Acts of Love (32 page)

“You shouldn't have to, when you're working.”

“Usually I don't.” But she smiled as she said it, so that he would not think she was complaining about having nothing to do, night after night, but work as late as she wished.

A few hours earlier they had said good-bye casually, like old friends who knew they would be together again soon, and Jessica had gone to her studio while Luke let himself out the front door. He drove back to the inn, thinking about the fierceness with which she challenged him to be honest. She did not want his sympathy; she did not seem to care about his understanding. What she wanted was the truth between them. He remembered what she had said the day before, when they were talking about Mary Tyrone in O'Neill's
Long Day's Journey into Night.

Dependency is a curse and Mary used hers as a weapon.

Was that what had driven her all these years? The fear of sinking into dependency and then finding what a devastating weapon it could be? She could not live with herself if she heard herself use those little tricks and stratagems that the dependent use. Yet another reason to withdraw from the temptation of others' sympathy and concern.

At the inn, he took from his suitcase the copy of Kent's new script, expanded now to two acts and an outline of the third. At some time during breakfast that morning the idea had come to him that Jessica, even looking as she did, might be able to figure out a way to play the lead—in fact, might possibly play it better than anyone he knew. He had almost said it aloud, but caught himself in time. He was sure that she was not ready to hear that, and he had to be convinced that this was not one of those wild ideas that bloom in the warmth of good companionship, excellent food, and the sunlight of a golden October day, later to spiral away to nothingness.

“You told Constance you miss the theater,” he said in the restaurant when they had ordered dinner.

“That was a long time ago. This is a nice wine; I hadn't heard of it. Are you an expert in wine, in addition to all your other accomplishments?”

“I know enough to order what I'm familiar with and leave the rest to the sommelier. I gather that no matter how often I introduce the subject of your life in the theater, you'll immediately find-something else quite fascinating to talk about.”

A laugh escaped her. “Probably.”

“Well, you choose. I'll be glad to talk about anything you like.”

“Tell me more about
The Magician.
How you directed it.”

It was an easy subject for Luke, and a pleasant one, and he talked about it while they ate their appetizer of mussels brought from the sea just an hour earlier, and the salad and main course, describing the decisions he had made and what came of them, the ones that worked and the ones that did not. “I think, on balance, it was a mistake to cast Cort as Daniel. He was fine, eventually, but it took a long time to get there, through a lot of turmoil we could easily have avoided.”

“Why was he the wrong person?” she asked.

Luke reflected for a moment. “He never liked Daniel. He kept that to himself until he had the part—or maybe he only began feeling that way later—but once we were well into rehearsals it became almost an obsession and he kept insisting that Kent make changes in Daniel's character. A director should never cast an actor who doesn't make it clear from the beginning that he or she truly identifies or empathizes with a character, or—if the character is evil—at least understands him.”

“That seems obvious,” she said.

“It ought to. A lot of directors don't see it.”

She sat back as the waitress removed their dinner plates. “And how is Cort doing now?”

“I haven't seen him since opening night, but I haven't had any anguished calls from New York, so I assume he's fine. You understand, he's not bad, he's just not . . .”

“Daniel.”

“Yes, that's it. He's a skilled actor pretending to be Daniel.”

“Like a parent humoring a teenage son but not understanding a word he's saying.”

Luke laughed. “Not that bad, but close. That's very good; I'd like to use it when I need it. Would you mind?”

“Of course not; it's hardly a line of immortal prose. And anyway, I wouldn't know about it if you did.”

“You would if you were there.”

Very deliberately, Jessica set her wineglass down and folded her hands on the table. “I could just change the subject again, but I'll say this instead. I am not going back to the theater, or back to New York. I thought that was very clear in my letters to Constance, which you seem not only to have read but to have memorized. God knows I wrote it often enough for anyone to be convinced, but I'll say it again. I am not going back. I have a life here, a good life, and there is no reason for me to try to recapitulate the past.”

