Читать книгу Swept Away - Gwynne Forster - Страница 8

At home later that day, she walked around her elegant town house. She picked up a paperweight and stared at it. For the past five years she’d done nothing but work. CPAA had been her whole world. She thought of what she’d done with her life and what she hadn’t done. As a child, she’d had such promise, gifted in music and art. But she’d chosen the safe way, a career that would enable her to make a good living and help her parents. She’d done that. Renovated their home, refurnished it and eased their lives. But her dreams were still that, dreams. She’d never swum in the Pacific; stood before the Taj Mahal; skied on a mountain top; gazed at the Mona Lisa; flirted with a handsome Egyptian; and she’d never sung Billie Holiday songs in a jazz club.

She might have made a difference in the lives of a few people, but in the world? Not at all. And what could she show for her thirty-two years? A busted career. And the misfortune to have met, in a battle that had ruined her, the one man who had made her fantasize about love in his arms. A picture of herself in her high school cap and gown mocked her from the top of her piano. Oh, what hope and what naiveté. She’d had the world on a string then. But a decade and a half later, she still didn’t have the nest, children and love that she craved, and she’d lived a life of adventure only in her dreams.

Her thoughts went back to her childhood, filled with love and her parents’ caring. But it had encompassed only a few short years. Study and work were about all she had ever known: work for food and clothing; study for the scholarships that would take her to the next level. And when she finally reached the top, staying there had consumed all of her time and energy. She had never known a man’s love, never enjoyed a carefree vacation, never spent hours chatting with friends. She hadn’t lived, only worked and struggled. And what had it brought her? She wanted to taste life, to do the things about which she had always fantasized, and to shed her affected aura of ultraconservatism.

The next morning she called Enid to her office as soon as she got there. “Sit down and brace yourself. I’m taking leave from the agency. Then I’ll decide whether to remain.”

Enid’s mouth opened wide in a wordless exclamation of horror, and Veronica could see that she’d shocked the woman.

“You’re not serious! Veronica, don’t do anything you’ll be sorry for. Wait a few months until all this settles. I know you’ve—”

“I’ve spent the night thinking about it, and I need to get away from here, at least for a while.”

Enid leaned forward, her suddenly sallow complexion a testament to her sorrow. “Is it Henderson? I know he’s sorry, and I know he cares about what happened and about you, or he wouldn’t have called that press conference and tried to make amends.”

Veronica’s heart fluttered wildly. Then, something sprang to life within her, like a jonquil popping through the earth in spring or a song leaping to life in her mind, but she controlled her response to it. “That was gracious of him. Maybe he cares, and maybe guilt drove him to do it. I don’t know, and if I change my plan of action because of him, then what? I wish him well, but today is my last day in this office. I have three months of leave stored up, and I’m taking it. If I decide not to continue working here, I’ll give notice.” She called a staff meeting, locked her desk and left.

On her way home, she stopped by Jenny’s corner and handed the woman an envelope of bills.

Jenny peered into the large brown envelope, closed it and looked at Veronica. “You hit the lottery, Ronnie, or is this the last time I ever gon’ see you?”

A tinge of guilt struggled with the wave of sadness that overtook her. She hadn’t thought of Jenny as a dependent but as someone she helped, a friend, even. Now she understood that the woman depended on her. She looked at Jenny’s shopping cart of things that only she valued and fought back tears. She couldn’t even invite her to a nearby restaurant for a cup of coffee because she wouldn’t be allowed in with her “things.”

Resigned, she forced a smile. “I’m taking a three-month leave, Jenny. If I get back before that, I’ll drop by to see you. That little change in that envelope ought to keep you until I get back. I’d…I’d better run for my train.”

Jenny put the envelope in her coat pocket and secured the pocket with two safety pins. “You know I thank you. You know it. I…I hope you finds what you lookin’ for, Ronnie. Somethin’s wrong sure as my name’s Jenny, but you needn’t worry none. Anybody with a heart big as yours is always gonna be blessed. I ain’t even gonna worry ’bout you. Go on now, and get your train.”

Veronica hesitated, saw the tears in Jenny’s eyes, turned and rushed across the street. Jenny wouldn’t want to be seen crying.

She spent the next day storing her valuables and securing her house. Then she packed her bags, put them in the foyer, stuffed a few things in a small suitcase and left for her parents’ home in Pickett, North Carolina.

As she’d expected, her stepfather was not pleased about her plans. “How can you just walk away from what you devoted your entire adult life to? It bothers me seeing you this way, like you don’t care what happens. Stay here with us for a while and get yourself together.”

