Brent excused himself to clean up for dinner. Downstairs, Gayle left Geoff in the grand living room and went into the kitchen to make them drinks.
She came back out grinning. “Scotch and soda, one ice cube.”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
She was a lot more relaxed, and he realized that she seemed relieved that he thought that Brent's pictures were very good, and also that it was probably natural that he had changed subject matter. While they sat and idly talked and waited for Brent to come down, Geoff refreshed in her mind all the different stages of Picasso's work, which seemed to make her even happier.
“In other words, he's still a boy genius?”
“Precisely.”
“Good!”
“You knew that all along.”
“I knew that the scenes were good,” she said, and he didn't know why, but Geoff understood her to mean that it wasn't really the same thing at all.
The phone rang. Gayle rose, calling out, “I've got it!” Brent appeared on the landing, buttoning the cuff of a white dinner shirt, saying the same thing, while Mary echoed them both from the kitchen. Gayle laughed and sat down and Brent grinned down at her and they let Mary get it in the kitchen.
Mary quickly appeared though, looking upstairs to Brent. “It's your father, Brent. And very important, he says.”
Brent frowned, excused himself to Geoff and Gayle, and disappeared back into the upstairs hallway. A moment later he came charging down the stairs, his coat in his hand.
“Brent!” Gayle was quickly on her feet.
He stopped, kissing her briefly.
“I've got to get home quickly.”
“You are home!”
He shook his head. “Sorry, I mean that I've got to get out to the Tidewater. Down by Yorktown. It's Uncle Hick, honey. He's very sick. Mom asked me to come out. I've got to go.”
“Brent! I should go with you.” Gayle sounded a bit as if she were strangling. Geoff hurt for her. She probably couldn't imagine being excluded by Brent.
He shook his head. “Gayle, he's not conscious. There's nothing you can do. Stay here, and have some dinner with Geoff. Geoff, I'm glad you're here. I'm sorry—”
“It's fine. I'm sorry, Brent. I hope that your uncle gets better.”
“He's so old,” Brent murmured. “Maybe I thought he was immortal. Don't worry.”
He kissed Gayle again, muttered another good-bye and thank you to Geoff, and left. Gayle watched him, her pretty brow all knit up into a frown. She looked lost and forlorn. “I should be with him.”
“Well,” Geoff said. “There's nothing you can do.”
“There's nothing he can do—except be there with his parents and family. And I could be there with him.”
Geoff shrugged. “He's thinking of you.”
“I suppose.”
“Make me another drink?”
“Sure.” She rose to make him another drink. It didn't help any. Geoff could hear her telling Mary that she should have gone with Brent, and Mary repeated the same things that Geoff had said, that Brent was only thinking of her.
As time wore on, Geoff began to wish fervently that she had gone with her husband. At the dinner table Gayle finally stood up and threw down her napkin. “Geoff, I can't stand this another minute. I know this is an imposition, but would you drive out to the Tidewater with me? I'm so nervous, I'm afraid to be alone.”
She was afraid to get there alone, he decided. Gayle didn't want to be rejected again.
“Sure. We'll go whenever you're ready.”
She gave him a relieved and radiant smile, one of those smiles that reminded him just how beautiful she was.
“I'll just run up for my purse. And Geoff, thank you.”
* * *
There would always be regrets. Brent knew that.
He sat in the old estate—really an old farmhouse expanded to elegance—in the upstairs master bedroom at the side of the bed, holding Uncle Hick's hand. He could see the liver spots and the veins, and the flesh he touched was nearly transparent. His own was so tan and strong and healthy beside it that it almost seemed obscene.
Hick was dying. Brent didn't need to be told to know that. His face was already cadaverous. His breath came in and out with a wheeze and a rattle, and his heartbeat had all but stilled.
Brent thought that he should have seen more of this very precious relative. Hick had always been special, unique. Hell, he'd been a damned walking, talking history book. He'd awed Brent when he was a kid; he'd taught him how to fish and hunt and move through the forest just as the Indians had done.
