Acts of Love (20 page)

Am I sounding maudlin? I do love it here; I'm really fine. It's just that there's so much I have to get used to and learn to take for granted, now that it's my life. I know you felt you were going into exile when you went to Italy but I'm not saying that it's the same with me; I'd never call this exile. It's a new beginning and I'm making a new life.

And that's one reason, dearest Constance, that I can't come to Italy. You know I'd love to see you, but I don't want to leave the islands until I've made my life here and accepted it. I'm still too angry—at ghosts, at amorphous “maybes” and “what-ifs,” like a boxer with only shadows to stand up against him—and I have to learn to deal with all of that.

I will deal with it, I will get used to this, I know I will, but, oh, Constance, I miss what I've lost. There's such an
emptiness
that wipes out the world when I stop being busy and suddenly find myself staring into space, longing for . . . everything. You're the one person in the world who can truly understand that, and understand my anger, because I know you had it, too (and probably you'll have it your whole life; I think I will), even though you've always tried to hide it.

Anyway, when I can be positive, I feel that I'm getting acquainted with myself again and I have to do that full time in the place I've decided to call home, so I can't leave it to go to Italy. I've already made friends—the island is so small I've gotten to know almost everyone—and I have my work. And I've got something else to think about. The Seattle Children's Theater is opening a new resident theater and they're commissioning plays for it now. After all the children's books I've illustrated I think I could write a play for children. I don't know, because I've never tried to write, but I may give it a whirl. It would be a way to touch the theater again.

So you see how much is going on in my life. In fact, I think I'll describe my day to you so you can share it. Every day is the same here, with minor variations, which is one of the charms of Lopez.

Luke skimmed the rest of the letter and the one that followed it. He was looking for a specific topic.

. . . usually ride very early, before breakfast, and then I garden, and as I work the sun climbs higher in the sky and slowly the plants turn pale green and then gold . . .

. . . paint in the afternoons when the light turns so clear it's as hard as a diamond with no soft edges or shadows . . .

. . . discovered Lopez Island Vineyards, a very good wine and they gave me a tour . . .

. . . ferry to San Juan, the largest island, and found myself being asked by their theater committee to help direct . . .

. . . lunch with Rita Elliott, who designs jewelry and has her own . . .

Suddenly the earlier words registered and Luke went back to the line about San Juan Island.

. . . asked by their theater committee to help direct their production of
Pygmalion.
At first I refused, but they're quite impressive in their ambitions—it's a small company and none of them has seen
Pygmalion,
though they've all seen the movie
My Fair Lady
—and they were so excited about my being here that finally I said I'd do it, just this once. Do you remember that time in Chicago when you and I talked about how every actor dreams of directing? I've even thought that someday I'd combine acting and directing. But that's over and done with. I'm not part of the theater anymore. What I'll be doing at the San Juan Community Theater and Arts Center is a small diversion, a variation in my daily schedule. The play will run for three nights, and that will be plenty.

Luke shook his head. There was something odd about the way she wrote. It was too deliberate. Too careful. As if she didn't want to give anything away. The only time he found the liveliness of her earlier letters was when she wrote about riding or gardening. He skimmed a few more pages, until he found the topic he was looking for, and some of her old vitality as well.

His name is Richard; he's a sculptor living year-round on Lopez. I'd bought two of his pieces before I met him, a bronze horse's head which I've put in the garden, and a mother and two children in marble, an abstract of flowing lines and great tenderness that makes me think of my parents and of you. I met him one day digging clams in a tiny cove on the other side of the island. Picture this remarkably romantic meeting: two people at the edge of the water with large battered buckets beside them. They're using trowels to burrow beneath the wet sand, flinging water and sand in all directions, so that they have flecks of sand stuck in their eyelashes and pasted by seawater to cheeks and foreheads. Everything is shiny and dank with mist, and sand is under their fingernails and in the crevices of their shorts and T-shirts, as well. He's extremely handsome, medium height, blond, with dark brown eyes, a trim blond beard and an odd sort of lope when he walks. And we laugh together. I've missed that; I'd forgotten how much I need it.

Luke slammed the letter on the table.
Why am I wasting my time doing this? I should have been at work a long time ago, or at least reading the Sunday paper.
He took his tray to the kitchen, aware of the smothering silence of his apartment. It felt unlived in. Martin was away, no one was telephoning, and Luke had not spent much time there in the past few weeks, and when he was there he'd been mostly in the library. He stopped to pull up the roman shades in the living room, but at the first blast of sunlight, he lowered them again. Give the air conditioners a fighting chance, he thought; especially since no one is here to admire the view.

He cleaned up the kitchen, putting his dishes in the dishwasher and wiping the counters. Everything was spotless; Martin and the housekeeper took excellent care of everything and Luke was hardly a presence there. Invisible, he thought. Irrelevant. But it's a home, it's my home, and I ought to make it feel like one. He looked through the kitchen door at the dining room table that had been used only three times in the past year. I should make this place feel lived in. Entertain, host some benefits, invite friends and their kids to play billiards. Or I could put up the Ping-Pong table and plug in the pinball machine Monte gave me for Christmas a couple of years ago, as a joke. It would be nice to have kids around.

Ami sounding maudlin? I do love it here; I'm really fine. It's just that there's so much that I have to get used to and learn to take for granted, now that it's my life.

But I am used to it, Luke thought; I do take it for granted. This has been my life for a long time.

Except that Jessica wasn't in it, and now she is.

He went back to the library and was unfolding the next letter when the telephone rang. “Luke,” Claudia said, “can you have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

There was something in her voice that told him he could not put her off. “Yes, but we'll be rehearsing late. Is nine o'clock all right?”

“Any time. Will you come here? I'd like you to.”