“I’m taking some leave I’ve got coming to me, Papa. When that’s up, I’ll have to make a final decision about the job.”

“That’s better, but don’t walk away from it like you could get another one just because you asked for it.”

She looked into her stepfather’s sad eyes and knew that for the first time in her life she was going to ignore his advice, to disobey him, and she hurt—not for herself, but for the man who had sacrificed so much for her. But she drew a measure of contentment from her mother’s words, telling her that she should always be true to herself.

“Your papa means well, and he’s even right. But if you feel you have to find what’s missing in your life, honey, do it now. Right now when you’re free, when it won’t affect anyone but you. Don’t compromise on important things.” Veronica noticed that she released a long, labored breath. “And always be sure of what you feel.” She patted Veronica’s hand. “I’ll be so glad when spring comes.”

After supper, Veronica sat alone on the back porch. As a child, she’d spent many lonely hours on the porch of their old house, knowing the world around her and dreaming of the universe that she had yet to discover. She’d known the approaching automobiles by the sound of their motors and the screech of their tires, knew the neighbor who chopped wood by the rhythmic noise of his ax, recognized every dog by its bark. She had loved the old porch and had given every splintered slab of wood its own name and its own story, had imagined them as ships that took her to special places. An only child, she’d spent most of her childhood alone while her parents worked at whatever jobs they could find. She glanced around at the lovely porch furniture, the yellow brick walls, and the yellow curtains that blew out of the kitchen windows. For the last four years, she had enabled her parents to live comfortably, and she would see that they always did, but she had to follow her dream. An early spring breeze whistled around her, and she tugged her woolen sweater closer, gazed up at the sky illumined with millions of stars and thought about Schyler. If only…A shudder passed through her. Too late for that.

The next morning she kissed her parents goodbye. “I’ll be in Europe for a while, Papa. Write me in care of American Express.”

She went back to Owings Mills, got the bags she’d left in her foyer and took a Swissair flight to Switzerland.

“I’m going to do everything I always wanted to do and see the things I’ve longed to see,” she promised herself as her Swiss guide helped her strap on her ski boots.

“You’ve only had two lessons, and you’ve done pretty well, miss, but you’re not skilled enough to go chasing down these mountains by yourself,” Tomass, her German-Swiss guide cautioned her.

Emboldened by her early success and invigorated by the calm, crisp mountain air, she felt as if she could soar over the snow-covered peaks that surrounded her.

“I’ll be careful, Tomass. Promise.”

He finished lacing her boots and towered over her, reminding her of Schyler. “If you respect these mountains, they’ll respect you. Some champion skiers have gotten careless or cocky and breathed their last breath right here.”

They compromised. She bought another hour of his time, and they skied together, her cares falling away like discarded clothing as they flew with the wind at her back.

“We’d better call it quits,” he said, two hours later. “Be sure to get a hot tub, because every bone you’ve got will be screaming.” At the chalet she thanked him, returned the rented skis and set out for a hike across the lush, green valley.

Beauty as far as she could see. She hadn’t known that the Alps, the grand mountain range of Europe that stretched from Italy through France and Switzerland to Austria, was of such imposing grandeur, so spectacular a feast for the eyes. She walked briskly, marveling at herself and the world around her, hardly able to believe she’d just skied on the Jungfraujoch, that rugged prize of the Swiss Alps that stood 11,333 feet at its peak and where skiers had challenged nature for over 850 years. At its foot nestled Grindelwald, arguably one of the most scenic places on earth. She gaped, spellbound, when her eyes first beheld it. Then she turned away from the awe-inspiring scene of snow-covered mountain, green valley and alpine roses that perfumed the air, wanting to banish the desire to have Schyler Henderson hold her hand as she stood there. She took a deep breath and quickened her strides through the meadow, enjoying a feeling of spiritual renewal.

Bewitched by the scenery, she lost track of time and place. Against the majestic white peaks, wildflowers of every color littered the fields, putting to shame the Ricola television advertisements.

“Guten Tag, Fraulein. Where you headed?”

She hadn’t seen the man as she strolled along deep in thought. “Hello. Where’m I going? Well…nowhere special. I’m just walking.”

The tall, blue-eyed blond gazed at her with frank appreciation of what he saw. “It gets dark early in these mountains. Where you staying? There’s no lodging anywhere near here.”

She noticed that he said it matter-of-fact-like, as though her situation were hopeless. “I’m staying at a hotel in Interlaken.”

