Counterpointe (28 page)

“That’s the main reason the village compound is kept bare of plant growth. To eliminate hiding places for snakes,” Jolley said.

“In spite of that,” Sam said, “many natives die from snake bites.”

That explained why Jolley had insisted they bring protective footgear and long trousers, even though the heat and humidity made it tempting to wear less.

“The fer-de-lance, for one, has a well-earned reputation as an ankle biter, striking first and perhaps repenting later when it gets whacked,” Sam said. “We’re also protecting ourselves from leeches and ticks.”

Sam had them check themselves after every trip into the jungle. Occasionally, despite the barriers, they found hitchhikers that had managed to get through their clothing and onto their skin.

Sam had brought a large carton full of paperbacks with her and Rob often noticed a faint glow from her hut when he awakened in the middle of the night.

“You read a lot.”

She shrugged. “I don’t need much sleep. Occupational hazard of surgeons.”

“You finding any good ones?”

She smiled. “Some very good ones. Help yourself any time you’d like.”

“Nights might get pretty bright around here.”

“If the insomnia is too bothersome, let me know. I can give you something.”

“Thanks. Appreciate it, but I think I’ll try reading.”

Later it hit him. He was using books to escape the same way Clare had.

Deep in their wet, green world, the main source of information about the outside world came via Jolley’s calls to Jane. She always provided a summary of current events.
 
Rob quickly discovered he didn’t miss the daily litany of awful things, and not hearing about them made them recede.

The staccato rhythms of the city were here replaced by the peaceful rhythms of a slowly spinning world where day followed night followed day in roughly twelve-hour increments, and the only weather uncertainty was the timing of the daily rain showers. That rain came in degrees ranging from heavy damp to deluges that were breathtaking in their suddenness and ferocity. Being caught by one of those was like standing under a waterfall, and the heat and humidity that accompanied the rain wore them all down.

“I’m feeling irritable tonight. Best if I take myself off,” Sam said, as she cleared her plate after eating dinner.

Rob watched her walk away. “Does Jane do that?”

“What?”

“Tell you when she’s in a bad mood?”

Jolley chuckled. “Well, usually it’s pretty obvious.”

“Does it make you feel...responsible?”

“Not unless I did something to deliberately provoke her. Why? What does Clare do?”

“She doesn’t mention it, but it’s obvious.” Also obvious was how little he’d contributed to Clare’s happiness. He pushed thoughts of that world away. “I had no idea living so simply, not to mention uncomfortably, could be so restful.”

Jolley got out his pipe and tamped tobacco into the bowl. “It’s why I love being in the field. I miss Jane like hell, but it recharges everything. Gives me a break from all the hassle. Reminds me what I love about science.”

“You ever ask Jane to go along?” Although Rob couldn’t picture Jane giving up modern plumbing.

“When we were first married she thought about it, but then we had kids right away, and by the time they left home, she preferred to stay home and indulge her bad habits—eating in bed, staying up late.” Jolley took a puff on his pipe, the single one he allowed himself after dinner. “Is something up with you and Clare, Rob?”

Rob sucked in a quick breath, let it out slowly. “Didn’t work out.”

“I’m real sorry to hear it.” Jolley continued to puff on his pipe in the dark with Rob sitting silently beside him.

“Think I’ll call it a day,” Jolley said, standing and knocking out his pipe.

That was the good thing about Jolley. He showed his concern but he didn’t force confidences. Still, his question would cause Rob a restless night.

Demi-plié

Half bend

After the lunch with Lynne, Clare returned to the apartment and stopped to look at her surroundings. Stark walls, blank uncurtained windows, and furniture that might be comfortable but looked like it had been picked up from the curb on moving-out day. Two plants were dying quietly in the corner and the kaleidoscope was collecting a coating of dust. The overall effect was more impersonal and off-putting than a cheap motel.

“It needs color,” Rob had said. “Something like your Marblehead house. And new furniture, of course. Whatever you’d like.”

Make it a home...our home
, had been the subtext.

She’d ignored both the request and the spirit behind it. She’d simply not had the energy, at least not then. But what about now? Although she could do nothing about her major sins against Rob, she could do one thing for him—make the apartment a more pleasant place for him to return to.

