As they sailed out of the cove he said, "I want to be with you. Whenever I can, however I can."
She smiled and touched his face and moved her hand close on his stomach as she said, very simply, "I have a husband."
Then she leaned into him and refused to think of anything but the long, sweet swell of the sea and the touch of the man who had given her what she thought she could never have.
THIRTY-ONE
KIT WAS EARLY, but Philip was already at the typewriter when she arrived.
"I hope that's the outline for the new novel—your agent called again yesterday, he's pushing hard . . ." She touched his shoulder as she leaned over to see what he had written.
Karin, he had typed, It is time we talked.
She sat in a chair facing him.
"That's why I'm early," she said, "Karin called this morning. She is flying in tomorrow. Thea has agreed to let Annie come stay with her for a few days . . . Karin sounded, well, distraught. She said she didn't know what she was doing, staying away for so long . . . she kept apologizing to me for not doing what she called 'her share.' There just wasn't any calming her, Philip. I think she has to come, for her own peace of mind. She talked about getting the Berkeley house ready for your return, arranging to have a carpenter build wheelchair ramps so you can get around. She is going on the assumption that when you leave the hospital next month you'll go home, and she'll be taking care of you. I didn't say anything to her, or try to dissuade her from coming. I didn't think I should."
She waited for his answer. Laboriously, he placed his hands on the keyboard and typed: You were right. Better in person. Harder but better.
"What will you say to her?"
He typed: Groan
"I know," Kit said, "I've been rehearsing speeches myself. I can't bear to hurt her, and in the long run I know, from what you've told me, that what we have planned will be better for her, too. She has been so wonderful with Thea, but it doesn't seem to have assuaged her guilt about you."
His hands moved slowly over the keyboard: Are you worried what people will say ?
She took his hand, held it between both of hers: "I'm only worried about Karin and your children. I can count on May and Faith and Emilie's family to understand. The rest of the world can go to hell."
Philip typed: At the Malibu we shut them out.
"No," she said, vehemently, "that's not why we're going to the ranch. We're going there to be together, to work together. I don't want to shut the world out, I just thought it would be a wonderful place for you to write and for me to remove myself from most of my business responsibilities."
His mouth twitched in the flickering movement she knew to be a smile. Got you going, he typed.
She laughed. "You did. Sometimes I think I should have left you trapped in that elegant body, sometimes I think I've unleashed a monster."
Too late . . . now Karin, he typed.
"Yes, we must talk about Karin," she sighed.
"What is a 'bouquet garni'?" Hayes wanted to know.
"Haven't the foggiest," May said. "Check The Joy of Cooking, or maybe Julia Child. If they don't know it probably doesn't matter."
"Like your style," he said, rubbing his hands on the front of his apron, on which was printed in large letters: "Kiss the Cook," and pulling her to him.
"No, no, you've got it wrong," she laughed, "I'm supposed to kiss the cook, and you're the cook . . . and the bechamel sauce is burning."
He reached for a whisk and began to stir. "I'll never make a Washington hostess."
"Oh yes we will," she told him, bumping him playfully with her hip. "You told your boss we were going to cook and we are. Come look at my table when you can—it's gorgeous."
"Next time we send out for Chinese," he muttered.
"Next time we send out for a cook," she answered, tiptoeing to bite him on the ear.
In bed that night he pulled her close and said, "You were good tonight."
"You mean when I dropped the pickled mushrooms on the floor?"
"That too." He shifted so he could hold her in his arms. "But mainly I meant, you were just easy and nice and made them feel comfortable."
She burrowed in, rubbing her cheek against his chest. "What were they expecting?"
"That's just it—they didn't know what to expect. Washington runs on rumors, and I think the rumors had you down as this exotic wild-woman who chases volcanoes, who is rich as sin, and is the sole progeny of Porter Reade. His name still evokes strong emotions in this town as you might have noticed. Weren't you a little surprised when old Jameson did that little testimonial about how your father's position on China has finally been vindicated?"
She was content to lie in his arms. She turned her face so she could kiss his chest, and answered, "You know, it doesn't matter any more, what they say. I loved my father, and I've forgiven him. I've forgiven my mother, too. They both made such sad mistakes . . . and I feel sorry that things weren't different for them, but it isn't churning around inside me anymore."
"I know," he said, and the way he said it made her ask what was wrong.
"Your talking about forgiveness, I guess. Eli. I haven't forgiven him and I don't know if I ever can. It's funny," he said, and fell silent, thinking.
She closed her eyes, but the tensions in him would not let her drift off to sleep. "It isn't funny," she prompted.
"No, it isn't." He sat up, turned on the light. She plumped the pillow behind her so she could lean against the headboard. It was coming now; he had been unable to talk about Eli, and now he could.
He got up, began to pace. "He violated it," he said, "our friendship . . . he betrayed everything we believed in."
She pulled the sheet over her bare arms and waited.
