Luke’s book reached her there, hesitantly sent to her by Simpson, with the reviews. She opened the package unsuspectingly one morning, bathed in sunshine as she stood barefoot in her nightgown on the little balcony outside her room. She could see hills and fields beyond, and for almost an hour she simply sat cross-legged on the balcony floor with the book in her lap, holding it, running her fingers over the cover, but unable to open it. The jacket design was good, and there was a marvelous photograph of him on the back. It had been taken before she had met him, but she had a copy of the same photo on her desk in New York. He was walking down a street in Chicago, wearing a white turtleneck sweater, his dark hair blown by the wind, his raincoat slung over his shoulder. One eyebrow raised, he was looking sarcastically into the camera with the beginnings of a smile. She had squeezed the photograph out of him the first time she had seen it.
“What the hell do you want that for?”
“You look so sexy in it Luke.”
“Jesus. You nut I hope my readers don’t think so.”
“Why not?” She looked up, a little surprised, and he had kissed her.
“Because I’m supposed to look brilliant, not sexy, silly lady.”
“Well, you happen to look both. Can I have it?” He had waved an embarrassed hand at her, and gone off to answer the phone. But she had taken the photograph, and framed it in silver. It was a glimpse of the real Luke, and she was glad it was on the book jacket. People should see him as he was … people should….
She had looked up after what seemed like hours, the book still cradled in her lap, unfelt tears rolling steadily down her face, misting the view. But she had been looking into the past not at the fields in the distance.
“Well, babe, here we are.” She spoke aloud and smiled through her tears, using the hem of her nightgown to wipe her face. She could almost see Lucas smiling at her. It didn’t matter where she went anymore, she carried him with her in a warm, tender way. Not in the agonizing way that she had; now she could smile at him. Now he was with her, forever. In New York, in Switzerland, in France. He was a part of her now. A comfortable part.
She looked far into the fields with a soft shrug and leaned back against the legs of a chair, still holding the book in her hands. A voice seemed to tell her to open it, but she couldn’t, and then as she watched the face in the photograph yet again, almost expecting him to move along that long-forgotten street in Chicago, it was as though she could see his face growing stern, his head shaking in teasing annoyance.
“Come on, Mama, open it, dammit!”
She did, gingerly, carefully, not wanting to breathe or to look or to see. She had known, known it when she touched the book, but seeing it would be different. She wondered if she could bear it, but she had to. Now she wanted to see, and she knew he had wanted her to. He had never told her, but now it was as though she had always known. The book was dedicated to her.
Fresh tears ran down her face as she read it, but they were not tears of grief. Tears of tenderness, of gratitude, of laughter, of loving. Those were the treasures he had given her, not sorrow. Luke had never been a man to tolerate sorrow. He had been too alive to taste even a whisper of death. And sorrow is death.To Kezia, who stands by my side wherever I go. My equal, my solace, my friend. Brave lady, you are the bright light in a place I have long sought to find, and now at last we’re both home. May you be proud of this book, for now it is the best I can give you, with thanks and my love.L.J.
“… and now at last we’re both home.” It was true, and it was late August by then, and she had one final test Marbella. And Hilary.
“My God, darling, you look divine! So brown and healthy! Where on earth have you been?”
“Here and there.” She laughed and brushed her hair from her eyes. It was longer now, and the harsh angularity of her face had melted again. There were small lines on either side of her eyes, from the sun, or whatever, but she looked well. Very well.
“How long can you stay? Your cable didn’t even give me a hint, naughty child!”
Yes, she was back in that old familiar world. Dear, darling Hilary. But it amused her to be called a naughty child. Hell, why not? Her birthday had come and gone in late June. She was thirty now.
“I’ll be here for a few days, Aunt Hil, if you have room.”
“That’s all? But darling, how awful, and of course I have room, how absurd.” She was currently having room for at least fourteen others, not to mention the staff. “’Why don’t you think about staying longer?”
“I’ve got to get back.” She accepted an iced tea from the butler. They stood near the tennis courts where the other guests played.
“Get back to where? My, Jonathan has improved his serve, hasn’t he?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Of course, how silly of me. You don’t know him. Perfectly beautiful man.”
He looked like a carbon copy of Whitney. It made Kezia smile.
“So where is it you’re going back to?” Hilary returned her attention to Kezia, over a well-chilled martini.
“New York.”
“At this time of year? Darling, you’re mad!”
“Maybe so, but I’ve been away for almost five months.”
“Then another month can’t possibly hurt.”
“I’m going back to do some work.”
“Work? What sort of work? Charity? But no one’s in town in the summer for heaven’s sake. Besides, you don’t work, do you?” For a moment Hilary looked slightly confused. Kezia nodded.
“Yes, I do. Writing.”
“Writing? What on earth for?” She was quite bemused, and Kezia was trying hard not to laugh. Poor Aunt Hil.
“I guess I write because I enjoy it very much, as a matter of fact.”
“Is this something new?”
“No, not really.”
“Can you write? Decently, I mean.” But this time Kezia couldn’t help it; she laughed.
“I don’t know. I certainly try to. I used to write the Martin Hallam column. But that wasn’t my best work.” Kezia wore a mischievous grin. Hilary gaped.
“You what? Don’t be insane! You … Good God. Kezia, how could you!”
“It amused me. And when I had enough of it, I retired. And don’t look so upset, I never said anything mean about you.”
“No, but you … I … Kezia, you really amaze me.” She relieved the butler of another martini and stared at her niece. The girl was really quite strange. Always had been, and now this. “In any case, I think you’re a fool to go back in August.” Hilary had not yet recovered. “And that column doesn’t run anymore.” Kezia giggled; it was as though Hilary were trying to trap her into admitting that she hadn’t actually written it. But that was wishful thinking.
“I know, but I’m going back to discuss the terms on a book.”
“A book based on gossip?” Hilary blanched.
“Of course not. It’s sort of a political theme. It’s really too long to go into.”
“I see. Well, I’d be thrilled if you wanted to stay … as long as you promise not to write naughty things about all my guests.” She tittered sweetly, as it occurred to her that this might make for some very amusing gossip of her own. “Did you know my niece used to be Martin Hallam, dear?”
“Don’t worry, Aunt Hil, I don’t write that kind of thing anymore.”
“What a pity.” Her third martini had softened the blow. Kezia watched her as she accepted her second iced tea. “Have you seen Edward yet?”
“No. Is he here?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You have been off the beaten track, haven’t you? Where did you say you’d been all this time?” Hilary was watching Jonathan’s serve again.
“Ethiopia. Tanzania. The jungle. Heaven. Hell. The usual spots.”
“How nice, darling … how really very nice. See anyone we know?” But she was too engrossed in Jonathan’s game to listen or care. “Come darling, I’ll introduce you to Jonathan.” But Edward appeared on the scene before Hilary could sweep her away. He greeted Kezia with warmth, but also with caution.