Dune Road (28 page)

The house is filled with paintings and sculptures, either works by friends of Rose, a painter herself, or those bought while she was married, when she and her husband traveled all over the world.

There are books lining the walls, and these are not books for display but books that have been lovingly held and read and reread, their pages well thumbed, their spines sometimes split.

Blown-glass animals from Murano, huge lumps of amethyst and rose quartz, porcelain pill boxes that were her mother’s—it is a house that has only been added to over the years, with nothing ever taken away.

The cream of Highfield high society has always been found in the living room of Rose’s house, or sipping cocktails on the terrace. Not the people who consider themselves high society today, the hedge fund husbands and their gala-giving wives, but old Highfield, the people who founded this town, who moved up from Manhattan. The artists, the writers, the actors, together with the handful of old-money names whose families, in some cases, are traceable back to the
Mayflower
.

This Saturday morning tennis game has been going on for twenty years. Back when they both had living husbands it was a foursome, and now they have revolving spots, different people coming every week, Rose making sure that whoever is invited is interesting, for she always has a luncheon afterward, with more people dropping in, and there is nothing Rose loves more than bringing people together.

For twenty years, Rose and Edie have been bickering like an old married couple themselves. They try not to partner with each other, for Rose spends the entire time muttering that Edie is as slow as molasses, and Edie complains that Rose spends too much time at the net and has a horrible backhand.

Newcomers are always horrified at the way they talk, but the regulars have learned to ignore it. As soon as the games are over, Edie and Rose are back to being best friends, and by the time they all sit down to lunch, you would have no idea that just minutes before they were shrieking at each other.

“Rose!” Edie calls up the stairs.

“Come up!” Rose calls down. “I’m in my dressing room. Anyone else here?”

“Don’t think so.” Edie pushes open the door. “What are you getting so dolled up for? It’s only tennis.”

“This isn’t dolled up. It’s lipstick. That’s tantamount to brushing my hair. So who’s this fellow you invited?”

“Steve Halladay. He’s attempting to woo the lovely Kit, and I don’t trust him. And I know you’re a rather wonderful judge of character, so I thought I’d invite him to join us and see what you think of him.”

“I don’t care about his character,” Rose says. “How’s his tennis game?”

“No idea. Consider this one a favor for me.”

“Of course.” Rose smiles tenderly at Edie, who thinks once again that despite the bristle, Rose is more kindhearted than anyone she has ever known.

“Who’s your contribution?”

“Lovely fellow. Bobbie Bhogal. He’s some sort of hugely successful entrepreneur, lots of businesses in England, and the most delicious English accent. You know how I love an Englishman.”

“So how’s his game?”

Rose laughs. “I don’t really care either. He’s here for a few days on business. He has all these Internet Web sites, and I thought it would be nice to invite him. If he’s hopeless I’ll just have him sit on the side and tell us stories. Honestly, I could listen to him talk for hours.”

“Why, Rose! You sound like you have a soft spot for him!” Edie looks at her slyly.

“Well, I do. Or at least I would, if he was forty years older, or I was forty years younger. Plus he has a beautiful wife and a set of twins. Sadly, it is not meant to be.”

“So how do you know him?”

“George Sullivan told him to look me up if he was ever in New York. He was in New York last week, and he phoned. I took him out for dinner.”

“You old flirt.”

“I know! But isn’t it fun? And George says he’s a good man, so at least we know we won’t have two bad seeds. Oh, isn’t that the doorbell?”

“I’ll go,” Edie says. “You stay and finish troweling on your makeup.”

 

“Yay, Steve!” Kit claps and roars from the sidelines, Annabel at her side. “You’ve got to admit,” she mutters out of the corner of her mouth, “he’s pretty damn gorgeous.”

“I will say that although he’s an ‘older man’ ”—Annabel makes quote marks with her fingers—“”he”s a damn fine-looking one.“

Kit turns to look at her with a grin. “I keep forgetting you’re twenty-eight. Let me tell you, by the time you hit the ripe old age of forty, men like that are better than damn fine specimens, they’re a dying breed.”

“Aren’t they just a little bit saggy and wrinkly?”

