by Savage, Tom
Holly was smiling at him again. “That’s very nice of you, but it doesn’t explain why you were a regular here, at this restaurant.”
He stared at her a moment. Then they both laughed. She had gracefully changed the subject, and he was grateful for that. Too grateful, he later reasoned.
“No,” he admitted, “it doesn’t. I used to come here because I lived right around the corner. In an apartment I didn’t pay for.”
He stopped, feeling the heat rising to his face. Why on earth did I say that? he wondered.
If Holly was shocked, she didn’t show it. Her expression didn’t change. She didn’t even blink. “Oh.”
Then he told her. Everything. The odd jobs he’d worked at, driving cabs and waiting tables and bartending. And the rest of it, the thing he’d never said to anyone, never admitted to anyone. All about the women—older, rich women—who occasionally sponsored him.
He realized as he spoke that this could well be the last time he would have dinner with Holly Randall. For all he knew, it was the last time she would ever speak to him. Oh, well, he thought, so be it. She’d been friendly with him ever since she arrived. She had never treated him like a servant. And he had repaid her kindness by making his usual plans, the plans he automatically made with rich women. The game, as he always thought of it. Well, no more. Not with this woman.
When he was finished with his litany, with the recitation of temporary jobs and temporary liaisons that had been his life for the last six years, Holly Randall surprised him again. She smiled and nodded.
The main course arrived at that point, so they had to wait several minutes before continuing the conversation. Grated cheese and pepper mills. When the waiter was gone, he forced himself to look at her. Into her eyes.
She was smiling and nodding again.
“I see,” she said at last.
Kevin stared at her. “You don’t—disapprove?”
Holly shrugged. “It’s not for me to approve or disapprove of anyone. I guess I did something similar, in college. That’s when I learned about disapproval. There was this group of students there—you know, the glamorous ones, with money and cars and rich parents. I wanted very much to belong to that group, so I started dating one of them. Gregory Sandford the Third, if you please! I wasn’t in love with him, not really. But going out with him almost got me accepted.”
“Almost?”
She shrugged again. “His family didn’t approve of me. His friends didn’t approve of me. Hell, he didn’t approve of me, truth be told. They all made it perfectly clear that I wasn’t one of them, that I would never be one of them. Greg dumped me for a woman his mother approved of. Janice Holbein, of the Beverly Hills Holbeins. So don’t expect me to pass judgment on you, Kevin. I’ve been on the receiving end of it, and I know how it feels. You’ve ‘knocked around’ since college, as Uncle John would say, and you had some rich girlfriends. Big deal.”
Before he was aware of it, he’d reached out to cover her hand with his own. “Thank you.” Then he quickly withdrew his hand, grinning. “So, have you told Gregory Whoever the Third about your recent change in status?”
She shook her head. “No. I couldn’t tell him, even if I wanted to. He’s dead. He and Janice Holbein were in a car accident two weeks before they were supposed to be married. He was killed instantly, and she’s in a wheelchair for life.” She stared down at the table, apparently remembering. “I guess there’s a moral in that story, somewhere.” She was silent for a moment. Then she looked up at him again and smiled. “So, what happened with the psychiatry idea?”
He wasn’t expecting the abrupt change in subject back to him. He looked away from her, at the twinkling Christmas tree in the corner of the restaurant, trying to form an answer.
“It fell by the wayside,” he finally whispered.
“Ah,” she said, reaching for her wineglass. “And what are your new plans?”
He was still staring at the tree. “I don’t have any plans, really. But I think it’s time I did. The Big Three-oh is looming before me.”
“Yes,” she said.
Now it was his turn to ask. “What about you, Holly? Do you have plans?”
She smiled. After a moment she said, “Hell, at this point I’m still getting used to being Holly Randall. But I know what you’re asking. I majored in English, but I don’t think I’m a writer or anything like that. My other favorite subject was chemistry, if you can believe that. I had no talent for it, though. I didn’t exactly blow up the science building, but I’m no Madame Curie, either. After I graduated, I didn’t pursue either subject as a possible profession. Until a few weeks ago, I worked in a travel agency. That’s the best plan I have, I suppose: to travel. See the world. All of it. Especially the Greek islands.”
He nodded. “I understand they’re beautiful.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m certain they are.”
He held up his wineglass. “To Greece.”
She laughed as they toasted. “To Greece.”
After dinner they had tortoni and cappuccino, and Mrs. Amalfi sent over two tiny glasses of anisette. He paid for the meal, thanked the proprietress, and led Holly out into the snowy evening. They drove back to Randall in a comfortable, almost unbroken silence.
It was, he would later decide, the nicest evening he’d spent in a long time.
Holly came into the Great Hall, followed by Kevin with the shopping bags. She’d told him that she could manage them alone from the car to her room, but he had been insistent. As she approached the stairs, she looked up to see Catherine Randall coming down them.
“Hello, you two,” Catherine said, smiling as she descended. “How was New York?”
“Crowded,” Holly said as the two women met at the bottom of the staircase. “But we managed to get everything done. We also had dinner, so I won’t be joining you this evening. I have a date.”
