The Summerhouse

by Jude Deveraux

  “Sounds easy enough,” Leslie said, “as long as no one will be judging me.”

  “No one,” Millie said, smiling. “Unless you enjoy it enough that you want to share lessons with me. It would be nice to have someone to encourage me.”

  “I think it might have to be the other way around,” Leslie said; then taking the pad of paper, Leslie put it on her lap, eschewing the easel, dipped her brush into the water, then dabbed it into the red paint. In front of them was a girl in a red bikini, and a boy in baggy blue trunks was trying to grab her to throw her into the pool.

  In spite of Millie’s statement that she wanted to spend time with Leslie to get to know her, once the paints were wet, she gave her attention to the paper. And Leslie saw immediately that for all Millie’s protests that she wasn’t any good, she was able to capture the bathers in a few quick brushstrokes. And while she was working, Millie didn’t say a word.

  Following her lead, Leslie gave her hands over to the paints and her mind over to the thoughts that raced through her head. She liked Hal, liked him much more than she’d ever thought she would. In the many articles that she’d read over the years she’d guessed that he was good at keeping his inner core hidden from the world.

  She could love him, she thought as she whipped her brush across the page, trying to copy what she saw as the boys and girls—as she thought of them—splashed about in the pool.

  She could love him, and she felt that he was already half in love with her. And with that age-old instinct that women have, she knew that, if she wanted him, she could have him. But what would her life with him be like? It’s one thing to joke about being First Lady, but she knew that in twenty years he would be close to attaining the presidency. She didn’t know if he’d get it or not, but he had a good chance.

  And if she took that road, then she wouldn’t have her life with Alan and Rebecca and Joe. She’d have different children, as well as a different husband.

  But the psychic had said that they could choose to forget their lives that they’d had. Leslie could choose to have a life with Hal and not remember the family she had now. She could forget all about having gone to New York to try to be a dancer and having failed, that thing that had hung over her all her life. She could forget that she’d spent a lifetime feeling guilty about having run away from a wedding with her childhood sweetheart. And she could forget her daughter, Rebecca, who was always complaining that her mother was a wimp. And Leslie could forget her son, Joe, who hid from any controversy, who was like his mother and would do most anything for peace and quiet.

  But what kind of life would Leslie have with Hal? Riches beyond her wildest imagination. She wouldn’t have to paint a house herself. And she wouldn’t have to put up with Hal filling her house with untouchable antiques. No, they’d hire a decorator who would . . .

  “Fill the house with untouchable antiques,” Leslie muttered to herself as she cut the brush across the paper, then tore the sheet off and dropped it onto the stone terrace; then she started on a clean sheet. She was unaware that Millie was watching her with interest. No, Leslie was in her own world, trying to make the biggest decision of her life—and the paintbrush in her hand was an extension of what was in her mind.

  “There he is now,” Millie said, at last breaking Leslie’s trance.

  When Leslie looked up, she was surprised to see that Millie had closed her paint box and was now sipping iced tea and munching one of the little sandwiches from a tray sitting next to her. When had someone brought the food? Also, there were half a dozen girls standing around in their swimsuits, giving glances at Leslie and whispering.

  When she looked at her watch, she saw that she’d been sitting in one spot for three hours. Beside her, on the stone terrace, was a wide spread of her watercolors. Someone had moved them from being piled on top of each other and had fanned them out across the stones and the surrounding lawn.

  Leslie was embarrassed at having been in such deep thought that she had forgotten where she was. “I lost track of time,” she said, smiling a bit. Why in the world were those girls whispering and looking at her? It was on the tip of her tongue to tell them that they were being rude, but she didn’t want to sound like the mother she was.

  “That’s quite all right,” Millie said. “In fact, here’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Leslie looked up to see a tall man with gray hair and dark blue eyes approach them, and, judging from the way he looked at Millie, Leslie thought that he was in love with her. Was some family secret about to be revealed to her?