“Interlaken? You’re at least a three-hour trek from there. You’d better come with me.”

Go with this stranger? She didn’t think so. She smiled her best I’m-in-charge smile. “Thanks, but I’ll get there okay.”

She didn’t fool him. “By morning you could be covered with snow. You don’t know these mountains, miss. You’d better come with me.”

He started to walk away and tendrils of fear unfurled through every molecule of her body. Suppose he was right. “Wait. Where are you—?”

His piercing eyes, as blue as the clearest sky, didn’t smile when he said, “Home. My parents will put you up. There’s no moon tonight, so I have to get there before dark. Nothing to fear. So come.”

He walked on, so she followed him, and followed, and followed until she thought her knees would crack.

“How…how much farther is it? I’m winded.”

He pointed to a distant light, the only other sign of life for as far as she could see. “Another couple of kilometers or so. Come along now.”

Another two miles. She stifled a groan and geared up her strength. When at last she stumbled into the two-story, unpainted chalet with its sloping roof and windows lined with boxes of blooming geraniums, she felt as if she hadn’t an ounce of energy left.

“Papa,” her rescuer told the older man who greeted them at the door, “she’s lost, so she’s staying the night.”

Words were exchanged in German, and for a while she wondered if the old man would let her stay. But he smiled, shook hands with her, and switching to French, asked her name. When she told him, he welcomed her and called his wife, from whom she received another welcome. Veronica followed the woman up the rustic stairs to a cheerful room. She’d never seen so many handmade quilts, hand-embroidered sheets and pillowcases as were stacked on shelving in the room. She thanked the woman and dropped into the nearest chair.

“Nous prendrons le dîner dans quelque minutes,” the woman said, as though anyone who didn’t speak German would speak French. “We eat in a few minutes.” Veronica followed the woman to the bathroom, which was clearly the only one in the house, for a woman’s shower cap hung on the same hook as a man’s razor strop and razor. She hadn’t known that men still used them. Glad for the chance to refresh herself, she did so as best she could. She went back to her room, and a short time later, heard a knock on her door.

“Miss Overton, we’re ready to eat.”

She opened the door, and he stared down at her. “My name is Kurt.”

He left her standing there and headed down the stairs, giving her no choice but to follow. As soon as she got to a bookstore that carried English titles, she intended to read about the Swiss culture. Unless she was missing a beat, the status of Swiss women was not too high. In the dining room, whose centerpiece was an enormous stone fireplace over which hung a rifle, several oil-filled lanterns and a large, noisy cuckoo clock, Kurt’s parents and a man she assumed was his brother sat at the table waiting for them. Kurt’s father said grace, a long soulful-sounding supplication in German. Then he introduced her to his other son, Jon. The family ate without conversation of any kind, limited their words to requests for the meat, or the bread or whatever else was wanted. They drank wine with their dinner, but she declined, thinking it best to face the night with a clear head. After the meal, the woman of the house refused Veronica’s offer to help clean up, but Veronica wasn’t certain that she was expected to sit around the fire with the men.

Kurt’s father lit his pipe and cleared his throat. “You understand French perfectly?” he asked her in French.

She told him she knew what was being said.

“Good,” he replied in French, “my son Kurt needs a woman, and he likes you. Not many women want to live out here, because it’s too harsh. But we have a good farm, and we live well. We want you to stay.”

Her heart landed in the pit of her stomach. When she could close her mouth, she said the first words that came to her mind. “I wouldn’t think of living with a man I wasn’t married to.”

Since the old man didn’t understand English, Kurt replied. “I’d take you for my wife, if that’s what you want.”

Stunned, she felt as if her brain had shut down. He couldn’t be serious. She looked at him. He meant what he’d said. They had already entered the twenty-first century, and this guy spoke of getting married as if that were the same as shelling a peanut. One thing was certain: she’d better not laugh.

“I’m sorry,” she managed at last, “but I can’t do that.”

She couldn’t believe the disappointment that registered on his face. “You’re already married?”

“I’m not married, Kurt, but where I come from, we treat marriage differently. I’m sorry. Please thank your mother for the dinner.” She asked to be excused and was glad she remembered how to say it in French.

Her nerves rioted throughout her body when she realized that Kurt was following her. She stopped at the top of the stairs and confronted him.

“Why are you following me up here, Kurt?”

“You won’t marry me, and you will leave tomorrow morning. Will you at least spend the night with me?”

She’d have panicked if he hadn’t spoken so gently, without belligerence.

