he said, smiling shyly. He wore his many-pocketed photographer’s jacket over a shirt and tie. His tan face gleamed. His pale hair had been neatly combed, and he held a bottle of wine, which he handed to me as he kissed my cheek. I nearly shuddered at the contact, and what it reminded me of, but I forced myself to smile.

“No, that’s okay,” I said. “Mark, didn’t you get my message?”

“Uh, no. I’ve been out of town. In fact, I’ve been north of Boston, taking pictures of King Salah on his boat. I’m on my way back to New York now, instead of the other way around. Why? Was it something important?”

I considered: what was the harm in one dinner? That folly of a kiss was long behind me, and all I could think of was talking to Nick, telling him about the baby. Poor Mark was a bachelor on his way back to his empty apartment; the least I could do was give him a home-cooked meal. “No, nothing important,” I said. “Let me show you around.”

I introduced him to Pem, who regarded him with surprise. While he stood at the window, admiring the view, she asked in a stage whisper, “Who’s that bird?”

I put my finger to my lips and gave her a stern look. “That’s our house over there,” I said, pointing. Mine, Nick’s, Ben’s and Tia’s. “And that’s my sister Clare’s.” I spied Eugene and Casey snorkeling in the shallows. Playmates for my little one.

“What a great place,” Mark said. “The whole family living near each other. Like the Kennedy Compound.”

I smiled. We walked outside, through the rose garden and past the herb garden, to stand on the rocks. Waves broke a few feet away, spraying us with mist. Mark stepped back, but I loved the way it felt on my face. Within fifteen seconds Clare was coming toward us.

“Hello,” she said, shaking his hand when I introduced them. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“You know, the story about how you took my picture standing in the middle of the street,” I said giddily, shooting Clare a dark look. She mouthed “Be careful” when Mark looked away from her.

“Well, I just wanted to say hello,” she said. Then, to me, “Mother sounded fantastic on the phone—I just spoke with her. Did she seem good when you saw her?” She sounded puzzled.

“Yes, I think this is a good day for her.” Smiling at Clare, I simultaneously yearned to tell her my news and enjoyed keeping the secret.

“I’d love to stay and talk,” Clare said, subtly accenting the “stay,” “but Donald and I are going to the Mendillos’. They caught all that bluefish yesterday, and they want us to help them eat it.”

“They left some in Honora’s refrigerator,” I said. “It’s bluefish season. Last week Henry McPhee gave us some; the week before, I cooked the one Eugene caught. Will you thank them for me?” I asked.

“Nice to meet you, Mark,” Clare said, but she was looking at me, her eyes communicating caution.

“Maybe we’ll grill bluefish outside,” I said to Mark, watching Clare walk away, amused at her protective role as housemother.

“That sounds good. I’m an excellent barbeque chef. I did a lot of outdoor cooking in the Middle East.”

We returned to the kitchen. I served Mark a gin and tonic, myself a glass of cranberry juice. No liquor would pass my lips until the baby was bouncing on my knee. Every time I passed the phone, I stared at it, willing it to ring. Why did I no longer fear what might be happening between Nick and Jean? Every explanation for where he might be was a reasonable one: dining with the clients, a night of theater, maybe even with Jean? After all, it was Friday night, and Nick had the right to enjoy it. Sitting on the terrace, watching the sun set into a golden bank of clouds, I was anxious for Nick to call, but not suspicious of his whereabouts. I silently toasted myself for turning a dangerous corner.

Mark was telling me about close calls in the Persian Gulf. I nodded avidly, but I was thinking of how strange it was to be having dinner with him instead of Nick. I liked him; his stories were vivid and poignant, and I thought of him fondly. But that night I should have been sitting opposite Nick, telling him about the baby, listening to his expressions of wonder and admiration for the two of us and what we had accomplished.

