Morning (35 page)

Sara had often heard those words and even that tone of painfully concealed anguish, but had never bothered to interpret it. But now she understood. Her mother had majored in French. She had had dreams of working for the U.N., or for some corporation with international offices. Instead she had married Sara’s father and spent her life near Boston, providing a warm and comfortable home for her family. She had never made it to France until the past few years, after her husband died, when she went on tours with friends, which could not have been at all what she had dreamed of as a young woman. Sara understood at last that if her mother hadn’t had children but had been able to work, to travel, she might have led a happier life.

Sara felt a deep sorrow for all her mother had missed. And thought how wonderful it would be if
she
could have her mother’s obsession—then she would be happy with her empty womb and childless life, then she would see her infertility as a blessing instead of a torture. And something even deeper filled Sara now when she talked to her mother—a sense of pride, of amazed admiration—for her mother had not let her obsession destroy her life. She had loved her family and kept them safe and happy and not run away, not escaped through airplanes or alcohol, and now when she was free to travel, she was doing that, enjoying herself, rather than spending her days in bitterness and remorse.
I must learn from her
, Sara thought.

Who did not have an obsession? Julia did. She was still hopelessly involved with
Perry, even though she was hearing less and less from him these days. Jamie Jones and Carole Clark were not obsessed, she supposed, but their husbands were; they were obsessed with alcohol, and that meant that Jamie and Carole had to live their lives according to the whims of the obsessions of those they loved.

Sara could only guess at what their lives must be like, and, knowing Pete and Sheldon, and liking them, she could imagine how they must hate themselves for their desires and their failures.

So there were worse obsessions than the desire to be pregnant. There was some comfort in that.

Because she had learned something about other people’s obsessions, she had done something before the trip to England that she would probably not have done. Although it had been on her mind for months.

She had called Fanny Anderson’s first love, Will Hofnegle. His name, actually, was Ernst Brouwer—she had learned this long ago from Fanny. All during November and December, Sara had dreamed and plotted—wouldn’t it be lovely if Ernst was widowed now, or even divorced, and living alone? Wouldn’t it be interesting if she was to call him and invite him to the publication party that Walpole and James was giving Fanny in January? Sara imagined picking Ernst up at the airport—he would be older, of course, but tall and tanned and weathered-looking, like a man in a Marlboro ad. And she would take him with her—no, she would leave him with Steve. Because she had to pick up Fanny and personally escort her to the party. So she would take Fanny to the party, and after an hour or so, after Fanny talked to the reviewers and magazine and newspaper people and had something to drink and was relaxed in the company of strangers, then Steve could bring Ernst in. He would walk across the room.… Fanny would look up, see him, smile with surprise.… Ernst would take her hands and look into her eyes.… And violins would appear from out of the heavens to salute this lovers’ reunion.

She had called the Kansas directory information and asked for the number of Ernst Brouwer in Centerton. Without a pause, the operator gave her the number, which Sara took as a good omen: he was still there, he was still alive, perhaps he was just waiting for this phone call!

But a woman answered the phone. And when Ernst came on the line and listened to Sara’s explanation (she tried to make it sound as if the publisher were inviting
lots
of Fanny’s old acquaintances, making it a sort of
This Is Your Life
party), Ernst had said that
he was sorry, but he wouldn’t be able to make it. His wife was ill and he couldn’t leave her and she wasn’t up to a trip back east, and their daughter was expecting a baby any day now. But would Sara please convey his congratulations to Fanny? And he would look for the book, would look forward to reading it. His wife would, too; she had gone to school with Fanny.

Sara had hung up, inordinately disappointed. Perhaps, she told herself, perhaps she wanted too much, to have Fanny not only having a first-class novel published
and
getting out of her hideaway and back into the real world, but also to have Fanny in love again, loved again, which would make Fanny whole. Perhaps she expected too much, wanted too much in every quarter of her life. She should learn to settle for what she had.

