Promises to Keep Page 29

  “Is it working?” Callie asked Mark the other day, halfway through the radiation sessions. “Can you tell? Because I feel horrible, and I’m starting to forget things. My brain is turning to mush. I’m losing words.”

  “That’s normal,” Mark assured her. “It’s still too early to tell if the radiation is helping the neurological symptoms. We need to finish the course and then we’ll do the scans and see where we are.”

  “And if it hasn’t worked?” she insisted.

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said.

  But there are other things happening that do not bode well. She is growing weaker and weaker—she needs help to raise herself to a sitting position in bed, she cannot walk, and two days ago she had “an accident.”

  Now, she is in adult diapers, which her mother lovingly changes, cleaning her up and washing her gently in the bed.

  Everyone is scared.

  Eliza and Jack seem to be coping—to them it seems as though there is a big party every night, and everyone is making an enormous fuss of them. But Honor has seen Jack punch his pillow, in the quiet of his room, when he thinks no one is watching, a burst of anger that he doesn’t want to express anywhere other than in private.

  The psychologist, who is now visiting them at home, has said this is normal, and that it is also normal that he is not showing his sadness—at six, he is really too young to understand.

  Eliza, though, becomes clingy and upset as the evening wears on. She creeps into her parents’ bedroom at night and crawls quietly onto the bed, tucking herself into her mother. This is a child who has never spent a night in her parents’ bed in her life, whose parents believed their bed was sacred; but circumstances are different now, and Callie will wake slightly and snuggle into her daughter, stroking her hair until Eliza falls back to sleep.

  Honor is exhausted. She does not look in the mirror anymore, unless she absolutely has to. Her entire face looks as if it has been pulled down, and she wakes up each morning honestly not knowing how she is going to get through the day, but knowing that she has to. For the sake of Callie, and the kids, and Reece, she has no other choice.

  The first time Callie had an accident, she was mortified. Honor tried to reassure her that she didn’t mind in the slightest.

  “Darling, I first cleaned you up forty-three years ago. It may have been a while, but I haven’t forgotten how to do it.”

  Reece has been giving Callie her showers—wheeling her into the bathroom and gently washing her—and Honor was shocked when she stripped off Callie’s nightdress and saw how she is truly nothing more than skin and bone. Her hip bones are protruding painfully, her thighs now concave. Honor closed her eyes for a second, willing the tears away as she sponged down her daughter, then put her in the wheelchair while she changed the sheets, calmly and quickly, chattering away about the kids, telling Callie funny stories about Jack.

  She was cheerful and gracious, and when she left the bedroom she gave her daughter a kiss, then walked calmly down the corridor with a bundle of sheets that needed washing in her arms, before sinking down outside the laundry room in tears.

  Walter found her there. He stood quietly as Honor sobbed, then crouched down, creakily, for he is not as young as he used to be, to awkwardly pat her back. Honor leaned her head on his arm as her body heaved, and after a few minutes he rested his forehead on top of her head, breathing in the smell of her hair, and closing his eyes as the weight of grief descended.

  They stayed there for a very long time.

  Now, tonight, Honor sits on the sofa closest to the fire, a bowl of soup, which is all she can manage, her appetite having gone, on the table in front of her. The Christmas tree is up, the lights are sparkling and gifts are underneath, but there is nothing festive this year in the Perry household, although everyone tries, when the children are around.

  The fire is dying down. Walter has taken it upon himself to build a roaring fire every night—it’s what Callie always does, all winter, and even though she is no longer able to come downstairs, it is important to Walter to keep this going.

  Callie would always light a fire as soon as she got up, so the children came downstairs before school to a cozy room, and could start their day with hot chocolate and muffins in front of the fire. And when they returned the fire would again be blazing.

  Now Honor stares blankly into the fire, looking up only when she hears a noise.

  Walter is standing in the doorway, a cup of tea in his hand.

  “I thought you might like some tea,” he says.

  “Oh Walter. Thank you. That’s so . . . kind.” He places the tea on the table next to her, and thinks about how much they have both changed.

  They should never have been married; she knew that then, and knows it now. But it was because they were so young, and so different—and those differences were so startling back then—that for her there was no way out of feeling trapped.

  And now? Walter is still a kind man, as he always was. She has thought, often, these past couple of weeks, of the good things in their marriage. The way he always took care of her. The way he is taking care of her now.

  She has thought, often, of how much she must have hurt him. That his hatred for her wasn’t in fact hatred, but deep resentment and upset. That he couldn’t express his pain any other way than to remove himself entirely from her life.

  “Come sit,” she says, patting the sofa next to her. Walter isn’t sure, but eventually he sits down as Honor takes the tea and sips it.

  “This is perfect. Just the way I like it.”

  “A drop of milk and half a sugar?”

  “Yes. Exactly. You remember.”

  “I do.”

  “Do you forgive me, Walter?” she says quietly, after a few seconds.

  He looks at her, startled.

  “I know how you have hated me all these years, and I want to say, now, that I am sorry. I truly did not know what else to do.”

