Blue Willow

by Deborah Smith

  He wouldn’t. He couldn’t, though the need welled up inside his chest. He distrusted emotional confessions. Melodramas were lurid and pointless—he always thought of his parents’ excesses. Outside of his brothers and sisters, Alise was the one person who understood and accepted him the way he was. Maybe he could give her just enough of himself to keep her with him. Losing her suddenly seemed unthinkable.

  “If you’re not happy at college, you ought to leave,” he said. She looked forlorn but not surprised at his abrupt change of subject. “Come home,” he continued. “Enter a college here in New York. You could stay with Cassandra and Elizabeth and Julia until you find an apartment. Elizabeth needs your friendship more than ever, and the brownstone has plenty of room now that Michael has moved to his girl’s place.”

  “No,” she said, her voice weary but firm. “I’m not coming back to fuck you occasionally and wonder how many other women are doing the same thing.” The choice of sharp, obscene words was unlike her, and cast an ugly shadow on what they’d done together all afternoon.

  He moved away, leaned on the counter adjacent to her sitting place, and studied her through narrowed eyes. His heart raced. “All right. You could live here with me. If it doesn’t work out, then”—he shrugged—“no harm done.”

  Shock, then delight, glimmered in her eyes. She dipped her head and scrutinized him from under the wings of slender dark brows, the assessment adoring and deadly accurate. James turned away, flicked a handle on the sink, and scooped cold water into his hands. He splashed it on his face and reached for a towel. The silence grated on him. He felt exposed and cornered. He played by his own rules, and if she wanted to stay, she’d have to accept them. She would stay. He’d do anything to keep her here. Anything except wallow in emotion.

  She slipped off the counter, reached around him, and shut the water off. Taking his hand, she led him back to the bedroom.

  The low droning of the building’s air-filtering system made a constant hum in Artemas’s ears. Whenever he spent several days at the Typlex plant outside Chicago without a break, the low shushing sound crept unpleasantly into his sleep, masked in his dreams as the breath of a faceless monster or the buzzing of a wasp—what some might see as a symbol of threat, unhappiness, or doubt. He preferred to believe the restless dreams came from his concern for the success of Colebrook’s new venture.

  He walked through the ceramics plant beside James, who seemed unfazed by the droning or the loud rumble of huge ball mills grinding clay and other ingredients into a fine dust for mixing into ceramic compounds. The heat radiating from giant kilns wilted their clothes and made beads of sweat on Artemas’s forearms below his rolled-up shirtsleeves. Ties and jackets were ridiculous accessories here; by the end of a long day the plant’s sweat and fine dust gave him and whatever he wore a patina of grime.

  They moved past slurry-mixing vats, stacks of casting molds, and stopped at an enormous rack filled with green-ware waiting to be pushed into the kilns for firing. “There they are—the first shipment,” Artemas said, speaking loudly to overcome the noise. James stepped closer, his hands sunk in the front pockets of his black trousers, and studied the rack with a somber, satisfied expression. It was filled with hollow ceramic nose cones, slender and starkly handsome objects for their size. Each was no more than two feet wide and three feet tall—a small masterpiece of high-tech ceramic science capable of withstanding intense heat and pressure at the tip of a missile while letting the missile’s radar penetrate to track a target.

  Artemas watched his brother’s face closely, wondering if James ever brooded over the ethics. They were helping to create devices of destruction. The missiles that would be sheathed in these nose cones would take lives. But they would also help preserve the peace and balance of power in a chaotic, complicated world. Artemas hated them, but he couldn’t dismiss their necessity.

  “They’re goddamned wonderful,” James called to him proudly. “We’re going to make a fortune.”

  Artemas wasn’t surprised by his brother’s pragmatic attitude. James saw the world in black-and-white terms, a place in which diplomats were less important than generals. Artemas saw it as a maze of contradictions and compromises, filled with sidetracks and dead ends, where pride and principles were always in danger of being lost, and where the maze too often became a prison.

