The Summerhouse

by Jude Deveraux

  “I want a divorce,” she said, then looked at him in shock. Where had those words come from? Where had the thought come from?

  Alan said nothing, just stared at her in disbelief.

  When Leslie spoke again, she was calm. “I can’t take any more of this. I’m sorry that I jilted you, but I should have been forgiven years ago. I’ve certainly tried to make it up to you over the years. But I can’t take this humiliation any longer. If you want her, you can have her.”

  “Have who?” Alan asked quietly, and she could see that for the first time in many years, she had his full and undivided attention.

  “Bambi!” Leslie spat out the name with all the venom she felt.

  “Bambi?” Alan asked. “You think I’m interested in Bambi?”

  “The entire town knows about you two, so you—”

  She broke off because Alan had smiled—then he began to laugh.

  “Me and Bambi? Is that what you think? Is that why you’ve been so cold to me these last months? Is she the reason you move away from me every time I get near you?”

  She wanted to defend herself, but she knew that she had been cold to him. Every time he’d put out his hand to touch her, she’d thought, How long ago was he touching her?

  Alan sat down on the sofa and a cloud of dust encircled him. Ignoring it, he looked up at Leslie. “I thought maybe you had another man,” he said softly.

  “Me?” she asked in disbelief. “I’m a middle-aged—”

  “You’re as beautiful as the day I married you,” Alan said. “And I hired Bambi to make you jealous. Has it worked?”

  It took Leslie several minutes to realize what he’d just said. “To make me jealous?”

  “There’s always been part of you that I could never reach. You’ve always been so independent. Other wives call their husbands if a mouse runs across the floor, but not my wife. No, my Leslie can handle anything. Look at this place. It was you who rebuilt it. Do you know how I felt seeing you using a power hand saw when I don’t know a blade from a bit? All these years I’ve wanted to make you need me, but I’ve never succeeded. There isn’t anything you can’t do and do perfectly.”

  If she’d thought for a thousand years, she would never had thought that these were problems that Alan had. She sat down on the couch beside him, then waited for the dust to settle. “You weren’t angry that I ran off and left you just days before our wedding?”

  “Hell, no. I mean, yes, I was, but . . .” He turned to look at her. “It made you worth having. If you hadn’t come back to me, I would have been angry, maybe forever, but you did return. And all these years I’ve secretly enjoyed the ribbing about having a wife who was a New York dancer.”

  “I failed at being a dancer. That’s why I returned.”

  Alan took her hand in his. “You’ve never failed at anything in your life. If you think you weren’t as good as the other dancers, it’s because you missed me so much that you wanted to fail so you could come home to me.”

  Leslie knew that there was a ring of truth in his words. Madison had been so homesick that she’d run back to a man who she knew was bad. Had Leslie done the same thing? Had she, too, found an excuse to run back home?

  After she’d left Hal’s family’s estate, she’d gone back to college and she’d danced. And there was part of her mind that had wondered how good the girls in New York were if she was considered not as good.

  And Leslie had spent two weeks with Alan, a much younger Alan than this one, but the same man. And she had felt the same overwhelming love for him that had been in her heart since she’d met him on the playground in the first grade.

  “Alan,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I can paint.”

  “You can do anything.”

  “No. I mean, on paper. Scenes. Actually, I’m good at people. Watercolors, although I’m going to explore some other media.”

  He couldn’t seem to comprehend what she was telling him. “Do you still want a . . . you know?”

  “Do you?”

  “Me?” he asked, shocked. “I never wanted a divorce. I just wanted you back.”

  That’s the way Leslie felt also, that she had been missing for a long time.

  When Alan pulled her into his arms, she began to cry.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” he said. “And I love you so much. I always have. Remember? I told you that I would always love you.”

  Yes, she remembered. He’d told her on that first day when they were in the first grade, that he would love her “forever.” She’d just stood there by the swings and stared at that boy she’d never seen before, unable to say anything.

