by Nan Rossiter
I looked down and slowly pulled one end of the soft terry-cloth belt and watched his face as it came undone. He reached out and gently pushed back the robe, his eyes taking me in as if it was the first time he’d ever seen me.
“I wanted your hand here,” he said, pressing my hand against my abdomen and sending a rush of heat through my body. I nodded and he slowly stood, shifting his weight to his good leg and moving my hands to his hips. He pulled me against him and I felt how aroused he was … and he kissed me again—tasting, teasing—and slid his hands inside the robe.
In the years that followed, I’ve replayed the memory of that night over and over—savoring each moment, feeling his gentle touch, seeing his body in the candlelight, watching our bodies become intertwined … and aching to relive those moments again. Sadly, that’s how life is—the moments are fleeting—in the next breath, they are just memories. And, at the end of our lives, we are left with only that—a collection of memories to warm our hearts, to give us direction, and to offer us a safe haven when the storms of life are overwhelming. But some don’t even have that.
I stayed with David the following night, too, and as I lay beside him in the darkness, feeling the warmth of his body against mine, he opened up about his past.
His father, he said, had been an abusive drunk whose rage was most often directed at his mother. He couldn’t remember a time when it hadn’t been that way—and he couldn’t forget the pain and fear he saw in his mother’s cheerful eyes whenever his father came home. Finally, one night when he was sixteen, his father came in, looking for dinner, and when it wasn’t ready, he began shouting at her. He started to push her around the kitchen; then he slapped her so hard she crumpled to the floor. David saw everything, ran to her, and, in a protective rage, turned and swung at his father with all his might. He landed a punch to his father’s jaw that broke his hand and sent his father reeling, but when he regained his feet, he seethed, “Get the hell out of this house!” But David defiantly refused and his father pushed him toward the open door, causing him to stumble and fall backward down the stairs. His father stormed down after him, kicking him as he stepped over his body. “That’ll teach ya, ya son of a bitch!” David had writhed in pain—his ankle folded unnaturally under him.
His father never came home again—and two weeks later, they found his body floating in the Thames. There was no evidence of foul play, and the police were never able to determine if he had committed suicide or accidently drowned.
David was laid up for months. He dropped out of school and, when he was finally able to get around, he looked for work so he could help his mum pay the bills; but his ankle was never quite right, and no one was interested in hiring a cripple. One day, he saw a Help Wanted sign in the window of a pub in Piccadilly Circus. He leaned his cane in a crook outside and went in—trying his best not to limp. He convinced the owner that he knew how to bartend—after all, he thought, how hard could it be to serve pints of ale and shots of whiskey? The owner was skeptical—but desperate—and hired him on the spot.
It wasn’t long before the pretty blonde he’d seen hanging around the pub driving the busboys crazy came over and introduced herself. Catherine Walker—five years his senior—was the pub owner’s daughter and she’d set her sights on the slender, young man with the solemn dark eyes who tucked a cane under the bar when he worked. Catherine was a good listener, and young David Gilead was lonely. After the pub closed one night, they had a few pints at the bar and he walked her back to her one-bedroom flat on Regent Street.
A month later, Catherine pretended to weep as she revealed to him that she was pregnant, and the next day, her father informed David that he would be marrying his daughter. David never believed he was the father—he knew, for a fact, that Catherine had been with several of the pub’s patrons, but when he suggested the possibility, her father’s face had turned a menacing shade of red. “My daughter was raised in the Catholic Church—and she was as innocent as a lamb before you came along, you bastard. She will not be disgraced! If you ever want to work in this godforsaken town again, you’ll heed my warning!” A month later, Catherine and David were married in a small, quiet ceremony in St. James’s Church. And two months after that, she miscarried.
In his free time, David began to attend life drawing sessions. He had a natural eye for composition, and he quickly learned the importance of light and shadow. The most rewarding discovery, however, was the peace it gave him. One day, an art buyer happened to stop by the studio where the sessions were held. David was cleaning up his area when the gentleman stood in front of his drawing and, out of the blue, offered him more money than he was able to make in a month of bartending. David was on his way—and Catherine would never let him go …
The weeks flew by and, before we knew it, David’s residency was over again. He had filled his pad with drawings and on the day he left, he gave them to me. Neither of us could bear the thought of someone new living in our cabin—as we had come to think of it—but someone did. I was told he was a composer, but he was never outside and he never said hello. I don’t know how he could have possibly composed anything uplifting, so I decided his compositions must be morose and depressing. It was difficult for me to stop at the cabin—so full of wonderful memories—and not go inside, but I clung to the promise that David would be back the following spring and the cabin would be ours again.
For twelve years, David returned to that little cabin in the woods—a place I’d come to cherish—and would love to visit once more in my life. After that last year, both of our lives changed. The girls were getting older—sixteen, fifteen, and thirteen—I had a house full of teenage girls! It was the exact scenario Tom had worried about, but I know he would’ve loved every minute! I’d also set aside enough money, along with the last of Tom’s insurance money, and money from my silent partner—who encouraged me to follow my dreams—to buy a downtown storefront and turn it into a tea shop—a thankful tribute to the endless cups of tea that kept me going all those years!
