Sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, Laura smiled. "Yes, it has been. I've learned so much from Jules; I can't thank you enough for getting me that job."
"I didn't mean Jules," Owen said, peering at her. "But if you want to talk about him I won't argue."
"I'm sorry," she said, ashamed. "I knew you meant Paul. But you've never asked me about him, so I thought you approved of us."
"Of your sleeping together or being in love?"
At Laura's quick look of surprise and embarrassment, he rested his hand on her head. "Did you really think I didn't know? I may be in my declining years, my dear, but my powers of perception are intact. Also, Leni told me."
Involuntarily, Laura smiled. "Does everyone talk about
usr
"Of course they do; can anyone resist talking about young lovers who walk around oblivious to everyone else? I did think you might come to me and tell me about your feelings."
"I'm sorry," Laura said again. "I wanted to, but I thought you'd disapprove."
"Of your sleeping together, you mean." She nodded. '*Well, I confess it is not a form of courtship I can speak about from experience. Leni says all young people do it these days; I find that surprising, but I don't pass judgment. Customs change, and it takes time to know whether for better or worse. But I have some nostalgia for the time when I was young, when a decent man wouldn't even try to kiss a young woman until tbey were engaged. Even tbe^ he asked b^ permission. He didn't always get it, either."
"Ehd you ask Iris's permission?"
Owen smiled. "As I recall, we both had the idea at the same time. TbCTe wasn't a great deal of discussion."
Laura's smik met his. "And then you asked her to many your'
He gazed across the room at a photograph of Iris standing
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beside a gnarled tree at the Cape. Her hair blew straight behind her; she was shading her eyes with her hand and laughing. "You know, I don't recall asking. One night we were sitting in her living room—we could see her father through the open door to his study; he was reading and I remember he held his newspaper in front of his face so we could kiss—and we just found ourselves talking about where we would live."
Laura's face grew wistfiil. "Did you always have ideas together?"
"A goodly amount of the time." Once again Owen put his hand on her head, this time stroking her shining hair in long slow movements that matched his recollections. "More and more, the longer we were together. I was a Uttle wild at first, not yet a man, and Iris was a woman who knew what she wanted. She didn't try to change me—at least not that I could see—but she was determined to shape her own life in a way she thought was good and important, and after a while I had the same ideas. I never knew what magic she woriced, but suddenly I was a family man, coming straight home from work, raising children, building up my hotels for my wife and sons instead of just for myself, and buttoning myself into tuxedos two or three times a week because my beautiful wife liked fancy balls."
He looked down at Laura. "She once told me," he said softly, "that she liked me best with nothing on, and next best in blue jeans and a lumberjack shirt, and then in a tux. I thought it was wonderfully daring of her to say that."
"It was. You must have had such fun together."
"You know, we never called it that. But you're right; we had fun. Oh, my dear, what we had was so joyful and good; it was as if a lantern lit our way through the years and it was always bright. When she died the darkness came. I stood beside her coffin and I couldn't see her because the light was gone. I could only see her in my memory, smiling at me when she lay beneath me, laughing as she danced through the house on Beacon Hill for the first time, nursing our baby in a rocking chair in our bedroom while I lay on the bed beside her, sharing the peace and beauty of that moment. Ah, my dear child, if I could make you feel what we had ... A man can sow his seed, he can build an empire, and none of it is worth a
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damn if he can't bring it to a woman he cherishes and say, 'Take this from me; I did it because of you and now it is yours.' Iris was my life, the center and also the boundary, all I ever wanted."
He stopped and cleared his throat. "And then she was sick. Such a short time, we barely had a chance to say good-bye. And she died ..." His voice fell into a long sigh and he closed his eyes. His hand still on Laura's head, he cleared his throat again and again, but still he was hoarse when he went on. "I wandered through that house and I reached out for her but my hands were empty, as empty as my life. I got angry and I shouted at her clothes hanging in her closet. 'Damn you to hell for leaving me when you know I love you and need you!' For a while I was so angry I didn't mourn. And then the anger left and I had nothing. That was when I stopped paying attention to anything. For two years I didn't go out; Rosa took care of Felix and Asa—she took care of everything—and I sat in the house reliving the years with Iris, because those were the only years I cared about. Rosa would stand in the doorway with her hands on her hips and tell me it was time I found someone to give me companionship and perhaps love, but I couldn't do it. I ached, I hurt, and I wanted the darkness because Iris was in the dark."
