Peter and Meg exchanged a quick look, of both surprise and amusement, at his mother's determination even now to avoid the obvious topic of conversation.
“Well, Mom, aside from the fact that I may have become a millionaire about ten minutes ago, things are just so-so. Mom,” he said, with an exasperated smile, “do you think we could talk about it? About the fact that I never even knew your father was living out there? Or that he was rich? Or that he knew I was alive? Do you think we could clear up some of this age-old mystery now?”
His mother fidgeted in the chair, then automatically reached down into the sewing basket and pulled out a piece of half-completed needlepoint. A peacock, as far as Peter could make out.
“It's not really such a great mystery,” she said, meticulously arranging the fabric on her lap. “I'm sorry if I've made it seem so.” Peter knew she was stalling again, just as she had been for twenty-odd years. “He would not have been a good influence, especially for someone as vulnerable as you, a boy who had never even known his own father. He was . . . not ethical, in his personal or business affairs. I think even the circumstances of his death—with the police involved and all—point to that,” she said, as if bolstering her hand.
“And yet you reverted to your maiden name,
his
name, when my father died?”
“Your father died less than a year, one year, after the marriage. Of a rare heart disease—as I've told you.” Her eyes never lifted from the needlepoint; Peter could never remember her meeting his gaze when discussing that marriage. She had mentioned it very infrequently in all those years, and only then in direct reply to a pointed inquiry. Even now, she seemed to be concentrating on imparting as little actual information as possible, on keeping her story— and that was the one word that always crept into Peter's mind when listening to these accounts of his background—as simple, uncluttered, and incontestable as possible. “All my life I'd been Ellen Constantine; it seemed easier, and more sensible, to just go back to it.”
Meg, feeling things might proceed more smoothly in her absence, indicated, with a look and a silent tilt of her head, that she'd be in the next room napping until further notice. Mrs. Constantine glanced up as she left, then quickly looked down at her needlepoint again.
“But what was the fight about? Things were okay, weren't they, between you and your father before you got married? What was it about the marriage, or my father, or my birth—if that was it—that caused this incredible rift to open up? And stay open, all these years?”
His mother's fingers stopped working on the design. As she sat, head lowered, hands still, Peter wondered again how someone so young as she—somewhere in her late forties, he knew, though she'd always been evasive about actual dates—could seem so much older. He had never known her, even when he was a boy, to dress, or act, or carry herself in the way most women her age would have done; she had always seemed older, more faded, more resigned somehow.
“Your father . . . and mine . . .”—she was speaking so softly he had to lean forward to hear her—"quar-
reled, bitterly. It was part of one of those ancient Greek feuds. A family thing. A terrible, useless, futile thing.” She raised her hands to her face, cupping them as if in prayer, covering all but her lowered eyes. “When your father became ill—and needed help, desperately—no help was given. He might have been saved . . . but even then, no help was given.”
She fell silent, and Peter reached up and took one hand from her face, and held it.
“I wanted this . . . monstrousness to end with you. I wanted you preserved from it, untouched by it. I didn't even want you to ever have to know about any of it . . . I'm only sorry that what happened this afternoon has made that impossible.”
“But then why—” Peter started to say, thinking out loud.
“Why did he leave you virtually everything he had?” his mother said, completing his thought. “I'm not sure myself. I would like to think out of regret, and remorse. I would
like
to think that,” she said, sounding not at all convinced. Then looking up at him again, “But I'm glad he did. Truly I am. I've no more idea than you do of what it will all come to, but we'll tell Mr. Kennedy to dispose of the estate and property as soon as possible, and once that's done—”
“Not without at least seeing it, though,” Peter interjected innocently. “You don't want him to simply sell it all off without our even having taken a look, do you?”
His mother appeared startled. “Why would you need to do that? It seems to me that the simplest, and most expedient, thing to do is to leave it all in more experienced hands. Don't you trust Kennedy?”
“No, it's not that; I'm sure Kennedy is fine. It's just that I'd hate to be a property owner who never even saw what he owned before he had to give most of it to the IRS. Wouldn't
you
like to see the estate? Arcadia?
Kennedy said it was quite a place, from what he'd heard.”
“No, I wouldn't like to see it,” his mother replied, her voice instantly colder and more resolute than before. “I wouldn't like to see it, and after what I've just told you, I'm very surprised that
you
do.”