Mark lit the grill while I made a salad. I mixed Dijon mustard, mayonnaise, lemon juice, and fresh black pepper, and rubbed it on the bluefish filet. Then I carried it outside. The sun had set, and a light wind blew off the Sound.

“Chilly?” Mark asked, watching me hug myself.

“Oh, no,” I said, smiling. I shivered with pleasure every time I remembered the baby. Mark stepped toward me, and for a second I thought he was going to put his arm around my shoulders. But instead he pointed at the horizon.

“What’s that land out there?” he asked.

“Plum Island. And that’s Orient Point, and that lighthouse way left stands on a rock called Gull Island.”

“This is nice.” He smiled at me. “Thank you for having me here.”

“Oh, you’re welcome. Well, the fish must be done,” I said, moving away. His closeness was making me nervous. I suddenly had the feeling that Mark had an agenda for the evening that I wanted no part of. Any sparks I had felt for him in New York could, as Clare had told me, be attributed to the thrill of a photo session in heavy traffic. But I wondered whether he realized that.

We sat at the dining table. Pem refused to join us. She scowled when I told her my feelings would be hurt if she didn’t.

“Eat with your friend,” she said, making “friend” sound unspeakably dirty.

For the first time in my life of fixing dinners and setting tables, I did not light candles. I turned on lamps around the room that cast a cozy glow but did not suggest romance. This was a meal to be gotten through.

“Excellent fish,” Mark said. “That’s a delicious sauce.”

“Thank you. Bet you don’t have bluefish in the Middle East.”

“No, we don’t. A visionary, a great saucier—what can’t you do?”

I blushed. “Don’t flatter me, Mark,” I said. “You know, the reason I started the Swift Observatory was that I wanted to work at home. I’m really just a homebody.”

He shook his head. “Maybe that’s true, but I think you would have found a way to do it no matter what. You’re too good at interviewing people, getting into their lives. Why do you try to make your work seem insignificant?”

“I don’t know,” I said, but I was thinking it was because I wanted to distance myself from Mark. Originally I had felt attracted to him for his work, how it complemented my own. One sleepless night I had had fantasies of his photographs illustrating my reports. Now I wanted to remove the traces of things we had in common, convince us both they had been illusions.

“Well, I consider it significant. I don’t think I’ve met a person my age who’s been the subject of an editorial cartoon. Which I have in my briefcase, by the way,” he said, beginning to rise from his chair.

“That’s okay. I’ve seen it,” I said. “The Avery Foundation sent me a copy.”

“Oh. So I didn’t have to stop by after all.” Mark grinned, waiting for my reaction. He was testing me, letting me set the stage for what would happen next. If I wanted romance between us, I would lower my head and say prettily, “But I’m so glad you did.” Inflection was all. I leaned forward, grinned, said, “But I’m so glad you did,” in a tone reminiscent of the one old folks use, somewhat patronizingly, to young people.

“So am I,” Mark said. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been looking forward to it. I’ve thought of you all week, Georgie.”

The tone hadn’t worked. “Well, thank you,” I said.

“You look pretty tonight. You know, I told the photo editor he should use the balcony photo. You look so soft in it, without any hard edges. That’s what makes the picture so striking.”

“Why?” I asked, curious in spite of myself.

“Well, I take pictures of a lot of accomplished people. They come from all fields—the arts, business, politics, the army. Usually they have a sharpness to them; nearly all of them have it, even pretty women, and I’ve figured it’s part of what makes them successful. It’s not aggressive, or ugly, but it’s there. In the eyes, sometimes in the jawline. Maybe the average reader wouldn’t even notice, but I take the pictures and I see it.”

“Do you notice it in person? When you’re in the photo session?”

“Not always. It usually shows up after the shots are developed. It hardens in the darkroom. Not you, though. All your photos have a serene expression. Peaceful.”

Like a Madonna, I thought. Perhaps Mark had captured my pregnancy on film, a contentedness realized by my body but not yet by my mind. I was still swooning over motherhood when Mark let his fingers trail across the back of my hand.