“I don’t believe in casual…er…sex, Kurt.”

He studied her for a minute, and a look of pure pleasure settled on his face. “You needn’t worry. I assure you there’ll be nothing casual about it.”

“I’m sorry.”

He released a long breath. “I’m sorry, too. What time do you want to leave tomorrow morning? We eat breakfast at six-thirty.”

She stifled a smile of relief because she didn’t want to encourage him. “As soon after breakfast as possible. The hotel must have worried that I didn’t get back there last night.”

From his facial expression, you’d have thought he saw a Martian. “They don’t care, as long as you or somebody pays the bill. We’ll leave here at seven-thirty. If you don’t mind riding in the truck, I’ll drive you down to Interlaken.”

“Thank you, Kurt. For…for everything.”

He shrugged. “Maybe next time I’ll get lucky.”

Veronica walked into her room at the Hotel Europa in Interlaken, so-called because of its position between two lakes. Excited about her adventure but relieved that it had ended without mishap, she got the notebook she’d bought in the hotel’s small store and began to write. Kurt hadn’t interested her, but during their ride down the mountain and through a narrow pass to Interlaken, she’d developed compassion for him. Eligible though he was—and handsome, if your taste ran to his type—he couldn’t find a woman he wanted who would agree to live with his family in the home whose foundation his great-grandfather had built and that he refused to leave. The worst of it, to Kurt’s way of thinking, was that his brother couldn’t marry until he did. She recorded the events of the previous two days and put the tablet aside.

Time to move on. She walked out on her tiny balcony and looked at Lake Thunersee nestled in the bosom of an endless flower-filled meadow beneath the Jungfraujoch Mountain on which she’d skied. Why couldn’t she have shared it with Schyler? Here, in the most beautiful place she’d ever been, she was alone. She shrugged it off, as she’d always done, packed, paid her bill and took a taxi to the station. The taxi driver assured her that if the United States was full of women who looked like her, it must be paradise for a man. She took that with the proverbial grain of salt, not bothering to disabuse him of his assumption; she was already learning that it wasn’t the place but the person who counted most.

Her hotel in Geneva faced the train station. She dropped her bags inside her room door, went to the phone and called American Express.

“Yes, Miss Overton, we have a message for you. We don’t open mail, so you’ll have to pick it up here.”

A feeling of dread stole over her, but she blew out a heavy breath, called Swissair and in four hours was on her way to Pickett. She was eating lunch on the plane before she remembered her mail at American Express. It didn’t matter; Papa was the only person who knew her whereabouts, and as much as he hated to write letters, something had to be seriously wrong.

A week after her return home, she sat on the edge of her mother’s bed and leaned forward so she could understand the muffled words. She couldn’t make sense of them, except for the last.

“…find him. Find your father…please find him. Sorry.”

Days later, the services over, she and her stepfather began adjusting to life without Esther Overton. Veronica hated to leave him, but he insisted that he’d be happy with his memories, because Esther would always be with him.

Shortly after her return to Baltimore, she made a luncheon date with Enid. She had to talk to someone other than her stepfather.

“If she told you to find your birth father, you’d better do that,” Enid said. “She had a reason.”

“But I grew up thinking he…he deserted us. She said so herself. I don’t want to find him. I spent my whole life detesting him.”

Enid was adamant. “Maybe she wanted to right a wrong. How do you know? If that’s the last thing she said, you’d better do it. Get a private detective.”

“I…I suppose you’re right. Anyway, I promised her I’d do it. Uh…How’s…uh…Mr. Henderson these days? Still rolling heads?”

Enid pushed her glasses up on her nose. Since she’d had her face lifted, the bridge of her once prominent nose was considerably smaller, and her glasses no longer stayed in place. Veronica wished she’d get a pair that fit her nose.

“Mr. Henderson called several times just after you left. At first, he thought I was lying when I said I didn’t know where you were and that you’d taken leave from the agency. Veronica, he was distressed. Have you two been together…I mean…Is anything going on with the two of you? His reaction wasn’t what I’d expect of someone who only knew you casually.”

Veronica shook her head, knowing that Enid’s sharp eyes wouldn’t miss her discomfort. “There’s nothing between us, Enid.”

“But there could be?”

“Better to say there could have been.”

“My Lord! And he knows that, too, doesn’t he?”

Veronica nodded. “So it seems. It’s been good talking with you. Let’s…let’s see each other often. Okay? I’ve gotta run back down to Pickett and get what information I can about my birth father. Call you when I get back.”

