164 ~ Judith Michael
of her house as long as the storm continued, and she did want to talk about Constance. She had heard the growl from his stomach and knew that pretty soon she would have to give him something to eat—common decency, again—but she was not ready to do that yet. She felt lethargic and defeated and thought she would not feel good again until he was gone.
"Did you find them in that little town near her villa?" he prodded.
"No." She thought back, remembering. "It was the first time I visited her in Italy, and we drove to Florence and spent the day at the Uffizi and the Pitti Palace. She was strong enough to do that, then, and we walked all day and talked—we always had so much to talk about; it seemed we would never have enough time—and then, on the way back to our hotel, we passed Signer Forlezzi's shop. The windows were dusty—well, they really were quite dirty—but we could see inlaid boxes piled every which way, and Signor Forlezzi sitting on a stool repairing something, a lamp, I think, and he looked up and said, 'Ah the sun has come out! Two such magnificent ladies to brighten my—' " She bit off the words.
"So you bought the boxes," Luke prompted after a moment.
She nodded. "There were two identical ones, the most beautiful, and we both said, 'For our letters.' When did you last see her.?"
"A week before she died."
"Was she very sick.f^"
"Frail, but not sick. We walked through her gardens and talked about some of the directors and producers she'd worked with. . . ." He paused. "It just occurred to me. We covered a lot of territory, a lot of experiences, not exactly a review of her life, but as if she wanted to see it all in a kind of panorama before she died. I don't really believe in that, but . . ." His voice faded.
"What is it.''" Jessica asked.
"I was remembering how her hand felt on my arm. We were walking through that damned maze she liked so much—I always felt claustrophobic in it, so I started walking faster—and she put her hand on my arm and told me to slow down. She said she kept the maze for the pleasure of solving its mystery and that I ought to give myself up to it, not fight it. 'You can't control it,' she said, 'the way you—' Well, that was the gist of it."
"Go on," Jessica said.
"It's not important."
"Please. I'd like to hear what she said."
He gave a small shrug. "'You can't control it the way you try to control everything else in your life; you must bend to its demands, as you do with poetry and fine wine.' "
Jessica smiled. "I can hear her say it. But didn't she include 'love' and its demands?"
Luke thought back. "You're right. Love, poetry and fine wine. I think you knew her better than I did."
"No, just differently. What else did she say?"
"We talked about my parents, and a nanny she'd hired when I first came to live with her, and about her work with directors and producers, including me. She had a criticism of something I'd done when I directed her in Long Day's Journey into Night. I couldn't believe it; it was almost ten years ago and she'd never mentioned it before, but it was there all the time waiting to be talked about."
"Was she right?"
Luke contemplated her. "I'm not sure."
"What did she say?"
"I'd asked her to think about the whole family as equally destructive because all of them kept saying unforgivable things to each other. So that was how she played Mary Tyrone: sharing the blame for the wreckage of the family. But that last week we were together, she told me I'd been wrong, that Mary was all victim."
Jessica shook her head. "You were right. Dependency is a curse and Mary used it as a weapon against all of them, James and their sons. I don't think she was aware of it all the time, but sometimes she knew exactly what she was doing." She stopped, stunned by the joy that welled up in her as she became an actress again, sharing with a director the analysis of a play. But she was frightened, too, to discover how close to the surface that other life still was, and she forced the conversation back to Constance. "What else did you talk about?"
Luke had seen the brightness in her eyes, and he saw it die. An ache of sadness filled him. He wanted to comfort her, but he had no idea what comfort he could give, nor did he think it would be welcome, and so he let Jessica guide their talk. "Mostly we reminisced. Or she did and I listened. As if she was trying to tell me, in a short time, all the things she thought were important." He gazed across the room, seeing Constance's library and her terrace overlooking the Umbrian hills. He turned back to Jessica.
166 ~ Judith Michael
"There's one thing I'd hke you to know. She wrote an extraordinary letter that week; I received it after she died. She used to sit on her terrace whenever the weather was good, and she wrote—this isn't exact, but it will be close because I read it so many times—'Sitting here, my whole being gathers in the wonders of this lush, serene landscape, and I feel I am its caretaker. But of course we all are, aren't we?—all of us who have been given a world filled with such richness and beauty and abundance. We are its—' "
—caretakers,' " Jessica said, her voice merging with Luke's. '"And each other's caretakers, too, and there should be nothing but gratitude in our hearts.' "
Luke chuckled. "I should have known she'd use it more than once. She never wasted a good line, or a good paragraph. I found places in your letters where you quoted her saying something she'd said to me. I'll bet she ended that letter, 'I'm grateful for you, dear Jessica.' "
"And I suppose yours was, 'I'm grateful for you, dear Luke.' "
They laughed softly together. "You must be hungry," Jessica said suddenly.
"No. Thank you, but—" He saw her eyebrows go up, and he laughed. "Well, yes. I had breakfast on the plane, but that seems like three days ago."
She stood up, reaching for her cane. "We'll have a late lunch."
Luke stood with her. "May I use your phone.'' Robert expected me a long time ago. I suspect Angie's brought him up to date, but, still, I should call."
