Crossroads (4 page)

Chapter Six

T
he land on which Cassandra’s home sat was well maintained but not manicured. There was a long lawn in the front of the house, a row of red maples that protected it from the road, and flower beds lining the front path in which daffodils, iris, and peonies bloomed in the spring to be followed by zinnias, daisies, daylilies, hollyhocks, and phlox in summer. In back of the house itself was another lawn that gave way to the surrounding forest of the area. In the spring violets and lilies of the valley carpeted the ground under a canopy of branches. In the autumn that same ground was carpeted again with the gold, red, and orange of the fallen leaves. The trees were pruned for safety’s sake but otherwise they were left to grow freely.

The house itself was the kind of structure that would have been called a stately home if it had been listed in a guidebook. The artwork and priceless antiques inside it were the results of collecting done by four generations of a family with impeccable taste and the wealth to indulge that taste. Quite simply, when you were in that home, you were seeing civilization at its best. But once you went outdoors you felt you were in the woods—with all the beauty and simplicity that nature had to offer. Cassandra and her family had the best of both worlds.

Behind the back lawn there was a hill. Halfway up it, beneath the oaks, the pines, and the thread of sunshine that seeped through a thickness of the undergrowth, there was a flat stump that provided a seat where one could comfortably settle down. This was Gwen’s destination—her special place where, as everyone in the house knew, she was not to be disturbed. She’d been coming here since she was a child. Sometimes she came to read, usually classics that required concentration and peace, like books written by Dickens or Dostoyevsky. Sometimes she merely sat quietly, and watched the small creatures who lived there: the squirrels who barely disturbed the silence when they buried nuts, which they would find under the snow in winter. Or the chipmunks, who scurried in and out of their three-room apartments—one room for their babies, one for food storage, and the third one for what? Gwen had forgotten. It was because of these little creatures that she would not take Missy and Hank with her to her retreat on the hill; the dogs frightened them away.

Gwen sat on the stump and prepared to enjoy the silence and the air and the companionship of the squirrels. Instead, another memory flooded back. But this was one she welcomed. She never tired of reliving it.

*                           *                           *         

It had happened when she was sitting on this very stump—she had been six years old. A man had climbed up the hill to talk to her. His name was Walter Amburn, and Gwen would always believe that he had changed her life.

Gwen had seen him before that day; for several months he had been coming to the house, mostly in the evenings, to escort her mother to various events. He was not a tall man—when Cassandra wore her high-heeled shoes, she was almost his height. His best feature was his hair, light brown and curly, although his nose was a bit too big for good looks and his eyes were too deep-set. But there was something about his face—something kind and humorous—that Gwen liked.

She always knew when he was coming, because Cassandra’s eyes would flash in a way they never did normally. Sometimes, when she was getting dressed to go out with him, she would look at herself in the mirror and she wouldn’t like the dress she had chosen or the earrings, and she would change them at the last second—a phenomenon totally out of character for one as decisive as she. Then she would have to rush down the stairs in a clatter of high heels so she would not be late when Walter arrived—the rushing was also totally out of character. There would be an uncharacteristic note of excitement in her voice as she greeted Walter, told the maid to get her wrap out of the closet, and went out into the night with him. Sometimes his hand would be under her elbow guiding her gently down the front steps, sometimes it would rest for a second on the small of her back, also for guidance. And Gwen, young as she was, could sense that there was something special in that touch of hand to body.

There were times when Walter and her mother did not leave the house right away, when they only had plans for dinner in a local restaurant, or at the home of friends. Then Walter would take off his coat and Cassandra would lead him to the living room where they would have drinks in front of the massive fireplace and eat the little canapés the cook had labored over. Or they would take their drinks into one of the cozier rooms, the library or the sitting room. The sound of them, of their laughter and talk, would echo down the halls of the house.

Gwen had been introduced to Walter during one of these interludes. She had been told he was a special friend of Cassandra’s and she had believed it. But she hadn’t really talked to him—not until the day under the trees.

When he appeared there in her refuge, Gwen had looked at him, seeing once again the kindness in his face and the warmth in his smile. Walter Amburn radiated warmth, everyone seemed to feel it. Now he was bending over so that Gwen and he were eye to eye.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” he’d said gently. “Your nanny said I might find you here. I understand this is your special spot.”

Shy, Gwen had nodded silently.

Walter had looked appreciatively at the canopy of green branches overhead, the velvety moss, and the dappling of sunshine and shadow on the grass. “I can see why,” he said. “May I sit down?”

Gwen nodded again, and in spite of his nice slacks and the possibility of grass stains, he settled himself on the ground next to her. He began talking to her, but not in the silly way that adults usually talked to children. Walter told her how the moss that carpeted the earth under them had grown, and he showed her how to tell how old a tree was. And before Gwen knew how it had happened she was telling him about the patch of sunshine a few feet away where the wild daylilies grew every summer and about the squirrels and the chipmunks she watched. She mentioned that she’d made up a story about this place that was so magical to her, and he asked her if she would mind telling it for him. It was a rather long and rambling saga, she would realize later when she got better at storytelling, but Walter had listened intently and thanked her when she was finished.

Then she asked him why he had come to sit under her trees, because it wasn’t something adults usually did, especially when they weren’t dressed for it.

“I thought we should get to know each other a little,” he’d said, “because I’m going to be in your life for a long time. You see, I’m going to be marrying your mother. I hope that meets with your approval.”

