“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?
RUPERT BROOKE,
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?”