Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Once I was alone, I practiced opening and closing it, following the instruction chart the delivery man had given me. When I had the knack of it, I erased the factory code and entered my own into the digital panel, using the date of my marriage.

  It seemed to me that it was taking Nora longer than ever to finish up today.

  Several times I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece in the office, baffled as to why she was still here. It was now four o’clock.

  I had the answer in a flash. Eric was probably coming to see me, as he so often did during the week these days, and she wanted to be here when he arrived from work.

  Now that the safe was here, I could clear up all my affairs, and I was writing checks, fulfilling my obligations. When I had finished paying the bills, I added up everything on my yellow pad, entered the balance, closed the checkbook, and put it in my desk drawer.

  Without Andrew’s monthly salary check, I had nothing coming in, and my funds were getting extremely low. And I had not yet received the money from his insurance policy. There was some money in our savings account, but it wasn’t much, certainly not a fortune. Andrew and I had always lived life to the hilt, and frequently beyond our means.

  Anyway, what did it matter now? I wasn’t going to need money. I was going to be dead.

  My mother would sell the apartment in New York and this house, pay off the two mortgages, and use whatever money remained to settle any other debts that were left. Everything would be neat and tidy; that was exactly how I wanted it to be.

  I had had my last will and testament drawn up a few days ago, using a local lawyer in New Milford rather than the law firm in Manhattan which handled my mother’s affairs. It would only throw her into a panic if she knew I’d made a will.

  She and Sarah were the executrixes, and my mother would get the bulk of my estate, such as it was. But I had left my pearls and most of my jewelry to Sarah, except for my engagement ring, which I had willed to Diana. After all, it was a Keswick heirloom and had been hers before it was mine. I had made other small bequests, such as small pieces of jewelry and some of my own paintings to Nora, Eric, and Anna. The rest of the paintings my mother could dispose of as she wished.

  I loved Sarah. She was my closest and dearest friend, the sister I had never had. I knew only too well that she was going to be devastated and that she would miss me. But I couldn’t bear to go on living, not without my family.

  The office door suddenly opened, and Eric stuck his head around it. “Hi, Mal, how’re you doing?”

  “I’m all right,” I answered, attempting a smile without much success. “And you?”

  He made a face, shook his head. “Things are a bit tough down at the lumberyard. The boss had to lay a couple of guys off this week. But so far so good, I’m not too concerned.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay, Eric. Nora’s upstairs; I heard her footsteps a few minutes ago.”

  He grinned. “I’ll see her shortly. I’m going down to the basement to bring up some more logs, then I’ll take a look at that third heater in the stables. Anna told Nora it’s been on the blink for the past few days. Got to keep the barns warm for the horses.”

  “We certainly do, and thanks, Eric, I appreciate it.”

  “No trouble, Mal. Just let me know if there’s anything else you need fixed. The furnace isn’t acting up again, is it?”

  “It seems to be running fine, thanks.”

  “I’ll pop in and see you before I leave.” He smiled and was gone.

  Eric Matthews was a kind man. Ever since I had been living permanently at Indian Meadows, he had gone out of his way to do all of the jobs Andrew had done and which were too hard for Nora or me. Like his wife and Anna, he was grief-stricken, and although he tried to be cheerful whenever he came to say hello, I could see the pain of loss in his eyes.

  Nora and Eric had finally driven off, she in her ramshackle old Chevy, he in his battered pickup truck, and as much as I cared for them, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  At last I was alone.

  After locking the doors, I ran upstairs and went to the chest of drawers in my bedroom where I kept T-shirts and sweaters. The bottom drawer was deep, and in it, at the back, I had hidden the four cardboard boxes.

  Taking them out one by one, I carried them carefully into the sitting room adjoining the bedroom and put them on the sofa.

