Heartwood (16 page)

She dropped it, and got into bed.

“I
’m having lunch in the city today. With a writer—the one who wrote the article about me for that magazine,
Woman’s Life
,” Laura said. When the story had appeared a month earlier, somehow Robby had forgotten to read it. “She says she has a project she wants to discuss with me.”

“What kind of project?” Robby asked.

“I don’t know. Lillian—that’s her name, Lillian Anderson—was very mysterious. We’ll be having a late lunch, so I probably won’t get home before six. I’m leaving a roasted chicken in the oven for you and Katie for dinner tonight.”

–—

“I want to write a series of Laura McAllister books,” Lillian announced through a stream of cigarette smoke. She used a black cigarette holder, the frames of her outsized eyeglasses were
black and so was the headband that held back her blond bob. She was very dramatic when she spoke. “I am going to make us both a fortune, and you’ll be a household name!”

“You want to write a book about me?”

“I want to write one
with
you—and it’ll be more than one book. Essentially they’ll be an extension of your how-to column, but for an upscale reader. The books will be hardcover with all the bells and whistles, including tons of gorgeous photography featuring you demonstrating how to make finger sandwiches, or regrout a bathroom, or whatever. I’ll collaborate with you on the text.”

“But I’m not an expert on doing those things. I write my columns for a few hundred readers who know I don’t have any training. I just suggest what works for me.”

“That’s the point, dear! You’re Everywoman. You’ve never been to a culinary institute but you can cater a wedding—and bake and decorate the wedding cake. You’re not a professional gardener, or a professional decorator, but you do all of that as well. And you are able to explain it simply, so other women can do it too.” Lillian stubbed out her cigarette. “The way I see it, these books will really be about a lifestyle, Laura. A gracious one that is slipping away. If people want it today they have to pay a professional to do it for them, and most folks can’t afford that. But you’re offering them a way to create some of it for themselves.”

Laura’s mind flashed back to her grandmother’s house. “It was so generous,” she said softly. “That’s what we all remember. There was so much generosity and care.”

“In those old-fashioned homes our mothers ran? Is that what you mean?”

“And our grandmothers. That was how they said they loved
us, with the meals they cooked, and rooms they decorated, and gardens they planted.”

“Gardening and generosity—I never thought of it like that.”

“Neither did I before this minute.”

“So, I’m getting the feeling that you’d like to work with me on this?”

“Yes. I want to.”

“Thank God! Because I’ve already sold the idea to Crescent Publishing.”

“Crescent Publishing? They published a book by my husband’s college professor.”

“Yes, they’re a classy outfit. And now they’re trying to break into the more popular market. They’re very excited about you.”

–—

“My first book will be titled
Laura’s Weddings
,” Laura told Phil. “I’ll teach my reader—doesn’t that sound grand? ‘My reader.’ ”

“Very grand. Go on.”

“I’ll teach her everything she needs to know to put together an at-home wedding. I’ll show her how to make her own invitations and arrange her flowers, and there will be several chapters on picking a menu and recipes. I’ve even got a pattern for a little pouch to hold the birdseed the guests will throw at the bride and groom.”

“Why are you starting with a book about weddings?”

“Because I’m going to be doing Steve and Christina’s.” Steve had finally asked the ever-so-patient Christina to be his wife. “They’re getting married the second week in June so the timing for the book couldn’t be better, and all the photography for the illustrations can be done in my house because the wedding will
be in my ballroom, and I’ve built a brand-new kitchen for the catering portion of the business in the basement, so—”

“Hold on. You’re telling me you managed to convince Steve to let you put his wedding in your book?”

“It’ll really be about me and what I do.”

“But still, this is Steve we’re talking about. It took him forever to ask Christina to marry him because he hates fuss.”

“Yes, but I promised him that all the publicity would mention that he works for a not-for-profit organization that can always use donations, and he didn’t mind so much.”

“You are a manipulative woman.”

“I prefer the word persuasive.”

“You bribed him.”

“I had to.” Laura laughed. “I wanted him to agree. Lillian says the book will be much more personal and appealing if the wedding I’m planning is a family affair.”

“Oh, I understand that—but you’re still manipulative.”

–—

Laura hadn’t realized how much preparation went into the publishing of a book; it seemed to her as if Lillian was sending her daily notes about chapter headings and the correct way to spell “genoise.” But the real work on the project, as everyone liked to call it, couldn’t begin until a photographer was chosen.

“I know just the man,” Lillian said. “He’s amazing. You’ll adore him and he’ll make you and the wedding look like a million bucks. I’ll set up lunch for us.”

“I’ll be waiting to hear from you,” Laura said.

She waited for two weeks without hearing a word.

“Maybe this whole book was just a figment of my imagination,” she joked to Robby.

“That would make me feel a lot better about Crescent Publishing” he said. And he wasn’t joking.

“Really? It would?” She tried to keep the edge out of her voice.

“Come on, Laura. They publish serious educational textbooks. Not tips for the happy homemaker. But I guess even a publishing house like Crescent will do anything to make a dollar.”

“I’m sure you didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

He had the grace to be ashamed. “I’m sorry. I just can’t help remembering when I was the one who was going to write books. Important ones about civilization and the history of mankind, fool that I was.”

“There’s still time …”

“For what? I’ve been away from my real work for so long I don’t even remember who I was.”

“You could go back to school … maybe now it would be easier because there’s less pressure. I can support us.”

