Fiona Range

by Mary McGarry Morris

  He shook his head in exasperation. “What this is doing to Rudy! What do you think it’s doing to me?” he said, voice raw with a startling bitterness. “She keeps begging me to wait. ‘Please wait,’ she says. She can’t stand the thought of hurting him or upsetting her parents.”

  “Maybe what she can’t stand is having to make a commitment to either one of you.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” he said, shaking his head as if to dislodge dust and doubt. “Sometimes I think she’d live here forever if she could. Because then she’d only have to be one thing—a dear, devoted daughter.”

  Voices swelled with the opening door. Fiona felt drained. Her only concern was Elizabeth. That’s all. She didn’t enjoy any of this. Not a bit of it. Of course she didn’t. All she wanted . . . all she wanted—she didn’t want anything, she thought, looking around, trying to see where Rudy had gone. He had to tell her something. She moved from room to room, smiling and nodding at anyone who looked her way, but now they stayed clumped in their little groups and had no interest in anything she might have to say. But if she could only find Rudy it would be all right, and this pounding in her chest would stop. Her throat was so dry it hurt. She got a beer from the bar and drank most of it standing there, but the hard tight throb stayed with her.

  The Matleys were still with Elizabeth. George headed in their direction. Ginny and Susan were talking to the lieutenant governor’s wife and one of the two female judges from her uncle’s courthouse. She never knew which was which and they were both here tonight.

  She came down the hallway and saw Lucretia Kendale talking to the heavy-set man she hadn’t recognized earlier. It was Stanley Masters, she realized now as she joined them.

  Though Lucretia Kendale lived next door, her elegant old house was a good two miles down the road. Well into her eighties she still dyed her long, wavy hair a dramatic bluish black. She leaned on a mahogany cane, looking top-heavy with her thick false eyelashes, full crimson lips, and deeply rouged cheeks. Lucreita owned most of the land for miles around. The better part of her visitors these last few years were couples who had been driving by or builders hoping to buy house lots, or a few acres, or even, as she was now trying to tempt Stanley Masters, “the whole kit and kaboodle.”

  Most local developers knew this cat-and-mouse game was Lucretia’s amusement. It afforded her hours of earnest discussion in which she provided her “guests” with leisurely tours of the house and grounds along with the detailed history of her colorful life. Closets would be opened, old gowns held up, feathered hats swept on. Her photograph albums were always strategically placed on the tables and sofa cushions. It was with genuine eagerness and delight that she served her visitors brewed tea and cookies. None would have guessed that once, in a busier, more socially selective time, her dogs would have been set upon them without the slightest qualm. These visits would be followed by the further diversion of legal consultations while she mulled over the offers and counteroffers she had no intention of accepting.

  Lucretia scribbled her number on a cocktail napkin. “And please bring your wife,” she said, handing it to Masters.

  “Mrs. Kendale,” Fiona said, “would you actually want a bagel warehouse in your backyard?”

  “I happen to like bagels very much,” Lucretia said. “In fact, when I was younger I was probably one of the few in my crowd who had ever even eaten a bagel. You see, in those days they were considered quite Jewish. Which obviously,” she added with only the briefest look of concern at Masters, “meant nothing to me.”

  “Mrs. Kendale was always ahead of her time,” Fiona said.

  “It’s the zoning,” Masters said, easing away. “With all the trucks, I need industrial.”

  “Trucks,” Lucretia mused, fanning imaginary fumes. “Well, you and your wife can come look, but I don’t know about trucks.”

  “Nice talking with you.” Masters turned to go.

  “I know where there’s land!” Fiona said quickly. “I think it’s just what you’re looking for. I’m not sure exactly how many acres, but I know it’s quite a few. And it’s right near the Industrial Park, so it must be the right zoning.”

  “Well, not necessarily, but anyway, where is it?” he said, stepping back.

