by Belva Plain
Chapter Thirty-six
The Lamborghini was worth every dollar it had cost, Jeff thought for the hundredth time. The seat was just right for his long legs and back. The graceful simplicity of its lines and the bright triumphant glint of its yellow paint, the soft silky leather of the interior—all were so absolutely right. He took his seat, pressed the accelerator, and the car leaped forward as if he had spoken to it, as if it had understood his mood, the strange mood that he himself could not possibly have described.
He had driven to his father’s house, to the neighborhood that was quietly decaying next to the river. He had gone to see the old man for . . . what reason? To obtain absolution? To explain?
But there had been no way to make his case with Father—no more than he could with the investigators or the judges, or the lawyers. No one seemed to understand that he had not meant for any of this to happen. JeffSon was not supposed to die like a great gasping beast crashing through the forest, taking everything in its path with it.
“There was nothing I could do, Dad,” he had said as close to tears as he had been since he became an adult. “When everything started going south, I couldn’t stop it. It was like . . . drowning . . . or a car wreck. Everything spiraled out of control.”
“Faustian bargains, Jeffie,” the old man had said, shaking his head. That had been it, that had been the only comfort his father had offered—“Faustian bargains.”
And so Jeff had walked out of the house where there was no comfort to be had and started driving his beautiful, triumphant car. Not south, not back to Wrights town, for there was no comfort there, either. The river appeared at his side; the road ran parallel to it. He thought about the picture that hung in his office, the one of the little girl who was all alone and looking out over this very river. Walter Amburn had painted it and Jeff had bought it. Was that only a few years ago? It felt like a million. Jeff had seen the painting and known he had to have it. That was before he’d gone to Gwen Wright’s birthday party, before he met Jewel who encouraged him to make his millions—and his Faustian bargain.
So, now go, Jeff. Just go to any place that is different. Not to the next town. Not, most of all, to a city. He had seen enough cities. He had seen the world’s cities, from Paris to Shanghai, and he was tired of them. He was tired of people, too, of their faces, their voices, and their unending talk. Their predictions and opinions: Today you should do this. If you do this today, you will get that. If you get that, you will be able to get some more.
I don’t want any more. But maybe I do? Only, I don’t know what. I know I don’t want to go back to that house—my house. To the house that used to be mine. And I don’t want to go back to the woman in that house. The other woman, the woman I wanted, fought to get away from me. She was on the floor at my feet looking up at me with horror in her big smart eyes. I don’t want to go back to the place where she lives. That I do know.
The road was following the river into a gap between two hills in a low mountain range whose name Jeff couldn’t remember.
The river sparkled like one of the diamond tennis bracelets he had bought for Jewel back in the days when it still delighted him to see her joy at his presents. Back when he still cared what happened to him.
But God! He didn’t want to sit in a cell, like a bear at the zoo.
In a cage for years. But the appeal . . . he could afford it, so the lawyers said. Oh, sure! And if it didn’t work? It would be two years, two years of courts, of fear, of sick stomach, dry mouth, staring, cold eyes, so curious. People judging him. Two years.
Two years.
But look ahead, the road is curving up onto the hill. Below it is the sparkling river. All this is so beautiful . . . beautiful America . . . At the top of the hill the road stops at a crossroads; if you go to the north or the south you will find a small city. Like the small city you are trying to escape. To the east is another road and yet another city. But to the west . . . the river will turn, curve, and race away from this place to the real West. The West of beautiful America. Fly to the West with the river, Jeff. Enjoy the day. Love the day. Press hard with your foot.
Race. Feel the cool wind through the wide-open windows of the Lamborghini. Let the sweet air flow in. So cool, so fresh. Faster. Faster.
On the turn, the car leaps over the embankment, plunges, and comes to a final stop in the river below, and there it lies. In the silence, in the silent water.
And the car, with all it contains, lies still. Broken, crushed, and still.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Jeff Henry’s funeral was mercifully simple. For once, it seemed that Jewel had decided to be restrained.
“I’m glad,” Gwen told Stan. “For Jeff ’s sake.” Her husband was silent. “I think about how much Jeff loved music and books . . . the way he’d talk about history and philosophy . . . he had such a fine mind. And you have to admit that he was generous; look at that shelter he started for homeless families. He endowed it so it can go on for years.”
“Good. Maybe some of the people who lost their homes when they discovered their JeffSon stock was worthless can live there.” Stan’s lips tightened in the way Gwen recognized well.
“Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive him?” she asked.
Stan brushed his hair out of his eyes and fixed her with a steady look. “I’ll work on it. But I can’t make any promises.”
* * *
Gwen thought that was the last of the conversations she would have about Jeff Henry. But one afternoon there was a knock on her door. She opened it to see Jewel standing in front of her—a changed and different Jewel. Gone were the gold and diamond bracelets and the big dangling earrings that Cassie said were vulgar. Jewel was dressed in a tweed skirt and cashmere sweater.Her face seemed changed too; there were circles of weariness under her eyes, and a hint of a wrinkle on either side of her mouth. Her hair was still a shiny ebony but she’d bundled it into a knot at the back of her head instead of letting it flow gloriously over her shoulders.
