Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair (43 page)

At last she said, in a low, saddened voice, “A friend, I should say a so-called friend, told me Edward was having an affair with Mercedes Sorrell, the actress. I'm ashamed to admit that I believed her. I was young, vulnerable. Poor excuses. But anyway, I became accusatory, vile, really, and verbally abusive to your father. You remember that only too well, it seems. It was jealousy, of course. Later I discovered that it wasn't true. It had been a lie.”

“But there
were
other women, Mom,” I persisted. “You said that yourself.”

“I suppose there were sometimes, when he was away on a dig for six months or longer. But it was me he loved.”

“And that's why you stayed with him all those years?”

She nodded. “Anyway, your father fought hard against the separation, resisted it for a long time, Mal.”

“He did?” I said, my eyes opening wider. I stared at her.

My mother stared back.

“Don't sound so surprised,” she said after a second's pause. “And yes, he did resist the separation; what's more, he never wanted a divorce. Not only that, we continued to have a relationship for a long time after we separated.”

“Do you mean
sexual
?” I asked, pinning her with my eyes.

She nodded, looked suddenly slightly embarrassed.

“Mother, you didn't!”

“I'm afraid so. In fact, your father and I remained involved with each other, off and on, until I met David.”

“Good God!”

“Mal, I
still
love your father, in a certain way. But I knew years ago that he and I could never be happily married.”

“Why not? Obviously you continued to sleep with him for years after you split up. You could have fooled me; you always behaved as if he didn't exist.”

“I know. A defense mechanism, I'm sure. Why couldn't I be happily married to him? Possibly because I don't want to be with a man who has to wander the earth. Endlessly.”

“You could have wandered with him, after I'd grown up.”

“It wouldn't have worked, not in the long run.”

“But you did have a strong sexual bond—”

“We did. But sex doesn't necessarily make a successful marriage, Mallory. There are so many other factors involved. Your father and I couldn't have made it work, take my word for it.”

“Oh, I do, Mom,” I said, and I reached out and squeezed
her hand. “I've wanted to say this for a long time. Mother, thanks for always being there for me. I know Dad never was.”

“In his own way, he was, Mallory. Believe that.”

“If you say so, I do, and I love him, Mom, and I love you too, and lately I've come to understand, that I'm quite separate from your marriage. What I mean is, I'm outside your personal relationship with him. What went on between you and Dad never had anything to do with me.”

“That's right. It was just between us.”

“When I look back on my childhood, I realize that we were a dysfunctional family . . .” My voice trailed away; I looked down at my plate, then at her.

My mother sat there waiting, as if she expected me to say more.

I shifted slightly in my chair, cleared my throat, then took a sip of iced tea. I felt slightly uncomfortable.

Eventually, I said, “I hope you don't mind me saying this, Mom.”

“No, I guess not. Actually, if I'm honest, I have to admit it's the truth.”

“We
were
a dysfunctional family, and let's face it, I
did
have an odd childhood. I think that's why I wanted to have the perfect family when I got married. I wanted to be the perfect wife to Andrew, the perfect mother to Jamie and Lissa. I wanted it all to be . . . to be . . .
right
. . .”

“It was, Mal, it really was. You were the best wife, the best mother.”

I looked at her intently. “I did make them happy, didn't I, Mom?”

Her fingers tightened on mine, “Oh, yes, Mal, you did.”

I
t was a cold Saturday morning at the beginning of the month. The first snap of frost was in the air, after a mild October of Indian-summer weather. But nonetheless, it was a sparkling day, sunny, with a bright blue sky.

We were always busy at Indian Meadows on the weekends, but this glorious day had brought out more people than usual.

All of the shops were busy, and I was glad we had plenty of merchandise in stock. In the summer I had done a lot of heavy buying, anticipating brisk business over the holiday season. Thankfully, I had been right. If today was any kind of yardstick, then at Thanksgiving and Christmas we would be setting records.

