Regrets Only (11 page)

A few hours later, she’d showered, dressed, and tended to her pet rabbit while Archer slept peacefully. Before heading out the door, she’d left his white cotton boxers folded on the chair beside her bed, coffee in a chrome carafe on the kitchen table with the newspaper beside it, and a note with a red heart drawn on it, realizing as she’d drawn it that she could get used to the idea of living with someone.

“It was the reading that tired you out, was it?” she now teased. “And here I took credit for being such a great lover.”

“And that you are. A legend in your own mind.” Archer laughed.

“How quickly the romance of last night disappears in the cold, harsh light of day and your words of passion deteriorate into sadistic humor that wouldn’t amuse a toad,” she said in her breathiest melodramatic voice.

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind. What’s the plan for tonight?”

“Dad’s expecting us at seven. And he likes—”

“Punctuality,” she interrupted. “You’ve told me. I won’t be late.”

“Are you sure this is all right? I mean with your work.”

“Yeah. I already talked to my Lieutenant and Jack’s agreed to cover me,” she replied, minimizing the extent of the logistical hoops she’d jumped through to make herself available for dinner. Her shift was four to midnight and her rotation for a new case was up. That meant she was responsible for manning the telephones and waiting for the call from police dispatch informing the Homicide Unit of a new job. But she’d worked enough overtime in five months to earn her a little leeway with her boss, and Jack had volunteered to take her place by the telephone as the “up-guy.” She was free to go so long as she brought her beeper.

“I’ll pick you up at six-fifteen.” He blew a kiss into the telephone.

As she hung up the receiver, she felt a mixture of agitation and excitement at the thought of her impending introduction to Archer’s father. She knew it was odd that in more than two months she’d never been to his house. For privacy, she tried to convince herself. And convenience. Staying at her apartment avoided the drive along Highway 30 West or a ride on the Paoli local to Devon. “Why go all the way out just to turn around and come back?” was Archer’s rationale. Still when he came home with a Brooks Brothers bag of new white oxford shirts because he’d run out of clothes, she’d wondered whether he lived with these obstacles because he wanted to keep her away.

Those thoughts would end this evening. She would meet Rodman Haverill, “Rod” to his friends. “Although be sure to wait for him to invite you to use that nickname,” Archer had instructed her when he’d extended the dinner invitation.

“I know Emily Post, too,” Lucy responded. “I won’t make inappropriate overtures or be too casual.”

Archer had apologized, hugged her, and then added, “The one thing I love best about you is that you say what’s on your mind.”

“What else am I going to do with my thoughts?”

That line had gotten her a second embrace.

Now she closed her eyes, trying to imagine what to expect. Archer had provided little detail. Would his father pad around his home in leather bedroom slippers like her father did? Would he barbecue a thick steak or have ordered in Chinese food ahead of time? Unfortunately, she had no information to help her form a picture. Contrary to her nature, she’d have to quell her curiosity for two more hours. Oh well, she thought. If he were anything like Archer, she’d adore him.

7:04 p.m
.

Archer drove in silence. Lucy stared out the window. This far west of the city the homes were more spread out. Each expansive residence of Pennsylvania fieldstone seemed to command several acres of lush fields. In some areas the grass was deep emerald, in others it was lighter and mixed with patches of brown; the effect was a quilt of varying tones. She rolled down her window to inhale the fresh air and slight smell of hay. In the distance a chestnut horse grazed.

They crossed a small stone bridge, and Lucy glanced down at the rocky stream and the elegant sycamore trees growing along the wet banks. Then Archer turned onto a winding road. The car seemed to stall, then lurched forward as they climbed the hill. On their left, open meadows gently sloped away from the road to a pond surrounded by tall grasses. On the right stretched a black spiked fence behind which grew tall beech and birch trees. When they came to two stone pillars in which
SUMMER HOUSE
was carved, he stopped the car, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out a small box. As he pressed the center button, the ornate iron gate slowly opened, creaking along its metal trench. He shifted into second gear and pulled forward.

Lucy glanced down the long driveway framed by rows of apple trees to the building beyond: a sprawling stone structure with an expansive slate courtyard in front. “What is this place?” she asked. “A museum?”

