Blue Willow

by Deborah Smith

  “You’ll spend the night on a plane to Los Angeles?”

  “Yes. I’m meeting with an artist there in the morning. Someone I’m hoping to hire to do some design work.”

  Mama said, with obvious wonder in her voice, “This is wonderful. I’m so proud of you. I know you’ll do fine.”

  The stranger laughed, a tired sound, but warm and compelling. Lily inched closer to the window, dying to peek inside. “Do you know what I wish? I wish I could fall asleep on your couch with one of your quilts over me.”

  Lily frowned. Who was he? She felt like a fool, hiding outside the window. Touching her bruised lip, she cringed. It felt even larger.

  “You’re mighty tall to stretch out on our couch now,” Daddy said. “But you’d be welcome. It’s good to see you again. I wish Lily would get here.”

  “I don’t want to miss her,” the stranger said.

  “Can’t miss her,” Mama answered, laughing. “She’s six feet high, and her hair’s still just as red.” Lily heard movement, sounds like a drawer being opened and shut. “Here,” Mama said. “Take this. It’s her yearbook picture.”

  Not that, Lily thought, knotting her hands. Her hair had exploded under the photographer’s lights, and she’d felt so awkward that she’d stared belligerently into the lens with her mouth clamped shut.

  For what seemed like forever, the visitor said nothing. Then he said softly, “She’s everything I pictured her being.”

  Was that good, or bad, and who was he? Lily pressed the heels of her hands to her forehead. She felt raw inside. Next she heard him say, “I shouldn’t have brought her another stuffed bear. She’s not a child anymore.”

  Her hands dropped to her sides. Her heart threatened to explode. Dazed, she dimly heard Daddy say, “She still has the other ones. And I think she has every letter you ever wrote to her too, Artemas.”

  Artemas. Her knees buckled, and she sat down on the ground beneath the window. Her hands shook. She realized she was stroking the hem of his old academy jacket. He’d come back to see her. She had to go inside. She had to know what he looked like, and hug him, and—and she couldn’t.

  Lily cupped a hand over her mouth and bent her head. She couldn’t walk in the house like this—disfigured, smelling of vomit, filled with shame, fear, and bewilderment. But she wanted to see him so badly that her chest seemed to be caving in with emotion.

  She sat there in silent misery, tears sliding down her face, while he continued to talk with Mama and Daddy. She didn’t know how much time passed, or even what he said, exactly. She was caught up in the sound of his voice, the depth and richness of it, the tone of authority and the gentleness.

  Chairs scraped on the hardwood floor. She heard the movement of feet. Her mind cleared a little, and she realized he was telling them good-bye, that he had to leave now or he’d miss his flight. Lily slipped into the darkness beyond the back of the house. She stood around the corner of the porch there, hidden, looking toward the front yard through the porch’s screens.

  She heard the front door open and footsteps on the front porch’s creaking boards. She splayed her hands on the screen and strained her eyes.

  He stepped into view with Mama and Daddy. The sight of him brought a low moan of recognition from Lily, and she bit her injured lip to stifle it. He was perfect. He hugged Daddy, then Mama, then stood with his head tilted back, taking in the sky, shifting his gaze slowly to the creek beyond the house, the willows, then to the house, and finally to her parents again. His expression was troubled; the night breeze lifted his dark hair from his forehead, and he ran a hand over it wearily. A long black overcoat was pushed back from his chest, revealing a rumpled white shirt with the collar unbuttoned and black trousers. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, and his big shoulders hunched. He was saying something to her parents. Mama’s face took on a wistful, sympathetic expression, and she rose on tiptoe, putting both arms around him and hugging him again.

  He walked to his car. Lily cried against the screen, her face mashed to it, her fingers forming claws on the mesh. As he drove away, she stepped away from the house and stood in motionless despair, watching, her hands limp by her sides.

  Stumbling blindly to the creek, she knelt there and rinsed her mouth. The icy water numbed her face but only made her more aware of the ache of shame and loss inside her chest. He was gone, and it was her fault she hadn’t gotten to speak to him. She picked her way back to the barn, retrieved her purse, brushed her hair, then approached the house with halting steps. She would have to lie.

