It Burns a Lovely Light (4 page)

Jack had seen photographs of the magnificent three-story Victorian before it went to seed. In its day, Bridge Manor had held its own against the mansions of Highland Avenue.

"And yet, you still couldn't wait to get the hell out
of there," said Jack. "How many times have you told me Bridge Manor was just another sorry - albeit grander than most - ashtray, filled with the smoke and soot and grime of the city?"

"Too many, apparently." Pauline made a face.
"Do you have to remember everything I say?"

He kissed the top of her head. "Only the juicy stuff."

"Such as?"

"Such as...that the rivers back then were black as coal. Sometimes the downtown streetlamps stayed on all day because the pollution blocked out the sunlight. And those 'goddamn white lace curtains.'"

Pauline shivered, despite the warm night. Every Sunday of
her childhood, women up and down the hillside would hang their hand-scrubbed white lace curtains out on the clothesline to dry. By the following week those curtains were black again; ripe and ready for another Sunday scrubbing. Back on
the line they went.

"God, I hated those women." She propped herself up on one elbow. "Out there week after week, clothespins in their mouths while they fought the wind to hang their precious curtains. It was like
watching Sisyphus push that goddamn rock up the hill just to watch it roll down the other side. I used to wonder what the hell they were waiting for. Why didn't they get out? They could start over somewhere else. Somewhere clean."

Jack smiled. How lucky he was to have found a woman with a soul as restless as his. Like him, she thrived on constant change. Each new move was an adventure; a challenge to conquer.

Pauline ran her fingers through his chest hair. "But
that's just it...Claire never minded the sooty air or the black water or the pathetic curtain hangers. She
never
wanted to leave Bridge Manor. She even tried to convince Paddy to live there, after they were married."

"The cost of restoring an old place can get pretty steep, Pauline. Not to mention keeping it up."

"Claire is smart. She'll find a way."

Jack traced his hand down the curve of his wife's face.
"I suppose if things got too bad, she could sell
The Hobbit
."

"Yea, right." She chuckled. "You know Claire would live in the poorhouse before she'd sell her precious books."

"Especially that one."

The extremely rare first edition of JRR Tolkien's book was part of a large collection of rare books the twins' father had left to Claire. The two of them had always shared a love of books; scouring bookstores together
and searching for treasures among the dusty shelves.

"I can't help but feel bad for Paddy," said Jack. "I don't know what I'd do if you left me."

Spreading her legs, Pauline straddled her husband. Jack inhaled the citrus smell of her shampoo as she leaned down to whisper in his ear.

"I'm not going anywhere, lover boy. You're stuck with me..." She nibbled his earlobe as her hips ground into him in a slow,
circular movement. "...forever and ever, amen."

He groaned. Wrapping her hair around his fist, he gently pulled her toward him. He sucked and gently bit her nipples until her body
began to tremble.

"Promise you'll never leave me," he said, firmer than he meant to.

"I could never leave you, Jack." She moaned, arching her head back. "I'd rather die."

"Paddy, is that you?" The heavy oak door creaked in protest as Claire pulled it open. "Since when do you come to the front
door?"

In all the years he'd been coming to Bridge Manor, Paddy Sullivan had never used the front door. Nobody did. The Justus family had always preferred to use the mudroom entrance around back, which opened into the
enormous kitchen. With its massive brick fireplace and high windows overlooking the sloping back yard and the city below, the kitchen was the heartbeat of the house. The front door was for salesmen and formal guests. For strangers.

He removed his hat, clutched it to his chest and took a few
deep breaths. "I would have come right away, but you asked for some time. I thought the least I could do was give you a week." He flashed a nervous smile. "Longest week of my life."

"Glad to hear it," said Claire. "Hope it was hell for you."

Although her voice sounded strong and bitter, her heart wasn't in it. Even under the dim porch light, she could see Paddy was
suffering. His broad shoulders drooped toward his chest, and his clothes seemed a size too big. His arms - still knotted with muscles from decades in the mill - seemed to have shrunk. At not quite forty, he looked more like fifty.
Jesus, Mary and her husband,
she thought,
it's only been a week.

