While Brandon diced the onions, Chelsea again consulted the recipe book. First, she seasoned the meat on both sides with salt and pepper. With that done, she then placed the roast into the oven at 450˚ F. Soon after, she began helping Brandon with the bourbon-mushroom sauce, which called for mushrooms, onions, bourbon, and minced garlic. When the roast had cooked for forty-five minutes, she served it along with the sauce, some mashed potatoes, and a green salad.
“My God, Brooke was a wonder in the kitchen,” Brandon said admiringly, just before popping another piece of beef into his mouth.
Chelsea smiled. “She was, wasn’t she?” she answered. “Especially when you consider that all of the recipes in that book are of her own making.”
“For sure,” Brandon said. Then he gave Chelsea a sly smile. “And her only granddaughter’s no slouch in the kitchen, either.”
Chelsea laughed a little. “Why thank you, Dr. Yale,” she said. “Even so, I could have never done it without Brooke’s help from the great beyond.”
After cleaning up the dishes, Chelsea and Brandon took their coffee, along with Brooke’s journal, out onto Chelsea’s porch. Dark clouds were gathering, and no boats braved the gray, whitecapped waves. If it rained, Chelsea realized, it would be for the first time since she had come to Lake Evergreen. Brandon picked up the journal and looked at it thoughtfully, wondering what its next entry might tell them.
“May I read it to you, this time?” he asked Chelsea.
“Sure,” she answered.
After finding the appropriate page, he gave Chelsea a questioning glance. “It’s blotched in places here,” he said, “like some of her tears fell on the pages. Are you sure that you want to go on?”
As Chelsea steeled herself, she turned and cast her eyes across the waves. More heartache to come? she wondered.
“Yes, Brandon,” she finally answered. “I want to hear it, no matter what.”
Just as the first raindrops fell, Brandon began reading aloud:
Wednesday, August 5, 1942, 9:00 P.M.
Two more weeks have passed. I’ve been crying tonight, and my tears are falling upon these journal pages, even as I write them. Although the reasons for my distress are clear enough, the solution to stopping it remains impossibly elusive. Since I realized my love for Greg, my heart has been in a constant battle with my conscience. I am still smitten with him, while my dear husband trains in the art of war, so as to help save our very way of life.
My God, have I become one of those women about whom I’ve been so critical, the ones who betray their husbands, despite how much they claim to love them? Because I haven’t consummated my love for Greg, I would like to believe that I have yet to join their traitorous ranks. Nor can I, if I ever again want to look my husband in the face. But my heart asks, which is the greater trial? A guilt-ridden, illicit physical affair or a long-distance one without sexual intimacy?
I have also become strangely torn about Bill ever coming home, a conflict that until only two weeks ago I believed could have never existed within me. If he doesn’t survive, will my feelings for Greg at last be set free? And if Bill does return, how will my heart deal with it? Will I still love him as I once did? Or because of my newfound feelings for Greg, will my ardor wither at the mere sight of my husband? Will my heart then compare one to the other and find one lacking? And if so, which one?
Although I have of course seen Greg since my last journal entry, because the last two weeks have passed rather uneventfully, I still can’t tell how he really feels about me, and the mystery is driving me mad. He has begun painting the portrait he promised me, and it is nearly half-done. We talk casually as he works, his paint and brushes busily creating my likeness while I do my best to sit still. The process is perhaps more arduous for me than it is for him, given that I can’t help but wish that it were his fingertips caressing my skin, rather than his brushes caressing the canvas . . .
The slightest possibility that he loves me as I do him makes me shudder with a great fear the likes of which I have never known. While part of me desperately wishes it to be true, the other half of my soul knows that nothing worse could befall the three of us. For unrequited love is, by its very nature, terrible enough. But true, requited love is a self-fulfilling prophecy . . .
