Another Eden

by Patricia Gaffney

  “Yes, sir, every couple of weeks, I should think.”

  “Good, good.” They shook hands. “Well, carry on.”

  “I will. And thanks again.”

  Ogden gave him another slap on the shoulder and took his leave.

  Alex reached for his drink and sank back against the vine-covered spindle screen. Fumbling the envelope open, he glanced at the check inside. Blinked and looked again. He slid the envelope into his pocket and finished off his warming champagne in two swallows.

  No doubt about it, money like that had a way of clearing out ambivalent debris in a man’s mind and helping him see his way. Yes, indeed. He glanced down appreciatively at his new three-button cutaway and dark blue trousers, the fancy vest surrounding his carefully knotted Waterfall necktie. In Bennet Cochrane’s vernacular, he looked like a million bucks.

  Closing his eyes, he replayed Ogden’s words of praise in his head. He especially liked the part about combining practicality and “mysticism.” It made him chuckle. He knew he was good at what he did, had always known it, and the exciting thing was that he knew he was getting better. But to hear the sentiment expressed by someone else, someone he respected—that was a deep and abiding satisfaction.

  “Putting you to sleep, are we, McKie?”

  His eyes snapped open. Ben Cochrane was bearing down on him, holding on to his wife’s arm. “Ben!” he exclaimed with false heartiness. “Just catching my breath. Watching all that waltzing tired me out.” They made small talk for a minute, about the party, the perfect weather, the Casino. Sara said nothing; Alex thought she seemed upset under the veneer of her tireless poise.

  Once the amenities were out of the way, Ben got down to business. “I’ve changed my mind about the back yard.”

  “The what?”

  “In back of the house, down to the Cliff Walk. I never liked that idea of just letting it go natural. I’ve decided I want an English garden. Formal, you know? Rows of things all lined up, and maybe one of those whatchamacallits, those things you get lost in.”

  “A maze?”

  “Maze, right. So, what do you think?”

  His hands in his pockets squeezed into fists. “Well, it sounds fine, Ben, except there’s not enough room. You told me you wanted the house near the water.”

  “Yeah, well, move it back.”

  “Move it back?” For a wild second he thought he meant the water. “Move the house back?”

  “Put it on a little hill, so it’ll be up high and look out over the gardens and the cliff and the ocean.”

  “A little hill.” He sucked his lips in and bit down. “We’ve already broken ground. We’re almost finished digging the foundation.”

  “Well, we’ll have to fill it in and move the thing back. The lot’s big enough for it. I want the house closer to the street anyway. What’s the point in spending all this money if nobody can see the place?”

  Alex didn’t trust himself to answer. He glanced at Sara, but she was looking away, her rigid profile motionless against the twinkling lanterns behind her. “We can do that,” he said carefully. “It’ll delay the commencement of construction by at least a month, and there may be trouble with the ordinance. All the plumbing and electric will have to be recalculated, and we’ll have to start over again as far as scheduling the delivery of supplies and equipment and materials. A lot of them have already arrived, so there’ll be extra warehousing costs, more—”

  “That’s your department. Money’s not an object, I told you before. You just do it, and I’ll pay for it.” He looked over his shoulder. “Jeez, people are leaving already. There’s Walter Fallon, I have to go talk to him. See you later, McKie.” He dropped Sara’s arm and strode off.

  The ensuing silence was long and embarrassed. Alex was too angry to speak anyway. Finally Sara broke the impasse by saying, “I’m terribly sorry,” in a low, hopeless voice.

  He looked down at her. She was massaging her hands in her long white gloves, her quiet gaze intent on his face. His irritation drifted away, irrelevant. “Never mind.” He leaned toward her and asked, “How is just plain Sara Cochrane this evening?”

  It might have been a trick of the light, but her troubled expression seemed to relax and a lovely warmth shone in her silvery eyes. She smiled. Then, just as subtly, the softness receded. Her mouth trembled and her eyes welled with tears. “Sara,” he whispered in alarm, reaching for her hand. For the space of a heartbeat she allowed his touch; then she stepped back, murmuring, “Excuse me, I’m quite all right,” and turned away as if to watch the dancers.

