“It was paid for, of course, but in quite horrendous condition,” he continued. “I felt utterly at sea. It took a friend to pound the reality of the situation through my thick skull. Jean and I had lived in the Cambridge house for almost twenty-five years; the mortgage was near to being paid off, and the property values had shot up.”
“So you sold the house and used the proceeds here.” Adam gestured more largely then he intended, the whisky having rather gone to his head. He’d fasted before Communion this morning, then discovered the bit of vegetable flan he’d been saving for his lunch had gone moldy.
Nathan retrieved his drink and stood cradling it, his back to the fire. “It’s actually been quite liberating, funnily enough. Jean and I put off so many things over the years, thinking we’d wait until we could afford them, but somehow it never came to pass.” Grinning, he added, “Having two daughters probably had something to do with it. Those two delicate little things could go through pound notes like starving dogs in a sausage factory.”
Adam remembered Nathan’s daughters not as the young women, dark clothed and red faced with weeping, whom he’d seen briefly at Jean’s funeral, but as two little girls in white frilly dresses and pink hair ribbons. “Are they both married, then?”
“Jennifer, yes, but Alison’s too busy making her mark on the world to have time for men right now, other than as a temporary convenience,” Nathan said, affection evident in his tone.
“She was always Lydia’s favorite, wasn’t she, your Alison?”
“From the time they were babies, Lydia said Jenny was born with
a conventional soul, but that Alison was destined for greater things. Lydia was Alison’s godmother, as a matter
of fact. I’m surprised you remembered.” Falling silent, Nathan swirled the dregs of his drink, then finished it in one swallow. “Come through to the back, and I’ll fix us something to eat.”
Pushing himself up from the depths of his chair, Adam followed Nathan into the entry again. Now he saw that in the room to the left, which had been a seldom-used formal parlor in Nathan’s parents’ day, a baby grand piano stood alone on the bare polished floorboards. Adam remembered the old upright that had stood in Nathan and Jean’s sitting room, the recipient of much abuse by
Nathan as he pounded out the old music hall tunes he’d learned from his mother. Before he could comment, Nathan beckoned him through the center door.
The back of the house, which had originally been divided into kitchen, scullery, and dining room, had been opened into one large room. A kitchen-dining area filled one end, a comfortable den the other, and windows had been added along the back of the house from which Adam imagined one could see the river on better days.
Nathan gestured towards the table, already laid with place mats and stoneware, as he went through to the kitchen. “Sit down while I organize things a bit. I found some carrot and lentil soup in the freezer, then I thought we’d have omelettes and a green salad, if that suits.” He checked a pot on the stove, gave it a stir, then went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Australian Chardonnay. “It’s all down to Ikea,” he said with a glance at Adam as he started a corkscrew into the bottle. “From the furniture to the cutlery. I’d never have managed otherwise.”
“It’s brilliant, Nathan, really brilliant.” Adam took the glass Nathan poured him. “Here’s to your new life,” he said, raising his glass, then choked as the wine bit unexpectedly at his throat. “Sorry.” He spluttered and coughed, then took another, more careful sip. “You and Jean always entertained well, and you seem to have gone right on with things. I admire that.”
Nathan stopped with a soup ladle poised over a bowl. “The first couple of years I ate frozen dinners in front of the telly. When I ate. And I daresay I didn’t do too well at the housekeeping and laundry, either.” He shrugged and went back to distributing the soup between two green bowls. “But after a while I began to think about how exasperated Jean would have been with me. She followed me around the house, nagging: ‘Nathan, you should be ashamed of yourself, letting things go this way.’ So I cleaned up my act, and I’ve found I actually enjoy it.”
“Do you think you’ll marry again?” asked Adam as Nathan brought soup and a basket of hot bread to the table, then slid into the chair opposite. “It’s been my experience that those who’ve been most happily married often do.”
For the first time, Nathan took his time answering. He buttered
a piece of bread, tasted his wine, then said, “I don’t know. A year ago I’d have said absolutely not—even six months ago, the same. But now…” Shaking his head, he grinned at Adam. “Never mind. I’m a foolish, middle-aged man who shouldn’t allow himself to indulge his fantasies. I suppose I’m suffering from a case of delayed adolescence, and that it will pass.”