I walked across from the Kilgram Chase Gallery to the café, and when I pushed open the door, I was startled. The place was already full, and it was only midmorning. I hovered in the doorway, looking for Eric. When I caught his eye, he hurried over.

“What a morning,” he said. “We're busier than ever in here. Am I relieved we made that second parking lot down by the front gate. It's come in handy today.” He grinned at me. “You were right, as usual.”

“It didn't cost much, and I do believe we're here to stay, Eric.”

“Have you ever had any doubts, Mal?”

I shook my head. “Have you heard from Sarah?”

“No. Why, is there a problem?”

“Probably not, but she hasn't arrived. When she phoned me from the city last night, she said she'd be leaving at six-thirty this morning, that way she'd miss the traffic and be here by nine.” I checked my watch. “It's almost eleven.”

“She may have been late leaving New York,” he responded.

“Perhaps.”

“Try not to worry, Mal.”

I nodded. “I will. I'll be in the office if you need me,” I said. I went out and walked over to the other red barn.

Ever since my family had been killed, I worried excessively if someone close to me was overdue. I just couldn't help it. And in any case, we lived in a dangerous world these days, one more dangerous than it had ever been, in my opinion. Carjacking was a common occurrence, guns had proliferated on the streets to such an extent it was mind-boggling, and the murder of innocent people had become the norm. Every time I picked up a newspaper or turned on the television there was some new horror that chilled me to the bone.

“Mal! Mal!”

I pivoted, saw Anna hurrying toward me.

“Can you spare me a few minutes?” she asked as she drew to a standstill.

“Sure, let's go into the office,” I answered, pushing open the door to lead the way.

After we had shed our coats, we headed for the seating arrangement near the window. “Do you have some sort of problem, Anna?” I asked, sitting down on the sofa.

“No, I don't, Mal, but Sandy Farnsworth called me last night,” she explained, seating herself opposite me. “She wants to sell Pony Traders. She asked me to ask you if you'd be interested in buying the company.”

“No, I wouldn't,” I said without hesitation. “I've expected this coming for a while now, Anna. Sandy's sort of hinted at it before. But I don't want to become a manufacturer, which is basically what they are, even if some of their items are handmade.” I shook my head. “No way, Anna, too many headaches. I'm afraid I have to pass.”

“I more or less indicated to Sandy that you wouldn't be interested,” Anna replied. “I happen to agree with you, and I'm sure Sarah will too. But I promised to pass it by you.”

“I understand. Has Sandy indicated what she's going to do? I mean, if she can't sell it? Will she continue the business?”

“I suppose she'll have to, or find herself a new partner. Lois Geery is moving back to Chicago, and that's what this is all about. I guess she wants to pull her money out of the company.”

“If Pony Traders goes out of business, we're going to have to find a replacement, another manufacturer who makes their kind of casual country clothes,” I pointed out. “I know we have Billie Girl and Lassoo, but we'll need a third.”

Anna smiled at me. “I've already thought about that, Mal, and I've started to research it. I'll have a couple of new vendors for us by next week.”

The door flew open, and Sarah came bounding in, much to my relief. She was looking harried and windswept.

“What a morning!” she exclaimed. “I'm sorry I'm so late, Mal. I hope you haven't been too worried.”

“A little,” I admitted. “And what happened to you, Sash? You look a bit disheveled, and you have a smudge on your face.”

“I do? I wonder if it was there before? Oh, well, never mind. And what happened is that I had a flat.”

“Oh, God, how awful for you, Sarah,” Anna said as she
got up. “I'd better get back to the boutique, Mal. See you both later.”

“I'll be over soon,” I answered.

Sarah smiled at her and said to me, “I could really use a cup of coffee, Mal. Shall we go to the café?”

“It's very busy, but Eric will find us a spot. Come on.”

We hurried out after Anna.

“How did you manage to change your tire?” I asked as we sipped our coffee a few minutes later, tucked away in a corner of the café near the kitchen.

“I had help, thank God.”

“Oh.” I looked at her curiously. “Where were you when your tire blew?”