  “I don’t want the others involved in this,” he said abruptly, walking onward. James fell in beside him. “Why not?”

  “Because military applications aren’t what I want our name associated with. This investment is a means to an end. We’ll expand into ceramic components for electronic circuitry and medical hardware. We’ll concentrate on building a secure financial base for Colebrook China. And philanthropy—I want the Colebrook name to be known for humanitarian work—that’s where Michael and Elizabeth belong after they graduate. Cass will always care more about the china company than anything else. Good. That’s where she’ll shine.”

  “And Julia?”

  Artemas almost smiled. “Julia’s a tornado looking for a place to touch down. With her interest in management, it’s just a matter of steering her on the right course. God help anyone who gets in her way.”

  James was silent, his head bowed in thought as they walked. “And me? Where do I fit in?”

  “Here.” Artemas led the way up a flight of steel stairs. They entered the complex of offices on the upper level and halted in an unoccupied hallway there. James faced him. Artemas gestured, indicating the industrial plant below. “If you want this to be your project, then it will be.”

  “I want it. But you’re the one with the connections.”

  “You handle the details. I’ll take care of the politics. I have the patience for negotiations. You don’t.”

  James’s eyes gleamed. “If you can pull in the influence we need to get larger contracts, I’ll make damn sure the rest is a success.” He hesitated, searching Artemas’s face. “You already have it. The senator. He has something to do with this.”

  Artemas turned away, went to a window that looked down on the factory floor, and stood without answering. Behind him, James said carefully, “Are you going to marry Glenda DeWitt?”

  Artemas stiffened. “Probably.”

  “Are you happy with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you consider marrying her if you had a choice?”

  Artemas slammed a fist against the window, pivoted, and stared at James fiercely He’d never disclosed his conversation with Senator DeWitt to any of his brothers and sisters, and he never would. “What are you implying?”

  “That you’re willing to sacrifice your personal life if you have to, for our family’s future.”

  “Don’t ever bring this subject up again. And I’d better not hear questions about it from the others. It’s my business, and doubting my motives isn’t fair to Glenda. She deserves the family’s affection and support. I won’t have any of you resent her or voice doubts about her place in my life.”

  James came to him and put a hand on his shoulder. Stark admiration and acceptance glittered in James’s eyes. “You don’t understand. I’m not questioning your integrity, I’m giving you my support. What’s best for Colebrook International’s future is all that counts. I’ve never doubted that you put the family first. That you’ll never let us down, and therefore we’ll never let you down.”

  “Drop it, I said.”

  James nodded, withdrawing gracefully under the searing threat in Artemas’s voice, but looking no less proud.

  “Sign it,” Aunt Maude whispered, patting Lily’s back in unspoken sympathy.

  Lily’s hand shook. The lawyer’s paneled office loomed around her, dark, too small, too confining. She couldn’t breathe. The stack of contracts and copies on his conference table blurred as she stared at the top page, with its blank line awaiting her signature. She felt Mr. Estes and his lawyer urging her silently, watching her. As if 140 years of MacKenzie history could be sold with an easy movement of the
pen in her clammy fingers.

  She shut her eyes. In her mind she saw herself neatly tearing the contract in half, tossing the pen down, and walking out. On the sidewalk Artemas would be waiting, and he’d say his not coming sooner was due to some innocent misunderstanding, that he’d come to give her a loan and grieve with her for Mama and Daddy. She’d throw her arms around him and be held in return.

  But she opened her eyes, and the contract was still in front of her on the table. Artemas had forgotten her—worse, he’d deliberately ignored her. There was no hope, no more time to stall.

  Her stomach was squeezing into a tight knot. Dazed, she knew she’d humiliate herself by throwing up if she didn’t wrench some willpower together. I’m going to get my home back, someday. And I’ll make Artemas pay for deserting me.

  She stabbed the pen into the thick document, signed it, flipped the page, signed another, then another, until all the copies bore her name.

  “You won’t have to leave for a couple of months,” Mr. Estes said, sounding relieved. “Joe won’t get back here before May.”

