Promises (9 page)

It was almost noon when he entered the main street. He was hungry and the thought of a sandwich was agreeable; he would buy a paper and read while he ate. The street was very quiet, so he parked a few doors down and waited for some signs of activity, although there really was no reason why he should not go in at once. Nevertheless, he waited long enough to feel drowsy in the sunshine that was pouring into the car, long enough to see the shop’s door swing open and a group of men go inside. Then he, too, went in, took a table facing the door, was greeted like an old friend by the waitress, and gave his order.

When the door opened to admit some chattering women, he pretended to be absorbed in the newspaper. Conscious of a queer tension in his muscles, as if he were expecting something, he hoped it would happen while at the same time hoping it would not happen.

“Adam!” she cried. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Immediately he recalled the encounter in the Fifth Avenue bookshop. And he hoped that his face was not
red, but knowing it must be, he consequently heard himself replying, very awkwardly, “I had errands, some furniture, having a little lunch. And you?”

“I work here, right in the office next door. This is Adam Crane, everybody, an old friend. You won’t mind, will you, if I desert you today and sit with him?”

No one minded, and after the introductions Randi took her seat with Adam. Planting her elbows on the table in her usual fashion, she held her mischievous face between her hands. The word
twinkle
shot into his mind; her bright eyes and her shining mouth were twinkling at him.

“Now tell me, if you can, why you’ve been snubbing me.”

“Snubbing you? That’s ridiculous.”

To avoid her eyes he kept his eyes fixed on her mouth. The lower lip was fuller than he remembered, not that he had given much thought to it in all these years. The rosy upper lip was scalloped. Between the parted lips an even line of teeth was barely visible. Now suddenly he remembered that her teeth were perfect.

“What are you looking at? Is my lipstick smeared?”

He faltered. “Nothing. No, it’s not smeared.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh. You mean those phone calls?”

“Yes. I mean those phone calls. I’m sure your mother taught you better manners.”

“I’m sorry. I should have called back that time. We’ve been awfully busy, overworked really, and I simply forgot. I’m sorry.”

“ ‘That time’! I called five times. You didn’t ‘forget’ all those times. You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, thinking,
Fool. I’m being an ass, a tongue-tied idiot.

Randi laughed. “Oh, Adam, grow up! I called because I thought you might give me some helpful professional advice about this area, this part of the state. You grew up here, after all.”

“I’m really sorry,” he said then, and was aware that this was the fourth time he had said it.

“You should be. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve found other people to advise me. Is that pizza any good?”

“What? Oh, the one I’m eating?”

“No. The one that man over there is eating. What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I had asked for a sandwich, and they got the orders mixed up and brought this instead. It looked good, so I kept it.”

“Give me a bite. If I like it, I’ll get one too. And stop saying you’re sorry, will you?”

Before he could get up to take a fork from the next table, she had seized his.

“I’ve used it,” he protested.

“So what? Have you got AIDS or something? No, with a nice, steady, faithful, married man like you there’s no danger, is there? I’m not worried.”

It seemed to him that she was taunting him. There was mockery in those glinting eyes and that hint of laughter.

And he, who had truly never strayed from his wife, had to protest, to answer with scorn. “What do you think you are? A palm-reader or a crystal-gazer? You don’t know the first thing about me, Randi. So don’t make a fool of yourself.”

She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment before
saying, “You’re right. Seriously, I do need some advice again. I’m going to have a small pizza and tell you my problem—unless you’re in a hurry. Are you?”

Adam pushed his sleeve up from his watch. It was half past twelve. He had been planning to get home quickly, having promised Danny to help give shaggy Rufus a badly needed bath; he was also supposed to bring Julie home from a friend’s house while Margaret and Megan took the other car to go shopping.

When he hesitated, she said, “It’ll take ten minutes. Here it is. I think I mentioned that my apartment’s a sublet. It’s a nice apartment, just around the corner at the next intersection with this street, very convenient, but my lease is up and there are no more apartments for rent.”