  “Leslie, dear,” Millie said, “I want you to meet an old friend of mine, Geoffrey Marsdon.”

  Politely, Leslie held out her hand to shake his, but he didn’t shake her hand. Instead, he walked behind Leslie and picked up one of the watercolors she’d just done.

  “Where have you studied?” he asked.

  These people are so polite, Leslie thought. “At my father’s construction business,” she said, joking.

  But Mr. Marsdon didn’t smile in return. “Give me three days of your life and I’ll tell you what you have.”

  At first Leslie had no idea what he was talking about, but Millie was smiling at her. “He knows what he’s talking about. Those paintings of yours are quite good.”

  Leslie looked at Mr. Marsdon. “Raw. Crude, of course, but there’s talent there,” he said, picking up another painting and squinting at it.

  “Raw?” Millie said. “Come on, Geoffrey, dear, you just asked where she’d trained.”

  “Do you think that I could . . . do something with . . . that I have . . .” Leslie said hesitantly.

  Before Mr. Marsdon could reply, Millie said, “Geoffrey, dear, why don’t you stay in the blue room, I know how you love it, and why don’t you spend the rest of the week here with us? Maybe you and Leslie could work together and she could find out if she actually has talent or if today’s paintings are just a fluke.”

  “What a gracious offer, Millicent,” Geoffrey said. “And I accept.”

  They then both turned to look at Leslie.

  “If you agree, that is,” Millie said.

  Leslie took a deep breath because she had an idea that the answer to this question was going to change her life forever. “Yes, I’d like that,” she said at last. “I think I’d like to find out if there’s more to me than just joining committees.”

  This answer seemed to puzzle Millie, but she smiled anyway. “And what about your dancing?”

  “My jumps aren’t high enough, and my—Well, let’s just say that Broadway is safe.”

  Millie took Leslie’s arm in hers. “Painting is much more . . . well, usable anyway.”

  Leslie knew that she meant that in a woman’s true profession of being a wife and mother, painting was more “genteel” than leaping about in front of people wearing little clothing. And privately, Leslie thought that painting would be something she could do while spending her days on the campaign trail.

  “All right,” Leslie said, “when do I start?”

  Part Three

  Twenty-seven

  The three women were standing in Madame Zoya’s little room, and each of them was dizzy from the quick change in time. But Madame Zoya’s smiling face steadied them as they looked at her.

  “And what have you decided?” she asked, looking at Leslie.

  But Leslie was too disoriented to reply; she could only blink at the woman.

  “I want the new life,” Ellie said because her writer’s mind knew what the psychic was asking. It was a question that she’d thought about a great deal in the last weeks. “But I want to remember everything. I don’t want to forget what happened to me in the past.” Her voice lowered and she gave a bit of a smile. “Or what was done for me.”

  Madame Zoya nodded, then looked at Leslie again. “And you?”

  “I want the life I have,” she said softly, “but I, too, want to remember it all. There is something I need to remember.”

  “A man,” Ellie said, smili
ng.

  “Oh, no,” Leslie answered quickly. “Not a man. Me. I want to remember myself.”

  “What does that—” Ellie began eagerly.

  But Madame Zoya interrupted her. “And you, dear?” she asked softly as she turned to Madison; then the other two looked at her also.

  Madison didn’t look well. She looked as though she’d just been through hell and hadn’t yet returned. For a moment Madison swayed on her feet, as though she were going to faint, but then she lifted her head and looked at the psychic. “The new life,” she whispered. “And I want to forget the old one. I don’t want to remember anything about that life,” she said with no hint of hesitation in her voice.

  “Done,” Madame Zoya said. “Now, dears, run along. I have other people to help.”

  Part of Ellie wanted to shout, “That’s it?! You don’t want to hear what happened to us?” But she didn’t say anything. For one thing, she was confused. Right now she had two lives in her head—and she had a thousand memories, memories that contradicted one another. Which were real and which weren’t?