The room was silent. Laura took his hand as it rested on her hair, and when she kissed it Owen felt the tears on her cheek. "She had a way of smiling," he said, "as if everything was new. As if everywhere she turned she made wonderful, exciting discoveries. You smile the same way; your eyes light up the same way. I almost see Iris when you smile. And her hair was the color of yours; a bit darker, but not much. And it was long, though she wore it pinned up in some complicated way. And sometimes she had a faraway look in her eyes, as if she could see something the rest of us couldn't see . . . no, it was more; as if she had a secret, something that was hers alone. You have the same kind of look."
Startled, Laura looked up at him. "As if I have a secret?"
He nodded. "It was the first thing I saw about you that day on the beach, and you still have it. Mystery. It made me want to know what lay behind that faraway look. Iris was the same. She had mystery and she had beauty. And you always had
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beauty, in your eyes and smile, before the rest of you caught up." He paused, but Laura was silent. "Well, for those two years I sat in my chair reliving my life with Iris, and then one day for some reason I started thinking about the hotels. And even though I tried not to care, because it was more important to think about Iris, I did care and I couldn't stop caring. And that was when I started paying attention again. And went back to work.** He paused again. "So you see, dear Laura, I care a great deal abc^t love and sex, and also marriage. And I care about you. So when you have an affair and I have some concerns about it, I must speak up.**
Surprised, Laura said, "Concerns? About Paul?**
"About you and Paul. I love that boy, but I see him clearly and I know he has the wandering urge of a hungry coyote.**
She gave a small smile. "Couldn't you find a nicer comparison?*'
"There is nothing wrong with coyotes. They*ve gotten a bad name, but the fact is they*re strong and handsome, sharp, creative, good to their families, and superb survivors. They also move around a great deal, and they've been known to forget what they leave behind.**
Laura turned away and reached for a new stack of books.
"My own great-nephew,** Owen said. "Fve loved him since he was a baby. He used to totter around my study, and nothing was safe from him; he had an insatiable curiosity and stubbornness. It was one of my greatest pleasures to introduce Paul to the wonders of the world; he cared about learning, he responded to beauty, and he wasn*t stingy. He knew how to take life in his hands and enjoy every bit of it. Tm afraid I spent more time with him than I spent with my own sons; with Paul I was having fim. But then he grew up and started wandering around the world, picking up projects and dropping them and then moving on. I*m told he does that with women, too. I would not like to think he would do it to you.** Silent, Laura looked throug
h the window at leaves tinged with gold and red. "I don*t want you hurt, you see. Of course, I don*t want you angry at me, either.**
Laura kept her eyes on the trees. "Fm not angry. But I don*t think you should criticize people in your own faniily.'*
"Horsefeathers. I see people clear and straight, whether I
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want to or not. After I hit seventy, I couldn't fool myself anymore, couldn't pretend people were kind or good-hearted or fascinating when I knew damn well they weren't. I can't even pretend I love my own sons, and that hurts, but I don't ignore it. So why shouldn't I be honest about my great-nephew when I love you as much as I love him and worry about you more? Damn it, girl, I don't want you hurt!"
Laura looked at him over her shoulder. "What if someone had warned you about Iris?"
"I wouldn't have listened. In fact, I'd probably have run him out of town for saying anything against her."
She turned, kneeling before him. "Were you smarter than I am now?'*
"I knew more about the worid."
"But you said you were wild. Not yet a man, you said.'*
"Damn it, young woman, who gave you permission to use an old man's words against him?" But he was grinning, and he leaned forward to kiss Laura on her forehead. "Well, perii^s I should stop. I may be wrong, though I haven't been very often. But I'm getting old, and maybe Felix is right; maybe I should stay out of people's lives."