“I don't think so. I'll meet you at Bernardin. If I'm a little late, ask Maguy to give you a wonderful appetizer and a bottle of the Guenoc Chardonnay.”

“But you won't be late.”

“Not if I can help it.”

Hanging up, he thought wryly that he might never be off the hook with Claudia; she would never go away and he would never find a way to shut her out of his life. He went back to Jessica's letter. It was a description of her work on
Pygmalion,
oddly detached, he thought, as if she were writing not from pleasure or excitement, but from duty. But he did not linger over it; he was looking for a name. And then he found it.

Richard has his own high-speed launch, which is a great luxury now that I'm commuting for rehearsals. He delivers me to San Juan and then returns to Lopez to work in his studio rather than sitting about watching the cast stumble around the stage. Well, that's too cruel. But the truth is, they don't have much experience (some have none), so this is all going to take some time. Fortunately we have ten weeks. (Ten weeks, when we always thought anything more than four or five was a great luxury.)

That's all about the handsome sculptor? Luke thought. He riffled through letters and read more bits of paragraphs.

Well you were right, dear Constance, the play got better to a point and then got stuck there. We're working hard, but what we have now is probably the best we can do. I do like the people in the cast . . .

I flew to Seattle for the day and visited Elliott Bay Book Company to sign books and meet some schoolchildren who were visiting the store.

Two days to opening night and everyone is so wound up with excitement and nerves that I've become a kind of nanny . . .

. . . sold out for the three-night run and we've extended it to a fourth night. Opening night was wildly successful and I was the only one who thought it was dreadful. But everyone else was so
alive
with happiness . . . and isn't that what the theater is all about? To make us more alive?

. . . they asked me if I'd go back to New York now, and I said of course not. I'm perfectly happy here; I have everything I want.

Reading as he walked, Luke went to the kitchen. He put water to boil and scooped coffee grounds into the French press. Waiting for the water, he leaned against the granite countertop and read on. And found no mention of Richard.

What happened to him?

The teakettle whistled. He poured the hot water into the coffeemaker and inserted the lid with its plunger, then went to the library, took another letter from the box, and returned to the kitchen, once more leaning against the counter, waiting for the coffee to steep.

Dear, dear Constance, you sounded so alarmed on the telephone. I wonder if you really believed me when I said I was fine. I'm never sure whether you do or not, ever since you pointed out, a long time ago, that two fine actresses can fool anybody, even each other. Well, I'm not trying to fool you; I really am fine. I wasn't sure why you asked me, but the answer is no: I've come to the conclusion that I won't ever marry. It could be that I'm just not ready—although, if I'm not ready at thirty-seven I probably never will be—but more likely it's that I just wouldn't be good at it.

But you mustn't worry about me. It's not good for you and this is the truth: I love my house and my garden, I'm truly happy when I'm illustrating books and riding, and I've made wonderful friends here, writers, innkeepers, restaurant owners, shopkeepers, farmers, and yes, Richard, too. And—my big news for today—I'm getting a dog! My neighbor has a litter of black Labs and he gave me my choice and I chose the most beautiful and by far the smartest. He's delivering her Saturday, and I'll send pictures as soon as I have them. I've named her Hope.

Luke took a mug of coffee back to the library and ran his thumb over the letters behind the marker he used to show where he left off each time he stopped reading. There still were dozens he had not read: the ones that had filled the three years from
Pygmalion
to the time Constance died. He remembered that he had wondered, when he was in Italy, whether Jessica had known of Constance's death. She must have known. Because the letters stopped.

He sipped his coffee and gazed at the jumble on the table.
Why did she name her dog Hope? What was she doing now? Did she change her mind and marry someone? Was she living with someone?

And he knew that he could not wait any longer, spending time with Jessica only through her letters. He had to see her.

He reached for the telephone. His hand hovered above it.
The Magician
was opening in Philadelphia in eleven days. But there was no reason now that he could not take a weekend off. It had been one of the smoothest rehearsals on record and everyone knew it, even Cort, who had become an excellent Daniel as soon as Kent admitted that some of the changes Cort had demanded had made the play stronger. They would continue to rehearse; there still would be problems to deal with; but a weekend off would be good for all of them.

Besides, Luke thought, I have an obligation. I was supposed to deliver Constance's collection of plays. I should have done it long before this. She wanted Jessica to have it.

He felt a surge of anticipation as he picked up the telephone, the excitement of something new, something that had been building for a long time. He looked up the number for the airline. His travel agent would not be at work on Sunday, but airline desks would be open and it would not be difficult for the agent on duty to get him tickets to Seattle and Lopez Island on Friday evening, and back to New York late Sunday night.

Claudia wore black, a lace blouse beneath a silk suit that made her seem taller, her beauty more formal, and people turned to watch as Maguy led her to Luke's table. “Luke, dear, don't get up.” She bent and swiftly kissed him, then sat in the chair Maguy held for her. “Were you waiting long?”

“A few minutes.”

“I'm so sorry. But you know I hate sitting at a table alone.”

“So you made sure I'd be here first. Were you watching for me?”

She smiled gaily. “Of course. From Palio. I saw you walk across the plaza. Have you ordered wine?”

“Yes.” The sommelier arrived, and Luke waited for the ritual of opening and pouring before turning back to Claudia. “You're looking very well. That's a wonderful suit.”

“Why, Luke, how sweet. And how lovely that you noticed. I bought it just for tonight.” She raised her glass. “To us.”

“You know I won't drink to that. I don't even know what it means.” He felt the familiar stirrings of impatience and frustration that always came to him when she behaved like a child, believing that if she repeated something often enough it would be an indisputable fact. “To you,” he said, touching her glass. “Now tell me what's wrong.”