“But they can be forgiven. And no one wants you to leave. We know… I know you had to leave your home once before. In Port Terryton. I know about what happened there. The police, the lawsuits, the courts… Miss Telyegin, you've got to see that if you move away and start over again and if you encourage rats to live on your property again… Don't you see that you'll just be back where you started? No one's going to let you choose rats over people.”
“I will not do that again,” Anfisa said. “But I cannot stay here. Not after what has happened.”
“Just as well, darlin',” Ava Downey said over her gin and tonic. Eight months had passed since the Night of the Rats, and Anfisa Telyegin was gone from their midst. The neighborhood had returned to normal and the new occupants of 1420—a family called Houston with an attorney husband, a pediatrician wife, a Danish au pair, and two well-scrubbed children of eight and ten who wore uniforms to their private school and carried their books to and from the car in neat satchels—were finally doing what the local inhabitants had long desired. For weeks on end, painters wielded their brushes, wallpaperers carried rolls into the house, wood finishers sanded and stained, drapers created mas-terworks for the windows… The chicken coop was carted off and burnt, the ivy was removed, the picket fence was replaced, and a lawn and flowerbeds were planted in front of the house while an English garden was designed for the back. And six months after that, Napier Lane was finally designated A Perfect Place to Live by the Wingate Courier, with 1420 the house that was chosen to symbolize the beauties of the neighborhood.
And there was no jealousy over that fact, although the Downeys were rather cool when the rest of the neighbors offered the Houstons their congratulations on having 1420 selected by the newspaper as the model of domiciliary perfection. After all, the Downeys had restored their own house first and Ava had from the beginning been so kind as to offer her expertise in inte rior design to Madeline Houston … No matter that Madeline had chosen to ignore virtually all of those suggestions, common courtesy demanded that the Houstons decline the pictorial honor presented to them, passing it along to the Downeys who were—if nothing else—mentors to everyone when it came to restoration and interior decoration. But the Houstons apparently didn't see it that way, so they posed happily at the gate of 1420 when the newspaper photographers came to call and they framed the subsequent front page of the Wingate Courier and placed it in their front hallway so everyone—including the green-eyed Downeys— could see it when they came to call.
So “Just as well, darlin',” was said with some mixed feelings by Ava Downey when Willow McKenna stopped to chat in the midst of a walk with little Cooper snoozing in his stroller. Ava was sitting in her faux wicker rocking chair on the front porch, celebrating a warm spring day with her first outdoor gin and tonic of the season. She was referring to the departure of Anfisa Telyegin from their midst, something that Willow herself hadn't quite come to terms with, despite the advent of the Houstons who—with their children, their au pair, and their commitment to home improvement—were so much more suited to Napier Lane. “C'n you imagine what we'd be goin' through right now if we hadn't taken steps to deal with the problem?” Ava asked.
“But if you'd seen her that night…” Willow couldn't remove from her mind the image of the Russian woman as she'd been on her knees, weeping in the ivy. “And then to learn about what the rats meant to her… I just feel so—”
“Extended postpartum,” Ava said. “That's what this is. What you need is a drink. Beau! Beau, honey, you in there, darlin'? Fix Willow here—”
“Oh no. I've got to get dinner. And the kids're alone. And… It's just I can't stop feeling sad about it all. It's like we drove her off, and I never thought I'd do something like that, Ava.”
Ava shrugged and rattled her ice cubes. “All for the best,” she noted.
What Leslie Gilbert said darkly was, “Sure Ava would feel that way. Southerners are used to driving people off their property. It's one of their sports.” But she said this mostly because she'd watched Ava zero in on Owen at the New Year's Eve party. She hadn't yet forgotten that they'd used their tongues when they'd kissed, although Owen was still denying that fact.
Willow said, “But she didn't need to leave. I'd forgiven her. Hadn't you?”
“Sure. But when someone's ashamed… What're they supposed to do?”