“Oh?” Catherine looked speculatively at Kevin.
Holly laughed. “With Ichabod.”
She ran lightly up the stairs and down the hall to her room. Kevin placed the bags just inside the bedroom door and turned to leave.
“Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”
He stood in the doorway a moment, smiling at her. Then, with a little wave of his hand, he was gone.
She smiled to herself as she got out of her heavy outdoor clothes and quickly slipped into jeans and a blouse. She’d liked Kevin already, before tonight, but his frank confessions over dinner made her like him even more. She glanced at the beaming young woman in the vanity mirror. Remembering her own confession about Greg Sandford, she laughed aloud. We’re bonding, she thought. We’re beginning to talk about personal things, things that matter.…
She rummaged in the shopping bags until she found the big, flat, square package in its bright red paper and velvet bow. She’d ended up getting two gifts for Ichabod, and she’d give him the sweater on Christmas Day. But tonight he would receive an early present. She was suddenly in the mood to give someone a gift. She picked up the brightly wrapped scrapbook and left the bedroom.
When she came back across the gallery toward the guest wing, Holly noticed that her aunt Catherine was still standing in the Great Hall near the bottom of the stairs. She waved to her as she went off toward her great-uncle’s room. Catherine smiled and waved, too.
She was watching Holly. She stared silently up at the young woman as she crossed the gallery and disappeared down the hall of the guest wing, thinking, Another date with Ichabod. Another chess game.
She didn’t like this. She didn’t like it at all.
She stood at the bottom of the stairs for several minutes, gazing upward, deep in thought. Then she went to join her husband in the dining room.
They had finished with the salad and were on the main course before she mentioned it. She wasn’t really hungry tonight, she realized, merely pushing the filet mignon around on her plate. John, on the other hand, was shoveling it in like a condemned prisoner. She reached for her wi
neglass and sipped before she spoke.
“You may have noticed,” she drawled, “that we are only two at dinner tonight.”
He didn’t so much as lower his fork. “Hmmm.”
She took the fork from his hand and set it down on his plate. “She’s upstairs. With him. Playing chess again.”
“So?” Clearly annoyed, he retrieved the fork and attacked his mashed potatoes.
“I don’t like it,” she said. “She’s spending entirely too much time up there. I keep wondering if perhaps he might.…” She deliberately trailed off, hoping her husband would pick up his cue.
He did. He actually stopped eating. “He might—what?”
She rolled her eyes. “He might know something. About us, darling. The plan.” God, she thought, sometimes his expulsion from Yale simply announces itself to the world. “What do you suppose they talk about up there?”
He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture before picking up his wineglass and draining it. Then he went immediately back to the steak.
“Chess, I suppose,” he said, carving another bite. “What could he possibly know, locked away in that room up there? He’s a crazy old man. Don’t be paranoid, Cathy.”
“Oh, now I’m paranoid!” She winced as she watched him eat. The little migraine she’d been noticing ever since Holly had come home from New York was spreading from her temples to the back of her neck. She stood up abruptly, throwing down her napkin.
“Where are you going?” he mumbled through his food.
“To bed. I’m getting a splitting headache. I can’t wait for all of this to be over.” She went to the door and opened it. Before she left him there, she turned around for a parting shot. “As you yourself just observed, he’s an old man. A very old man. And sometimes, very old people have been known to have—accidents.”
He was in the act of reaching for the silver bell on the table to ring for more wine. Her words actually arrested him for a moment. He turned in his seat to stare at her. “What are you saying?”
She shrugged, smiling. “Only that it’s sometimes better to be safe than sorry. I can think of a good reason. A hundred and fifty million good reasons, in fact.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she threw the last line over her shoulder as she made her exit. “Perhaps you should get in touch with your friend.”
He blinked at her. Then he picked up the silver bell and rang it.
Yes, she thought as she left the room and headed for the stairs. Have some more wine, darling. Chew on that with your dinner.
When she reached the gallery at the top of the stairs she paused, gazing over at the entrance to the guest wing. Then, with a little sigh of impatience, she went down the hall to her bedroom.
They didn’t finish the game.
Holly sat at the table across from her great-uncle, studying him, her light mood slowly dissipating. He’d been very quiet, obviously distracted, ever since she’d presented him with the gift.
He’d torn away the paper, smiling at her in almost childlike anticipation, and she’d wondered when he’d last received a present from anyone. When he’d seen what it was, however, his smile had faded. He’d thanked her gracefully enough, even kissed her cheek, before laying the new scrapbook aside on the table and waving her into her seat.
She was aware within twenty minutes that his mind was not on the game. She was winning, for one thing, which had not happened since that first game in November, when he had deliberately allowed her to win. But tonight he wasn’t concentrating at all. He barely glanced at the board: his gaze kept shifting from the new scrapbook to her face and back again.
It was Holly who stopped it. She watched quietly for several moments while the old man leaned forward, his queen dangling aimlessly from his fingers over the board. Then she reached out, gently removed the piece from his hand, and put it down on the table. He blinked, and a long sigh escaped his lips.