“And if it doesn’t?” asked Adam, his curiosity aroused.
Nathan picked up his spoon, dipped it into his soup. “Then the Lord help me.”
CHAPTER
3
So light we were, so right we were, so fair faith shone,
And the way was laid so certainly, that, when I’d gone,
What dumb thing looked up at you? Was it something heard,
Or a sudden cry, that meekly and without a word
You broke the faith, and strangely, weakly, slipped apart?
R
UPERT
B
ROOKE
,
from “Desertion”
A particularly vicious gust of wind snatched Vic’s paper napkin from her lap and whirled it away across the lawn. Kincaid watched her start up out of her chair, then sink back, admitting defeat as the napkin disappeared over the wall. The clouds had been building in the western sky as they’d idled over their garden lunch, and now Vic looked up and frowned. “I think the weather gods have abandoned us, don’t you? It might be prudent to move inside,” she added, beginning to gather their dishes. “I’ll just get a tray.”
Watching her slip from her chair and walk away from him across the patio, Kincaid thought how odd it was to be with her again—and yet how familiar. He was acutely aware of the angle of her shoulder blades beneath the thin fabric of her dress, the length of her fingers, the particular shape of her eyebrows, all things he hadn’t thought of in years. He remembered her quiet way of listening, as if what one said were terribly important—but he also noticed that she still hadn’t told him why she’d called him, and that too struck a familiar chord. When they separated, he realized how seldom
Vic had told him how she felt or what she thought. She’d expected him to
know
, and now he wondered if he’d once again missed his cue.
Returning with a tray, she said, “I’ve lit the fire in the sitting room.” She’d slipped on a long chenille cardigan the color of oatmeal, and she hugged it to her body for a moment before she began loading up the lunch things. “So much for our picnic. But I suppose it was nice while it lasted.”
Stacking plates, Kincaid quipped, “One could say that about a lot of things,” then swore at himself as he saw her wince at the direct barb. “Sorry, Vic. I—” He broke off, unsure what to say. How could he apologize without opening the very can of worms he’d meant to avoid?
Vic took the dishes without comment, then paused with the laden tray in her arms and looked at him steadily for a moment before she spoke. “Sometimes it takes experience to know just how good things are. Or to recognize someone’s worth. I was a fool, but it took me a long time to figure it out.” She smiled and added as Kincaid stood gaping, “Come on, give me a hand getting these things into the kitchen, then I’ll make us some tea. Unless you’d rather have something stronger?”
Taking refuge in the commonplace, Kincaid said, “No, no, that’s all right. Tea’s lovely. I’ve got the drive back to London and the wine will have put me close to the limit.”
He took the tray from her, and as she held the door he maneuvered it into her small kitchen and set it on the worktop. Retreating to the doorway, he watched her as she filled the kettle. Her apology went against all his expectations and he had no idea how to respond.
Gathering cups and a teapot, Vic said matter-of-factly, without looking at him, “You have someone waiting for you.”
“Is that a specific or a general statement?” he asked, grinning. He thought of Gemma, of the precarious balance they’d striven for these past few months, and wondered if her refusal to come with him today reflected more than her desire to spend time with her son. She’d invited him back to her flat tonight, but that didn’t ensure the quality of his reception.
Vic glanced at him, then shut off the kettle as it came to the boil.
When she’d filled the pot and set it on the tea tray, she motioned Kincaid to follow her to the sitting room. Over her shoulder, she asked, “Does she appreciate you?”
“I’ll tell her you said nice things about me. A sort of past-user guarantee.”
“Oh, right out of the tabloids, that is.
EX-WIFE GIVES ENDORSEMENT
. Very effective, I’m sure.”
They settled in the squashy armchairs before the fire, and when Vic had tucked her feet up under the folds of her dress and sipped her tea, she said, “Seriously, Duncan, I’m glad for you. But I haven’t asked you here to pry into your private life, though I have to admit I’m curious.” She smiled at him over the rim of her china cup.