I should go back to Syracuse, I know, and try to forget all about this man named Gregory Butler. But in the end, what good would it do? Having just built his cottage, he surely will keep returning to Lake Evergreen for many summers to come. And if so, then what am I to do? If Bill survives the war, am I to never come back here simply because of my unresolved feelings for Greg? Or if I do, would it prove too painful, too guilt-inducing, too selfish? Either way, what happened today was another step toward what I fear may be inevitable, and it has made my dilemma even more difficult to bear . . .
WHILE STRUGGLING TO make the climb, Brooke felt some sweat trickle down her forehead, forcing her to again wipe her face with a handkerchief. Greg was several paces ahead of her as he led her up the rather steep mountain trail.
This was no well-established hiking trail, Brooke realized. Heavily strewn with rocks and brush, it was more like some narrow, abandoned goat path than any clearly defined mountain route she had ever seen. All of which jibed with what Greg told her before they set out—that only the locals knew about this path, and that it was seldom used. He had impishly refused to tell her where they were going, saying only that once they arrived, the trek would be worth it. He hadn’t climbed this trail since he was a teenager, he had added happily, so it would be like he too were going there for the first time.
It had all started when he had shown up at her door early that morning, gleefully holding a wicker picnic basket in one hand. “We’re leaving,” he had told her, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. In the end, Brooke had agreed. Not because she had been eager to make an exhausting slog, but as a way to be close to him. Her guilt had yet again haunted her heart as she made ready to go but she pushed it aside, telling herself that there was in fact nothing wrong with two friends merely going for a walk. But his unexpected invitation meant far more than that for her, and in her heart she knew it.
After a short drive in Greg’s Packard, they had pulled off Schuyler Lane and driven another one hundred yards or so up an even more desolate dirt road. On stopping the car before a barbed wire fence that bore an ominous NO TRESPASSING sign, Greg forced open a ramshackle gate and bade Brooke through it. They then walked across an adjoining field until they reached the base of a small mountain and began climbing upward. Greg had a large-caliber Browning pistol stuck in his belt, and when Brooke asked him why, his one-word answer had been, “Bears.”
That had been an hour ago, and Brooke was tiring. So far, the climb had produced few memorable vistas, given that the entire mountainside was heavily laden with trees. Nor could she know how much longer it might take to reach their destination. Plus, the climb had made her tired, and she had been scratched by the brambles. Despite being with Greg, she was nearing the end of her patience.
“How much farther?” Brooke shouted up at him.
Greg laughed. “Just another ten minutes or so,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Are you doing okay? I promise that it’ll be worth it.”
“Ten more minutes I can do,” Brooke answered. “But any more than that, and you might have a mutiny on your hands.”
“Impossible . . .” Greg laughed. “You forget, my dear, that I’m the one with the gun!”
In the end, Greg’s promise proved true. Soon the terrain leveled out, and they were standing at the edge of the woods. Hand in hand, they walked out onto a flat, grassy meadow.
The deep-green field perched atop the little mountain was lovely. Surrounded on three sides by dense forest, the clear side opposite Brooke and Greg looked north and ended in a vertical cliff. As they neared it, Brooke became ever more impressed by the beauty of this place. At last they reached the cliff’s edge, where, still hand in hand, they gazed at the sprawling terrain tha
t stretched out below them.
From where they stood, they could see the silvery ribbon that was the Saint Lawrence River, flowing northeasterly to the sea. Just beyond it lay the green patchwork that was Quebec. It was a dazzling sight, and Brooke realized that Greg had been right—it was indeed worth the climb.
“Is there a name for this place?” Brooke asked.
Greg put down his gun and picnic basket, then he lit a cigarette. “Yes,” he answered. “It’s called Red Rock Mountain.”
“Why ‘Red Rock’?” Brooke asked.
Greg smiled at her. “Look around,” he answered.
While still standing at the edge of the cliff, Brooke turned and took a closer look at the meadow. She now noticed obscured outcroppings of reddish stone here and there, as if they were hiding in the grass. She had also seen some during her climb. The lovely and unusual rocks seemed familiar, but she couldn’t grasp why.
