‘You’ve been quick, doing all this and changing as well,’ she had exclaimed. He had given her a cheeky grin. ‘Training will out, as they say, and I was trained by a hard-assed general in a tough army camp, remember.’ She had retorted in mock reproof, ‘Emma Harte hard-assed! That’s not a very nice thing to say about my distinguished grandmother.’ Handing her the vodka and tonic, Shane had clinked his glass against hers, then asserted, ‘Emma would appreciate my description of her, even if you don’t.’
They had begun to reminisce about Heron’s Nest then, laughing a lot and teasing each other, and later he had brought out a huge platter of smoked salmon and a tray of cheeses. They had sat on the floor, eating off the coffee table in front of the fire, washing down their light supper with ice-cold Pouilly Fumé. And they had talked endlessly, late into the night, and about so many varied things, content to be together, at ease and comfortable in their companionship.
Towards the end of the evening Shane had noticed that she kept rubbing her neck, and in answer to his concerned glance, she had volunteered, ‘It’s stiff – from sitting long hours at my desk, I’ve no doubt. It’s nothing. Really.’ Without saying a word, he had knelt behind her, massaged her shoulders, her nape, and the base of her skull.
Recalling the scene, Paula remembered the pleasure she had felt as Shane’s strong hard fingers had kneaded her aching muscles, drawn the tension out of her. She had not wanted him to stop. And later, when he had given her a chaste goodnight peck on the cheek outside her bedroom door, she had felt a compulsion to put her arms around his neck. She had gone in swiftly, closed the door, her cheeks flaming.
Paula sat up in the chair with a jerk. Last night she had been baffled at herself. Now she understood. She had wanted Shane to touch her, to kiss her. Face it. Your so-called sisterly feelings towards him aren’t very fraternal. Not any more. They’re sexual. You’re sexually attracted to him.
This last thought so startled and shocked Paula, she leaped to her feet, threw the cigarette into the fire, and almost ran across to the picture window.
She stood staring out at the landscape, hardly aware of its beauty as she tried to calm herself. She must put aside these new and extraordinary feelings he had aroused in her. They shook her up, distressed her. And she had no right to be interested in Shane O’Neill – she was married. Besides, she was only his childhood friend, nothing more in his eyes.
Endeavouring to nudge thoughts of him out of her mind she discovered that they refused to budge. They nagged at her, and then the image of Shane as he had looked last night danced before her eyes. He had seemed different, and yet his appearance and manner were exactly the same as they always were. Then it dawned on her. It was she who was different – and she had been looking at him through newly objective, newly perceptive eyes.
Why am I suddenly so aware of Shane? Because he is handsome, virile, amusing and charming? Or because he exudes such sex appeal? But he always has, he hasn’t changed. Besides blatant sex appeal makes no impression on me. His sexuality isn’t blatant, though. It simply exists as an integral part of him. My God, I must be insane, thinking in this way about Shane. Anyway, I’m not interested in sex. It turns me off. Jim has seen to that.
A little shiver ran through Paula. Jim loomed up in front of her. Merry had an expression she used to describe certain men. She called them, ‘the wham, bang and the thank you, ma’am chaps’. How apt. Paula sighed heavily, blinked in the sunlight as it pierced through the window, a blinding cataract of brilliant light. Her thoughts remained on Jim. Shane’s image was demolished.
Yesterday afternoon, around two o’clock, she had telephoned Long Meadow. It had been seven in the evening in England. She had spoken to Jim. But only briefly. He had been pleasant, bland as always, but hurried, on his way out to dinner, he had informed her. He had quickly passed her over to Nora, so that she could chat to the nurse about her babies, get all the news. She missed Lorne and Tessa terribly. When she had asked Nora to put her husband back on the line, Nora had said that he had already left the house. Paula could hardly believe that he had not waited to say goodbye to her. Furious with him, she had hung up. Then the depression had set in. Seemingly Jim had forgotten their confrontation last Sunday – and what it had been about.
