Well, here was his opportunity to do things differently. To be a better person; live a more generous life! Wasn’t that what he wanted, more than anything? Wasn’t it what everybody wanted? He could work hard; physically as well as mentally: he knew that. Everyone could work hard under the right conditions, and it was possible to enjoy hard work, even the most numbing, backbreaking toil. But you had to have a sense of participating in some greater good than just the maintaining of your own small existence; some human quorum or congregation of a size sufficient to align you with the world instead of against it. The imagination had to be fired, and kept alight. The heart had to feel the presence of joy and warmth. He saw that very clearly now, and for a moment he seemed to see himself as if in a dreamlike film, surrounded by kindred spirits at the warm center of some bustling enterprise in which food, wine, starlight, warm breezes and the sounds of human conviviality combined like the elements of some ancient ceremony to plunge the parched spirit back into the flow of life’s inexhaustible abundance.
It struck him that in a peculiar way the difficulties he’d hoped to resolve during his stay up here in Aurelia were being resolved, now, in spite of everything. Perhaps even because of everything! It was a strange thought: that in order to win this reprieve, he’d had to do precisely the things he had done. That killing Grollier was, in fact, the necessary condition for this second chance at life… A vertiginous thought. And yet it too seemed to have something dimly plausible about it. In the darkness of the little guesthouse with the dwindling rain pattering erratically on the shingle roof, it seemed to him he might have just stumbled, rather late in life (and very late, in comparison with his cousin Charlie), on some fundamental secret about happiness and fulfillment.
He knew where he was going to go, of course. He hadn’t been there since he was a boy, but as he lay thinking of it now it was as vivid to him as though he’d been living there all his life. He saw the bustling port with its pink customs building and wooden houses drowning in hibiscus and frangipani. He remembered the narrow cement road that wound up through the old coconut plantations into hills where the air smelled of goats and nutmeg and woodsmoke. He thought of the little restaurant high above the yacht harbor where they’d sit on the balcony every afternoon, counting the different blues of the bay and watching the sinking sun throw javelins of shadow through the forest of masts. There was no airstrip on the island, and at that time there was no ferry either, and the journey itself was one of the highlights of the holiday, with its combination (irresistible to a schoolboy) of luxury and inconvenience. They’d fly to Barbados, then squeeze into a series of successively smaller planes and air taxis until they arrived on the neighboring island, where, as night fell, they’d board the “schooner” (an old wooden banana boat) to their own island, sharing the broad-planked deck with islanders carrying caged guinea fowl and sacks of mangoes and soursops. Once they’d reached the open sea, the crew would raise two rust-colored sails that bellied out enormously in the warm breeze, and the rest of the journey would pass without any engine racket, just the bubbling of their wake and the chatter of island voices with their beautiful, lilting English. The stars would come out and after an hour they’d start to see the glitter of the little port and catch that sweet fragrance from the hills, and the feeling of imminent adventure would be almost overwhelming.
Drifting to sleep, he saw the blue-shuttered Tranqué Bay Hotel where they’d wake to the brilliance of the Caribbean morning, and race each other past the old stone ruins to the beach. It was there, after they’d swum and breakfasted, and installed themselves on deck chairs in the shade of the stately palms, that his father would look up at the turquoise house on the hillside across the bay, half hidden in foaming blossoms, and announce that if the family ever came into any serious money, that was the house he would buy.
Well, the family was about to come into some serious money.
thirteen
He woke early. The air was moist, cluttered with scents from the wet trees and some late-blooming roses. He breathed in deeply as he walked down the little rocky path. It was his last day at the house: he was sure of that now, and he felt a sentimental wish to supply himself with good things to remember about it. The air, always so fresh and sweet compared to Bushwick, was one of those things.
Chloe was in the utility room off the kitchen, putting sheets in the dryer. She straightened up, hearing him come in.
“Hi, Matthew.”
There were dark circles under her eyes. She and Charlie had still been quarreling when he went to bed last night. He was curious to hear what Charlie’d had to say for himself, though he didn’t feel he should ask directly. Chloe was looking at him, her expression a little uncomfortable, as if she had something difficult to report but wasn’t sure how to broach it.
“Want some breakfast?” he asked airily. “I thought I’d make shirred eggs.”
“Actually, I was wondering if I could ask you a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Would you mind running into town and picking up some pastries? It’s just that we have to get the place ready for these visitors, and Shelley’s away, so I thought we’d keep the cooking to a minimum.” Shelley was the cleaner.
“No problem.”
“Thanks, Matt.”
He drove into town, reluctant to believe this errand was really all she’d had on her mind. She’d wanted to talk about Charlie, he sensed, but had qualms about doing it. Which suggested she’d had something less than flattering to say about her husband. In other words, it was all exactly as he had predicted! The only surprise was how quickly the process had begun. It crossed his mind that Chloe had spent the night in the guest room, too appalled by what she’d learned about Charlie to sleep with him. He quelled an impulse to rejoice, but he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t gratified by the idea of Charlie’s domestic contentment being shattered.
He pulled in behind the hardware store, parking by their fleet of hydraulic machines-diggers, augurs, log-splitters, leaf-mulchers-that stood along the rental section like strange, demonic beasts. Early to Bread was busy, and it was several minutes before his turn came at the register. He ordered the usual selection of muffins and scones and took them back to the truck.
There was no sign of life in the house when he got back. He arranged the pastries on a dish at the center of the kitchen table and went to the guesthouse. His bus didn’t leave Aurelia till two in the afternoon but he thought he might as well get his packing done. It didn’t take long. As he looked around the octagonal room one last time, it occurred to him he could replicate it where he was going. Not the view, of course; he’d be looking over the sapphire waters of Tranqué Bay or somewhere like it, assuming all went well, but the furnishings and the rough plank walls. And maybe there would be a view of a pool through one of the windows someday, with a butterfly garden next to it just like Chloe’s. At this thought the image of Chloe herself, charged by the realization that he wouldn’t be seeing her again, flooded him with an emotion so intense she seemed almost palpably present in the room, and for a moment he had the impression that he could smell her scent, and that if he were to reach out he could touch her living hand.