  The memory made her cry harder, and he held her closer; then he was kissing her neck, and his hands were unbuttoning her clothes. And when Joe opened the door, Alan shouted at him to get out.

  It was later, after they’d made love on the floor of the summerhouse, that Leslie said, “Alan, fire Bambi.”

  “Done,” he said; then he began to kiss her neck again.

  Epilogue

  Thirty-two

  THREE YEARS LATER

  MAINE

  Ellie had left Jessie and her son in Bangor as she drove up the coast alone. Jessie hadn’t asked too many questions, but she could tell that he wanted to know why she felt compelled to go back to the place where she’d spent just a weekend years before. “It’s something I need to do,” was all she’d tell him. Something she felt driven to do, she thought, but she didn’t want to go into that.

  She had kissed them both good-bye, then had driven to that town where her life had changed so drastically. But now she’d been in town for three hours and she still hadn’t found the Victorian house of Madame Zoya. She’d asked a waitress who said she’d grown up in the little town, but the girl had only laughed at the idea of a psychic setting up business in town.

  “You mean a palm reader?” the girl had said.

  “She was a bit more than that,” Ellie had answered defensively, but she couldn’t tell this girl what had happened to her any more than she could tell anyone else what had happened. A couple of times in the last years she’d tried to tell Jessie, but she could see that he wasn’t going to believe her, so she’d stopped.

  But in the last six months Ellie had felt an overwhelming urge to return to Maine and see the psychic again. It had taken a while to persuade Jessie and to arrange the trip, but she’d managed it.

  Ellie left the restaurant and tried to remember how she and Leslie and Madison had found the street and the house the first time. Before she’d left home, she’d searched everywhere for Madame Zoya’s card, but she couldn’t find it. She’d e-mailed both Leslie and Madison, but they couldn’t find theirs either. Somehow, Ellie wasn’t surprised.

  She wandered down the main street yet again, looking at all the street signs that branched off, not that there were many, but there was no Everlasting Street. Then, she turned, and there it was.

  Smiling, she turned down the street and the house was at the end, just as it had been before, and the house was still as perfect as it had been the first time she’d seen it. She told herself that she was being ridiculous, but her heart was pounding as she knocked on the door.

  A small, gray-haired lady answered her knock. She was pleasant-looking, but she wasn’t Madame Zoya.

  “You must be wanting to see the house,” the woman said. “We get so many tourists here, and many of them are kind enough to want to tell me how much they admire my house.”

  “No, actually,” Ellie said, “I was hoping to see Madame Zoya.”

  “Oh, my,” the woman said. “That’s a new one on me. Madame what?”

  “Zoya,” Ellie said.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t heard of her.”

  “Have you lived in this house long?”

  The woman smiled. “My father built this house as a wedding present for my mother. I’ve lived in it all my life.”

  “Oh,” Ellie said, feeling deflated. But what had she expected? If a woman who could
do what Madame Zoya did were easy to find, she’d be on the evening news.

  “Thank you,” Ellie said as she turned to go down the steps.

  “Wait,” the woman said. “You look like you could use a cup of tea, and I could certainly use the company. Won’t you come in?”

  Ellie thought that she should drive back to Bangor, but instead, she turned and went into the house behind the woman.

  “By the way, my name is Primrose,” she said; then when Ellie smiled, she waved her hand. “I know. It’s such an old-fashioned name, but my parents were old fashioned people. And you are?”

  “Ellie Woodward,” she said as she looked about the house. It was exactly the same inside as it had been when she and Leslie and Madison had visited. “You don’t have a sister or know someone who dyes her hair orange, do you?”

  Primrose’s blue eyes twinkled. “No, and I do think I’d remember her. In fact, I think that everyone in town might remember her. Now, do sit down. I had just put the kettle on when you knocked, so it should be ready.”

