I snapped my eyes shut, leaned forward, and dropped my head onto the desk, realizing, as I did, that I was spiraling down into a cold funk. There was no way I could make that call to Richard, as I had promised I would. Very simply, I had nothing to say to him, no answer to give him.
The shrill ring of the telephone a few moments later brought me upright in my chair with a start, and I reached for the receiver and said, "Hello?"
"Mallory?"
"Yes."
"It's me. Richard."
"I know."
"Mal, I have to go out of town. On an assignment."
"Oh," I said, surprised by his announcement. "This is very sudden, isn't it?"
"Yes. It just came up a short while ago. The magazine's sending me to Bosnia. I'm leaving immediately. This United Nations-NATO situation is turning out to be something of a fiasco. So off I'm going to-"
"But you don't usually cover things like this, do you?" I cut in. "I mean, you don't cover wars."
"Nor am I doing so now. Not really. I'm going to be writing one of my special think pieces, based on the kind of things we've all been saying about the wholesale carnage going on over there, the dithering of the Western leaders and the terrible indifference the world is showing to such human suffering." He paused, then murmured, "It's a replay of everything that happened in Nazi Germany sixty years ago…" His quiet, concerned voice trailed off into silence.
"It's the most hideous situation!" I exclaimed, my voice rising. "We're no more civilized now than we were in the tenth century! Nothing's changed, we've learned nothing. Man is rotten. Evil."
"I know that, Mal," he answered, sighing imperceptibly.
Striving to adopt a more normal tone, I said, "And so you're leaving today?"
"I'll be heading for Kennedy in a couple of hours." There was a little pause, and then he said, "Mal."
"Yes, Richard?"
"Do you have an answer for me?"
I was silent for a moment or two. Eventually, clearing my throat, I said, "No, I'm afraid I don't. I'm sorry, Richard, I need time. I told you that…" Now it was my turn to let my voice fade away.
Richard did not say a word.
I held the phone tightly, waiting, wondering how he was going to take my negative attitude.
Suddenly, he spoke. "Perhaps when I get back from Bosnia," he said in a firm, strong voice, "you'll have good news for me, tell me what I want to hear. You will, won't you?"
"When will you be back?" I asked, not rising to the bait.
"In a week to ten days."
"Be careful, Richard. It's dangerous where you're going."
That light, careless laugh I had grown to know echoed down the wire. "I don't aim to catch a stray bullet, if that's what you're getting at. That's not part of my destiny."
"Nevertheless, just be careful."
"I will. And take care of yourself, Mal. So long."
He hung up before I could say good-bye.
After a moment or two I walked out of my office, across the back hall, and out into the garden.
I took the stone-paved path that led across the vast lawns at the back of the house, walking rapidly until I came to the ridge overlooking part of my property and the valley far beyond. Hills darkly green with lush and splendorous trees soared high above this valley, giving it some shelter from the elements in the harsh winter months. The two small houses nestled in the bed of the valley, always so forlorn in bad weather, now looked cool and inviting with their white-painted shingles and dark rooftops, their gardens bright with vivid color.
Presently I shifted my gaze, let it rest just below me. Here, at the bottom of verdant lawns sloping away from the ridge where I stood, the horses grazed contentedly in the long meadow. To the left of them, and adding to this bucolic scene, were the old barns, freshly painted dark red with white trim. To the right of the long meadow, the pond, calm and glassy as a mirror, shimmered in the sun; a family of Canada geese swam, one after the other, in a straight line across its dark surface, where water lilies, waxy and pale pink, floated in profusion.
After a short while, my eyes wandered, my glance sweeping over the resplendent rosebushes, luxuriant in full flower, then moved on to survey my vegetable garden behind its white picket fence, the cutting garden bursting with perennials in a galaxy of the gayest hues. Everything blooms so well here; how beautiful the land is, so rich, so ripe with life.
I lifted my head and looked up at the sky. It was the brightest, most piercing of blues, banked high with pure-white flossy clouds, and dazzling. I blinked several times against the coruscating light, and then I realized, suddenly, that I was crying.
As the tears ran down my cheeks unchecked, I thought of Richard's words a short while before: "I don't aim to catch a stray bullet," he had said, almost dismissively.
I shivered in the sunlight, unexpectedly cold in the sultry air. No one ever knows what life holds, I thought, what destiny has in store. I understand that better than anyone.
Five years fell away.
I stepped back into the past, into the summer of 1988, a summer which would be etched on my heart forever.
Part One. INDIAN MEADOWS
CHAPTER ONE
Connecticut, July 1988
I awakened with a sudden start, as though someone had touched my shoulder, and I half expected to see Andrew standing over me as I blinked in the dim room. But he was not there. How could he be? He was in Chicago on business, and I was here in Connecticut.
Pulling the covers over me more securely, I slid farther down into the bed, hoping to fall asleep again. I soon realized there was no chance of that, since my mind had already started to race. Andrew and I had quarreled earlier in the week, and that silly little row, over something so petty I could scarcely bear to think about it now, still hovered between us.
I should have swallowed my pride and called him last night, I admonished myself. I had thought about it, but I had not done so. He hadn't phoned me either, as was his custom normally when he was away, and I was worried things would get blown out of all proportion; then our weekend together, which I had been so looking forward to, would be spoiled.
I'll make it right when he gets here tomorrow, I resolved. I'll apologize, even though it really wasn't my fault. I hated to have rifts with anyone I loved; it has always been that way with me.
Restlessly, I slipped out of bed and went to the window. Raising the shade, I peered out, wondering what kind of day it was going to be.
A band of clear, crystalline light was edging its way along the rim of the distant horizon. The sky above it was still ashy, cold and remote, tinged slightly with green at this early hour just before dawn broke. I shivered and reached for my cotton robe. It was cool in the bedroom, almost frosty, with the air conditioner set at sixty degrees, where I'd positioned it last night in an effort to counteract the intense July heat. I flicked it off as I left the bedroom and headed along the upstairs hallway toward the staircase.
It was dim and shadowy downstairs and smelled faintly of apples and cinnamon and beeswax and fullblown summer roses, smells which I loved and invariably associated with the country. I turned on several lamps as I moved through the silent, slumbering house and went into the kitchen; once I had put on the coffee, I swung around and made my way to the sunroom.
Unlocking the French doors, I stepped outside onto the wide, paved terrace which surrounded the house and saw that the sky had already undergone a vast change. I caught my breath, marveling as I always did at the extraordinary morning light, a light peculiar to these northern Connecticut climes. It was luminous, eerily beautiful, and it appeared to emanate from some secret source far, far below the horizon.