The Long Road Home

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “This is wrong,” Nora said, deeply feeling the injustice.

  “It was Mike’s doing.”

  A familiar ache gripped Nora’s heart. Her feelings lay somewhere between anguish and anger. They made her breath come short. Calm yourself, she told herself. Get through this last step and you will be free from the lot of them forever.

  “I don’t blame Mike,” she lied. “What I don’t understand is how he could appear so successful and suddenly I learn he is bankrupt. How did it get this bad?”

  Bellows’s look implied all that he did not say, all that everyone already knew. That she had left Mike. How, their eyes accused, could she expect to know about Mike’s finances after she walked out on him? Left him in his hour of need? Nora knew they saw her as the New York socialite who collected antiques and art. A pretty blonde who couldn’t be bothered with bank balances.

  Nora looked at the accusing eyes and despite her vow, shrank inward. Guilt was an unwelcome shroud for a widow to bear. It kept one mourning without resolved grief. Deserved or not, it was a heavy burden. If Mike had died naturally, perhaps she could have escaped it. He had chosen suicide, however, and with that final act he had completed his seven-year campaign of verbal abuse. Nora’s hand moved to rub her brow, but she arrested the gesture in her lap. She tightened her fists and raised her chin.

  “He took a new direction in his last year,” Bellows explained.

  “This ‘new direction’ is not detailed in the report,” she replied icily.

  Bellows raised his brows. “Quite right. The purpose of today’s meeting is only to explain the status of your estate prior to settlement.”

  “Since my money seems to have been lost as well, I should think I am entitled to a full disclosure.”

  Mumbles sounded at the table. Nora still focused on Bellows. Always work at the top, Mike had said.

  She sensed a new appreciation in Bellows’s eyes. Up until now, her encounters with him had been purely social. Despite his gentlemanly facade, his hand always seemed to find a way to her waist. In what might have appeared a mindless motion, the broad expanse of his palm would caress her ribs while his long thumb would nudge upward toward her breast. Beneath his fastidious apparel, Nora always found him dirty.

  “I’d be happy to set up a private meeting to outline Mike’s past projects, Nora.” Bellows’s voice projected the cooperating attorney. His rheumy eyes spoke of another project he had in mind, and to emphasize his intent, he presented her with a magnanimous smile. Be good to me, the smile said, and I’ll be good to you.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she replied firmly. “A report in the mail should suffice. I plan to leave town as soon as possible.”

  Thirteen pairs of brows rose in unison.

  “Leave? To where, my dear?” Bellows asked.

  Truth was, she didn’t know. Anywhere but here, Nora thought, her gaze traveling across the impassive faces surrounding her. She’d had enough of false friendship. She’d had her fill of dismissal and rejection, of sympathy with strings attached. Somewhere along the line, she’d lost sight of her values. Looking back, she couldn’t remember what it was she had hoped to achieve by thirty.

  This was a turning point. Nora wanted to go somewhere she could work hard, earn her own living, and reevaluate her values. Somewhere, she wanted to build a life that mattered.

  Nora’s hand stilled in her lap. An entry from the report came to mind with a flash. Such a place existed, she realized, a smile escaping from her rigid control. Excitement bubbled. She knew exactly where that place was.

  Leaving Bellows’s question hanging, Nora dove into the report and began flipping quickly through the pages.

  “I assure you we went through everything thoroughly,” an attractive woman lawyer commented.

  “I’m sure you have,” Nora replied tersely. She remembered the blonde from the “attack” team. Nora ran her finger along the listed property, unconsciously holding her breath. When she spotted what she was looking for, her breath exhaled with a satisfying gasp. The estimated value was fairly low.

  “Looking for anything in particular?” asked Bellows, his interest clearly piqued.

  “Just one moment, please,” Nora replied without looking up. Grabbing a pencil she made notations, referring back to page three. Always facile with numbers, Nora reviewed the estimated values, made a few more notations, and calculated an alternative plan.