  “Do you know Patrick Grady?” she asked, undeterred by his weary nod. This could be just the boost Patrick needed. That land was only a burden. If he sold enough of it he could fix up his house, buy a new car, assuage his bitterness.

  “Actually, he was one of the first people I went to,” Masters said. “But Grady wouldn’t even let me in the door. He said that land’ll never be for sale.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. I know he needs money,” she said.

  “Just typical Grady from what I hear.” Masters tossed his head back to drain the last of his whiskey.

  “Patrick,” Lucretia murmured. “Oh! You mean Patrick who does my windows. Natalie’s Patrick. What a handsome boy. In fact, what a handsome young couple they were.”

  “Maybe if I talked to him,” Fiona said to Masters. She smiled at Lucretia, who was one of the few people who would ever talk about her mother. “Maybe I could get him to at least consider it,” she added quickly. Uncle Charles was coming toward them.

  “Sure.” Masters shrugged. “But what are you, his agent?”

  “Fiona is most probably his daughter,” Lucretia said with the pluck of old authority. “Not that I ever saw a resemblance. Wouldn’t you agree, Charles?” she said as he joined them. She stared at Fiona, studying her face. “To me you were always the picture of your mother. Her mother, Natalie Range,” she informed Masters, “was without doubt the peppiest, prettiest girl in Dearborn.”

  “I always thought you were the prettiest girl in Dearborn, Lucretia.” Uncle Charles bent to kiss her pancaked cheek.

  “No small compliment, coming from the most handsome man in town,” Lucretia said at his ear. She grabbed his tie to keep him near. “Remember, Charles, all you have to do is call. My bag is always packed, ready and waiting.”

  Fiona burst out laughing, and her uncle put his hand firmly on her shoulder.

  “Well, Stan,” he said. “I see you’ve met our neighbor here. Lucretia Kendale, the incorrigible siren of Timony Road.”

  “Yes,” Masters said, “and your daughter here was just saying how she could maybe talk to Patrick Grady for me about selling some of that land of his.”

  “Fiona is my niece,” Uncle Charles said slowly. “Her mother and Arlene were sisters.”

  “Which they still are,” Fiona interjected.

  “Natalie Range, a beautiful girl,” Lucretia was telling her elderly lady friend who had just joined them. She had her martini in one hand and a plate heaped with food in the other. “Shiny black hair. Big, dark eyes. That milky white skin you never see anymore. Stunning, really.”

  “Oh, I remember her. Arlene’s sister. The pretty one,” the lady friend said, nodding.

  “Here, let me hold that and then you can eat,” Uncle Charles interrupted, taking the plate and holding it out for both women to eat from while he continued talking. “Stan and I are co-chairmen of the Y’s building fund drive. Though I’m embarrassed to admit that he’s been doing the lion’s share of the work. Now that’s something you’d probably be interested in, Lucretia.” He turned to Masters. “The Kendale family was instrumental in getting the original Y built in Collerton.”

  “I could use all the help I can get,” Masters said. “Same with the Grady thing,” he said with a nod at Fiona. “Go ahead, talk to him, to your father. And tell him I consider that premium land. Very, very premium.”

  “I will!” she said, grinning in spite of her uncle’s glare. “That’d be great!”

  “I don’t think so,” Uncle Charles said, his grip tightening on her shoulder. “Patrick’s not interested in selling. He never has been.”

  “But he needs the money,” Fiona said as the two ladies wandered away from the empty plate her uncle still held. She looked at him. “He
can’t even pay the taxes on it.”

  “I’d certainly pay him what it’s worth,” Masters said excitedly. “Ever since I came here I’ve had my eye on that land.”

  “Actually it’s mostly all ledge out there,” her uncle confided. “The drainage is a horrible problem. And from a legal standpoint the quarry’s a huge liability. It’s an accident, a tragedy just waiting to happen. I hate to even think what a suit like that could cost.”

  Masters nodded thoughtfully. “I never did walk it. The way it’s posted I didn’t dare.”