“No more saggy and wrinkly than me. Actually, I’d say Steve’s in pretty fantastic shape. Look at his leg muscles when he runs.”

“Granted, he is pretty fit.”

“So, what did you think of him?”

Annabel laughs. “We only said hello. I didn’t have much of a chance to form an opinion. Anyway, it’s not my opinion you have to worry about, is it? What Rose thinks of him, that’s the million-dollar question.”

“I’m not sure she’s focusing on him.” Kit glances over at Rose. “She’s too busy making googly eyes at Bobbie Bhogal.”

 

“So what line of business are you in?” George, a native New Yorker who makes no bones about it, turns to Steve as Bobbie pulls up a chair and joins them at the table.

“I’m in computers,” Steve says. “How about you?”

“Well, I’m a journalist, but Bobbie knows an awful lot about computers, don’t you, Bobbie? What kind of work in computers?”

“Mostly software design,” Steve says, then asks Bobbie, “What do you do?”

“My business is really retail, but we’ve taken huge advantage of the Internet opportunities and have a number of successful Web sites right now. Do you do Web site design?”

“Not really. Programs for businesses, that kind of thing.”

“Would I have heard of any of them?” George is persistent.

“Unfortunately not,” Steve says, changing the subject. “But I’m working on it. So, George, how long have you been in Highfield?”

Kit, sitting to Steve’s right, smiles. She understands him not wanting to reveal everything about himself. God knows there have been enough times when she has faced a barrage of questions, and she hasn’t been in the mood to talk.

Under the table Steve rests his hand lightly on her thigh. She moves her leg closer to him and he looks over at her and winks.

“George, stop monopolizing these handsome young men,” says Rose, as she sails over with a plate of salad in her hand and sits down at the table. “It’s my turn. Steve, I want to know everything about you.”

And Steve, removing his hand, has no choice but to turn to Rose and answer her questions.

 

“So?” Edie corners Rose in the kitchen. She knows she ought to wait until everyone has left, but she can’t, she has to know now what Rose thought of Steve.

“Well, he’s fifteen flavors of delicious, isn’t he?” Rose says dreamily.

“Oh Rose, I wasn’t asking about your loins. What does your head think of him? Don’t you think he’s a little smarmy?”

“Smarmy? Good Lord, Edie. No. I think he’s perfectly charming, although he’s so unbelievably handsome I’m not sure I care too much what his personality is like. The fact that he is charming and funny and, by the way, extremely interested in me, is only an added bonus.” She peers at Edie. “Edie Dutton! If I didn’t know better I’d say you were jealous.”

“Jealous?” Edie splutters with indignation. “Jealous of what?”

“Jealous because Kit is the daughter you never had, and you love having her all to yourself. I think you’re scared because this Steve is delightful, and if she falls in love with him and ends up—oh, I don’t know—
marrying
him, Kit won’t have any time left for you, and you’ll be back to being all on your own again.”

“Rose, that’s ridiculous.” Edie sniffs.

“It may be, but I’m right. I know I am. Don’t worry, my dear,” she says, patting her arm, “whatever will be, will be, and you and I will always have each other, so you don’t have to worry about being lonely. You could always move in here, you know that.”

“If I moved in here I’d end up going to prison for murder,” Edie grumbles, and she turns and walks out of the room. She is irritated, because while she doesn’t trust Steve, doesn’t like him at all, she also knows that however much she may not want to admit it, there is a grain of truth in what Rose said.

Perhaps more than a grain. Perhaps a whole barrelful.

 

Kit sails through Saturday with a large smile on her face. From tennis in the morning to lunch, then the evening, when Annabel offers to babysit and Kit is able to run out and meet Steve for a quick drink.

They sit at the bar of the Driftwood Inn, knees intertwined, holding hands and—oh how teenage is this!—even making out, ignoring the comments all around, sheepishly smiling at the cheering patrons when they break apart.

Kit feels giddy with excitement. This is like being sixteen again. She hasn’t felt this young, this energized, this excited about life, for years, and didn’t think she would ever feel this way again.