My God, that’s less than a week ago, she thought, as the picture of them standing in the garden flashed through her head with startling clarity. Something had died in her that day. It would never be reborn. Jim had been dense, dismissive, cavalier in his attitude. And yes, irresponsible and indifferent to her, almost callous, now that she thought about it again. He simply didn’t care about her emotions, her thoughts, her needs. Once more she acknowledged that he and she were incompatible. And on every possible level, not only sexually. If sex were their only problem she would be able to cope. His attitude on the phone had only reinforced her sense of despair about him. The last vestiges of her commitment to her marriage had been swept away, and she had turned to the papers on her desk, thankful that she had so much business to occupy her.
My work and the children…that’s where I shall direct all of my energies from now on, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time. Hurrying back to the hearth, she picked up the mug, headed for the kitchen. It was high time she went outside to find Shane, to wish him good morning and ask about their plans for the rest of the day.
But he was already in the kitchen, pouring himself a mug of coffee. ‘So there you are!’ he exclaimed. ‘I bet my chaps woke you up, rowdy devils!’
Paula gaped at him, instantly conscious of his rough clothing. He was wearing shapeless, baggy corduroys, heavy work boots, a bulky fisherman’s sweater and a cloth cap set at a rakish angle on his black curls. She began to laugh, shaking her head.
‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded, frowning, his eyes clouding.
‘Your clothes!’ she spluttered. ‘You look like an Irish navvy!’
‘My dear girl, hasn’t anybody told you that that’s exactly what I am. Just like my grandfather.’
Later in the morning they drove into New Milford.
On their way down the hill, Shane pointed out the farm where his friends Sonny and Elaine Vickers lived, told her in passing that he had invited them over for dinner that night. ‘He’s a musician, she’s a writer. They’re lots of fun, you’ll like them,’ he said, and then went on to discuss the menu with her.
By the time they were parking the car they had agreed on what she would cook – an old-fashioned North Country dinner with all the trimmings. They would start with Yorkshire pudding, have a leg of lamb, roast potatoes and brussel sprouts for the main course, finish with an English trifle.
They went to the farm stands and various markets, bought fresh vegetables, fruit and lamb and various other meats for the weekend, and spices, fancy candles and armfuls of bronze and gold chrysanthemums. They staggered down Main Street, their arms laden, laughing and joking, their hilarity high.
On the return journey, Paula realized that she was being her normal self with Shane, as he was with her. But then why wouldn’t he be? He couldn’t read her mind, and even if he could, there was now nothing unusual to read – except friendly, affectionate thoughts, happy remembrances of their youthful past. Fortunately those strange and disturbing feelings he had evoked in her last night had entirely disappeared in the last few hours. Shane was just her old chum, her good friend, and part of the family. Everything was normal again. She felt weak with the relief.
Once they were back at the barn, Shane unpacked their purchases and put them away, while she arranged the flowers in two large stone pots. As they worked, he said, ‘I’m afraid it’s another picnic for lunch. Is that okay with you, Beanstalk?’
‘Of course. But what about your carpenters? Don’t you have to feed them?’
‘No. They brought their own sandwiches and they told me they were going to eat at noon, while we were out shopping. But I wonder where they are? They were supposed to start putting up some of the shelves – it’s awfu
lly silent.’ He began to laugh as the sound of hammering floated down from the upper floor. ‘I spoke too soon, it seems. They’re obviously hard at it.’
Lunch, eaten in front of the fire in the main room, consisted of ripe brie cheese, thick chunks of French bread, fruit and a bottle of red wine. At one moment Paula looked across at Shane and said, ‘Are you planning to live in the States for the rest of your life?’
‘Why do you ask that?’ He wondered why it mattered to her.
Glancing around, she said, ‘This place has the look of a permanent residence, and you’ve obviously put a lot of care and money into it.’
