Another Eden (11 page)

Closing his eyes, he replayed Ogden's words of praise in his head. He especially liked the part about combining practicality and "mysticism." It made him chuckle. He knew he was good at what he did, had always known it, and the exciting thing was that he knew he was getting
better
. But to hear the sentiment expressed by someone else, someone he respected—that was a deep and abiding satisfaction.

"Putting you to sleep, are we, McKie?"

His eyes snapped open. Ben Cochrane was bearing down on him, holding on to his wife's arm. "Ben!" he exclaimed with false heartiness. "Just catching my breath. Watching all that waltzing tired me out." They made small talk for a minute, about the party, the perfect weather, the Casino. Sara said nothing; Alex thought she seemed upset under the veneer of her tireless poise.

Once the amenities were out of the way, Ben got down to business. "I've changed my mind about the back yard."

"The what?"

"In back of the house, down to the Cliff Walk. I never liked that idea of just letting it go natural. I've decided I want an English garden. Formal, you know? Rows of things all lined up, and maybe one of those whatchamacallits, those things you get lost in."

"A maze?"

"Maze, right. So, what do you think?"

His hands in his pockets squeezed into fists. "Well, it sounds fine, Ben, except there's not enough room. You told me you wanted the house near the water."

"Yeah, well, move it back."

"Move it back?" For a wild second he thought he meant the water. "Move the house back?"

"Put it on a little hill, so it'll be up high and look out over the gardens and the cliff and the ocean."

"A little hill." He sucked his lips in and bit down. "We've already broken ground. We're almost finished digging the foundation."

"Well, we'll have to fill it in and move the thing back. The lot's big enough for it. I want the house closer to the street anyway. What's the point in spending all this money if nobody can see the place?"

Alex didn't trust himself to answer. He glanced at Sara, but she was looking away, her rigid profile motionless against the twinkling lanterns behind her. "We can do that," he said carefully. "It'll delay the commencement of construction by at least a month, and there may be trouble with the ordinance. All the plumbing and electric will have to be recalculated, and we'll have to start over again as far as scheduling the delivery of supplies and equipment and materials. A lot of them have already arrived, so there'll be extra warehousing costs, more—"

"That's your department. Money's not an object, I told you before. You just do it, and I'll pay for it." He looked over his shoulder. "Jeez, people are leaving already. There's Walter Fallon, I have to go talk to him. See you later, McKie." He dropped Sara's arm and strode off.

The ensuing silence was long and embarrassed. Alex was too angry to speak anyway. Finally Sara broke the impasse by saying, "I'm terribly sorry," in a low, hopeless voice.

He looked down at her. She was massaging her hands in her long white gloves, her quiet gaze intent on his face. His irritation drifted away, irrelevant. "Never mind." He leaned toward her and asked, "How is just plain Sara Cochrane this evening?"

It might have been a trick of the light, but her troubled expression seemed to relax and a lovely warmth shone in her silvery eyes. She smiled. Then, just as subtly, the softness receded. Her mouth trembled and her eyes welled with tears. "Sara," he whispered in alarm, reaching for her hand. For the space of a heartbeat she allowed his touch; then she stepped back, murmuring, "Excuse me, I'm quite all right," and turned away as if to watch the dancers.

He stood beside her, staring straight ahead. What was wrong? Had Cochrane been browbeating her? Did he blame
her
for this debacle of a ground-breaking party? Her distress was acute, he could sense it; but he knew she would not allow herself his comfort, or even overt concern. For all that, a moment later he heard himself say, still without looking at her, "If there is anything I can do for you, now or ever, I hope you won't hesitate to tell me."

"That's very .kind of you," she said, so softly he could barely hear. "Thank you, Mr. McKie, I won't forget that."

What frightened him was that she hadn't denied she needed help. A minute passed; he could feel her pulling herself together.

"So," she said finally, facing him with a bright, painfully artificial smile, "Ben tells me you've moved into a sort of shed in the middle of nowhere, with no conveniences but a telephone. Do you think that's sending quite the right message to this most sociable of towns?"