  First I opened the box with the vet’s label on it and took out the small cream-colored can. Next I opened the three others, which bore the name of the crematorium. Placing the four canisters on the coffee table side by side, I sat down on the sofa and looked at them. When David had collected them and brought them out here to me, I had immediately labeled each container, writing the name and the dates of birth and death of Andrew, Lissa, Jamie, and Trixy.

  There they were—all that I had left of my family. Four cans of ashes.

  Tears rushed into my eyes, but I pushed them back, reached for a tissue, and blew my nose.

  Immediately getting a grip on myself, I picked up the two canisters containing Lissa’s and Jamie’s ashes and carried them into the walk-in closet. I placed them on the shelf in the safe, then I went back to the sitting room, returning a moment later with Andrew’s ashes. Finally I brought in Trixy’s.

  After I had arranged the four of them next to one another, I closed the door, locked it, and put the key in my pocket.

  “You’re safe now. Absolutely safe. No one, nothing, can hurt you ever again,” I said out loud, talking to my family as I did frequently these days. “Soon I’m going to be with you. We’ll be together forever.”

  The following day I passed the morning making phone calls.

  I spoke to Diana in London, my mother and Sarah, who were both in New York, and finally to my father, who was in California, attending meetings at U.C.L.A.

  I chatted to them all pleasantly, made sure I sounded cheerful, and told each of them that I was feeling much better.

  I think they believed me. I could be very convincing when I wanted to be.

  In the afternoon I wrote my farewell letters to the four of them. There was a fifth letter to David Nelson, thanking him for all that he had done for me and asking him to look after my mother, to cherish her. I also gave him instructions about our ashes. Sealing the envelopes and writing each name on them, I placed these in the desk drawer next to my checkbook.

  Tonight I would kill myself. My body would be discovered tomorrow morning. And not too much later the letters would be found.

  I lay on the sofa in my upstairs sitting room, sipping a vodka and listening to Maria Callas sing Tosca. It had been one of Andrew’s favorite operas.

  The winter sun had long since fled the pale wintry sky, and the light was rapidly fading. Soon it would be twilight—the gloaming, Andrew had called it. A northern name, he had once said.

  A deep sigh escaped me.

  Soon my life would be over.

  I would shed this mortal coil. I would be free. I would go to that other plane where they waited for me. All my suffering would finally cease. I would be at peace with them.

  In the dim light of the room I could see Andrew’s face looking down at me from the portrait I had painted of him. I smiled, loving him so much. And then my eyes shifted, and I gazed at the portrait I had done of the twins. Jamie and Lissa. How beautiful they looked, my little Botticelli cherubs. I smiled again. They had been my two small miracles.

  Reaching for the glass, I gulped down some more of the vodka, closed my eyes, and let myself drift with the music.

  When this side of the disc ended, I would end my life.

  “Mal! Mal! Where are you?”

  I sat up with a jerk, dropping the glass of vodka I was clutching, startled out of my mind.

  Before I could recover myself, Sarah came bursting into the little sitting room, her eyes anxious, her face pale.

  “No wonder you couldn’t hear me banging on the front door!” she exclaimed. “What with Callas screaming her lungs out like that!” Stepp
ing over to the stereo, she lowered the volume. “I’ve been outside for ages. Banging and banging on the door.”

  I was stunned that she was here. “How did you get in?” I asked in a faint voice.

  “Through the kitchen door.”

  “But it was locked!”

  “No, it wasn’t, Mal.”

  “But it was!” I cried, my voice rising shrilly. “I locked it myself.” As I spoke I cast my mind back to this afternoon. I had walked Nora across the kitchen, we had said good-bye as I saw her out. I had then closed the kitchen door and swung the bolt. Demented I might be, but there was no question in my mind about that door. Who had unlocked it?

  Sarah was standing there, looking down at me.

  I said, “What are you doing here, anyway?” She had spoiled my plans, and I was furious.

  Throwing her coat onto a chair, she came and sat next to me on the sofa, took my hand in hers. “Why am I here, Mal? Because I was worried about you, of course. Very worried.”

