Oliver stepped from the doorway, reached for her arm, and led her into the house.
“Maren,” he repeated, his voice rough. He shut the door behind her, then wrapped her in a crushing embrace. He released her and she glanced around the foyer. It was dark, and she could hear nothing inside. A flickering light from a room off the hall hinted at a fire.
“I don’t want to interrupt, Oliver. I just wanted to come, to tell you…” She faltered.
“There is nothing to interrupt,” he said, looking at her with his intense gaze. “I’m alone.”
Though she did her best not to show it, Maren was dumbstruck. This would be unthinkable at home. How could people allow him to be by himself at such a time?
“This house belongs to family friends, but they’re in Florida,” Oliver said, reading her thoughts, as always. “I stay here from time to time. Mrs. Bell came by earlier with her daughter, but I told them I had to leave early in the morning.”
“Oh, well … I just wanted to tell you…” Maren stepped back and eyed the door, thinking perhaps she too should take her leave.
“No, Maren. Please.” He reached for her again. “You must stay. Will you?”
She nodded. It was clear Oliver was not on his first drink, though he seemed to be in reasonable possession of his faculties. He gestured toward the living room off the hall. She headed, a little uncertainly now, in that direction, Oliver with his hand, as ever, on the small of her back. He took her coat and hung it in the hall closet.
The fire blazed in a generous fireplace, framed by an elegant white mantel. Large windows looked down on the street. Despite its grand proportions and accents, the room was cozy. They sank into the toile sofa.
“When did you hear?” Maren asked.
“This morning. We don’t have details, except that it happened in the Battle of Metz in Lorraine.” Oliver leaned his head back on the sofa and looked up at the ceiling. Maren looked up, too, taking in the decorative plasterwork, angels and curlicues. Despite what they saw day in and day out, they were still so far from the war. “The hideous thing is, the Allies are taking Metz. He’ll probably be one of the last men we lose there.”
Maren squeezed his hand.
“Do you know what, Maren?” Oliver closed his eyes.
“What?”
“Somehow, I don’t know how, I always knew he wouldn’t survive.”
“Oliver…” she said, unable to mask the heartbreak in her voice.
“Would you stay here with me a while?”
She nodded. He pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head. Even amid her sorrow for him, she felt a hint of pleasure at his need for her. They sat quietly, staring at the fire.
“I’m going to get another drink,” he said after an interval. “Can I make you one? Perhaps some wine?”
“Wine would be nice.” Maren virtually never drank, but the occasion seemed to call for it. She wanted to make Oliver comfortable, and she couldn’t imagine it was comfortable to drink alone.
He returned with a glass of white wine and another drink for himself, something strong-smelling in a highball glass. He resumed his place next to her, his arm around her back. Maren sipped at the wine, enjoying how it warmed her. She’d not eaten, but her vague concern that she probably should not drink seemed a small matter next to what Oliver was going through.
Under tacit agreement that he deserved pleasant conversation, they talked of inconsequential things. He managed a laugh as he told her about the family that owned the house. Despite an overly indulgent mother who turned a blind eye to their unruliness, the Moore children had grown into respectable adults. Maren detected admiration, perhaps even envy, as he spoke of them.
The conversation wandered into a good-natured debate about poetry, with Maren making the case for the romantic Victorians and Oliver for the spare imagery of Wallace Stevens and the modernists.
“I’ll show you,” he said, getting up. A little unsteady on his feet, he entered a darkened adjacent room, a library evidently, and turned on a light. Maren heard him shuffling before the light went out again, and he emerged with a volume of poems.
“See here, Maren,” he said in a mock professorial tone. He sat, opened the book, found his line, and began to read. I placed a jar in Tennessee. And round it was, upon a hill …
“See how economical he is with words?” Oliver said, when he’d finished. “How much he tells with how little?”
“Now why would you ever do that, when you can crush so many great words into a poem?” Maren teased. Oliver smiled and pulled her closer.
He was not precisely himself. More than once he withdrew into long silence, but despite the unspeakable circumstances, the evening wore on in its easy way. Maren continued to enjoy her wine. Perhaps it is a good wine, she thought, though she had little basis for judging. She finished two glasses.
At some point, Oliver found crackers and nuts, which they treated as a small meal.
“Would you tell me more about Daniel?” she asked finally. He did, though with his usual brevity and spare biographical details. He had gone to Harvard (all Demarests went to Harvard). He was a good athlete, had played rugby. Maren had learned more about Daniel from Dorothy.
As the fire died down, Oliver turned to look at her.
“I don’t know where you have been these past weeks, Maren,” he said. She cast her eyes down. She could not possibly explain her petty concerns at this moment. “It’s all right. I don’t think I want you to tell me.”
She looked up at him again. He wanted to kiss her and was seeking her permission. He must have found it in her expression, because he leaned over and pressed his lips to hers.
It was partly the wine, but only partly. Maren felt like she was cracking through a shell she’d erected around herself in the previous weeks, and his attentions, even on this miserable occasion, reacquainted her with some lost joy. She still was not sure of him, but she wanted him. He paused after a moment, took their drinks and placed them on a side table, then gently pulled her down so she was lying alongside him on the sofa.