  When she looked up again, the twelve lawyers and accountants were slouched in their chairs in exaggerated poses of boredom. Their noses seemed to have grown inches, the way they peered down at her from behind them. Nora coughed back a laugh. Only Bellows viewed her with intense interest.

  “I’ll take the Vermont farm instead of the cash,” she announced.

  Twelve chairs creaked as the men and women snapped to attention and shuffled through their papers.

  Bellows seemed both amused and curious. “The sheep farm? But why, Nora? It is a small operation, risky at best. Its only purpose for Mike was as a tax write-off.”

  “All true,” she replied, holding back her excitement.

  His eyes narrowed. “I believe the house is unfinished. Have you and Mike ever lived there?”

  “No,” she said emphatically. “Never.”

  “I see,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. His eyes never left her. “Then why the farm?”

  “Why not?” She wasn’t about to confide in Uncle Ralph. “I want it,” she said bluntly, “and according to my calculations, I can have it—plus enough to establish an interest-bearing account of about three hundred thousand dollars. That should give me enough to eke out a living.”

  “A meager living, to be sure.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she lied again. As he went through her figures, adding a few of his own, Nora maintained her icy composure. She could not let on how much this meant to her.

  “I don’t want any surprises,” she said. “Not without a cushion. I assume your calculations are correct?” An indignant harumph sounded from her left as an accountant’s face mottled. Nora focused only on Bellows. This was between the two of them, Mike’s personal lawyer and his widow.

  She could sense the growing surprise and antagonism of the men and women around her. These were Mike’s people. She, his wife, was the outsider.

  And that was the way she wanted it. Her foot began tapping beneath the heavy table as she put together the pieces of her new, even radical plan. In her mind she could envision the farm the last time she saw it—what was it—three years ago? The verdant lushness of the Vermont mountains, the fat red raspberries hanging ripe on the bush, fields of oxeye daisies, Queen Anne’s lace and clover sprouting up between rocks, dark woods with cool breezes, and the bucolic bleating of the lambs. It could all be hers. She could make something of her life there, she felt sure of it.

  A heady kind of enthusiasm raced through her no-longer-complacent veins. An excitement that ran slipshod over her rational constraints, delivering a new confidence. The kind that in the past had inspired her to impulsively buy a piece of furniture, or a painting. Though based on knowledge, the decision was instinct. She was born with what some people called “a knack.”

  She had to have the farm, she thought with quiet desperation. It was right. And it was all she had to hold on to.

  Bellows cleared his throat, once again bringing his court into session. “Well,” he said with both resignation and mirth. “I see no reason why this can’t be arranged.”

  Amid the grumbling of disapproval at the table, Nora beamed.

  “Only one more contingency,” he warned.

  Nora stiffened.

  “Remember that nothing is final until after the auction. That gives you two months to determine if you can make a go of it at this sheep farm of yours. And even if you do, you can still lose it to Mike’s creditors.”

  “But that is unlikely. You said yourself the auction should be a success.”

  “Should be and will be are worlds apart.” Like a
consummate judge, he glared at every man and woman that sat around the table, no one longer than at Nora herself. “The status of the MacKenzie estate is confidential. This is absolute. Should word of MacKenzie’s bankruptcy leak out, the auction will be ruined. Mrs. MacKenzie cannot set a minimum bid. And if the auction doesn’t bring in the bacon—” he paused to close the report with grand effect “—then all of you go home hungry.”

  Not a paper rustled.

  “That’s it,” Bellows concluded. Instantly the table was covered with expensive leather attaché cases of every color considered understated yet elegant. As papers were shuffled in and people shuffled out, Bellows came around the table and offered his hand to Nora.

  She took it warily.

  He held her hand for a moment, looking at the lone gold band on her ring finger, then said with surprising sincerity, “Good luck, Mrs. MacKenzie.”

  Nora detected none of his earlier lecherousness. A small smile eased across her face. “Thank you, Mr. Bellows. I’m sure I’ll need it.”

  Bellows released her hand with a glint of amusement in his eyes. After an urbane nod of his head, he strolled from the room.

