“Could you put that in a novel? In a story that a person could read and think how remarkable it was that the story of their life had finally been written? Why can’t you do that?”
Darby stared at Garnett. If Garnett’s life were a story, perhaps he could do it. But how would he end it? In a tracheotomy, a curse of silence, or a newfound life? He thought of Hemingway’s novels, of War and Peace, The Red and the Black, even the Zane Gray novels he had read as a boy. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” he managed to reply.
“Oh! Incidentally,” Garnett added, “here!” he said, reaching into his pocket. “It’s the key to the study. You’ll need to squirrel away in here from time to time. Just lock it behind you. Too many personal files, you know. But you’re free to peruse any you need to.”
“Thanks!” He slipped the key into his pocket.
After bidding Garnett farewell, Darby wandered back to the cottage to pick up the threads of his thoughts. He paused to gulp in a breath of raw air and watch as the amber eye of the sunrise illumined Montesereno’s eastern face. He would take a walk to clear his mind, he resolved, up to the right, past the Inn, through its orchard, and out to an overlook he had come to love. Yes! To let his thoughts bubble up, evaporate, and take him wherever they must.
The path to the orchard led through the Villa’s garden. Its slate-paved terraces created a sense of ascent. The garden sported two slender fluted white columns and wide beds of rhododendron, laurel, and azaleas. A lone ginkgo biloba grew encircled among shrubs. He paused to run his fingers across its fan-shaped, yellow-lobed leaves. A broad smile gladdened his heart as he walked on.
Somewhere he was in Paris, near the Menagerie. Yellow ginkgo leaves had fallen, dappling the sidewalk and iron grills with cobbler’s patches. Julia Laine leaned against his shoulder as he turned to kiss her.
Midway along the orchard’s path, he noted a jogger through the trees. The man was running up the gravel lane that paralleled the estate. Someone—no doubt Jon Paul—had recently repainted the white fence that separated the Villa’s grounds from the lane’s marl-colored gravel. The lane would end at the property’s overlook. The runner appeared to be the investor, Parker Martin. Darby stopped to take a second look. Dressed in a yellow T-shirt, black shorts, white socks and running shoes, the man jogged past Darby, unaware of his presence beyond the fence. The man ran with an easy gait that only youth possess. Darby had to smile. He once too had run cross-country in college.
By the time Darby reached the overlook, Martin was gazing out across the ridges, the latter still shrouded in fog. “It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?” the young man said. “So beautiful. Do you come here often?”
“Whenever I’m visiting I do. Once the clouds clear, there are nothing but mountains—all the way to the west, south, and north. There’s a drop off below, too, and an old mica mine, with a bit of silver in its creek and sand. Its brook becomes a trout stream farther down. Plus, there’s a logging road right over there,” Darby pointed behind the Villa, “that wends down to the creek. It’s in decent enough shape to hike.”
“You’ve been here quite a bit?”
“No. Not really! But enough to know where to wander about.”
“You must have come up through the orchard,” Parker glanced toward the Villa. “I apologize for being such a smartass last night. May I walk back with you, when you’re ready to leave?”
“Sure! I’m ready now. And forget about last night. I could use another cup of coffee or hot tea myself. I doubt if most of the guests are up.”
“Certainly, Celeste isn’t. I’d love to bend your ear, if you don’t mind.”
Darby stared closer into the young man’s face and deep dark eyes. He tried to smile as empathically as he could. “I’m listening. You’ll need to watch out for rotten apples and a few deer pellets along the way. Just follow me.”
The two swung onto the path, with Parker slightly behind Darby’s left shoulder.
“We’re here trying to restart our marriage,” stated Parker. “I guess that’s no secret. We’re coming up on our fifth anniversary. The first two years were great. In fact, fabulous! Then something came over Celeste. She didn’t want sex anymore, at least not from me. She asked if we couldn’t have an open marriage.” Parker stopped, dead in the path, then resumed following Darby. “She ‘needed space,’ she said. A little ‘more action,’ as she put it. Something ‘wild,’ with more than ‘one partner.’ Would I do a threesome? Would I go online with her and experiment? ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I replied. I was angry. I must have pouted a hell of a lot.”
“Here, let’s pause for a minute,” said Darby, stopping in his tracks. “That’s quite an opener.”
“It was,” stated Parker, resuming his walk. “Anyway, she became cold and distant after that. We began sleeping in separate beds. We stopped having dinner together. Each night she came home later and later. I could smell other men on her. Musk! Perspiration! The odor of cigarettes! Men would call. ‘O God, fellow! Sorry wrong number!’ Some would even leave a number for her to call back. Sometimes there’d be bruises on her arms and thighs, neck and wrists. She would sit in front of our dresser and stare at her small breasts or wrinkle her mouth in a wry smile. Then, one night she came home crying. She was sweating and scared. She went straight to the shower and stayed and stayed and stayed. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked. ‘I still love you,’ I said. ‘My God, sweetheart! What’s happened? I want to know. I want our marriage back. I want you again. Just you!’” Parker paused, inhaled a long breath; then fell silent.
The two men continued to walk. Parker kicked a fallen apple out of his path. It left a reddish-brown smudge on the toe of his running shoe. He inhaled another deep breath and released it slowly. “She never answered me. She just came out of the shower, still crying. I handed her a towel. ‘Please! Just leave me alone,’ she said. ‘Will you fix me a drink?’ ‘Gin and tonic?’ I replied. ‘Yeah. That’ll do. I need another towel for my hair.’ And so after that, we began having dinner together, and sometimes sleeping together. But no sex. ‘Just hold me,’ she’d say. ‘That’s all.’ And that’s all it’s been, even till now. I’m sure you don’t need to hear all this. Life’s a mess, isn’t it? I never thought it would happen to me.”
“Whatever, the hurt is still there. I know about it, too,” Darby added.
“Yes. Well! Here we are!” he exclaimed, as the two entered the Garden by the ginkgo tree. “I guess I’ll shower and have breakfast. Thanks for listening.”
“Chao!” Darby smiled. “It promises to be a beautiful day.”
Just then, Darby glanced up toward the house. Someone on the second floor had drawn the drape to one side. It appeared to be a woman in a gown. Upon seeing him, the person’s hand immediately let go of the curtain. Darby watched the drape settle back, as the hand disappeared. He wondered if it were Stephanie’s or Celeste’s. He guessed he’d learn soon enough.
Chapter 4
After Darby returned to the cottage, he browsed its library for whatever Garnett might have collected on depression, bipolar conditions, marital counseling, and personality disorders. To his consternation, very little caught his eye. Perhaps, Garnett housed them in his office. To his relief, however, he did find the eighth edition of Lippincott’s Professional Guide to Diseases. He pulled the volume off its shelf and perused the sections on “Sexual Disorders of Men.” He wondered if Parker suffered from a low libido or inadequate testosterone levels. None of those considerations, however, made sense. As for Celeste’s disinterest in Parker or compulsive desire for sex with other men, nothing in the book addressed the subject. Perhaps it was there, but he couldn’t locate it. He would have to consult more specific studies. Hopefully, Garnett’s library