Circled Heart (22 page)

“Look how late it is! I wonder where Peter got to. I hope he didn’t leave without saying good-bye.” I left the kitchen and came toward the central staircase from the back hallway and so was unable to be seen by Crea and Peter, who stood at the foot of the stairs in muted, serious discussion. They were so intent on each other, I could have ridden a bicycle down the hallway and they wouldn’t have noticed me.

“Stop, Peter. You’re speaking foolishly and I won’t hear another word.” Crea stood stiffly, hands clenched into fists at her sides and cheeks scarlet. From my side view, the light coming in from the hall window seemed to illuminate her face and emphasize the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes. Peter reached out both hands to her shoulders.

“My love,” he began, and at the tenderness in his tone, Crea gave a little gasp, whether of pain or longing I couldn’t tell, and spoke sternly, her voice breaking only at the end.

“You mustn’t talk to me like this. It isn’t right. Please, Peter.”

“What isn’t right is your stubborn refusal to admit that we have—”

At that point I decided I had already overheard too much and could either retreat or move forward. Making a quick decision, I cleared my throat loudly before stepping around the corner of the stairs where Peter still stood with his hands firmly on Crea’s shoulders. Both of them looked at me in surprise, but it was Crea who jumped back from Peter, forcing herself away from his touch.

“I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?” I asked mildly. Crea’s face went pale, then fired to a wave of crimson.

“Johanna, I—” she began, but her voice finally broke completely and she couldn’t say another word. Instead, she turned and rushed upstairs.

Peter’s unwavering gaze followed Crea as she made her hasty departure, and I recognized the look on his face: a man in love, completely smitten, head-over-heels, and lost completely. I felt a quick rush of sympathy and understanding.

When it was clear Crea wasn’t going to reappear and fling herself into his arms, Peter turned to me and said simply, “I love everything about Crea O’Rourke. Everything.”

“I can see that,” I said and took his arm. “Come and sit down and tell me about it.”

“There’s not much to tell. I appreciated how kind she was to Grandmother first and told her so and we started talking and one thing led to another—” Peter met my inquiring look with defiance. “We haven’t done one thing to be ashamed of. After the first time I told her how I felt, she’s tried to keep her distance, but I don’t think I’m wrong. I think she cares, too, at least a little bit. I kissed her once and there was definitely something there before she got all icy and threatened to slap my face.”

“Peter, I—”

“If you’re going to tell me she’s not my type, Johanna, that it wouldn’t work, that we’re from two different worlds, don’t bother. Crea’s told me all that before, and a lot more about her being poor and uneducated and having a past.”

“I can’t deny that’s true, but I wasn’t going to say anything like that.”

“It’s the twentieth century,” Peter continued, ignoring my interjection. “We don’t have a caste system here. If you find someone who’s kind and smart and beautiful and brave, what do those other things matter? I love her, Johanna. What should I do?” His last words held such pathos I could hardly restrain from putting my arms around him, and when he turned his face to me, that open, honest, fair face, the urge grew even stronger. But Peter wasn’t a boy. He was all grown up, and this was a situation to discuss as adults.

I told him gently, “You have to respect Crea’s wishes.”

“But—”

“There’s no but about it, Peter. It was apparent to me that while Crea may have feelings for you, your behavior just now distressed her deeply.”

“I didn’t mean to trouble her.”

“I know that, but nevertheless you did. I could see it in her face. You have to respect her wishes, Peter, and leave her alone.” Then I added, smiling, “At least until she and I have a chance to talk.”

His face brightened with hope. “Will you, Johanna?”

“Sometime in the next few days I’ll try to discuss this with her, but it’s her choice and I won’t force the conversation.” I stood. “And you must go off to school exactly as planned.”

“I know.” He looked as if I’d told him he had to shoot the family dog.

“Peter, there’s adequate mail service from the east coast. Sending Crea a friendly letter once in a while can’t hurt. You know you have to finish school so you have time. There’s no need to rush anything right now. Be patient with her.”

“But what if I lose her? What if I go away and she finds someone else or disappears completely?”

I regretted the cliché of my response but told him, “Then it wasn’t meant to be, Peter, but I think those alternatives are very unlikely. Keep in touch with Crea on a regular but friendly basis and plan your next approach more strategically.”