  Aunt Maude patted her back. “Then she’ll come and spend the summer with me. And this fall, she’ll start college down in Atlanta. Think about it, Lily—you’ll have all the money you need, after the farm’s debts are paid. Think about that, honey.”

  Lily left the office, ran down a creaking staircase to the door at street level, and burst onto the sidewalk. Gulping air, she swept a gaze around the town her ancestors had founded and named—the small brick courthouse Elspeth’s sons had helped raise the money to build, the library Great-grandmother MacKenzie had fought to secure for the town, the dogwoods around the square, planted by her grandparents.

  She sat down on a wooden bench in front of some shops, absorbing the scene while desolation ached inside her. I sold my family’s history, and its Artemas Colebrooks fault.

  Artemas slipped from bed, walked naked to one of the apartment’s large windows, and opened the blinds, letting the first rays of May sunlight cascade into the dark, vast space. He stood with the stripes of sun and shadow across his chest and face, looking out on the wide, slate-gray river. Stretching before him was a panorama of tugboats, arching steel bridges, and, far across on the opposite banks, industrial buildings and offices spreading in a maze cut by narrow streets.

  Today Elizabeth was moving into an apartment with several friends of hers. Her doctor said she was progressing well enough to leave Cass and Julia. She would return to college during the summer and finish getting her bachelor’s degree. Artemas lit the day’s first cigarette. Elizabeth still refused to discuss the reasons behind the incident with him or anyone else in the family. He had to trust the psychiatrist’s opinion of her emotional health.

  All he could do now was return to a full schedule at the office and try to keep track of Elizabeth as best he could.

  A soft sound came from his bed. He turned and watched Glenda stir sleepily, murmur something, then pull the black coverlet higher on her thin shoulders and settle down again. She looked pale and small in the large bed, a frail companion floating in the center of the large, spartan room.

  There was little raw excitement in their careful couplings; she loved being held and cuddled, she loved talking and listening, and they had long conversations in bed, but her appetites were as delicate as her health. His life with her had the appeal of collecting fragile porcelain figurines. There was undeniable appreciation, but no surprises, no challenge, no sense of the exquisite obsession he wanted to feel for a woman.

  He took a shower and dressed in a dark double-breasted suit, then went back to the bed and sat beside her on the edge, smoothing her fine hair back from her forehead. She smiled, opened her eyes, and cradled his hand to her throat. “I’m going down to the office,” he told her. “Do you mind having breakfast alone?”

  She kissed his hand. “I’ll manage. But I’ve gotten used to having more of your time. I’m a little sorry you’re going back to a full schedule—but glad Elizabeth is doing so well. I’ll go by this morning and see her at the new apartment.”

  “Tell her I’ll come by tonight.” He bent and kissed her lightly. “Don’t forget to take your insulin.”

  “I won’t. I love you for taking care of me. You take care of everyone. I wish I could do as much for you.”

  “You’re my island of peace in the middle of chaos.”

  “Hmmm. Sounds nice.”

  He kissed her again, left her dozing, and exited the apartment through an elevator to the ground floor. Tamberlaine was waiting for him in the hushed, empty offices below. They always started the day with a meeting before any of the employees arrived. LaMieux would be the first, hurrying into the building in an hour or so, charging through stacks of mail and flipping on all the lights. Artemas nodded to Tamberlaine, and they went into Artemas’s office, a room along the back, crowded with bookcases overflowing with technical manuals and marketing reports, a bulky old desk, and several leather chairs. A pot of coffee, two mugs, and a plate of bagels waited on the desk. Tamberlaine always provided this morning ritual.

  “It’s good to have you back at full throttle,” Tamberlaine noted, as he settled in a chair across the desk from Artemas. On his knees he balanced a thick notepad and pen atop a folder bulging with memos. Tamberlaine’s expression was uneasy, a rare sight. “What’s wrong?” Artemas asked.

  “I have something to discuss with you. Something I put off since March, because I thought I’d made the right decision at a time when you needed to be isolated from petty concerns. I was certain I had done what you wanted. Then, a few days ago—well, let me bring in the box I received in Monday’s mail, before I begin.”