I love you Hick, he thought, willing the old man to open his eyes. I love you with all of my heart. I did come to see you all the time—until my marriage, that is, and I meant to, even then. Gayle liked you too, you know, I don't know why I stayed away...
The old man's eyes opened. They looked rheumy, eerily white. Hick's hand squeezed Brent's. I love you, too, son.
Brent didn't know if Hick said the words or if he thought them. But he knew they existed. He knew that Hick squeezed his hand in turn.
Brent's mother, in the back of the room with his father, gave a little sob. He was aware that his father soothed her.
Hick was trying to speak. Brent leaned his head down, next to Hick's mouth, to hear. There was no pretense here anymore, no reason to tell Hick that he should save his breath or his strength. He was dying. He knew it and was ready for it.
“The house...”he struggled to say. “The house is yours, boy.”
Trying so hard to make out Uncle Hick's words, Brent was barely aware that the door to the bedroom had opened and closed. Hick's hand tightened around his suddenly with extraordinary strength.
“Don't...bring...her...here—don't...bring...her...here—don't...bring...her...here.”
There was a soft gasp from the corner of the room. Brent straightened and turned around. Gayle was there.
What the hell was she doing here? She should have been at the house; she should have been with Geoff. She hadn't needed to be a part of this, after all the people she had already lost in life.
But she was there, looking beautiful and stricken in the muted light. She had heard Hick, but Hick was reaching out his free hand to her, and she was coming to take it despite his words.
When she took his hand, he looked at her, and he smiled.
And then he died.
Brent knew the moment that life passed away from Hick. He felt it like a terrible drain upon his energy. He wasn't sure if Gayle realized it right away. It seemed that moments passed, ticking away, before she gasped again, set Hick's hand neatly upon his chest, and turned away, crying.
Brent jumped up and put his arms around her, hugging her close to him. Strange—in touching her, in soothing her, he felt his energy come back to him. He loved her so very much.
“Let's go downstairs, shall we?”
Jonathan McCauley led his wife out and waited for his son and daughter-in-law to follow. They all trod silently down the broad staircase to the old master's den, which had been renovated into a charming contemporary kitchen.
Gayle's hands were shaking. All she could remember were Hick's words. Don't ... bring ... her ... here — don't ... bring ... her ... here — don't ... bring ... her ... here — don't ... bring ... her ... here. A glass was suddenly pressed into her hands. Ria McCauley was smiling down at her. She looked worn and ragged herself; her eyes were shiny with unshed tears.
“Drink this, dear. I can't imagine what Hick meant by his last words. He thought so very highly of you.”
“He did?” She drank the brandy Ria had given her. Brent nodded to his mother, signaling that Gayle needed a refill.
Ria poured out more brandy, then sank into the chair beside her daughter-in-law.
“Gayle,” Ria said firmly, “I don't want you to be upset because of those last few minutes. Hick considered you lovely. In body and soul. He was very impressed with that conversation he and you had at the wedding. He said that you respected the past
—he was almost gleeful, he was so happy. He always meant for Brent to have the house because Brent has always loved it so. He was like a little kid after he met you—he thought that you would love this place too, as he always has.”
Don't...bring...her...here—don't...bring...her...here—
Gayle smiled. She didn't know what she felt. Hick had held her hand so warmly. He had gazed at her as if he cared for her, as if he would have wanted to help her. As if he loved her. But he had told Brent not to bring her here...
“I'm fine. I'm fine, I really am. He was a marvelous person, and none of us knows what he meant.”
Ria smiled. Jonathan called the funeral director. They all sat around the kitchen table, reminiscing. Brent kept his hand firmly upon Gayle's, and she felt his warmth touch her and keep her secure, despite it all.
At midnight, they left to go home.
To what she called home. Brent called this place home. Home was wherever he was, wasn't it?
She felt exhausted and dazed. Tomorrow and Thursday would be the wake; Friday would be the funeral. They would have to postpone their six-month anniversary party. As soon as her head hit the pillow, Gayle fell asleep, with Brent's arm securely around her.