Archer shook his head.

“
This
is your home?” She’d seen houses as grand before but somehow never thought that real lives took place behind the walls, let alone the life of the man with whom she was involved.

“I actually live over there,” Archer replied, pointing in the direction of a smaller stone building with dark shutters, a covered entry portico, and a small veranda off one side. Pristine white mortar joints accentuated the stonework, and a row of low, trimmed boxwoods created a path to the entrance.

Rather than turning in the direction he’d indicated, though, he continued to drive toward the massive building Lucy had noticed first. Pointing to a row of windows just under the roofline, Archer explained, “That’s where I was exiled when I was younger, or should I say when I was a troublemaker. Now I’m in the guesthouse—what Father refers to as the garden service shed. I’m not sure whether that means he thinks I’ve improved or that I’m simply incorrigible.” He shrugged.

“Can I see it?”

“Later.” He winked. “We’re already eight minutes late.”

As they pulled up to the turnaround, she saw Rodman Haverill standing out front. Well over six feet, he’d clad his thin frame in a blue-striped oxford shirt and bow tie, a navy blazer, and gray flannels. His tasseled mahogany loafers shone from polish. He pushed up his sleeve and glanced at his watch to send a very obvious message, and she heard a slightly exasperated sigh escape Archer’s lips before he shifted into neutral and cut the ignition.

“Hello, Archer.” He nodded to his son and extended a hand toward her. “Miss O’Malley, I presume.”

“Yes. Lucy. Call me Lucy. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you,” she lied.

“I wish I could say the same.” His deep voice had either a trace of vibrato or a slight tremor. Several dark hairs protruded from his prominent nose, and his bushy eyebrows overshadowed wire-rimmed glasses. “I don’t monitor my son’s comings and goings, and he keeps his private life to himself. Then he makes a general pronouncement about his relationships and that’s that.”

“I’ll try to differentiate myself from the mob,” she replied, stepping past him into the impressive two-story entrance.

A chandelier hung down through the double staircase. An enormous Oriental rug covered most of the marble floor, and a rectangular mirror in a carved black frame dominated one wall. Aside from two Chippendale side chairs, the space was empty.

“Your home is very beautiful.” She could hear an echo.

“Thank you. It belonged to my mother’s family. When Archer’s mother and I married, my parents gave it to us, as I will give it to Archer and his bride when—”

He paused to clear his throat, but Lucy didn’t wait for him to finish the phrase she dreaded hearing—
when he marries
. Her mother would make precisely the same kind of awkward comment. “It looks very English,” she said to change the subject. “I went to the Cotswolds once and it reminds me of there. Only the houses were smaller.” She laughed.

“It was designed by the firm of Mellor and Meigs,” he replied, apparently ignoring her attempt at humor. “Walter Mellor and Arthur Meigs were considered instrumental in bringing the English pastoral mode seen throughout the Cotswolds to American residences. So you’re right. You have either wonderful intuition or a better knowledge of architecture than I would have presumed for a . . . police officer.” He patted Archer on the back.

“Cops will surprise you with what they know,” she said.

He gave her a look—furrowed eyebrows and a slight pucker in the mouth—that she couldn’t read. Then, apparently dismissing her last remark, he continued, “I would offer to show you around but I wish to avoid the wrath of my son so early in the evening. He tells me I’m prone to driving people away by boring them. So I suggest a drink out on the terrace. It’s a mild evening and you might enjoy seeing the gardens, although they are certainly not what they’ll be in a month or two.”

He opened a large door and led them into a comfortable sitting room filled with overstuffed burgundy furniture corded in sage green. The floor-length drapes opened smoothly as he pulled the rings along a dark wooden rod, revealing the slate terrace that ran nearly the whole length of the house. They stepped outside. On an iron table was a tray with crystal decanters, a silver wine cooler with a corked bottle protruding from it, several glasses, and a plate of peeled carrot sticks.

