Eden Burning Read online

  “A hell of a lot of good that does!”

  She put her face in her hands. She walked to the end of the terrace and sat down with her back to him. In her proud reserve she was struggling silently with herself; he knew, having seen her do it often enough. Sad, he turned away to the morning’s moist glitter.

  After a while, hearing the chair scrape, he looked up.

  “All right, Francis. Call it quits.” She spoke rapidly. “I’ll go to Mexico or wherever the lawyers say it’s quick and easy. I don’t want any complications.” And with some bitterness, she added, “I’m sure you’ll be overjoyed to hear that.”

  “I’m not overjoyed about this at all, Marjorie.”

  “You’ll have to keep Megan with you until it’s over.”

  He nodded, the lump in his throat being too thick just then for him to speak. Instead he picked Megan up, rubbing his cheek against her hair.

  “Daddy,” she said, then struggled to get away. He put her down.

  “I’m sorry I said some things I didn’t mean, Francis. About throwing lye. And about your giving me Megan.”

  “Of course I knew you didn’t mean all that. People say things when they’re angry. I do, too.”

  “No, you never do. I don’t think you ever said anything really nasty to me.” For the first time since this crisis had begun, she looked straight at him.

  He was touched. “I’m glad you’ll remember me that way.”

  Horses, being let out to pasture, whinnied beyond the fence. A child, one of Osborne’s boys probably, called out, making cheerful morning noises.

  “You know, Francis, I must say, in all fairness, it hasn’t been entirely bad here.”

  That was one thing about Marjorie: regardless of her angry pride, she was usually able to be honest and, upon reflection, to soften both the anger and the pride. He had always thought of this trait as her morning-after quirk. Also, because she was a realist, she knew when it was time to advance and when to retreat.

  He said now, “I want you to be happy, Marjorie. I really do.”

  She clenched her fists. “How I hate to fail! I ask myself how it could have been different. You can’t know how I hate to fail! Hate it!”

  Her vehemence did not surprise him. “I know you do. You can’t bear not having things perfect. It would be better for you,” he said gently, “easier, if you could. I only hope you’ll find—”

  “You hope I’ll find someone else to love me? I’ll tell you something. I don’t think all women really need to be loved, not the way you’re talking about, anyhow. I’m never unhappy being alone. Oh, you’re thinking of my going to parties and all that, but that’s not what I mean. I’m talking about the inner self. Maybe I don’t really want anybody, after all. That’s why I couldn’t give you what you wanted.”

  Perhaps it was true and perhaps this was only bitterness. If it was bitterness, and he hoped that was all it was, it would pass.

  He put his hand on her shoulder. “I told you, though, I’ll always take care of you. You needn’t worry.”

  “I never doubted that, Francis. But I’ve been thinking—I did a lot of thinking last night—maybe I’ll start a business in antiques or get a job in the field. I’d be doing what I want to do, in a place where I want to be.”

  “You’d be good at it.”

  “Yes, far from the madding crowd. Surrounded by beautiful things right up to the deluge. I’m certainly not one for politics or civic betterment, as you well know.” She gave a short laugh, almost as if she were laughing at her own expense.

  The child was trying to eat grass.

  “No, no!” Marjorie cried, taking it from her. The child screamed and the mother picked her up, comforting, straining under her weight.

  And Francis, watching, knew that he was tied to the mother through the child and always would be, tied with a strong cord, not to be sundered.

  “It’s not the way we wanted it to turn out, is it? But it’s no one’s fault. Remember that, Marjorie.”

  She nodded. “I’ll take Megan down to the beach.”

  “I’ll be in the office if you want me.”

  And they walked away, in opposite directions.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Francis and Kate were to be married in the ancient Church of the Heavenly Rest, that rugged pile on top of the cliff with the sea at its feet and the forest at its back. Early that afternoon Francis and Tee drove cross-island together.

  They had been talking since her arrival two days before, talking of Kate and Margaret, of Marjorie and Megan, of politics and farming, talking as they had not done since he had been a boy coming home from school to the little yellow upstairs sitting room where she would be waiting to hear about his day.

  Now suddenly a silence fell upon them. Too many emotions had come too close to the surface. Even the marvelous fulfillment of this his wedding day came close to pain; always, joy quivers in the lee of sadness.

  Yesterday he had put Megan on a plane to join Marjorie in New York. Thank God, the parting had held no pain for the child at all, otherwise he could not have borne it. She had simply walked away, sucking a lollipop, not looking back. Oh, he would see her again, of course he would, but it would not be the same. It had ended, tied neatly in a package, addressed and sent away. End of a phase.

  His mother touched his arm.

  “You’re thinking of Megan.”

  “Yes.”

  “She will be better off with Marjorie. A good school, a residence for her special needs—”

  “But you! You say this to me while you yourself will never—” He stopped. This was the one question it was fruitless to ask her. But, to his surprise, this time she answered.

  “There are no rules always right for everyone. Every one of us is the result of what came before.”

  Curious, he glanced at her, but her face was averted and his glance fell across her dark head to the silver-green of cane along the road.

