Seasons of the Heart (45 page)

“Adam … don’t do this to me. Just give me some time.”

“Ann, you’ve got your time. I’m going for a walk. If you decide you want to go back to California, be so good as to be out of here by the time I get back in thirty minutes.” He glared at her, put on his coat, and left the apartment.

Adam, no …
her heart cried out. She ran to the door, ready to follow him, to tell him she would stay. Then she stopped. Phillip was weak and ill; Adam was strong. Phillip needed her more than Adam did. If she abandoned her husband, he would probably die. Wouldn’t her guilt then destroy her love for Adam?

Fifteen minutes passed. Ann picked up the phone and dialed airline reservations. When she hung up, she knew that her life with Adam was over—he was not the man to make idle threats. He had been wonderfully understanding during Evie’s illness, whereas Linda hadn’t been able to deal with the strain. He had stood fast. And this time, when he had told Ann to choose between him and her family, the issue was equally clear.

Weeping softly, Ann picked up her bag and walked to the door.

D
URING THE MONTHS THAT
followed, Ann willed herself to think of nothing but the present. If she let herself wonder about the future or dwell on the past, she knew she would soon find herself standing on the Golden Gate Bridge, ready to jump. Concentrating instead on each of Phillip’s small gains, she could keep her sanity.

When she was planning to move east, she had sold her office to another realtor who had promised to make May a partner. Now, without her business, she had little to do to occupy the long days. A solitary outing to Muir Woods or a lunch in Chinatown was an event; a letter from Evie, who had finally returned to Peter in Norway, was an occasion.

In time, Phillip recovered his speech, though it remained slurred and hard to understand. And he began to walk again, first leaning on Ann’s arm, then later with a heavy cane. Despite these improvements, he began spending his days looking up at the sky, strangely withdrawn. Ann realized that he needed more than just physical therapy. She began to give him small errands—to the post office or the grocery store—anything to keep him busy and out of the house.

Her new plan triggered another problem.

She would send him for one thing and he would come home with something different, often wholly inappropriate. Or he would come home empty-handed. And he would be devastated, knowing that he had gotten it wrong. He would beg Ann to forgive him, tears of frustration welling up in his eyes.

After this happened several days in a row, Ann became alarmed. She called the doctor, who said to wait a little longer and see if Phillip improved. Unhappily, he did not. He began to answer questions out of context, and he repeated himself often. He could remember exactly what had happened on the day of the Great Crash, but not where he had laid his trousers. Sometimes he would even forget what he was saying in the middle of a sentence. And one horrible morning, he hadn’t seemed to recognize Ann.

At that point, Dr. Cohn took him into the hospital for a battery of tests. Afterward, he asked Ann to come in for an appointment.

“He has Alzheimer’s disease, Ann,” Dr. Cohn said. “I thought I noticed a change the last time I examined him. It’s what most people call senility.”

“Oh, my God! But Phillip’s only fifty-four!”

“It isn’t a natural part of aging. We don’t know yet know if it’s genetic or if it’s caused by a virus.”

“Isn’t there any cure?”

“Unfortunately, Ann,” he replied gently, “there isn’t even any treatment, at least not yet.”

She stared at him, horrified. “Will he get worse?”

“It’s usually progressive. Frankly, from what you’ve told me, he’s deteriorating rapidly. I don’t know if you’ll be able to care for him at home much longer.”

Shaking her head resolutely, she said, “There’s no reason he should have to be institutionalized. I know how to care for invalids; my mother-in-law had a severe stroke and I cared for her at home until the day she died.”

Dr. Cohn eyed her somberly. “A stroke is one thing. Alzheimer’s is another. Phillip may become very difficult to handle. And it’s best that you be prepared. It’s not a question of being willing to care for him. Eventually you won’t be able to, and I don’t want you to feel guilty.”

Ann looked away, her eyes brimming with tears.

Finally she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “How long do you think I’ll be able to handle him?”

“That’s hard to say. Maybe a few months, maybe a few years.”

Ann left in a daze and spent several hours driving aimlessly around San Francisco, trying to gather the courage to return home. How could she face Phillip with this terrible new knowledge? Desperate for someone to talk with, she pulled into a service station and found a pay phone. But whom could she call? She thought a moment, looked at her watch, then dialed Adam’s office.

The receptionist answered.

“This is Ann Coulter. May I speak with Mr. Gayne?”

“I’ll see if he’s in. One moment, please.”

Please be in
, she wanted to scream into the phone.
Please be in. Please
.

Adam was surprised by how unnerved he felt when his receptionist announced the call. He had achieved some degree of inner peace by banishing Ann from his thoughts, and by God he wasn’t going to lose it. He had longed for her and had lost her enough times already, and he wasn’t strong enough to go through it all again. Despising his weakness, he told his receptionist, “Marie … please tell Mrs. Coulter that I’m not available.”

When Marie relayed the message, Ann gripped the receiver until her knuckles turned white. She thought she was going to faint. She hung up, then dropped to her knees in the tiny steel and glass booth and whimpered like a wounded animal.

That was the last time she had tried to call Adam. Even on the dreadful December day when she had placed Phillip in a nursing home, she kept her grief to herself. In the end, it hurt much less.

Although she didn’t need the money, she opened a new real estate office in nearby San Mateo and buried herself in her work. Her only self-indulgence was a weekly phone call to Evie in Norway—Peter’s contract there had been extended—to reassure herself that Evie and Peter were still as happy as ever. They were.

It was nearly eleven one rainy night when Ann returned exhausted from a tax-shelter seminar to find a worried-looking Consuela waiting up for her. “Mrs. Coulter—the nursing home called. They want you to call right away.”

Her heart pounding, Ann dialed the number. Had Phillip fallen? Injured himself in some way? But the news was far worse: he had died in his sleep earlier that evening.