“Oh, Mark. I think you have the wrong idea,” I said.

“I don’t know how to say this—oh, what the hell. I’ve fallen in love with you. I’ve thought of you all week—you can’t imagine how often I wanted to call you but forced myself to wait until tonight. It’s crazy, I know you’re married.”

“I love him. I love Nick,” I said.

“I know that. I mean, I can tell you’re not the kind of person to take marriage lightly, and the way you talked about your husband the other day . . . I don’t know.” He smiled at me, a cute, rather dazed look in his eyes, and I had to smile back. He still held my hand; I eased it away.

“I like you,” I said. “I had a wonderful time that day in New York.”

Mark shook his head. In lamplight his yellow hair turned deep gold. “I’ve been telling myself all week to not make a fool of myself. I have a bad habit of stating my case, no matter what the circumstances are. I can’t stand beating around the bush.”

“No, I can tell,” I said, sounding amused, inviting him to make light of the situation, wishing desperately that he would.

“I don’t fall in love all the time,” he continued. “Don’t think that. But you’re pretty, so pretty, and I think highly of your work, and all week, everything that happened, I wanted to talk over with you.”

“That’s nice, Mark,” I said, feeling really uneasy and wanting to finish the conversation, “but that’s exactly how I feel about Nick. Everything that happens, I want to tell him about it.”

“But he’s in London.”

“We talk on the telephone.”

“You make me want to settle in the States, not go back overseas. I don’t understand how he could have left you.”

“He didn’t leave me. He has business in London, and this time I couldn’t go along. Usually I do. We’re very close.”

My radar picked up a familiar sound, the rackety sound of the local cab. I heard a car door slam outside Honora’s gate. “Excuse me a second,” I said to Mark, hurrying into the kitchen.

The taxi’s red taillights disappeared around the corner, and I peered out into darkness. A shadow fell across the walk; I recognized it instantly. Slamming the screen door behind me, I ran into the night filled with scents of salt and honeysuckle, and I threw myself into his arms. “Nick,” I said into his warm shoulder. We held each other for minutes and minutes without saying anything. My arms held him so hard they ached, and I didn’t care.

“You feel so good,” he said. “I’ve been missing you for so long.”

I tilted my head back, and we kissed, a long wonderful kiss that went far toward erasing the weeks we had just spent apart. It was a kiss that tasted at once familiar and brand new, that made me feel cuddled and aroused at the same time. “Nick,” I whispered. “Georgie,” he whispered back, reclaiming me.

“I have something wonderful to tell you,” I said, and at that instant I remembered Mark. I pictured him waiting at the table, full of undeclared statements of love, waiting for me to return. I wished fleetingly that he had spied our reunion and fled the scene.

“I can only stay for the weekend,” Nick said, “but I’ll be back for good next Thursday. I would have called you, but everything was split-second. Negotiations broke up early, I grabbed a cab and got to Heathrow in time for the last flight. I did call from aboard the plane, but I got no answer.”

“I was visiting Honora. Uh, Nick,” I said. We had begun walking toward the house, our arms around each other.

Mark came to the screen door. He stood there, his hand on the knob, his hair darkened by the fine mesh between us and him. Nick stopped dead, and so did Mark, who had opened the door an inch and was about to step out.

“Nick,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “This is Mark Constable. Mark, this is my husband, Nick Symonds.” After three seconds the statues became gentlemen and shook hands.

“Mark is the photographer who took my pictures for
Vanguard
,” I said to Nick. “Nick decided to surprise me and fly home for the weekend,” I said to Mark.

“You must be exhausted, flying all that way,” Mark said.

“No, it wasn’t too bad. Excited about getting home, I guess,” Nick said.

“Oh, sure,” Mark replied.

We stood there for a while, shuffling our feet on Honora’s walk. I was sending telepathic messages to Mark, telling him to do the brave thing and beat it.