  I stared at her speechlessly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Sarah had obviously come to Indian Meadows for the weekend. As we went into the kitchen, I saw her suitcase, which she had dumped on the floor near the back door.

  The first thing I did was to walk over and check that door. I turned the knob, and it opened. “I guess you didn’t lock this before you came upstairs looking for me,” I said.

  “No, I didn’t, Mal. It was open, so I left it open. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I just don’t understand. I did lock it earlier. It’s a mystery.”

  Sarah made no comment. She walked over to the pine cabinet, took out a glass, and poured herself a vodka. Looking at me, she asked, “How about you, Mal? Do you want one?”

  “Why not,” I replied. If I couldn’t kill myself tonight, I might as well get drunk. I could put myself out of my misery for a few hours at least.

  Opening the freezer, I took out a tray of ice and gave it to Sarah, then went back and peered into the refrigerator.

  “There’s some hot pot here,” I said. “Nora made it this morning. Or I can fix you an omelette.”

  Plopping ice cubes in our drinks and adding chunks of lime, Sarah said, “No eggs, thanks. I’ll try the hot pot. What’re you having?”

  “The same,” I murmured, although I wasn’t even hungry. I never was these days. After I had emptied the hot pot into a pan and put this on the stove over a low light, I said, “It’s going to take about half an hour to heat up.”

  Together we headed for the sunroom. Although it had a lot of windows and French doors, it was warm, centrally heated like the rest of the house. As we went in, I switched on the lights and noticed that it was snowing outside. The lawns had a coating of white; the trees looked as if they had just burst into bloom with white blossoms.

  I sat down on a side chair with my back to the window.

  Sarah took a big armchair, propped her feet on the coffee table, and lifted her glass in silence.

  I did the same.

  Sarah didn’t say anything, and neither did I; we sat together like that for quite a while.

  Finally rousing herself and focusing her eyes on me, she said, “My cousin Vera’s coming back to New York, Mal.”

  “Oh,” I said, looking at her swiftly. “Didn’t she like the West Coast?”

  “Yes, but her husband’s left her. Moved in with another woman. Apparently he wants a divorce, so she’s decided to pack up and come home.”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured, wanting to be polite.

  Sarah went on, “Vera’s flying to New York in about two weeks. To look for an apartment, and driving up here tonight it suddenly occurred to me that yours might be perfect for her. She has a teenage daughter, Linda, if you remember, and a housekeeper who’s been with her for years. Your apartment is just the right size.”

  I took a sip of my vodka and said nothing.

  “So, what do you think?” Sarah asked, eyeing me.

  I shrugged indifferently.

  “Do you want to sell it, Mal?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “You sound uncertain. But weeks ago you told me you never wanted to see New York ever again, that you hated the city. Why keep an apartment in a city you hate?”

  “You’re right, Sash. If Vera wants to buy the apartment, she can. Show it to her whenever you want. Or my mother can. She has a set of keys.”

  “Thanks, Mal.” She smiled at me. “It’ll be nice if I do you both a good turn.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Vera wants a nice place to live. And I’m sure you can use the money, can’t you?”

  I nodded. “Andrew’s insurance policy is not a big one.”

  “There’s a mortgage on the apartment, isn’t there?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And one on this house.”

  Sarah gave me a long stare. “How’re you going to manage?” she asked quietly, her concern apparent. “What are you going to do for money?”

  I won’t need it, I’ll be dead, I thought. But I said, “There’s a little bit coming from the advertising agency, but not much. Jack Underwood told me they’re in trouble. They’ve lost a number of big accounts, and there are all kinds of financial problems at the London office. But you knew that. Andrew told you, when he came back in November.”

  “When did you talk to Jack?”