  He stood beside her, staring straight ahead. What was wrong? Had Cochrane been browbeating her? Did he blame her for this debacle of a ground-breaking party? Her distress was acute, he could sense it; but he knew she would not allow herself his comfort, or even overt concern. For all that, a moment later he heard himself say, still without looking at her, “If there is anything I can do for you, now or ever, I hope you won’t hesitate to tell me.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” she said, so softly he could barely hear. “Thank you, Mr. McKie, I won’t forget that.”

  What frightened him was that she hadn’t denied she needed help. A minute passed; he could feel her pulling herself together.

  “So,” she said finally, facing him with a bright, painfully artificial smile, “Ben tells me you’ve moved into a sort of shed in the middle of nowhere, with no conveniences but a telephone. Do you think that’s sending quite the right message to this most sociable of towns?”

  “Ah, but you’re mistaken,” he said lightly, “Newport’s the most social of towns, not sociable.”

  “You’re right. I stand corrected. It’s quite the reverse of sociable, isn’t it?”

  “Exactly. That being the case, what does it matter where I set up shop? The Drexels and the Goelets and the Goulds aren’t going to invite me to dinner anyway, so I may as well please myself.”

  “And does it please you to live in the wilderness?

  “Mrs. Cochrane, I see you’ve been misinformed. My house is all of half a mile from the center of town. It’s comfortable—you might even call it picturesque—and I’ve got every amenity a man could want—no, that anyone could want. I invite you to come and inspect it. Anytime, at your convenience.” She smiled again and shook her head slightly, murmuring a polite thank-you. He saw he’d been rash, that she would never come to his house because of the impropriety, and that the very suggestion was a subtle insult she was too much of a lady to acknowledge. “How do you like your new house?” he asked quickly.

  “Oh, I love it,” she answered with real enthusiasm. “It’s on Elizabeth Street, close to everything, and yet the houses are far apart and wonderfully private. At least, they seem so to me after the city.”

  “And do you like the house itself?”

  “It’s lovely, it’s—perfect. I can’t understand why the owners would want to let it to strangers, even for a few months. If it were mine, I’d never leave.”

  “I like it, too.”

  “Oh, do you know it?”

  “Yes. It’s rather well known, in fact, as one of the finest of the old shingle houses built in the ’60s and ’70s, before Newport became—” He stopped, chagrined.

  “Weighted down with stone and marble,” she finished, eyes twinkling. “Well, we’ll say no more about that, will we?”

  “No, indeed.”

  “Except that it’s a wonder the southern tip of the island hasn’t fallen into the sea.” He laughed, and she laughed with him, both of them relieved to have it out in the open. “There’s even a swing in the backyard for Michael,” she went on, “and so many rooms and porches and balconies, it will take him half the summer to explore them all. And he’ll be pestering you every day at the building site, I’m quite sure, since it’s only three blocks away.”

  “I’ll look forward to seeing him. Did you know you’ve got a famous next-door neighbor?”

  “Really? Which side?”

  “The limeston
e house with the pillars. It’s Daisy Wentworth’s; she lives there year-round.”

  “Who is she? I don’t know the name.”

  “You must not read the scandal sheets.”

  “Oh, but I do,” she confessed, smiling.

  “Then you must’ve taken a holiday from them about two years ago when they were full of Daisy’s scandalous divorce from her banker husband.”

  “Ah. He had an outside interest, I take it?”

  “No, no, she did. He sued her on grounds of adultery and won. She got that house and some unspecified amount of money, and now they say she’s turned into a recluse.”

  “What happened to her lover?”

  “Went back to his wife.”

  “Were there children?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Thank God for that,” she said fervently.

  She looked sad again, as if she’d taken his trivial story too much to heart. Something was wrong; he’d never seen her like this, so full of sorrow and poorly hidden distress. “What’s happened to Natasha—I’ve forgotten her last name,” he asked to divert her. “Your friend from the settlement house.”

  “Oh, Tasha is doing very well.”

  “You told me she might have a new job.”