“The reason is that that was your real life and your real identity and what you have now is Jessica Fontaine pretending to be whole on Lopez Island.”

She shoved her chair back. The wooden legs squeaked on the wooden floor and struck her cane, propped against the wall beside her, knocking it over. The clatter seemed thunderous in the small room and Jessica's face flamed with embarrassment. Luke leaped to his feet. He came around the table and propped up the cane, then stood beside her, screening her from the other diners. “I'm sorry,” he said, bending down so that he could speak softly. “I'd take that back if I could; it was rude and insensitive. Constance would say I'm still trying to control everything, events, people, conversation, the whole order of battle.” He waited, but Jessica was looking at her clenched hands and did not look up or reply. “But this isn't a battle,” he said. “I don't want one and I'm sure you don't; what we want is friendship. Jessica, I'm sorry. There are things I wanted to talk to you about, but they require a lead-in and if we can't do the lead-in, we won't talk about them at all. It will be enough for me just to be with you.”

She looked at him then. “Why?”

“Because I like you. Because I'm having a very good time. Because I feel close to Constance when I'm with you.”

A small smile played on Jessica's lips. When he isn't saying the absolutely wrong thing, she thought, he's saying the absolutely right thing.

“I'm sorry I made a spectacle of us,” she murmured.

“It's already forgotten; the food is so good that that's what everyone is thinking about. I like your recommendation. May I . . . ?”

His hands were on her chair, and she stood slightly so that he could help her slide back to the table. “Thank you,” she said.

He returned to his chair. “I hope the desserts are as good as everything else.”

“I don't usually have any. You can give me a report.”

“Then I'll have to try more than one. You know, one of the best restaurants in New York has a dessert that's an arrangement of five different caramel concoctions—”

“Bernardin,” she said.

He nodded. “One of my favorites. But there are some wonderful new places, Nobu, for one. . . .” He talked about restaurants, then went on to concerts and operas of the past season, and then the fashion shows in Bryant Square, held in huge tents and attracting as much attention as the Paris and Milan shows.

“Did you go to all of them?” Jessica asked, amazed.

“I would have if they hadn't run simultaneously. They're a fascinating form of theater, and I went with a friend who gave a private commentary that almost made sense of the most absurd parts.”

“Was she a designer?”

“No.” Jessica could see that he was debating whether to tell her who it was. “Someone you don't approve of. Tricia Delacorte.”

“The gossip columnist.” She fell silent, suddenly seeing him as a whole person with an entire life. Until now, so much had been going on between them that she had thought of him only as a director whose work she had admired; as Constance's grandson who had read letters not meant for him; and as an unwelcome messenger bringing New York and the theater into her quiet life. Now she looked at him and saw a man who had been married and divorced  . . . and perhaps had married again? She did not know. He wore no ring, but that was not definitive. His behavior with her did not seem to be that of a married man, but that was never definitive. In any case, she knew that, as a director and as a young, vigorous man, he would be deeply involved in the many-layered social life of New York, and, if he were single, of course he would have women to share his evenings, and his bed. A sharp stab of jealousy shot through her and she drew in her breath with dismay. Why would she care about that? She barely knew him and she had no intention of getting involved with him, or anyone else, ever again. Maybe it's New York, she thought. Maybe I'm jealous of his life there. Could that be? After all this time? Oh, when will that stop?

“I've known her for a few months,” Luke said as the silence stretched out. “I know she's capable of writing drivel, but she's created a life for herself and she's very good at what she does, within its limits, and I admire that.”

“Of course, you could say the same about a successful cat burglar.”

Luke's eyebrows rose and Jessica drew in her breath again. “But I think she must have had a hard life at one time,” she went on quickly. “I don't think she could unerringly spot people's vulnerabilities unless she'd spent a lot of time putting patches on her own.”

Not much better. It's time to change the subject.