Although we missed the privacy and opportunity the cabin had given us, we found other ways to be together. It was always important to David that we keep our relationship a secret, and although my heart silently ached because he never publically acknowledged his love for me—I didn’t say anything. If it was the only way I could be a part of his life, I was willing to endure the heartache, but I secretly hoped that we would both live longer than Catherine and a day would come when we could love openly—without shame or guilt.
I wish I’d begun writing these memories down sooner. Sometimes, now, I have flashes when I see clearly in my mind—a smile, a place, or a moment when our bodies were lost in lovemaking—but when I try to assemble these into any kind of order, it seems impossible. I know some of the images in my mind are from photographs—and I’ve often thought that seeing the photographs again would help me remember—but I can’t, for the life of me, remember where I’ve put them.
Some days now, I sit down to write and I become very tired and find it difficult to remember the words I want to use—it’s almost as if the door in my mind is closing and behind it are all the things I’ve ever known. Sometimes, when I feel this way, I lie down and I feel the cool breeze whispering through the open window, rustling the curtains. I hear a cardinal chirping his midday chirp … and the way the sunlight filters into my room reminds me of my childhood—and staying home from school when I didn’t feel well. I remember the melancholy feeling I had, thinking of my classmates running around the schoolyard at recess without me. Oddly, it feels the same way now. I know the world and all its excitement is going on out there—but instead of being a part of it, I lie here—alone and quiet … listening … and wondering if the world will notice when I’m gone.
I’ve been trying to remember our trip to … ? Oh, if I could only find those photographs! I can still see David standing next to the mast of that beautiful sailboat—tan and handsome—his thick dark hair, peppered with gray, blowing in the cool breeze as he looked
out to sea. To think he was mine for the asking!
When I woke up this morning, it felt like Christmas because I suddenly remembered, with vivid clarity, a weekend trip we’d taken to North Conway. After years of traveling back and forth from London to New York—and countless trips to New Hampshire—David had finally decided to build a second home in the States. He and Catherine rarely saw each other anymore—the only proof of their marriage was a slip of paper. The girls were all in college by then and David had been after me to take a ride up to the mountains to see the construction site. I’d agreed, but on the morning he was to arrive, I’d run to the store to pick up a few things. On my way back, the car started to bump along and I couldn’t figure out why. Finally, I pulled over and discovered I had a flat tire! I panicked—David was on his way and I wasn’t there. What would he think? I’d never in my life changed a flat tire before. I didn’t even know where to begin! I suddenly regretted all the days my dad had wanted to teach me but I’d put him off. Why hadn’t I ever taken the time? I opened the trunk and looked at the spare tire. I must’ve looked pretty helpless because the first pickup truck that came along pulled alongside and the young man asked me if I needed help. I nodded and he immediately hopped out. He had the tire changed in no time, but when I tried to pay him, he refused. I said, “Well, I can’t thank you enough,” and I asked him his name. He said his name was Colin; then he said it was the least he could do. I didn’t know what he meant, but before I could ask him, he was gone.
By the time I got home, David’s dark green Land Rover—an accessory he’d purchased to go along with his future life as a country gentleman—was already parked in the driveway. He’d stayed in my bed on numerous occasions by then, so he knew the way, and I found him dozing on the porch. When he heard me, he opened one eye and teased, “Here you are—late again!” I laughed and went inside to quickly pack our picnic; when I came back out, carrying an old hickory basket from MacDowell, he eyed it suspiciously and said, “Excuse me, ma’am, but does that basket belong to you?” I laughed and told him it did indeed!
On our way to the house site, we stopped in North Conway for a bottle of wine and then drove up the long, winding driveway that led to a clearing that was on top of the world! The views were stunning and the air was so clear we could see for miles in every direction. We stood together, breathing in the crisp autumn air and taking in the majesty of the mountains and the dazzling display of crimson, orange foliage against a cobalt blue sky.
David showed me around the property and described the gardens he was planning—from shrubs to ornamental grass and from flowering perennials to fruit trees, he hoped to have a little of everything—including an English rose garden—in memory of his mother—and a tea garden for me! The post-and-beam-style house was still being framed, but you could tell it was going to be expansive and stately. When we went inside, he explained each room, from kitchen and dining room to library and great room. There was a massive stone chimney in the center of the house with two fireplaces—one in the kitchen and one in the dining room; and there was a second chimney in the back of the house with another fireplace in the great room. We went up the unfinished stairs to the second floor, which had plywood flooring but no walls yet, and he showed me where his studio would be—on the northern end of the house, of course. On the other end, there were several bedrooms, including a large master bedroom with two walk-in closets and a bathroom that was as big as my bedroom at home. He pushed back his hair and pulled me toward him, and I said I hoped his new home would be blessed with love and happiness—and his hearth would always be warm. We sipped our wine; then he reached for my glass … and, uninhibited by the openness of our surroundings, we made love under a canopy of endless blue sky.