Ashamed was how Willow herself felt. Ashamed that she'd panicked, ashamed that she'd tracked down Anfisa's previous residence, and ashamed most of all that, having tracked down the truth in Port Terryton, she hadn't given the Russian woman the chance to rectify matters before the men acted. Had she done that, had she told Anfisa what she'd unearthed about her, surely Anfisa would have taken steps to make sure that what had happened in Port Terryton didn't happen in East Wingate.
“I didn't really give her a chance,” she told Scott. “I should have told her what we intended to do if she wouldn't bring in the exterminators. I think I should tell her that now: that what we did was right but how we did it was wrong. I think I'll feel better if I do that, Scott.”
Scott McKenna thought no explanations to Anfisa Telyegin were necessary. But he knew Willow. She wouldn't rest until she'd made whatever peace she felt she needed to make with their erstwhile neighbor. He personally considered it a waste of her time, but the truth was that he was so caught up in meeting the needs of—praise God—the twelve clients he had now at McKenna Computing Designs that he really didn't do more than murmur, “Whatever you think's right, Will,” when his wife at last mentioned going to see Anfisa.
“She was in prison,” Willow reminded him. “In a concentration camp. If we'd known that at the time, I'm sure we would have done things differently. Wouldn't we?”
Scott was only half listening, so he said, “Yeah. I guess.”
Which Willow took for agreement.
It wasn't difficult to trace Anfisa. Willow did it through the community college, where a sympathetic secretary in Human Resources met her for coffee and slipped across the table to her an address in Lower Waterford, one hundred and fifteen miles away.
Willow didn't take Leslie Gilbert this time. Instead she asked if she would baby-sit Cooper for a day. Since Cooper was at the stage where he slept, ate, eliminated, and spent the rest of the time cooing at the mobiles above his crib, Leslie knew that she'd not be distracted from her daily intake of talk shows, so she agreed. And since she'd been looking forward to the topic of the day on her favorite show—I Had Group Sex With My Son's Friends—she didn't ask Willow where she was going, why she was going there, or if she wanted company.
This was just as well. Willow wanted to talk to Anfisa Telyegin alone.
She found Anfisa's new house on Rosebloom Court in Lower Waterford, and when she saw it, she felt a new onslaught of guilt, comparing it to her previous homes both in Port Terryton and on Napier Lane. Those houses were both historical properties. This was not. They had been reflective of the time period during which they'd been built. This was reflective of nothing more than a tract-home designer's desire to make as much money as he could from as little creative effort as possible. It was the sort of place families had moved into in droves after World War II: with stucco walls, a concrete driveway with a crack down the middle from which weeds grew, and a tarpaper roof. Willow's spirits sank when she saw it.
She sat in her car and regretted everything, but most of all she regretted her propensity to panic. If she hadn't panicked when she saw the first rat, if she hadn't panicked when she found the droppings in her vegetable garden, if she hadn't panicked when she learned about Anfisa's trouble in Port Terryton, perhaps she wouldn't have condemned the poor woman to life in this dismal cul-de-sac with its barren one-tree lawns, its warped garage doors that dominated the house fronts, and its patchy, uneven sidewalks.
“It was her choice, darlin',” Ava Downey would have said. “And let's not forget the chicken coop, Willow. She didn't have to encourage rats to take up residence in her yard, now, did she?”
This last question resonated in Willow's mind as she sat in front of Anfisa's house. It prompted her to recognize that there was more of a difference between this house and the last house than was described by the structure itself. For unlike the house on Napier Lane, this yard had no ivy anywhere. Indeed, it had nothing in which a rat could live. All it comprised were flowerbeds neatly planted with neatly trimmed shrubs and a front lawn clipped as smooth as an ice rink.
Perhaps, Willow thought, it had taken two houses and two neighborhoods in an uproar for Anfisa Telyegin to learn that she couldn't share her property with rats and hope to go unnoticed.
Willow had to make sure that some good had come of what had happened in her neighborhood, so she got out of her car and crept quietly up to the backyard fence to have a look. A chicken coop, doghouse, or toolshed would be a very bad sign. But a glance over the fence to the patio, the lawn, and the rosebushes proved that no habitat for rodents had been provided this time around by the Russian woman.