  “I didn’t hate you,” Walter says slowly. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s all . . . water under the bridge.”

  “Don’t you think we ought to talk about it?” Honor asks.

  Walter shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I think we ought not to talk about it. The past is the past, and it doesn’t matter. We were both young, and different. We made whatever choices we made based on who we were then. I was . . . cloistered, I think. I didn’t really know anything about anything, and you were so . . . so full of fire. I wanted some of that. I wanted to escape this staid, dull existence, the life I was expected to lead, and you were the most exciting woman I had ever met.”

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk about it,” Honor says.

  “We’re not.” Walter holds her gaze. “All that matters now is Callie, and being here for her.” He blinks and turns toward the fire, and Honor watches him, surprised that his eyes look watery. Walter is not a man who has ever been comfortable showing emotion in front of others.

  As she watches, Walter makes a noise, halfway between a grunt and a gasp, and, stunned, she realizes that he is crying. He is finally breaking down, and she reaches over and takes him in her arms.

  Curried Parsnip and Apple Soup

  Ingredients

  1 tablespoon butter

  1 pound parsnips, peeled and cut into chunks

  2 apples, peeled, cored and sliced

  1 medium onion, chopped

  2 teaspoons curry powder

  1 teaspoon ground cumin

  1 teaspoon ground coriander

  1 clove garlic, crushed

  4 cups good stock

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Method

  Heat the butter, and when it is foaming, add the parsnips, apples and onions. Soften them but do not let them color.

  Add the curry, cumin, coriander and garlic; cook for about 2 minutes, stirring well. Pour in the stock slowly, stirring until well mixed. Cover and simmer gently for about 30 minutes, or until the parsnips are quite soft. Puree
with a handheld blender, and add more water or stock if it is too thick. Salt and pepper to taste.

  You can also add cream for a less healthy version. Garnish with chopped chives.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Steffi is doing the morning rounds, first to Mary’s store, to drop off soups, muffins and cookies, then to Amy’s with food for the week.

  Yesterday she baked gingerbread men, with holes in the top and red velvet ribbons, for children to hang from a tree. “If anyone wants,” she said to Mary, as she dropped them off, “I can ice their children’s names on them.”

  “Lovely idea!” Mary said enthusiastically. “Why don’t we make a sign? Oh Steffi, I am so happy you moved here. People have started coming in telling me they made the journey especially because they heard we had the best food around.”

  Steffi’s eyes grow wide with joy. “Seriously? People said that?”

  “Yes. Three people came in yesterday, and the local paper called. They left a message saying they wanted to write an article about the food here!”

  “I couldn’t be happier that it’s working out.”

  “What am I going to do when you leave?”

  “Leave?” Steffi laughs. “I’m completely in love with it here. Why would I leave?”

  “But I heard Mason was back. I thought he was moving in again.”

  “What?” Steffi stops still, in shock. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Mary says, capitulating. “Probably nothing.”

  “No, tell me. He emailed me just the other day and he didn’t say anything about this. Are you sure it’s him? What do you mean, he’s back?”

  “Mick said he’d run into him down at the inn, and he said he was here for a while.”

  “But why would he come back and not tell me?” Steffi feels a clutch of fear around her heart. Maybe he has come back to ask her to leave. Oh God. She has to find him now.

  “Is he staying at the inn?”

  Mary nods, worried that she has somehow rocked the boat, said something she shouldn’t have said.

  “I’m going to go and find him,” Steffi says. “Sorry, Mary. I’ve got to go.” And she flies out, climbs into the old station wagon and drives down to the inn.

  “Hi,” she says to the man sitting behind the old mahogany desk in the reception area. “I’m looking for Mason Gregory. Is he staying here?”

  “Steffi?” She hears her name called from the library, and Mason, who has been sitting in a wing chair by the fire, stands up.

  “Mason? What are you doing here?” Nerves prevent her from being pleased to see him.

  “Well, that’s a fine greeting,” he says, his smile now turning into a frown.

  “I’m sorry.” She sighs. “I just . . . why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to Sleepy Hollow?”

  “I hadn’t planned it,” he says. “It was a last-minute decision.”

  “But . . . why are you here?” she blurts out. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “Leave?” He looks confused before bursting into laughter. “Oh God, no! I’m not here to kick you out. Is that what you thought?”

  Sheepishly, she dips her head.

  “Oh Steffi. I am so sorry. Let’s start again. Steffi! Lovely to see you!”

  “Mason!” she says. “What a gorgeous surprise!” And he kisses her, European style, on each cheek.

  “So really,” she says, taking a step back, “what are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story,” he says. “And not a particularly good one.”

  “Uh-oh. Sounds ominous. The job?”

  “I’d have to start at the beginning and it would take a while.”

  “Why don’t you come with me? I’m off to Amy Van Peterson’s to drop off food. You can tell me all about it on the way.”

  “Deal,” he says, following her out to the car.

  “So what happened?” Steffi turns her head as they bounce along a dirt road on the way to Amy’s. “Job didn’t work out?”