‘Yes, and it’s been very therapeutic for me, coming up here whenever I could, working on the place. It’s given me something to do at weekends, in my spare time. I don’t have many friends, no real social life to speak of. Besides, you know I’ve always enjoyed rebuilding old places.’ He lolled back in the chair, his eyes resting on her thoughtfully. ‘Winston and I turned a tidy profit when we sold those old cottages we renovated in Yorkshire, and I know I’ll do the same here, when the time comes for me to sell the barn.’ He continued to observe her. Was that relief in her eyes, or was he imagining things?
‘What’s going to happen to Beck House? I mean now that Winston and Emily are getting married?’ Paula asked curiously.
‘When Winston was in New York he said he and Emily wanted to live there for a while, to see if Emily liked it. If she does, he’ll buy me out, if she doesn’t –’ Shane shrugged. ‘There’s no problem, we’ll probably continue to share it as a weekend place. Or we’ll put it up for sale.’
‘Winston told me he’s asked you to be his best man.’
Shane nodded.
‘And I’m going to be Emily’s matron of honour.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Won’t you be in England before then, Shane?’
There it was again, that peculiar concerned expression in her eyes. He said, ‘I’ve no idea, Paula. As I explained the other day, Dad wants me to spend the Christmas season in Jamaica and Barbados, and I might just have to go to Australia next February or March.’
‘Australia!’ She sat up straighter on the sofa, looking puzzled.
‘Yes. Blackie’s taken a shine to Sydney, and several times, when he’s spoken to Dad lately, he has urged him to build a hotel there. I spoke to the old man yesterday morning, and he’s actually received a letter from Grandpops about that very thing. So – I may have to go over there, scout the place.’
‘Blackie’s as bad as Grandy. Don’t those two ever stop thinking about business?’
‘Do you? Or do I, for that matter?’ He chuckled. ‘We’re a couple of chips off a couple of old blocks, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I suppose so.’ She leaned forward, her face suddenly intent. ‘Do you think I work too hard?’
‘Of course I don’t. Anyway, it’s your nature to be a worker, Paula. It’s also the way you were reared – as I was reared. I don’t have much time for parasites. Frankly, I’d go crazy if I had lots of free time on my hands. I love being out in the marketplace, love the rough and tumble, the wheeling and dealing, and so do you. There’s another thing, I get a lot of gratification knowing I’m continuing the family business started by Grandpops, and you have to feel exactly the same way.’
‘I do.’
‘It’s expected of us both…duty has been beaten into us since our births, we wouldn’t know any other way to live. Look, our respective grandparents devoted their lives to building two great business empires, strove to give us better lives than they had in the beginning, and financial security, and independence and power. How –’
‘Jim says the pursuit of power leads to isolation, the death of human values and the death of the soul,’ Paula interjected.
This was the first time she had mentioned Jim since she had arrived in New York and Shane was momentarily thrown. He cleared his throat. He had no desire to discuss her husband, but knew he had to make some sort of response. ‘And you? Do you agree?’
‘No, actually, I don’t. Wasn’t it Lord Acton who said power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely? That’s what Jim was getting at, I think. But to hell with Lord Acton, whoever he was. I prefer Emma Harte’s philosophy. She says power only corrupts when those who have it will do anything to hang on to it. Grandy says that power can be ennobling, if one understands that power is a tremendous responsibility. And especially to others. I happen to agree with her, not Jim. I do feel responsible, Shane. To Gran, to our employees and shareholders. And to myself.’
Shane nodded. ‘You’re right, and so is Emma. I was going to say, a moment ago, how ungrateful and even unconscionable we would be if we were indifferent to our inheritances, turned away from them. It would be negating Blackie and Emma, and all their superhuman efforts.’ He stood up, glanced at the clock. ‘It’s almost four, and since we’re on the subject of responsibility I’d better go and find my chaps, pay them, tell them to knock off.’
Paula also rose, picked up the luncheon tray. ‘The day’s disappeared! I should start preparing the food for dinner.’
As they went out, Shane looked down at her, flashed his cheeky grin. ‘And for your information, Beanstalk, Lord Acton was an English historian, a devout Catholic, a Liberal member of Parliament and close friend of Gladstone’s.’
‘That’s nice to know,’ she said, laughing, and walked into the kitchen.
