In the Shadow of Lakecrest(73)
Someday, I’ll come up with a lovely romantic story as to how we met, but with you, dear practical Kate, I can be honest. Edwin and I first spoke over dinner, took off for a moonlight drive, and after a night in the backseat of his Cadillac, he declared me his dream girl. I gave him a day to see if it would stick (it did) and then I accepted his proposal: at our ages, you don’t waste time. I don’t love him, and I don’t expect to, not in the way Matthew loves you. Poor Edwin doesn’t seem capable of deep emotions, and he’s been very honest in his money-grubbing, so it’s all aboveboard.
I can see you frowning, Kate—please don’t feel sorry for me. Edwin is great fun and always up for an adventure. He’ll be good for a few years, at least. (Is it terrible that I already think of him as my first husband? I know you won’t approve, but somehow I think you’ll understand.)
My only regret is that I don’t know when I’ll meet Baby Lemont. I promise to send presents from my travels, and you can tell him stories about Daddy’s glamorous sister. I don’t believe I have it in me to be a mother, but I’ll make a good aunt, I think.
This page is half-filled, and I don’t want to start another but I still haven’t gotten around to the most important part. Typical of me, to leave it to the end. Please take care of Matthew. I adore him more than anything in this world, as you know. But my love couldn’t help him, and I believe it kept him from being truly happy. Leaving Matthew is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done—my heart’s ripped to tatters—but it’s the only way to prove my love is pure. Edwin offered me an escape, and I took it.
I hope you’ll find a way to explain all this to Matthew in a way that leaves me looking halfway decent and noble. A long time ago, before he met you, Matthew used to call me his ideal woman. I’d like to hold on to a smidgeon of his respect, even if I don’t deserve it.
I’ll write Mum from the boat—haven’t the strength for it now. Will send addresses, travel plans, etc. etc., and I hope you’ll write. I truly do.
Your sister,
Marjorie
A collection of Poe stories sat on my nightstand. I’d been amused by the melodramatic gloominess of “The Fall of the House of Usher” when I first read it, but after the discovery of Cecily’s body, it had been harder to laugh off. Roderick and Madeline Usher, the brother and sister whose lives were so disturbingly intertwined, no longer seemed like characters from a gothic novel; they could have been Marjorie and Matthew in twenty or thirty years. Caught in a mutual obsession, haunted by their demons, slowing driving each other insane as Lakecrest crumbled around them.
But I’d come along and changed the story. Marriage had saved Matthew, and now Marjorie had saved herself. I pictured her on the deck of an ocean liner, her hair tossed by the wind. I remembered the sensation that had washed over me as I leaned against the railing of the Franconia, and hoped Marjorie would one day feel that same sense of boundless possibilities.
As for me, the world was shrinking every day. I could see the years unfold before me in a bleak, unchanging pattern. Carved goose in the dining room at Christmas and lemonade at the summer fête in July. Bridge club on Wednesday afternoons and the Lake County Benefactors Ball each September. I could picture myself, a grandmother confined to this same bed, looking out at the distant glimmer of a lake I’d never touch again.
By the time Matthew came home, I was near tears.
“What’s gotten into you?” he asked. Kind, as always, but not particularly worried. I could practically hear Dr. Westbrook talking to Matthew man-to-man, confiding that pregnant women could get worked up over nothing: Do your best to keep her calm. Give her what she wants.
“Your mother,” I whispered. “She’s been drugging me.”
Irritation flashed across his face, but only for a moment. “Why do you make everything sound so sinister?” he asked. Steady. Reasonable. “Dr. Westbrook and I talked it over with Mum, and we all agreed a mild sedative would do you good.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because we didn’t want you to worry.”
“It makes me tired. Wobbly.”
“You’re tired because you’re about to have a baby. It’s perfectly normal.”
“Well, I didn’t drink that spiked milk today, and it’s the first time in weeks I’ve felt like myself.”
“Really? You don’t sound the same to me—you’re almost shouting. Don’t you see? You’re proving my point about getting upset.”
The soothing voice. A hand on my cheek. All meant to distract me. I took a deep breath and tried to stay calm.
“I want to stay at your apartment as soon as the baby comes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t bring a baby back to Lakecrest. I just can’t.” There’d be nurses at the hospital, other doctors, people who could call me a taxi. When Hannah showed up, I’d already be gone.
“Oh, goodness . . . ,” Matthew murmured. Annoyed.
I was about to lose him. No tears, I told myself. You mustn’t crack.
“You said we’d always come first with each other. You promised. But you’ve done nothing about finding us our own house. Has your mother gotten to you? Has she convinced you not to leave?”
“No!” Matthew protested. “The thing is—it’s not as simple as you think. You have to trust me.”