But she woke him in the middle of the night, screaming hysterically with greater terror than ever before. When Brent tried to soothe her, she screamed with greater fervor, fought him desperately, and ran into the corner of the room, where she sank to the floor, still fighting imaginary battles. Desperate, he went to her, picking her up in his arms.
She screamed again, then collapsed against him.
When he woke her up, she didn't remember a thing.
CHAPTER 14
Uncle Hick was buried in Hollywood Cemetery, in the family mausoleum. Service was held at St. Stephen's first, and Gayle could not help but remember that only six months earlier she and Brent had been married in the church, an occasion so much sweeter. The day was overcast. The Ainsworth vault was not far from the gravesites of Jeff Davis and his family, and when dark storm clouds roiled overhead, Gayle keenly felt the solemnity of the place and its beauty, and the haunting knowledge that all of them had but a short span of time to spend on earth. Hick had planned in advance, but perhaps that was something one naturally did after he had lived more than one hundred years. The stone cutters had already inscribed his name on the marble, Andrew Hickson Ainsworth, May 2, 1885 to . Soon they would come and fill in the date of his death, and Hick would become a memory, a name on a tombstone, and nothing more.
The immediate family would be going back to the Ainsworth house, but Gayle remained at Brent's side while he thanked people who would not be coming to the house after attending the service. There had been a multitude of people there—Uncle Hick had been respected and loved and admired. Gayle knew that Brent was glad to see so many people, and so she was glad too.
Once Brent's parents had left in the mortuary's limo, Brent took Gayle's hand and idly walked with her over to the Davis memorials. He read the inscription on Varina Davis's monument out loud, then sighed softly over the children buried there. Gayle leaned against a funerary angel, waiting, and he looked at her and smiled.
“He lost a child, you know. At the Confederate White House. Jeff Davis, that is. His little boy fell off the porch.”
“I know,” Gayle told him. She grinned. “I'm from here too, remember.”
He kept watching her. “Are you all right?”
“I'm fine.”
He turned around and stared at the monuments again. “Gayle, I haven't said much in the last few days because of everything happening, but I want you to see someone about those dreams.”
She lowered her head and thought about fighting him. But the tone of his voice told her it would be a fight that she wouldn't win. “All right.”
“All right? That simple?” He was startled. She looked up at him, smiled, and shrugged.
“Sure. Why not? I'm going to go and prove to you that we can spend a fortune for some Freudian fellow to tell me I have strange mental lapses because my mother made me get out of the right side of the bed in the morning.”
“Gayle—”
“But you want it, my darling, you've got it.” She grinned and he started to laugh and, for a moment, it seemed that the sky around the beautiful old monuments changed from dark to light as the sun peeked out from around a cloud.
“Humor me, right?”
“That's right, Mr. McCauley.”
He grew serious again. “What do you feel about the house?”
“The Ainsworth house?” she asked, startled. He nodded. She lifted her hands. “It's fabulous. It should be declared a national treasure.”
“It's mine, you know.”
“Yes...” Gayle said carefully.
“I want to live in it.”
She didn't say anything. A week ago she would have been thrilled with the prospect. The house had everything. Beauty, grace, character, history. But now she didn't know. She understood that Uncle Hick had been very old. But he hadn't been senile, no matter how Ria McCauley might try to convince her that he had been rambling at the end when he told Brent not to bring her there.
But then, she was certain too that Uncle Hick had liked her. He'd been delighted at the wedding.
“I'd like to move into it,” he said, watching her closely. He knew what she was feeling—and he wanted her to admit that it was ridiculous. And maybe it was.
“What about your studio?”
“I can make one on the second floor, above the kitchen. For that matter, the property has a number of outbuildings: the old kitchen, the spinning house, the mill—”
“I think the main house should be the place for your studio—”
“So it's okay?”
“What?” She hadn't really meant to agree. She wasn't at all sure why, but she did love the house. Nonetheless she just couldn't help feeling uneasy about it now.