After stacking the dishwasher, Paula peeled the potatoes, cleaned the sprouts, prepared the lamb, smearing it with butter, adding pepper and dried rosemary leaves. Once the trifle was made and had been placed in the refrigerator, she beat flour, eggs and milk into a batter for the Yorkshire pudding, humming happily to herself. Shane poked his head around the door several times during the hour she was working, volunteering to help, but she declined his offer, told him to scoot. She was enjoying herself in much the same way she took pleasure in gardening, using her hands instead of her brain for a change. Therapeutic, she thought, recalling his words about working on the barn.
When she eventually went back into the main room she noticed that he had laid the table for dinner, stacked piles of logs on one end of the hearth, put Beethoven’s Ninth on the stereo. But he was nowhere in sight. Paula curled up on the sofa comfortably, listening to the symphony, feeling relaxed and even a little drowsy. She yawned. It’s the wine. I’m not used to it at lunch time, she thought, closing her eyes. It had been a lovely day, the nicest she had spent in a long time, and free of tension, verbal fencing. It was a relief to be herself, not to be constantly on the defensive as she so often was with Jim.
Shane made her jump, when he said, ‘Now, how about that walk?’
Sitting up, she covered her mouth with her hand, yawning repeatedly. ‘Sorry. I feel so sleepy. Do you mind if we scrap the walk for today?’
He stood near the sofa, hovering over her. ‘No. I’m wacked myself, I was up at the crack of dawn.’ He did not add that he’d hardly slept, knowing she was in the room opposite his, so near and yet so far removed from him. He had wanted her very much last night, had longed to hold her in his arms. He said, ‘Why don’t you have a nap?’
‘I think I will. But what are you going to do?’
‘I’ve a few more chores, a couple of phone calls to make, and then I’ll probably do the same.’
She settled back against the cushions, smiling to herself as he went out, whistling under his breath. As she half dozed she remembered she had not yet tackled him about his behaviour over the last eighteen months. Oh there’s plenty of time, all weekend, she thought. I’ll do it another day. Something stirred at the back of her mind. It was an incomplete thought and it slid away before she could fully grasp it. She sighed contentedly, felt herself being enveloped by the music and the warmth. Within seconds she was fast asleep.
CHAPTER 35
It was one of those evenings which, right from the outset, was destined to be perfect.
A few minutes before seven, Paula came
downstairs looking for Shane.
She was dressed in a light wool caftan which Emily had made for her. It was a deep violet colour, simply styled, loose and floating, with unusual butterfly-wing sleeves that buttoned tightly at the wrists. With it she wore a long strand of lavender jade beads, another gift from Emily, who had bought them for her in Hong Kong.
Paula found Shane in the main room. He stood by the huge window, looking out.
She noticed that he had lit the many candles they had scattered around earlier, and set up a bar on one of the small chests.
The fire blazed in the hearth like a huge bonfire, the few lamps he had turned on glowed rosily, and the voice of Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter echoed softly in the background.
Walking forward, Paula said, ‘I can see that there’s nothing for me to do but sit down and have a drink.’
Shane swung around. His eyes swept over her.
As she drew closer he saw that she had stroked purple shadow on her lids, and because of this and the colour of her dress, those uncanny eyes appeared to be more violet than ever. Shining black hair, brushed back and curling under in a pageboy, framed the pale face, accentuated its translucency. The widow’s peak made a sharp indentation on her wide brow. It was dramatic. She was dramatic.
The strain had gone out of her face. He thought she looked more beautiful than she had in years. He said, ‘You look nice, Paula.’
‘Thank you – so do you.’
He laughed dismissively. ‘You mentioned a drink. What would you like?’
‘White wine, please.’
Paula remained standing near the hearth, observing him as he opened the bottle.
He wore dark grey slacks, a lighter grey turtle-necked sweater and a black cashmere sports jacket. Studying him, she thought: he’s the same old Shane, and yet somehow he’s not. He is different. Maybe it’s the moustache after all. Or is it me? She instantly squashed this possibility.
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