Clare began the apartment makeover with Rob’s study—the place he’d retreated to those last weeks whenever he was home. It featured a shabby, overstuffed chair, bookshelves full of weighty books with titles like
Organic Reactions
and
Principles of Stereochemistry,
and an old-style oak desk with a computer monitor and keyboard sitting on its marred surface. The overstuffed chair still held the imprint of Rob’s body and, seeing it, she felt a wave of loneliness wash over her.

She painted the walls burgundy, then went to Rockport to search out the gallery with the painting that caught Rob’s eye on a visit last year, one of their few good days during that time. Since she didn’t remember the gallery’s name, she wandered the streets trying to retrace the route they’d taken. She finally located the right place, and was pleased to find it open with the summer season well over.

The picture Rob liked was no longer in the window, but stepping inside Clare spotted it. It was a watercolor—painted mostly in soft greens but with random hints of sunlight glancing off trees and a deep forest pool. A dreaming, peaceful scene.

“Can I help you?” A heavyset man stood in the doorway at the back of the gallery. The room behind him appeared to be a studio, which was maybe why the shop was still open.

“This painting. I’d like to buy it.”

“I was watching you. You didn’t look at anything else. Do you mind if I ask why?”

“It’s for my husband. He saw it when we were here before.”

“Yet he didn’t buy it for himself.”

“No.”

The man and Clare examined each other.

“I’m very particular about who gets my paintings.”

“Oh. You’re the artist?”

He nodded and extended a hand as large as Beck’s. Odd to think of those huge hands painting such an ethereal scene.

“I can assure you this painting will be treasured.” At least, she hoped Rob wouldn’t hate it because she bought it for him.

“Do you want to take it with you today?”

“Oh yes, please.”

“Christmas Eve,” John Apple said. “I thought since you and I are alone...that maybe, well, you’d have dinner with me?”

“I’d like that. Very much.”

John set a time, then backed out of the room, as if afraid she would change her mind if he stuck around. And maybe she would have, because, thinking about it later, she began to worry. It was, after all, one thing to develop a friendship within the walls of Hope House, quite another to take it outside to dinner.

When John picked Clare up Christmas Eve, he gave her an approving look. “I made a reservation at Tympanies. I hope that’s okay?”

“Very okay.” The restaurant was on Boylston Street, a five-minute walk from the Prudential Center.
 

“You look very nice,” she told him in the restaurant, after he removed his winter jacket to reveal a perfectly ironed white shirt and blue tie.

“And you look beautiful. Green suits you.”

“You don’t need to patroni—”

“You don’t believe that, do you. I wonder why?”

“I have eyes and a mirror. Please. Can we talk about something else?” She softened the request with a smile.

“Of course. Do you drink wine?”

After the waiter poured the wine they’d chosen, John lifted his glass. “To friendship.”

She chimed her glass lightly against his, relieved at the innocuous toast. “You’re full of surprises, John. Ballet. Faulkner. Wine.”

“Not your usual janitor, you mean.”

“I very much doubt it.”

He sipped his wine, then set his glass down and stared at his clasped hands. “It helped, you know. At Thanksgiving. Telling you what happened.” He stopped, cleared his throat. “First time I’d said it out loud. I wanted to thank you.”

“How long has it been?” Clare spoke softly because his eyes were filled with pain.

“Three years.”

His grief reached out, pulling her into its familiar terrain, and she struggled to keep her voice even. “Early times.”

“Is it?”

“I think so.”

“You’re talking about your injury. You’re reinventing yourself the same way I am.”

“I’m glad you’re doing better.”

“Better than last week, last month.” He shrugged and gave her a wry smile. “What about you, Clare Eliason Chapin? Any idea where you’re going yet?”

“Not a clue.”

“At least you have good options. Making it to the top of your profession. There ought to be lots you could do behind the scenes.”

Clare shook her head, trying not to let the words touch her.

John took a sip of wine, assessing her. “Did you ever go to college?”

“A few courses here and there.”

“Have you ever considered getting your degree?” He was obviously undeterred by her cool tone. “You could think about getting a teaching certification. You have a gift.”