“Still don’t understand?” Greg asked.
“I see the pinkish rocks,” she answered. “And I recognize them from someplace, but I can’t remember where.”
Before answering, Greg smiled and sat down on the grass, then bade Brooke to do the same. “In your very own cottage, that’s where,” he answered.
“Huh?”
“Your fireplace,” he answered. “The hearth is made of rose quartz. There’s a lot of it around here. I suspect that when your father had your cottage built, the contractor suggested it.”
While smiling at the realization, Brooke gathered her arms about her knees. “Thank you for this,” she said. “As far as I know, I’m the first in our family to come here.”
Greg opened the picnic basket and removed a small tablecloth, which he spread out on the grass. He then produced a serving dish, a bottle of red wine, a large chunk of cheese, a loaf of fresh bread, and two wineglasses. Using the knife from his belt sheath, he cut the bread and cheese, then arranged the pieces on the plate. He opened the wine, poured two glassfuls, and handed one to Brooke.
Brooke smiled. “It seems that you’ve thought of everything,” she said.
“The least I could do,” he answered, “considering the way I kidnapped you this morning. And besides,” he added, “the best things in life are often the simplest.” Smiling, he raised his glass. “Here’s to ‘a jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou’ . . .”
Brooke smiled and also took a sip of wine. “Another quote from your father?” she asked.
Greg took a final drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in the grass. “Nope,” he answered. “Omar Khayyám.”
They ate and drank in silence for a time as the wind waved the grass to and fro and the clouds raced across the sky. The clouds seemed to travel faster up here, Brooke realized, just as the past two weeks had seemingly done, since her epiphany about Greg. Then she looked at him, thinking.
It was true after all, she realized, as she watched him sitting there in the grass. She did still love him. She had feared that with the passage of time she might not feel the same about him, as if some spell had been cast upon her from which she would suddenly awaken. But that had not happened. She loved this man, and there could be no going back. But she must never consummate her love for Greg, for doing so would forever seal her betrayal and take her heart to a place from which it would likely never return. So far, all of her time spent with Greg could be explained away—at least to her own satisfaction. But if the unthinkable happened, she knew that it would forever tarnish her conscience.
Even so, another part of her wanted it to happen, wanted to willingly give herself over to whatever his eager body might demand from her. She had thought about it over and over again, in the short space of time since her feelings for him had fully burst forth. How he might take her, how she would respond to him, and the illicit, secret favors they would grant to one another. Bill was the only man she had ever been with. But Bill had been gone for a long time, and her body yearned for satisfaction—so much so that the temptation of lying with Greg was nearly more than she could resist. And she knew something else, too. Trying to deny these feelings now, as she sat beside him atop this windblown mountain, would be a monumental lie.
My heart has come to a dreadful place, she thought. A place so foreign yet familiar. So wrong and yet so exhilarating. So tempting yet so dangerous . . .
She then watched as Greg again rummaged around in the wicker basket for a few moments. On finding what he wanted, he removed it from the basket and he handed it to Brooke.
It was a copy of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. The book’s front and rear covers were made from green buckram boards, giving one the impression of grass. Brooke opened it to see that it also included some striking illustrations, in both color and black-and-white. She then thumbed back to the inside cover, where she saw something that Greg had written. It said:
August 5, 1942
For Brooke. May this book bring you
as much pleasure as it has brought me.
Fondly, Gregory Butler
Brooke looked at him and smiled. “I love it,” she said. “But you didn’t have to do this. I can tell that you’ve owned it for a while.”
Greg nodded. “That’s true,” he said. “It’s the 1940 edition. And yes, I have enjoyed it very much, but I now want you to have it.”
While assigning this moment to her memory, Brooke smiled and rubbed her palms over the surface of the book.
“Thank you, Greg,” she said. “I’ll always treasure it.”
“You’re welcome,” he answered. “Just as I will always treasure the moment I gave it to you.”