“I didn’t know it would feel like this,” he admitted shyly as we walked to the front door. “I thought, well, I guess I thought someday I’d meet some respectable girl and marry her and that would be that. I’ve never been very interested in the kind of girls the fellows at school bring around, and it didn’t faze me at all when the only other girl I ever felt anything for took up with someone else. But then I walked into Grandmother’s room and Crea was reading out loud, her Irish voice as musical as a song, all that red hair and skin like cream”—a momentary pause for recollection—“and I was lost.” His voice held the unlikely combination of anguish and bliss.

I stretched to kiss him on the cheek. “Poor boy. It happens like that sometimes, I’m told. I wish I could snap my fingers and make things right, but I can’t. You need to get on with your education and your life, Peter.”

He nodded, then added in a low voice on his way out the door, “But I don’t think it will be much of a life without her, Johanna.”

Well, I thought to myself after he left, how had I missed that, in my own house and right under my nose? No wonder Peter was underfoot the last few weeks. And how painful for Crea, especially if she reciprocated Peter’s feelings even a little bit. With her pride and the mysteries of her past, I could see that she would feel Peter was above and beyond her, despite the priceless qualities Peter had listed. I sighed. Who’d have imagined life would get even more complicated?

That afternoon and evening, Crea’s behavior showed nothing out of the ordinary. If I hadn’t been an eye witness, I’d never have believed that only a few hours before she had swept up the stairs with a sob in her voice, that her hands had trembled on the banister. We talked casually in Grandmother’s room, teasing Grandmother about another birthday and discussing her upcoming birthday party. Grandmother noticed that Crea was more subdued, gave me a questioning look, and I quickly shook my head, mouthing the word later when Crea’s back was turned. While Crea ate a solitary late supper in the kitchen, I kept Grandmother company and filled her in on the basic details of the drama I’d seen unfold earlier.

“I’ve been thinking about the situation for the past few hours,” I told her, “and I can see why Peter and Crea might be attracted to each other. Despite their differences, they’re both steady, kind, even-tempered, and faithful. I don’t know, though, if Crea has any strong feelings for Peter.”

Grandmother, sitting in her chair by the window and eating slowly from her supper tray, said, “Of course, she does.” Her physical improvement was especially noticeable in her speech, which, while slurred and soft, was now understandable.

“How do you know?” She shook her head, her expression familiar from previous occasions when she had considered me dense as a post.

“I pay attention, Johanna. I haven’t had much to do lately other than observe the people around me, you know.” I grinned at her, glad to recognize that tone of dry brusqueness, however weakened the volume.

“Are you implying I don’t pay attention?”

“You’re too busy saving the world to see what’s going on in your own house, my dear.” But she gave me a crooked smile when she spoke and wasn’t chiding.

“I suppose I am.” After a pause, I added, “So what do you think about Peter and Crea? What should I do?”

“There’s nothing you can do except be a friend to both of them. I’ve become very fond of Crea and, of course, Peter—” Her voice trailed off.

“I know Peter’s the favorite, so don’t worry you’ll hurt my feelings,” my remark only half-teasing.

Grandmother didn’t protest my statement, only said thoughtfully, “Sometimes relationships cannot be fixed, Johanna. Sometimes, no matter how much you wish it otherwise, they’re never able to be made right.”

“You mean Peter and Crea?” She didn’t answer but held out an imperious hand.

“I’m tired. Will you help me to bed, please? And then return this tray and tell Mayville she outdid herself with supper this evening.”

I spent some time with May and Levi in the kitchen and then went upstairs to bed, the house and the street outside still and dim. September now and the light fading earlier, a reminder of the short days and crisp air of autumn that were right around the seasonal corner. How quickly the summer had sped! Five months ago to the day I had stood on the tilting deck of a sinking ocean liner and now, with time already dimming the sharp edges of that memory, I puzzled through a different, less dramatic dilemma—what to do about Peter, who was in love, and Jennie, who wasn’t. And to be honest, struggling with my own feelings, too, about Drew Gallagher, the kind of slippery man I should distrust and Allen Goldwyn, whose sterling qualities should have appealed to me but didn’t. All contrary. At the risk of trivializing a terrible tragedy, I thought that true life-and-death situations possessed their own kind of simplicity and a certain ease of solution that eluded emotional affairs completely. I was at my best in the former circumstance but at a loss more often than not when it came to the baffling emotional depths of the human heart.

