Sea Glass Summer (6 page)

She was afraid he would offer her his arm on the walk up the path. But he maintained sufficient space between them so that they did not once brush against each other, and he addressed his words ahead of them. Their eyes did not meet again. He was a civil engineer, had been working in New Zealand when he met Rowena in Auckland at the home of a mutual acquaintance. That had been two months ago, and they had returned to the States together when his contract ended the previous week.

Moments later they were in the room Charles had named the library, even though its shelves were filled with his personal memorabilia rather than books. Gwen embraced her sister, wishing her a lifetime of happiness, and admiring her truly exquisite engagement ring; the stunningly simple setting, the diamond like a great drop of rain water. Rowena's sultry lashed eyes went from Gwen to John Garwood as if seeking the answer to a question, one that shut out everyone else in the room. Something passed over her face and was gone, leaving her lovely mouth curving into a thoughtful smile. There was nothing Gwen could read in her future brother-in-law's face. It was closed to her. She recognized out of some feminine instinct that he wanted it so. He knew . . . He was a man to know that he had aroused in her a physical and emotional response that was terribly, wickedly wrong. How could he not regard her as tawdry? A disloyal sister and a shame to her husband. Humiliation flamed as she turned to her parents, not thinking clearly. She only vaguely noticed the look of strain beneath her mother's smile and that her father seemed to have aged.

Coming downstairs after making herself presentable, Gwen had a moment alone with her mother in the hall. Taking her hand, she asked, ‘Are you and Daddy all right? You are happy about the engagement?'

‘Very much so. John seems an extremely nice man. And by now Rowena should know what she wants.'

‘And there's nothing else wrong?' The question was automatic. Gwen wished Charles would allow Sonny to join the family in the dining room, rather than eating in the kitchen with Mrs Broom the housekeeper. She had stressed that it was a special occasion, and her parents never wanted to miss a moment with their grandson, but he had remained adamant. Sonny could be included for afternoon tea, when it was to be hoped he wouldn't spill something or drop a plate.

‘I've been a little concerned about your father.'

‘Why, Mom?'

‘My dear, I expect I'm worrying unnecessarily. It's just that he hasn't seemed himself recently, but maybe that shouldn't come as a surprise. I used to wonder if he'd have a difficult time entering retirement. He's always had so much energy and he's only fifty-five. Some friends warned me that their husbands went through a mild depression at first. Probably all he needs is an energetic vacation, somewhere rugged where I can't wear high heels and will be forced to eat yak.'

‘The Himalayas?' Tears blurred Gwen's eyes. She yearned to confide, to press her face against that forever shoulder. ‘Darling Mom, you continue to be such an inspiration.'

‘I shall keep a diary about my selfless heroism and make a great deal of money publishing it. And your father will call me a shameless hussy.'

Gwen hesitated. ‘That isn't the problem? I mean . . . Dad isn't worried about finances? Something gone wrong with your investments? Because if that's the case you know Charles and I will do anything we can to help.'

‘Bless you, dearest, but no, nothing like that. Can you imagine your circumspect father gambling wildly on the stock exchange? We're talking about the man who wages an inner battle every time he's asked to buy a raffle ticket.'

Her mother's dulcet laughter drifted with them into the dining room, its long, oval walnut table set with Royal Worcester china, Georgian silver and crystal worthy of the bottle of excellent vintage champagne Charles held ready to uncork. Against a backdrop of watered silk walls and draperies, lunch began with vichyssoise, prepared and served by the irreplaceable Mrs Broom. Understandably Gwen's father stared at his bowl in perplexity after his first spoonful. In his world view soup was meant to be served hot. And if he said little during the course of the meal and had to be asked twice to pass the salt and pepper, that was also not surprising given the flow of conversation around him. He had always enjoyed sitting back and listening.

The voices rose and fell, fueled by an energy that seemed on the surface as light and effervescent as the champagne that continued to flow. But beneath the bubbling merriment, the laugher, quips and repartee of a celebratory occasion, lay something more troubling. Initially Gwen assumed that this palpable undercurrent emanated only from within herself as she strove to speak neither too little nor too often to John Garwood.

