Guilty Passion (16 page)

Jeff shrugged and left good-humouredly, and she sat on in the lounger for a while. Then she went up the stairs and into her room, and slid out the drawer of the bedside table.

She opened the envelope slowly and walked to the window, unfolding the three flimsy sheets of paper. The writing was scrawled and agitated, some words difficult to read.

My dear Ethan,

Finally I must admit to myself what I have been trying to hide for years—that I am not, perhaps have never been, the man that others see. To put it brutally, I am in every way a failure.

Failure is not something I have ever been able to accept. All my life I've needed to be the best, the first, the one who was on top. I have no fancy for dwindling into old age, leaving the field clear for young men with brash aspirations and the ability to fulfill them.

When I lost, for all intents and purposes, the use of my legs, I lost a large part of myself, my inner self, as well. I can't describe, even to you, how that felt. It was as though every reason for living had been taken away and replaced by a deep, endless black hole. I thought for a time that I could fill the hole. I piled into it everything that I could think of—a new job, a young wife, different kinds of research, more writing. I told myself this hollow shell was still living, still breathing and moving and achieving. For a time I thought that Celeste, with her vibrant sense of life, her colour and spirit—and her youth, yes that, too—would bring me back to life. Instead, I pulled her into the black hole with me. She never did love me, she only thought so when she was young and innocent and inexperienced, and I was old enough to have known better. But I wanted her, loved her, for a number of complicated reasons that I'm afraid took no account of her own needs. I wanted to wear her like a gage on my sleeve. But I expected too much. She was not able to return to me what I had lost, and no one should blame her for that. Least of all me. I have been possessed by frenzied jealousies about my wife. You may have realised this from my letters to you. At this moment my brain seems clear, although I am very tired, and I see now that none of it was her fault. Objectively, I suppose I should be surprised that she has not left me before this. She has been unhappy, and the fault is mine.

For years I have known that this time must come. I have staved it off as long as I can, fooling myself and others that I'm no less than I ever was, that the quick, virile brilliance of youth can be compensated for by the wisdom of maturity. It may work that way for some. For myself, I find that my life has taken a wrong turn, and I can never go back. My new directions turned out to be dead ends. I've been gradually desiccating ever since that day I slipped down a cliff in New Guinea, in both body and brain. Even, perhaps, in my heart. How many times I've wished that I had died there. If I had known then that I would never properly walk again, never be able to go back to the work that I loved, that I would even be incapable of fulfilling the natural expectations of a lovely young wife, I think I would have lain down and allowed it to happen. Now, it's a matter of taking charge of the business myself.

“Oh, Alec,” Celeste whispered. She went unsteadily over to the bed, then sank to the floor with her back resting against the mattress, and forced herself to read the rest. Her eyes misted. Something was scrawled in pencil across the final page, overlaying the penned words at an angle. She would decipher that later.

There's someone waiting to take my place. I know the young man who stands ready to supplant me. He has all that I had in my own youth. And already, in middle age, I feel so old and so spent. He comes to my house with his enthusiasm and his confidence and his pretense at respect for me, and I hate him for his cleverness, for his energy, for his two good legs. And, yes, for the smiles that Celeste gives him. And what else, I ask myself, does she give him when he carries a tray for her into the other room? Even if I followed them, they would hear me with my cane and my dragging feet long before I got there. And how can I blame her, my pretty butterfly, for being what she is, for preferring someone young and fit and on his way up, to a twisted cripple who is about to be thrown on the scrap heap?

Because that's where I belong now. I've been fooling everyone, including even myself, that I was a fully functioning human being. Tonight I looked at the last year of my life—the last eight years—and saw a wasteland. There is nothing worth saving from all those years. It's a sham. He must know, or guess, something is wrong. As I said, he's clever. And perhaps I hate him more because I think that he's kind-hearted, too. He will feel that he's wasted a good deal of time. At his age time is precious. If he has done nothing, is it because he's sorry for me, afraid of hurting me? One thing I could not take is pity. That would be wormwood and gall. I'm not going to wait around for the moment of truth. It may be a far, far better thing that I do—not that this is a sacrifice for others. More a salvaging of my own pride, perhaps. I've always had plenty of that. But it will free all three of us. Him, me, Celeste. Perhaps you, too, Ethan. You need no longer be the recipient of my maudlin, self-pitying missives, of which, tonight, seeing as clearly as I do, I am ashamed. I am ashamed of other things, too. My dear Celeste—there is so much I would change if I could, for her sake—

But you will know what to do. I trust you. I send you, finally, my love.

