Heartwood

by Belva Plain

  Joseph had prospered and become a wealthy and influential real estate developer. Paul had taken over his family’s bank and prospered too. Both marriages seemed sound. But the love between Paul and Anna had not died or dimmed, and when fate threw them together several years later, they had finally consummated the passion that had started when she was a servant in his family’s house. Out of that act of love, Iris had been born.

  This was Anna’s secret. She had tried to keep it from Paul, but he had discovered the truth. He had wanted desperately to have some kind of connection with his child, but Anna had been terrified. Still, he had managed to engineer the occasional meeting with the two of them. For reasons she had never been able to articulate, Iris had not liked those encounters and she had disliked Paul Werner.

  Now, Theo opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. The bedroom was cool and so silent he could hear the bedside clock ticking. Wherever she was in the house Iris was moving quietly so he could sleep. But his mind was too full.

  “Iris is my daughter,” Paul had said when he finished his tale. “Now you know what’s hidden.” And then he had threatened Theo. “And if you ever repeat this, I’ll kill you and then I’ll kill myself.”

  Theo had sworn that he would never tell anyone—not because of the threat, but because he agreed with Paul that Iris must never, ever know the circumstances of her birth. However, it was because she was Paul’s daughter that Theo had been able to justify borrowing the money—he couldn’t have taken it as a gift—that had rescued him and his family.

  It had taken Theo years to repay Paul, and during that time Paul had only asked for one thing. “Stay in touch and tell me how Iris is doing—how you all are doing. Your children too.” Theo’s children, who were Paul’s grandchildren. The only grandchildren he had since he and his wife were childless. “Do you want to know how I’ve kept track of my daughter all these years?” Paul had demanded once. The pain in his eyes had been almost too much to bear. “There’s a shop on Madison Avenue where Iris and Anna buy their clothes. It’s called Chez Lea.” It was one of the most expensive stores in Manhattan, and back in the days when Theo was throwing his money around, he had encouraged Iris to patronize the place. He nodded.

  “The owner of that store is a woman called Leah Sherman. She knows about Iris …”

  Theo couldn’t stop an involuntary intake of breath. “Why take the chance—?” he began to say, but Paul cut him off.

  “I’ve known Leah since she was a child, and I would trust her with my life. For all these years she has given me what no one else could.” He paused. “Iris is the only child I have. I’ve kept away from her because Anna said it was too dangerous. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’ve seen Iris face-to-face, or managed to say a few words to her. I’ve forced Anna to let me meet her … but it’s been so little … so little.” There was a pleading note in his cultured voice now. “A man wants to know his child. And the only way I could get any information about Iris was through Leah. Whenever Anna or Iris came into her shop, Leah could be my eyes and ears. It wasn’t enough, but it was the best I could get and I’m not ashamed to say that I let her spy on them for me. I’ve been that desperate.”

  Paul Werner was a proud and private man, and Theo thought it must be costing him greatly to make himself this vulnerable. But Paul had let the floodgates open after years of silence and now it seemed that he needed to talk. “I don’t even have a picture of Iris. Do you know what I do when I want to see her face? I have an oil painting of my late mother. Iris is the exact image of her, so I look at that portrait and tell myself it’s of both of them. I suppose that sounds crazy or foolish to you.”

  No, Theo had wanted to say, it’s just so very sad.

  He and Paul had talked one last time about all of these things on the day when Theo had handed Paul the final check of repayment for his loan. Theo had tried to express his gratitude again, but Paul had waved him off. He had looked down at the check in his hands and he’d said softly, “These years since we started our arrangement have been the best I’ve known. For the first time, I’ve felt I was a part of Iris’s life.” There were tears streaming down his face, and he didn’t try to wipe them away. “I could never give her a doll for her birthday. I never knew what her favorite color was, or her favorite subject in school. When you married her, your wedding was in all the newspapers because Joseph Friedman was an influential man. Not because of me—because of Joseph. I stood in the crowd outside the temple and tried to catch a glimpse of my child as she ran to the limousine. That was all I could do. But now, I’m a part of her life.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” was all Theo could think to say.

  “Whatever I’ve given you—and I’m not minimizing it, I know what that money has meant to you, but it can’t compare with what you’ve done for me. Just know that.”

  Theo had known it. And even though he never could—or would—have revealed any of this history to Iris, in time he’d been able to convince her to change her mind about her mother’s old friend. She had come to care about Paul, and that had given Theo great satisfaction. Paul had died several years ago, and Theo had been grateful that Iris had made peace with her father, even if she hadn’t been aware of it.

  –—

  In the bedroom, Theo sat up. He wasn’t tired anymore. It was as if remembering the past—even those days that had been so charged with emotion—had refreshed him. He found that happened sometimes these days. He walked out of the bedroom and found Iris sitting with a book in her lap. But she was not reading it; it was clear her thoughts were far away. When she heard his footsteps behind her, she jumped to her feet, ready to do whatever he needed. She was like that now, always on the alert in case he was in trouble.

  “Are you all right? Did you sleep?” she asked. He heard the anxiety in her voice even though she was trying to cover it.