Greg then lay back on the grass and laced his long fingers beneath his head. The clouds were high and light, and he too noticed that they seemed to cross the sky faster up here. He was wearing the same clothes today as when Brooke had first met him: a tan work shirt, matching pants, and work boots. As he fished around in one pocket for another cigarette, his face took on a look of mild surprise.
“What is it?” Brooke asked.
Greg removed his hand from his pocket and opened it. In his palm there lay a small gathering of coneflower seeds, some of the same group that he had been planting when he first met Brooke.
Greg smiled. “More seeds,” he answered. “I’d forgotten that I hadn’t planted them all. The ones back at my cottage have already started coming up.”
But as he began to replace them in his pocket, Brooke stopped him. “Let’s plant them here,” she said.
Greg thought for a moment. “But this land isn’t ours,” he answered, “and we’re already trespassing, as it is. I’m not sure that we should—”
“But you said that some of the locals also come here, right?” she protested. “So how is anyone to know who did it?”
Greg grinned. “Why, Mrs. Bartlett,” he said. “I never knew that you were so devious.”
As Brooke lay down beside him, she grinned in return. “Well, Mr. Butler,” she said, “I suppose that’s what I get for keeping company with a rogue like you.”
But there was more to her request, Brooke knew. Given her unsettled relationship with Greg, she couldn’t be entirely sure whether she would ever return to Lake Evergreen, much less to this remote and beautiful spot. And because of that she wanted to mark the place somehow, to tell the world that someone had been here and had planted coneflower seeds where they would likely never reach on their own. And that if those seeds should grow, and the resulting flowers return every spring, then perhaps a part of her time with Greg would go on living here year after year, even if her love for him did not.
As if he had grasped the deeper meaning of her request, he nodded. On sitting up, he dug out a small area of fresh earth with his knife, carefully planted the seeds, and then covered them again. Saying nothing, he then gazed deeply into her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” he answered quietly.
And then, as Brooke watched, his expression changed yet again. This time it became one of hunge
r, a yearning, a need to have something within him satisfied. To Brooke’s surprise, he reached out with both hands and gently pinned her to the grass. And then, before she knew it, his mouth was on hers, his arms around her, his body tight alongside her own.
At first she wanted to resist him. But as his kisses deepened and her physical ardor for him was unleashed, she fully responded in kind, holding him, wanting him, running her hands through the blond highlights in his hair. Suddenly there was just the two of them in the world and nothing else. She was becoming lost in him, she knew, but what would happen next? Would he try to possess her right here and now? And if she fought him, would he then force himself upon her, here in a secluded place where there was no one to save her? And perhaps worse yet, was that what she really wanted? Had she become such a stranger to the workings of her own heart that she did not know the answer?
Suddenly, something inside her rebelled and she reluctantly pushed him away. As she did, he did not fight her. Angry and confused, she quickly stood and walked to the edge of the cliff.
My God, she thought. It’s actually happening! And I let it go on . . . What is to become of me?
At once she began to cry. Not so much out of shame this time, she realized, but confusion. She wanted this man, and yet she didn’t. She had loved being in his arms, but at the same time she knew she had just crossed the line, the same forbidden boundary that she had sworn to never traverse. Just then she sensed Greg standing beside her. When she turned to look at him, his expression was contrite. Reaching into a pants pocket, he produced a handkerchief and handed it to her.
“I’m sorry,” he said as she dabbed at her eyes. “I just . . . well, you see . . .”
Brooke turned to him. “I know,” she answered. “Because I feel it, too. But it must end here, Greg, atop this mountain. I simply cannot betray Bill. With God’s grace, he may survive this war. If he does, this will already be hard enough to live with. And much more so if it goes any farther.”
“I understand,” Greg said. “I really do. And please also realize that this was not my reason for bringing you here. Even so, there’s something else that you must know, Brooke.”
More Than Words Can Say Page 20