“Maren,” he said as he kissed her neck, her chin, her mouth, with increasing passion. She returned the kiss eagerly.
After a few moments, he pulled back, took a deep breath, and put his hand over his eyes.
“I’m sorry. This is wrong of me, and at such a time.” He opened his eyes again and looked at her. “You are hard to resist, and I’ve missed you,” he said simply.
Maren looked into his great brown eyes, which had always hinted to her of the brilliance and roiling thoughts behind them. She felt disappointed.
“But now I am afraid we have a challenge,” he said, looking at his watch. “It is awfully late to get you back to Delano. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but there are plenty of rooms upstairs. Would you consider staying here? We can get a message to Dorothy.”
“I’ll stay, Oliver,” she replied quietly. “Dorothy knows I’ve come, so we needn’t worry there.”
Dorothy did know where she was, of course, and she wasn’t on the schedule for the following day. It felt daring, a little bit wrong, but when he extended his hand, she took it and let him lead her up the staircase off the front hall. When they reached the landing, Oliver led her to a bedroom that looked out on the small yard at the back of the house. The four-poster bed had a canary yellow canopy and matching area rug. A row of Madame Alexander dolls lined a shelf on the wall.
“You can sleep in here. Let me grab you something to wear.” He disappeared for a few moments and returned with a nightshirt, obviously his.
“Highly improper nightwear,” he said. “But surely more comfortable than your clothes. I’ll come back in a bit and tuck you in.”
So, he really is going to sleep in another room, she thought with some relief, not sure what she might have done had he thrown temptation in her path. She changed and climbed into the bed. Between the girlish room, the oversized nightshirt, and the fact that Oliver planned to “tuck her in,” she felt very
young again, a little foolish. But the feeling dissolved when he came back to the room in his pajamas and a navy flannel robe, looking vulnerable and sad.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, and she moved over to make room for him. He took her hand in his, pondering it for a moment, looking first at its back then turning it over and tracing a finger along her palm. His mind seemed elsewhere, but the distracted gesture nearly took her breath away.
He looked her in the eyes for a long moment, then leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips.
“I am not going to start this business again, I promise,” he said, pulling back, as if she had been the one to put a stop to it before. “But can I lie here with you for a bit?”
She nodded and made more room. It was a chaste arrangement—Oliver, still in his robe, on top of the covers, and Maren beneath them. He put his arm around her, and gently pulled her toward him so her head rested on his chest. She could hear his heartbeat through the flannel and detected the faint smell of alcohol on his breath.
“Thank you, Maren. For coming here tonight,” he said, his voice lazy. In moments he was asleep. Maren listened to his even breathing. She still felt uncertain, no idea of anything beyond this evening, but she was glad she had been with him on this terrible night, glad he had needed her. For now, that was enough.
In the middle of the night, Oliver woke with a start and Maren woke with him. He sat up and looked around the room. She watched his expression change from confusion to sadness, seeming to freshly recall why he was there, what had happened.
When he turned to her, his face softened, as if he had just become aware of her presence. He lay down again and pulled her toward him.
“Maren. Maren, you’re here.” His voice was sleepy. He pulled her closer still. Before dropping off, he murmured, quietly but unmistakably, “I love you.”
She was stunned, not certain whether he was even truly awake. Within seconds, he was snoring gently.
It took her much longer to fall asleep.
* * *
The gray dawn light peered through the blinds and cast striped shadows on the bed. Oliver was not there, but his words rang in her ears. She rubbed her eyes.
In a few moments he entered the room, fully dressed, and sat down on the bed next to her. Something in his appearance and demeanor sent a cold chill up her spine.
“Hi,” she said tentatively.
“Hi, Maren.” He looked drawn and tired. “I’m afraid I didn’t behave well last night.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think I was a little bosky, as my father might say.”
Maren’s uneasiness increased. Was he referring to his words in the middle of the night? Perhaps he didn’t remember. There was something formal, almost nervous in his tone. He was so hard to read on the best of days, and this was certainly not one of those.
“I wish I didn’t have to leave,” he said. “God knows, how I wish that.” He looked away.
“I understand. I’ll get up now, Oliver.”
“They have someone who cleans, Maren, so don’t bother with the room,” he said as he left her. Maren dressed, then hurriedly stripped the bed and pulled the coverlet neatly into place, too much her mother’s daughter to leave it otherwise. She found Oliver in the hallway downstairs, holding her coat. She took it and gave him his pajamas in exchange. He tossed them on top of his suitcase at the foot of the stairs.
“I will be thinking of you, Oliver. I am so sorry,” she said, taking his hands and looking up at him.
“Thank you for everything, Maren,” he said in a formal tone. He leaned down to give her a kiss on the cheek. “I feel terrible I haven’t a car to take you back to the hospital.”
Maren brushed aside his concern and moved toward the door. Oliver opened it for her, and she walked out into a gloomy morning, the air damp and cool, the sky the color of slate, almost indistinguishable from the pavement. There was no one about.