But as the meal progressed through poached salmon, saffron rice and green salad to the finale of a crème caramel dessert, even her self-absorption could not prevent her noticing that Charles was too determinedly the perfect host, that Rowena's witticisms seemed a little fevered, that even her mother appeared overly eager to ‘make the party go.' In the midst of this artificially elevated atmosphere her father's silences loomed, not as a rock against which to lean as in days gone by, but one that was slipping beneath the waters stirred by turbulence, presaging a storm that would reduce all their lives to wreckage.

What dark nonsense! Claptrap! That would have been Great-Aunt Harriet's word. But Gwen could not shake the belief that John Garwood (must not yet allow herself to think of him only by his first name) remained the one person in the room who had himself completely in hand. For the barest moment she allowed herself to look directly across the table at him. He was speaking to her father, waiting attentively for a response, and there was such a look of gentleness on his strong, dark face that she was overwhelmed by a wave of tenderness such as she had never experienced except for her child. Never, ever for Charles. To be physically attracted to a man other than her husband was bad enough, but to feel herself falling in love with this twice forbidden stranger was intolerable, corrupt.

To delude herself that he was not unknown . . . that in some incredible way his face, his voice were as belovedly familiar as waking to the morning sun, was weakness. The thought raced through her mind like a rat in a maze:
I must never see him again
. Such was her panic that the impossibility of such a resolve did not strike her. She would dedicate herself to being the perfect wife, offer to travel with Charles on some of his work trips. Equally important was that Rowena should never guess her sister's inward betrayal; nothing must be allowed to further dishonor that bond. Out of the past came a memory. Rowena touching her cheek and saying lightly, ‘Sweet Gwen! The world is your very own private garden, so naturally you should get to pick the prize blooms.' Words to boost the self-confidence of the less visible younger sister, readily laughed aside. Untrue then and unquestionably so now. Gwen did not figure in John Garwood's thoughts beyond a willingness to welcome her as a sister-in-law. She had to,
must
, believe that to be the case with every ounce of strength she had. This infantile sense of their being destined to come together for each to be whole was a one-sided fantasy. The best scenario would be if Rowena and her bridegroom returned to live permanently in New Zealand.

The rest of the day passed at an agonizingly slow pace. Coffee in the living room. Sonny coming in afterwards to join them, circling his grandparents, eager to tell them a story about Mrs Broom's cat getting lost for a day and a half and being found shut up in the attic. The rest of those present were reduced to moving shadows on a faded screen, because only by shutting her mind could Gwen get through the hours until nightfall. Pressing on her was the need to talk to Rowena about the wedding, ask what was planned, demonstrate interest and enthusiasm while hoping against hope that she wouldn't be asked to be a bridesmaid. But on her first attempt her sister did not remain still long enough to say more than it was all up in the air. Much depended on how soon John would have to start his next job, likely not to be in Australia this time, but one never knew. His company had a way of changing its mind; he was a pawn really, not a knight or a king.

Half an hour later, Gwen tried again. ‘Tell me at least, will it be a church wedding?'

Rowena took a moment to turn her head. ‘Are those tears in your eyes? Such a sentimental little darling! Didn't I always try to discourage you from reading Dickens? He's so incorrigibly weepy. No, I think John and I will skip the church. Can't you just hear Great-Aunt Harriet pounding on the floor with her stick while proclaiming on the unsuitability of my gliding down the aisle in white? And I suppose it would be a trifle unseemly. No,' squeeze of the hand, ‘you wouldn't think that way. Unlike me, you never did have unkind thoughts. Sorry, must away. Mom's beckoning. She really shouldn't worry so much about Dad. Look at him laughing now with Sonny. You and I will get together in the next few weeks and talk trousseau to your heart's delight. For now why don't you go and pound out something bridal on the piano? Perhaps that holy-minded thing you and Charles had at your wedding? Handel, wasn't it? I'm sure John would love to hear you play. He can be frightfully high-brow himself. It adds to his inescapable appeal.'