  Ellie sat down on a sofa, and when she was alone in the room, she had to resist the temptation to snoop, but Primrose was back within seconds, so there was no time anyway.

  After she had seated herself and served them both tea and had made Ellie fill her plate with tiny cakes, Primrose said, “I’m sure I’m just being a nosy old lady, but we’re quite isolated here, so maybe you could tell me what you wanted to tell this Madame . . . What was her name again?”

  Ellie looked over her teacup at the woman. She’s lying, she thought, and whatever I tell her will get back to Madame Zoya. “I really just wanted to tell her, ‘Thank you.’”

  “That’s all?” Primrose asked, sounding disappointed.

  “And I wanted to tell her about my friends, and about me, but if she’s not here—” Ellie put down her teacup.

  “How lovely,” Primrose said. “And how are your friends?”

  Part of Ellie wanted to force the woman to tell what she did know, but then Ellie owed Madame Zoya so much that she wanted to get information to her anyway she could.

  “They’re very happy,” Ellie said. “Leslie Headrick is painting full-time, and her husband is very proud of her. Leslie says that she’s never been happier. Both her children are in college now, and Leslie says it’s like a second honeymoon between her and her husband.”

  “How nice to hear good in this world. And your other friend?”

  Ellie wasn’t going to bother to pretend that this woman didn’t know who was who and what her story was. “Madison still runs her clinic in Montana, and she’s had another baby. She says she’d like to have a dozen if she could.

  “The three of us have kept in close contact since . . . well, since we were last here, and I think that all of us are happy now.”

  Primrose daintily ate a tiny pink cake with an icing rosebud on top of it. “Does that include you? Are you happy too?”

  “Yes,” Ellie said softly. “Very. I have a wonderful husband and son, and my editor says that the last book I wrote is my best yet.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” Primrose said. “Very good indeed.” Abruptly, she stood. “Now, dear, you must excuse me, as I have work to do.”

  “Yes, of course,” Ellie said, putting down her teacup, then standing. “It was very nice to meet you, and I hope—”

  But Primrose was hurrying toward the front door as though she couldn’t wait to get rid of Ellie, and seconds later, Ellie was standing outside on the porch, the door closed behind her.

  “That was abrupt,” she said, then walked to the street. Digging into her bag, she pulled out her cell phone and called the hotel in Bangor. “I’m on my way home,” she said when Jessie answered.

  “Good. Nate and I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “I’ve missed you too,” Ellie answered as she turned the phone off and headed for where she’d parked her rental car. She was smiling all the way.

  As soon as Ellie was out of sight, Primrose dropped the curtain back into place, then walked down the long corridor toward the back of the house. There was a small room with rose-patterned wallpaper on it. The furnishings were sparse, just three fat chairs and a rug on the oak floor. Walking across the room, Primrose pushed on a rose that looked like every other rose on the wall, and a door opened.

  Behind the door was a tiny room, hardly bigger than a closet, but inside there was a little table against the far wall, and on it was a large glass globe, what some people would call a crystal ball. On hooks on the left wall were velvet clothes and a bright orange wig.

  On the right wall, from floor to ceiling, were photographs of people.

  Primrose went to the little table and picked up three brochures and a pair of scissors. Slowly, she began to cut out photos from the brochures.

  One picture was of Ellie, clipped from a sales announcement about one of her forthcoming books. Another photo was of Leslie, cut from a program about a showing of her paintings, and one was of Madison, cut out of a brochure of “distinguished graduates” from her Montana high school.

  On the wall were the Polaroid pictures that were taken of the three women years ago, and, now, beside each one, Primrose pinned the new photos; then she stepped back and looked at the differences in the pictures. In the original pictures there was a sadness about each woman that showed clearly in her eyes. But in the new photos the sadness was gone.

