Acts of Love (33 page)

Jessica looked with wondering eyes. As with the beauty of her island the night before, it was as if her studio were newly made, or as if she had just walked into it for the first time. I have never felt this before, she thought, and she knew that it had to do with Luke.

They had been together for most of the past three days, and in that whole time, they had been alone, seeing other people only at the cafe. No one had interrupted their nonstop conversation; the telephone had not rung, nor had the doorbell. No one had distracted them from each other since the moment he had appeared at her door.

And now she did not want him to leave.

She turned to her drafting table, concentrating on the pencil sketch she had begun the day before. Half an hour later, she took it to one of her easels. Hope lifted her head to make sure everything was in order, and Jessica smiled. “Nothing different, Hope; it's just an ordinary day.” She clipped the sketch to the top of the large sheet of paper on which she would paint the enlarged watercolor version, pulled her cart of paints close to her, and picked up her brush. Then she paused, contemplating the sheet of paper. There was always this strange hesitation before she made the first stroke of her brush upon a blank surface, as if she were holding back before beginning a new adventure. Usually she imagined her first brush stroke, then her second and third, and then she would be ready to paint But today she found herself thinking about Luke, and inns on the island. She reached to a nearby table and poured a mug of coffee from a thermos. I don't know anything about them, she thought, sipping the coffee; he's much better off asking Robert.

Five minutes later she put down her mug. It was not an ordinary day, she thought; it was, in fact, quite astonishingly different from other days. She took the portable telephone from its stand and called Luke at the Inn at Swifts Bay. “Has Robert given you any ideas about another place to stay?”

“I haven't asked him. I trust your judgement.”

After I told him I don't know anything about them? He's been putting it off, maybe hoping I'd call.

“I do have an idea. You can—” Her voice caught on the words. It had been so long since another person had woven through the pattern of her days. But she knew this was what she wanted, and she rushed ahead before she could change her mind. “You can stay here. The couch in my studio opens into a bed and it's quite comfortable. The studio has its own bathroom and of course it's completely separate from the house. You're very welcome—” She stopped again as she heard her cool formality. “I'd be glad to have you here.”

“Thank you,” he said instantly. “You're very generous. May I come in a couple of hours? I don't want to interrupt your work.”

She looked at her watch. “Three hours would be better.”

“I'll see you about six, then. Thank you, Jessica. I'm very grateful.”

How formal we are, she thought. And how comforting that is. Far better than the instant intimacy people seem to cultivate in New York.

But the idea of intimacy made her think she had made a terrible mistake. Why tantalize herself with other options when she had no intention of choosing anything but what she had? In other words, she told herself with a brutal directness she had practiced for years, why take the risk of falling in love?

She reached for the telephone, to call Luke again and tell him some lie to keep him from coming. But her hand hovered in the air until she gave up and let it fall to her lap. She wanted to see more of him. And she knew—though she had not told him this and perhaps never would—that that was what Constance had wanted, as well.

She turned to her painting, still not begun. This would not do, she thought. She had a schedule; she had a contract with her publisher. But then she thought of her front door.
If it's open, he can come in and I won't have to watch for him.
She walked back through the greenhouse and the living room to the foyer and opened the door a few inches. Hope followed her, puzzled by all the activity in what was usually five or six hours of perfect stillness, and Jessica rubbed her behind her ears. “Well, it isn't ordinary,” she told her, “and I don't know how it's going to come out, but I'm sure I want to do this, and I'm not going to back out now.”

After that she finally turned to her painting and when Luke arrived she was at her easel, completely absorbed. She would not have known he was there if Hope had not dashed into the greenhouse to greet him, tail wagging, nose nudging him for a caress. “Hello,” he said softly, and knelt beside her. He looked up and met Jessica's eyes. “Hello,” he said again.

She saw reflected in his face the brightness of her own, and she smoothed her features to a cool welcome. “I'm almost finished for today. Then I'll show you where everything is.”

“May I see what you're doing?”

Automatically, she shrank back. No one ever saw her paintings until she sent them to New York.

“I'm sorry, of course you're not used to that,” he said. “I'll wait in the living room.”

“No, it's all right.” She shook it off. Everything was different, so why not allow this difference, too? “I'd like you to see this.”

With Hope at his side, he stood at her shoulder and Jessica looked at her painting through his eyes. The central figure was almost complete: a woman seated on a marble bench, looking into the distance, with a black dog at her feet. The rest of the painting was only a wash of background color, but the pencil sketch showed what it would be: on one side a forest, with a man building a log cabin in a sunlit clearing, and on the other an ocean with lightning slashing the dark clouds above. Almost hidden in the folds of the woman's long skirt were the words
The open door.

The woman was Constance; the dog was Hope. The man was Luke.

After a silence, Luke said, “Why am I building the log cabin?”

“Because that's what you do. You create. You build.”

He nodded. “I like that.” After another moment of scrutiny, he said, “And Constance? And ‘The open door'?”

“Constance was always opening doors for me, helping me make new discoveries about myself and other people and the whole world. She did that for you, too, didn't she?”

“Yes.” He stepped back, looking at the painting and at Jessica together. “You've done a wonderful job with Constance,” he said at last. “I don't remember seeing her in your other books.”

“This is the first time a character reminds me of her. I've painted her portrait, though; I'll show it to you later.” She began to clean her brushes. “I'll help you make your bed. The closet in the corner has built-in shelves; the bathroom is through that other door. We have a reservation at the cafe for eight o'clock.”

“I'll get my suitcase; it's in the truck.”

Jessica watched him walk away from her. She knew he was trying to accommodate himself to the swings in her mood, and she was grateful for that, because she had no intention of telling him that they were caused by the small shocks she felt each time she realized she already was getting used to the idea of having him in her house.