But Luke did it first, as if to save her from being obvious. “The other kind of theater at the fashion shows were the audiences. More casual and spontaneous than in Europe, I think.”

“You mean they weren't stone-faced? When I went to the shows in Milan and Paris I always thought the audiences had practiced for months to perfect those masks. By the last day of the shows, they all looked like effigies that had been dug up from a Mayan tomb.”

Luke burst out laughing. “They'd never go to another show if they heard you say that.”

Their voices were low and they leaned closer as they talked. Luke ordered three desserts and Jessica took a bite of each while he ate all of one and parts of the others, and then they ranked them. “There are some we didn't get to,” Luke said. “We'll have to come back.”

They drank espresso and then ordered more, reluctant to leave, talking now about theaters in Europe, the Moscow circus, Finnish acrobats . . . until, finally, Jessica said, “We should go. It's very late.”

Once again he helped her with her chair. At the door, she held out her hand. “Thank you for dinner. I enjoyed it.”

Luke held her hand. “I'd like to see you tomorrow.”

And then Jessica asked the question that had hovered over them all evening. “Are you here indefinitely?”

He smiled. “Not that long; I do have to get back. But I don't want to leave yet.”

She nodded, as if she understood, though she had no idea what he was thinking or what he was waiting for. She slid her hand from his. “Would you like to ride again tomorrow morning?”

“Very much.”

“The same time, then.”

They said another brief good-night in the parking area, and then Luke drove off in the direction of the inn and Jessica turned toward Watmough Bay. The moon was almost full, so blazingly white that most of the stars were invisible. The sky belonged to the moon, as did the waters lapping the island, holding on their surface a rippling ribbon of light, and the pine trees along the road, every needle gleaming like a thin, pure white blade. Jessica was amazed at the clarity of everything, the beauty of her island enhanced so that it seemed newly created, the softly rolling fields as bright and welcoming as lighted rooms seen from afar. She breathed deeply of the cold, crisp air. The nights were chilly harbingers of winter now, while the days grew warm as the sun rose, and the gardens still bloomed.
And tomorrow we'll ride.

The next day it seemed they had already fallen into a routine, riding very early through cool forests still wet with dew, along ocean cliffs and around the periphery of open fields, coming back to Jessica's house for breakfast on the terrace and a long, leisurely conversation, then parting for an afternoon of work, planning to meet again for dinner. They were more relaxed than the day before, as if they had broken through some barrier of strangeness to a place where they were familiar with each other and had begun already to use the kind of shorthand in their talk that longtime friends used without thinking.

“Where would you like to have dinner?” Luke asked as he put away the last clean dish from breakfast.

“There isn't much choice. The Bay Cafe is by far the best.”

“Then I'll have a chance to try the other desserts. Do we need a reservation?”

“I'll take care of it. Eight o'clock?”

“Yes. I'd like to pick you up.”

“Fine,” she said easily, surprising them both.

He turned to go, then turned back. “By the way, I have to find a new place to stay; Robert has a bicycle group coming in. Can you recommend one?”

She was wiping the sink and her hand slowed. “There are several. I don't know anything about them; I've only stayed at Robert's. I'll think about it and we'll talk about it later. Is that all right?”

“Fine. I'm sure Robert will have suggestions, too.”

“Of course,” she said absently, thinking that Robert was a far better source of information than she was. But as she went into her studio and sat at her drafting table, she was trying to remember the inns she had heard of, especially one close to her house. She picked up her pencil and was bending over her sketch when suddenly she was struck by the extraordinary clarity of the light surrounding her. It was the same clarity as the moonlight the night before, and she put down her pencil and looked around the room at objects she barely noticed anymore. Now each was unique: seemingly polished to a brilliant sheen, the tiniest details standing out, perfect in their precision. The clear light washed over her, as well, and she saw her fingernails and the veins on the backs of her hands as sharply outlined as if she had drawn them with her finest pen.