  When she entered, Mama and Daddy turned from the hearth and stared at her. “You’ll never guess—what in the world happened to your mouth?” Mama asked.

  Lily shook her head and feigned disgust. “I was feeding scrap wood into the mulching machine, and it flipped a chunk back at me.”

  Mama moved gingerly, bracing her back with one hand, coming to Lily and laying the other hand along her chin. “You’ve been crying! Oh, sweetie, are you hurt that bad? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. I stopped on the way to wash my face in the creek up near the road.”

  Daddy frowned in bewilderment. “You were walking? Why?”

  “Andy was in a hurry to get home. Had a Bible-study meeting tonight. I told him to let me off at the paved road. I like the woods at night.”

  Daddy’s face relaxed. “You and your rambling. I swear.”

  Mama gazed at her worriedly. “I’ll get you some ice. But we’ve got something to tell you first. Sweetie, I’m sorry you weren’t here. I’m so sorry. Artemas came to see us.”

  Lily listened, struggling to keep her face impassive, as Mama talked about Artemas’s visit. “He wanted to see you,” Mama finished, gazing at her sadly. “And I know you would have loved seeing him. Lily, he’s absolutely handsome. Way over six feet tall and solemn as a banker, but just as nice as he could be.”

  “Aw, I look awful. He’d have run.”

  “Oh, Lily,” Mama said. She put her arms around her and pulled her head to one shoulder. “He wouldn’t have minded. He took your picture with him. He thinks you’re beautiful.”

  Lily’s control shattered. She pulled away, went to her bedroom, and stood with her back against the shut door, crying harshly into her balled hands. Through the glaze of tears she saw the posters of mountains and flowers on the walls, the books jumbled on the nightstand, and the neatly made bed. The new bear propped against her pillows brought a ragged sound from her. Beside it was a spray of red roses wrapped in gold paper. She sat down on the bed, held the roses and the childish bear to her face, and kissed them.

  She felt as if she’d broken some vow to Artemas, lost some precious chance, and that she’d never see him again.

  Eight

  Despite the glitter of a massive chandelier overhead, the potent scent of gardenias in the ornate centerpieces, the clink of crystal wineglasses, the inviting plate of poached salmon in front of him, and the high-powered chatter of more than a dozen of New York’s most elite political couples, Artemas was trying not to fall asleep. The struggle had become a habit over the four years since he’d taken over Colebrook China. Given any moment of relative peace without a calculator or a computer or a sheaf of notes in front of him, his thoughts wandered and his eyelids filled with sand. He wanted to excuse himself and step outside on the room’s balcony for a reviving minute in the frigid air, but the new year’s first snow was falling.

  Marketing reports, management analyses, inventory outlines, and interoffice memos swam lazily in his mind. Senator DeWitt’s oratorical bass voice droned pleasantly from the head of the table, as the senator held forth on the attributes of the recently inaugurated Ronald Reagan. Artemas focused on the heavily engraved sterling fork in his hand and willed it to slice a section from the salmon. A set of delicate, pale fingers appeared on the sleeve of his black dinner jacket. A soft, feminine voice whispered nearby, with lilting humor, “I’ll have someone bring you a cup of coffee.”

  Decorum and
willpower overcame drowsiness. He straightened and looked gratefully at the delicate dark-haired young woman beside him, her solemn, pleasant little face coming into clear focus. Glenda De Witt, the senators only offspring, looked demure, even frail, in a frothy red gown cut high on her thin shoulders. Her unpretentiousness and her intelligence were shown in large pale green eyes that watched him shyly. Her small hand withdrew and settled gracefully on a glass of mineral water beside her plate. The slice of salmon there was plain, dry, and unappetizing. Glenda never complained about her severe diabetes or the regimen it imposed on her life, or the multitude of related health problems that kept her sheltered in the doting senator’s care even now, though she was several years out of an elite women’s college, where she’d majored in French literature.

