Authors: Katherine Stone
“That was wonderful, James,” she said honestly. “Both ways were wonderful.”
“You are wonderful.”
“I wish.”
“You wish?”
“I wish we had done this a long time ago—that night at the lake—so we could have known how we felt.”
“It would never have worked then,” he said, kissing her forehead.
It won’t work now, Leslie thought. In high school it was too soon. Now it is too late. Leslie remembered the love in James’s voice when he told her about Lynne. She would never forget it.
But James was here, now, with her. He wasn’t talking about Lynne; he was talking about her, holding her, loving her. Leslie wouldn’t let herself think about Lynne. She wouldn’t think about all the tomorrows without James. Not until she had to.
Leslie touched his temples with her fingertips, then moved her mouth against his, into his, seducing his body back into hers, needing him again, already, quickly. She needed James to make love to her, and she felt, as he responded to her touch, that his need was as great as hers. His desire was as strong and his passion as insatiable.
“Leslie!” he laughed softly, surprised, elated by her passion and by her willingness to show him.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, suddenly shy.
“No, my Leslie. Everything is perfect.”
They lay in each other’s arms, exhausted, unwilling to pull away.
“It’s ten-thirty,” James said, noticing the bedside clock.
Leslie stiffened, waiting for him to say, It’s late. I’d better go. Goodbye, Leslie.
“We didn’t go for our walk,” he continued, kissing her ear, reassuring her.
“Disappointed?”
“No. Are you?”
“No. But I’ve always enjoyed our walks: evergreen-lined meadows, decks of ferry boats, woods by lakes. Very romantic.”
James smiled and murmured gently, “Unlike this?”
Leslie smiled, turning to look into his eyes. “Not unlike this.”
“We’ll go for a walk next time.”
Next time. Leslie’s heart raced at the words. Next time. Nine years from now? Next life? When, she wondered.
“Next time,” she repeated quietly.
“Will you see me again?” he asked in a tone heavy with meaning. It said, I have made a decision to see you, to be unfaithful to my wife, but you have to decide, too.
Leslie, the Rosemaiden, the most inspirational, the girl voted Most Likely To Succeed, would have answered with a resounding, indignant, self-righteous
No!
But that Leslie no longer existed. She had disappeared over the years, slowly, gracefully recognizing that life wasn’t so simple and the answers weren’t so clear, after all. The distinction between right and wrong was sometimes hazy, blurred by love and emotion and passion. Extenuating circumstances.
Leslie the Rosemaiden, the girl, had grown into the woman who lay in bed with James. Leslie had already made her decision. All that was wrong—knowing that James was married, sensing with absolute certainty that he loved Lynne, fearing that this would ultimately be painful for all of them—was offset, in Leslie’s mind and heart, by what she knew was right. She loved James. She had always loved him.
Lying in his arms, making love to him and talking quietly to him felt right. Doing what felt right, that was what she had always done. She would do it now. For however long. Whatever the consequences.
“Yes, James, I will see you again,” she said seriously in a voice that matched his. They both understood the significance of what they were doing.
“When again?” he asked. He held her even closer in silent acknowledgment of what she said. Of what it meant.
“Well, this month I’m on call every third night. I’m on call tomorrow, the first. So the first, the fourth, the seventh.”
“Then,” James said slowly, obviously visualizing another schedule, Lynne’s schedule, “how about this Saturday, the third? Are you free?”
Free, Leslie mused. Yes, James, I am free. You’re the one who is not free.
“In the evening?” she asked, trying to learn the ground rules.
“For any part of the day or night that you can spend with me.”
“I have to make rounds in the morning. If the patients are stable, I should be home by noon, but I may not be.”
“I’ll be working in my office. Just call whenever.”
“OK,” Leslie said, sitting up, assuming that James was about to leave. They had made plans to see each other again. That usually signaled the end of a date.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Oh! I thought—” she stopped, embarrassed.
“If you don’t want me to stay, to spend the night, I won’t.”
“I want you to stay,” Leslie said. Then she added lightly, “But as long as I’m up, can I get you anything? A cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke anymore.”
“Really?” Leslie whispered.
“Really. I quit smoking as soon as I knew that I had to see you again.”
“When was that?”
“The minute I left you that night. On your birthday,” he said, pulling her back into bed beside him.
He knew it then, but he waited two weeks before calling her. He spent those weeks thinking about it. He had to be certain of his decision, to be sure that it was more right than wrong. He realized, finally, after careful logical thought, that he really had no choice anyway.
He had to be with her.
Janet watched the red-orange autumn sun as it fell slowly over the rolling green hills and into the shimmering blue ocean. Her late afternoon walk had taken her, as it often did, beyond the vineyard, through the eucalyptus grove and up the gently sloping grass hills. From the top of the hills, she had a commanding view of the Pacific.
Her private hills, her private view, her private ocean!
How lucky I am to have found this place, Janet thought as she sat cross-legged on the grass watching the magnificent fiery sunset.
It had been a fluke. Or fate. Almost as if she were meant to find it.
It had been during one of her long drives last winter. Mark was gone, and all that was left of their marriage was the legal paperwork. Janet needed to escape the dreariness of the house that had been hers and Mark’s. She bought an inexpensive used car and began to take drives, driving until she found an isolated beach or woods, or a meadow—where she could sing.
