Once More With Feeling (37 page)

"I've talked your ears off," she said, when
the last bite of raspberry ice was just a sweet memory. "And eaten
everything in sight."

"How do you stay so thin?"

"Youth. When I'm thirty-five I'll start to
gain weight. Then I'll have to watch everything I eat, join a gym."
She smiled and lowered her eyes. "I'm well acquainted with the
routine."

"Elisabeth was always absolutely sure she
weighed too much. I loved every ounce she hated."

"Did you?"

"It made her a little less perfect, a little
more approachable."

She looked up and cocked her head in
question. "Approachable?"

"All those years together, and I'm not sure
I ever lost all traces of awe."

"Is that really the way a woman wants her
husband to feel about her? Did she nurture that?"

"Not at all. The fault was mine. I worshiped
her. I was always trying to prove I was good enough to be her
husband. She gave me my start, you know."

Gypsy, of all people, knew the story inside
and out, but she cocked her head in question. "How's that?"

"Her mother's family had a large North Shore
property, Brookshire, just outside Locust Valley, with seventy
acres of land on the Sound, a thirty room mansion of white granite
that had been carried stone by stone from the hills of Vermont at
the turn of the century, a Victorian stables that looked like the
gingerbread house in 'Hansel and Gretel.'"

He turned up his hands in a what-can-you-do
gesture. "Orchards, a poolhouse, clay tennis courts, a white frame
gazebo larger than most Midtown apartments. The Brookshire wealth
dwindled considerably over the years. Income and property taxes
were the beginning of the end for most of those old estates. But
somehow through it all the Brookshires managed to hold on to what
was theirs."

"They don't call it the Gold Coast for
nothing, do they?"

He smiled. "No one had lived in the mansion
for years. No one could afford to. Elisabeth was raised in the
gatehouse, a lovely old gray-shingled Colonial that's still
standing. But we were married in the mansion. Her parents insisted.
I'll never know what it cost them to open it for that one afternoon
and evening. I suspect it cut Elisabeth's inheritance in half. But
it was the party of a lifetime."

Owen had wanted to elope. By the time
Elisabeth's wedding day was nearly over, she had wished fervently
that she had agreed. "It sounds like something out of a fairy
tale," Gypsy said.

"Not one with the standard ending," he said
dryly. "We went from that house, that incredible house, falling
down in stately grandeur all around us, to a shabby little Queens
row house that was falling down, too, for our wedding night and
another year after that. I had a job at a good firm, but I was
paying off my student loans. We both knew it would be a long time
before I got a chance to show what I was really worth. Then her
parents died, one right after the other, and they left Elisabeth
Brookshire."

When he didn't go on, Gypsy asked.
"And?"

"Elisabeth came to me and asked me to
develop the property for her. She knew she would never be able to
hold on to it the way it was. By all practical standards the big
house was beyond repair, and what little her parents had left her
wouldn't have taken care of the taxes for a decade. So she asked me
to develop the land, design seven one-of-a-kind homes that wouldn't
look like a development at all and place them on ten acre plots.
She was sure there were a lot of very rich people who wanted to
move to the North Shore and that there would be a tremendous demand
for houses of the caliber she envisioned. I had ideas, of course,
portfolios of sketches. I'd won a fellowship in Rome, and I spent
that year designing the houses. When we got back to New York I
presented six complete designs to the senior partners of my firm
and told them that if they would let me oversee the entire project,
that Elisabeth would sell the land to the developer of their choice
at a very reasonable price."

She knew the rest of the story. Owen's ideas
had been remarkable, the finished products even more so. The
mansion had been dismantled at a great price and the original
staircases, woodwork, doors, and door surrounds had reappeared in
the houses Owen had built. The gazebo was now the centerpiece of
Brookshire Park, which had once been Brookshire's formal gardens.
The stables and bridle paths were shared by several horse-mad
families.

The white granite was used to build a Roman
temple masterpiece on the choicest piece of land in the entire
parcel.

Owen and Elisabeth's house.