  “That’s been postponed for a little. She’s working with a tutor now, perfecting her English.”

  He could guess who was paying for the tutor. “Did she find a new place to live?”

  “No—actually, she’s going to be staying on at our house for the summer. Ben’s moving to his club,” she added hastily, seeing his expression. “It’s really a boon to us to have someone there while we’re away. Now we won’t have to close the house. And we’re scheduled to have some work done to the plumbing—rather a major overhaul, I understand—and now someone can be there to let the workmen in and out and so forth.”

  “I see.” But he wasn’t sure he did. The orchestra began a new melody, and he thought of inviting her to dance. As much as he would have welcomed a legitimate excuse to touch her, caution held him back. He had designs on Mrs. Cochrane, no doubt about it, but oddly, they weren’t quite the kind of designs he usually had on beautiful married ladies. In truth, he wanted to dance with Sara a little too much, and his eagerness served as a warning that made him careful.

  But she was wearing fresh gardenias in her hair and the sweetness was subtly enticing. Her bare shoulders gleamed palely in the lantern-lit darkness. She was as regal as a queen, but she softened her English hauteur in some mysterious way so that it impressed but never offended. He wanted very much to know what she thought of him, and if she was kind to him because she liked him or because she was evenhandedly kind to everyone.

  “You’re beautiful tonight. You’re always beautiful.”

  She went still, and looked away. He could see her trying to decide what to say—how to feel. He’d taken a chance and he didn’t regret it; in fact, he felt euphoric in the wake of his words. “Sara.” How lovely to call her that. Caution flew away like a bird let out of a cage.

  “You must not,” she said almost inaudibly.

  “Must not what?”

  The look she sent him then contained so much sad tenderness, his heart stopped beating. “Spoil it,” she said.

  He looked up at the sky, breathing deeply. “No, you’re right. Please forgive me. I’m sorry I said you were beautiful and that I uttered your beautiful name. It must be the—no, please, don’t go.” He touched her shoulder with urgent lightness. “I’m drunk. I most humbly beg your pardon.” She kept her face turned away. “I would do anything not to spoil it.” Her troubled eyes mirrored indecision. His only hope now was her generosity. “Am I forgiven?”

  The wait was intolerable, but at last she murmured, “Of course. Now if you’ll—”

  “I thought I might see Michael at the groundbreaking,” he interrupted quickly, to keep her beside him. “Is he all right? Not sick, is he?”

  Her jaw muscles contracted and her pretty mouth turned into a thin line of pain. “No, he’s fine. His father decided it wasn’t the place for children.”

  Another subject that was off limits. Talking to her was like walking on eggs tonight. The solution came to him all at once, although he thought it might not strike her in the same way. He held out a gentle, perfectly impersonal hand. “Mrs. Cochrane, would you care to dance?”

  She hesitated. Time warped, gnarled, stretched grotesquely. He became fixated on her mouth. The tip of her tongue touched the dainty surface of her top lip. “I—”

  “Sara!”

  He jerked his hand away like a criminal caught in a theft.

  “Come and say good night to the Kimmels!”

  Now her face was truly unreadable. For an instant he saw regret. But no, now it was amusement—and now it was sadness again. “Another time, I hope,” she said kindly. “Thank you, Mr. McKie. Will you excuse me now?”

  He’d run out of ways to keep her. He made her a bow and watched her glide away in the direction of her husband.

  Nine

  ONE AFTERNOON A WEEK later, Sara was sitting on her side porch—or lanai, as the rental agent insisted—sipping iced champagne with her new next-door neighbor. They had met the day before under less than ideal circumstances when Michael inadvertantly crossed the boundary line between the Cochrane and Wentworth properties, climbed into Mrs. Wentworth’s brand-new flowering dogwood, and snapped its main branch in half. Too frightened to confess to the deed alone, he’d run home and gotten his mother. Sara had been hoping for days for a glimpse of the notorious Daisy Wentworth, divorcee; she was glad to return with Michael to the scene of the crime and coax him through a full confession. She had yet to meet the woman who could resist Michael in the midst of one of his sincere apologies, and Mrs. Wentworth proved no exception. Within minutes he’d been forgiven, his offer of recompense brushed aside, and invited to play anytime he liked with Gadget, Mrs. Wentworth’s adolescent dachshund.

