Promises to Keep Page 6

The idea of running was so much more appealing than the actual running, which is exactly how the work trips are beginning to feel. God, is he happy to be coming home.

  Reece sips his champagne and leans his head back, closing his eyes as the last stray passengers file down the aisle.

  “I’m sorry.” His arm is bumped and he opens his eyes to see a woman standing over him, her bag resting on his arm while she steps back and attempts to lift what is obviously a very heavy carry-on case into the overhead locker.

  “Let me help.” Reece’s good manners take over and he jumps up and pushes the case in for her.

  “Wow! Thank you.” She smiles and, naturally, sits beside him. “I’m Alison.”

  “Reece,” he says, thinking: Oh God. Please, no. Not a Chatty Cathy. It’s a night flight, and the last thing he wants is someone who’s going to yammer away all night long, even if she is, well, rather attractive.

  On his flight over there were two businessmen sitting in front of him who got drunk and didn’t shut up all night. Reece was furious. Tonight he just wants to sleep.

  Please don’t ask me what I’ve been doing in South Africa, he thinks, smiling tightly and wondering how to convey that he really doesn’t want to talk, without being rude.

  “Do you mind if I . . .” She gestures to her own iPod.

  He smiles again, and this time it is with genuine gratitude. “I’m planning on doing the same,” he says, and they both laugh.

  Reece wakes up, sweating. He had turned his seat into a bed, wrapped himself up in a blanket and slept most of the way.

  He pushes the blanket off and eases the bed up, seeing that the cabin is still dark, an eerie glow coming from one or two seats as people watch a movie.

  He pulls out the toothbrush and gingerly climbs over the sleeping form of—what was her name? Alison?—and makes his way to the bathroom where he brushes his teeth and swirls the mouthwash around until he starts to feel vaguely human.

  “Could I get some coffee, please?” he asks the stewardess when he walks out, and she smiles as he makes his way back to the seat.

  Slowly people are starting to wake up, others moving blearily toward the washroom, beds turning back into seats, people stretching and yawning blankly in that slightly childlike, discombobulated way.

  Alison stirs, pushes the mask off her face and sits bolt upright. She looks around, disoriented, then sinks back down, pressing the button until her bed is half elevated.

  She catches Reece’s eye. “Did you sleep?”

  “The whole time. I just woke up.”

  “So you didn’t hear me snore?” She grins. She is just as pretty, even now, with sleepy eyes and tousled hair.

  “I did not, but I’m sure mine would have been louder.”

  “So are you on your way home?”

  Reece nods.

  “You?” He doesn’t really want to know, but it’s only polite.

  “Yup. I was in Cape Town for a vacation. Old boyfriend.”

  “Sounds like fun.” Reece doesn’t quite know what to say.

  “Not so much. Turns out there was a reason it didn’t work out the first time.” She sighs, and Reece knows she is trying to let him know she is single. Oh the signs that are so obvious, and so wrong.

  “Navigating those relationship minefields are tough,” he offers with a smile, pulling out a magazine, hoping to put her off.

  “Tell me about it.” She sighs again. “How about you? You have a girlfriend?”

  At this, Reece laughs. “No,” he says, quickly adding, “A wife. And two kids. This is the only chance I get to have a bit of peace and quiet.”

  “Lucky you,” Alison says, disappointed, picking up her headphones and plugging herself in.

  Callie feels silly that she should still be this excited to see her husband after over ten years of marriage, but she is still this excited, and when he phones to say he is turning off the highway she feels her heart lift in anticipation.

  Pouring herself a glass of wine, she perches at the kitchen counter so she can have a bird’s-eye view of Reece’s headlights when he turns in the driveway, and as soon as she sees them she runs out of the house and over to the car to open his door.

  “Loki!” she murmurs into his shoulder, burying her nose in his jacket, smelling his familiar smell. He nuzzles her hair and wonders how it is that he never quite realizes how much he misses her until she is in his arms again.

