to do this, then that’s it between us,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I won’t have any more to do with you.” Sam was like a different person, sitting rigidly and unmoving on her couch. Gone, in one breathtaking instant, was the easy grace of the tall man leaning against a gallery wall, making everyone laugh; in his place sat a stiff man, cold and unbending. “I’m not ready to be a father. If you think you’re ready to be a mother, fine. That’s your choice. But,” he added, “I won’t have anything to do with the child.”
The child. Sam had elevated the potential baby right out of adorable babyhood and into the slightly less innocent waters known as childhood, and in that moment, the fight went out of Abby.
See? See? See?
she could say as much as she wanted, and now she knew his answer wasn’t going to budge:
No
. Sam stood, said “Think it over,” and turned and left her apartment. Abby sat for a few more minutes, unable to stand, or call a friend on the phone, or cry, or do much of anything. She wasnewly, accidentally pregnant, but she already felt changes deep inside her.
Think it over
, Sam had said, and she did. She would have this baby, this child who would eventually turn out to be Miranda Rose Reston. But Sam, somehow, was lost to her forever, a fact that, in many ways, Abby still couldn’t quite comprehend more than six years later. She had loved him, had allowed herself to be consumed by him, and then he was gone, just like that.
Abby stared now at the photo of the young, sad Martin, missing Claire on his first day at college, and she thought of the man who had appeared in her office the previous day. They were the same man, of course; yet how was that possible? She thought of her own father, too: back then, a slightly remote young man in a soft flannel shirt; now, gone for good. Then Abby picked up the photo of Claire from that faraway summer, and she looked into the eyes of a girl who had long ago grown into a woman, and then eventually into a woman who, like Martin Rayfiel standing in her office doorway the previous day, must now be nearly old.
But still in love. And that was the difference between the love story that had been unfolding before her all evening and anything Abby might ever encounter in her own life: she knew how it was going to end. She could stare into the faces of the man and the woman in the photographs, side by side on her desk, and know what she couldn’t know gazing into the eyes of a man at an art opening in New York City: Fifty years from now, you’re still going to be in love.
“Mrs. Frayne?” Abby said on the phone, a moment later. “Listen, something’s come up here at the office.”
“Don’t tell me,” the housekeeper answered. “I should make up the guest room and get myself comfortable.”
“Would you mind?”
“All night?”
Abby regarded the stack of audiotapes on her desk, the pile of photos still in the briefcase. “Could be,” she said, her voice apologetic.
When she hung up, Abby began the tape again, and as Martin’s voice resumed the story, she played with the photographs ofMartin and Claire on her desk, moving them closer together, until they touched.
Martin and Claire weren’t eloping exactly. They were doing something far more daring, for Longwood Falls in 1952 anyway: they were traveling to Europe together, a man and a woman, unmarried—no longer Mr. and Mrs. Harrison, but not yet Mr. and Mrs. Rayfiel, either.
The plan, when it was hatched, was simple and apparently faultless. The next day, Martin would collect an object from his family’s safe—something that belonged to him and which he could easily sell in Europe and live well off for several months. Claire would bring her birth certificate and the passport forms Martin had gotten for her to the bank, in order to get the forms notarized there, so she could get a passport in New York City, then fly to Europe at night. The money he already had in his bank account would
The child. Sam had elevated the potential baby right out of adorable babyhood and into the slightly less innocent waters known as childhood, and in that moment, the fight went out of Abby.
See? See? See?
she could say as much as she wanted, and now she knew his answer wasn’t going to budge:
No
. Sam stood, said “Think it over,” and turned and left her apartment. Abby sat for a few more minutes, unable to stand, or call a friend on the phone, or cry, or do much of anything. She wasnewly, accidentally pregnant, but she already felt changes deep inside her.
Think it over
, Sam had said, and she did. She would have this baby, this child who would eventually turn out to be Miranda Rose Reston. But Sam, somehow, was lost to her forever, a fact that, in many ways, Abby still couldn’t quite comprehend more than six years later. She had loved him, had allowed herself to be consumed by him, and then he was gone, just like that.
Abby stared now at the photo of the young, sad Martin, missing Claire on his first day at college, and she thought of the man who had appeared in her office the previous day. They were the same man, of course; yet how was that possible? She thought of her own father, too: back then, a slightly remote young man in a soft flannel shirt; now, gone for good. Then Abby picked up the photo of Claire from that faraway summer, and she looked into the eyes of a girl who had long ago grown into a woman, and then eventually into a woman who, like Martin Rayfiel standing in her office doorway the previous day, must now be nearly old.
But still in love. And that was the difference between the love story that had been unfolding before her all evening and anything Abby might ever encounter in her own life: she knew how it was going to end. She could stare into the faces of the man and the woman in the photographs, side by side on her desk, and know what she couldn’t know gazing into the eyes of a man at an art opening in New York City: Fifty years from now, you’re still going to be in love.
“Mrs. Frayne?” Abby said on the phone, a moment later. “Listen, something’s come up here at the office.”
“Don’t tell me,” the housekeeper answered. “I should make up the guest room and get myself comfortable.”
“Would you mind?”
“All night?”
Abby regarded the stack of audiotapes on her desk, the pile of photos still in the briefcase. “Could be,” she said, her voice apologetic.
When she hung up, Abby began the tape again, and as Martin’s voice resumed the story, she played with the photographs ofMartin and Claire on her desk, moving them closer together, until they touched.
Martin and Claire weren’t eloping exactly. They were doing something far more daring, for Longwood Falls in 1952 anyway: they were traveling to Europe together, a man and a woman, unmarried—no longer Mr. and Mrs. Harrison, but not yet Mr. and Mrs. Rayfiel, either.
The plan, when it was hatched, was simple and apparently faultless. The next day, Martin would collect an object from his family’s safe—something that belonged to him and which he could easily sell in Europe and live well off for several months. Claire would bring her birth certificate and the passport forms Martin had gotten for her to the bank, in order to get the forms notarized there, so she could get a passport in New York City, then fly to Europe at night. The money he already had in his bank account would
Similar Books
