Heartwood (22 page)

I
t was summertime. Robby hadn’t come back from Blair’s Falls yet—he’d been away for almost two months—and Katie had gone to a sleepaway camp, and wouldn’t be home until the end of August. Laura still didn’t know when Robby was returning; he never mentioned it when they spoke on the phone. However, he seemed cheerful and busy—doing what, she wasn’t sure. So for the first time in years, Laura had no one to feed but Molly, and the only voice in the house was her own. But that wasn’t why the gray fog had descended on her once again. She missed Nick. It was that simple. Sometimes the missing took the form of a dull ache that stayed with her throughout the day, sometimes it was a sharp, fast pain that hit her without warning. Either way, it hurt. And there was no way to stop it.

The only thing that had helped was work and she had thanked God that for a while she was very busy. She and Lillian
had finished writing the book and were editing the final draft. The reception for Mai Ling, the concert pianist, had been a success, and several Manhattan organizations had expressed interest in hiring Laura’s catering company in the future. (To Iris’s delight, Phil had gone to the reception, where Laura had introduced him to Ms. Ling and they seemed to like each other.)

But then—and it was as if it happened overnight—the book was finished and had been sent off to the publisher, and there were no new catering jobs until the fall. This was nothing new, summer was always Laura’s slow season, and normally she used the time to work with her gardeners; she now had two of them tending the fresh vegetables and flowers that were her trademark as a caterer. This was also the time of year when she spent hours with her accountant doing the paperwork that had piled up during the year. But now, when she was in the midst of her gray fog, she knew she’d go out of her mind if she had to spread mulch in the glaring sunshine, or sit inside adding up columns of figures.

She thought about going north to see Katie, but the proprietor of the camp frowned on parents visiting until the kids had had a chance to settle in. And besides, Laura didn’t want to go anywhere until the fog had lifted. It would have to eventually, she told herself; in spite of what all those Victorian novels said, no one actually died of a broken heart.

But the fog didn’t lift.

–—

“I’m not happy with some of the pictures that were selected for the book.” Lillian’s voice on the phone sounded exasperated. “Everything Nick shot is beautiful, of course, but from a
storytelling perspective I think we have some better choices. I told him you and I would come to his studio one day next week to take another look at his proof sheets.”

I’m going to Nick’s studio. I’ll see him again!
Laura’s heart began to pound. But then she came to her senses.

“Lillian … I’m afraid I can’t get away.”

“All week long? You must have one day free. This is important.”

Lillian was right. The pictures were as important to the book as the text she and Laura had slaved over.

But dear God, how am I going to do it? How am I going to see him again and then walk away?

“Laura, are you still there?”

“How about next Wednesday?” she said with a gasp. And hoped Lillian hadn’t heard it.

“Be at Nick’s studio at noon.”

Today was Thursday. There were six days to wait.

–—

She didn’t seem to need to eat very much, and she wasn’t sleeping more than a few hours a night. Yet she was never tired. She worked longer and harder than any of her crew in the gardens and still had energy left over. Sometimes she found herself shivering, she didn’t know whether it was from excitement or fear or a combination of both. And it didn’t matter. She had only six days to wait. Then there were four days. Then there were two. Then it was Tuesday night.

She washed her hair, and brushed it dry so that it gleamed. She pulled clothes out of her closet until almost everything she owned was spread on her bed. Finally she selected a pink wraparound dress—she liked the way it accentuated her slender
waist—a little orange jacket to go over it, high-heeled sandals that made her feel like a model on a runway when she walked in them, and her favorite coral earrings. She laid it all out on her chaise, then she climbed into bed and waited for the morning.

Wednesday morning was bright and sunny. But Laura might as well have been in Alaska in the dead of winter. She piled her gleaming hair on top of her head with hands that shook. They shook when she put on her lipstick and pulled on the pink dress, which suddenly seemed too revealing and showy. She thought about changing into something else, but she didn’t have time. If she missed the train into the city, she would be late.