  Artemas frowned in bewilderment as Tamberlaine suddenly dumped his paperwork on the desk, then leaped up and walked from the office. When he returned, he carried a bulky cardboard box with packaging tape dangling from the open lid. He sat down with the box on his lap and looked at Artemas somberly. “Have you been writing to someone all these years—a young woman named Lily MacKenzie?”

  Artemas went very still, one hand tightening around the mug he’d been filling. He shoved the mug and coffeepot aside. “Yes. But how—”

  “In recent months have you stopped answering her letters?”

  After a stunned moment Artemas nodded. “I stopped reading them or answering them.” He leaned forward, his eyes glued to the box. Tamberlaine was studying him intently “Was I right to assume, then, that you don’t want any further contact with her?”

  Artemas raised his gaze to the older man’s. “God, don’t tell me she needed to talk to me but couldn’t get through.”

  Tamberlaine looked dismayed. His answer was obvious. In a low, apologetic voice he said, “If I’d known, if I’d had any idea you didn’t intend to avoid her—”

  “What did you do?” He listened in growing alarm as Tamberlaine told him that Lily had tried repeatedly to contact him, and had even come to New York to see him in person. And had been sent away in humiliation. Tamberlaine told him the story she’d given about her parents’ dying, about needing a loan. “She chained herself to a front door,” Tamberlaine finished, his dark face strained with regret. “I thought she was a remarkable but outrageous young woman. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.”

  “She needed money? Her parents died?” He put his head in his hands. Zea and Drew, gone. Lily in grief, alone, desperate for the help he’d always promised to give. “They were killed in a car accident, I believe she said,” Tamberlaine told him in an awkward tone. “I dismissed her story as a dubious invention.” He set the box on Artemas’s desk. “But when this arrived. I felt I had to tell you about it.”

  He opened the box, moved thick wads of newspaper aside, and lifted the antique Colebrook teapot out. Its delicate blue Oriental pattern—the old Blue Willow pattern that had been the foundation of Colebrook China’s early success—stood out in sharp relief against the white porcelain. “There was no message with it,” Tamberlaine added, then said gruffly, �
��I suppose she decided this was message enough. Do you know what it means?”

  Artemas took the old vessel carefully. “It means goodbye.”

  “Is there anything I can do, anything to help—”

  “Get me the first flight available to Atlanta.”

  Eleven

  Lily shoved another bale of hay atop the stack that was slowly filling the barn’s loft. Cracks between the barn’s weathered old boards let sunlight inside. The cows and their new calves could be heard shuffling around in the hallway before. They’d come in from the pastures in the hope of getting handouts. The loft was warm and pungent with the scents of the hay; the old wood, and the sweet spring air curling in through the open door at the front. It was a place she knew as well as her own bedroom, a place where she’d played and worked and daydreamed since she was old enough to climb the creaking ladder from the dirt floor of the hallway below.

  She wasn’t going to turn the farm over to Joe Estes next week with the hay sitting outside as if it didn’t matter. His father owned the farm now—the fields, the house, the barn, the cemetery, the creek, the willows, the cattle, the hay.

  Daddy had ordered the load of hay months ago. When it had arrived this morning in the midst of her packing, she’d stared at it in despair. How could he and Mama be gone if their plans were still in motion? She’d sat on the porch for a while, her head in her hands, unable to overcome the grief. Then she’d laced ankle-high work boots to her feet, stuck a pair of gloves on her hands, and gone to work.

  If she had to leave, she’d leave with pride. Neither Joe nor anyone else would say the MacKenzies had given up their pride when they’d lost this place.

  Dust and sweat streaked her face. Bits of hay were caught in the braid of hair pinned loosely at the nape of her neck. Her hands were sore inside their leather gloves from gripping the coarse twine around the bales. Red blotches and scratch marks from the hay dotted her bare arms and legs. I should have put on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt Daddy will fuss at me for not—