"I could always talk to Eli, about everything. And one thing we talked about, from the beginning, was our friendship, what it was supposed to be. He had very specific ideas, you know . . . it was important to him that we understood, each of us . . . that we play by the rules. He had no use for what he called the you make me feel good I make you feel good school of friendship. He thought being a friend was a responsibility, that each of you had a larger commitment to the common good. These weren't new ideas, Aristotle and Cicero had written about them. You were supposed to enjoy each other's company, and you were supposed to be useful to each other. But there was a moral commitment there, too. By holding each other to that moral imperative, you would create a better society . . . he believed, we believed that that kind of friendship was at the very heart of the society we wanted to build."
She ached for him. "And you feel he betrayed you," she said.
Hayes was at the window, looking down at the shadows thrown by the street lamp shining through the full leaves of the sycamore tree. With his back to her he said, "Maybe I failed him, I don't know. I'm sure he thinks my signing on with the State Department is a form of betrayal. What I do know is that he has thrown in with people who believe terrorism is an answer, and I can't accept that."
"Still, he warned us," she said.
He slapped his hand hard against the wall. "It was Eli who put us in jeopardy in the first place. The fact that he wouldn't go through with it doesn't mean he won't the next time, when the victim is someone he doesn't know. He's gone underground, May. I can't stay neutral, I've got to oppose him, and I wanted you to know the reason."
When he turned around she saw that his face was wet.
It was almost light before she felt him sigh and relax, and she could allow herself to slip into sleep beside him.
"What do you hear from May?" Kit asked, playing for time.
Karin concentrated on the tea bag she was dipping in the mug of hot water. A few drops sloshed onto the white Formica of the cafeteria table and she blotted them, absentmindedly, with a paper napkin.
"You know about the offer she got from the Geological Survey? But I don't think she's going to go back to work for a while. She's having too nice a time being Hayes's wife."
"I think so to
o," Kit said. "His mother called yesterday to tell me that May wants to work with her to find Andy's child. That whole situation seems almost made to order for May."
"What do you mean?" Karin asked. Kit could tell by her eyes that she was too weary, and probably too disturbed about her own situation, to make the connections, so she explained: "The child is Asian American, like May. There is a war, a cultural division between the families . . . and a boy who will grow up not knowing much about his father, in this case—not knowing if he wanted him, if he deserted him, what the father's family was all about."
Karin nodded, dully. "May did tell me they would like to resolve the question of Andy's son before they start a family of their own."
Kit coughed to clear her throat. She felt a quivering on the inside and wondered if it would show in her voice. "I wanted to talk to you before you saw Philip," she began, "to warn you a bit. I think you are going to be surprised . . She stopped, tried to organize her thoughts. "He has made quite wonderful strides. He can type fairly well now, so you can have a conversation of sorts—though he tends to leave out a lot and you have to fill in the spaces. It's going to take months, and a lot of work, to teach him to speak again but we believe it is possible."
Karin began to put her things together, she wanted to see him now, to get on with it. Kit could hear the beating of her own heart hot in her ears.
"What I wanted to tell you," she said, rushing now, "is that I hope you know how deeply I care for you."
She watched Karin walk away, her shoulder bag carried like a burden, weighing her down. Kit had meant to warn her, to prepare her. She had wanted to make it easier for Karin and for Philip, and she had not known how. Nor did she know what to expect from Karin. But she had gone too far now to turn back, it was all set in motion.
He was dressed and waiting, sitting with the typewriter positioned so she could read what he wrote without having to stand behind him.
He waited while she went through the formalities: The chaste kiss on the cheek, the slow, sad smile into his eyes, the messages of love from Thea, from Faith. How well Annie and Thea got along, how she felt Thea was finally ready to come back to enroll at Stanford next month. She began her apology then, starting by saying, "I feel I have let you down . . ."
He stopped her by beginning to type.
Wait, he wrote, Please.
She watched his hands crawl over the keyboard, watched each letter as it appeared on the paper: In Sept. I go to Malibu ranch with Kit. She wants. I want.
"I don't understand," Karin said, as if to herself. "Do you mean you are going for a visit?"
He typed: To live.
"To live," she whispered, and stared at him. She could not take it in, could not fathom what it meant. Kit and Philip, going to the ranch together. To live, he said. She sat back in the chair and felt as if she were about to fly apart, all the molecules of her body to float off into space. A wave of nausea threatened to move into her throat. She closed her eyes to stop it and the room began spinning. When she opened her eyes he was watching her and she wanted to scream.
Instead she forced her throat to open, her voice to say, "Tell me what you want me to do."
Slowly, he typed. Care for Thea, Dan. Care for you. Divorce me.
She tried to think and couldn't. "I don't know what to say," she began, "I'm sorry, I know our marriage has not been . . . I haven't . . ."
NO he typed, all in caps, DEAR KARIN, NOT YOU. NEVER YOU. Then he added, My fault, total. Long story. Tell one day when you come Malibu.
She took his hand then and let the sobs wrench out of her. "I'm so sorry, Philip," she said, "I wish it had all been different."