"It's on the counter between the kitchen and the dining room. If you want privacy—"
"No, this is fine. By the way, did Robert call to tell you I was coming.?"
"Probably. He's very reliable. I didn't answer the phone for a few days."
Bemused, Luke gazed at her. "What if your publisher had called?"
"He knows I sometimes don't answer."
She reached out and turned on a lamp that curved over the coffee table. The room sprang to life and, startled by the sudden brightness, they looked at each other, across the circle of light. "I hadn't realized how dark it was," Jessica murmured. She turned and limped with her swinging, unbalanced gait to the kitchen. She turned back again as she opened the refrigerator and saw Luke watching her. Anger flared in her eyes. "You were going to call Robert."
Acts of L
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"Yes." He found the number in the shm telephone directory that covered the San Juan Islands, and when Robert answered he told him where he was. "I don't know when I'll get to the inn, but I want to make sure you're holding the room for me."
"It's yours. I'd appreciate knowing if you're going to be very late."
"I won't be."
He hung up and walked around the counter into the kitchen. "What can I do.^"
"Nothing; it's going to be very simple." Her back to him, Jessica turned on the flame beneath a covered pot, then began to slice duck breasts on a wooden cutting board built into the dark green granite countertop. The kitchen was designed so that she had to move no more than a few steps to reach everything around the U-shaped counter.
"I'd like to help," Luke said quietly.
Her knife paused, then went on. "Can you make a salad.f^"
"I think I remember how, from the days before Martin."
"Martin?"
"Butler, chef, protector and moral center. He pronounces on whether or not things are proper and appropriate." He opened the refrigerator and found salad greens and endive and put them on the counter.
&nb
sp; Jessica handed him a wooden board and a knife. "Tomatoes in the basket near you. Do you find him amusing?"
"Yes, but admirable, too. He believes in duty and concern for others and mutual responsibility, and I've never seen him bend his beliefs for convenience or his own desires. I find that so rarely that Martin seems quite special."
"You find it rarely in the theater?"
"Anywhere."
She was silent. She had almost asked him how strongly he believed in those things himself, but that would have made the conversation too personal. "Does he live near you?" she asked.
"He lives with me, in a sense. I built a separate suite in my apartment, with its own entrance. He's made my kitchen his own, so he says he has everything he needs."
"Except a place of his own and a family."
"Many people don't have families." He glanced at her, but just then she turned away to open a cabinet door and reach for a platter. "Let me do that."
"I'm fine," she said shortly, and took down the platter.
168 ~ Judith Michael
The room was very quiet. Luke watched Jessica overlap the thin shces of duck on the platter and scatter tiny Spanish ohves around it. "Do you always have duck breasts ready for unexpected guests?" he asked.
"1 keep them in the freezer. These are last night's leftovers."
Luke pictured her at dinner—not a casual fast-food meal to be gulped down while perched on the edge of the chair, but a thoughtfully chosen one, elegant, carefully prepared, artistically arranged—and eaten alone, with no conversation, no way of sharing the pleasure of good food and wine. It did not occur to him that he frequently ate alone; all he knew was that once again he felt an ache of sadness for her.
Jessica looked up and met his eyes. "The salad," she said coldly.
"Getting there," he said casually. He sliced the endive into thin strips and added them to the salad greens he had torn into pieces. He looked around for something in which to wash them. "In the cabinet on your right," Jessica said, and he took out a salad spinner and spun the greens dry, then took a tomato from the basket. "Slices or wedges.?"
"Slices."
Jessica adjusted the flame under the pot on the stove, ground beans in the coffee grinder, filled the coffeemaker with water and plugged it in. Her movements were brisk and economical but almost automatic; she was uncomfortable with Luke there, opening and closing her drawers, rummaging in her cabinets, using her utensils, running water in her sink. He was calm and quiet, for which she was grateful, but he was tall, with a powerful presence, and he took up a lot of space. It had been a long time since someone had taken up space in a room where she lived. We'll eat and then he'll go, she thought. The rain will stop soon, and I'll never see him again.
From beneath a covered towel she took a loaf of dark bread with a rough, floury crust and picked up a bread knife.
"I'll slice that," Luke offered. "Or would you rather I did something else?"
She took a breath. He insisted on being part of everything. "I just have to do this and set the table."
"Let me set the table, then. Would you mind? It was the one task Constance always trusted me with."
After a pause, she nodded, reluctantly, he thought, and began to slice the bread. Luke walked around the counter to the dining space and opened cabinets. "Which settings would you like?"
Acts of L
o V E ~ 169
"Anything you want," she said indifferently.
Annoyed because he wanted her to take some interest in their table, Luke shrugged and chose from the neatly stacked place mats two that were woven like tapestries in russet, blue and gold. He found blue napkins to match, and silver napkin rings. The round table was polished black granite with four white-cushioned chairs spaced around it, and Luke set the place mats before two chairs at right angles to each other, facing the windows. Then he changed his mind and set them on opposite sides of the table. In another cabinet he found six shelves of china stored in protective zippered cases, and below them two drawers crammed with silver, the kind of china and silver used for dinner parties in New York. Now they were here, as if she had not been able to decide what to give up. But how often were they used?
