Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance (15 page)

She leaned back against the headrest and exhaled deeply. This
was supposed to be one of the happiest times of her life. So why
was it that she felt like crying?

AFTER A DELICIOUS REPAST of caviar, chateaubriand with bearnaise
sauce, and fresh asparagus tips, Creighton followed his hostess to
the study for cognac and coffee. It was a masculine room, with dark
wainscoting and bulky furnishings. Vanessa hoisted herself out of
her wheelchair and into a straight-backed Biedermeier armchair
while Creighton selected a plump, mahogany-colored leather sofa.
Coffee, cognac, and all the accoutrements were laid out on the
cocktail table between them.

Creighton took to the task of serving while Vanessa opened a
hinged wooden box filled with tobacco and rolling papers.

“Since when do you smoke?” he asked.

“I don’t,” she replied as she rolled a cigarette between her gnarled
fingers. “This was Stewart’s. Every night after dinner, he and I would
come in here and he’d have a cigarette. It was his personal blend
of tobacco. I used to complain about the smell, but now that he’s
gone, I miss it” She placed the cigarette in a long, slender holder, lit
it, and then balanced the whole instrument against a crystal ashtray on the table beside her chair. “It’s ironic,” she said with a wry smile.
“I used to tell Stewart that these cigarettes would be the death of
him, and it turns out I was right.”

Creighton passed her a demitasse cup filled with coffee. “How?
He died in a fire at the Alchemy lab.”

“He did,” she took the cup and added a lump of sugar to it, “but
the fire marshal’s report proved that the fire was caused by a lit cigarette.” She sighed. “I don’t know how many times I had warned
Stewart against smoking in the lab area. And each time, he’d assure
me that he was the soul of caution. He never smoked near any of
the chemicals, nor when anyone else was in the lab.”

“Then how did it happen?”

“An overturned ashtray as much as the fire chief could guess.
Strange that Stewart should have gone that way. He was always in
control; always did exactly as he pleased.”

“Yes, good old Stewart. He was a strong man, but kind, too,”
Creighton settled back with a glass of cognac. “One of my deepest
regrets in life, Vanessa, is that I wasn’t here for his funeral.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she dismissed. “You were in New York at
the time, and you sent those lovely flowers.”

“That doesn’t justify my behavior. I should have delivered the
flowers myself. But, instead, I acted with complete indifference. I
only hope you can forgive me.”

She gazed at him lovingly. “You, Creighton, I could forgive anything.”

He took a swig of cognac. “Just because you can, doesn’t mean
you should. It was beastly of me, leaving you alone, especially in
your condition.”

Vanessa was quick to correct him. “My illness was somewhat under control at that point. Just before Stewart’s death, I heard of this
so-called `wonder drug’ that would alleviate my symptoms. Well, I
walked straight into my doctor’s office and demanded that he prescribe it for me, and let me tell you, it has helped immensely. I’m not
cured, mind you, and I’ll never be able to reverse the damage done,
but at least the pain isn’t as intense as it used to be. Why, if circumstances were different, I’d say I had been given a new life. So I don’t
want to hear you wallowing in your guilt over my condition.”

He smiled. “I’m English, Vanessa. Obsessing over perceived impoliteness is my stock-in-trade.”

“Then find something else to obsess about, because I won’t have
you beating yourself up any longer,” she stipulated. “You were a different person then, Creighton. Working fourteen hours a day, seven
days a week at your family’s business. Traveling around the globe.
You were beginning to turn into … well, you were beginning to turn
into your father”

“Yes,” he agreed, “what a narrow squeak that was.”

“You seem more relaxed now; more like the Creighton Ashcroft
I know and love.” She drank some of her coffee. “What finally made
you give up the business and move to Connecticut?”

“My thirty-fourth birthday. I spent it alone, in my apartment,
looking out the window, watching the people on the sidewalk below scurrying about. Some had arms full of groceries, others carried small children, but they were all hurrying, as though there were
someplace important they couldn’t wait to get to, someone special
they couldn’t wait to see. And I realized that in my thirty-four years,
I had never rushed anywhere. Sure, there were meetings and appointments, but I had never rushed for something that I had chosen to do, never with any true sense of purpose. I had spent my entire
life trying to be someone I’m not, making other people happy, living
up to expectations.”

“So you resigned,” she filled in the blank.

“The very next day. Then I called a real estate agent and went
house hunting. I never liked the city. Noisy, dirty, full of those society phonies. So I searched for a house in the country. A house suitable for a wife and a family. Not that I had either of those things,
but hope springs eternal.” He fell silent as he became conscious
of how hollow his words sounded. What hope? All his hopes had
been dashed.

Vanessa, watching him, cited, “`But when the feast is finished and
the lamps expire, then falls thy shadow, Cynara, the night is thine,
and I am desolate and sick of an old passion”’

“Ernest Dowson,” Creighton attributed.

She took a sip of coffee and then flashed him a look of pity. “The
lady has quite a hold on you.”

He was intentionally obtuse. “What lady?”

“Marjorie McClelland.”

“No, Vanessa. If I’m sick and desolate of an `old passion’, it’s you,”
Creighton chuckled.

“Watch how you use the word `old,”’ Vanessa laughed. “Seriously
though, I was a crush, a schoolboy’s fantasy. But Marjorie-you’re
in love with her aren’t you?”

He polished off the rest of his drink, placed the empty glass
back on the table, and rose from his seat. “What does it matter?” he
replied impatiently as he leaned his arms against the back of the
sofa he had just vacated. “She doesn’t love me.”

“I think she does,” Vanessa countered. “She just doesn’t know
it yet.”