"I've come to say my peace, Claire."

She stared him down, a million vicious responses running through her head. Finally, heaving an exasperated sigh, she grabbed him by the
arm and yanked him into the house.

"Get in here," she said. "Your peace will have to wait until I get some food in you."

Paddy finished off the last of his pastrami on rye as he
watched his wife caress the bottom of her ring with her thumb. He had surprised her with it the morning she started her first job as a librarian's assistant. 'A beautiful ring for a beautiful lady,' he had said, taking her in his arms.
After she finally agreed to marry him she insisted there was no need for another ring - or any other jewelry for that. The gold ring with the tiny diamond in the center was the only ring she ever wanted on her finger. Raising his head, he met his wife's clear blue eyes as the clock above the stove
ticked.

"So." Claire folded her hands on the table. "Let's hear it; do you love her?"

"No." Paddy shook his head. "It was never
about love, for either one of us."

"Then shame on you all the more."

He wiped his forehead with the flat of his hand.

"I don't know what happened," he said, his voice
as quiet as a confessional whisper. "I lost my way - and I'm ashamed to admit it to you now. One day I was a feisty mill rat with a mind full of plans and possibilities; a whole lifetime adventures still on the horizon, everything yet to be lived. Suddenly...here I am. Middle aged, with too-late written all
over me, and the unemployment line taunting me like a schoolyard bully." He paused, a surprised look on his face. "This morning I wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror, and a balding, fat man stared back at me. A
nobody...acting like an old fool."

"A nobody," repeated Claire. The fool part she didn't contend.

She rinsed his plate in the sink, then leaned against the
counter and crossed her arms. "Did you ever think to ask me - or your son - if we think you're a nobody?"

Joe. Paddy flinched. "He must be pretty disappointed in his old man."

Claire's hands instinctively slid down to her hips; her way
of wrapping her arms around herself without actually wrapping her arms around herself.

"Do you honestly believe I would burden that child with your sins? Joe is our son; not a tool for revenge."

Paddy smiled gratefully. That was Claire for you. "What did you say? How did you explain the two of you moving back to Bridge Manor?"

"I started by telling him how much we both love him.
Then I said you and I have decided to spend some time apart." She paused. "And that his father has gone out of his ever-loving mind."

Paddy coughed.

"I might have left out the last part," she said.

"Thank you, darling girl."

Darling girl. Hearing Paddy's nickname for her made Claire's heart hurt. She had loved this man since he was a teenager fresh from Ireland,
with a thick, inner-city Dublin accent. And heaven help her, she still did.

"I would have told you sooner," said Claire, topping off Veda Marie's coffee. "But I needed to wait until I was sure
myself."

"I knew what you were up to." Veda Marie raised an eyebrow as she blew on her mug. "I'm not blind, missy. For the last month, you have read everything you could get your hands on about home renovation. Not
to mention that fire-trap pile of Bed and Breakfast literature stashed under your bed."

Claire chuckled. "I couldn't find any books on running a boarding house. Those old B&B magazines were the next best thing."

"Perhaps because boarding houses are a thing of the past."

"The term 'boarding house' might be outdated, but people will always need somewhere to live. Particularly in an academic city like
Pittsburgh." Claire opened her notebook. "I've worked up a business plan, along with a general budget for getting us up and running. These numbers are rough, of course..."

Veda Marie flipped through the pages. She didn't look up
until she got to the last page. "You're serious about this."

"I am," said Claire. "And I hope you'll join me. I need a house manager."

"I've never run a boarding house in my life."

"But you have been taking care of Bridge Manor for more than - what, half your life?"

"No need to do the math."