She assumed that this heady feeling came with youth, disappeared as you trudged your way into middle age, never thinking that she would get a second chance at it, never thinking that it would feel so good, would be as stimulating and addictive as a drug.

Kit can feel the electricity when his leg touches hers. She wants to rip his clothes off here and now. If I had a spoon, she keeps thinking, I would eat you up whole.

She wants to kiss him, lick him, inhale him. It is as if she has woken from the deep coma of her almost sexless marriage—at least that was what it was in the latter days—to find that her libido has been quietly and secretly welling up somewhere, leaving her with an appetite that is terrifying in its voraciousness.

“Can we go back to your place?” she whispers, knowing that it is too soon to bring him into the house when the kids are there.
That
, she isn’t ready for.

“I wish we could,” he says, nuzzling her neck and groaning in disappointment. “I’ve had painters in all day and it’s the most godawful mess, plus it stinks. Sheets covering everything up, dust everywhere from where they sanded. I don’t even know how
I’m
going to stay there tonight.”

Kit tries to hide her disappointment, but, like a child with a view of candy, she doesn’t want to wait, doesn’t know how to wait. “Damn.”

“Soon, my darling.” Steve smiles, and placing his fingers underneath her chin he lifts her face, kissing her frown away. “What are your days without the kids this week?”

“Wednesday and Thursday. And next weekend I have no kids.”

“So how about on Wednesday I cook you dinner? At your place? And then maybe on the weekend we could go away somewhere? I keep hearing that there are all these romantic inns dotted around the Connecticut shoreline, and I’ve barely been out of Highfield.”

“Are you serious? I’d love that! Oh God! An inn! That would be so romantic!”

“We’ll bring boots and do some hiking, and we’ll find somewhere that has roaring log fires in the bedroom. Lots of books, and—hey, if we feel like it, we can always forego the hike and stay in bed all weekend. Maybe we could even go up Friday.”

Kit frowns again. “I work on Fridays, remember?”

“Oh. Yes. I forgot. Don’t you think he’d give you the day off?”

“I don’t really like asking him. He’s not great with change.”

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t know why you work there. I still think it’s too lowly for you, an assistant.”

Kit laughs in disbelief. “Lowly? You’re kidding, right? It’s an amazing job!”

“I don’t think it’s lowly, God no. I’m just wondering what other people think.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, being an assistant is just . . . I don’t know . . . I just see you as being the boss, I guess.”

“But it isn’t like that. At all. I’m not inferior to him, not in his eyes and not in mine.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Kit says, but there is a small seed of doubt. Do people think the job is below her? Is it? But that’s ridiculous. It’s a job she’s proud of and, more than that, a job she loves. She shakes her head, unable to dislodge the discomfort, but she comes back to the present to hear Steve talking.

“. . . so on Wednesday we’ll do dinner. It’s not long to wait. And you know what they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“What? You mean I’m not going to see you until Wednesday?” Kit’s face falls.

“No, I meant we wouldn’t be able to spend the night together until Wednesday. I want to see you every day, all day if I could.”

“I think my children might have a thing or two to say about that. Not to mention my . . .” she is going to say “boss,” but doesn’t: “. . . Robert.”

“I’d love to meet him,” Steve says. “I know it sounds cheesy, but I really am a huge fan.”

“You’ll meet him soon,” she says. “Promise.” For a minute she is tempted to invite him to come and collect her one day, to casually introduce them, and bathe in the glory of being the one to facilitate the introduction.

But Robert is so private, and she doesn’t know how he will feel, having a relative stranger coming to the house. Something in her gut tells her he would not be pleased, that Robert is only ever ready and willing to meet new people on his terms.

She will tell Robert that Steve is a fan, and perhaps then Robert will issue an invitation himself. That would be better.

 

Robert has not been himself of late. He is always in his study, their friendly chats over coffee now seemingly a thing of the past.

“Forgive me,” he said yesterday. “I am writing, and it is intense. I find I cannot think of anything else. We will resume our usual routine when this book is done, but for now I need to shut myself away and get the words on the page. Will you continue answering the fan mail, making the appointments I e-mail you about?”