More Than Words Can Say (33 page)

Despite his jealousy over Bill and Brooke’s reunion, in a way he felt sorry for them. To his mind, their time together must have been a form of both pleasure and pain. Pleasure at the mere sight of one another. Pleasure at holding each other, and talking, and laughing, and making love after so long. But he also believed that it must have been torturous for them as well, because it was so fleeting. And because of that, had Bill’s visit perhaps proven to be more of a curse than a blessing for Brooke? Only she could provide that answer, Greg knew. But given the promise he had made to her, he daren’t ask that question.

His heart was still hers, of that he was certain. And he believed that it always would be, despite the impossible situation in which he and Brooke found themselves. Since falling in love with her, more than once he had considered selling his cottage and going back to New York to live full-time. But he loved it here, and knowing that she would likely return every summer—and that he would not—would surely cause him even greater pain. And so he had resolved not only to stay for the rest of this summer but to also return here each year, just as he knew Brooke would do. And perhaps, given enough time, the two of them could find some sort of harmony.

Just then he smiled lightly. He was still hearing the music, he realized. Brooke’s lights remained on and her old record player had been going all evening, which was largely why he had been unable to sleep. She had been playing the same blues record over and over again, and Greg recognized it as the one that Brooke once said was Bill’s favorite. As New Orleans blues floated from her cottage toward his, Greg lit another cigarette off his earlier one, wondering why she wasn’t asleep.

Just then he heard Brooke’s squeaky porch door open and close, causing him to turn his head and look. To his surprise, he saw Brooke coming down the porch stairs. She was wearing only a negligee, and as she descended, her steps seemed wobbly and unsure. She then paused for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, her bare feet in the sand, her eyes cast toward the sky, the moonlight pointing up the delicate folds of her white negligee. Had the scene not been so bizarre, it would have been quite beautiful, Greg realized.

But as Greg watched her, he instinctively knew that something was very wrong. Then to his great horror, he saw her tentatively cross the sandy beach like some unearthly sleepwalker and wade straight out into the high, dark waves of Lake Evergreen. A huge sense of worry rose within Greg as he then saw her strangely pause for a moment, the waves brushing strongly up against her, causing her to sway to and fro in the water. And then, with the moonlight still highlighting part of her lovely form, she again started her trancelike walk and began going even deeper.

Fearing the worst, Greg tore from his porch and ran to her as best his bad foot would allow, his heart in his throat. By the time he reached her she was nearly chest-high in the deadly water. Wasting no time, he slipped one arm beneath her knees, lifted her up, and held her close. He tried to look at her face, but when his eyes met hers, her only response was to begin sobbing uncontrollably and bury her face in his chest.

Deciding not to speak, Greg hurriedly carried Brooke back to the cottage, where he laid her down on the couch before the fireplace. Although the fire had not gone out, he quickly added a couple more logs, ensuring that it would last a good while longer. While turning off the record player, he noticed that a half-consumed bottle of whiskey stood alongside it.

After retrieving a towel from the bathroom, he did the best he could to briskly dry her off and again tried looking into her dazed eyes. To his dismay, Brooke was still crying uncontrollably. In an attempt to calm her, he gently wiped the wet hair away from her face and placed his hands on either side of her head.

“Brooke . . . ,” he said gently. “Why did you do that? You could have died . . .”

She had begun shivering strongly, the desperate tears running from her eyes impossible to distinguish from the drops of cold lake water that still lay upon her face. But even now, she did not speak.

Several moments later, she lifted one arm and pointed at the coffee table standing before the couch. When Greg turned to look, he saw a piece of crumpled paper lying there. As he smoothed it out and read it, he quickly understood the reason for Brooke’s uncontrollable distress. The piece of paper said:

WESTERN UNION

WU 35 GOVT=WUX WASHINGTON DC AUG 20 1942

MRS BROOKE BARTLETT 18 SCHUYLER LANE

SERENDIPITY NEW YORK

THE SECRETARY OF WAR DEEPLY REGRETS

TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR HUSBAND 2/LT BARTLETT, WILLIAM T, DROWNED DURING

TRANSPORT TO ENGLAND AUGUST 15 1942 STOP

TROOP TRANSPORT SHIP SUNK WITH ALL HANDS BY GERMAN U-BOAT STOP NO SURVIVORS STOP U- BOAT SUNK IN SUBSEQUENT ACTION STOP

CONFIRMING LETTER WILL FOLLOW

JAMES ALEXANDER ULIO ADJUTANT GENERAL

OF THE ARMY

Greg simply sat there for several moments, speechless.