The familiarity of the floral pattern had been nagging at him, and its juxtaposition against her face clicked the memory into place—Vic opening a gift box, lifting out a cup, and holding it aloft for him to inspect. The china had been a wedding present from her parents, a
proper
set, her mother had called it, as if afraid his own family might offer something unsuitable.
“Curiosity always got Alice into trouble,” he teased. Alice had been his pet name for her, and it had suited her in more than physical resemblance.
“I know,” she said a bit ruefully. “And I’m afraid things haven’t changed all that much. What I wanted to see you about has to do with my work, and it’s a bit difficult. But first I thought I’d get to know you again, see if you’d think I was just some hysterical, bloody female.”
“Oh, come on, Vic. You—hysterical? That’s the last adjective that would have come to mind. You were always the epitome of cool detachment.” As he spoke he thought of the one place she had abandoned reserve, and he flushed uncomfortably.
“Some of the people in my department might use a bit less flattering terms.” She grimaced. “And my choice of subject matter for my book has made me decidedly unpopular in certain quarters.”
“Book?” Kincaid dragged his attention from the photo of Vic’s errant husband. What had she seen in him? McClellan looked tweedy and bearded, handsome in a studiously academic way, and Kincaid could easily imagine him chatting up his students. He supposed
he ought to be glad that life had seen fit to make Vic the butt of one of its little retribution jokes—the biter bit—but instead he felt a surge of anger on her behalf.
He had not been blameless in the breakup of their marriage, and they’d both been young, just beginning to discover what they wanted out of life. But he could imagine no excuse for Ian McClellan’s behavior—and what sort of man, he wondered, would go off without a word to his son?
“My biography,” Vic answered. “That’s what I’ve been working on this last year. A biography of Lydia Brooke.” She reached up and switched on the reading lamp beside her chair, casting her face into shadow and illuminating her hands as they clasped the teacup in her lap. “Ian said he’d been displaced, and I suppose in a way it’s true. Men—I don’t like men very much these days. They want you to be brilliant and successful, just as long as it doesn’t take any of your attention away from them and their needs. And as long as your accomplishments don’t outshine theirs, of course.” She looked up at him and smiled.
“I sound an awful bitch, don’t I? I’m generalizing, and I know there are men capable of more, but I’m beginning to think they’re the exception. Ian didn’t start on the graduate students until my salary equaled his.” Her mouth twisted in disgust and she shook her head. “Never mind. What do you know about Lydia Brooke?”
Frowning, he searched his memory, turning up a vague recollection of slim volumes on the shelf in his parents’ bookshop. “A Cambridge poet, a sort of symbol of the sixties … She died quite recently, I think. Wasn’t she related to Rupert Brooke?”
“She was
obsessed
with Rupert Brooke when she came up to Cambridge. Whether or not she was related to him is another matter entirely.” Vic shifted in her seat so that the light fell across her face again. “And you’re right, Lydia did burst upon the scene in the mid-sixties. Her poems were full of an aching disenchantment, and I suppose they touched something particular in that generation. After a disastrous marriage, she tried suicide, but recovered. She attempted suicide again in her early thirties, then finally, five years ago, she succeeded. She was forty-seven.”
“Did you know her?”
“I saw her once at a College function, not long after I came here. Unfortunately, I didn’t know anyone well enough to ask for an introduction, and I never had another chance.” Shrugging, Vic added, “I know it sounds odd, but I felt a connection with her even then… the old ‘across a crowded room’ thing.” She smiled, mocking herself, then sobered. “It’s not necessarily sexual, that sort of recognition, and it’s only happened to me a few times. And then when I heard she had died, I felt devastated, as though I’d lost someone very close.”
Kincaid raised an eyebrow and waited.
“I know that look.” Vic grimaced. “Now you’re beginning to wonder if I
am
completely bonkers. But I think that sense of kinship with Lydia has contributed to the uneasy feeling I have about the manner of her death.”
“But surely there was no question that it was suicide?”
“Not legally, no.” Vic gazed out the window at the sky, heavy now with darkening clouds, and seemed to gather her thoughts. After a moment, she said, “Let me see if I can explain. Lydia was thought to have killed herself in the midst of one of the periodic bouts of depression she’d suffered all her adult life, but I don’t believe her death fits that pattern.”