  “But you could drain the quarry,” Fiona said, ignoring her uncle’s cold stare. “They were talking about doing that a few years back.” She gave Masters a quick synopsis of Larry Belleau’s accident.

  “The cost of draining the quarry would be absolutely astronomical,” her uncle interrupted. “Which is precisely why it wasn’t done then.”

  “Except,” Masters said, waving his index finger back and forth, “there’s probably cheaper ways to do it now.”

  “Yah!” Fiona said, as if she already knew exactly what the ways were. “It’d be a whole lot cheaper now.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” her uncle said, turning so that he stood between her and Masters. “Grady’s had proposals in the past, and so far he’s always been adamant. But who knows, maybe this time it’d be different. If you’d like I can . . .” His voice trailed off as the two men walked into the hallway.

  Fiona was trembling. Sweat trickled down her back. She hated him. This was the way she’d always been treated. By him, by all of them. She didn’t belong here, she thought, watching Susan surrounded by an admiring group of Aunt Arlene’s friends. Susan was clever and accomplished. Quality attracted quality. Like the best linen and china, she was sure to be brought out for special occasions, while everyone had to keep a close eye on Fiona, the wobbly chair that could collapse at the worst possible time.

  “Fiona?”

  She turned, startled.

  “I was just talking to a neighbor of yours,” Rudy was saying. “Apparently she owns the last, best house lots in town.”

  “Yes. Lizzie’d love that, right down the road from Mummy and Daddy,” she said, surprised when he laughed.

  “Yeah, I thought of that too,” he said. “But anyway I told her I’m too much of a city boy. She wouldn’t want me as a neighbor. I’d have to cut down all the trees and hot top everything.”

  “And what did Lucretia say? ‘Why don’t you come on over some time and let’s talk about it, you big handsome city boy, you.’”

  He shook his head in astonishment. “That’s exactly what she said.” He looked both ways then leaned close and whispered. “She wants me to be her doctor.”

  “Did she tell you it’s been years since she had a really thorough physical?”

  “My God. How did you know? Wait! Don’t tell me. I was just being propositioned by the neighborhood harlot, wasn’t I?”

  “No, because I’m the neighborhood harlot.”

  “Then you’ve got some pretty savvy competition in that old gal,” he said with a nod in Lucretia’s direction. She was with the lieutenant governor and Crosby, a selectman in town.

  “Oh yah? Why?” Fiona asked, turning back.

  “She knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s got some real moves.”

  “And I don’t?”

  He held up his hands. “I never said that!”

  “Well I don’t. Not anymore, anyway.” She sighed. “So what did you want to talk to me about? You said you wanted to tell me something.”

  “Where did George go?”

  “Somewhere. I don’t know. Where’s Elizabeth?” she added with a shrug.

  “Isn’t there some game called ‘Where in the World is Elizabeth Hollis?’”

  “If not, there should be.”

  “Maybe she’s helping George fix the furnace or something.”

  “Ooh, that was nasty. Or is that just your paranoia kicking in?”

  “Nasty, paranoid, tired; what you see is a complete emotional disintegration taking place right here, tonight, before your very eyes.”

  “I can see tired and paranoid.” She peered up at him. “But I don’t see nasty.”

  “It’s there.” He started to put his hand on her arm, then drew back self-consciously. Instead, he moved closer. “I need to talk to you,” he whispered. “Can we? Please? Right now?”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you? Rudy, what’s wrong?”

  “Me! I looked around a minute ago, and everyone was laughing and talking, and I kept thinking this one thought over and over again.”

  “What was that, the one thought?”

  “That I don’t belong here. I kept thinking, what am I doing here? My God, what the hell am I doing here?”

  “Well, welcome to the club. As a matter of fact, I was just getting the meeting started!”