“I’m sorry …” he began.
“It’s all right.” Holly rose to her feet. “I guess it’s late, and you seem to be tired. We can finish the game tomorrow. Good night.”
She was leaning forward to kiss him when he surprised her by fairly jumping up from his chair.
“Don’t go,” he said quickly. “Please. I—I want to talk to you.”
He reached out to grasp her hand, and then he blushed. The dark stain of the birthmark on the right side of his face turned suddenly darker, uglier. As if he were aware of this, he turned abruptly away from her. After a moment, he wandered over to the window. Only then, when he had put distance between them, did he turn around to face her again.
“Well, if you’re sure …” Holly murmured.
He nodded. “Sit down, Holly.”
She felt the first prickle of apprehension as she sank slowly back into her chair.
Ichabod was watching Holly, trying to form phrases in his mind.
Since their first meeting in November, when he had lent her the scrapbook of her parents, they had not discussed the subject again. She apparently had not had a chance to give it further thought, he figured. Her gift tonight, the new scrapbook, was a perfect opportunity to reintroduce the subject that was always foremost in his mind. But now that the opportunity was here, he didn’t know what to do with it. He wasn’t at all certain how to proceed.
Proceed with caution, he thought, and he actually smiled at her. She smiled back, but he could tell that she was waiting for him to say something.
He was disconcerted by her gaze. He turned around again to stare out the window at the dark lawn and the drive, which were visible in the light from the downstairs windows. The snow was falling again, he noticed, as it had done intermittently for most of the day. He studied the gentle snowfall as he finally began to speak.
“You know, I can see everything from these windows. I’ve been observing the world from here since—well, since just before you were born. Ever since I retired from chess. From the world. I’ve seen the seasons come and go, and people as well. I’ve seen Kevin Jessel and his sister grow from small children to adults. I’ve seen my sister and her husband and their elder son buried. And Alicia, buried. And, more recently, the return of the prodigal son, with his wife. And now”—he turned from the window—“you. The only happy addition in years.”
He smiled at her then, and he was glad to see her smile back.
“I loved my sister Emily,” he continued, “more than anything in the world. More than chess, certainly. I never married, although I wanted to, once. I came close to asking the woman. But I knew no woman would ever—” He broke off here, raising his hand to his scarred face. “So, Emily was my world. Emily and her family. And then that awful thing happened, and nothing was ever right again. Emily died. And one day I realized that I just didn’t want to leave this room anymore.”
Holly was still in her chair, watching him. He went over to stand before her.
“My dear, I told you on the day I first met you that when one has reached my age, one has learned not to dissemble. And yet, that is exactly what I have been doing with you. Well, I’m not going to do that anymore.”
She stood up. Slowly, with great gentleness, she raised her hand and placed it lightly on the scarred side of his face.
“It’s all right, Ichabod,” she whispered. “Whatever it is. Tell me.”
He looked at her, into her eyes, thinking, Yes. She can take it. She is a remarkably intelligent young woman. More than intelligent: capable. He took a deep breath.
Then he told her.
Holly sat at the little table in her room, staring down. The paisley-covered scrapbook was opened before her, as it had been for the last half hour. She leaned down, studying the grainy images in the photographs. Then, for the fourth or fifth time in that half hour, she turned back to the first page and started again. The headlines, the reportage, the editorials. But, above all, the photographs.
Before she had fairly run from his room thirty minutes ago, Ichabod had picked up a magnifying glass from his desk and handed it to he
r. It was not a regular, round contrivance with a handle, but a rectangular sheet of clear plastic that served to magnify entire sections of text. She slid the implement over the faded pictures once again.
She couldn’t breathe. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and there was a pressure, an odd roaring in her temples. She dropped the magnifier and raised her hands to her forehead, massaging, but the throbbing would not go away. If anything, it seemed to be increasing.
She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Okay, she thought. I’m okay. She repeated the words silently to herself, over and over, willing herself to believe them. After several moments, the pounding in her head and her heart slowly faded, returned to normal.
Normal, she thought.
Then, alone in her magnificent bedroom, Holly began to laugh. She slammed the scrapbook shut and pushed it away from her, stood up from the table, and went into her bathroom. She swallowed two aspirin tablets with a glass of water, then leaned down and splashed cool water on her face. Straightening up, she regarded her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She examined every detail of her face, trying to find the connection, but the answer eluded her.
Then with a rueful smile and a shrug of her shoulders, she turned away from the mirror and left her room. She wandered down the hallway and around the gallery to the guest wing. When she arrived before Ichabod’s door, she raised her hand and knocked lightly.
There was no reply.
“Ichabod,” she whispered through the door.
Still no reply. He’s gone to bed, she reasoned, and she went reluctantly back to the gallery and down the stairs to the Great Hall.
The library was empty, as were the living room and music room. She even checked the kitchen and the office, but there was no one, anywhere. The staff were upstairs on the third floor, presumably asleep at this hour, and Mrs. Jessel had gone home to the gatehouse for the night.