"I don't want you to stay out of my Ufe; I want you to share it. I'm so happy. I've never been so happy."
He looked at her shining eyes and felt, oddly, like weeping. **I do know something about happiness. And maybe you'll be good for Paul, settle him down. If you work the same kind of magic Iris woriced on me— "
Laura shook her head. "You and Iris were manied. Paul and I aren't, and we're not talking about it." He hasn't even said he loves me. "I have another year of college, and then I'm going to woric—you said you'd help me find a job in a hotel—"
"I'll do that whether you and Paul are friends or roommates or husband and wife. As long as you want to work, I'll help you. But"—his voice grew wistful—^"you will stay with me until you finish college?"
"Yes, of course; I couldn't leave. I want to stay with you as long as you'll have me. And you said I could help you with your plans for your hotels ..."
'To revive them and make them grand again." He smiled.
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"And we'll do it together. Well, it sounds like a fine year. Now bring the sherry and we'll have a drink together before dinner. Or are you going out with your young man?"
Laura rose and went to the taU wine cabinet wedged between overflowing bookshelves. She took out a bottle of amontillado and two glasses and put them on the table beside Owen's chair. "We planned to; do you mind?"
"If I did I'd keep it to myself. I can't dictate your schedule or keep my eye on you, out of bed or in."
You wouldn't want that," Laura said, her eyes dancing. Ah, but I might. Think what I might learn: Paul's more a man of the world than I ever was." He peered at her. "Now I've made you blush. I beg your pardon." He sighed. "You've become so lovely, my child, and you have a quick mind and a good imagination. If you trust yourself and give yourself time, you'll be a strong woman and a fine executive. And if you ever needed to, you could have your pick of half the men on the eastern seaboard."
"What about the other half?" she demanded.
He grinned. 'They're after Allison, or they would be if she'd get rid of that solipsistic, preening peacock she's decided to marry, God knows why." He sighed again. "Well, you'll all do whatever you want. I might as well keep my wisdom to myself. I spent a lifetime accumulating it, and who's interested?"
Laura laughed and kissed him. "I am, and you don't feel half as sorry for yourself as you pretend."
"True." He took her hand between his. *1 feel privileged because you do listen, and proud because I've helped you change firom a scared little girl to a happy woman, and I feel loved, which is the most profound feeling of all. As if you brou^t back the lantern I lost when Iris died."
That was what he thought about later, after Laura was gone. She leminded him of Iris and she had made his worid bright, bat she was also distinctly herself: warm, loving, enchanting, unique. He'd hoped she would someday trust him enough to tdl him her secrets, but she'd given no sign that she even wanted to, and there was no way he could tell her how unimportant they were. Of course she had a right to guard her secrets for as long as she wished, but he knew &ey weie
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burdensome, and he would have liked to make the load easier by sharing it.
Maybe someday, he thought. He refilled his glass and then sat quietly, watching the light fade over the water and letting memories fill his thoughts, less painful than before, but no less vivid. Iris, I wish you could be here; Laura is the daughter we never had.
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Chapter 9
IN the unusually hot May sun, the black robe clung like a blanket, and Laura tried to think cool thoughts as the commencement speaker droned on. Pay attention, she told herself. Enjoy the ceremony. You'll only graduate from college once, and it took a lot of work to get here. But she was too hot to concentrate; her thoughts kept drifting to Paul, who was sitting with Allison and Owen in the firet row of the Nickerson Field stands. Clay had called from Philadelphia at the last minute to say he couldn't be there. "Willard's got the flu, and ever since I became a hero and assistant manager after they fired Terry, I'm stuck if he's not around. I'm sorry; I really wanted to be there."
"It's all right." A year ago she would have been upset, but by now Paul and Owen and Allison were her family, too, and she wouldn't feel alone. "I'll tell you all about it."
"And I suppose your handsome beau will take lots of pictures."