  Relief flooded her. Good-bye, old boy! she mouthed as she watched his retreating back. Good-bye all of you, she thought, addressing the empty chairs around the table. The images before her changed. Instead of furniture, Nora envisioned mountains. Instead of oak, she saw maple.

  I’m going home, she realized, still not believing. Home. The word felt strange upon her lips; distant yet full of promise. It was fall; the farm would be ripening with color. Warm days and cool nights. Harvests coming in. New lambs.

  So much new. So much to learn. Instinct would carry her only so far. Could she manage? What did she know about farming or caring for sheep? No one would be there to pull her out of trouble. To casually write the check. Her hand hesitated on her bag as doubt pressed. It would take hard work, tons of it, and daily prayer to pull this off. Was she up to it?

  Nora raised her chin defiantly and gave the zipper a firm tug. She’d better be. The farm was all she had left. She was on her own. If she didn’t make it there, she had nowhere else to go. Hoisting her purse, Nora took one farewell look at Mike’s office.

  The recessed lights cast small shadows upon the cleared oak table and the empty credenza. It gave off a ghostly sheen. Memories stirred, producing goose bumps along her arms. Nora rubbed them quickly, brushing the memories away.

  “Good-bye,” she whispered, taking one last look before turning out the light. The words sounded hollow in the empty room. As she closed the door tight behind her and hurried away, Nora had the ominous feeling that Mike’s ghost was right behind her.

  2

  DAWN ROSE OVER MANHATTAN. Its reach stretched for miles in reflection against steel and glass. The morning light pressed relentlessly against rows of window shades, curtains, and blinds closed as tight as eyelids. They seemed to squint against the brightness.

  Forty-four stories up, Nora stood, arms folded, coffee cup in hand, allowing herself a farewell to her city. She could feel the heat of a new day against the glass. She leaned her cheek against it. How quiet the city was at this hour, she thought. A sleeping giant. Yet Nora could feel the energy awakening beneath her. The sun was stirring the beast, and soon, within the hour, it would be fully awake, belching out the sounds of shouts, honks, and whistles. A hungry city.

  She shuddered. This city had always intimidated her. Only her wealth had protected her from the harsh realities of the streets below. Now, she’d lost her cocoon, she thought. She’d been booted out.

  Oh well, she decided, gulping her coffee and closing the blinds with a snap. “Sweetie, it’s time to fly.” She said it aloud, encouraged by the sassy tone in her voice. If she wanted to be out of the city today, she had a lot of work to do. The auction house people were due here soon.

  At the thought, her stomach churned. This was it. She was really leaving the city. Even though she wanted to go—was eager to go—the leave-taking was hard.

  She surveyed her home with a critical eye. The rooms she had hated yesterday were comforting today in the memories they held. The apartment was gracious and inviting; eight rooms full of rare antiques, intricate oriental rugs, and paintings that museums coveted.

  Things, she told herself. They’re just things. Trappings of a lifestyle. Yet, she loved them. Over the past several years, each time she walked through these rooms she would get a small thrill of delight at the sight of these beautiful things. Not that she was greedy, or even cared for the dollar value of any of them. No, she simply enjoyed being surrounded by the intrinsic beauty of the pieces. The flair of a Chippendale, the vibrant color of a rug, or the focus of a Satsuma ware pattern. The art touched her, and her life had been so hard the past several years that she sought simple pleasures wherever she could find them. So she had pursued her art and antiques collections with a vengeance, earning for herself a reputation for a keen eye and a handy checkbook.

  Nora ran her hand across the French high-gloss finish of a table. Her unpolished nails seemed so mortal against the ageless wood. These things, these precious things, she thought with sadness. Now they were her champions. It was up to them to bring in enough cash to pay back the debts and to keep her going. She had depended upon Mike for so long, and in the end, it would be her own abilities that could save her. How ironic life could be, she thought.

  From one room to the next, Nora strolled through memories. In here, she thought, gazing at the Sheraton dining table, at this table she had presided over countless dinners. Seemingly effortless soirees that displayed Mike as the successful financier and herself as the stable dot beneath the exclamation point. Her husband used to smile his approval from across the long damask-covered table. His Irish blue eyes had sparkled beneath his heavy dark brows. He’d seemed so handsome then, so powerful, so hers. In recent years, she remembered with a pang, he had awarded his approving smile to the lovely lady he had selected to sit at his right.

