Wicked Forest (33 page)

"This is the best thing you have ever done.

Linden," Thatcher declared. "You've captured the most beautiful things about Willow, and it's so tasteful and interesting. It makes you feel good. Most of your work addresses the darker side of our consciousness."

he added.

Linden wasn't paying any attention to him. His eyes were fixed on me.

"You've made me too beautiful. Linden." I said.

"That's how I see you."

"I imagine that's my hand there, barely seen,"

Thatcher said.

Linden didn't reply. It was as if he and I were alone in the room.

"We'll put it right over our bed. right. Willow?"

"Yes. Thank you, Linden. It's the nicest gift of all." I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

"I'll see to getting it hung for you," he said.

"Great," Thatcher said. He shook Linden's hand vigorously, too vigorously, then turned to me and said. "We've got to get moving. You know how long it will take to say goodbye to my mother."

"Right. Take care of Mother while we are away, Linden." I said.

"I always do." he replied.

When Thatcher opened the door for me. I

looked back at Linden. He was standing proudly beside his picture and smiling.

There was no doubt in my mind and no doubt in my heart that the hand coming- from the darkness toward me wasn't Thatcher's. It was his.

That small cloud of concern was wiped out of the diamond-studded sky of stars the moment we got into our limousine, Mother. Bunny. Asher. and Amou came out to see us off. everyone wishing us a wonderful time.

It was a spectacular wedding after all, wasn't it?" I asked Mother.

"Yes. Well have to give the devil her due.

Bunny pulled it off in true Palm Beach spectacular fashion. Did everything else go all right?" she asked.

meaning Linden's picture.

"Yes. It's really beautiful, different from anything else he has done."

"Good. He needs some success."

We hugged. I hugged Amou, the tears running down both our cheeks intermingled.

"We'll come to see you next. Aram," I promised. "I hope so," she said. "
0 deus abençoa-o.
"

"God bless you. too," I said. and Thatcher and I at into the limousine. I looked back at them all and waved one last time.

"Stop crying." Thatcher said. laughing. "You're not going to prison. You're going to the Cote d'Azur."

"These are tears of happiness. Thatcher." He laughed.

What else do we do that has such diametrically opposite meanings besides cry? We cry when we're happy; we cry when we're sad. Someone looking at us from afar might not know which we are feeling.

Maybe we're always feeling a little of both. On this most important of days. I was saying goodbye to the little girl left in me. It was time to let go of most of that.

But I saw her standing there with Amou,

waving to me, crying herself.

How do you feel about that?
I heard Daddy ask.

I ache inside. Daddy. Why can't we keep it all, our innocence and our dreams, keep them alongside reality and maturity?

Why do you think we can't?

Responsibilities, responsibilities for others. But sometimes I think it's too high a price to pay.

I could see him in my mind, nodding, looking thoughtful, thinking about his own life and those dreams he he'd had and lost.

"Hey," Thatcher cried. "Stop looking so serious already. We're free of it all. For a week we'll be in paradise, okay?"

"Okay," I said, cuddling up to him and under his arm. We kissed. and I looked ahead and tried to do just what he wanted, forget everything but ourselves,

.

In Eze, France, that was not a hard thing to do.

After we landed in Nice, we were driven for about twenty-five minutes up to the walled medieval hill village with streets too narrow for cars. The limousine stopped at the parking area just outside the ancient walls and the château. Converted from eleventh-century houses— which meant some bedrooms were in separate buildings— the château looked old but had very modern conveniences, including fax and Internet lines in the suite, which made Thatcher happy, even though he had been the one to demand we throw off the world and step into this storybook place.

I felt sorry for the bellhops who had to carry the luggage all the way up. I made sure Thatcher gave them a bonus tip. The view from our balcony was truly breathtaking, overlooking the coast and Cap Ferrat, The water was a turquoise shade I had never seen, and with the sailboats, ocean liners, and motorboats out there, it was like looking through a magic window into a make-believe world.

The first thing we did was order in some food, and then we crawled into bed to deal with our jet lag, but we weren't beside each other long before we began to make love. I kept thinking about my cousin's revelations concerning her honeymoon and sexual relations. Thatcher was not perfect— no one could be—but he was not a selfish lover. At times I suspected that came from his male pride. It was always important to him to hear that I was satisfied.

He made it seem like a performance.

There you go, Willow
, I told myself,
always
analyzing even your lovemaking.
I tried to shut myself up and just enjoy our days.

How wonderful they were. Breakfast on a patio that overlooked the bay. Walks through the ancient village with its little shops full of handcrafts, the gardens, the restaurants in town, the perfume factory where we behaved like two teenagers spraying each other with the test bottles until the saleslady pleaded with us to behave,

"People on vacation always feel younger and act younger." Thatcher declared, "There's this sense of abandon, of freedom, don't you think. Doc?"

He had begun to nickname me "Doc,' teasing me about the way I studied people and analyzed their behavior,

"I can see now who will be the one who doesn't leave her work at the shop," he said.

The world is my shop," I told him, and he said.

"Touché. I'd better watch myself."

It was he, however, who surprised me with a strange announcement after the phone in our room rang the morning of our fourth day. He thought I was still asleep so he spoke very softly. When he hung up, I stirred and asked who that was.

"I've been tracked down," he said.

"What do you mean?" I sat up.

"I have this big client in France. He owns property in Palm Beach and he is heading up a conglomerate to invest in and build a new hotel there.

Its very involved, but it looks like it will happen and yours truly will reap mucho moola for us."

He went to the closet and began to choose his clothes. "Where are you going? It's so early."

"I have to meet him and two of his associates in Nice." He smiled. "I'm giving you this little intermission, this little break from being totally consumed by Thatcher Eaton, but it won't be for long:'

"Break? How long will you be gone?"