She was learning that. Yes, she was learning that. Now, as the plane began to sink downward so rapidly that Sara could feel its descent in her stomach, she felt her own hopes not ascend, but at least stay level. This would be a wonderful week. She loved London. She would be able to visit with old friends in the publishing business whom she had gotten to know during her trips here when she worked for Walpole and James. She would be able to watch Fanny have her literary triumph—and the Shelburne Prize really was a victory. And Fanny would not have won it if Sara hadn’t discovered the book and encouraged Fanny and edited it, so Sara could congratulate herself, too. People in the business would know what Sara had done, would appreciate her own sense of triumph. She would not let it matter that she was not pregnant and could not hope to get pregnant this month. She would not let it matter that Fanny would not achieve love as well as fame and fortune. She would try to let go of all desires for what she and Fanny did not have and try to spend one pure week celebrating what they did have.

“Fanny,” she said, leaning over to the woman who still slept soundly next to her. “Wake up. We’re here.”

Lindsay Torrance, Fanny’s agent in London, picked Sara and Fanny up at Heathrow and took them to their home for the week: the agency’s flat, beautifully appointed and situated in the heart of London, right across from Hyde Park on Bayswater Road. Fanny took the large master bedroom with the queen-size bed and peach-colored silk drapes and duvet; Sara took the smaller bedroom and shared the clothes closet there with the ironing board and other domestic essentials. Both women luxuriated in the warm modern bathroom, which had gold-plated faucets and a bathtub over six feet long. It was quite
wonderful—the bathroom, especially, because they found themselves exhausted and needing a long soak in therapeutically hot water after slinking around London in their very high heels.

Fanny took to all the socializing like a duck to water. Like the prodigal daughter returning. They went to lunch with her agent and the other people from the agency, to lunch with the people from the publishing house that would put
Jenny’s Book
out in paperback, to dinner with the people who were publishing it in hardcover, to dinner with an aggressive but enjoyable young reporter from a women’s magazine, to interviews here and there, to two plays that they crammed into their busy week, and, now and then, they went for long brisk walks in the park, their hands shoved deep into their coat pockets, following the meandering Serpentine, sharing their memories of former days in London. They had tea at the Ritz, and as they daintily munched watercress sandwiches, Lindsay Torrance praised Sara so highly that she felt she was drinking champagne instead of tea. Would Sara ever consider moving to London? Lindsay asked. Or working for Lindsay’s agency? She could be based in both Boston and London.

Sara smiled a gentle refusal. She told Lindsay about her project for Heartways House, how she was setting down guidelines for the series and choosing the books, and would be editing them. And she couldn’t leave Nantucket; that was her home now, and she didn’t want to be away from Steve very often.

“Aah,” Lindsay said, “too bad. Our loss.”

Later that night, still awake—jet lag had tossed any sleeping routine to the winds—Sara played the conversation back with all the pleasure that anyone takes in being complimented and courted; as if she were remembering enticements from a man who would be her lover. She would not be untrue to Steve, but how sweet to be asked. And, she thought, perhaps this really was her world. It did seem to be the one she was successful in. She was a good editor, she knew, and she was good with people. Perhaps she was meant to be involved in the whirl of literary life rather than in the gentle routine of domesticity. She could not help daydreaming about how different her life could be. Trips to London, tidbits of gossip about scandalous writers consumed over caviar and champagne, silk against her skin as a regular choice, and sophisticated people to admire the way she looked in that silk, the sense of making a difference, of assisting others in a creative and always surprising profession.… Sara finally fell asleep, overwhelmed by her thoughts.

The fourth night was the night of the Shelburne award ceremony. First there was an enormous cocktail party at the agency’s flat, with lots of fine champagne and hors d’oeuvres and crushes of literary people. A dinner in the banquet hall of a famous old hotel and the ceremony itself were to follow.

Sara was as proud of the way Fanny looked for the ceremony as if she had created her herself. Fanny’s new hairstyle was a sort of modified pageboy, cut shorter in back than in front, so that the sides hung down in sleek curtains that slanted in toward her face just at chin level, with long bangs that swept slightly sideways. It was a new look, a sophisticated look, and Fanny looked years younger with it. For the ceremony she was wearing a modest, high-collared, long-sleeved silver dress that showed off her wonderful figure. A blue brooch on her shoulder. Sara taught her new makeup tricks: blue eye shadow, black eyeliner, lighter lipstick than she was used to wearing. The final effect was stupendous. Sara knew she looked fine in her red silk, but tonight her own looks almost didn’t matter to her, all her pride was centered in Fanny.