She paused to take a bite of the pizza. He liked the fact that she waited until the food was wholly swallowed before resuming speech, for he was critical, and it disgusted him to see half-eaten food in someone’s mouth. Randi was fastidious, from her polished toenails to her pink fingernails. But Margaret’s hands were pretty, too, though in a different way. Her hands were more useful. And he pictured her strong hands that cooked, worked in a chemistry laboratory, and planted vegetables. They were so unlike, these two women. They even ate differently. Margaret ate moderately, while Randi ate hungrily; she did everything hungrily.… So, haphazardly, his thoughts raced.

Randi came to a conclusion. “The minute I heard about this house going to foreclosure, I realized that it would be a great buy. It’s not too far away, and yet it’s like being in the woods.”

“Woods? Where?”

“Weren’t you listening? I’ve just been describing that little group of houses in what we call The Grove. We’re the agents for it, and I’m wondering whether a woman alone should make an investment and take on the responsibility of a house. I need some practical advice from a practical man.”

“If you like it that much and can afford it, do it. You won’t always be alone, anyway.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. You’re a good-looking woman. Don’t be coy about it.”

“My mailbox hasn’t been exactly stuffed with marriage proposals lately. I remind you again, I’m thirty-seven.”

Margaret was thirty-eight. Why did his brain keep signaling these comparisons? It was as if a line had been drawn down the middle of a piece of paper with a name on either side. It’s—it’s
sick
, he thought, now furious with himself.

“Be that as it may,” she said briskly now, “I really need an impartial opinion about the house. My firm naturally wants the commission, and I understand that, but it does mean that I can’t rely on their opinion. I was wondering—I mean, now that you happen to be here—whether you would take a look at the house for me.”

Again he consulted his watch. It was undoubtedly very foolish of him to involve himself with her, even so far as to go look at a house. Innocent as that was, it would probably entail future conversations over the telephone, and he didn’t need that, didn’t want that.

“It’s only a stone’s throw away,” she urged, and, when he still hesitated, burst out laughing. “I swear you think I’m going to seduce you! How dumb can you be,
Adam? That business is ancient history. It hasn’t got the slightest connection with your doing me a friendly favor.”

“Okay, okay, let’s go. My car’s outside.”

They rode back in the direction from which he had come earlier and branched off the highway. He kept glancing uneasily at the clock on the dashboard, calculating the time it would take to reach home. He should not have let her talk him into this business! He should not!

Randi inquired, “Is that an antique you have back there?”

“No, a good copy. A man makes them up near Santee. It’s for my son.”

“I remember the snapshot you showed me. He’s the one with curly red hair. He’s cute.”

“He hates his hair.”

“It’s like his mother’s, isn’t it? That time we met in New York I thought she was so pretty. Different looking. Ladylike.”

He wished she wouldn’t bring Margaret into the conversation. It made him feel guilty. Then the fact that he could feel guilty when he was doing absolutely nothing wrong made him indignant. No one said that a man, because he married, had to account for every minute of his time or every person he ever spoke to. Not at all.

“I’m so glad you’re happy, Adam. You deserve to be.” There was a pause. “You are happy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, very. Very happy.”

“I’m glad. I really am.”

The conversation was becoming too personal, and again that feeling of unease swept over him. Nevertheless, a certain curiosity piqued him too. And almost
without his willing it a question popped out of his mouth.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“You know.”

“Leave you?” And when he did not answer, she said, “Because I was a fool. A stupid, inexperienced young fool with a lot of foolish daydreams about having a glamorous life somewhere over the rainbow in California. Besides, I was jealous. You didn’t move fast enough.”

Again he said nothing. He should never have asked the question, should never have brought the dead past into life or any semblance of life.

“However,” she said gaily, “that, as I said just now, is ancient history. Turn off here onto the dirt road. I told you it wouldn’t take long.”

Not long, he thought, worrying about the time, only an extra three quarters of an hour.

Running through pine woods up the side of a modest slope, the narrow road passed half a dozen picturesque low houses, each settled into and separated from the rest by old trees and heavy shrubbery. At the dead end they turned into a driveway.