Why do I keep trying? Because I feel so sorry for him. And I’m tired of feeling sorry for the man in my life
.

“Oh yes. That would be the final humiliation, wouldn’t it? You already support us, my darling. I couldn’t have afforded that fancy new car you bought—”

“I needed it for the business … when I drive to appointments with clients—”

“That’s not the point,” he said as if he were talking to a child who wasn’t very smart. “On the miserable salary I make—and don’t think I ever forget for one minute that I owe my job to your brother’s charity—I could never compete with you.”

“Robby, we’re a couple. There’s no competition between us.” But that was a lie, and they both knew it.

Robby turned away. “I’m just saying, don’t be surprised if wiser heads have prevailed over at Crescent Publishing, and that’s why you haven’t heard from this hack writer they’ve assigned to you or the photographer you’ve never met. They could have decided the book isn’t up to their standards and they’re not going through with it.”

Even though Laura knew he’d just said it to be unkind, it rattled her. She tried calling Lillian Anderson, but the woman’s answering service said she wasn’t available. She started to call her editor at Crescent Publishing, but then she decided that would seem like she was worried about the project—which she was by then, but there was no need to let anyone know that. And then she had something more important than her book to worry about.

–—

“What are you talking about, Robby?” she demanded. It was a couple of days after their conversation about Crescent Publishing, and Robby had come home from work even though it was the middle of the morning. “What do you mean, you quit your job at the museum?”

“I couldn’t do it anymore—okay? I couldn’t keep on taking orders from Leland Barker’s crew of rich, smug bastards.”

“So you just walked out?”

“They think because they’ve managed to make a lot of money it means that they are qualified to tell me what to do. Well, they’re not. I’m the archaeologist, Laura. I’m the professional!” He was shouting, defending himself, but his voice was close to cracking. In spite of all his anger, he was scared. And his pride had been hurt.

I’m so tired of feeling sorry for him
.

But she couldn’t seem to help it. “What are you going to do now?” she asked more gently.

Instantly, his eyes lit up. “I have an idea. You were the one who suggested it, really.”

“I did?”

“You said you’d support us if I wanted to go back to school. Well, I’m not going to do that, I’m finished with university life, it’s too political, and too cutthroat. But I know I could write that book I always dreamed of.”

“You want to write a book?”

“I know I haven’t always followed through when I said I was going to do something. And maybe I didn’t try as hard as I could have to please Leland Barker. I never wanted to work at the museum, that was your brother’s idea—and yours. But this is different, Laura. This is something I really want to do. Just give me six months, and if I don’t have half a manuscript in shape to show to a publisher, I promise you I’ll take any job you want me to.”

If she didn’t say yes, he was going to be miserable. And he was going to make her life miserable. He’d hang around the house all day long while she tried to run her business and plan Steve and Christina’s wedding and work with Lillian. If Lillian ever bothered to return her calls.

“Don’t give yourself a deadline, Robby. Take as long as you need.”

–—

Robby rented a small office for himself in town. He said he couldn’t write at home, because Laura’s catering business caused too much confusion and noise. He was up and gone every morning by eight. When he’d worked at the museum he
had waited around so he could drive Katie to school, but that was now Laura’s job.

One morning, she awakened a half hour late. She grabbed an old corduroy skirt and a faded sweater, pulled them on and, not bothering to put on hose, jammed her feet into a pair of shabby loafers before running downstairs to make Katie’s breakfast and take her to school. When she returned, she headed for the kitchen. Normally when she was cooking or doing anything around the house, she wore a coverall. She had several of them, which she’d designed and sewn herself, all in bright colors and cut to flatter a figure like hers with her long slender legs and small waist. Laura liked to look pretty when she was working.

This morning, having gotten a late start, she didn’t bother to change her clothes but went straight to work rolling out the pâté brisee for the mushroom tarts she’d be serving at a cocktail party later in the week. But just as she was getting started, Molly scratched at her knee, asking to go outside. The dog was old now and didn’t see well, so she often got lost, and preferred to have a human companion when she ventured out of the house.

“All right, all right,” Laura said. She popped the dough into the refrigerator. “I’ll come with you.”

It was one of those early days in spring that can break the heart. The sky was turquoise blue, deep, yet clear enough to see through, with little puffs of white cloud scattered over it. The sun had warmed the ground, and green shoots were starting to poke up from under the mat of dried brown lawn left by winter. Underneath the old oaks that lined the driveway leading up to the house, the violets and lilies of the valley were preparing to flower, and in Laura’s gardens a few early crocuses and daffodils were sending out tentative blooms.

Laura led Molly down the steps of the wraparound porch and onto the grass. The old dog sniffed the air with a grunt of approval, and suddenly, without warning, began to run. The house was far back from the road and Molly would tire long before she reached it, but Laura kicked off her shoes and chased after her anyway. The brittle grass pricked her bare feet, her hair was flying and so was her skirt, and for a moment she was sixteen again and the only care she had in the world was deciding which of three smitten young men she’d choose to escort her to the spring dance.

“Molly, you demon, enough!” she called out, laughing. The dog stopped her mad dash, and laid down, panting happily, as Laura ran up and sat down on the grass beside her. Molly began rolling around on the warm earth in ecstasy.

“Oh, that must feel good,” Laura said. “If I could, I’d join you.”

“Me too,” said a masculine voice behind her. She whirled around to see a man standing in the sunshine.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Nicolas Sargent. I’m the guy who’s going to be taking your picture.”