"So that's how you got your start," Gypsy
said.

"Elisabeth would have given me anything that
was hers. And now when she finally needs me, there's not a damned
thing I can do for her."

It was a touching story, a fairy tale in its
own way. But Gypsy wondered how much of the story was about duty
and gratitude, and how much about love. She couldn't help herself.
She had to ask. "You know, I'm a reporter, and I make my living
asking in-your-face kinds of questions. So forgive this one. But
was your marriage really happy, Owen?"

He didn't seem startled or offended. They
had fallen so naturally into talking about his feelings for
Elisabeth that this probably seemed like the next logical step.
"For a long time I was deliriously happy."

She waited. She was a reporter, and she knew
that sometimes probing too hard destroyed the fragile bond between
interviewer and subject. He looked beyond her, to a place she
couldn't see. "How about some coffee to finish this off?"

Subject closed. She felt such a rush of
disappointment she was afraid her voice would betray her. She
managed a smile and a nod, and he left the small dining room before
another word could be spoken.

The coffee took longer than it should. Even
Owen, who was used to being served, knew how to make coffee. Gypsy
wandered the apartment while the coffee and his self-control
gathered strength in the kitchen.

Nothing much had changed. If Anna was
routinely sharing this space with Owen, she hadn't yet made her
mark. Familiar desert landscapes by a Taos artist Elisabeth and
Owen had discovered on a business trip hung from the cream-colored
walls. The walnut side tables and Haitian cotton sofas and chairs
stood in the same groupings. She lifted a small granite statue of a
cat that Elisabeth had discovered in an antique mall in Nyack. The
cat had been a housewarming gift to Owen when he'd purchased the
apartment. Elisabeth had told him he needed a pet when he stayed
overnight in the city, and without missing a beat he had named the
statue Jake. Jake had become a running joke between them; the cat's
escapades were legendary.

She heard footsteps behind her, but she
didn't turn. "This looks like the proverbial cat that ate the
canary."

"And more besides."

"He has such personality."

"You can tell it's a he?"

"Definitely." Something wicked and dangerous
overcame her good sense. "He needs a name. Something like Alfred.
Or Jake. He's definitely a Jake."

Owen was silent. She turned and smiled into
suddenly suspicious eyes. "Am I wrong?"

"How did you know that?"

She feigned surprise. "Don't tell me that's
really his name?"

"Yes."

"Now that's funny. I guess he was so clearly
a Jake we both picked up on it."

"What else have you picked up on?"

"Well, not a lot. I like the way you've done
this room. It's not so Southwest that it will have to be
redecorated when people get tired of cactus and sandstorms. It's
subtle. The paintings will be treasures some day. The furniture is
classical enough to be used in a number of interesting decors." She
shrugged. "But what else should I expect from you?"

"What about your place?"

She thought about her apartment. With the
help of a decorator that Elisabeth had used, Gypsy had transformed
the squat little rooms into cozy spaces. She had given into a taste
for flowers and whimsy, neither of which had fit into Owen's Roman
temple by the Sound. She had covered the floor with large pastel
rag rugs, painted the walls a soft yellow, used bright pottery,
antique lace, and summer cottage furniture to enhance her
spectacular view of Central Park. Now when she came home from work,
she looked forward to opening the door and kicking off her
shoes.

"I don't think you'd like what I've done,"
she said. "It's cluttered and kitschy. But it's mine."

"This isn't mine. Not really. I never really
live here, it's just a place to stay until I can go home. It feels
like a hotel, or a house that's been abandoned. No one suffers or
loves here. Not really."

No one loves here. Was she reading what she
wanted to hear in Owen's words? Hadn't he brought Anna here after
all? Maybe Marguerite's observation that Owen didn't seem to be
having any fun was true.

Gypsy was instantly angry with herself for
grasping at straws. Scarlet A's were out of fashion. There was no
way to know what Owen did and with whom when he wasn't sitting at
his wife's bedside. And if he didn't bring Anna here, there were a
thousand other places they could go, including and especially,
Anna's apartment in the Village.