"It's a meeting and then lunch. I'll be back by mid-afternoon," he said. "You wanted to do some shopping for gifts anyway, and I was never very good at that, never had the patience for it. I'd only be a drag and spoil it for you. We're having dinner here tonight," he added quickly. "I've arranged for the best table, one by the window with a view that will knock your socks off."

"But this is our honeymoon, Thatcher. How can you have arranged for a business meeting?"

"I didn't exactly arrange it. As I said, they tracked me down, and there is some urgency to it all.

It's actually a great idea to take advantage of my presence here. I can meet with some of the other partners, and it would save me a trip back to France in a few weeks. This is definitely the lesser of two evils, Willow. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"How are you getting to Nice?"

"They have sent a car for me. These are heavy hitters. honey. They spare no expense, and that, my dear, includes my lofty legal fees as well as a piece of the action."

He kissed me on the cheek.

'Don't look so down. Remember what they say,

'Absence makes the heart grow fonder.' "

"I thought our hearts were fond enough of each other," I retorted.

"Never too much fondness. It's always good to have some to spare. Don't pick up any handsome young Frenchman while I'm away," he warned, and headed out.

"Thatcher," I moaned, but he was gone.

I fell back on my pillow and pouted for a while before deciding he was right. A little private time was probably healthy, and I did want to get the shopping done. I ate by myself on the patio, read the
International Herald Tribune
, and then got dressed and began to walk the cobblestone streets, visiting shops, thinking about gifts that would please Mother.

Amou. Linden, and even Thatcher's parents, not that there was anything they would appreciate for more than a fleeting few seconds.

In one shop where they made interesting signs and little posters, they had a quote taken from Sigmund Freud. I thought Professor Fuentes would love to hang it in his office, so I bought it and had it sent to him.

It read. "The great question that has never been answered and which I have not yet been able to answer despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul is, 'What does a woman want?' "

I laughed to myself, imagining the look on his face when he opened the package and read that, especially considering the female students he had in his classes, including me.

After shopping, I sat in a small courtyard restaurant and had a salad, some wonderful French bread, and a glass of merlot. Below the patio a young man was sitting on a bench and playing an accordion.

I thought he was very good, although most of his tunes were melancholy. It left me thoughtful, and I hated being dropped into a pit of pensive and philosophical thought on this happiest of all holidays.

Afterward, I went to the pool and sunbathed on a lounge. The people around me were from Germany, other parts of France, and even Japan. The mixture of different languages, the spools of laughter that unraveled from the happy couples around me, soon became background music to my ears, and before I realized it. I dozed off. I didn't wake until I felt a nudge and looked up to see Thatcher smiling down at me.

"You're getting a little too much sun, Willow.

Your face is very red."

"Oh," I cried, sitting up quickly, "I must have fallen asleep. Maybe the wine at lunch—"

"So that's what you do when I leave you for a little while? Drink yourself silly, huh?" he teased.

I glanced at my watch. It was a little after four.

"You haven't exactly been gone for a little while," I complained.

"I know, This became a little more complicated than I had expected. Did you get your shopping done?"

―Yes.‖

"Then you didn't waste any time," he said. "I would suggest you came inside, take a cool shower, and get something on your skin before you peel and suffer."

"Okay," I said, and gat up quickly.

We returned to our suite and I did exactly what he had suggested. Then we had a cocktail on the patio and I described some of the gifts I had bought. I didn't tell him about the gift I had sent to Professor Fuentes, Instinctively, I felt he might be a little jealous about it, although he had no reason to be.

That night we had a wonderful dinner. Thatcher was right about the view. Afterward, we sat outside and looked up at the stars and down at the water. It was a very romantic end to what had started as a disappointing day.

When we left Eze, I truly felt as though we were returning to the real world. We had been in a dream, floating on love, touching the stars. Our plane would bring us back to earth. I remember thinking as the wheels touched down that this was it, the beginning of a new life with all the questions to be answered, the roads to travel.

A whirlwind of events and revelations had brought me to this place. In a sense. I'd had little to do with it I was born to it. Now, perhaps for the first time. I had something to say and some control of my own destiny. Into what kind of world would I bring my children? What gifts and what burdens would I bequeath to them? How many questions would I leave unanswered, and how daunting would be their effort to answer them?

I loved Thatcher. He was the most exciting, handsome, and confident man I had ever met, other than my father, but there were so many dark areas in him I had yet to explore and to understand. It takes a long time to get to know someone, even someone you love very much. There are layers and layers to lift away, and all you could do and all you could hope for was that when you went deep enough, you would discover wonderful things and not something that made you regret ever having begun to explore and discover.

Most married people don't bother. They live on a superficial layer of thin ice and skate carefully around each other. They don't ask. They don't think about it They turn away and distract themselves, and if one day they fall through, they pull themselves up and skate off to find another companion on another layer of thin ice, a companion just as eager not to look too deeply at them.

How do they sleep? What do they dream? My adoptive mother surely must have known how far out of love with her my father had fallen, but she chose to pretend it wasn't so or it wasn't very important. Just before she died, did she have a suddenness of regret?

Did she remember her fantasies, those romances on the screen and in books that she had hoped would be true for her? Is it more painful to die with disappointment?

That will never be me,
I thought with confidence.

I reached for Thatcher's hand, and he smiled.

-Happy to be home:" he asked.

"No," I said, and he laughed.

"We'll go back someday," he promised.

No, I thought. You could never go back. Every moment was fresh and special. You could only go ahead and hope to have similar ones or better ones.

Love is like a good book: You turn the page to go on and wish it would never end.

I turned the page.

14

Brothers and Sisters

.

When we arrived home, we discovered that