  In the face of such magnanimity, Sara had extended an invitation to Daisy for tea the next day, and now they were sitting comfortably on the porch, already on a first-name basis, shifting their chairs every few minutes to follow the afternoon shade, while Michael and Gadget played on the steps at their feet.

  “You’re not at all what I thought you’d be like,” confided Daisy. She was on her second glass of champagne, which she had brought over herself, “to inaugurate our friendship.” Sara had felt obliged to join her out of politeness, even though champagne made her sleepy and it was not quite four o’clock in the afternoon.

  “No? What did you think I’d be like?”

  “Snooty. Stiff.” She flashed one of her acrid half-smiles. “Obnoxious.”

  “Oh, dear.” She’d discovered already that her new neighbor didn’t mince words. “Is that my reputation these days?” she asked lightly.

  “No, not yours. I’d say it’s more by association.”

  Tact wasn’t her strong suit, either. Sara sipped her wine and said nothing.

  “But you’re nothing like that, thank God. Do you know you’re the first person in Newport to invite me to anything in months? Oh, they’ll call me on the telephone sometimes, but only because they want some bit of gossip and they know I know everything. But heaven forbid they should be seen with me out in the world.” Her lips curled down at the corners, turning her smile bitter. She was forty, she’d confided a few minutes ago, but to Sara she looked at least five years older. Her skin had a sallow, unhealthy cast, and her gray-flecked dark hair needed a wash. Her body might have been graceful once, but now it was too soft, as if the bones were melting into her flesh.

  It was pointless and somehow insulting, Sara decided, to pretend she didn’t know what Daisy was talking about. “You mean, because of the divorce.”

  “Yes, of course, what else?” She stared down into her glass, intent on the bursting bubbles. “I made a mistake and got caught, and I’ve been paying for it ever since.”

  “Do you like living here?”
Sara asked after an awkward pause. “It’s a beautiful place. I love the sea, and the weather is so—”

  Daisy made a sound very like a snort and fixed her with a baleful eye over the rim of her glass. “You don’t think the appeal of this place for the resorters has anything to do with the sunshine and the fresh sea air, do you?” Sara raised her brows in a question. “My dear, the real sport is Exclusivity. You’ll notice there’s no culture, no business, no charity or philanthropy to get in the way of what people really come here for—to snub each other in public. It’s the only game in town.”

  “If that’s true, then why do you stay?”

  Daisy sighed, and her ample breasts rose and fell heavily. “Why, why, why. I ought to go. I keep saying I will, but then I don’t. Frankly, I haven’t got the energy. Besides,” she cackled, “who would they talk about if I left? I serve a vital social function.”

  “Why do you suppose they care so much?” Sara mused a moment later. It was a question that frequently nagged her. “Snobbery takes so much work, and the rewards are so petty. I should think they’d all be exhausted.”

  “Don’t be naive. The great thing about being admitted into Society is that you’re finally allowed to help keep everyone else out. That’s the whole point. Why else do you think they stayed away from your perfectly nice party last week in droves?”

  Sara wasn’t surprised that her neighbor knew about that fiasco; she imagined all of Newport and most of New York had heard of it by now. There had even been a nasty piece in the Newport Observer that, although it named no names, had managed to devastate all the same. Predictably, Ben blamed her for the miserable failure of their Newport debut, and it was only because he’d had to return to the city so soon the next day that he hadn’t thought of some way to make her pay for it. Yet.

  “What’s high society like in England?” Daisy wanted to know. “And don’t tell me it’s democratic, because I won’t believe you.”

  “No, of course it’s not. It’s not the same as here, though. Money’s important, but it’s not worshipped quite so much. And the aristocracy seems to have more fun with all its privileges. I’m not sure why—perhaps because morality isn’t quite so strict, so—puritanical, perhaps. Oh, I don’t know.” She heard herself sigh as heavily as Daisy had, and wondered if they were getting drunk.