My God . . . ,
he thought.

His hand trembling visibly, Greg set the terrible notice back down atop the coffee table.

“Brooke . . . ,” he uttered at last.

When she still didn’t answer, Greg bent down closer and took her chilled hands into his. They felt dank and lifeless, as if all the vitality she once possessed had been suddenly drained from her.

“I know . . . ,” he said quietly. “I saw the telegram. I’m so sorry . . .”

“He’s gone,” Brooke said at last, her voice so faint he could barely hear her. “Bill’s gone . . .”

Not knowing what else to do, Greg put his arms around her and held her close. They remained that way for some time, the only sounds the light crackling of the fire and the rhythmic ticking of Brooke’s mantel clock. And then, quite unexpectedly, Brooke lifted her face to his, and she kissed him on the lips.

Startled, Greg tried to sit up. But she held him close and then kissed him once more, longer and more deeply this time. And as she did, he remembered how much he wanted her, needed her, and how he had dreamed of this moment. But now was not the time, he knew. She didn’t want him, he realized, as much as she wanted the return of her dead husband. She was in shock, and she needed someone to hold on to while her entire world fell apart. But the longer they embraced, the more he found his willpower weakening. At last he tore himself free of her enticing grasp and sat up.

“Brooke . . . ,” he said, his voice suddenly sounding hoarse and unfamiliar. “We can’t do this . . . it’s wrong, and you’re doing it out of grief, rather than love . . .”

To his surprise, Brooke was no longer crying. Her face an unreadable mask, she reached up and placed two fingers against his lips, silencing him. “No more words,” she said. “No more waiting . . .”

When she stood from the couch, her body was no longer shaking, her stance no longer unsteady. After again looking deeply into his eyes, she took his hand and began leading him into her bedroom. And although every fiber of his being told Greg that it was wrong, he found it utterly impossible to resist her.

T
WO HOURS LATER,
Brooke sat on the edge of her bed, crying so softly that she could barely be heard. Moonlight filtered in through the bedroom window, its velvety hue highlighting Greg’s naked form as he slept soundly. But the moonlight seemed to shine even more brightly upon the terrible deed they had done, upon the shame Brooke felt in her heart, and upon the realization that her beloved husband was dead. The emotions swirling through her were so strong and conflicting that she scarcely knew herself anymore.

They had made love, and she had welcomed it. More than welcomed it, she realized shamefully. It had in fact been she who had demanded it, embraced it, and taken all she could from him in a slow, almost dreamlike coupling. But now, as she sat on the edge of the bed in the moonlight, she understood that Greg had been right. It hadn’t really been him she had wanted but the physical memory of Bill, the other man with whom she had slept in this very bed, just four days ago. And as she sat there thinking and crying, she came to some heart-rending conclusions.

She would leave Lake Evergreen this very morning. For facing up to Greg and the terrible thing they had done this night would be far too much for her to bear just now, and she knew it. She would hide the journal, the photos, and the two telegrams somewhere in the cottage, not only because taking them home to Syracuse might one day expose what had happened here, but also because looking at them would be far too painful. If she ever saw them again, they would do nothing but remind her not only of her shame, but also of the man she loved but could not have—the same man now lying asleep in her bed.

Before going she would write him a letter, she decided. One that would hopefully explain what was in her heart as best she could and the real reasons for what had just happened between them. And then she silently vowed to never see him again, no matter how the rest of her life might unfold. For after what had happened here tonight, she knew that being near him again would be far too heartbreaking, too terrible, and too guilt-inducing for her to endure. At last she slipped on her robe and then looked down upon him again, as the moonlight highlighted his handsome features.

