The first thing he planned to do was change; then he’d get on the phone to the New York paperback house that was interested in the omnibus to pass along the good news that Isabelle had come on board.
They could use one of the paintings hanging in the Newford Children’s Foundation to start the publicity machine rolling and he’d send out galleys of the unpublished stories to get some new quotes. Since Kathy’s work had been out of the limelight for five years now, it was important to choreograph her return so that it was just right.
With his head full of business details, he went up the stairs to his apartment, then stopped dead at the sound of music that was coming from the other side of the apartment’s front door. He was certain he hadn’t left the stereo on. With his key in hand, he moved forward again, an uneasy feeling prickling across his shoulder blades, but before he could put the key in the lock, the door swung open and Marisa was standing there.
“Hi,” she said.
Her familiar half-smile had a touch of nervousness about it and Alan could see why. She’d obviously made herself at home in his absence. She was barefoot, wearing one of his long-sleeved shirts over a pair of her own jeans. Her hair was a disheveled blonde tangle and her eyes were puffy and red, as though she’d been crying.
“I saw you pull up into the garage,” she went on, “but I didn’t have time to change.” She gave the shirt she was wearing a fidgety pluck with her fingers. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Alan said.
“I left so fast, I never even thought to pack anything. George, I mean.” She backed up a little so that Alan could come inside. “I left him last night. I didn’t know where else to go.”
Alan closed the door behind him. Of course, he thought. After all this time, she finally left George just when Isabelle had come back into his life. Then he felt like a heel for even thinking such a thing. Tears were brimming in Marisa’s eyes and her lower lip trembled.
“I . I tried to think of where I could go,” she said, “and then I realized that you’re the only person I really know. After all these years of living here, you’re the only person I can trust.”
“You can stay as long as you want,” Alan told her, and he meant it.
“I don’t want to get in the way of ... you know ... you and Isabelle ....”
“There’s nothing to get in the way of,” Alan said. Not yet. Maybe never.
“I ... would you hold me, Alan? I just need somebody to hold me ...”
As he put his arms around her, she buried her face in his shoulder and began to cry. Alan steered her toward the sofa. He sat there holding her for a long time, murmuring words of comfort that he wasn’t sure were true. Everything wasn’t necessarily going to get better for her. He knew how Marisa felt about him, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about her anymore. She’d waited so long to get out of her marriage—maybe too long.
She fell asleep finally. Being careful not to disturb her, Alan rose from the sofa after putting a pillow under her head. Sitting on the edge of the coffee table, he regarded her for a long time. After a few minutes, he pushed an errant lock away from her forehead, kissed her lightly on the top of her head and rose to his feet. He crossed the room and sat down at his desk, but found himself unable to concentrate on his work. Instead, he looked at Marisa, sleeping so peacefully now on the sofa.
From the first time he’d met her, he’d sensed an air of contradiction about her. She was very much a woman, but still retained a waiflike quality. She could be brash, and at times deliberately suggestive, yet she was painfully shy. She seemed to have an inborn wisdom about her, but she’d stayed in a marriage that only made her miserable and had gone sour long before he’d met her. She was incredibly easy to get along with, yet she had few friends. She was a talented artist in her own right, but so self-conscious about her work that she rarely completed a piece and preferred to work with other people’s art and ideas—which is how Alan had met her in the first place. He’d placed an ad in The Crowsea Times for a part-time book designer and she’d been the first person to respond. After the interview, he hadn’t bothered to see anyone else, but simply gave her the job.
“Now, remember,” he’d warned her, “when I said part-time, it’s really quite part-time. I rarely do more than three or four books in a year.”
“That’s okay. I’m not doing it for the money, but because I want to be doing something. We were just transferred to the city and I feel completely at loose ends.”
“We?” Alan had found himself asking with a certain measure of disappointment.
“My husband George and I. He’s a financial consultant with Cogswell’s. It’s because of his work that we came here.”
It was a good year before Alan got any inkling that the marriage was in trouble, but by that time he’d managed to teach himself to think of her as a friend and coworker and nothing more; beyond that he drew a line that was admittedly hard not to cross at those times that Marisa got into one of her teasing moods. But even if he had known that her marriage was in trouble, Alan wouldn’t have let it change their relationship. He was far too old-fashioned to court a woman who was already married, if only in name, though that hadn’t stopped him from wishing that she’d simply walk out on George once and for all.
Alan sighed. And now she had, now she was here, and all he could do was think about Isabelle and feel guilty about his being attracted to Marisa, even though he doubted Isabelle would care in the least what he and Marisa might get up to. There was certainly nothing going on between Isabelle and himself, nothing even implied or possible, so far as he could see.
It was the story of his life, Alan thought. He was never in the right place at the right time.
He remained at his desk for a while longer, shuffling papers that he couldn’t concentrate on. Finally he arose and went into the bedroom so that he wouldn’t disturb Marisa with his call to New York.
IV
Isabelle didn’t even have time to finish parking before Jilly had come down from her Yoors Street studio and was out on the pavement to meet her. She was wearing her usual jeans and scuffed brown construction boots, but Isabelle didn’t recognize the oversized sweater. It was a deep yellowish-orange, which made Jilly’s blue eyes seem a more startling blue than normal. When Isabelle stepped out of the Jeep, Jilly bounced up to her and gave her a big hug.
“It’s so great to see you!”
“You, too,” Isabelle said, returning the hug.
Stepping back, Jilly surveyed the contents of Isabelle’s Jeep. The backseat and storage compartment was stuffed with a tall pile of boxes and suitcases and various sacks and bags, while on the passenger’s seat was a woven straw cat carrier from which Rubens watched the proceedings with a mournful expression. Jilly went around to the other side of the car and opened the passenger’s door.
“Poor fella,” she said, crouching by the front of the cage and poking her finger through the mesh to scratch his nose. Once Rubens looked a little more settled she stood up and surveyed the back of the Jeep again. “Boy, you really were serious about staying awhile.”
“You know me. I always bring too much.”
“I think it’s called being prepared,” Jilly said dubiously.