Unable to sleep, I propped my back against my bed’s headboard and settled in with a book but was startled soon after by a knock on my door. I knew immediately who it was and called, “Come in, Crea.” She came a few steps into the room and stopped, face pale, mouth resolutely grim.

“I want to explain,” Crea announced.

“All right but sit down first, or I’ll get a cramp in my neck from looking up at you.” I motioned toward the foot of my bed and said again, “Sit down, Crea.” She sat gingerly, hands in her lap and eyes on my face.

Finally she spoke, all in such a rush that I guessed she had prepared and practiced in advance what she was going to say. “You must think I’ve betrayed you, sneaking around in your house behind your back while you trusted me, but it wasn’t like that, Johanna. I swear it. As soon as I realized Peter was—was interested in me, I tried to avoid him. I never encouraged him. After all you’ve done for me, I’d never act in a way that would upset you.”

“Why do you think that would upset me?” My question clearly took her aback.

“Because he’s your cousin and I’m from the Anchorage.”

“Those are both true statements, but I repeat, why would that upset me?”

“Johanna, don’t talk to me like I’m ten years old. You know exactly what I mean. Peter is educated and handsome and I’m a servant in your house.” I winced at the words.

“You’re not a servant.”

“Of course, I am,” she shot back. “What else would you call me?”

“You’re an employee, Crea, not a servant, free to come and go as you please, stay or leave as you choose. And I thought we were friends, besides.”

She flushed. “How can we be friends? Look at you, an educated, wealthy, world-traveler. Then look at me.” At that I shut my book with a pop.

“Crea, let’s agree to forego the melodrama. You’re an intelligent woman who must certainly realize that real friendship is not predicated on bank accounts or train schedules. As for love—” I sighed. “My cousin Peter thinks you are a supernatural mix of angel and goddess. He’s so smitten with everything about you, he can’t think straight, and what’s wrong with that?” I paused, then added, “Are you telling me he was bothering you with his attentions? Because if that’s how it was—”

“No, of course not! How could you think such a thing? You know Peter would never act that way. He’s too much of a gentleman.” Her vigorous defense of my cousin made me smile.

“I see his affection isn’t entirely one-sided.” Crea didn’t smile in return.

“What does it matter? Spout as much fancy talk as you like, Johanna, you can’t change the differences between Peter McIntyre and Crea O’Rourke. His mother would slit my throat before she’d allow us to be together, and you know it. Shall I count my offenses?” She held up a hand and ticked them off on her fingers. “I’m Irish, I’m Catholic, I’m the bastard daughter of a house servant with no formal education, no family, and no fortune. How do you think I’ll stack up against your aunt’s plans for her only son, young rising star lawyer and bearer of the family name?”

“I think we should work through one issue at a time. I know Aunt Kitty is difficult, and I know she would not approve of you. At first, anyway. But if you’re my friend and if Peter loves you, she might come around. We don’t know otherwise.”

“Do you think Peter does love me, Johanna?” Crea latched onto the one part of my little speech that caught her attention and her heart.

“Yes, I think he does.” Her reaction was to get up and pace to the door, turn around and come back and stare at me.

“I wish I could change the past. I wish I could be someone different, someone who deserved to be loved.” The anguish in her tone caught me unawares.

“No one can change the past, but because we spend our lives in the future, it seems to me that’s where we should concentrate our energies.” I got up, too, threw on my robe, led her to the stuffed chair at one end of my bedroom, and pushed her into it. I dropped inelegantly onto the ottoman at her feet. “I don’t know what’s tormenting you, Crea, but let it lie. Whatever it is, it’s over and past. No one needs to know.”

“I know,” Crea cried. “Oh, Johanna, you don’t understand.” She began to weep, trying in vain to wipe away the stream of tears with the palms of both hands. Wordlessly, I rose to dig out a handkerchief from a bureau drawer and hand it to her. She stopped crying after a while and leaned her head back against the chair, eyes closed and clutching the soaked square of cloth. “What a mess I’ve made of things!” she said finally. “What a terrible mess!” When I didn’t respond, she opened her eyes. “I’ve lived with a man without being his wife. The man was married and I knew it from the start. I had his child. How do you think that will go over with the McIntyres?”