  Slowly, and awkwardly, the three of them made their way out of Madame Zoya’s house. It wasn’t easy, as it had been weeks since they’d been down those corridors. Twice they opened wrong doors, then stood and stared into rooms without having any idea what they were seeing.

  At long last they were outside and standing on Madame Zoya’s little porch, and the sunlight nearly blinded them.

  It was Madison who recovered first, because her mind wasn’t taken over by conflicting memories.

  While Ellie and Leslie were blinking at the brightness and trying to sort out what was in their minds, Madison began to rummage in her big tote bag that was slung over her shoulder.

  “Do either of you know what happened to my cell phone?” Madison asked. “I’m sure I had it a minute ago.”

  “Cell phone?” Ellie said, sounding as though she’d never heard of one.

  “I must say that that was certainly a bust,” Madison said, still digging inside her bag.

  “A bust?” Leslie asked, looking at her hands. She had paint under her nails.

  “Yes.” Madison sounded impatient. “We went there to have our fortunes told, and we got zip. Really, the woman ought to be stopped.”

  Ellie and Leslie were looking at Madison as though she’d lost her mind, but Madison didn’t see them. She was still rummaging in her bag. “Good heavens!” Madison said. “Where did these filthy things come from?” She was holding up a pack of cigarettes between her thumb and forefinger, and holding them away from her body as though she might be contaminated by them.

  It was that gesture that brought Ellie and Leslie out of their own thoughts. Both of them were now looking at Madison—really, really looking at her.

  Was it their imagination that she didn’t seem as thin as she had been a day ago? Or was it just that there was now a look of health about her? She wasn’t gray-looking, as she had been. And there was something about her eyes . . .

  “You’re pretty again,” Ellie said.

  Madison laughed. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re not bad yourself.”

  “No, I’m—” Ellie had been about to say that she was fat, but as she looked down at herself, her clothes seemed to be looser on her.

  “Look at this thing?!” Madison said, holding up the bag. “I can’t find anything I own in it, and it must have cost all of five dollars, and—” She broke off as she looked down at her clothes. “Could someone please tell me what is going on? Why am I wearing these cheap clothes and where is my cell phone? Ellie, could I borrow yours?”

  Ellie was watching Madison with wide eyes because it was as though she were seeing movie special effects take place in front of her. Only this was no movie, this was real life. Years seemed to be sliding off Madison. She looked older than she did when they’d met each other nineteen years ago, but now she no longer looked beat-up by life. Now there was a light that shone in Madison’s eyes, and light seemed to illuminate her skin from beneath it.

  “I don’t have a cell phone,” Ellie said softly. “I’ve never liked telephones.”

  “I know,” Madison said, looking at Ellie with exaggerated patience. “You told us you’d always hated them. But you said that after you had a child, you wanted to be in contact with him at all hours of the day.”

  “Child?” Ellie said, her eyes blinking blankly.

  Madison looked from Ellie to Leslie, then back again. “What is wrong with you two? Did that charlatan tell you something dreadful? Is that why the two of you are acting like zombies?”

  “Child,” Ellie said again.

  Madison bent down so her nose was close to Ellie’s. “Yes, child. You have a two-year-old son. You and your second husband, Jessie, had a baby.”

  “Jessie,” Ellie said, her eyes wide. At the moment, the memory of her life with Martin was so clear in her mind that she could hardly remember her time with Jessie. But the mention of his name was making her remember. “Nate,” she said. “Nathaniel.” She looked at Leslie in wonder. “I have a son named Nathaniel and I am married to Jessie Woodward.”

  “I’m so happy for you,” Leslie whispered; then she put her arms around Ellie and hugged her. “So very, very happy for you.”

  “What is it that I’m missing?” Madison asked impatiently. “And could we go somewhere and get something to eat? I’m starving. I feel like treating myself to some rich, gooey dessert.” She narrowed her eyes at both of them. “But if either of you tell Thomas, I’ll deny it. He is fed up with hearing me complain about every pound I gain.”

  “Weight?” Ellie said. “You gain weight?”