  “I’ll have to learn more about ceramics and china,” she said, tilting her head at Artemas and watching him with open affection. “So we’ll have something to discuss that will keep you awake.”

  “It’s not your fault. In fact, I let myself doze because I feel so comfortable with you.” He smiled at her gallantly. A blush crept up her thin cheeks. They’d known each other for years, meeting at social functions hosted by the senator, talking easily, finding shared ground in her interest in fine china and his appreciation for her unspoiled nobility. She said with a light laugh, “I doubt the other females you know would consider that a compliment.”

  “I don’t know that many—not in the way you mean. I don’t have time.”

  “I enjoy talking with you. I look forward to it.” She cast a rueful gaze at her spartan dinner and glass of water. “It’s one of my few reckless pleasures.”

  “Tell me about your work with the library foundation.”

  “Really? It’s not nearly as exciting as what you’re doing—the new company you bought.”

  “Industrial ceramics are much less interesting than literature, I assure you. Especially when my main concern is whether adding a small, unknown company to Colebrook China is the first foolish thing I’ve done.”

  “That’s not what Father says. He thinks venturing into industrial ceramics is the smartest thing you’ve done. He’s so pragmatic. You know he judges everything by its usefulness.” Her expression became pensive. “Except me. I’m the only frivolous thing he loves.”

  “You’re not frivolous. The world would be a very dull, narrow-minded place without people who love and preserve books.”

  Her face brightened. She called for the waiter to bring a cup of coffee. When it arrived at Artemas’s place, she bent her head close to his and whispered, “Please stay awake and talk to me. You’re the only reason I’m not falling face-forward into the salmon myself.”

  He laughed and saluted her with a raised cup. She clinked her glass of water to it. Artemas caught the senator watching the two of them shrewdly.

  After dinner, when the other guests were having drinks in the living room, the senator beckoned Artemas into his darkly paneled office and shut the doors. “My daughter adores you,” he said, fitting a pipe into his mouth and flicking a gold lighter over the bowl. As he sucked the flame into the tobacco, he studied Artemas over the blue-gray smoke rising from the pipe’s bowl.

  Senator DeWitt was the perfect media image of a stately politician—white-haired, dignified, tanned, with a jowly, rugged face. A widower for many years, he maintained wily discretion over his personal life, and the only rumors that surfaced about him added to his charm with the public. It was said that he was a favorite with the older women in his gentrified social tribe. It was also said, with fearful awe, that he was the most powerful senator on the Armed Services Committee.

  Artemas suspected that there had been a time, decades ago, when his grandmother and the senator had been more than friends. His loyalty to her in the later years—a platonic loyalty by then, Artemas thought—had never flagged.

  Artemas measured his response carefully. “I think Glenda is one of the most courageous and principled people I’ve ever met.”

  The senator arched a bushy white brow at him and settled in a leather armchair. “That’s a diplomatic answer. You’ve been very kind to her.” He gestured to the chair across from his. Artemas sat down slowly, alert and wary. “I consider her a friend. I don’t pity her, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Good.” The senator laid his pipe on an ash stand and leaned forward, his shrewd gaze boring into Artemas. “You’ve done a remarkable job of salvaging Colebrook China from complete ruin, but its future is far from secure. The smallest setback could destroy all you’ve worked for in the past few years. Industrial ceramics are your only hope of building a solid financial base.”

  “Yes.” The strange segue from Glenda to his struggles to save Colebrook China perplexed Artemas. “I realize I have to expand beyond the china business.”

  “Your youth and your family’s reputation are against you. The competition for military contracts is ferocious. I can make certain that you have the edge you need to survive. It is a question of ruthless survival, Artemas, and if you don’t face that fact, you’ll lose everything.”

  “In time I can—”

  “Work yourself to death and see very little in return for it.” The senator gave Artemas a look filled with deep weariness. “I’ve circumvented the schemes of at least a dozen men who’d like to marry a senator’s daughter. Now, I find myself in the odd position of having discovered one man who’s worthy of her but who isn’t interested.”

  “I like Glenda too much to disappoint her—or to imply a commitment I can’t make.”