Yes,
she thought as she stood there looking at him.
The very first time I saw him, I was right. He does look like Errol Flynn. . .

As fresh tears raced down her cheeks, she left the bedroom.

T
WO HOURS LATER,
Greg suddenly started awake to find that he was alone. He held his watch to the moonlight and saw that it was nearly three
A.M
. After putting his clothes on, he left the bedroom.

The living room seemed to yawn at him as he entered it. The fire had at last gone out, and the air had become cold. The lights were switched off and the terrible death notice still lay on the coffee table, but there was no sign of Brooke. After walking out onto the porch, he saw her standing at the bottom of the porch steps, her bare feet in the sand, her eyes gazing blankly out over the waves.

He quietly opened the door and walked down the steps to join her. But as he looked at her profile, she did not turn toward him. Instead of the warm, loving woman he had made love to only hours before, she now seemed to be made of stone; immobile, cold, and intransigent. As a way to refrain from embracing him again, she had wrapped her arms about herself. When he stepped before her and tried to look directly into her eyes, Brooke shamefully turned her face away.

“We have to talk about this . . . ,” Greg said. “Perhaps not now, but eventually. Some important things happened here tonight, Brooke. You know that as well as I do, and I’m worried for you.”

Still without looking at him, Brooke shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice a near-whisper. “Nothing happened here tonight. Now please go home, I beg of you.”

“But, Brooke,” he said, “you can’t deny what—”

“Go home, Greg,” she said, her tone now akin to outright begging. “Go home and leave me alone . . .”

He started to speak again, then thought the better of it.
You’re so shattered,
he thought as he looked at her lovely profile, bathed in moonlight.
And you will be this way for a long time. But I can wait for you, because now we have all the time in the world. And so I will obey your wishes and allow you to grieve in your own way and in your own time . . .

Totally unaware that it would be for the last time in his life, Greg faced Brooke and he looked into her eyes.

“Good night, my love,” he said quietly.

While Brooke watched him go, her heart finally reached its limit and it broke irreparably in two.

T
WO HOURS LATER,
Brooke was packed and ready to leave. Her journal, photographs, and telegrams had been hidden, and she had penned her good-bye letter.

Before going, she walked into the living room and stood before Greg’s unfinished portrait of her. In between sessions she had been keeping it atop the fireplace mantel, where it now rested. For several moments she considered taking it with her, as a reminder both of the man she loved and of the amazing talent he possessed. But in the end she realized that she could not, for the same reasons she could not take her other mementos. After taking a last look at the portrait, she wiped the tears from her eyes and departed her cottage for the final time.

Just one more thing to do . . . ,
she thought sadly.

On loading her bags and Ike into her car, she removed Greg’s letter from her purse and trod across the moonlit beach toward his cottage. She stopped to listen for a few moments and heard nothing. All of the cottage lights were out; the only sounds came from the light breeze streaming through the pines, and the waves as they rushed the sandy shore. After silently climbing the porch steps, she inserted the letter for Greg between the porch door and its frame.

As she came back down the steps, something caught her eye. Near the far side of the little house, she saw the fully grown coneflowers that resulted from the seeds Greg had been planting that first day she met him. They had grown tall, their stems and blossoms swaying slightly in the breeze. Bending down, she plucked two of them and placed them into her purse.

Then she quickly walked back to her waiting car. Before leaving, she turned and looked at her beloved cottage one last time and then toward the restless lake that lay just beyond it. She already knew that she would never return here. She would never again see this wonderful place, swim in that pristine lake, or hear the familiar rustle of the pine trees.

And perhaps even worse, she knew that so long as Greg returned here every summer, she could not. Being so close to him would only reopen all of her wounds and revive the terrible guilt she already felt over what had happened in the cottage she still so loved, but now felt too ashamed to occupy. Her humiliation totally overpowering, she looked up at the stars.

“Forgive me, Bill . . . ,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I have done wrong, and I accept my penance . . .”