  What will she do when I am gone? May the God she believes in, that I do not, help her.

  “Yes, yes. I had a nice rest.” He made his way to his chair and sat. She sat opposite him. “You looked so pensive when I came in,” he said. “Tell me what you were thinking.”

  She laughed a little. “Oh, just that it’s interesting the way our minds work. I’ve been so worried about Laura and Robby … well, you know that. And to be honest with you, I was sitting here thinking about that photographer. Then for some reason I started thinking about Paul Werner. I was just wondering to myself why I made the leap in my mind from that arty-looking photographer with his awful hair to Paul Werner, who was such an elegant man.”

  Ah, my Iris, you do know why. When you were a child you sensed what was between Paul and your mother. Now you know in your heart that the same thing is there between our daughter and that young man. But you can’t admit it, and you’re afraid.

  But he wasn’t going to say it, because she was sitting up very straight like a good little girl hoping to hear that the things that frightened her were all in her imagination. And it was his job to protect her from the things that frightened her, at least for a while longer. While he was still here.

  “Are you asking me to explain the way your mind works?” he asked with a grin. “After all these years you are still a mystery to me, my darling. And I hope that never changes.”

  And after he had kissed her, and she had kissed him back, he asked her what they were having for supper, and she said soup. She went into the kitchen to heat it up for him, and as they ate it together at their kitchen table, he thought how simple life really was. You could solve so many of your problems with a grin and a kiss and a bit of soup. And he wished, oh so much, that he had known that years earlier.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  It was summertime. Robby hadn’t come back from Blair’s Falls yet—he’d been away for almost two months—and Katie had gone to a sleepaway camp, and wouldn’t be home until the end of August. Laura still didn’t know when Robby was returning; he never mentioned it when they spoke on the phone. Ho
wever, he seemed cheerful and busy—doing what, she wasn’t sure. So for the first time in years, Laura had no one to feed but Molly, and the only voice in the house was her own. But that wasn’t why the gray fog had descended on her once again. She missed Nick. It was that simple. Sometimes the missing took the form of a dull ache that stayed with her throughout the day, sometimes it was a sharp, fast pain that hit her without warning. Either way, it hurt. And there was no way to stop it.

  The only thing that had helped was work and she had thanked God that for a while she was very busy. She and Lillian had finished writing the book and were editing the final draft. The reception for Mai Ling, the concert pianist, had been a success, and several Manhattan organizations had expressed interest in hiring Laura’s catering company in the future. (To Iris’s delight, Phil had gone to the reception, where Laura had introduced him to Ms. Ling and they seemed to like each other.)

  But then—and it was as if it happened overnight—the book was finished and had been sent off to the publisher, and there were no new catering jobs until the fall. This was nothing new, summer was always Laura’s slow season, and normally she used the time to work with her gardeners; she now had two of them tending the fresh vegetables and flowers that were her trademark as a caterer. This was also the time of year when she spent hours with her accountant doing the paperwork that had piled up during the year. But now, when she was in the midst of her gray fog, she knew she’d go out of her mind if she had to spread mulch in the glaring sunshine, or sit inside adding up columns of figures.

  She thought about going north to see Katie, but the proprietor of the camp frowned on parents visiting until the kids had had a chance to settle in. And besides, Laura didn’t want to go anywhere until the fog had lifted. It would have to eventually, she told herself; in spite of what all those Victorian novels said, no one actually died of a broken heart.

  But the fog didn’t lift.

  –—

  “I’m not happy with some of the pictures that were selected for the book.” Lillian’s voice on the phone sounded exasperated. “Everything Nick shot is beautiful, of course, but from a storytelling perspective I think we have some better choices. I told him you and I would come to his studio one day next week to take another look at his proof sheets.”

  I’m going to Nick’s studio. I’ll see him again! Laura’s heart began to pound. But then she came to her senses.

  “Lillian … I’m afraid I can’t get away.”

  “All week long? You must have one day free. This is important.”

  Lillian was right. The pictures were as important to the book as the text she and Laura had slaved over.

  But dear God, how am I going to do it? How am I going to see him again and then walk away?

  “Laura, are you still there?”

  “How about next Wednesday?” she said with a gasp. And hoped Lillian hadn’t heard it.

  “Be at Nick’s studio at noon.”

  Today was Thursday. There were six days to wait.

  –—

  She didn’t seem to need to eat very much, and she wasn’t sleeping more than a few hours a night. Yet she was never tired. She worked longer and harder than any of her crew in the gardens and still had energy left over. Sometimes she found herself shivering, she didn’t know whether it was from excitement or fear or a combination of both. And it didn’t matter. She had only six days to wait. Then there were four days. Then there were two. Then it was Tuesday night.

  She washed her hair, and brushed it dry so that it gleamed. She pulled clothes out of her closet until almost everything she owned was spread on her bed. Finally she selected a pink wraparound dress—she liked the way it accentuated her slender waist—a little orange jacket to go over it, high-heeled sandals that made her feel like a model on a runway when she walked in them, and her favorite coral earrings. She laid it all out on her chaise, then she climbed into bed and waited for the morning.