“Mom, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry. I'm just curious. I mean, it's not as if your father were still out there.”
For one split second, he saw her eyes dart away.
“I'm sorry I mentioned it. Forget the whole thing. I'll talk to Kennedy next week.” He searched for a way to end the conversation. “Why don't you check on the pot roast—smells almost done to me—and I'll see how Meg's doing in the bedroom.”
He kissed his mother on the cheek before leaving the room, but even as he inched open the bedroom door and peered inside to see Meg curled up with a pillow in her arms, he knew he was going to see Arcadia—at least once—before letting it go.
Four
A
T THE COLLEGE,
Byron was the only friend they told of their sudden good fortune, and even he was sworn to secrecy. Peter didn't want the news traveling around the campus quite yet, partly because he still wasn't sure what it all meant, and partly because he was by nature superstitious: What came so easily could just as easily disappear.
On Wednesday morning, Peter called Kennedy's office and, after asking him two or three quick questions concerning the estate papers, said, “There's just one more thing. Meg and I would like to go out and see my grandfather's place this weekend.” Just saying the word “grandfather,” even to Kennedy, seemed like a betrayal of his mother. “What are we supposed to do about keys and getting in?”
“Keys I don't think you'll need. The caretaker's still tending to the place. His name's Nikos, by the way, in case I haven't mentioned it. I'll have Connie call him from here and tell him you'll be by—when? Early Saturday afternoon?”
“Yes, that's probably about right.”
“Fine. If there's any problem, we'll get back to you.”
“And could I ask one more favor? If you should happen to speak to my mother for any reason, could
you please not mention that Meg and I went out there?”
“Done,” he agreed, after a moment's pause. “Attorney-client privilege.”
When Peter had hung up the phone, Meg asked, “Are you always going to keep this visit a secret from your mother?”
“I don't know about always,” Peter replied. “But twenty or thirty years might not be a bad idea.”
On Saturday morning, instead of going their separate ways as they had of late, Meg made sandwiches in the kitchen and Peter laid out a road map of Long Island on the dining table. “Looks like we just take the expressway out to Syosset, then Route 1 to Passet Bay. Huntington Road's supposed to intersect it.”
“Just tell me when and where to turn,” said Meg, cheerfully, as she dropped the sandwiches into the paper bag.
“Well, actually I thought I'd have you tell
me
when to turn.” He paused. “I think I'll drive.”
Meg tried not to seem too surprised; he hadn't driven since the accident. “Okay by me,” she said brightly. “I'll navigate, then.”
Peter didn't wear his sling out to the car but tossed it into the back seat in case he needed it later. He pulled the seat belt down around him and, jamming the key into the ignition, hit the gas pedal too hard; the gears made a terrible grinding noise. Meg noticed his left hand tightly clench, and then release, the steering wheel.
“Why don't you take Asbury Avenue out of town?” Meg suggested.
They both knew why—Asbury wasn't the most direct route but taking it would allow them to circumvent the scene of the accident. Though Peter didn't say anything, at the end of the block he made a left turn, toward Asbury.
For the first few miles, he continued to hit everything a bit too abruptly—the gas, the brakes, the gear shift. Meg kept up a steady stream of what she hoped would be distracting conversation while looking resolutely out the side window. Once they'd actually reached the expressway entrance, Peter seemed to relax a little.
“They did a good job of fixing the car,” he said. “Runs fine.”
“I think it runs better than it used to.”
“Are you suggesting that we should have accidents more often?” he asked, and Meg, relieved to find that he could make any sort of joke at all on the subject, said, “I don't know if I'd go that far.” Peter reached over and, with one hand, gently stroked her cheek. Meg closed her eyes and, bending her head, captured the hand between her cheek and shoulder. She needed to feel this warmth, to preserve for a few seconds the tenderness of the gesture; since the night of Byron's party, she hadn't even attempted to make love with Peter. She couldn't bear the thought of another failure; from now on, she'd decided, she would wait until Peter himself took the initiative, until he voluntarily came to her. But still it was hard to wait.
At the Syosset exit, they pulled off the expressway and followed the Route 1 artery past gas stations, carpet warehouses, and home decorating centers until the road narrowed to two lanes, lined on both sides by trees, small scruffy fields, the occasional vegetable stand. It was another warm and sunny spring day, and the breeze from the open windows blew Meg's hair into a slow, golden swirl around her shoulders. Peter had replaced his wire-rims with a pair of prescription sun glasses.