  “We can’t all be like you and forget to eat.”

  With wide eyes, Ellie looked down at herself. It couldn’t be possible, but her clothes seemed to be even more loose on her than they had been a few minutes ago.

  But Madison wasn’t aware of having said anything unusual. “I don’t know why you don’t remember this. We had this conversation only last night. You said that you and I have opposite metabolisms. You said that the happier you are the thinner you are. You said that if you ever got really depressed, you’d probably be the size of a house. Then I said that I was the opposite, that happiness makes me eat. I said that if I were ever unhappy, I’d probably weigh eighty pounds.”

  “That’s right,” Ellie said. “I would and you would. And we did.”

  Madison looked at Leslie as though to ask if Ellie were losing her marbles.

  “I think we should all sit down and have something to eat,” Leslie said. “And I think we should hear Madison’s life story.”

  “But I told you two everything the first night we were here,” Madison said. “I distinctly remember telling you about modeling in New York, about meeting Thomas at Columbia, and about getting my degree in—”

  “No!” Ellie said loudly. “You must tell a story in the correct order.”

  “Yes,” Madison said, smiling, obviously glad that Ellie remembered something. “You told us that you can’t tell the punch line before you tell the joke. If you remember that, why don’t you remember the other things you said?”

  “Dumb,” Ellie said as she took Madison’s arm. “That’s all it is: stupidity.”

  “Right,” Leslie said, taking Madison’s other arm as the three of them left the porch and began to walk down the street. “Actually, Ellie liked your story so much that she wants to use it in her next book, so she wants to hear it all over again. She doesn’t want to miss even one of the details.”

  “Good thinking,” Ellie said. “I wish I’d thought of—I mean, Leslie is one hundred percent right. So let’s go in here and you can tell us everything in detail. Start where you met us in New York.” She looked around Madison’s back to Leslie. “That’s where she went back to, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Leslie said as she opened the restaurant door.

  “What does that mean?” Madison asked. “‘Back to’? You two are certainly acting strangely.�
��

  “Leftover hormones from childbearing,” Ellie said quickly.

  “Ridiculous!” Madison answered as she followed the hostess toward a table. “I’ve had four kids and the hormones are not left over.”

  At that statement, both Ellie and Leslie stopped in their tracks and looked at each other.

  Leslie spoke first. “Four,” she whispered.

  “And Thomas,” Ellie replied; then the next second they were practically running to get to the table to sit across from Madison.

  Ten minutes later they had placed their orders. Ellie leaned across the table and said, “Every word. I want to hear every word about your life from the moment you left the DMV.”

  “But you already know most of it, so why—”

  “I’ll dedicate my next book to you,” Ellie said quickly.

  “Will you put the names of my children in there?” Madison asked, smiling, her face softening.

  Ellie looked about her, and as she’d suspected, most of the diners were looking at Madison. At forty, Madison was still so beautiful that she mesmerized people. But Ellie knew that just yesterday, this same woman had walked into shops and restaurants and no one had paid any particular attention to her.

  “All right,” Madison said. “I distinctly remember telling you two all of this, but if you want to hear it again, well . . . Let’s see, where do I begin? After I left you two at the DMV, nineteen long years ago, I came up with a plan to distinguish myself at the modeling agency. After all,” Madison said, “tall, gorgeous girls from Montana are a dime a dozen in New York, so I had to do something to stand out.”

  Madison saw the way Ellie looked at Leslie at that statement. “Are you two sure you want to hear this?”

  “More than I want to call my . . . husband,” Ellie said; then she took a deep breath. “And my son. So get on with it. You’re holding me up.”

  “All right,” Madison said, smiling. “I want to call my kids too, and, truthfully, maybe I did leave out some of the more colorful details when I told you about me. So, now, where was I? The first thing I did after I left you two was throw away that dreadful portfolio that my hometown photographer made for me. Poor thing. He meant well, but the pictures really had no pizzazz. Then . . .”