The last thing Gwen wanted was to make herself the centerpiece of the afternoon but Charles, having overheard the suggestion, urged her to play. When she said she'd just as soon not, he'd whispered irritably that the piano wasn't there taking up half the room on the basis of its ornamental value. She didn't want John Garwood thinking she considered herself a brilliant pianist, and was relieved when Sonny came to join her on the bench, but Charles ordered him back to the sofa. Her heart sank. And yet, that afternoon the piano was waiting for her as it had never done before. She sat, eyes closed, hands feeling for the keys, as if they were fingers known only to her, longing for her touch, responsive to her every half-formed thought, taking her to a place deep inside the music. Not Handel, the choice for her wedding. Chopin, transitioning into Mendelssohn, then Mozart. Their music, theirs alone. All else, all others, left behind. For he, John Garwood, was there with her. She knew with absolute certainty that he had followed her into this momentary heaven. She could feel his heart beating in tune with her own.

Then a disturbance, dragging her upward to the surface: something heavy falling, the sound echoing until it became a pounding like fists on a door. And somewhere a dog was barking distantly. Still she could not get her eyes to open. She was fuzzily aware of having slumped forward, pushing the piano bench backward; also that the commotion had been caused by Sonny having elbowed a vase, and in the process of trying to straighten it, had knocked over the table on which it stood. She had to go to him, tell him that it didn't matter, that she loved him . . . would always . . . Suddenly, startlingly, she was awake. That living room of nearly fifty years ago, and those gathered within it, gone. She was seated back in the book room on Ridge Farm Rise, her neck stiff and cramped from being tilted at an awkward angle. Someone was banging on the door with increasing urgency.

‘Who, what . . .?' She ran the short distance to the hall, Jumbo moving aside to allow her clearage. Her hands fumbled with the front door knob as panic squeezed her heart with a tight fist.

‘Gwen . . . Gwen!' an outdoor voice called.

Moments passing . . . passing . . . and then the face of Madge Baldwin staring wild-eyed at her from the doorstep. ‘Oh, I thought you'd never come. I've been banging for five minutes. It's Charles.'

‘Tell me!' The words clawed their way up her throat.

‘He's taken the car. When I drove it into the garage he came out through the mud room. He asked for the keys and when I said no, he grabbed them from me and there was nothing I could do to stop him. Please don't look like that! Maybe it will be all right – he got the engine started without any problem. I know it would have been better if he hadn't, that would have bought time, but he wasn't weaving as he went down the road. At least the rain has stopped. Let's think positive, Gwen.'

‘The police.'

‘You think you should phone them?'

‘I have to think. I don't want him frightened, but I can't stand by and wait for him to cause an accident. Listen! There's a car coming. Oh, please, God, let it be him!' While Madge remained rooted to the step, Gwen hurried distractedly down the path to stand peering up and down the road. A car that was not hers drew up alongside the curb. The driver's-side window slid down and a man's head appeared.

‘Problem? Struck me you look panicky?' It was a rumbling English voice, somehow the more reassuring because it was bluntly matter of fact. ‘Need help?'

Gwen drew her first full breath since waking up. ‘It's my son,' she said steadily. ‘Charles Norris. He shouldn't be driving and he's taken the car.' And then she heard herself add with the irrelevance of such moments: ‘He was named after his father. To family and friends he's always been Sonny.'

Nine-year-old Oliver Cully woke at 5 a.m., two hours earlier than usual on Saturday morning to a pale, clear sky. The sun was already up, but who cared about seeing the sun today? He knew it was wrong to think that way when God had put it in the sky, but his heart had hardened towards the Almighty over the past few days and he had already gone off Him some since Grandpa got sick. Oliver usually got up at seven. On school days this allowed him plenty of time to be ready for the bus that arrived at 8.15 a.m. On ordinary, happy weekends he wasn't about to waste precious minutes lying in bed. Even so, five would normally have been a bit too early for a Saturday. But today was to be anything but ordinary.

This morning was the last he'd spend in this house with Grandpa, the person he loved best in this world. Two people he'd never met were coming to take him to live with them. He knew of them as Uncle Gerard and Aunt Elizabeth. Grandpa had always referred to them that way, although not often because all he really knew of them was that Gerard had been Oliver's father's older brother and that he and Elizabeth lived in New York City.