  “Hey.” He pulls back and smiles down at her, lit up for a moment in the full beams of the hired limo as it crunches a lazy swing to make its way back to the city. “Did you miss me?”

  “So much.” She winds an arm around his waist as they head into the house.

  “Daddy!” Eliza, fast asleep, wakes up and gives him a sleepy smile, throwing her arms around his neck as he bends down to hold her.

  “Hi, baby,” he whispers. “Mommy said I needed to wake you up. I’m home now. I love you.”

  “I love you, Daddy,” she says, her eyes already closing as she turns on her side and clutches her rabbit close to her chest.

  Reece tiptoes next door, to Jack’s room. He is upside down on his bed, one leg flung over the side, pajamas pushed up past his knees, blanket on the floor. Reece stands in the doorway for a moment, gazing at his son, filled with love as he walks over, picks Jack up under the shoulders and lays him back down with his head on the pillow.

  He is hoping Jack will wake up, just a love-filled smile, perhaps an “I love you” too, but Jack is dead to the world, and after tucking him in Reece leans forward and kisses him on the forehead, pausing for a moment outside their bedroom doors to watch their little sleeping bodies rise and fall.

  I love them, he thinks. All of them. His children. His wife. His life. He loves this house, this antique farmhouse that they both fell in love with the minute they pulled into the driveway. He loves the dry-stone stacked walls that enclose the clipped boxwood balls in the front, and the heavy oak-paneled walls that make him feel safe.

  He loves the wide corridor he is walking down, nursing his drink, wheeling his bag behind him—the corridor, lined with original built-ins and window seats covered in a pale gray chintz, that leads from the children’s rooms to the master suite, a corridor they decided to carpet two years ago, to try to muffle the noise of the children stampeding like a herd of small elephants along the wooden floor.

  He loves their bedroom, the soft blues and whites, the antique Swedish bureau and Gustavian side tables in rough painted grays, the canopy above the bed, a four-poster, the pretty fleur-de-lys curtains hanging down at all four corners, behind which he can just make out the curve of a naked leg.

  Reece grins, leaves the case by the door, slides the glass onto his bedside table, and climbs on the bed, advancing toward Callie, who is lying there with her best come-hither smile, clad in her Lands’ End cotton nightie.

  “Grrrr,” he says and laughs. “Someone really is happy to see me.” And he kisses her softly, then she yelps as he collapses on top of her.

  “Can’t. Breathe,” she gasps, but he doesn’t believe her and she is laughing when he eventually lifts himself off, resting on the palms of his hands as he lowers his head and kisses her again.

  “I love you, wife,” he says.

  “I love you, husband,” she says, and soon they don’t say anything at all.

  In the middle of the night, Callie wakes up, soaking. Damn night sweats, she curses, getting up and going to the wardrobe, pulling off her nightie and sliding her head through one of Reece’s oversized T-shirts.

  She climbs back into bed, smiling as she snuggles against Reece’s shoulder. She knows so many couples who just don’t seem that happy. People who have children together and would never think of leaving each other, but don’t seem to make their partner happy.

  I am so lucky, she thinks, turning her head to plant a gentle kiss on Reece’s neck. Reece isn’t the man I married. He is so very much more. He is a greater husband, father and friend than I could ever have imagined.
He is strong, and supportive, and loving.

  As the years have gone by he has become more attractive, sexier, softer.

  I am the luckiest girl in the world, she thinks, turning over and closing her eyes as sleep comes to take her away.

  Chocolate Chestnut Truffle Cake

  Ingredients

  1 cup dark chocolate, in chunks

  1 cup unsalted butter, cubed

  1 cup cooked chestnuts, peeled

  1 cup whole milk

  4 eggs, separated

  ½ cup sugar

  Optional: chocolate shavings to garnish

  Method

  Preheat the oven to 350°F and grease and line a 9-inch springform cake tin.

  Melt the chocolate and butter together in a pan over a very gentle heat. In another pan, heat the chestnuts and the milk until just boiling, then puree.