“Will you be all right if we move there? You're not superstitious. After all, you slept in Al Capone's suite at the Biltmore, remember.”
He smiled. He was teasing her. He very badly wanted to move into the house.
“A psychiatrist and the old Ainsworth place, both in one day right after a funeral,” she commented dryly.
He came to her, slipping his arms about her so that he pinned her on either side to the angel. He was dressed in a charcoal-gray three-piece suit, with the slight relief of a blue shirt beneath his coat and vest. His cheeks still smelled of shaving cream and his hair was ruffled over his forehead from the breeze. He was so good-looking, she thought, her heart taking a little plunge. A cross today between a devil and a mischievous boy. He wanted to move into the old house so badly. She couldn't blame him. It was unique. It was a treasure and it was his inheritance.
“I love you,” he told her.
“You're manipulating me.”
“Never,” he denied with a grin. “Not in public.”
“Be serious. We're in a graveyard.”
“I am serious.”
The sun disappeared again. Dark clouds seemed to shroud the trees. A flutter of fear surged within her. She had always trusted Brent; she had always felt completely secure with him.
Now she was afraid.
She placed her palms against his chest and smoothed her fingers over his lapel. “Brent, let's go.”
He frowned. “What's the matter?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. I'd just like to leave.”
“You never answered me.”
She shrugged. “Sure. We'll move. I—I love the place too.”
He took her hand and started walking her toward the car. With all the other vehicles gone now, it seemed very far away, down the sloping side of a hill. “If you are unhappy in the least, we can move out again.”
Gayle nodded. “I love the house,” she repeated.
He kissed her hand. “That's my girl.”
They reached his old Mustang. Brent opened the door for Gayle, slammed it, and came around to
the driver's side. As they drove away from the cemetery, the sun came out again. It was still shining brightly when, almost an hour later, they came to the main gates of the Ainsworth house.
It was a very beautiful place, Gayle acknowledged. Red brick and whitewash, tall Greek columns, and a massive veranda that circled the house.
“You all right?” Brent asked her.
She started, turned to him and realized that he had been watching her since they had pulled onto the long drive. He parked the car, still watching her. He didn't wait for her answer, but came around to help her out.
She shivered suddenly and then, curiously, when she looked at the house again, it seemed just like home. She was anxious to move in. It would be wonderful. Uncle Hick had kept it up so lovingly, but she could imagine long, lazy Sunday afternoons traveling to distant barn sales and poking through piles of junk to get to the perfect antique for just such and such a room.
“Gayle?”
She looked at the house, then she smiled at Brent broadly. “Can we stay tonight?”
“Well, we haven't any of our things—”
“I'm sure his housekeeper kept extra toothbrushes somewhere. Can we?”
He lifted his shoulders in a deep shrug, grinned broadly, and set an arm about her. “Wonderful. We'll stay.”
* * *
A month later, Gayle wondered how she could have ever felt the least reservation about moving into the house. She loved everything about it.
There was a colonnade leading from the new kitchen in the house to the old kitchen—originally built as a separate structure in case of fire. Gayle spent three weekends touring around to find copper bedwarmers and kettles, and the like, to decorate the place. It had been unused for years. She set it up with gingham curtains and the copperware and old cast-iron and primitive oak tableware. The windows let in tremendous light, and she loved to come there in the morning. Brent, amused by and pleased with her interest, followed her lead, and by the time they had been there just a week, breakfasting in the old kitchen had become habit.
The main house itself was built around a passage, or large hallway. To the left was the new kitchen, and behind it was what they called the new parlor. There was a music room behind the new parlor, and on the right side of the passage, there was a grand ballroom with a sculpted plaster two-story ceiling. It was big and beautiful, but Gayle found it to be her least favorite room; she didn't know why. She loved the library beyond it, which was small and intimate. Brent ordered a wall unit to be put in there, stereo, disc player, VCR, and a big-screen television. Gayle warned him that his acquisitions weren't “period” at all, and he told her that he'd looked and looked for a “period” TV but just hadn't been able to find one.
Every Time I Love You Page 18