“I think we're technically in Passet Bay around now,” said Meg. “We ought to see Huntington Road pretty soon.”
“No sooner said than done,” said Peter, pointing with one finger to a small green and white sign mounted on a cement post just ahead. Canopied by tall, leafy trees, Huntington Road veered off Route 1 at a slight angle. Peter slowed down as they read the names and numbers of the mailboxes that appeared every few hundred yards along the road; the houses, some of which could be seen through the trees and behind the carefully laid-out shrubberies, ranged from stately old homes with broad front porches to modern wood and glass contraptions with solar panels and hot-tub decks. As the numbers decreased, from twenty-six to twenty to fifteen, the space between the homes grew greater and greater, and less and less could be seen through the trees and thick foliage.
“Not a lot of low-income housing out here,” Peter remarked.
“There's a twelve, on that gatepost,” said Meg with barely suppressed excitement. “Ten can't be far off.”
The road suddenly dipped into a pocket of shadow and swerved sharply to the right. Peter had been looking back at the last gatepost, and when he turned his head he saw an open jeep with a gleaming steel roll-bar hurtling over the incline and straight down at them. A boy in a shiny silver windbreaker twisted the wheel; two or three other teenagers grabbed at the seats and dashboard. Peter slammed on the brakes and, throwing one arm across Meg, used the other to steer the skidding car off the road. Branches and leaves and rocks crunched beneath the tires. The jeep flashed past them, with a thump of tires reconnecting with the pavement, and a loud blast of its horn. One of those gimmicky horns, playing the bugle call that announces the start of a horse race. The last few notes trailed off down the road behind them. Peter felt the right front tire of their car bump to a halt against the rising shoulder of the road. Meg was rigid in her seat,
eyes closed, all the color drained from her face. One of her arms was extended against the dash, the other wrapped protectively across her stomach.
“It's okay,” he whispered in relief, leaning toward her and taking hold of the arm she instinctively held, still, across her abdomen. “It's okay—we're okay.”
She dropped her hand from the dashboard and almost imperceptibly let out her breath. She opened her eyes slowly, looking straight ahead with a glazed, unfocused expression. Peter knew what it was she was seeing again, what she was feeling. He knew that, in her mind's eye, it was a cold, starless night, not a warm, sunny day. In his own left arm, he felt the sharp, shooting pain that he'd awakened to that night. “It's okay, honey. No damage done. None. We're okay,” and he stopped himself short just before adding “this time.” But the words hovered in the air just as if he'd said them.
Meg gradually appeared to come back to life; she squeezed his hand with her own and, without saying anything, put her face to his shoulder, pressing her lips in a silent kiss against the fabric of his shirt. After a few seconds, she pulled herself back, brushed the hair away from her eyes, and said, with as much spirit as she could muster, “Well, what do you say we get going. Or are we stuck?”
“I don't think so,” he said, still studying her to be sure she was all right. He put the car into reverse; the tires spun in the loose dirt and undergrowth before catching hold. He backed up a few yards, then straightened out and pulled back onto the road.
“Are
you
okay?” she asked in a soft, unsteady voice.
“Who, me? I'm fine,” he said. “I was just testing my reflexes back there.” He smiled weakly.
They drove along slowly, scanning the thick wall of trees and brush for any sign of a mailbox, driveway, or gate. The road ran straighter now, with sunlight only
occasionally breaking through the tangle of branches overhead. But even after driving the distance of a few generous city blocks, they still had seen no opening or address. The foliage, wilder and denser than it had been anywhere farther up the road, offered no glimpse of a house or garage or signpost. At one point, where there was a small break in the trees, Meg thought she saw, about ten feet in from the shoulder, a strand of black barbed wire strung along parallel to
the road. At another spot, where the sunlight managed to pierce the overhanging boughs, she saw it clearly, at the same height—only this time, she could see it was one of four or five strands running from ground level to a height of eight or ten feet. It appeared to have been threaded, as if for camouflage, among the trees and brush. Sometimes the wire seemed to disappear altogether for a stretch, but knowing where to look and what she was looking for, Meg was always able to find it again just a bit farther on.