  Mix the egg yolks and sugar together until pale and fluffy. Add the chocolate and the chestnuts, and blend until smooth.

  Whisk the egg whites until stiff and fold them into the batter. Transfer the mix to the tin and bake for 30 minutes. Serve warm (when the cake will be more like a mousse) or place in the fridge to firm. Garnish with chocolate shavings, if you like.

  Chapter Six

  “How are you doing, Louis?” Mason pauses in the foyer to greet the doorman.

  “Good, good, Mr. Gregory. How are you?”

  “I’m great,” Mason lies enthusiastically. “Isn’t it your daughter’s birthday coming up? How old will Sophia be? Four?”

  The doorman’s face lights up. “Yes. She is four, and so cute!”

  “Does she like Barney?”

  “No. She wants to be like her older brother. She likes SpongeBob.”

  Mason makes a mental note—he will get hold of some SpongeBob books for her—and he waves good-bye as he steps onto Fifth Avenue.

  It is a beautiful winter’s day. The sky is blue, the air is sharp and clear, despite the biting cold. As always, as soon as he steps outside his building and looks across the street at the trees lining the park, he feels his heart lift.

  And more than that, he feels a weight lift off his chest.

  He strides down Fifth Avenue—it is twelve blocks to the office—and pauses only to lift up his BlackBerry when it buzzes. Olivia. It can wait. She can leave a message. She will not be calling with messages of love or endearment, she will be calling to remind him to do something, or be somewhere, or look after the children because the nanny has canceled and she is going out.

  He is beginning to realize that he may be living, but this really is no kind of life. His happiest hours are those spent in the office, when he is surrounded by dynamic, clever people who respect him and listen to him.

  He lunches with authors, agents, editors. He is funny and perceptive and, most of all, light. He dreads having to leave, his footsteps infinitely heavier as he walks home up Fifth Avenue, focusing on the children, hoping that Olivia will not be home.

  He has become an observer. A bystander on the sidelines, watching his life from a distance. He doesn’t want it to be this way, but he and Olivia have nothing in common, and he wonders, now, what on earth he was thinking when he asked her to marry him.

  What on earth she must have been thinking when she said yes.

  Olivia hated her mother. She hated her mother’s snobbery, her mother’s constant demands that she marry “someone of our class.” Mason was no slouch. A graduate of Harvard Business School, he was already, when they met, a bright star in publishing, but his beginnings were humble, and Olivia’s mother never thought he was good enough.

  Of course Olivia wanted to marry him. It was the ultimate snub to her family.

  And Mason? Surely he should have known better? He did, but he was intoxicated by Olivia’s world; it was so very different from anything he had ever known and he was swept away by the romance and the possibility of it.

  And that Olivia, this golden beauty who was so tiny and delicate, and had such sweetness, should be interested in him was extraordinary. The fact that, even in the early days of dating, they seemed to have different interests was charming back then. He found her social nature adorable. It was a perfect foil for his more introverted personality, forced him to go out more, which seemed a good thing at the time.

  Her extensive involvement in charity was impressive. He thought she was a truly good person, sitting on all these boards, raising so much money for so many good causes. He remembers being truly shocked when he asked her about one of her charities and she had no idea what they actually did. It wasn’t about raising money, he quickly discovered, it was about remaining at the top of the social ladder.

  She is obsessed with appearing in New York Times Style section, is on air-kissing terms with all the photographers, friends with all the fashion designers, who make dresses for her, gratis, in return for publicity.

  Mason is an accessory, a shadowy figure in black tie who stands awkwardly with the other shadowy figures in black tie, being pulled out by their wives for the occasional photo opportunity.

  He has thought, often, about leaving, but if the thought itself is exhausting, the actual physical process of doing so would be utterly overwhelming. It isn’t that he hates his wife, or even dislikes her. He just has no idea what they are doing together. They barely speak, and if they do have a meal together—like Olivia coming to Joni’s the other day—it is because they have something concrete to discuss, in this case the logistics of their move to London.