"I suspect you've suffered here," she said.
"You probably suffer everywhere you go these days. Owen, you seem
like a man eaten up with guilt and sorrow." She tried not to stress
"guilt" too overtly, but she was unsuccessful.

"Guilt?"

"You've expressed it every time we've
talked." She set Jake back on the table. She'd been clutching him
like a good luck charm.

"How could I not feel guilty? Have you ever
lost somebody you loved? Do you have any idea what it's like?"

"Yes." She had lost him.

"There are things I should feel guilty
about. And now I'm stuck with them. Stuck forever."

A part of her wanted to shout "good." It was
the natural response. Owen felt guilty, and he was going to have to
live with it because Elisabeth was in no shape either to forgive or
release him. But Gypsy felt no exaltation at his pain. He was not a
demon, just a man who had given in to temptation. At the center of
his heart he was a good man.

She moved closer and reached for his hand.
"I guess you just have to make yourself move on."

"I can't move on. Elisabeth's alive, at
least some part of her."

"Will it be better if she dies?"

His hand jerked spasmodically. "I can't even
think about that."

She wanted to tell him he'd better think
about it. She was no expert on miracles. In fact she, of all
people, had become a true believer in the extraordinary. But
Elisabeth's death seemed inevitable, and Owen wasn't prepared.

"I can't make myself believe she's going to
die," he said, as if he could read her thoughts. "I expect to walk
into her room some evening and find her sitting up in bed watching
Masterpiece Theater
. I expect it every time I walk through
the door."

"Owen . . ."

"I don't know how we got into this. I'm
sorry."

"So am I. I'm not sure if you need to keep
talking about this or if you need to let go of it."

"One doesn't help and the other isn't
possible."

They were holding hands again. He was
gripping hers like a drowning man hoping for rescue.

But there was more between them than a need
for comfort. He let out a breath, as if he had been holding it
tightly inside him. His eyes flicked down to their joined hands and
then back to hers. Awareness caught, like parched wood touched by
an errant falling ember.

"Let's talk about you." He didn't drop her
hand. "And stop talking about me."

"We talked about me earlier. I told you all
about my job."

"That's hardly the same thing."

"Maybe not, but it's close. I don't really
have a life." She heard her own voice. Lower, sultrier than
Elisabeth could have managed, a come-hither, play-at-your-own-risk
invitation he couldn't ignore.

"Why not?"

"I guess I've been feeling my way since the
accident. My priorities changed. I changed."

"How?"

"I guess I'm thinking more about the future
and what I want. I suppose I used to be a one-day-at-a-time sort of
gal."

That seemed to make sense to him, even
without understanding exactly why. "And what is it you think you
want now?"

"I haven't gotten that far."

"Home? Family? Kids?"

"Love, I think."

"I would think that was no problem at
all."

"Would you?"

"You're beautiful, clever. Nice. That was
the part I never expected. But you are. I can't understand why
every man you meet doesn't fall in love immediately."

"Some do. But the only man I ever loved fell
in love with someone else."

He was silent a moment. His gaze traveled
over her. She could feel it like a warm caress. He was looking at
her in the way that a man looks at a woman when he's contemplating
taking her to bed. He had looked at Elisabeth the same way a long
time ago. When his eyes met hers again, they were hooded, as if he
was struggling not to show his thoughts. "He was a fool."

"I thought so."

"Then forget him."

"I've yet to make that happen."

His gaze dropped to their hands. He seemed
surprised they were still touching, but he didn't pull away, as he
had before. "It sounds as if we're both much too vulnerable right
now."

"Yes."

He looked as if he wanted to lower his lips
to hers. She wanted him to kiss her. She needed it as much as she
needed air. She wanted to sink against him, forget that she was
someone else now, forget the years when they'd drifted slowly apart
and neither of them had tried to stop it.

"You're very young."

She smiled sadly, swaying slightly toward
him as she did. "Inside I'm as old as you are, Owen. Every bit as
old."