"Ah, but you're mistaken," he said lightly, "Newport's the most
social
of towns, not sociable."

"You're right. I stand corrected. It's quite the reverse of sociable, isn't it?"

"Exactly. That being the case, what does it matter where I set up shop? The Drexels and the Goelets and the Goulds aren't going to invite me to dinner anyway, so I may as well please myself."

"And does it please you to live in the wilderness?"

"Mrs. Cochrane, I see you've been misinformed. My house is all of half a mile from the center of town. It's comfortable—you might even call it picturesque—and I've got every amenity a man could want—no, that
anyone
could want. I invite, you to come and inspect it. Anytime, at your convenience." She smiled again and shook her head slightly, murmuring a polite thank-you. He saw he'd been rash, that she would never come to his house because of the impropriety, and that the very suggestion was a subtle insult she was too much of a lady to acknowledge. "How do you like
your
new house?" he asked quickly.

"Oh, I love it," she answered with real enthusiasm. "It's on Elizabeth Street, close to every-thing, and yet the houses are far apart and wonderfully private. At least, they seem so to me after the city."

"And do you like the house itself?"

"It's lovely, it's—perfect. I can't understand why the owners would want to let it to strangers, even for a few months. IF it were mine, I'd never leave."

"I like it, too."

"Oh, do you know it?"

"Yes. It's rather well known, in fact, as one of the finest of the old shingle houses built in the '60s and '70s, before Newport became—" He stopped, chagrined.

"Weighted down with stone and marble," she finished, eyes twinkling. "Well, we'll say no more about that, will we?"

"No, indeed."

"Except that it's a wonder the southern tip of the island hasn't fallen into the sea." He laughed, and she laughed with him, both of them relieved to have it out in the open. "There's even a swing in the backyard for Michael," she went on, "and so many rooms and porches and balconies, it will take him half the summer to explore them all. And he'll be pestering you every day at the building site, I'm quite sure, since it's only three blocks away."

"I'll look forward to seeing him. Did you know you've got a famous next-door neighbor?"

"Really? Which side?"

"The limestone house with the pillars. It's Daisy Wentworth's; she Eves there year-round."

"Who is she? I don't know the name."

"You must not read the scandal sheets."

"Oh,
but I do
," she confessed, smiling.

"Then you must've taken a holiday from them about two years ago when they were full of Daisy's scandalous divorce from her banker husband."

"Ah. He had an outside interest, I take it?"

"No, no,
she
did. He sued her on grounds of adultery and won. She got that house and some unspecified amount of money, and now they say she's turned into a recluse."

"What happened to her lover?"

"Went back to his wife."

"Were there children?"

"I don't think so."

"Thank God for that," she said fervently.

She looked sad again, as if she'd taken his trivial story too much to heart. Something was wrong; he'd never seen her like this, so full of sorrow and poorly hidden distress. "What's happened to Natasha—I've forgotten her last name," he asked to divert her. "Your friend from the settlement house."

"Oh, Tasha is doing very well."

"You told me she might have a new job."

"That's been postponed for a little. She's working with a tutor now, perfecting her English."

He could guess who was paying for the tutor. "Did she find a new place to live?"

"No—actually, she's going to be staying on at our house for the summer. Ben's moving to his club," she added hastily, seeing his expression.

"It's really a boon to us to have someone there while we're away. Now we won't have to close the house. And we're scheduled to have some work done to the plumbing—rather a major overhaul, I understand—and now someone can be there to let the workmen in and out and so forth."

"I see." But he wasn't sure he did. The orchestra began a new melody, and he thought of inviting her to dance. As much as he would have welcomed a legitimate excuse to touch her, caution held him back. He had designs on Mrs. Cochrane, no doubt about it, but oddly, they weren't quite the kind of designs he usually had on beautiful married ladies. In truth, he wanted to dance with Sara a little too much, and his eagerness served as a warning that made him careful.