“Sometimes people've got to learn their lessons the hard way, Willow,” Ava Downey would have said.
And it certainly looked as if Anfisa Telyegin had learned, hard way or not.
Willow felt somewhat redeemed by what she saw, but she knew that full absolution wouldn't come until she assured herself that Anfisa was doing well in her new environment. Indeed, she hoped that a conversation with her former neighbor would evolve into an expression of gratitude from Anfisa to the Napier Lane residents who'd managed—however dramatically—to bring her to her senses. That would be something that Willow could carry home to her husband and her friends and thus redeem herself in their eyes as well, for she, after all, had instigated everything.
Willow knocked at the door, which was sunk into a small, square entry defined by a single concrete step. She felt a twinge of concern when a window curtain on the entry flicked, and she called out, “Miss Telyegin, are you home? It's Willow McKenna,” with the hope of reassuring the woman.
Her greeting seemed to do the trick. The door cracked open three inches, revealing a shaft of Anfisa Telyegin from head to toe.
Willow smiled. “Hello. I hope you don't mind my dropping by. I was in the area and I wanted to see…” Her voice drifted off. Anfisa was looking at her with no comprehension at all. Willow said, “Willow McKenna? Your next-door neighbor on Napier Lane? D'you remember me? How are you, Miss Telyegin?”
Anfisa's lips curved suddenly at this, and she stepped away from the door, roused by the mention of Napier Lane. Willow took this movement for permission to enter, so she gave a little push to the door and went inside.
Everything seemed fine. The house was as neat as a surgeon's brain: swept, dusted, and polished. True, there was a slightly peculiar odor in the air, but Willow put that down to the fact that none of the windows were open despite the fine spring day. The place had probably been closed up all winter with the heater sealing in everything from cooking odors to cleaning scents.
“How are you?” Willow said to the older woman. “I've been thinking about you for quite a long time. Are you working in a college in this area now? You're not commuting down to East Wingate, are you?”
Anfisa smiled beatifically “I am well,” she said. “I am so well. Will you have tea?”
The relief Willow felt at being greeted so warmly was like a down comforter on an icy night. She said, “Have you forgiven me, Anfisa? Have you been able to truly forgive me?”
What Anfisa said in reply couldn't have been more of a comfort had Willow written the words herself. “I learned much on Napier Lane,” she murmured. “I do not live as I lived then.”
“Oh my gosh,” said Willow, “I am so glad.”
“Sit, sit,” Anfisa said. “In here. Please. Let me make tea.”
Willow was only too happy to draw a chair from the table and watch as Anfisa bustled contentedly around the kitchen. She chatted as she filled a kettle and pulled teacups and saucers out of a cupboard.
This was a good place for her to settle, Anfisa told Willow. It was a simpler neighborhood, she said, more suited to someone like herself with simpler needs and simpler tastes. The houses and yards were plain, like her, and people kept mostly to themselves.
“This is better for me,” Anfisa said. “It is more what I am accustomed to.”
“I'd hate to think you consider Napier Lane a mistake, though,” Willow said.
“I learned much about life in Napier Lane,” Anfisa told her, “much more than I have learned anywhere else. For that, I am grateful. To you. To everyone. I would not be as I am this moment if it were not for Napier Lane.”
And how she was at this moment was at peace, she said. Not in so many words but in her actions, in the expressions of pleasure, delight, and satisfaction that flickered across her face as she talked. She wanted to know about Willow's family: How was her husband? Her little girl and boy? And there was another small one, wasn't there? And would there be more? Surely, yes, there would be more, wouldn't there?
Willow blushed at this last question and what it implied about Anfisa's intuition. Yes, she admitted to the Russian, there would be more. In fact, she hadn't told her husband yet, but she was fairly certain that she was already pregnant with the fourth McKenna.
“I hadn't intended it to be so soon after Cooper,” Willow confessed. “But now that it's happened, I've got to say I'm thrilled. I love big families. It's what I always wanted.”