“Peter, don't look now—and I
do
mean that—but there appears to be a lot of very mean-looking barbed wire on
our
side of the road.”
“Where?” he said. “I haven't seen any.”
“Back in the trees, a few yards in from the road. A lot of it's wound around behind tree trunks and branches, but it's there, and it's been there for the last quarter mile or so.”
“You mean, you think it's ours?”
“I'm getting that feeling.”
“I thought it was illegal to string up barbed wire in an area like this. I wonder who Gramps was trying to keep out.”
“Or in,” said Meg in mock-ominous tones.
Peter laughed. “The Dark Secret of Arcadia. Maybe we'll find I've got a grandmother locked in the attic of the house.”
“If you do, I hope she doesn't mind dusting.”
“Pay dirt,” said Peter, slowing the car and indicat-
ing two slim stone pillars on the opposite sides of a tall, black wrought-iron gate. “You see any number on it?”
“Not yet, but give me a couple of hours,” Meg replied, scanning the elaborately filigreed gates, molded into a thousand intricate curves and swirls. Part of the design, she thought, might be the number of the house, but as she studied the gates all she could see were fleeting half-formed shapes, swimming in circles, dancing uncoalesced just beyond her imaginative powers to formulate them.
What beautiful work,
she thought with the artisan's eye.
Nobody does work like this anymore. Nobody could.
“Bingo,” Peter said. “Ten on the bottom of the gatepost. This, believe it or not, is the place. How do you think we get in?”
“Open the gates and drive through?”
“That may be easier said than done,” observed Peter, putting the car into neutral and climbing out. He walked to the gates and peered down the rough gravel driveway. Meg saw him push at the gates, but they didn't even shake. Then she noticed a white intercom box mounted on the left pillar. Leaning her head out the open window, she called, “Sherlock! There's an intercom on the gatepost. Try that.”
Peter saluted briskly, then grimaced as if the gesture had hurt his arm; he pressed the button on the box. After a few seconds, a crackly voice inquired, “Who?”
“Peter Constantine. I believe Mr. Kennedy called to say—”
“I unlock the gates,” the voice interrupted. “Just follow the drive. But don't get out of the car.”
Before Peter could ask why not, the gates clicked and swung ponderously open. Peter looked at Meg as if to say “Don't ask me what's going on,” got back in the car, and drove through. The driveway swerved to the left after fifteen or twenty yards and meandered
through thick trees, up and down slight inclines, past an occasional bit of open ground. It reminded Peter of certain historic houses and parks he'd visited, places where robber barons had built retreats and where summer concerts were now held in outdoor pavilions. But there, the lawns were carefully mowed, the hedges clipped, and there were signs pointing to parking fields or rest rooms. Here, everything had a wild, untamed air about it; if he hadn't known he was in an enclosed, private estate, Peter would have guessed he was simply out in the woods somewhere. The grass along the sides of the drive was lush and green, but uncut; the trees had been planted with no apparent plan or symmetry and, even to Peter's untrained eye, seemed to need pruning, if that was the right word for untangling some of the broken thickets or pulling out some of the felled, moss-covered trunks.
“Something tells me the caretaker here isn't real big on landscape gardening,” said Peter.
The driveway began to rise, very slowly but steadily, through a close and narrow defile of trees, until it suddenly opened up into a large, circular cul-de-sac. On the far side, set back from the drive by a sprawling stone staircase which rose to a broad portico, stood the house itself, caught in the early afternoon sunlight. Three stories high, of dull white stone, it appeared to be nothing so much as an ancient Greek temple that had been grafted, in some unnatural way, onto a French Renaissance palace; immense white pillars soared past narrow rectangular windows to a flat roof bordered by an ornamental balustrade. Everything about the house, from the sculpted pediments atop the columns to the enormous wings which extended on either side of the main doors, bespoke an intended orderliness in its design, and yet the final effect was one of colossal confusion and misguided expense. It was a house that strove for grandeur and ended, far short, in extravagant pretension.
“Oh, my God,” whispered Meg, in awe, “what an elephant.”
"Our
elephant,” corrected Peter, his head lowered in order to take it all in from behind the windshield. As if not wanting to get too close yet, he parked the car just at the end of the drive. Meg started to get out.
“The guy on the squawkbox said to stay in the car. You see any reason to do that?” They both turned in their seats to look around.