“When will she know it?” he asked sarcastically. “When we’re
both too old to do anything about it? Eh, Vanessa? When will she
know?”

“Maybe soon. Maybe never.”

“Thanks for cheering me up.” He retraced his steps to the other
side of the sofa and plopped back into it. “Well, never mind. I’ve
washed my hands of her. I decided last night that I wasn’t going to
sit around waiting for her to come to terms with her own emotions.
If she wants to marry Jameson, then let him have her and I hope
they’re very happy together. I have a life of my own to live: a house,
a car, an extensive library to read, and someday a wife.” He set his
jaw. “And when I do marry, it will be to a woman who knows what
she wants, who doesn’t play games, who doesn’t tease you half to
death only to resuscitate you and tease you again. Someone reliable
and sincere. Someone like you, Vanessa.” His eyes grew large as an
idea formed in his fevered brain. “Yes, someone like you.” He lunged
from the sofa and dropped to one knee before the Biedermeier chair.
“And who’s more like you, than you?”

She looked at him as though he were completely daft. “You’re
speaking in tongues, Creighton. I don’t understand a word of what
you’re saying.”

“I’m saying why don’t you and I give it a go? We always said
we’d get married someday.”

“We were children then!”

“Yes, but children sometimes see these things more clearly than
adults do.”

She shook her head. “You know that there was only one man
for me, Creighton, just as there is only one woman for you.”

“Yes, but you see, that’s the beauty of it. Neither of us has any
unrealistic expectations for our relationship. We care for each other,
of course, but neither of us is under the delusion that we’re in love
with each other. Therefore, there are no hearts to break, no feelings to hurt, no dreams to go unfulfilled. Ours would be a marriage
based on friendship and companionship.” He grabbed her by the
hand. “It could work, Vanessa. You could move to Connecticut with
me. I have plenty of room and the fresh air would do wonders for
your health.” He added, to sweeten the pot: “And I would see that
you wanted for nothing.”

She stared at him for a good long while. “And what about Alchemy?”

“Sell it. We have enough money.”

Her eyes misted over. “Oh, Creighton,” she sighed. “I couldn’t sell
the company, nor could I move out of this house. Apart from that
stupid box of tobacco, the house and the business are all I have left
of Stewart. I would rather die than part with them.”

Creighton went on, undeterred. “Then I’ll sell my house and
move in here. I could help you run the business.”

She laughed. “And be back where you were a few months ago.
Living in a big city and working around the clock at an office job
you hate.”

“But I wouldn’t be back where I was,” he explained. “I’d have
you.

“And you’d be willing to sell your home and move here, even
though you’d be miles away from Marjorie?” she challenged.

Creighton fell silent. The only thing sustaining him right now
was the consolation that at least if he could not have Marjorie for
himself, he could still be near to her.

“I thought not. It would appear that neither of us is willing to
surrender our ghosts” Vanessa placed her hand on his cheek. “I thank
you though, for asking. Maybe someday, when both of us have been
nearly consumed by our loneliness, maybe then we’ll be willing to
cash in the ghosts of the past for a ghost of a chance.” A tear slid silently down her face. “Until that day comes, I hope you’ll keep me in
mind.”

He removed her hand from his face and kissed it. “You know I
will.”

“Good” She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. “Then if
we’re finished with this foolishness, I think I’ll go to bed.” Using the
arms of the chair, she raised herself to a standing position. Creighton rose and helped her into the wheelchair. “Try to get some rest,
Creighton. I’m sure you’ll have a better outlook in the morning.”
She turned her chair toward the door of the study. “I think you’re
all set. You already know where your room is; I had the maid lay
your pajamas on the bed, and you’ll find a spare toothbrush in the
bathroom.”

Creighton grinned. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“Call it my maternal instinct,” Vanessa replied as she wheeled
herself out the door. “Good night, darling. Sleep well.”

“I’ll try.” He followed behind her and watched until she had
made it safely down the hallway, to her first-floor bedroom. When
the door had closed behind her, Creighton returned to the study.
During his conversation with Vanessa, he hadn’t noticed the phonograph playing in the corner of the room. Now that he was alone he heard Bing Crosby crooning: I thought at last I’d found you … but
other arms surround you …

Having refilled his cognac glass, he settled into the armchair
that Vanessa had occupied and took a long drink.

Alone again, he said to himself wistfully. He had hoped that
spending some time with Vanessa would help to fill the void he had
felt since the announcement of Jameson and Marjorie’s engagement, but witnessing his dear friend’s debilitated state-a state exacerbated by grief-just made his heart ache even more.

Life, it seemed, was nothing more than a series of bitter ironies.
Good men like Stewart Randolph always seemed to die young, while
ruthless men like his father appeared to live forever. Vibrant, energetic women like Vanessa fell ill and became confined to wheelchairs,
while the indolent shrews of the world remained healthy and complained incessantly over such maladies as indigestion and ingrown
toenails. As if that weren’t enough to rile his anger, Alfred Nussbaum,
a middle-aged, balding man who had gambled away his last cent, had
managed to find two wives, while Creighton didn’t even have one.

He swallowed the rest of his brandy in one gulp and sighed. Life,
to be certain, was not fair but, he mused, as he remembered the tooshort existence of Stewart Randolph, it was still better than the alternative.

With this bit of wisdom firmly implanted in his mind, Creighton decided to go to bed. He placed his empty glass on the cocktail
table and, reaching over to the crystal ashtray, rubbed out the stillsmoldering cigarette.

As Creighton left the darkened room, Crosby’s mellow voice
continued to sing: But what’s the use of scheming… I know I must
be dreaming… For I don’t stand a ghost of a chance with you …