A
FTER THE FUNERAL, ONCE
the mourners had left and Evie and Peter had gone upstairs to pack, Ann sat alone in the living room and made a decision. She couldn’t go back and change the past, but she could try to take charge of her future. It had been over a year since she had last seen Adam, and six months since he had refused to accept her call.

This time she would try him at home.

She looked at her watch. Her hand hesitated over the receiver. This was the moment of truth. Did she have the courage to reach out for whatever chance she might have remaining for her happiness? It was a gamble, but she had to take it.

“Operator, I want to place a person-to-person call to New York … to Mr. Adam Gayne….”

Turn the page to read an excerpt from Cynthia Freeman’s
The Days of Winter

Spring

T
HE YEAR WAS 1914
. …The time was spring … the place was Paris … and all the poetry that belonged uniquely to that magnificent goddess was on display. The chestnut trees were in bloom … the boulevards were alive with people. Like a Monet painting they sat at the sidewalk cafés. The boats floated languidly along the Seine. Montmartre sang with a voice of inspired imagination which was translated onto the canvases, conjured up from the soul of the artist as he painted under the trees, hoping for a buyer.

Rubin mused. …If life allowed one the freedom to choose a secret desire, his first love would be painting. But he felt no bitterness in the fleeting thought. One must not be tempted by dreams that deny reality. …No need to dwell upon it since his life had been predestined from the cradle, as it had been for all four of the Hack sons. …

The Hacks had been barristers for two hundred years, starting with Rubin’s great-great-grandfather, Isaac, and perpetuating up to the time of Nathan, Rubin’s father. Nathan was also a member of the House of Commons. The firm of Hack was indeed prestigious; on the door were five names. There was much reason for Nathan to be grateful, Rubin knew, especially when he looked back and considered his blessings. Every two years a son had lain in his arms. When he had looked down at each newborn, just separated from the body of his beloved wife Sara, Nathan had reveled in the knowledge that this child would continue the legacy established by the house of Hack. There had been a Hack in the House of Commons at the time of Disraeli. Yes, Nathan was a proud and happy man. Life had endowed him generously.

Three of his sons had married into families of distinction. Maurice, the eldest, had married Sylvia Rothchild, Phillip chose Matilda Lilienthal as his bride, Leon’s great love was the exquisite Deborah Mayer, and now there was cause for further pride. Rubin, the youngest, was betrothed to Jocelyn Sassoon, a name so illustrious that even Nathan stood in awe.

Rubin’s thoughts on that spring day, however, were not centered on Nathan’s joys, but on his own pleasures as he walked the crooked, cobblestoned streets of Montmartre. His life had been filled with the grandeur of tradition and culture. Sometimes it was overpowering.

When Rubin had left London to visit Paris, he took a room on the Left Bank, which his family was unaware of. He should have been staying at the home of his dear friend Emile Jonet, where he still picked up his mail, but that address would not have given him the thing he was seeking. The Paris he wanted was filled with intoxication, excitement, the feeling of being free that he was not privileged to enjoy at home. He felt stifled at home, but here he felt as though he could soar like a bird.

That evening Rubin walked along the Rue de l’Odeon, turned right until he stood in front of Sylvia Beach’s book shop. He allowed his mind to dwell on the past and the present. Ezra Pound … James Joyce … Rubin tried to imagine the great men and women who had stepped over the threshold of that outwardly unimpressive little book shop. Exhilarated, he felt a compulsion to walk further until he came to 27 Rue de Fleurus, where Gertrude Stein lived. From across the street he looked up, trying to imagine her sitting inside, surrounded by the greatest treasures of modern art like some giant enchantress toward whom everyone felt subservient. For one moment he allowed himself to feel that he would never be privileged to open that door. Then just as quickly he dismissed the thought and replaced it with a joyous feeling that at least he had been privileged to stand on this street so close to greatness. Lighting a cigarette, he smoked it contentedly as he leaned against a lamp post.

Suddenly he laughed out loud, looking down at his dirty canvas shoes and his baggy corduroy trousers above which he wore a brown V-necked sweater. If Father could see me now, he thought, he would glare at me with fierce disapproval. Nathan was a meticulous man who believed that the proof of his status as a gentleman lay in his tailor. Rubin could see his beloved father now in the great London synagogue on Yom Kippur eve sitting in his black cutaway jacket and silk top hat, the
tallis
folded neatly around his neck, communing with God. Not that Rubin was irreverent … but Nathan loved God as Rubin loved Paris. The difference, however, was that Nathan must stand before his God dressed as a gentleman, whereas Rubin could stand before his goddess dressed in the garb of Bohemia.

With these thoughts Rubin wandered through the Paris night, along the quay and up the steep stone steps past Nôtre Dame. He realized two things: He had been in Paris for three days and had not written Jocelyn; also, he had not eaten since early that morning. He would accomplish both things at once. He found a shop and bought a postcard and a stamp. Leaving the shop in search of a café, mentally he wrote … “My dearest Jocelyn …Please forgive me … for my neglect in not writing sooner … but … since I arrived in Paris there has been so much to see … Cézanne, Picasso, et cetera, et cetera, have taken a good part of my time. …The Museum of Modern Art has haunted my dreams.” Stupid, simply stupid, Rubin admonished himself. It was not a travelogue he was writing but a love letter to his betrothed. Begin again, now. …“My dearest Jocelyn, since arriving my every thought has been of you. I beg your indulgence for not having written sooner, but getting settled in Paris this year has somehow been difficult. My fervent prayer is that when I return it will be with my Jocelyn so that we may share the beauty that is only to be compared with you. Until then I wait for the moment when my holiday is complete to hold you in my arms. With love, Rubin.”