  “I may know what I ought to do and be unable to do it.” Her voice was a murmur, so that he strained to hear. “But you mustn’t think of me as some sort of sickly martyr; I’m really living very well—”

  He interrupted. “Of course I know that! I know how you live. And yet—I must tell you—as close as you’ve been to me, to all of us, I’ve always felt, I feel as if some part of you is hidden. It’s like a locked door, a curtain…. I think my father felt it, too.”

  She didn’t answer, but turning, gave him an unfathomable look and dropped her eyes.

  “Well, I knew—we all knew—yours was a strange match. No two people could have been more different from each other.”

  Still she made no answer.

  “In your time, though, I realize divorce wasn’t all that simple. Also, you had four children.”

  And again she looked away, her eyes wandering over the wind-bowed cane, her voice murmuring something he barely caught: “I would never have broken his home.” He thought he heard her say, “I owed him everything,” but wasn’t sure and couldn’t ask, because abruptly she raised her head and with a little toss admonished him. “Enough of me! I’ve come for a wedding and I want to hear about it.”

  “Well, you know it’s to be the ceremony, that’s all, especially since you have to go home right afterwards.”

  “I’ll come again in the winter, I promise.”

  “I’m glad. You’ll love Kate when you know her better. She’ll love you,” he said gratefully. “A couple of cousins are all she has. They’re coming today. And our new P.M. will be there. Also his mother-in-law, the widow of the last P.M. You remember, I’ve told you about Patrick.”

  “I remember.”

  “I miss him.” He had a flashing recall, a glimpse of night, of headlights streaking the lawn and Patrick saying something, hesitating, wanting to tell him and not telling him—what? He blinked, returning to the present. “His mind—oh, perhaps it sounds pompous or foolish, I don’t know—but his mind just seemed to reflect my own so much of the time. It was almost a
mirror-image. Made him very easy to talk to.”

  “I should imagine. Did he have a good life, would you say?”

  An odd question, Francis thought. What’s a good life?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Oh, was it all a dreadful struggle, did he fit in here after his English education, did he have enough money—”

  “He never wanted very much. Yes, I’d say he got along all right. And he loved this place, he really did. I think he’d had a very healthy childhood here, in simple circumstances, and he was awfully fond of his mother. Some of these native women are so warm, the most extraordinary mothers, you know. And he had a good marriage. Désirée’s charming, you’ll see.”

  It had showered on the other side of the island. A shine was on the leaves and the old stones when they drove into the churchyard. Kate, in pink, with a pink cap on her bright hair, was already there. She kissed Tee.

  “I’m so glad you’re here. I know it can’t have been easy for you to see St. Felice again.”

  “I wanted to come.” Tee laughed. “Besides, I’m afraid I shall never learn to say no to Francis.”

  “Nor shall I.”

  The two women stood a moment regarding each other and then each, as if content that her earlier estimation of the other had been correct, turned toward the door.

  Désirée, with her daughters and their fiancés, followed by Kate’s cousins, went in with them. Désirée had brought a pink bouquet to place on the altar; except for it, the church was bare.

  “We’re early,” Kate said. “Father Baker’s not here yet. I feel like Juliet eloping with Romeo to the friar’s cell.”

  “Patrick and I were married here on a windy day just like this one,” Désirée remarked.

  Kate was horrified. “I would never have done this to you if I’d known! I took for granted you were married in town.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Look how beautiful it is!”

  Through the open doors one could see a stretch of ocean and lines of speeding whitecaps.

  “Isn’t this fascinating?” cried Laurine. “‘Here lie the remains of Pierre and Eleuthère François, infant sons of Eleuthère and Angélique François, died and entered into paradise … year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and two. Our tears shall water their grave.’ Fascinating!”

  Father Baker had come in on rubber-soled feet. “If you look back far enough you’ll find that practically everybody on this island has the blood of a Da Cunha or a François or both in his veins.”

  “I’d like to place a stone here in memory of Patrick,” Désirée said. “I don’t know whose blood he had, but anyway—” Her voice trailed off.

  Tee put her hand on Désirée’s shoulder.

  “It would be very fitting for him to be remembered here,” she said gently. “Will you see Father Baker about it and let me make the contribution?”

  Désirée began, “I don’t understand—”

  “He was—they tell me he was—an unusual man. So I should like to do it in his memory. Please?”

  “I thank you, then,” Désirée said simply. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes held bright tears and, to Francis’ astonishment, his mother’s eyes held them, too.

  “Here’s Francis’ plaque.” Father Baker drew the group toward the new, white stone on the west wall, then read the sharp-cut lettering aloud.

  “In loving memory of my father, Richard Luther—” The other half was blank.

  “For me, when my time comes,” Tee said.

  “Really?” Kate asked curiously.

  “Why? I can’t live here. Still, I should like to lie here at the end, among my people.”

  Francis glanced at his mother, his sensitive ear catching every nuance. Can’t live here? Not, I don’t want to or I wouldn’t like to, but can’t. And for the thousandth time, he wondered why, in spite of knowing her so well, there was still so much he did not know, and never would.

  Laurine broke into the silence. She had a pretty voice, gay and a little husky.