But she was wearing fresh gardenias in her hair and the sweetness was subtly enticing. Her bare shoulders gleamed palely in the lantern-lit darkness. She was as regal as a queen, but she softened her English hauteur in some mysterious way so that it impressed but never offended. He wanted very much to know what she thought of him, and if she was kind to him because she liked him or because she was evenhandedly kind to everyone.

"You're beautiful tonight. You're always beautiful."

She went still, and looked away. He could see her trying to decide what to say—how to feel. He'd taken a chance and he didn't regret it; in fact, he felt euphoric in the wake of his words. "Sara." How lovely to call her that. Caution flew away like a bird let out of a cage. "You must not," she said almost inaudibly. "Must not what?" The look she sent him then contained so much sad tenderness, his heart stopped beating. "Spoil it," she said.

He looked up at the sky, breathing deeply. "No, you're right. Please forgive me. I'm sorry I said you were beautiful and that I uttered your beautiful name. It must be the—no, please, don't go." He touched her shoulder with urgent lightness. "I'm drunk. I most humbly beg your pardon." She kept her face turned away. "I would do anything not to spoil it." Her troubled eyes mirrored indecision. His only hope now was her generosity. "Am I forgiven?"

The wait was intolerable, but at last she murmured, "Of course. Now if you'll—"

"I thought I might see Michael at the groundbreaking," he interrupted quickly, to keep her beside him. "Is he all right? Not sick, is he?"

Her jaw muscles contracted and her pretty mouth turned into a thin line of pain. "No, he's fine. His father decided it wasn't the place for children."

Another subject that was off limits. Talking to her was like walking on eggs tonight. The solution came to him all at once, although he thought it might not strike her in the same way. He held out a gentle, perfectly impersonal hand. "Mrs. Cochrane, would you care to dance?"

She hesitated. Time warped, gnarled, stretched grotesquely. He became fixated on her mouth. The tip of her tongue touched the dainty surface of her top lip. "I—"

"Sara!"

He jerked his hand away like a criminal caught in a theft.

"Come and say good night to the Kimmels!"

Now her face was truly unreadable. For an instant he saw regret. But no, now it was amusement—and now it was sadness again. "Another time, I hope," she said kindly. "Thank you, Mr. McKie. Will you excuse me now?"

He'd run out of ways to keep her. He made her a bow and watched her glide away in the direction of her husband.

One afternoon a week later, Sara was sitting on her side porch—or
lanai
, as the rental agent insisted—sipping iced champagne with her new next-door neighbor. They had met the day before under less than ideal circumstances when Michael inadvertently crossed the boundary line between the Cochrane and Wentworth properties, climbed into Mrs. Wentworth's brandnew flowering dogwood, and snapped its main branch in half Too frightened to confess to the deed alone, he'd run home and gotten his mother. Sara had been hoping for days for a glimpse of the notorious Daisy Wentworth, divorcee; she was glad to return with Michael to the scene of the crime and coax him through a full confession. She had yet to meet the woman who could resist Michael in the midst of one of his sincere apologies, and Mrs. Wentworth proved no exception. Within minutes he'd been forgiven, his offer of recompense brushed aside, and invited to play anytime he liked with Gadget, Mrs. Wentworth's adolescent dachshund.

In the face of such magnanimity, Sara had extended an invitation to Daisy for tea the next day, and now they were sitting comfortably on the porch, already on a first-name basis, shifting their chairs every few minutes to follow the afternoon shade, while Michael and Gadget played on the steps at their feet.

"You're not at all what I thought you'd be like," confided Daisy. She was on her second glass of champagne, which she had brought over herself, "to inaugurate our friendship." Sara had felt obliged to join her out of politeness, even though champagne made her sleepy and it was not quite four o'clock in the afternoon.

"No? What did you think I'd be like?"

"Snooty. Stiff" She flashed one of her acrid half-smiles. "Obnoxious."

"Oh, dear." She'd discovered already that her new neighbor didn't mince words. "Is that my reputation these days?" she asked lightly.

"No, not yours. I'd say it's more by association."

Tact wasn't her strong suit, either. Sara sipped her wine and said nothing.