  Wednesday morning was bright and sunny. But Laura might as well have been in Alaska in the dead of winter. She piled her gleaming hair on top of her head with hands that shook. They shook when she put on her lipstick and pulled on the pink dress, which suddenly seemed too revealing and showy. She thought about changing into something else, but she didn’t have time. If she missed the train into the city, she would be late.

  Besides, she told herself, you’re being absurd. It’s been weeks since you’ve seen him. And you told him it was over. New York is full of girls who are younger and prettier than you are. He’s probably moved on to someone else already.

  But he hadn’t. She would have known if he had, because they had that connection that had started on the first day she met him.

  Even if he hasn’t found someone new, that doesn’t change anything. You’re still married. You’re still a grown-up.

  But she felt like a girl—a scarily reckless girl.

  This is a business meeting. Lillian will be there. What can possibly happen while she’s there?

  And in the end, that was the only reassurance she could give herself; nothing would happen because Lillian would be there.

  Thank God for Lillian. It became like a mantra for her as she drove to the railroad station and stood on the platform waiting for the train, and when she sat in her seat on the trip into the city. Thank God for Lillian, she repeated over and over in her mind. Nothing will happen because Lillian will be there.

  –—

  Nick opened the door to his loft. He didn’t say a word, he just stared at her with those beautiful, beautiful green-blue eyes. If she hadn’t known it before, she knew now that there hadn’t been a new woman in his life.

  “Hi,” he said after a long wait. She thought about running.

  “May I come in?” she asked. He stepped aside so she could enter, then closed the door behind her. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked. He needed to do something because he was nervous. She knew this because she was so nervous herself.

  “I … Some water?” she managed to say.

  Along one wall of the loft there was what looked like a galley kitchen with a sink. As he hurried over to it, she began walking around, studying everything intently—anything to keep from looking at him.

  She hadn’t known what a photographer’s loft would be like—she had imagined a glamorous place with chrome and leather chairs and huge avant-garde photos on the walls. Nick’s loft looked more like an old-fashioned workshop. There was a big worktable in the middle of the room, and a forest of standing lights, as well as cameras and other equipment, were stored neatly in a corner. The ceiling was high, and it was encrusted with intricate crown moldings. There were frosted Palladian windows that were covered by long shades, and the hardwood floor beneath Laura’s feet had been scuffed from long use before it had been restored. In one corner of the space there was a conversation pit consisting of a deep sofa, three comfortable-looking chairs, an oak coffee table and a thick Oriental rug.

  Nick brought her the glass of water. She took it and thanked him and then they were staring wordlessly at each other again. “So this is where you work,” she finally said, to break the silence.

  “Yes. I live here too. Behind that door over there, I have a living room and a full kitchen and my … and my bedroom,” he stumbled. The word with all it’s suggestions floated in the air. The water in the glass Laura was holding, splashed. Nick took it from her.

  “Your hands are shaking,” he said. She’d forgotten how tender that husky voice could be. But she couldn’t let herself think about things like tenderness.

  “Take a look at yours,” she said. He smiled and she could feel herself smile back and that was even more dangerous than the tenderness.

  “Where’s Lillian?” she asked quickly. The tendrils of hair were falling in his face the way they always did. He was wearing his standard outfit, the blue jeans that looked so well on a man with a narrow waist and long legs, and the T-shirt that outlined the contours of his chest. “Is Lillian here yet?” she asked
again.

  “She’s not coming.”

  Oh God.

  “She called to say she’s got a nasty summer flu. She said she tried to phone you to let you know, but there was no answer at your house.”

  “I’d probably left for the train station already.”

  “That’s what she thought.”

  She should get out of there. She should say she’d come back later when Lillian was there. But she couldn’t make herself form the words.

  “Laura …” he said softly.

  I should get out of here.

  “If you only knew how many times I imagined you being here like this.”

  I should get out of here right now.

  “I thought I’d give you champagne and fill the place with roses … make it as beautiful as you are.”

  But God help me, I don’t want to go.

  “I don’t need champagne and roses, Nick,” she said, and her voice was as soft as his.

  Somewhere in the hallway outside his loft, a door slammed shut. Someone called out something, but the words were too muffled for her to understand. She waited for Nick to move to her. As he had to now. Because there was no turning back. When he was standing in front of her, she watched him look down at the wraparound dress that emphasized her narrow waist and her breasts. And then she took off the jaunty little orange jacket.

  Her dress was made of a silky jersey, and only the tie at the waist kept it together. His fingers were sure as he undid it, remarkably so considering that they were still shaking. The silky jersey slid to the floor, and her pretty sandals were off—she never quite knew how. He carried her to the sofa and knelt beside her. His mouth was all over her, her neck, her throat, her lips. He was kissing her, and his hands were caressing her while she was pushing away fabric and undoing buttons and buckles. And then he was over her … and smiling down at her … and she could hear his breath, and his heart beating … or maybe it was hers … and when at last he cried out, she followed him with a cry of her own.