Archer offered to make drinks while Mr. Haverill began what must have been his standard speech for newcomers about the grounds, the landscape design, the various renovations that had transpired over the years since the house was built. Listening, Lucy wondered how many prior girlfriends had heard this spiel. She imagined the lineup of women with bangs and matching sweater sets, daughters of matrons who prided themselves on membership in the Colonial Dames, and volunteers at Pennsylvania Hospital. Her predecessors probably knew the rules of polo and the ingredients in a Pimms Cup.

“The house was a constant canvas to my grandmother,” Archer interrupted, offering Lucy a glass of Sancerre. As she took it, he mouthed the words, “If the pace doesn’t quicken, there’s more where that came from.”

“Archer’s quite correct. My mother, Emma, had so hoped that my wife would love this home, too. But as I expect Archer has told you, that didn’t come to pass.” The reference to Morgan seemed to change his manner of speech. His voice softened, and the tremor disappeared.

“Dad’s mother was a perfectionist and she insisted on certain details: that the privet be kept at seventy-five inches, that the birdbaths be cleaned the first Monday of the month, that all the varieties of roses be replaced with Jackson and Perkins’s ‘John F. Kennedy’ after the President’s assassination,” Archer volunteered. “God help the gardener who didn’t follow her instructions.”

Mr. Haverill chuckled at his son’s remark, swirled the gin in his glass, and then took a sip. The ice cubes rattled. “A little light on tonic,” he said, handing his tumbler back to Archer.

For a moment the only sound was the quick fizz of carbonation as Archer opened another bottle of Schweppes. Mr. Haverill walked to the table and picked up a carrot stick along with his newly diluted drink. “In addition to being the lone Democrat in a Republican bastion, my mother was a painter. She spent hours in this garden with her easel even after her doctors told her to stop. Many hours on her feet exhausted her.”

“What did she paint?” Lucy asked.

“Mostly still lifes, a few portraits. She was an artist along the lines of the Boston School—realism with an enhanced natural beauty. ‘The world is ugly enough,’ she used to say, quoting Renoir. You might enjoy seeing some of her work after dinner, although one of her best oils will fill your view from the dining room table.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“She absolutely was,” he replied, apparently mishearing. “The loveliest lady in all of Philadelphia. You can’t begin to know how many people shared that view. Her shoes were too hard to fill for the next Mrs. Haverill.”

Just then a petite woman in a black uniform with a white apron appeared from behind the interior curtain to announce that dinner was served. Mr. Haverill led the way to the dining room—a rectangular space with an inlaid wood floor, a large fireplace with a marble surround and mantel, and a long mahogany table. He held Lucy’s chair, then took his place at one end while Archer sat at the other.

As Lucy pulled herself slightly closer to her place setting, she wondered how to address the problem of having dinner companions at opposite ends of a ten-foot table. To speak to Mr. Haverill, who still hadn’t told her to call him Rodman, she would have to turn away from Archer and vice versa. Or she could look at neither and stare instead at Emma Haverill’s beautiful oil: a composition of hydrangeas in a cobalt pitcher beside a bowl of fruit and an apple cut in half on the brightly colored tablecloth. She’d obviously set a high standard of perfection.

The Haverills’ maid came around to her left side with a white casserole dish filled with a light brown puree. “Celery root?” she offered, wedging the hot dish even closer. Lucy negotiated the serving with more ease than she would have imagined given that she had to twist her spine to avoid being burned and raise her left elbow to get a half-decent angle. The process was repeated for string beans, brussels sprouts, and roast pork. When her plate was full she felt a moment of triumph. Not a drop of grease, sauce, or anything else spoiled the white lace place mat.

Mr. Haverill raised his glass. “To God and country,” he said before taking a sip.

As Lucy drank, she had a momentary urge to suggest they get television tables, take off their shoes, and go sit in a circle in the den. But such a room wouldn’t exist here; nobody had gone barefoot for more than a decade, and the idea of a folding snack table was certainly blasphemous. She should have extended the invitation for him to come to her home and almost laughed aloud at the image of her pet rabbit hopping over to Mr. Haverill to chew on the tassels of his loafers.

There was silence but for the sound of silverware brushing against china. Then Mr. Haverill asked, “O’Malley is Irish, I presume. Is your family from Philadelphia?”

“No. My father’s side has been in Somerville, Massachusetts, for generations. My mother’s family is from County Cork.”