"But you're nothing like that, thank God. Do you know you're the first person in Newport to invite me to anything in months? Oh, they'll call me on the telephone sometimes, but only because they want some bit of gossip and they know I know everything. But heaven forbid they should be seen with me out in the world." Her lips curled down at the corners, turning her smile bitter. She was forty, she'd confided a few minutes ago, but to Sara she looked at least five years older. Her skin had a sallow, unhealthy cast, and her gray-flecked dark hair needed a wash. Her body might have been graceful once, but now it was too soft, as if the bones were melting into her flesh.

It was pointless and somehow insulting, Sara decided, to pretend she didn't know what Daisy was talking about. "You mean, because of the divorce."

"Yes, of course, what else?" She stared down into her glass, intent on the bursting bubbles. "I made a mistake and got caught, and I've been paying for it ever since."

"Do you like living here?" Sara asked after an awkward pause. "It's a beautiful place. I love the sea, and the weather is so—"

Daisy made a sound very like a snort and fixed her with a baleful eye over the run of her glass. "You don't think the appeal of this place for the re sorters has anything to do with the sunshine and the fresh sea air, do you?" Sara raised her brows in a question. "My dear, the real sport is Exclusivity. You'll notice there's no culture, no business, no charity or philanthropy to get in the way of what people really come here for— to snub each other in public. It's the only game in town."

"If that's true, then why do you stay?"

Daisy sighed, and her ample breasts rose and fell heavily. "Why, why, why. I ought to go. I keep saying I will, but then I don't. Frankly, I haven't got the energy. Besides," she cackled, "who would they talk about if I left? I serve a vital social function."

"Why do you suppose they
care
so much?" Sara mused a moment later. It was a question that frequently nagged her. "Snobbery takes so much work, and the rewards are so petty. I should think they'd all be exhausted."

"Don't be naive. The great thing about being admitted into Society is that you're finally allowed to help keep everyone else out. That's the whole
point
. Why else do you think they stayed away from your perfectly nice party last week in droves?"

Sara wasn't surprised that her neighbor knew about that fiasco; she imagined all of Newport and most of New York had heard of it by now. There had even been a nasty piece in the Newport
Observer
that, although it named no names, had managed to devastate all the same. Predictably, Ben blamed her for the miserable failure of their Newport debut, and it was only because he'd had to return to the city so soon the next day that he hadn't thought of some way to make her pay for it. Yet.

"What's high society like in England?" Daisy wanted to know. "And don't tell me it's democratic, because I won't believe you."

"No, of course it's not. It's not the same as here, though. Money's important, but it's not
worshipped
quite so much. And the aristocracy seems to have more fun with all its privileges. I'm not sure why—perhaps because morality isn't quite so strict, so—puritanical, perhaps. Oh, I don't know." She heard herself sigh as heavily as Daisy had, and wondered if they were getting drunk.

The older woman set her empty glass down and clasped her hands behind her head. "Americans are insecure. No matter how rich we are, we still feel gauche. So we buy these ostentatious mansions and try to make them look as European as possible."

Sara smiled, thinking Mr. McKie would certainly agree with that. "Yes. You particularly admire the English, but if you don't mind my saying so, you have a very peculiar idea of what English manners are supposed to be.
Stiffness
is the prominent feature, you think, and so you've adopted stiffness as the highest mode of social conduct."

"That's right," Daisy agreed, nodding and reaching again for the bottle. "You're exactly right. Oh, but you should've seen Newport thirty years ago, Sara, before the Vanderbilts and the Astors got their hands on it. I used to come here when I was a girl with my family, and it was such a lovely place. The houses were all wooden and rambling, with wide verandahs and porch swings, picnics, and rides on donkey carts. Swimming anywhere you liked, no 'Bailey's Beach' to separate the upper class from the vulgar masses. Maybe that's why I can't seem to leave it now—I remember so clearly what it was like before it all turned to stone."