As I reread this last passage now, I’m no longer able to recall that day with the same clarity I had when I wrote it … and I can’t help but wonder if I was dreaming? The days all seem to run together now…. I sometimes picture a gnarled, ancient oak tree in the backyard of my childhood. My dad is pushing me higher and higher on the swing … and the tips of my shoes touch one of the low-hanging branches. “Higher, Daddy,” I shout, laughing. “I want to touch heaven!”
I haven’t written anything in a long time—but an old friend came to see me today. He told me his wife had died. I told him I was sorry. At first, I wasn’t sure of his name—but, now, I know it was David. As we sat together, I could see tears in his eyes….
“It’s very hard to lose a loved one,” I said, reaching for his hand.
He nodded as tears spilled down his cheeks.
Beryl looked up, her eyes glistening. “That’s it,” she said softly, “she didn’t write any more.”
PART III
O, Lord, thou has searched me and known me!
—Psalm 139:1
26
Thunder rumbled across the skies in the early hours of Thursday morning, sending Beryl and Isak scrambling for the windows. Within seconds, the floodgates of heaven opened and a deluge of rain poured from the clouds. Beryl hurried downstairs to close the kitchen windows too. She looked at Flan sleeping soundly. “In case you’re wondering,” she said softly, “you’re going to have to wait until this passes to go out.” But Flan just kept snoring and Beryl shook her head. “Oh, to be a dog!”
“Maybe in your next life,” Isak teased, coming down the stairs, still wearing her Barnard T-shirt and yoga pants.
“Maybe,” Beryl smiled. “Seriously, though—look at her. There are definitely no worries in that world.”
Isak filled the coffeepot with cold water. “Well, I wouldn’t mind switching places with her—just for today. I can’t even begin to get my mind around all the things we have to do. In fact, I need to make a list.” She sprinkled cinnamon over the ground coffee, pressed down the lid, and plugged the pot in. Within seconds, it sputtered to life, perking cheerfully. “There’s something comforting about that sound,” she said. “Especially Mum’s old pot—it has a song all its own.”
“Why don’t you take it home with you?” Beryl suggested.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’d be nice to have it, but our Keurig is so convenient and easy, I don’t think I’d ever use it.”
“You could use it when you’re missing Mum—or when you don’t have to rush out—or when you and Matt have a cup of coffee together.”
“That never happens.”
Beryl sat down across from her. “Well, that’s what needs to happen. You guys need to find your way back to each other—you need to make a new, smaller nest for just the two of you and stop dwelling on the empty one. Time marches on, Isak. You can’t go back to the way things used to be. This whole week has been proof of that.”
“It’s hard to live in the moment, Ber. Even Mum struggled with that.”
“I know—against everything she believed in and taught us, she fell for a married man and pinned all her hopes on some future day when they could be together—free from guilt and remorse and secrecy. But, tragically, when that day finally came, it was too late.”
Rumer appeared in the doorway. “Do I smell coffee?”
Isak looked up. “I don’t think it’s ready yet.” Then she turned back to Beryl. “Did you find out when Catherine died?”
Beryl nodded. “Micah looked it up when he got home—three years ago—right around when Mum went into the nursing home.”
Isak nodded. “David must have known what was happening to Mum.”
“He must’ve—Micah said he’s still alive.”
“How old is he?”
“He must be around seventy-six or seventy-seven.” Then a shadow fell across Beryl’s face. “Oh, no, I wonder if he knows she died.”
Isak shook her head. “He may not, but it’s definitely not up to us to contact him. We aren’t even supposed to know about him.”
Beryl frowned. “Don’t you think Mum would want him to know?”
“I don’t know, Ber,” Rumer said slowly, joining in. “I kind of agree with Isak. It’s not really ou
r place.”
“And what place is that exactly?” Beryl’s voice was suddenly choked with emotion. “She loved him—and he loved her. Besides, his wife is gone … it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“He’s also famous,” Isak said dismissively, “and I think we should leave him alone.”
Beryl bit her lip, and as she got up to put the kettle on, she brushed away her tears.
Isak looked back at the blank notepad in front of her. “Do you guys know if it’s supposed to rain all day?”
“I don’t know,” Rumer replied. “I can’t remember the last time I saw the weather, but if it is, it’s not going to be a very good day for flying.”
“Or driving,” Isak added. “Matt called last night and said he and Tommy are getting in to New York around three, picking up Meghan and all her stuff, and heading north. What time are Will and Rand getting in?”
“Four-ish.”
“Great! We’ll all get to deal with rush-hour traffic.”
Rumer glanced at the clock. “Will offered to rent a car, but I said we’d pick them up. If it’s a problem, I’ll try to reach him.”
“Nope, we’ll pick them up.” She looked at Beryl. “I know you said someone’s bringing food today, Ber, but I think we should still go shopping. We definitely need drinks—soda, juice, milk, beer, ice. We also need to get cold cuts, rolls, snacks
… I don’t know about Rand, but Tommy never stops eating.” “Rand doesn’t either!”
Isak laughed. “Well, trust me, the bigger he gets, the worse it’ll get.”
Beryl was leaning against the counter, waiting for the water to boil. “I think we should wait.”
Isak shook her head. “I want to go early because I’d also like to clean the bathrooms and the kitchen today—and figure out where everyone’s sleeping.”