  “No, the job’s fine. Marriage, on the other hand? Not so good.”

  “What!” Steffi pulls the car to a stop and turns to him. “Your marriage? What are you talking about?”

  “We separated.”

  “What?” she blusters, truly shocked.

  “Okay. That’s not strictly true. Olivia left me.”

  There is a silence as Steffi gapes at him. “What do you mean, she left you?”

  “Well. It turns out that during all those frequent trips to London to get the apartment ready, and meet with the decorator, and choose furniture, she was in fact falling in love with the decorator.”

  “He’s straight?” Steffi asks, after a beat.

  “Apparently so. Something of a surprise to me too.”

  “So that’s it? It’s over?”

  Mason shrugs.

  “Where are the kids?”

  “They’re with her. In London. In this huge Belgravia apartment that’s all white.”

  “Mason, I’m so sorry.” Sympathetically, Steffi lays a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”

  He stares at the dashboard for a while, before looking up at Steffi. “I never thought I’d admit this to anyone but, more than anything, I’m . . . relieved.”

  “You are?”

  He nods, sadness in his eyes. “Our marriage hasn’t worked for years. I’m not sure if it ever really worked. I was so flattered that someone like Olivia chose me, and she . . . well, I’m not sure why she did, really. I think she expected greater things from me. She has spent our marriage being disappointed in all the things I haven’t achieved.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re this incredible publisher with a string of bestsellers under your belt.”

  “Well, thank you for pointing that out, but Olivia didn’t much care about strings of bestsellers. She wanted me to support her, and I guess she never felt I made enough money.”

  “But what difference does it make to her? I thought she was worth a fortune.”

  “She is, but as she always used to point out, that was her money, to be spent on things she wanted, and it was my job, as the man of the family, to pay for everything else.”

  “Did you buy that apartment?” Steffi asks in horror.

  “Are you kidding? That’s one of the most expensive apartments ever to sell in the history of real estate in New York. I couldn’t have bought that apartment in my dreams. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t have bought that apartment in my dreams. That was all Olivia’s doing. Her apartment, her money, in her name. I told her it was ridiculous, but Olivia’s all about keeping up with those society girls. If they do good, she’ll do better. If they buy big, she’ll buy bigger. Let’s face it,” he says with a shrug, “she can afford it.”

  “So . . . what about your relationship? Was it bad?”

  “You know, I don’t want to sit here and say bad things about her. She’s the mother of my children. I thought we were, if not happy, at least . . . fine. There are many, many kinds of marriages, and relationships, and few of them are great. Most of them just plod along, and even if you think you’ve made a mistake, you find a way to make it work.”

  “Did you think you’d made a mistake?”

  “I didn’t really give it too much thought. I wasn’t happy, but I wouldn’t have wanted to leave the kids and, honestly, I never wanted to break up the family.”

  “What about the kids? Are they okay? What are you going to do about custody?”

  “I don’t know.” For the first time, Mason looks truly pained. “It’s one of those things we’ll have to work out.”

  “So how long are you back here?”

  “I don’t know that either. London is great, but I don’t want to stay there by myself—I don’t have friends there, I don’t know it. We thought I’d be needed there for a year, but in fact the company is running itself. The publishing director is solid, and my being there just isn’t necessary.” He stops. “I just don’t know
how it’s going to play out. The hardest thing is the kids. I can’t stand not being with them every day.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “I needed to be in Sleepy Hollow just to . . . digest everything. To be honest, I thought about calling you, but I didn’t want to burden you. I just . . . I love this place. It’s the one place I feel truly at home, and I needed to feel comforted. John and Kathy, who run the inn, are old friends and they said I could stay as long as I needed to.”

  “But I feel horrible, being in your house. It’s crazy that you’re here. Why don’t you come and stay at the house?”

  “I couldn’t.” Mason shakes his head. “That would be far too much of an imposition. I’m just here to get some peace and quiet and gather my thoughts. I didn’t even plan on seeing you. I don’t want to get in your way or make you uncomfortable in any way. Although I do miss Fingal. How is he?”

  “Mason!” Steffi slugs him on the arm. “Don’t be such an ass. Fingal misses you, and you have a home here. You’re coming home with me, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Mason says, as Steffi starts up the engine, but he is smiling.

  “I know I don’t have to. I want to.” She shoots him a sideways glance. “If you’re nice I’ll even cook for you.”

  “How’s Callie?” he asks, as they start bumping along the road again. “How are you?”

  “Callie’s pretty shitty, and I’m much the same way.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Nothing. I don’t think anyone can do anything. Maybe, if you want, you could come with me? I’m going there later.” Steffi has no idea why she says this. She is supposed to be bringing Stan. Not Mason. But the words are out there now, and it is too late.

  “I’d love to,” he says. “Thank you.”

  Lila stops at Starbucks on the way to Callie’s for a grande nonfat latte and a chocolate-glazed doughnut to eat in the car.

  She knows she isn’t supposed to have the doughnut, but when Lila is stressed, or sad, or anxious, she eats. And right now she is all of the aforementioned, and it is making her starving.