"I need you, Veda Marie. You make this cold, damp place
warm
. Even in the later years, when we couldn't keep up with the repairs and the squirrels and birds and exotic rodents started nesting in the upper floors." She waved a hand. "You merely closed off the 'bad' rooms and
concentrated on keeping the 'good' ones comfortable for us."

Veda Marie tapped her fingers against the table. Her orange-red hair was tied up in a pretty green handkerchief and she wore her signature double coat of Maybelline red lipstick.

"Tell me something," she said. "Is it really Bridge Manor you're trying to rebuild, or your life?"

Claire took her time looking around the massive kitchen.
"A little of both, I guess."

Veda Marie lit her first cigarette of the day and exhaled as she leaned back in her chair. Claire was right; she'd been here half her life now. She had barely been twenty when she came to this house, a half-filled
suitcase in one hand and an ad for a housekeeper in the other. Having escaped a problematical marriage, she chose Pittsburgh because the rivers reminded her of her home on South Carolina's Pee Dee River, and because she figured Chester
would never look for her in a mill town. And for the most part, she'd been happy here.

Barely four years older than the sixteen-year-old girls, Veda Marie had immediately slipped into multiple roles: part-mother, part-older sister, and all friend. After Pauline, Claire and finally Ryan moved out, she
cared for Mr. Justus until he died. She then offered to stay on until the house was sold - a time she secretly prayed would never come.

"Are you sure, Claire?" Her South Carolina accent
made 'Claire' two syllables long. "You really want to jump back into broken plumbing, hissing radiators, exploding fuse boxes and damp rooms that never get warm in the winter? Do you have
any idea
what you're taking
on?"

Claire grinned. "Not a clue. What do you say...are you in?"

Veda Marie blew a tendril of hair from her face. "Oh, what the hell."

Armed with pad, pen, flashlights, and tissues, the two women
scrutinized the house, from the dirt cellar to the attic above the third floor. They opened doors and windows, measured holes, checked for leaks, flushed toilets, and examined the fuse box. Claire marked loose floorboards and stairs
with orange spray paint. Veda Marie wiggled banisters to test sturdiness. They flipped switches, crawled through crawlspaces, and made list after list after list.

"Farley!" Loretta shouted, running across the parched dead-looking grass and dirt of the marching field. "Wait up!"

Squinting through the small lens of her Instamatic camera,
Farley snapped a picture of her friend. Barring a few minor glitches, their best-friendship had worked out well.

Given the military's affinity for sudden transfers, friendships had to form without delay, from which 'best friends' emerged and
were declared. An accelerated getting-to-know-you process consisted of searching for common ground: bases they had lived on, friends they might have in common, mutual experiences of life in other states and continents. Loretta
and Farley were both fourth graders, had lived in New Mexico (at different times), and adored cheeseburgers, movies, and Audrey Hepburn, in that order. More than enough in Farley's book - by the time fifth grade rolled around, she would probably be living on another base, anyway.

"Hurry up!" she cried, waving Loretta on. "I have to meet William's bus!"

William attended an off-base school, so his civilian bus was not allowed beyond the gates. Between the Vietnam War and anti-war protests
picking up steam, bomb threats were not uncommon on military bases. Anyone entering the base had to show proper ID.

"You are not going to believe this," gasped
Loretta, out of breath. "I'm serious; this is big."

She shoved her asthma inhaler in her mouth, pumping twice. Farley resisted the urge to take another picture. With one giant eyebrow covering her forehead and tiny black hairs over her lip, Loretta was sensitive
about close-ups. Farley patted her back until her coughing and wheezing was over.

"Major Allen died," she said. "His jet went down in a training exercise."

Farley covered her mouth. "No way! Tammy's
father?"

Certainly, Farley had overheard her parents speak of casualties over the years, and fatalities were all over the nightly news. But now something as enormous as death had actually touched someone they knew.
Tammy Allen was in her homeroom. She borrowed pencils from Farley. Loretta was in her P.E. class. The three of them had lunch at the same table - although Tammy ate way down the other end, with the popular crowd.