  Smiling in satisfaction, Primrose stepped further back from the wall and looked at all the photographs. There were over a hundred men’s and women’s photos on the wall, and beside each one was a new picture. In some, the first photos were better than the second one. But in most, the second photo showed amazing differences in the way they looked out at the world. For a moment, Primrose gazed at the picture of a man wearing dark glasses. He had been blinded in an accident when he was fourteen. Beside the photo of him in dark glasses was a picture of a man who was looking into the camera and smiling.

  With a self-satisfied little sigh, Primrose opened the drawer, withdrew three business cards and slipped them into her pocket. She left the little room, closing the door behind her, then made her way through the house to the front door. Once she was outside, she paused a moment to stand on the porch and smile; then she went down the stairs toward the street.

  The Mulberry Tree

  JUDE DEVERAUX

  Turn the page for a preview of

  The Mulberry Tree . . . .

  Chapter 1

  He needed me.

  Whenever anyone—usually a reporter—asked me how I coped with a man like Jimmie, I smiled and said nothing. I’d learned that whatever I said would be misquoted, so I simply kept quiet. Once, I made the mistake of telling the truth to a female reporter. She’d looked so young and so in need herself that for a moment I let my guard down. I said, “He needs me.” That’s all. Just those three words.

  Who would have thought that a second of unguarded honesty could cause so much turmoil? The girl—she had certainly not attained the maturity of womanhood—parlayed my small sentence into international turmoil.

  I was right in thinking she herself was needy. Oh yes, very needy. She needed a story so she fabricated one. Never mind that she had nothing on which to base her fable.

  I must say that she was good at research. She couldn’t have slept during the two weeks between my remark and the publication of her story. She consulted psychiatrists, self-help gurus, and clergy. She interviewed hordes of rampant feminists. Every famous woman who had ever hinted that she hated men was interviewed and quoted.

  In the end Jimmie and I were portrayed as one sick couple. He was the domineering tyrant in public, but a whimpering child at home. And I was shown to be a cross between steel and an ever-flowing breast.

  When the article came out and caused a sensation, I wanted to hide from the world. I wanted to retreat to the most remote of Jimmie’s twelve houses and never leave. But Jimmie was afraid of nothing—which was the true secret of his success—and he met the ques
tions, the derisive laughter and, worse, the pseudo-therapists who felt it was our “duty” to expose every private thought and feeling to the world head-on.

  Jimmie just put his arm around me, smiled into the cameras, and laughed in answer to all of their questions. Whatever they asked, he had a joke for a reply.

  “Is it true, Mr. Manville, that your wife is the power behind the throne?” The reporter asking this was smiling at me in a nasty way. Jimmie was six-foot-two and built like the bull some people said he was, and I am five-foot-two and round. I’ve never looked like the power behind anyone.

  “She makes all the decisions. I’m just her front man,” Jimmie said, his smile showing his famous teeth. But those of us who knew him saw the coldness in his eyes. Jimmie didn’t like any disparagement of what he considered his. “I couldn’t have done it without her,” he said in that teasing way of his. Few people knew him well enough to know whether or not he was joking.

  Three weeks later, by chance, I saw the cameraman who’d been with the reporter that day. He was a favorite of mine because he didn’t delight in sending his editor the pictures of me that showed off my double chin at its most unflattering angle. “What happened to your friend who was so interested in my marriage?” I asked, trying to sound friendly. “Fired,” the photographer said. “I beg your pardon?” He was pushing new batteries into his camera and didn’t look up. “Fired,” he said again, then looked up, not at me, but at Jimmie.

  Wisely, the photographer said no more. And just as wisely, I didn’t ask any more questions.

  Jimmie and I had an unwritten, unspoken law: I didn’t interfere in whatever Jimmie was doing.

  “Like a Mafia wife,” my sister said to me about a year after Jimmie and I were married.

  “Jimmie doesn’t murder people,” I replied in anger.

  That night I told Jimmie of the exchange with my sister and for a moment his eyes glittered in a way that, back then, I hadn’t yet learned to be wary of.