“Yes,” Anfisa smiled. “Little ones. How they make life good.”
Willow returned the smile and felt so gratified by the reception that Anfisa was giving her, by Anfisa's every exclamation of pleasure over each piece of news Willow imparted, that she leaned forward and squeezed the Russian woman's hand. She said, “I am so glad I came to see you. You seem like a different person here.”
“I am a different person,” Anfisa said. “I do not do what I did before.”
“You learned,” Willow said. “That's what life is about.”
“Life is good,” Anfisa agreed. “Life is very full.”
“Nothing could be better to hear. This is like music to my ears, Anfisa. May I call you that? May I call you Anfisa? Is that all right? I'd like to be friends.”
Anfisa clasped Willow's hand much as Willow had just clasped hers. “Friends,” she said, “yes. That would be good, Willow.”
“Perhaps you can come to East Wingate to visit us,” Willow said. “And we can come here to visit you. We have no family within five hundred miles, and we'd be thrilled to have you be… well, like a grandmother to my children, if you'd be willing. In fact, that's what I was hoping for when you first moved to Napier Lane.”
Anfisa brightened, put a hand on her chest. “Me? You thought of me as a grandmother to your little ones.” She laughed, clearly delighted at the prospect. “I will love to be that. I will love it through and through. And you—” She grasped Willow's hand once more—“you are too young to be a grandmother. So you must be the aunt.”
Willow said, “The aunt?” and she smiled, although mystified.
“Yes, yes,” Anfisa said. “The aunt to my little ones as I will be the grandmother to yours.”
“To your…”Willow swallowed. She couldn't stop herself from looking around. She forced a smile and went on, saying, “You have little ones yourself? I didn't know that, Anfisa.”
“Come.” Anfisa rose and put her hand on Willow's shoulder. “You must meet them.”
Without wanting her feet to do what they were doing, Willow followed Anfisa from the kitchen to the living room and from the living room down a narrow hall. The odor she'd first smelled when she'd entered the house was stronger here and stronger still when Anfisa opened one of the bedroom doors.
“I keep them in here,” Anfisa said to Willow over her shoulder. “The neighbors don't know and you mustn't tell. I learned so very very much from living as I did on Napier Lane.”
Introduction to
Remember, I'll Always
Love You
This story was one I thought about for a long time. A number of years ago, a friend of mine related to me a situation in which a man had made a “deathbed” declaration of love to his wife that, in context, seemed like nothing that had any resemblance to love at all. My initial reaction to the brief tale was outrage. My secondary reaction was anger. My third reaction was something typical to anyone who is born to write: I thought about what a good story it would make.
The tough part was trying to decide what circumstances in the life of the man and wife in this story would culminate in his final declaration of love for her, not to mention the situation in which he made that declaration. I considered just about everything. I went on a hike in Italy's Cinque Terre and thought about placing the story there. I did the same in the Italian lakes and seriously considered Isola di Pescatori as a perfect spot to place my tale. The only problem was that nothing aside from potential settings was actually coming to me. And you can't exactly write a short story if there is nothing but location to drive it.
Finally, in a conversation with my fiancé, I arrived at the kernel for this story, which was the reason that the husband dies. Once I had that, I was on my way. I sent my assistant to the library and the Internet to gather some information for me and while she did that, I began creating the characters who would people the world of Eric and Charlotte Lawton. I soon saw that I didn't need an exotic location for this story at all. Indeed, I saw that the story would sit well right here in Southern California, in my own backyard.
When I completed my eleventh novel, I finally had the time to write this story. So here it is, my answer to why that unknown man in a tale told me by one of my girlfriends said, “Remember, I'll always love you” to his wife just before he died.
Remember, I'll
Always Love You
Charlie lawton didn't cry at her husband's burial. She'd done her crying already, when it first happened and then at the funeral. In the aftermath of his horrible death, she'd wept buckets and she was all cried out. So she just watched the proceedings numbly.
I, Richard Page 11