  “Enough of memorial stones! We’re here for a wedding.”

  “You’re right,” Father Baker said. “Come.” And he opened his worn black book to begin.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here—”

  The old words made music in Francis’ ears, but his mind was too full to grasp their meaning. His mind was searching himself. He had never thought of himself as a religious man, and yet here in this moment it came to him that you had to have something strong to hold to if you were to survive. You had to believe that you were doing the best you could, whether it was ending a marriage that ought never to have taken place or beginning one that should have taken place long ago; whether it was caring for a needy child (and are not all children needy in one way or another?) or combatting evil men. If you were doing right, you would prevail. He had to believe that. Perhaps he was religious, after all.

  And then it was over, and he kissed his wife, and they all went outside to stand looking at the ocean, as though they were reluctant to break the spell of the hour by parting.

  “How happy Patrick would have been for you both today!” cried Désirée. “He loved you so much.”

  “We loved him,” Kate replied. “Everyone did who knew him. I wish you could have known him,” she told Tee.

  “I wish so, too,” Tee said.

  The little party hesitated on the verge of separating. And Kate cried out, “Look, look! Up there!”

  All followed her pointing hand. Through a palm grove in the rising jungle behind the church a gaudy stream of birds in raucous flight appeared and, as quickly, vanished.

  “Parrots,” said Father Baker. “It’s deserted enough here for them to feel safe.”

  “Lovely, lovely!” Désirée was entranced. “Do you know, I was born on this island and lived here all my life, but I’ve never seen parrots wild. Have you?” she asked Tee.

  “Yes, once. A long time ago.”

  Tee walked to the edge of the cliff. Now, as if by accord, all eyes followed her. Graceful, still young, she stood looking out to sea, shading her eyes from the light. Standing so, in her blown skirt, with her head high, standing strong and supple against the wind, she might have been carved on the prow of some old, proud ship.

  “This must be the most beautiful place on earth,” she said at last. “Isn’t that what you always tell me, Francis?”

  “But you’re leaving it,” Kate protested.

  Again Tee smiled her slow, grave smile. “Yes, yes, I must.” She looked at her watch. “In an hour, as a matter of fact.”

  Laurine and Franklin had arranged to take her to the airport so that Kate and Francis could go directly home.

  “Be happy,” Tee said now, kissing Francis good-bye. “This time you will be. I knew that the first time I looked at her.”

  He wanted to say so much, to say, I wish you could have had the same; to say, Maybe, do you think maybe, it’s not too late for you and you will find someone, too?

  But he said only, “Bless you and thank you for coming, and safe journey home.”

  Then she raised her hand in farewell and was gone.

  When he took the wheel of their car, Kate covered his hand with hers.

  “A very special woman, your mother.”

  He nodded, too full for a moment to speak. “And you,” he said then. “A very special woman, too.”

  It was Saturday market day in Covetown as they drove through. Heaps of silvery fish, alewives, sprat, and mullet lay in their baskets along the curb. A troop of Girl Guides, wearing the brown uniform of their English heritage, were lining up to see Da Cunha’s pictures.

  “It hasn’t changed all that much,” Francis observed.

  “Hasn’t it?”

  “Oh, you know what I meant.” He leaned over to kiss her. “Yes, of course, everything changed just half an hour ago.”

  They turned up the driveway to Eleuthera. “Home,” he said.

  Osborne was waiting to welcome them. “I can’t tell you
how glad I am, how glad we all are, that you’re staying!” he exclaimed, pressing Francis’ hand. It was only the second time in their years together that he had revealed so much of himself.

  Francis and Kate crossed the drive to the veranda, crunching on loose gravel.

  “These heels!” she said.

  He glanced down. “You have beautiful feet, my dear.”

  “Beautiful feet? Is that all of me that you’ve got to admire on our wedding day—my feet?”

  “The rest I’ll save till later,” he told her.

  “Oh, look, that plane has just taken off! Do you suppose it’s Tee’s?”

  The plane was still low enough for its windows to be seen from the ground. He wondered whether Tee might be looking down and if she would be seeing Père on the veranda and her old white horse in the paddock.

  “Do you remember the day you brought me here?” he asked abruptly.

  “I remember everything. The lizards and the goats and the silence and your face.”

  “You still talk poetry.”

  And they looked at one another. It was a long look, a trembling look, until she turned away and said something ordinary to stop the trembling.

  “I’ll just go in a minute and see the dogs.”

  He had to laugh.

  “Don’t laugh! It will be quite an adjustment for them in a new place, they’ll be worried.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  And he watched her go through the door, into his house.

  But he himself was too stirred to be shut inside just yet. He was a newborn man. He was Eleuthère François, standing on this spot for the first time. He was a man of tomorrow.

  My God, it was a day to throw your head back and shout into the wind! There, down there, shout where the waves break on the rocks in smashing jubilant spray; shout where the Morne, rising tier upon tier and dark as dreams, spreads its multitudes of green; cry out where the clouds drift over the living land and on every side, far and away and as far as you can see, the moving water glimmers.

  BELVA PLAIN is the internationally acclaimed author of nineteen bestselling novels. She lives in northern New Jersey.