"I hope he will," Laura replied calmly, refusing to be drawn into an argument about Paul. It was foolish of Clay to worry about her loving one of the Salingers, saying things like, "Sex makes women drop their guard," and after a while she got tired of telUng him that neither passion nor anything else would lull her into giving them away because she'd shut the door on the past.
It had been four years since the robbery. None of Leni's
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jewelry had been found after the bracelet in the pawnshop, and except for increased security in their houses, the Salingers behaved as if it had never happened. And that was almost the way Laura felt about the first eighteen years of her life: they were like a dream. She was twenty-two now, and a different person. As if I were bom the night of the robbery, she thought. It was fanciful, but most of the time it seemed almost true, because she had been with the Salingers long enough to see changes in them, and only when we share change are we truly connected to someone or something else.
In the past year, Leni had begun to spend increasingly more time in New York. She was on the boards of hospitals and museums there as well as in Boston, and Felix frequently remarked, with a tight smile, that he*d given his wife to charity. But Laura saw that as long as Leni was at his side for major galas and business functions, he never suggested she spend more time at home, or with him.
Allison had left college and married Thad, but after a four-month honeymoon, and three more months to settle into a condominium on the harbor, they had an erratic schedule that reminded Laura of an employment agency: Thad tried one occupation after another while Allison, anticipating his boredom, would already be looking for another. They socialized every night, usually with new acquaintances; their old friends were uncomfortable with the silences between them, like heavy gray fog.
Laura didn't pay attention to most of the family gossip; she knew whom she loved and she knew what she believed about them. She looked at them as she stood on the commencement platform, meeting their smiles, and she raised her hand in a quiet greeting as the speaker ended his peroration with a long quotation in Greek that almost no one understood. The ^ plause swelled hugely from universal
relief that he was done, and then the graduates received their diplomas, and a few moments later Laura stood on the artificial turf of the field with her family. "Just a minute," she said as Allison and Paul reached out to embrace her, "I have to get out of this robe."
"I thought you must be melting," Allison said.
"I am." Laura dropped the robe and, with Paul's arm around her, took Owen's hands as he held them out to her. "I'm so glad you were here."
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*n
'How could I miss it? You were my pupil at home before you ever came to the university. Do you know Jules wanted to come today? I had to tell him you could only get three tickets."
"He really wanted to come?"
"He wanted to take credit for you; he thinks he*s taught you more than your professors have."
"He's right. But you've taught me more than anyone."
Owen chuckled. "I won't tell Jules you said that." He reached into his pocket and took out a small velvet drawstring bag. "Your graduation gift, my dear. With my love."
Laura pulled the tiny cord to open the bag. Her fingers felt die cool metal and the sharp point of a pin before she took out a piece of jewelry and held it in the palm of her hand. It was a single iris of blue-violet opal with a gold center. She gazed at it for a long moment, then looked up at Owen, her face glowing. "Was it Iris's?"
He nodded. "I had it made for her on our first anniversary. It was very special to her."
Laura put her arms around him and kissed him. 'Thank you, thank you . . . it's very special to m^ . . . how can I tell you—r
"You don't have to. I saw it in your face." He held her away from him. "And you looked so much like her, excited and full of wonder . . . Well, now. Time for you to go. Allison is driving me home; you and Paul go off on your honeymoon." At her startled look, he struck his fist against his fiDcehead. "Vacation. I meant to say vacation. Go on, now; you*ve worked hard; you deserve some play." He held her close. "Fm very proud of you, my dear."
Laura kissed him again. His (looping mustache was feath-ery against her cheek, and it strack her Ifaat Owen had aged. She*d been so preoccupied in the past weeks with final papers and exams and keeping up with her job that she hadn't really locdced at him; now she thought he looked almost ethereal. His cheeks were more sunken than she remembered, and his face was crinkled with webs of fine lines, like ancient pardmient. His eyes were as bright as ever, but they seemed moie deep-set. Us diick eyebrows overhanging ttusm like wild grass on bbaSs on the C^. He's eighty-three, but he*s never seemed
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