Fanny, as the guest of honor, held court in the living room of the flat. She sat in the middle of the sofa, where people could join her on either side, and sipped champagne and smiled and was charming. Sara stayed by the door to greet people coming in, to direct them toward the champagne or toward Fanny. All her worries about Fanny! she thought to herself, secretly laughing, all her fears that Fanny would find her celebrity too much after her years of solitude. She had actually been afraid that Fanny might have some kind of nervous breakdown. And there she was, triumphant, flirtatious, a fish back in water: a charming woman back among people.

A tall, lean, and marvelously distinguished-looking white-haired man was suddenly standing before Sara in the entrance hall. He was wearing a beautiful black cashmere coat and a white silk scarf over a beautifully cut gray suit. Sara sighed with pleasure at the sight of such elegance.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly. “I’ve come to see Fanny. I’m an old friend of hers. Randolph Bell.”

“Oh, my—” Sara said, with great self-control swallowing the “God” portion of her exclamation. Randolph Bell—Cecil Randolph; she knew at once. Fanny’s old and greatest love. The aristocrat. The fink. “How nice,” she said. “Fanny will be so pleased.” She
hoped
. Fanny might be thrown into a state of shock, misery, insecurity. It was only with enormous restraint that Sara kept herself from asking, “Did you bring your wife with
you, or did she, I hope, die?”

But of course Sara did not, would not, say such a thing. She led Randolph Bell into the living room. Sara’s mind was racing; she was wondering if there was a way to break the news of his arrival to Fanny so that she could prepare herself.

But it was too late. Fanny looked up. She saw Randolph. She blushed gorgeously. She gasped, and everyone around her looked up to see what had caused her reaction.

And as Sara stood watching, Randolph crossed the room and Fanny stood up, and they took each other’s hands and smiled into each other’s eyes and for all Sara knew at that moment a thousand violins did come swooning down from the ceiling. This was indeed a lovers’ reunion, even though Fanny and Randolph did not embrace but were content to look at each other, still holding hands.

Very few people, Sara thought, got to have a night like Fanny was having that night. Sara felt lucky just to be able to watch it from the sidelines. With her old lover, her real beloved, watching, Fanny received the Shelburne Prize while a roomful of writers, press people, and critics stood applauding.

Fanny rose to take the award, looking, with her sleek helmet of dark hair and her voluptuous figure, a great deal more like Cleopatra than Virginia Woolf. After thanking the award committee, she said, “But the one person I must thank above all others is my editor and friend, Sara Blackburn Kendall. She discovered this book in its raw, embryonic stage, she persisted in harassing me”—here Fanny threw Sara a smile—“until I completed it, she helped me form it from a muddle into a formal work with a shape as complete as a vase, and she encouraged me every step of the way. The literary world needs more editors like this, brave people who are willing to inflict their values and judgments on writers, people who act really as midwives to writers. For just as babies might die in their mothers’ wombs without the skill and assistance of a dedicated doctor or midwife, just so would
Jenny’s Book
have died, never to see the light of day, if Sara Blackburn Kendall hadn’t coaxed and pulled and struggled to bring it to life. I could not have done it alone. I did not do it alone. Sara taught me that it is never too late—in fiction or in life—to revise.”

Sara smiled, and then, when asked, stood for applause. She was too drunk on the success of the evening to feel any impact from Fanny’s speech, but she held it there, in her mind, in her heart, for her to remember over and over again; to remember, and to shape her own life by.

When the ceremony and the festivities were finally over, when the crowded room began to empty, Sara, who had been carefully monitoring Fanny and Randolph, confessed that she was very, very tired, too tired to accompany them to a pub for a little after-dinner liqueur. She could tell only too well how much the two were longing to be alone. And she was tired; she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.