Mostly that was because their hours quickly fell into a pattern, and she was used to patterns. They had dinner that night at the cafe and afterward sat talking in the living room until they said good night and Jessica went in one direction, to her bedroom, and Luke went in the other, to the studio. The next morning they were riding by seven o'clock and when they came back, at ten, they made breakfast together and ate on the terrace. By twelve-thirty, they had cleaned the kitchen and Jessica was in her studio, and Luke was back on the terrace, working on playscripts he had brought. At seven they dressed and went to the cafe or prepared dinner together, ending the day in the living room with cognac and coffee and more talk.

“It's very comforting,” Luke said on his third night at Jessica's house. He was laying a fire while Jessica poured cognac and coffee. A Schubert piano sonata was playing and Hope was keeping a protective eye on everything. “There's a lot to be said for an unvarying routine. It's like a blanket I had as a child and brought with me to Constance after my parents were killed. It had a design of ships and boats and I knew every thread of every one of them. I could have closed my eyes and described the whole blanket, down to the bolts that held the oarlocks in place or the polka-dot curtains in one of the yachts. When I pulled that blanket around me, no matter what else happened I rooted myself. I was my parents' son.”

Jessica looked at his back as he put crumpled newspaper beneath the kindling. “You miss knowing they're at home, talking about what you'll do when you come for a visit,” she murmured, reaching back to a letter she had written to Constance, about her parents' deaths.

Luke turned quickly and quoted words from the same letter. “I miss having them miss me.”

Their eyes met. “So long ago,” she said, “but still so real. I wonder if we ever forget sorrow.”

“I hope not,” Luke said quietly. “I hope we recover from it, but never forget it.” He turned back, took a long match from a holder and lit the fire. The flames leaped up and he sat on his heels, watching them.

“Do you still have the blanket?” Jessica asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you ever look at it?”

“When Constance died, I hung it over an armchair in my bedroom.”

“Is it still there?”

“It is, but most of the time I'm not really aware of it. It's become part of the background of my life. Like sorrow.” He sat beside her and raised his snifter of cognac slightly toward her. “Thank you for another wonderful day. Three in a row with a rhythm and a pattern that are immensely comforting. I don't have a single day like it in New York, much less three.”

Jessica sipped her cognac and contemplated the fire. The wood had caught and was burning steadily, with occasional crackles and small showers of sparks. Heat radiated through the room and she tucked her legs beneath her, feeling the rush of well-being that comes with warmth on a night that had turned very cold. There was a question she should be asking. Once before, she had asked it—“Are you staying indefinitely?”—and his answer had been vague, but now he had led them to it again. Three days of an unvarying rhythm were comforting. How many did he want?

How many do I want?

“Tell me about your parents,” Luke said. “I read about them in your letters, but I'd like to know more.”

And so the question was not asked. Instead, for the first time, Jessica talked about herself. “I think I had a truly magical childhood, the kind we don't appreciate until we're all grown up and wish for some of the security we rebelled against when we were young.” She paused. “I'm sorry. You didn't have that security. You got it from a blanket.”

“And from Constance, with abundant love, though the security was much different from yours.”

They compared the ways they had grown up and Jessica did not need Luke's questions to urge her on as she reached back to find memories she had thought were lost forever. They alternated stories and anecdotes and had not run out when, finally, reluctantly, Jessica stood up. “It's been a long day. We can go on with this tomorrow.” Luke banked the fire, their hands touched lightly, and with a murmured “Good night” they went in opposite directions to go to sleep.

The next day, on their morning ride, the conversation began where it had left off, with shared stories of families and schools, favorite teachers, friends, solitary times and daydreams, and so once again the question was not asked. And that night, Luke forestalled it by saying, “Robert once recommended a restaurant on Orcas called Christina's. If I can get a plane to fly us over and back tomorrow night, would you like to try it?”

“Oh, no, I—”

“Take a minute to think about it,” he said quietly.

She did not have to think about it; she had told him she never left the island. This seemed like a step in some kind of deliberate campaign to get her away from home: first to Orcas . . . and then to New York?

“It's just one dinner,” he said. “I'm not asking you to pack your bags for New York.”

She felt a flash of anger, at herself for being transparent and at Luke for letting her know it. “We'll need a reservation,” she said briefly.

“I'll take care of that.” He went to the telephone and Jessica heard the murmur of his voice making one call and then another. In a few minutes he was back. “A small problem. We can get a plane over but not back. The pilot suggested a place called Turtleback Farm Inn; he thought we could get rooms this time of year. If that sounds all right to you, we could stay the night and come back early the next morning.”

He looked at her steadily, challenging her to break out of the fixed pattern of her days, just for one evening, after which she could settle back into it, if she wished.

“I'll call the inn,” he said. “There's no sense in thinking about it if they're full.”

She watched him leaf through the telephone book and dial a number. “We have two rooms if we want them,” he said, holding the telephone to the side. “Shall I reserve them?”

Instinctively, Jessica put her hand up and brushed back her hair. She saw Luke's face change and knew that he understood that for the first time in days he had made her conscious of herself as a woman, and the two of them as a couple.

“Jessica?”

“Yes,” she said.

He finished his call and almost immediately they separated, Jessica to her bedroom, Luke to the studio. The next day there was a new kind of nervousness between them and breakfast was brief, leaving a longer afternoon for work. In fact, they barely spoke until they were sitting in the small plane, watching Lopez recede below them, and even then the pilot did most of the talking, giving a running commentary as they flew over the rugged contours of Shaw Island and then over the entire length of the inverted U that was Orcas, with Mount Constitution towering on their right and the smaller Turtleback Mountain rising from farmlands on their left. “That's where the inn is,” the pilot said. “You look right across this narrow valley at Turtleback Mountain. Pretty place.”