Sara felt her neighbor's melancholy settling over them like a subtle fog. Even Michael seemed affected by it; he wrapped his arms around Gadget's neck and stared up at his mother with worried, searching eyes. She felt a disproportionate relief when the screen door squeaked open and the maid announced that she had a long distance call from New York.

Daisy heaved herself up. She'd better go home, she said; she was feeling in need of a little nap. They bade each other quick good-byes, then Sara rushed into the house.

There was only one telephone, in the foyer at the foot of the staircase. The operator identified the calling party—Lauren, thank God, not Ben—and then her friend's strong voice came through as clearly as if she were in the room.

"Sara! Hello, how are you? Can you hear me?"

"I can hear you perfectly. How are
you
?"

"I've just come from your house. I took Lulu over in a cardboard box and gave her to Tasha. I think it was love at first sight for both of them." Lulu was Lauren's cat; Tasha was going to keep her while Lauren was away in Europe. "Now I've got just a little bit more packing to do, and then I'm off. The boat sails at six this evening."

"Are you excited? I can tell you are."

"Manic! I'm looking at myself in the mirror right now, and my cheeks are so red I look like a clown! I can't keep two thoughts together. Won't it be interesting to unpack this suitcase tonight and discover what bizarre things I've put into it?"

Sara laughed, although she felt like crying. "I wish I were going with you."

"God, yes, then it would be perfect."

"What did you think of Tasha?"

"I liked her a lot. She's very sweet, isn't she? So simple, and yet very strong, I think. But to tell you the truth, I'm amazed that Ben is letting her stay there. It doesn't seem like something he would do."

"Yes, it was a surprise." He'd made the decision suddenly and without explanation. Sara's private theory was that he had a new mistress, and that he'd realized he could consort with her more freely from his club than his home, away from the watchful eyes of his own servants. So the offer to move out for Tasha's sake was really a fine piece of hypocrisy.

"How's Michael?" Lauren asked.

"He was sick for the first three days—nothing serious this time, just a cold. But now he's well and running around everywhere. We have an interesting next-door neighbor and he's made friends with her dog. And he loves to visit with Mr. McKie at the site."

"That's that beautiful man I met at your house?"

"He's the architect you met, yes."

"Don't you think he's beautiful?" She laughed again. "That's not quite the word I would choose."

"I would. I'd love to paint him—What? Yes, Mother, I know. Sorry, Sara, I have to hang up, Mother says it's time to go. She's trying to scare me, but I should probably finish packing now anyway. I just called to say good-bye. I'll write to you all the time."

"I'll write to you, too."

"The address might change, but for now it's the one I gave you. Take care of yourself and have a wonderful summer—"

"I hope Paris is everything you want it to be, Lauren, everything you deserve—"

"Give Michael a kiss—"

"I will, and be
careful
, don't do anything silly, don't be
reckless
—"

"I will be careful, and you stop sounding like my mother. I love you."

"I love you—good-bye!"

"Good-bye!"

"Bon voyage!"

The line went dead. Sara held on to the earpiece for a long moment before finally cradling it and getting slowly to her feet. She despised good-byes and had never been any good at them. And this was how bereft she felt because Lauren was leaving: what would it be like if Ben made good on his threat and took Michael away from her?

But it wouldn't happen—she was almost certain he'd only been trying to frighten her. The day after he'd brutalized her and told her of his spiteful plan, she'd forced herself to confront him, despite her fear and a cowardly hope that by not dealing with it at all it might go away.

"If you send Michael away," she told him, dry-eyed, in his study the next morning, "I'll leave you." He smiled, taunting her. "No, you won't. You'll never leave."

He was right. She knew it then, she knew it now. IF she left him, he would find her and take Michael away from her for good. Because he was the one with the power. He was the American millionaire, she the penniless foreigner, and although he was an adulterer ten times over, she could never prove it.

Hating herself, she'd wept in front of him. And that was the victory he'd been craving all along; after that he could pretend to be generous. "We'll discuss it later," he said softly, eyes glittering with triumph. "There's no hurry to make a decision yet. I've been in touch with this school—it's in Heidelberg, by the way. They say they'll take him as late as September, so—"