And Gwen had thought about the shine in Cassandra’s eyes and the way she ran down the stairs to meet him. And she had thought about the way Walter had listened to her story. And she said, “Yes. I think that will be fine.”

“Thank you,” he’d said gravely. “That’s a big relief to me.”

*                           *                           *         

It had been better than fine. The advent of Walter had been the beginning of a new relationship between Gwen and Cassandra. The chill Gwen had always felt had begun to warm; the distance had been lessened. Her mother was a happier person now, and the happiness poured over everything and everyone around her.

And then, out of the blue, came the bedtime story. Gwen was never really sure how or why Cassandra decided that she wanted to read to her daughter every night. She suspected that in some way Walter had been behind it, although she didn’t know that for sure. It would have been like him to point out to his wife that Gwen was a child who loved stories and Cassandra herself was a voracious reader. It was Walter’s instinct to bring people together, and to bring out the best in them. Or maybe Cassandra herself was looking for something she and her daughter could share; maybe she felt the lack of closeness between them and was looking for a way to reach out. Maybe she was trying to expand Gwen’s mind. Maybe it was a little of both.

The idea of Cassandra Wright cuddling up with her little daughter every night for a cozily domestic reading of a bedtime story was so impossible that Gwen had never even dreamed of such a thing. But one evening as she lay in bed and Sarah turned on the television that would lull her to sleep, Cassandra appeared in her room with a book in hand.

“I’ve brought a novel I thought we might enjoy together,” she said as she snapped off the TV. “It’s called
Heidi
. Your pediatrician says it’s too advanced for a child of your age, but I’m not sure he knows how very bright you are. It was one of my favorite stories growing up, and in any case, I’m afraid I couldn’t bear reading some of the pap they write for children these days.”

So there were no rhyming kittens or fairy princesses saved by white knights for Gwen. She didn’t care. The bedtime story became her favorite part of her day. Propped up against her pillows, bathed and bundled into her nightclothes, she would wait for Cassandra to come in—often dressed for an evening out—sit on a chair at the side of the bed, and read.

Gwen had no trouble following the story. She and her mother laughed together at Fräulein Rottenmeier; they sighed over the mountains of Switzerland together, and the wildflowers. For several weeks the only thing Gwen wanted to eat were grilled cheese sandwiches, and the cook had instructions to oblige her—after all, cheese melted on a chunk of bread over the fire was what Heidi and her grandfather ate.

The bedtime story had been a turning point; and over the next few years Gwen and Cassandra would find other interests and passions they shared. Gwen developed a taste for the classical music her mother adored: Beethoven, Schubert, and Mozart. They listened to Cassandra’s favorite recording of
La Bohème
together and followed along with the libretto. Both mother and daughter had a deep love of animals, and a need for nature. They felt the same sense of loss when old trees were cut down and beautiful marshlands were drained for yet another ugly housing development. Both of them had a sense of justice and fair play. Cassandra understood Gwen’s need for quiet and time alone; Gwen respected her mother’s reserve and need for order. Perhaps it wasn’t a perfect relationship—but where are those found? As far as Gwen was concerned it was much better than it once had been.

*                           *                           *         

Of course she still had her scar tissue; that kind of thing never totally disappears, and there were times when she was angry—usually when she realized once again that she would never fit in with other youngsters her age. Those were the times when she hated being a Wright, hated her own quirky mind, and hated the superior being who was her mother.

“Yes, you’re different,” Walter said one day when they were having iced tea in his studio. Walter was an artist, very much in demand as a portrait painter. Gwen thought it was because he always seemed to find whatever it was that made his subject special and somehow managed to put that on the canvas. He had a gift for liking people. “I know being different isn’t fun now, when all you want to do is be one of the pack, but you have to look at the bigger picture. Most of the world’s great ones were odd ducks, as you call yourself. They couldn’t fit in so they had to discover something else to get them through, some great passion. They became our geniuses, our poets and composers, our philosophers and scientists. I believe passion is what brings joy. Not always happiness, you understand, that is a toss of the dice, but joy will always come from finding what you love to do and doing it.” He’d paused for a second and then he’d smiled his warm smile. “In any event, that’s what this odd duck keeps telling himself.”

Gwen had thought for a moment and then she said, “When you were talking about the great ones, you didn’t mention business people like my mother. Do you think they can have a passion for what they do too?”

Walter had laughed. “Yes, of course they can; your mother is proof of that. She is a genius in the way she handles her company. I guess I don’t think of including business in the great endeavors of the world, because I can’t imagine doing what Cassie does every day. But I do respect anyone who can.” He looked at her then. “And I hope you do too, Gwen. It’ s very important to respect other people’s passions.”

It was Walter who had put into proper perspective the odd-duck notions Gwen had had as a child. “You’re in good company,” he said. “That question you asked about the butter box? What you were really talking about was the concept of infinity. Men have been puzzling over that one since the Greeks. As for questioning the reality of your own existence, a brilliant man in the seventeenth century named Descartes grappled with that. He came to the conclusion that the fact that he had the capacity to think enough to ask the question was proof that he existed. He said ‘Cogito, ergo sum’ meaning ‘I think, therefore I am.’ It’s one of the more famous ideas in Western thought, so you see, you’re on the same page with Descartes. Personally, I think you should be quite pleased with yourself.”

When Walter said things like that to Gwen, it didn’t make up for snubs on the playground or other children giggling when she said something they thought was weird. But it helped.