Alec.

“Oh, my poor, poor Alec!”

She laid her head back, trying to keep the stinging tears at bay, but after a while she rested her arms on her knees and let her head drop and wept for a long, long time.

When she stopped, her limbs were stiff and it was getting dark. She shivered and closed gritty, swollen eyelids, rubbing them wearily. Then she stumbled to the door and went into the bathroom. After splashing her face with cold water several times she had a shower, cleaned her teeth and went back to her room.

The letter still lay on the bed. She picked it up, about to put it back into the envelope, when she remembered the black, pencilled scrawl across the last page. She switched on the bedside light and turned the page, peering down at it.

The writing was quite different. Not Alec's. Ethan's hand, she realised, large and decisive and somehow angry. And in the same moment she saw what the two words were.

She'll pay
.

When the telephone rang, Celeste remained huddled on the bed as she had been for some time, her knees drawn up, her arms hugging her legs. She could hear the bell, knew there was an extension in Ethan's workroom. But it would be him calling, and she didn't want to speak to him just now.

Half an hour later it shrilled again, and then at intervals until twelve o'clock. By then she had replaced the letter in its envelope and put it back in his room, tucked into the photograph frame, and methodically prepared herself for bed. The last time the phone rang, she pulled the pillow over her head until it stopped. Then she went to sleep.

She was barely awake when the ringing started again. She got up, taking her time, and pulled on her wrap before going downstairs to answer it.

She had barely placed the receiver at her ear when Ethan's voice said, “Celeste? Where
were
you last night?”

She said coolly, “I went to bed early.”

“Are you okay?”

“Perfectly, thank you. I'd had a late night previously, remember.”

There was a short, baffled silence. Then he said, “I remember.”

Celeste moistened her lips. “How is the programming problem?”

“It'll take a few days to sort out. Look, I wish this hadn't come up.”

“It couldn't be helped,” she said graciously. “I understand.”

“Are you sure you're all right? Did I wake you?”

“No, I was awake.”

“Someone's waiting for me, but I had to contact you first. I was worried.”

Carefully, she said, “I know you've had reason to worry about me, but there's no need, now. I'm quite recovered.”

“If I hadn't thought so,” he said, “I wouldn't have. . .”

She was glad he couldn't see her burning cheeks. “I know,” she assured him steadily. “You have been remarkably forbearing.”

“Celeste,” he said urgently. “There's so much to say, I can't even begin on the phone. Believe me, I'll be back as soon as I can possibly manage it.”

“I believe you, Ethan,” she said huskily. “But there's no hurry.”

“There is for me. We have a lot of sorting out to do. Sit tight and wait for me, darling.”

He had never called her that before, and she closed her eyes, feeling the word enter her like a pain in her heart.

He said, “I have to go. They're waiting for me. I'm sorry.”

“Yes,” she said. “Goodbye, Ethan.” And she put down the phone on his voice, saying something she couldn't decipher. She supposed it was goodbye.

She made herself breakfast, phoned the airport and returned upstairs to pack her clothes and tidy her room. Then she went to see the Palmers.

“I've left a note in the house for Mrs. Jackson and one for Ethan,” she told them. “But if he telephones, he may worry when there's no reply. I guess his next step will be to contact you or Jeff. Tell him not to be concerned, won't you?”

“Of course,” Janice said. “But is it necessary to leave before he gets back?”

Celeste said gently, “Yes.”

Henry regarded her rather shrewdly and said, “How are you getting to the airport?”

“I'll hire a taxi.”

“It'll cost a small fortune. Let me drive you.”

“Oh, I couldn't ask you to.”

“You didn't. I just volunteered. We need some supplies, anyway.”

Janice gave her a long, searching scrutiny. “Are you sure you're all right?”

“Don't I look it?” Celeste smiled.

“You look. . . like someone who's taken charge of her life, but you don't look happy,” the other woman told her bluntly. “Want to tell me what's happened?”