Besides
, she told herself,
you’re being absurd. It’s been weeks since you’ve seen him. And you told him it was over. New York is full of girls who are younger and prettier than you are. He’s probably moved on to someone else already
.

But he hadn’t. She would have known if he had, because they had that connection that had started on the first day she met him.

Even if he hasn’t found someone new, that doesn’t change anything. You’re still married. You’re still a grown-up
.

But she felt like a girl—a scarily reckless girl.

This is a business meeting. Lillian will be there. What can possibly happen while she’s there?

And in the end, that was the only reassurance she could give herself; nothing would happen because Lillian would be there.

Thank God for Lillian
. It became like a mantra for her as she drove to the railroad station and stood on the platform waiting for the train, and when she sat in her seat on the trip into the city.
Thank God for Lillian
, she repeated over and over in her mind.
Nothing will happen because Lillian will be there
.

–—

Nick opened the door to his loft. He didn’t say a word, he just stared at her with those beautiful, beautiful green-blue eyes. If she hadn’t known it before, she knew now that there hadn’t been a new woman in his life.

“Hi,” he said after a long wait. She thought about running.

“May I come in?” she asked. He stepped aside so she could enter, then closed the door behind her. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked. He needed to do something because he was nervous. She knew this because she was so nervous herself.

“I … Some water?” she managed to say.

Along one wall of the loft there was what looked like a galley kitchen with a sink. As he hurried over to it, she began walking around, studying everything intently—anything to keep from looking at him.

She hadn’t known what a photographer’s loft would be like—she had imagined a glamorous place with chrome and leather chairs and huge avant-garde photos on the walls. Nick’s loft looked more like an old-fashioned workshop. There was a big worktable in the middle of the room, and a forest of standing lights, as well as cameras and other equipment, were stored neatly in a corner. The ceiling was high, and it was encrusted with intricate crown moldings. There were frosted Palladian windows that were covered by long shades, and the hardwood floor beneath Laura’s feet had been scuffed from long use before it had been restored. In one corner of the space there was a conversation pit consisting of a deep sofa, three comfortable-looking chairs, an oak coffee table and a thick Oriental rug.

Nick brought her the glass of water. She took it and thanked
him and then they were staring wordlessly at each other again. “So this is where you work,” she finally said, to break the silence.

“Yes. I live here too. Behind that door over there, I have a living room and a full kitchen and my … and my bedroom,” he stumbled. The word with all it’s suggestions floated in the air. The water in the glass Laura was holding, splashed. Nick took it from her.

“Your hands are shaking,” he said. She’d forgotten how tender that husky voice could be. But she couldn’t let herself think about things like tenderness.

“Take a look at yours,” she said. He smiled and she could feel herself smile back and that was even more dangerous than the tenderness.

“Where’s Lillian?” she asked quickly. The tendrils of hair were falling in his face the way they always did. He was wearing his standard outfit, the blue jeans that looked so well on a man with a narrow waist and long legs, and the T-shirt that outlined the contours of his chest. “Is Lillian here yet?” she asked again.

“She’s not coming.”

Oh God
.

“She called to say she’s got a nasty summer flu. She said she tried to phone you to let you know, but there was no answer at your house.”

“I’d probably left for the train station already.”

“That’s what she thought.”

She should get out of there. She should say she’d come back later when Lillian was there. But she couldn’t make herself form the words.

“Laura …” he said softly.

I should get out of here
.

“If you only knew how many times I imagined you being here like this.”

I should get out of here right now
.

“I thought I’d give you champagne and fill the place with roses … make it as beautiful as you are.”

But God help me, I don’t want to go
.

“I don’t need champagne and roses, Nick,” she said, and her voice was as soft as his.

Somewhere in the hallway outside his loft, a door slammed shut. Someone called out something, but the words were too muffled for her to understand. She waited for Nick to move to her. As he had to now. Because there was no turning back. When he was standing in front of her, she watched him look down at the wraparound dress that emphasized her narrow waist and her breasts. And then she took off the jaunty little orange jacket.