She started down the street, miserable for Oliver and his loss, for all the horrid losses that just kept coming and coming, and miserable on her own behalf, though she felt selfish for it. That moment in the middle of the night had raised her hopes of him back to their formerly stratospheric level, and the chilly good-bye had sent them plummeting back to earth. She wanted only to get back to her warm room, to put her nose in a book and forget.
She was several blocks away before she heard a voice and turned to find Oliver jogging toward her with his graceful gait. She assumed she had forgotten something back at the house and looked instinctively at her arm to see that her handbag was, indeed, hanging from it.
“Maren…” he said as he caught up with her. “Maren, I can’t say good-bye to you like this.”
She looked at him curiously.
“There is something I have to say.”
Maren dreaded the words that might be coming. Perhaps he wanted to explain his coldness, or the brunette. She cast her eyes down, not sure she could bear it.
“I have no right to do this. This might be the most selfish thing I’ve ever done, and I am sure I am putting you in the worst possible position. You deserve so much better, but I can’t wait another moment.”
Maren looked up again. Whatever was coming did not sound like what she had feared.
“Maren, will you marry me?”
She looked at him, stunned, her mind turning over all the possible explanations, other than the one she hoped for but refused to believe. Did he think she had been compromised in some way by spending the night? She wouldn’t have thought his sensibilities were so old-fashioned, but once again, what did she know?
“Won’t you please tell me you will think about it, at least?” He sounded earnest, but Caroline’s words came back to her.
“But Oliver, you can’t. Your family…” She closed her eyes against the pain of the conversation she thought they must have. When he didn’t respond, she opened them again and peered up at him.
He looked confused, but then an awareness appeared to dawn in his eyes. He took a step closer, so he was right before her. He lifted her chin with his finger, forcing her to look him in the eye.
“What about my family?” Oliver enunciated each word, a new firmness in his tone. She hesitated a moment. How could she put this?
“I just … I heard Caroline Sturgeon say something. It sounded like they had, that your mother has, well, other expectations for you. And Caroline had seen you with someone else.…” Her voice trailed off.
He paused, his expression incredulous. “Let me see if I have this right. You’ve been avoiding me all these weeks because Caroline Sturgeon, of all people, said you weren’t good enough for my family? For my mother?”
“I suppose.” Her voice was tentative. She didn’t understand the wry, almost angry look on his face.
“Maren,” Oliver said, his voice filled with conviction. “Let me assure you in the strongest possible terms that Caroline Sturgeon, in addition to evidently being a wretched person, is completely wrong.”
He put his hands over his face and sighed. Finally, with what seemed like supreme effort, he looked up. His eyes still looked tired, but his expression was tender.
“Maren, I am blundering terribly, I’m sure. I am dreadful at this. I wish I had the right words, but you must hear me. You must know. I have loved you from the first moment I saw you.”
She shook her head, still unwilling to believe.
“Yes, Maren, that moment is imprinted on my mind like no other in my life. You were treating that soldier, the one injured at Ardennes.”
Oliver must have seen her soften, because his words came more forcefully.
“I had no reason to look over that soldier’s chart. I approached his bed just to speak to you. When we sat together in the arbor that night after the pictures, I wondered how it was possible that someone so beautiful could also be so kind and clever and funny. You were like a miracle, and I’ve thought it more every time I have seen you. The last weeks have been an agony. Please, you must
believe me.” He looked almost anxious now. “You are the only beautiful thing now, the only beautiful thing.”
A tear fell down her cheek.
“Please, Maren? Please, will you at least consider it?”
In that moment, Maren realized her heart had been whispering to her for some time, though in her doubt and uncertainty, she had not dared listen. She heard it now, though, clear as a bell. This is what you hoped for, her heart told her. This is what you want.
She smiled and stepped forward to close the gap between them, pressing her now damp face against his chest.
“Yes, Oliver. I will marry you.”
CHAPTER SIX
August 1994
Haven Point
SKYE
Skye spent the flight to Portland alternating between moodily staring out the plane window and complaining to Gran about all she was missing out on.
She secretly hoped Gran would lecture her about keeping her mom’s drinking a secret, because she had planned some really great comebacks. (Her favorite was “Every time my mom messes up, I’m the one who gets punished!” She’d felt a rush of furious satisfaction when she came up with that one.)
Gran didn’t scold her, though. In fact, she agreed with all Skye’s complaints, and sometimes even kicked them up a notch. If Skye said something was unfair, Gran would say it was so unfair.
It was late when they finally reached Haven Point, so Skye went straight to bed. Early the next morning, she was awakened by the sound of an engine. She opened one eye and looked out the window to see a lobster boat idling just offshore. For a few minutes, she watched the lobstermen in their orange oilskin jumpsuits as they pulled in their traps, and felt a tickle of pleasure at the cool air. When the lobster boat motored off, Skye tucked herself further under the covers and fell back asleep.
When she woke up later, it was raining, which reminded her she was supposed to be crabby. Skye grumbled about the weather at breakfast, but once again, Gran just sympathized. Skye finally gave up. Trying to get a rise out of Gran was not worth the effort.
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