Celeste shook her head. “It's much too complicated to explain. But I have taken charge, and. . . I know that what I'm doing is right.”

Janice nodded. “I won't probe, then. Keep in touch, won't you?”

Without promising anything, Celeste said, “You've been very good to me, you and Henry. Thank you for everything.”

Jeff was out, and she left a scribbled note under his door, relieved that she didn't have to dodge questions from him as well. When Henry called for her, she had her cases downstairs already, and he swung them into his car and opened the door for her. She left the house without a backward glance.

At the airport, when she had checked in her luggage, Henry kissed her cheek and said, “We'll miss you. Ethan will, too, I expect.”

She saw the enquiring look in his eyes but ignored it. “Thank you for the lift,” she said. “And everything.”

He shrugged and smiled. “Take care.”

She didn't stay long in Sydney. The first night she found a cheap hotel, and the next morning made a phone call to Grant Morrison's associates in the city. “Grant said to call you if I needed anything before my husband's will is probated,” she explained. “I'm afraid I'm going to need some money. . . .”

They couldn't have been more helpful, she reflected the following day, when she was winging her way over the Tasman to New Zealand. It had been remarkably easy to arrange the Sydney to Auckland flight, and Sandra, her bridesmaid, had been warmly welcoming when Celeste phoned and asked if she could spare a bed or even a sofa for the night. It was an invitation that had been made often enough, but until now Celeste had never taken her up on it.

“It'll be lovely to see you!” Sandra had assured her. “Tell me what time your flight arrives, and I'll be there to pick you up.”

She was as good as her word, and Celeste was surprised at the rush of affection that she felt when she saw her friend standing at the barrier waiting for her. She had three of the children with her. “Ron stayed home to look after the baby,” she said. “But these three couldn't be deprived of a trip to the airport. Hope you don't mind.”

Celeste was quite glad. Having the children precluded too much questioning and stopped her from allowing foolish tears to overtake her.

Ron made her equally welcome, and she shared a room with one of the children, a solemn little girl who asked if Celeste would like to read her a bedtime story, with an air of bestowing an honour granted only to a privileged few. Celeste accepted the offer gravely.

Later Sandra came to tuck in her daughter and turn out the light. She and Celeste both returned to the cozy, cluttered sitting room, and Sandra said softly, “It's a shame you and Alec had no children.”

“It might be just as well. Children would make it more difficult to find a way to earn a living.”

“Do you have to?” Sandra asked. “I mean, surely Alec was fairly well-off.”

There was no point in going into all that. “I want to do something with my life, anyway,” Celeste said vaguely. “I'll go and see my lawyer tomorrow. I thought I might sell the house in Wellington and put some of the money into a business. The lease could be transferred, I suppose. And probate on Alec's will should come through any day. Then I'll be able to make plans.”

“What kind of business?” Sandra asked.

“Well, I thought of working from home—when I have one—or perhaps opening a boutique if I can raise the money. I've become interested in fabric painting and dyeing. For clothes, you know. I'm only a beginner, but I want to learn more. Maybe I'm being too ambitious. And I'd need a partner, someone who could sew. And maybe someone who knows something about running a business.”

“I can sew,” Sandra said. “I've been doing piecework for a clothing factory for a couple of years. Fifty of the same thing, week after week.” She grimaced. “I've been thinking of giving it up, but we need the money. Four kids, you know. I'd love to get into some boutique work. I could put you in touch with a couple of other women who'd probably jump at the chance, too. As for running a business, Ron can help you there. What do you think I married an accountant for?”

“Looks like I've chosen the right place to come,” Celeste said. “But let's not get carried away. It's just a thought, and I have to sort out my financial situation with the lawyer, first.”

She found Grant Morrison was a tower of strength. Although he never said so, she gathered that he thought Alec's will puzzlingly unfair, and he did his level best to wring every last benefit from the little that had been left to her. When she told him what she wanted to do, he expressed cautious approval and promised to use his own contacts to get her the best deal possible. “Buy yourself into an established concern,” he advised her. “I'll look about for you, put out some feelers.”