“May I come in?” she asked. Gwen nodded silently and led her into the living room.
“I wanted to say good-bye,” Jewel said, taking over the conversation, as she had the first time she and Gwen met.
“Are you going somewhere?”
“I’m leaving Wrightstown— the house is already sold—and I’m going home. Back where I grew up. Two of my sisters are still living there. Peggy’s husband left her after their third baby was born so I’m going to buy a place and she and the children will come and live with me.”
“That sounds very . . .” Gwen struggled for a word and finally produced one. “Practical,” she said.
“I won’t be alone anymore,” Jewel said. “I realized the other day that I’ve never really put down any roots in Wrights town.”
Then she laughed her big warm laugh. “Hell,” she said, “why did you think I’m here saying good-bye to you? You and Patsy Allen are the only people I know well enough. That’s pathetic.”
Gwen laughed to keep her company. Then Jewel sobered up.
“Do you think he did it on purpose, Gwen?” she asked softly. “I keep telling myself he wouldn’t, that it was an accident, but you knew him so well, better than I did. And I think . . .”
“Don’t think!” Gwen interrupted, and the command in her voice surprised both of them. “My mother always used to say ‘let sleeping dogs lie’ and it used to make me so mad. Now I know that sometimes that’s the only thing we can do. Just live your life and don’t look back, Jewel.”
Jewel nodded and turned as if to go. Then she stopped. “Being jealous is a terrible waste, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Gwen said. “It is.”
Jewel turned again and Gwen walked with her to the door. “If you’re ever up in my neck of the woods,” Jewel said, “check out my new shop. I’m opening a branch of Times Past.”
Epilogue
Cassie drove down the quiet street in Brookside. The little town had been one of the first suburbs of
Wrightstown; a blue-collar community built for the workers at the glassworks.The streets were laid out on a neat grid, with rows of simple, matching houses, interspersed with an occasional row of mom-and-pop stores, and then more rows of matching houses. The stores were not fashionable, and the homes were not new. But the lots on which the houses were built were good-sized, and there was a park with hiking and bike trails nearby.
Cassie reached the house that was her destination. As she always did when she pulled into the driveway, she shook her head and sighed. There were dandelions all over the front lawn, which had gone at least three weeks without being mowed, and a few weeds were spreading on the side of the narrow sidewalk that ran between the house and its immediate neighbor. If it had been Cassie’s place, she would have been on her knees at that moment pulling up the offending vegetation. But the house wasn’t hers. It belonged to Gwen and Stan. Cassie sighed again. Stan did his best to pay attention but after three years of home ownership, in his heart he was still a city boy. He thought like a tenant who rented his home and waited for his super to do the necessary maintenance on it. But if that didn’t bother Stan’s wife, Cassie told herself firmly, then his mother-in-law wasn’t going to say a word. She and Stan had come a long distance; Cassie wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize their new entente. For one thing, Walter would scold her if she did.
She could still remember the day—it had been about six months after the collapse of JeffSon and Jeff Henry’s accident, at least, that was the official word on his car wreck, although some people had their doubts—when Stan had asked if he could come to her office to talk. He’d paced around nervously for several minutes before he’d come to the point. Finally he’d plunged in.
“There’s a house,” he said. “Gwen wants it very much. And I’d like it too, now that we . . .” He stopped himself. “But I’ll let Gwen tell you our good news. The fact is, we’d like to buy this house. It’s in an old neighborhood, but it’s been very well kept up and all the real estate people say it’s a good investment and we wouldn’t lose our money. . . .” He drew in a big breath. “But we can’t afford it. I’m going to go back into business for myself and that’s going to take all the money I got when I sold my shop. Gwen’s book is doing well, but it takes time to build a writer’s career and we want to move in the next few months, before the . . .” He stopped himself again. “But Gwen’ll tell you about that. Right now,” he went on, “we can’t get a mortgage because I’m not making enough. So I was wondering if . . .”
And she’d broken in happily. “I’d love to give you and Gwen the money to buy whatever house you want, Stan.”
“I was hoping you’d let us borrow the money,” he said.
She had learned a lot about this man, because she hadn’t argued that the money would be nothing to her and it would be foolish for them to strap themselves for no reason. It had only taken her a second to say, “Did you want to draw up a formal contract with lawyers or can we just shake hands?”
* * *
Cassie stopped the car in the driveway. One didn’t have to enter Gwen’s home in order to know that there would be very little of either mahogany, Persian rugs, or silver inside. For one thing, people who own such things seldom tolerate weeds and dandelions. The only thing that might possibly link this house to the one in which Gwen had grown up was a line of small red maples at the edge of the front lawn. They seemed to be thriving, Cassie noted as she got out of the car.