  “He came out to see me a couple of days ago. He’d just returned from London. He’s been heartbroken about Andrew—they were very close—and distressed about the agency. He and Harvey are leaving. They’re going into business for themselves. Andrew had instigated the whole thing . . .” My voice trailed off, and I stared at her blankly, then sitting up, I finished in a stronger, firmer voice. “And so they’re going ahead with their plans, even though Andrew’s no longer here.”

  Sarah was silent. She sat sipping her drink, gazing out the window at the snow-covered lawns, her face miserable.

  I got up and lowered the lights, which were a little too bright for me tonight. Then I sat down again.

  “I’m worried about you, Mal,” Sarah suddenly said.

  “You mean about the money, the fact that I haven’t got any?”

  She shook her head. “No, not that at all. Auntie Jess and David will help you, and so will I. You know anything I have is yours. And your father and Diana will chip in until you’re on your feet.”

  “I guess so,” I said. Of course this would never be necessary; I would not be here.

  Sarah said softly, “I’m worried about your well-being, about your health. But, most importantly, about your state of mind. I know you’re in the most excruciating pain all the time, that your sorrow and suffering are overwhelming. I just want to help you. I don’t know how.”

  “Nobody can help me, Sash. That’s why it’s better if I’m alone.”

  “I don’t agree, honestly I don’t. You need someone with you, to comfort you whichever way they can. You need someone to talk to, to cling to if necessary. You mustn’t be alone.”

  I did not answer her.

  “I know I’m right,” she pressed on. “And I know I’m the right person. It’s I who should be with you. We’ve known each other all our lives, since we were babies. We’re best friends . . . I should be with you now when you need someone. It’s me that you need, Mal.”

  “Yes,” I said softly. “You’re the best one. And the only one who knows how to cope with me, I suppose.”

  “Promise me I can come every weekend, that you won’t try to push me away, as you have several times lately.”

  “I promise.”

  She smiled. “I love you, Mal.”

  “And I love you too, Sash.”

  A small silence fell between us once more.

  “It’s the nothingness,” I said finally.

  “Nothingness?”

  “That’s what I face every day. Nothingness. There’s just nothing there. Only emptiness, a great void. For ten years my focus has been on Andrew and our marri
age and his career, then later it encompassed the twins. But now that they’re gone, I have no focus. Only nothingness. There’s simply nothing left for me.”

  Sarah nodded. Her eyes had welled up, and she was obviously unable to speak for a moment. But also she would never offer me meaningless pap, the kind of empty words that I had heard from so many of late.

  I stood up. “Let’s not talk about this anymore.”

  We ate supper in the kitchen. Actually, only Sarah ate—I just picked at my food. I had lost my appetite, and it had never come back. But I had opened a bottle of good red wine, and I drank plenty of it as the meal progressed.

  At one moment Sarah looked at me over the rim of her glass and said, “Not now, because I don’t think you’re up to it, but later, in six months or so, maybe you could work. It would keep you busy. I know it would help you.”

  I merely shrugged. I wasn’t going to be around in six months, but I could hardly tell her that. I loved her. I didn’t want to upset her.

  “You could work out here in the country, Mal, doing what you love.”

  I stared at her.

  She continued, “Painting. You’re very talented, and I think you could easily get some assignments illustrating books. I have a couple of friends in publishing, and they’d help; I know they would. You could also sell some of your watercolors and oils.”

  “Don’t be silly. My paintings are not good enough to sell, Sash.”

  “You’re wrong, they are.”

  “You’re prejudiced.”

  “That’s true, I am. But I also know when someone’s good at what they do, especially in the artistic field, and you’re good, Mallory Keswick.”

  “If you say so,” I murmured, pouring myself another glass of Andrew’s best French wine.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It snowed again on Sunday.

  Even though I was low in spirits, I could not help noticing the beauty of the grounds at Indian Meadows. They were breathtaking. They resembled a monochromatic painting in black and white below a crystal-clear sky of the brightest blue washed over with golden sunlight.