He did, and she found herself in partnership with a couple who had been running a craft shop and art gallery tucked into a corner of a mall in the inner city suburb of Ponsonby. Young and enthusiastic, they explained that they wanted to expand into “wearable art.” They were also expecting a baby and, while reluctant to employ staff, had decided to take on an extra partner to share the financial commitment of the business as well as helping in the shop, allowing them some time to spend with their child. By the time the baby was born, they and Celeste were friends as well as partners.

She established a small circle of good friends, some of them renewed from her university days, some people she had recently met. She began to accept invitations. If she needed a partner, Grant Morrison, who had been divorced for a number of years and had two children whom he visited every second weekend, was always willing to oblige. They liked each other and were content to be friends. Grant admired her for her courage and her determination, and she was grateful for his help. Neither of them wanted an intimate relationship.

It was, she told herself, not a bad way to live. If it lacked something in emotional colour and excitement, she had other things to make up for that. If sometimes she felt like a walking shell of a human being, it was only to be expected when she had been widowed less than a year.

Seven months after she had left Sheerwind, Ethan walked back into her life.

He stopped in the doorway of the shop, watching as Celeste took a delicate blown-glass vase from a case to show to a customer, handling it with reverent care. She still wore Alec's wedding ring, he saw, and the diamond cluster that was her engagement ring. That was the only thing, he thought, that looked the same. She had cut her hair, and it swung in a shining fall just below her ears as she leaned forward. Her arms had lost their thin fragility, and her complexion had a bloom on it. When she straightened he could see that the dispirited droop of her shoulders had entirely disappeared. She was wearing a striking patterned dress—black with splashes of red, white and yellow, rather like an abstract painting. When she pushed back her hair a pair of jet earrings swung against her jawline.

Then she glanced up and saw him in the doorway. She almost dropped the vase, her eyes widening; her lips, painted a vivid red to go with the red in her dress, parted. A flush came into her cheeks before she blinked and looked away from him.

When the customer had gone without a purchase, Ethan was leaning on the counter. He put out his hand and picked up the vase. “Expensive,” he said, examining the price tag.

“It's worth it,” Celeste assured him in her coolest tones. “One of a kind. What are you doing here?”

“Would you believe shopping?”

“No. How did you know I was here?”

“Aunt Ellie,” he told her.

She had been to see Alec's aunt more than once. Duty visits, but she had enjoyed them. She had always rather liked the old lady, in spite of her blunt tongue and sometimes embarrassing mannerisms. “How is she?”

“The same as always. You seem put out to see me. Were you hoping to hide from me forever?”

“I'm not hiding. I don't have any secrets, Ethan.”

“No?” he queried.

Celeste shook her head.

“Have you heard from Steven lately?” he asked.

She stiffened. “Not for some time.”

He was regarding her thoughtfully. “I want to talk to you.”

“Is that necessary? I don't think that we have anything more to say to each other.”

“Don't you?”

She thought his low tone held menace, but he no longer had the power to frighten her. She looked him full in the eyes. “Don't threaten me, Ethan.”

“Threaten?” His surprise appeared to be genuine. “All I'm suggesting is that we talk. What could possibly be threatening about that? Unless you do have something to hide.”

Two people came in and began browsing along the shelves. Ethan said, “When do you finish up here for the day?”

“In about half an hour,” she told him unwillingly. “But I don't think—”

“I'll wait,” he said.

She locked up five minutes early because his prowling about the place, picking up a piece of pottery here and a hand-painted scarf there, standing in front of a painting and staring at it for long minutes, unsettled her.

He said, “Is there somewhere we can go for a meal? I'm paying.”

“Around the corner,” she told him, “there's a good little restaurant. Or if you want something fancier, there's one a bit farther down the road that's licensed to serve alcohol.”

“We'll take the licensed one,” he said. “I could do with a drink. And I'm in no hurry to eat, are you?”

She had lost her appetite instantly on seeing him, but she wasn't going to admit to that. “No hurry,” she agreed evenly. “But did it occur to you I might have other plans?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Do you?”

She debated claiming that she did, but that would only delay the inevitable. If he had come all this way to see her—and even if, as was most likely, he had other business to attend to, he had made the effort to find her and seemed to have something of importance to say—then he wasn't going to tamely turn tail and head back to Sheerwind.

So she said, “No, I don't tonight, as a matter of fact. It just would have been courteous to ask.”