It came to him that Jessica's house and cabinets had the same look as his apartment on the day he had become aware of its emptiness and had thought he should entertain more. Her telephone had not rung once since he had arrived; no neighbors were close by. This small house on the edge of the water, its back turned to the people of Lopez Island, seemed as isolated and solitary as a castaway in the middle of a vast and indifferent ocean.
He unzipped the quilted cases and took out two plates of white china bordered in an intricate floral pattern, two matching salad plates, and cups and saucers. From the drawers of silver he chose an openwork sterling pattern, then reached up to the open shelves above.
"What kind of glasses?" he asked.
"Red wine. And water, if you'd like."
He put them on the table, then took two sterling candlesticks from another shelf, and opened drawers until he found candles and matches. "Do you need help with the wine?"
Her silence said she did not need help with anything, but in a minute she appeared, holding a bottle and a corkscrew. "Would you like to open it?" She handed it to him, looking at the table. "How nice it looks. No wonder Constance trusted you."
He poured their wine. "I'll get the food." He brought in the platter of sliced duck, the salad bowl, and a basket of bread. "There's soup next to the stove," Jessica said, and he brought the tureen to the table while she set out soup bowls. Luke filled them and then he pulled out her chair and held it for her.
170 ~ Judith Michael
It was as if he had opened another door to the past. Somehow, without thinking about it, her back became straighter, her head ca'me up, and when she put aside her cane and sat down she moved with grace and fluidity. But in an instant it was gone and Luke saw that she was in pain.
"I'm sorry," he said. "What can I do."^"
She shook her head. "Please sit down."
The rain had lessened, but the wind still whipped it against the windows with a sound like a steady swishing of long skirts, and the sky was almost black. Luke lit the candles and their reflections danced in the windows. Jessica glanced at them and saw the faint glow of her face and Luke's. A moment of contentment came upon her unawares, overriding her annoyance at Luke's intrusion and the pain that had shot through her hip when she stood straight. It was good to have a companion with whom to share wine and food.
Of course, she knew that from a past filled with more than her share of companions. And Luke was pleasant and considerate. But he did not belong there and she knew that contentment was something that did not last. She would be glad when he was gone.
The soup was minestrone, thick with vegetables and pasta, steaming hot, and it was all Luke needed to confirm his feeling of having found sanctuary. If I needed a place to hide, he thought, this would be it. How distant it was from everything! How remote he felt from his apartment and office, from the Vivian Beaumont Theater, from New York, from everything and everyone in his life. "I haven't felt this relaxed in a long time," he said. "Thank you."
She nodded. They ate in silence. They finished their soup, then filled their plates with sliced duck and salad. Jessica held out the bread basket and Luke took another slice. "A wonderful lunch. Do you do your shopping on Lopez.?"
"Most of it. If I need anything special, Robert gets it for me when he shops in Friday Harbor."
"You must have been able to stock up, then, when you worked on Pygmalion."
She gave him a startled look, and it suddenly struck him: If she was this isolated, not even answering her telephone, how could she help direct a musical? But it was not a question he could ask her, and he did not want
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to dwell on the fact that he had read her letters, so he moved smoothly on. "What about your house? It seems wonderf
ully well made. Did the architect come from Lopez? And the contractor?"
"They're from Seattle, but they both have homes here. It is well made; I watched every inch of it go up and Constance gave me advice about what to demand and what to watch out for. She told me she'd built a house once, but she didn't tell me where."
"She told you that? She never built a house. We talked about it when I thought I might build a weekend place on some land I own near Mill-brook, but I never had time and neither did she. What kind of advice did she give you?"
"The hickory floor was her idea, and rounded corners instead of sharp ones, and the corner fireplace in the bedroom. I designed the kitchen because she didn't know I needed—she didn't have any thoughts about kitchens, but she had dozens of other ideas. Do you think she just made them up?"
"From old dreams that never came to pass." Their eyes met and they smiled together. "She probably thought of your house as the closest she'd get to one of her own. I'm sorry she never got to see it. She would have felt very much at home."
"I described it to her in my letters, but one night she called and said she was picturing me in my living room but I hadn't been at all specific about the pieces of art I'd put around the room and would I please correct that immediately."
They smiled again. It was easy and safe to talk about Constance, and so they did, loving her, missing her in almost the same ways, while the wind and rain lashed the windows, and the candles slowly burned down. The dog came for scraps and Luke and Jessica fed her until there were no more and she curled up and slept. They finished the bottle of wine and Luke, without asking, brought the coffeepot from the kitchen and filled their cups. "We always talked about the plays I directed," he said, sitting back and stretching out his legs. "Each time, she helped me get going when I hadn't yet found a way to focus everything. I missed her the most when I was working on The Magician. I missed her sitting beside me, reading a scene aloud, wearing those spindly reading glasses that sat at the very end of her nose; I missed her imperious finger tapping the table to make sure I got whatever point she was making; I missed her laughter when we
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