The front door of Gwen’s house opened and a small bullet propelled itself across the front lawn to throw itself into her arms. “Grandma!” shrieked two-year-old Stanley Girard, Jr.—aka little Stan.
At the same time, Gwen said from the doorway, “We’ll just be another minute. Big Stan has a new camera that he wants to try today and he’s still fussing with it.” She disappeared again, and little Stan began lobbying Cassie for ice cream.
“A cone, Grandma,” he said. “A cone!”
“You’re incorrigible,” Cassie informed him as she knelt down to hug him. But Little Stan was not to be deterred. He wriggled out of her grasp. “Ice-cream cone,” he said sternly. And even though she knew she shouldn’t encourage him, Cassie started to laugh.
“All right, you win,” she said. “We’ll get an ice-cream cone.”
“Chocolate,” Little Stan specified, wreathed in smiles.
“He plays you like a fine violin,” said Gwen as she joined them. Behind her Big Stan, as he was now called, was walking and fiddling with the camera. The three Girards and Cassie headed for Cassie’s car.
“Walter will join us at the glassworks museum,” Cassie told Gwen. “He just finished painting the background diorama two days ago and he was afraid it wouldn’t be dry in time for the unveiling of the exhibit. But he called me as I was driving over here, and he said it’s fine. He and the curator are setting the figurines up in front of it right now.”
“I loved the sketch he did; it looked exactly like my little refuge on the hill,” Gwen said.
“That’s what it’s meant to be,” said Cassie.
Gwen linked her arm through Cassie’s. “Thank you for doing this, Mother,” she said. “Thank you for exhibiting the New Orleans Group.”
“The figurines are beautiful, people should be able to see them,” Cassie said. “And it’s time for me to grow up.”
Little Stan had run ahead of them, and he’d reached the young red maples at the edge of the property. “Honey, that’s far enough!” his mother called out to him.
He turned, planted himself where he stood, and fixed his mother with a quizzical gaze as if he was trying to decide if he wished to obey her. There was something in that strong little stance and the determined tilt of the little head that reminded Cassie of her father and her grandfather—never mind that there was no direct blood line connecting them all. She could see Little Stan someday taking his place as the head of the Wright Glass works, and living in the Wright house. Neither of those options would ever be right for his mother; Gwen had found her own way. But this little person standing in front of them all . . . well, now, he was a very different story.
Little Stan had decided to comply with his mother’s wishes. He ran to Gwen, who scooped him up in her arms and swung him high. The air was filled with the sound of their laughter.
Cassie watched them. Gwen’s come such a long way, she thought. Such a long, long way. Looking at her now, it was almost impossible to remember the diffident, unhappy girl who had once been jealous of flashy Jewel Fairchild. In spite of herself, Cassie felt her eyes well up.
“Cassie, stand with them,” Big Stan commanded, his camera at the ready.
Cassie blinked back her tears and smiled as she moved close to the child she had rescued so long ago, and that child’s child.
The two women, with Little Stan in Gwen’s arms, stood together in the bright morning sunlight. In front of them was Gwen’s house and the husband who was so very right for her.
Behind them were the red maples Gwen had planted with loving memories of the gardens and forests of her old home.
There was a mechanical whir as Big Stan began taking pictures, freezing this slice of time into pictures which could be copied onto some tangible substance like paper and saved. Over the years, with all the joys and sorrows that would inevitably come, the pictures would be a reminder of this perfect moment.
But Cassie knew she would never need pictures printed on paper. The laughter, and the sunshine, and the love were already tucked away in her mind—and in her heart.
About the Author
BELVA PLAIN lives in northern New Jersey. She is the New York Times bestselling author of Evergreen, Random Winds, Eden Burning, Crescent City, The Golden Cup, Tapestry, Blessings, Harvest, Treasures, Whispers, Daybreak, The Carousel, Promises, Secrecy, Homecoming, Legacy of Silence, Fortune’s Hand, After the Fire, Looking Back, Her Father’s House, and The Sight of the Stars.
Also by Belva Plain
THE SIGHT OF THE STARS
HER FATHER’S HOUSE
LOOKING BACK
AFTER THE FIRE
FORTUNE’S HAND
LEGACY OF SILENCE
HOMECOMING
SECRECY
PROMISES
THE CAROUSEL
DAYBREAK
WHISPERS
TREASURES
HARVEST
TAPESTRY
BLESSINGS
THE GOLDEN CUP
CRESCENT CITY
EDEN BURNING
RANDOM WINDS
EVERGREEN
CROSSROADS
A Delacorte Press Book / December 2008
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2008 by Bar-Nan Creations, Inc.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.,
and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Plain, Belva.
Crossroads / Belva Plain.
p. cm.
1. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 2. Adopted children—Fiction. 3. Married people—Fiction. 4. Family—Fiction. 5. New England—Fiction. 6. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