  “No, I mean it.” He touched her wrist. “I need to talk to you, Fiona, because I’m feeling really screwed up here.” He swallowed hard and tried to smile. “It’s like I’m caught in something I don’t even care about. And then there’s the other part of it that I’m afraid to care about. The part that I can’t have.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “I’ve had some tough situations along the way, but I’ve never been in such a mess as this.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Poor Rudy.” She glanced across the room. Her uncle had just returned and was talking to his old friends the Jorgensons. She told Rudy to leave a moment after she did and meet her at the top of the stairs. His pain filled her with guilt. She never should have brought George here tonight. She leaned over the railing, wondering why her heart was beating this fast again. Why was she so excited? Had George been right? More than the party, was it everyone else’s misery she was enjoying?

  Rudy looked up as she climbed the stairs, and she gestured for him to follow. She tiptoed to the door at the end of the second-floor hallway. Opening it, she gestured again. He followed her up the steep brown-painted treads to the cold, dark attic. She switched on the overhead bulb and saw him blink in surprise at the clutter of boxes and mirrors and pictures and all the old ice skates and roller skates hanging by their lace loops from ancient rusty roofing nails. At the far end of the attic was another door. She switched off the main light and turned on the dim bulb in the large, windowless, cedar-walled closet she and Elizabeth had long ago emptied of woolen storage, declaring it their secret room.

  “We used to play dress-ups here.” She closed the door. “See.” She opened the rickety old rattan hamper and took out a wide-brimmed black hat. She put it on and smiled at herself in the mottled mirror. “This was my mother’s. I used to pretend I was her.”

  “I have to tell you something,” he said now as she extricated a musty white wool shawl from the hamper’s tangle of cast-off clothing.

  “Oh. Poor Rudy,” she said with a shiver, tossing it over her shoulders. It was freezing up here. “I feel so guilty. I should have told you, but I kept thinking she would.”

  “I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing, Fiona.”

  “You’re talking about Elizabeth, right?”

  He shook his head no and his hands flew. “It’s why I wanted to see you before the party tonight. So I could tell you. That is, so I could at least just say it. One time, anyway,” he added.

  “Say what?”

  He stared at her for a moment. “That I love you.”

  “Rudy!”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I apologize. I couldn’t have picked a worse possible time and place, could I? I mean, all this time I’ve been hiding it and denying it and avoiding it, and then tonight I kept looking for you and watching you and every time you’d leave the room, I’d get this sinking feeling inside. Oh God, I’m sorry. This isn’t fair. I shouldn’t be doing this to you. I know I shouldn’t.”

  “Rudy!” she said softly. She took off the hat and sank down onto the cold, damp divan. It sagged with the ancient rusty squeal she remembered. She felt the shawl s
lip down her back, but she couldn’t move.

  “I know.” He held up his hands in a forlorn, hopeless gesture. “I’m so sorry. I know how you feel about Elizabeth and how she feels about you.” He sighed. “But oh God, I know how I feel about you. I’m sorry. But I had to say it.” He started to open the door.

  She got up and threw her arms around his waist and pressed her face into his back. “Don’t leave. Don’t leave,” she kept saying.

  He had to unpry her hands so he could turn around.

  “Please don’t leave. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave,” she begged as he kissed her eyes, her temples, the tip of her nose, the soft underside of her chin, her mouth. He sank onto the divan and was kissing her breasts through her dress. He kissed her arms, her rib cage. Whispering his name, she pressed his head to her belly.

  “Every night I dream of you,” he whispered against her. “I dream of this.” He watched her as his fingertips grazed her flesh, tracing a line down each inner thigh.

  “Rudy. Oh, Rudy,” she moaned.

  “I know. It’s all got to be right first,” he said, getting up and kissing each part of her face again.

  “We’ll make it right. This is my favorite place. It always was,” she said slipping her hands up under the back of his jacket.

  “How could it be? This is the first time you’ve ever touched me.” He laughed in her ear.

  “I meant here. The room. This was our secret place.”

  “Oh. I thought you meant me.”

  “Well, that too,” she said, laughing.

  He leaned back and held her at arm’s length. “But is it all right that I love you?”