  The senator savored his pipe for a moment, his eyes narrowing in thought. “You’ve had your share of women. I know—I’ve checked. A few months here, a year there—faithful devotions, from what I’ve heard, each monogamous, as long as each lasted. You break things off when the women become too serious. It’s not a record that reveals any urge for stability, but nothing that condemns you either. At least you’re honest.”

  “I have all the permanent responsibilities I want, with my work and my brothers and sisters. And now, with the new company—”

  “Typlex Ceramics.” The senator smiled, stroking his pipe stem. “A less scrupulous young man would have no reservations about cultivating my influence over military contracts. Or about using my daughter to win it.”

  “I know that. That’s one reason I’ve avoided Glenda.”

  “My daughter has been deprived of so much she deserves.” The senator stood, clasped his hands behind his back, and went to the fireplace. He scowled down into the flames, looking haggard. “She was only nine years old when we lost her mother. She’s always been restricted and sheltered because of her diabetes. The doctors have told her she’s too frail to bear children.”

  He faced Artemas, and his expression hardened. “I want her to have everything she wants, before—before her health fails completely. And if that includes you, I’ll do whatever is necessary to get you for her.” He paused, watching Artemas closely “Don’t look so shocked, my boy. I was a good friend to your grandmother. I helped her as best I could, and she knew there’d come a time when the favor would be repaid. Now is that time.”

  “You’re asking me to deceive Glenda? To treat her like a fool?”

  “As long as you make her happy, and she never learns the truth. You’ll be faithful to her, and gentle. You’ll treat her the way I want her treated.”

  “My God.”

  “You say you care about her. You imply that you have great respect for her. And certainly, though she’s no beauty and she’s not the most robust young woman in the world, she’s not unappealing to you—physically.”

  “But that’s not enough. It’s not fair to her for you to—”

  “It’s heinous of me to provide my daughter with happiness? Even at your expense?” He shook his head. “What have you got to lose—a haphazard sex life with women who don’t mean very much to you? And in return, I’m offering you the kind of opportunities you cannot turn down. A respected, admired, devoted
wife. An influential father-in-law Most important, a future for your business. Security for your brothers and sisters. A chance to build the dreams your grandmother drilled into you from the time you were a child. Her dreams—the only ones your father and your uncle didn’t ruin for her.” He paused, his eyes becoming colder. “I’m offering you a chance to make a powerful friend, instead of a powerful enemy.”

  Artemas stood, his thoughts jagged, anger and pride battling with the cold determination that had driven him for years. The senator added softly, “You owe me a debt. Pay that debt and you won’t be sorry. I don’t really think you have a choice. If you think you can achieve all you want without sacrifice, then it’s time you learned a lesson about reality. You’re not selling your soul, my boy. You’re only pawning it. Someday you’ll have all the money and power you need to buy it back.”

  Artemas returned late that night to the old warehouse he’d bought and refurbished for Colebrook’s new headquarters. A cold January moon hung over the riverfront. The area was seedy, but developers were moving in to restore it. He’d bought ahead of the rush. Always thinking of the future. He had a large apartment upstairs, above the maze of offices and meeting rooms. James had his own apartment not far from the offices. At twenty-four, only two years younger than Artemas, he was already deeply involved in duties for Colebrook. Cass and the rest still lived at the old brownstone close by. Cass was getting a master’s in art, and the twins were in college—Michael majoring in psychology, Elizabeth in business. Julia was still in high school. Artemas kept tabs on all of them. In time, they’d take their places in his plans. He’d never tell them what he’d done tonight.

  The apartment was spartan, with soaring, steel-girdered ceilings and creaking wood floors. The furnishings were old pieces gleaned from salvage shops—not only because he was frugal, but because he liked them. He lay, fully clothed, on his bed, which was no more than a mattress and springs set on a plain metal frame in the middle of the vast space. A year ago he’d begun smoking to alleviate the boredom of endless paperwork. A full ashtray lay on his chest, a carton of filtered cigarettes beside it. He drank from a bottle of bourbon he’d bought at a package store on the way home.