  Then there are the children to consider. He has to stay because if he wasn’t there, their lives would be filled with a series of nannies. Olivia loves her children, of that he has no doubt, but she loves them more when they are beautifully behaved, when they are dressed impeccably, when there are other people to see her perfect family.

  When the children are tired, or whiny, or acting up, as all children do, Olivia will step out of the elevator yelling, “Christy?” or “Elena?” or “Dominica?” to whichever nanny or housekeeper is around that afternoon.

  It is not Olivia’s fault, he thinks sadly. Her own mother stayed in the hospital for ten days after she gave birth to Olivia, sending Olivia home with a baby nurse and nanny.

  She would see Olivia in the morning, when Olivia was sent downstairs for breakfast, dressed and washed, and for a short while again in the afternoon, before Olivia was taken to the nursery for tea. Her mother was English and, despite living in Texas, followed the English upper-class traditions exactly.

  When Olivia was excited, or upset, or had cut her knee, or had a fight with her best friend, or got into trouble in school, or didn’t like her music class, or fell off her pony, the person to whom she ran was Nanny.

  Her mother was busy lunching and socializing, and had little time for Olivia unless it was on her rigid terms.

  Now the pattern is being repeated with Olivia’s own children. Except instead of one long-term nanny to love them and raise them, there is a series of young girls, none of whom has ever lasted beyond a year.

  When their knees are scraped, or they are happy or sad, it is Mason to whom they come running.

  This is why he will never leave.

  He is in the office by six o’clock every morning, and home by six every night. He thanks the nanny, tells her she can leave, then gets down to the serious business of what to make the children for dinner.

  If Olivia is there, she insists on taking over, but it’s never for long. One cry, one raised voice, one meltdown, and she immediately hands them over to Mason, and they are his for the rest of the evening, or until they go out.

  “Jim? It’s Mason.”

  “Hey! I haven’t heard from you in ages. Where’ve you been?”

  “Busy as ever. I was wondering if you wanted to grab a beer tonight.”

  “Great. Usual place?”

  “Sounds good. Six?”

  “See you then.”

  O’Hanrahan’s is dark, crowded and loud. Mason pushes through the crowds to the bar, raising a hand an
d waving at the barman, who reaches over to shake his hand.

  “Haven’t seen you in an age,” he says. “How are ya?”

  “Busy, Declan,” Mason says. “Have you seen Jim?”

  “Down the other end. Pint of the usual?”

  Mason nods and shuffles through Manhattan’s chattering work-force, everyone delighting in letting off steam at the end of the day.

  Olivia has just returned from London, and tonight she is taking the kids to some charity tea party, hence his ability to meet Jim. They were college roommates, but don’t see each other much anymore. Once a month they try to meet up for a drink. It used to be several times a week, but Mason is busy with work and family, and Jim is busy chasing women.

  “Buddy!” Jim’s face lights up. He reaches over and they grip each other in the universal man hug.

  “You look good!” Mason steps back. “Have you been working out?”

  “No. You won’t believe it, but I think I’m finally in love.”

  “What? You? You’re quite right. I don’t believe it.”

  “I know. The eternal bachelor may be about to retire. Cheers!”

  “Cheers. So who’s the lucky girl?”

  “Françoise. She’s French. Came here as an au pair years ago, and stayed.”

  “Uh-oh. Years ago? She’s eighteen, isn’t she?”

  “I wish.” Jim grins. “She’s thirty-five.”

  “No! You’re kidding. A grown-up!”

  “I know. Who would have thought it?”

  “I thought your cutoff was twenty-five.”

  “It was, until I met Françoise.”

  “So what’s the secret?”

  Jim sips his beer and shrugs. “She gets me. And I get her. She’s independent, clever, hardworking. She wasn’t looking for a man and doesn’t want to get married. She loves me, but not in a needy way. She’s just . . . cool.”

  “That sounds great, Jim,” Mason says. “It’s about time the beast was tamed. But not marriage? She doesn’t want to get married?”