“On Route 41. Just down the road,” Sarah explained, grinning at me.

“What's so amusing?” I asked.

“The encounter I had.”

“When you blew the tire?”

“Yes, you see, it occurred outside a house. Fortuitously for me, as it turned out, otherwise I'd still be sitting there with a flat. It was a small Cape Cod behind a white picket fence, and I went and knocked on the door. I asked the man who opened it if he would mind helping me, and he said he would be glad to. We changed the tire together. Mind you, Mal, he did most of the work. Anyway, while we were working, I managed to find out quite a lot about him. Including his telephone number.”

“So he was attractive, Sash?”

“Not bad, not bad at all.” Sarah paused, gave me an odd look, and added, “I asked him to dinner.”

“You didn't!”

“Yes, I did.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Sash!”

“Don't say Sash in that tone of voice, Mal. And I think it was a great idea.”

“But Sash,
tonight.”

“What's wrong with tonight? You can't say we don't have any food, because this place is stuffed with it.”

“That's true.”

“Listen, why not have him over? He lives close by, and we don't have many attractive men for neighbors, in fact, none at all, at least none who are available.”

“There's Peter Anderson,” I reminded her.

“Mr. Lousy Big Shot!” she exclaimed. “He's a pain in the ass. He's strung me along for over two years about those damned barns of his, and now he's finally said no. He doesn't want to sell after all, he says. Not nice, Mal.”

“He's a funny bird, I must admit. Eric told me he's had all kinds of tragedies in the last few years. In any case, we're managing all right, and we can always put up another ready-made barn down near the new parking lot, should we need it.”

“I suppose so. But Peter's really disappointed me. He seemed so pleasant at first.”

“What's his name? The man who's coming to dinner.”

“Richard Markson.”

I sat back, frowning, and took a sip of my coffee. “It's strange, Sash, but his name sounds familiar. I wonder if I've met him?”

She shook her head vehemently. “No, you haven't. I asked him. He's quite a well-known journalist, and he does a lot of television, so that's probably why you know his name.”

“What kind of journalism?” I asked, always wary.

“Political stuff, mainly.”

“What time is he coming?”

“I said eight, but I can make it later if you prefer, Mal. I said I'd call to confirm the time.”

“Eight is fine. Now, about dinner. We can take one of Nora's cottage pies up to the house, and a container of her chicken bouillon with vegetables. We can make a green salad, there's a Brie cheese and fruit. How does that sound?”

“Great, Mal. The only thing you've forgotten is a loaf of Nora's homemade bread.”

I must admit, I liked Richard Markson the moment he walked into the house.

He was a tall man, well built but by no means heavy, with dark brown eyes, dark wavy hair, and a pleasant face.

Almost immediately his presence seemed to fill the house. He was obviously self-possessed and at ease anywhere. Yet he had a quiet demeanor, and his reserved manner appealed to me.

“This is Richard Markson, Mal,” Sarah said, bringing him into the kitchen where I was filling a bucket with ice. “Richard, meet my very best friend, Mallory Keswick.”

“Thanks for having me on such short notice,” he said as we shook hands. “And it's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Keswick.”

“Please call me Mal, and I'm happy to meet you, and to welcome you to my home.”

He smiled, glancing around. “It looks like a lovely place, and I must say, I'm very partial to these old colonials, they have such charm, as do the old farmhouses in Connecticut.”

“Yes, they do. What would you like to drink, Mr. Markson?”

“A glass of white wine, thank you, and I hope you're going to call me Richard.”

I nodded and carried the bucket of ice to the hutch, which generally served as a bar. “What about you, Sash? What are you going to have?”

“Me? Oh, I don't know. White wine, I guess. Is there a bottle in the fridge?”

“Yes,” I said over my shoulder and took out three wine glasses.

“Let me do that,” Richard said to Sarah when he saw her struggling with the corkscrew, and a split second later he brought the bottle of wine to me. “Here you are, Mal.”