She felt his hand press hers and looked up. A small flickering of muscles moved his lips in a grotesque smile. "I'll go find Kit," was all she could think to say.
She lay back on the great pink moire pillows in Kit's guest room, a cool towel on her head and tried to sip from the ginger ale Kit had brought to settle her stomach.
"I feel better now," she said. "Not so dizzy."
Kit stood in the doorway in an attitude of uncertainty.
"Come talk to me, please," Karin said.
She looked so miserable Kit wanted to put her arms around her to comfort her, but she could not. Not this time.
"I don't understand, Kit. Can you explain to me what is happening?"
Kit sat in a small chair next to the bed, and tried to think how to start.
"I don't understand either, Karin. I wish I did. The way things happen, it is so strange . . . life is strange. When you and Philip married it seemed so right to all of us, and I believe in many ways it was right. I'm not certain what would have happened to Thea and Dan if you hadn't married their father. But you did marry him, and because of that those children have a chance for a happy, whole life now. Philip knows that as well as any of us. And I believe you and Philip were good for each other for a time, too. Just as Philip and I were once good for each other—for a very brief time. I didn't allow a relationship with Philip then because I knew it wouldn't last. It was wonderful, but ephemeral, and that is all it could have been at that time in our lives. But . . . and this is the hard part to explain . . . when Philip and I came together again, after his accident, it was as if . . ." she hesitated, her neck flushed ". . . as if finally, it was time for us. Out of both our needs—mine as desperate as his, if truth be told—this, well, wonderful sweetness emerged. I so love being with him, K. The age difference doesn't seem to matter any more."
She leaned forward, reached for Karin's hand, "Ever since Connor died, Karin, I have carried this loneliness around inside of me. And now it's gone. Philip says he has much the same feelings. We didn't plan for this to happen, darling, but it did."
Karin looked confused, as if she still didn't understand. "I'm not sure . . ." she began, "I thought maybe you were doing it for me . . . so I wouldn't feel so guilty . . ."
Kit shook her head. "No, as much as I love you, I promise you I am not doing it for you. I am doing it for me, and for Philip. But I hope . . ." she hesitated again, "I hope with all my heart that it is right for you, that you can finally feel released from any obligation."
"When Philip said I should divorce him, he wants it for himself?"
Kit nodded, and asked, "Does that hurt?"
Karin managed a tremulous smile; she seemed to be taking stock. "No. No it doesn't. I don't know what I feel, Kit. It's so . . . new."
"Darling," Kit said, moving to sit next to her on the bed, "we want so for you to be happy, to feel free. Because in a way, we can't until you do. Does that sound selfish?"
Karin shook her head. "It's just so . . . strange . . . all these months, I've been walking around feeling that I should be doing something I couldn't bring myself to do. And now that feeling is gone, but I don't have anything to put in its place. I don't feel free, not yet. Kit. Maybe it takes awhile. I just feel kind of . . . stunned."
"Stay here a few days, let's talk—the three of us. We can make it right, together. I know it, K, I just feel it!"
Karin had never known Kit to be so animated, so intense. Her cheeks were blazing. Karin said, "I'll call to see if it's okay with Thea."
Occasionally now, when Israel spoke, he was continuing a dialogue from his childhood with people no longer alive. He talked to his mother about going out to collect coal along the railroad tracks— would he get to pull the wagon? he wanted to know. And he talked to someone named Odell who had been at Ft. Benning, Georgia with him, and who had never understood. "Let me explain," Israel would plead, "don't turn your back on me, please let me explain."
He floated in and out of a morphine fog, now and then rising to the surface of consciousness. His body grew frail, but his great voice was not diminished. He would sing the old hymns, beginning in a low, slow mode, "I was sinking deep in sin, / Far from the peaceful shore. / Very deeply stained within, / Sinking to rise no more." And then his great, booming bass would move into the almost rollicking chorus, "Love lifted me,
/ Love lifted me, when nothing else would help, / Love lifted me!" Abigail would join in sometimes, she had learned all the old Protestant hymns in the mission school, or any of the children who wandered on and off the lanai, where he spent most of each day.
On the day after Annie returned from Honolulu, he opened his eyes, saw her sitting beside him, and said in a perfectly reasonable voice, "If I had it all to do over again, I'd work in a bakery so I could breathe in the smell of warm bread all day long, all day long."
Annie laughed. "I just popped two loaves into the oven—you missed me baking your daily bread, didn't you, sweet man?"
"My mama used to bake bread," he rambled on. "I'd go to the back door of the house where she worked, and she'd let me into the kitchen, her black arms'd be all dusted with white flour, and she'd give me a little piece of bread right out of the oven, and sometimes she'd pile applesauce on it, with cinnamon sprinkled on top."
He closed his eyes. She thought he had drifted off again when he asked, "Where'd you go?"
Annie soothed his forehead with a damp washcloth. "I stayed with Thea while Karin was in California. I was only supposed to be away three days, but Karin needed to stay on awhile longer, and she wasn't feeling well when she came back so I kept her company for another day."
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