Her dress was made of a silky jersey, and only the tie at the waist kept it together. His fingers were sure as he undid it, remarkably so considering that they were still shaking. The silky jersey slid to the floor, and her pretty sandals were off—she never quite knew how. He carried her to the sofa and knelt beside her. His mouth was all over her, her neck, her throat, her lips. He was kissing her, and his hands were caressing her while she was pushing away fabric and undoing buttons and buckles. And then he was over her … and smiling down at her … and she could hear his breath, and his heart beating … or maybe it was hers … and when at last he cried out, she followed him with a cry of her own.

So it had happened. All the denying and struggling had come to an end. Nick was lying beside her, peace in his eyes, his
fingers tangled in her hair, which had come out of the pins she’d used to pile it up. And she knew she should be feeling guilty, but she couldn’t. Not then. It would come later, of course; it had to. But at that moment all she could feel was joy.

There was an afghan on the sofa. Nick pulled it up over them, so they were in a cocoon. He drew her closer to him, and her head found a place on his shoulder where it fit perfectly. Outside the loft, below on the street, the traffic of the city was blaring, she could hear it dimly through the closed windows. People were rushing around doing all the things responsible New Yorkers must do on a beautiful Wednesday afternoon in July. But she was inside her cocoon with Nick. And now she could sleep.

–—

When she awakened, at first she didn’t know where she was. An ornate ceiling she didn’t recognize soared above her head, and there was an afghan wrapped around her that she knew she didn’t own. Then she remembered. She turned so she could see Nick lying on the sofa next to her. But he wasn’t there. Scared, she lifted her head.

“Hi.” Nick was sitting in the chair on the other side of the sofa. He was dressed and he’d turned on a lamp.

“You’re there … for a moment I thought …”

“I’m right here.” He came across the room, knelt at the side of the sofa and kissed her. It was a different kind of kiss now, it was gentle because there was no more urgency. But maybe there was something a little sad about it too?

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Ten after four, I was about to wake you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I like watching you sleep.” He stroked her cheek. “Your clothes are there.” He pointed to a neat pile. “Would you like some coffee before you go?”

And now she understood the sadness. “I don’t want to leave you,” she said.

He hesitated for a moment, then he took a deep breath. “I don’t want you to. But I think we’d better start getting used to it … don’t you?”

She looked in his eyes and saw what he’d been realizing while she slept; that saying good-bye to each other was a part of their life now. They would say good-bye instead of sleeping side by side and waking up in each other’s arms. They would never have the luxury of wasting their time together, because the word “good-bye” would always be hanging over them.

“This is so unfair to you,” she said. Her heart would break if he agreed with her.

He kissed her again. “I’m a big boy, Laura.” He stood up. “Let me make you that coffee. There’s a train you can take at six. I checked.”

“I’d stay if it weren’t for poor Molly. I didn’t leave any food for her and …” She had to stop because—stupidly and ridiculously—she was starting to cry.

“Don’t, darling!” He knelt down again. “No tears. That’s not what we’re about. All right?” She wiped away the tears and nodded.

She dressed while Nick busied himself in the kitchen. Then he handed her a steaming cup and sat in his chair again. After a moment, he said, “I know I can’t have … everything I want. You’re married. You have responsibilities. But this is so right. Because it’s good … you know it is … and there’s no way something this good can be wrong …”

“I’m afraid it can.”

“No. As long as we don’t hurt anyone, it won’t be.”

“But someone always does get hurt.”

“Because people get careless. We won’t do that. We’ll make sure no one ever finds out.”

“But what about us? What about you and me?”

He turned away then. “I’ll take whatever I can get for as long as I can have it. And no matter what happens it will be worth it to me.” He turned back to her, and he tried to make his voice light, but the green-blue eyes were pleading. “Your turn.”