She passed Jenny’s corner on the way to her train but didn’t expect to see the woman on that rainy day.

Bright sunshine relieved the dreariness of her task as she sat in what had been her parents’ bedroom shuffling through the papers she’d found in the bottom drawer of her mother’s dresser. Tension gathered within her as she stared at the picture of a happy threesome—herself at about age two sitting on her birth father’s lap and her mother smiling up at them. She stared at the likeness of the man her mother had begged her to find. Now she at least knew what he looked like, and she realized that she resembled him. She put the picture aside and searched further. Satisfied that she had enough information, she took out the few items she needed and closed the drawer. Her stepfather didn’t seem to have touched anything in the room or to have slept in it since losing his wife.

She went back to Baltimore, hired a private detective and gave him the photo and other information about her father, including his status as a Vietnam veteran. Six weeks later, the detective informed her that he had found a man who acknowledged being her father and who offered as proof the birth dates of her and her mother and when and where he’d lived with them as a family.

“He lives with his adopted son in Tilghman, Maryland, on a little fishing peninsula. Has a great place a few steps from the Chesapeake Bay. Nice guy, too,” the detective informed her.

Her hackles shot up, and she could feel her bottom lip struggling to stay in place. How dare he desert his own child and adopt someone else’s? The bitter taste of bile formed on her tongue, and she couldn’t wait for the chance to tell the man who sired her how she detested him.

“Something wrong?” the detective asked. “Not to worry, Miss Overton. He’s an okay guy.”

She took control of herself. “No. No. Everything’s fine, and you’ve done a great job.”

She jotted down the address and telephone number that the detective gave her, paid him and turned a new page of her life.

It wasn’t a journey she’d ever thought she’d make, and she’d as soon not have to do it now, but she’d promised, and it couldn’t be done except in person. A travel agent reserved a room for her in the town’s only hotel. She rented a Taurus, packed enough for an overnight stay and set out for Tilghman. Ordinarily she tended to speed, but on that morning she lumbered along at forty miles an hour. Killing time, postponing the inevitable and annoying other drivers. She crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, took Highway 50 toward Easton and turned into Route 32, which took her along a winding two-lane highway past the yacht haven known as St. Michaels. From there to Tilghman, she could see the bay on either side of the winding route, but with the sharp and frequent curves of the road, she didn’t dare enjoy the view.

Tilghman’s quaint quietness took her aback. What kind of man would content himself to live in such a remote place, in the middle of a body of water known to be wild in a storm? She checked into the little wood-frame two-story hotel, and it embarrassed her that the innkeeper witnessed her astonishment at the attractiveness of the room.

“It’s lovely and bright,” she said in an effort to make amends. She asked the woman whether she knew her birth father.

“Of course. Everybody in this place knows everybody else. It’s walking distance, but you can drive if you want to. Keep on down the street ’til you see a traffic light, turn left and walk to the end of the road. That white brick house is the one you want. Take you about ten minutes walking.”

She talked herself out of going immediately. After all, he might not be at home on a Saturday morning. She got her copy of the book, Beyond Desire, and her gaze fell on the scene in which Marcus Hickson succumbed for the first time to Amanda Ross Hickson’s lure and kissed her in spite of himself. She didn’t want to read about any other woman’s passion in a man’s arms, so she flung the book aside. She’d seen a restaurant next door, went in and ordered a crab cake, but her stomach churned in anticipation of the coming confrontation with her father, and she couldn’t eat it.

“Quit procrastinating, girl,” she admonished herself, got into her car and drove to 37 Waters Edge. She parked and looked out at the bay. Beauty in every direction in which she looked. Leaning back in the driver’s seat, she contemplated the difference between her birth father’s evident life style and the condition in which she’d grown up. The big white brick bungalow with its red shutters and sweeping and well-tended lawn was beautiful and, she knew, costly. She thought of her life on Cook’s Road in Pickett, so named because so many of the women who lived there worked in private service as cooks. In the days of her youth, their house hadn’t been painted, and they couldn’t afford the seeds and tools with which to create a lovely lawn. Her stepfather had given them all that he could, had filled their lives with love, and had sacrificed so much in order that she could have a better life. She had never faulted him for their near-poverty. But when she looked at the wealth before her, she had to work hard at not hating the man she would soon meet.

She put the car in Park, got out and strolled up the winding walkway. She had to shake off the trepidation that almost made her turn back, but her fingers trembled nonetheless when she knocked on the door.