The house was, he supposed, what one would probably describe as “modern,” and yet, although it was not built of logs, it had an indefinable feel, a reminder of some historical American log cabin. When they got out of the car, he followed her through knee-high grass toward a gap in the line of trees.

“Come over here,” she said. “You can almost see the river way down there. With binoculars I’m sure you could see it clearly.”

A small wind whistled in the pines. The springtime air was soft and fragrant. He felt a sudden lassitude. He could have lain down in the warm grass and watched her standing in that shaft of sunlight with the wind billowing her skirt. Instead, he turned to the house, saying brusquely, “I haven’t much time. Let’s go in.”

The house had the peculiar smell of vacancy and desertion. The paint was faded on the walls. The shades were torn. The compact little kitchen had been neglected; handles had broken off the stove, and the linoleum was damaged.

“Of course, it needs a new kitchen,” Randi said.

“That’s expensive.”

“There’s a man in town who redoes kitchens on Saturdays and Sundays. He’s very reasonable. I love this great room, don’t you? I’d put a round table in the bay, a pair of love seats at the fireplace—but I’m boring you. I always forget, men aren’t interested in placing furniture.”

“Unless they happen to be decorators. My young cousin Nina works for a pair in New York.”

“Nina? Was she the other girl in the snapshot?”

Then he must have shown her his whole folder of pictures. Sharp, she was, missing nothing, remembering everything.

“She’s unusual looking, I thought. Not pretty like Margaret, but striking. So she’s a New Yorker?”

“No, she used to live here.” He was irritated, thinking, This is too intimate, she wants to know too much. Why should she care where Nina lives? But also: Why had he mentioned Nina in the first place? Because he was making clumsy conversation, that was why. Because he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Come see the bedrooms. There are two, but this is the one I would use. The bed would go here, opposite the clerestory windows. I love these windows. You have total privacy, and still, as you lie here, you can see the treetops and the stars or the moon.”

He looked away from the place where the bed would stand. It would be a fluffy bed, no doubt, with a pink quilt and down pillows. He went into the bathroom, gave a cursory inspection, and reported that the tile was in good condition with no need for grouting. Suddenly he was in a rush, almost a panic, as if some danger, something unknown and threatening, were about to loom before him in this house.

“Can we hurry?” he said impatiently. “I’m late.”

On the way back an uncomfortable silence settled, so uncomfortable that he needed to break it.

“You really should hire a contractor or building inspector to check the roof and the plumbing, the whole place. I’m not qualified to give you an opinion.”

Moreover, he thought, she knew I wasn’t qualified when she asked me to go here with her, and I knew it too.

“You can drop me at my apartment, please,” Randi said.

When they drew up at the curb, she gave formal thanks, adding, “I’d ask you in if you weren’t in a hurry. It was really kind of you to do this, and I appreciate it, Adam. I’ll take your advice and let you know what the man says. But did you like the house?” Her pink face was turned up to his in appeal.

“Yes,” he said, putting the car in gear. “It’s lovely. It suits you.”

Flower face. A flower-faced witch.

He reached home late, annoyed with himself and more annoyed to see Fred Davis’s car parked in front of the house. He hoped Margaret had not invited him to dinner. Fred could be too full of cheer and good humor; at the moment Adam was not in the mood to respond in kind.

“Where’s everybody?” he demanded, rushing into the kitchen where Margaret was unpacking groceries. “Sorry I’m late. What’s Fred doing here? If you’ll help me take the desk out of the Jeep—it’s not heavy, just awkward—I’ll rush over and get Julie.”

“Whoa, whoa. You’re all out of breath. Julie’s home. Fred went for her. He’s in the yard putting up the croquet set. Danny couldn’t wait till tomorrow.”

“Don’t tell me you phoned Fred on purpose to go for Julie.”

“Of course not. He just happened to come by with something to tell us, something nice, and he offered to pick her up, since you were late. What happened?”

“I had a flat.”