  In those Victorian chairs, she thought, entering the morning room, she and Mike would lean back and read the newspapers. In the early days of their marriage they’d blurt out comments and questions that always sparked remarks or laughter. Later, however, only she would persist, making comments that never brought a response.

  Her heels clicked upon the polished parquet as she completed her rounds. The coordinating patterns of fabrics, the dominating pieces of art, the soft-hued paint and carpet, and the lemony smell of polish and soap enveloped her in their security. Each room was perfect.

  Mike had hated them all. He hated every detail of the small, well-appointed apartment. He wanted a house as big and brawling as he was. Full of unruly children, a basketball hoop in the driveway, and a big hairy dog in the yard. He had expected a family in the suburbs—he had demanded an heir.

  “If you spent as much time trying to have a baby as you did buying furniture,” he’d mutter, cutting her to the quick.

  Nora paused, the pain as sharp now as it had been when spoken. So many mean comments, so many slurs. She shook her head, loosening pain’s hold. Oh yes, it was time to go.

  Nora went directly to her bedroom to gather her suitcase. She had to get out of here. Let the movers fend for themselves. At the door to her bedroom, however, Nora froze. The trip through memories was not yet over. A farewell was due to this room as well. This room, where dreams had been dashed, battles waged, and a marriage lost. Her eyes roaming over the heavy four-poster, Nora wondered for the hundredth time how so much love could have engendered so much hate? Despite her resolve, old questions nagged. When had Mike begun to loathe the sight of her? To find her too repulsive to touch? In how many ways had she failed?

  Mike was everywhere. He haunted every room in this place. Still mocking, relentlessly accusing her.

  “Please, Mike,” she muttered. “Let me go.”

  Nora heard the front door unlatch and after a hasty wipe at her eyes, she checked her watch. It was only 8:00 a.m. Could
the movers be arriving so soon? She peeked out from behind the bedroom door. Down the hall she spied a stocky, robust figure impatiently jerking her arm from a too-long coat. With a sigh of relief, Nora flung wide the door.

  “Trude, what are you doing here?” Nora walked swiftly down the long hall to take her maid’s hands. “Yesterday was your last day. I thought we said our good-byes.”

  Trude puffed herself up. “I no could stand think of you, here in this place, by yourself.” She looked around then jerked her shoulders. “He still here, you know? Bad feeling. You go through too much.” She sniffed loudly. It had never been any secret how Trude felt about Mike. Trude stepped back and surveyed the coffee cup in Nora’s hand. “You have no breakfast, right?”

  Nora smiled, knowing it was futile to argue. “I’ve been busy. I’ll catch something on the road.”

  Trude took the coffee cup. “I know you. You forget. Look at you. All bones. I go make something.”

  “No, really. I couldn’t eat. I’ve got too much on my mind.”

  Trude shook her head and Nora read worry rather than irritation on the older woman’s face. In fact, Trude couldn’t be more than forty-five, but she was the type to mother, regardless of who or what age. Nora had been her special project for seven years.

  The intercom buzzer rang.

  “Oh boy, look out. Here they come now!” Trude called with hand raised. “I go get some coffee going.” Trude’s answer to all problems was a cup of coffee.

  The apartment was soon crowded with men and women of all shapes, sizes, and nationalities. Nora could smell the different spices, as well as the common scent of fast food, in the close air of the apartment. There was no more time for sentiment. It was time to pack up and go.

  The day sped by as she worked alongside the crew. Some of the men were efficient, others had to be hawked. Nora cataloged her furniture, checking it without emotion against the computer list. She watched, impressed, as the men slipped her heavy glass-front antiques into specially constructed, padded crates as easily as a hand fit into a glove. Trude backed her up, offering fluids and snacks and cleaning floors as soon as they were bared. Room after room was emptied, leaving emptiness behind.