Janet’s drives took her south to Carmel and Big Sur and north to the wine country, to Napa and Sonoma valleys. One afternoon in late January as she was driving back to San Francisco from the northern border of the wine country, she impulsively decided to return along Highway One, the Pacific Coast Highway, instead of the inland route.
Near Sonoma Coast Beach she saw a small cottage, barely visible from the road. She turned into the gravel drive that led to the cottage, wondering how she would explain herself to its inhabitants, but the cottage was uninhabited. She tiptoed up the red brick stairs to the wooden porch with a white railing. The door was padlocked. Janet peered in the windows.
She saw beautifully finished hardwood floors, a brick fireplace and a fresh yellow and white kitchen with lace curtains. And no furniture.
A beautiful, uninhabited cottage.
The next house Janet saw was a mile south of the cottage. Surrounded by a perfectly manicured lawn with boxwood hedges, the house itself was red brick with a cedar shake roof and white shutters. A car was parked in the circular brick driveway.
Janet drove in, parked, walked briskly to the front door and pressed the doorbell without allowing herself to reconsider.
A pleasant white-haired man, her grandfather’s age, opened the door. Janet introduced herself and bravely began to ask questions.
Yes, it was his cottage.
“Would you be interested in renting it to me?” Janet asked, her heart thumping, her mouth dry.
“Renting?” he asked.
“Who is it, dear?” They were joined by his wife.
“This young woman would like to rent the cottage,” he explained.
“I would take good care of it,” Janet said quickly.
They smiled at her. She looked like a wonderful young woman, but every day they read or heard about horrible things being done by nice-looking people and about strangers taking advantage of the elderly.
“Well,” the man began.
Janet sensed their reluctance and its reason.
“Why don’t I give you my name, the telephone number where I work and some references? If you decide you would like to rent it, you could check up on me and call me with your decision.”
Three days later they called her. Two weeks after that, Janet moved into the cottage that had been inhabited over the years by housekeepers, gardeners, grandchildren, and most recently a divorced but now remarried daughter.
The Greenes had lived there for fifty years, raising their family and working the land. In the past ten years, they had begun to lease portions of the huge estate. The soil and gently sloping hills were ideal for growing grapes. Two of the largest vineyards substantially supplemented their yearly production by leasing from the Greenes.
The revenue from the leased land was more than adequate. The value of the land itself was immense. The Greenes had always lived modestly, and they loved their country home; but someday soon they would decide to live closer to their grown children and their growing grandchildren. The sale of the estate would make them very wealthy.
After Janet moved in, the Greenes showed her a map of the property. It extended several miles north and south. And west, to the ocean.
“Of course, dear, you are welcome to go for walks on the property. Nothing is off limits.”
Janet sighed, glancing at her watch in the autumn twilight. She had to start back soon, before it was too dark. Janet noticed the date on the face of her watch.
October second. It had been almost a year since she told Mark that they needed to separate. For a while. Forever.
As she walked back to the cottage, Janet’s mind measured the sadness and the happiness of the past year. Was the great sadness of losing Mark and of their failed marriage balanced at all by the joy of singing and performing again? By her triumph as Joanna? And now by the challenge of the avant-garde production of
Peter Pan?
Her new life was satisfying and peaceful. The torment of the last year of her marriage was a vague, uneasy memory. She had handled small threats on her newfound peace and privacy—the threat of the move to New York and the date with Ross—honestly and directly. Little by little Janet was finding that she had control over her life. And over her own happiness.
Happiness? The word clawed at her. Was she happy? No. Not compared with the only happiness she had ever known, the happiness of falling in love with Mark, of being in love with Mark. Happiness was a word reserved for distant memories. A life lived years ago.
But she was content. Peaceful. Alone but not lonely.
She felt so much better than she had felt one year ago, or even six months ago. Every day she got a little stronger.
Janet heard the telephone in her cottage ringing as she walked up the brick steps. She rushed through the unlocked front door into the dark room, instinctively weaving around furniture toward the phone.
“Hello?” she answered breathlessly, simultaneously switching on the lamp.
“Janet, it’s Ross.”
“Hi. Are you in New York?” It was a good connection. He sounded close.
“Yes. Still here.”
“Everything’s fine here. I haven’t called because there haven’t been any problems,” Janet explained.
“I know,” he said. He didn’t add that he spoke with Zach at least once a day. “This isn’t a
Peter
Pan
call. It’s a call about
Joanna
.”
“Oh,” she said tentatively.
“I need your help, Janet.”
“I can’t move to New York,” she said instantly. So much for artfully handling small threats, she thought.
“Don’t worry. I don’t want you to. You’re Wendy this season. Not Joanna.”
“Good.”
“So,” he said carefully, “you know the ‘it’s a nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there’ idea?”
Janet didn’t answer. She wished she could trust Ross. She didn’t know if she could. He wanted too much from her. He expected her to be stronger than she was.
“Janet, the show’s in trouble. I have spent the past few days trying to figure out what’s wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“It’s the same company except me,” Janet said acidly. He is trying to get me to do the show no matter what he says.
“I don’t want you here as Joanna. I want you here, just for a day or two, as a critic. You have such a good eye, Janet. You can find the weak spots. I would like your opinion,” Ross said with an edge.
Why doesn’t she trust me? Why is she so cold?
“I need it.”
“One or two days?” Janet asked, skeptically.
“That’s all.”
“When?”
“If you could come Sunday evening, on the same flight we took in August, that would wonderful.”