24

Sarah had forgotten how the road out of Live Oak snaked back and forth. Sometimes a root lifted itself out of the packed earth, or a stone like the helmet of a man buried upright. Though it was no more than three or four miles long, the distance it traveled was, in a way, much farther than that. It wended from a place which, like a psyche, had its own coloration, its own logic, to the land beyond the forest, the land of straight roads and common sense.

“A road like this could drive me crazy,” said Bell.

She said nothing, but she did not agree. The road was like language, defining and delineating, and all the while passing by all that which is not named. She could not suppress the thought, happy as she was to be leaving with him: stay here.

They reached the gate. The Fiat coughed, and nearly stalled. The gate was open, but even so there was a barrier, if only imaginary, that clung to the car for a moment. A branch in the drive, perhaps, or a half-buried stone.

Then they were on the two-lane pavement, and Sarah felt diminished for a while, shrunken and empty. They were back to the world. The real, empty world, with its speed limit signs. There was, she knew, in a sense only one road in the world, interconnected, many-surfaced, a beast of seemingly numberless tentacles. In truth, they were well-numbered, and mapped.

Bell drove fast. It was not the speed of nervous haste. This driver knew what he was doing. The highway beneath them was smooth and nearly without texture under the tires.

There was, as counterpoint to his conversation, the emptiness of the bland, paved road, and its hum beneath the tires. The fields were drought bleached.

As Bell drove he talked about himself. Occasionally he would pause in conversation to pass a dump truck, or a flatbed laden with earth-moving equipment.

Most men she had known enjoyed talking about themselves. She didn’t mind. In this case, it was almost embarrassing to admit to herself how much she enjoyed the sound of his voice. She wanted to learn everything she could about him, and his voice reassured her that this trip away from Live Oak was exactly the right thing to do. She enjoyed the way he hesitated, carefully selecting the word that would define or explain, without telling too much. He spoke like a man used to typing paragraphs. He was careful, deliberate. He was even, she guessed, a little secretive. Bell would make an excellent spy.

“You’re not at all what you seem to be,” she said at last.

He didn’t respond. Both hands tightened on the steering wheel for a moment. “What do you mean?” He tried to laugh.

“You act like a man of action. Ready to do anything.”

Another fake laugh. “You mean you’ve figured me out so soon?”

“You’re careful. You like a plan of attack. You can read a map.”

Why did she think, just then, of Ham? She wanted to hear Ham’s laugh. She was quite silly, she consoled herself. She heard Ham’s voice every day. She was fortunate to be with this bright man, her new lover.

Christopher Bell was everything she needed.

Her mother would have wanted to know all the usual information regarding Christopher Bell. Who is he? her mother would ask. And Sarah would answer, satisfying even her mother’s curiosity. Married to a cop, her mother had begun to think like one. Everyone was a suspect, everyone was a “party in question,” or “an individual under investigation.” Sometimes it had been difficult to think of the right answer, because her mother, while she rarely looked anyone in the eye, made few mistakes. She always knew.

Her mother had always had those busy hands, folding towels, putting cups onto hooks, smoothing, straightening. Even when she drowsed post-stroke her hands were busy, patting and soothing the coverlet until the moment she could do no more.

And now Sarah wanted to tell her mother exactly who this man was: a companion. An ally. A man who knew how to do things. Her father would have admired him, because he had always admired good writing, and, strangely enough for a policeman, he had always been a reader, with a favorite quote from Thoreau or Mark Twain tacked to his cork message board. Sarah remembered particularly Twain’s description of Lake Tahoe photographing the sky, words her father had written in ballpoint in his efficient half-print, half-cursive.

Her mother would have said: a companion is a good thing to find in a man. By this she would have meant: what do you feel about him, really?

Is it possible you can really love someone you have known for only a few days? Or was love something Sarah had long ago abandoned, something her mother knew, but which Sarah had surrendered, a language her family had spoken but which Sarah had never articulated as an adult?

Love, her mother would have said, smiling skeptically, is a possibility. But see what you’re thinking about, Sarah. The sun is bright on the hairs of his arms as he drives. A sinew twitches there in his forearm, for an instant as he changes lanes. You see what I mean?

Perhaps her mother would be right. What she felt was old-fashioned libido—sex, infatuation.

Sarah was wise to all the disappointments of the heart. But infatuation like this was like remembering the old language, the mother tongue, and being fluent again, the words returning to her in phrases, the phrases in sentences, in poetry.

It was wonderful to be in the City again.

Holding hands with Christopher as pigeons burst above them across Union Square, she forgot every unhappy memory. She knew only his warm hand, and this sunny/cloudy day. It had been more than a year since she’d paid a visit to San Francisco. She had been a slave to the telephone, the appointment book. This was a return to life. They had a croissant in a cafe with a green awning, and sipped delicious French roast coffee while he told her what he intended to find out.

“This is partly just an excuse to escape the estate for a while,” he admitted. “With you.”

Why did she feel, for a moment, disappointed? This man was, after all, a journalist. But she could see that he was one of those people—and they were usually men—who did not like to waste time. Perhaps he was not a romantic, after all. “But you have another reason for escaping Live Oak.”

He glanced into his coffee for a moment, like a man consulting notes. “There’s too much we don’t know.” He did not have to add: about Hamilton Speke. About Maria. About everything, it was developing, that there was on file regarding the man with the famous smile.

Sarah had faith in her own judgment. Over the years of keeping Speke’s books, and answering his fan mail, she had learned to trust herself. She had acquired some of her mother’s sense of things. Sarah knew things about the world, and about herself.

“I know this about Ham—Maria changed his life,” said Sarah. “The day he met her, when he came back from the gallery, alone, he was singing until midnight, playing old records, dancing, raving to Clara and me about this wonderful artist he had met. I could hear his old records as I went to sleep, Fats Waller resounding through the trees. She changed his life.” The way you could change mine, she thought. “He hasn’t had a serious hangover in months.” My own addiction, she reminded herself, is to work, and a kind of brittle solitude.

“Did you resent Maria?”

“Possibly. But I think I was happy for Ham. He was so full of life.”

“You are either a very good person,” said Bell, “or the most facile woman I have ever met.”

“Why not both?” Because it was true: her cool demeanor sometimes disguised confusion, and, once in a great while, even passion. She knew that she could both keep a secret, and tell a lie.

“Because I trust you,” he said. “And I hope I’m right.”

She touched his hand.

But even then she thought: Ham would like it here. He would love watching all the people hurry by. She wanted to laugh at herself. What a silly person she was to think of a man she saw every day. What was wrong with her?

Maiden Lane was a short walk away, with its galleries and shops of diamonds and gaudy, expensive dinnerware. They paused beside a planter of hybrid begonias. The street was alive with glamor, the charm that deceives. Sarah was not deceived. This charm was a way of making people with money feel flattered. On this street of shop windows and well-dressed shoppers they were close to uncovering a secret.

The brass plate said “Please ring bell,” and Bell pushed the button and introduced himself to the electronic voice as Christopher Bell, “the writer. I called earlier today.”

The lock made an inelegant buzz, and they ascended a carpeted stairway.

Sarah held back. She could not imagine why. She was never shy, and always sure-handed with people she did not know. She found herself thinking: leave this place. Don’t take another step.

You don’t want to know the truth.

“I’m so pleased to meet you, Mr. Bell,” said the woman in black. “I’m Erika Spyri. This is my gallery.” She flicked an eye at Sarah, but Sarah wore her coolest expression. For the moment there was no handshake, and no one smiled. “I’m pleased to meet such an important journalist, Mr. Bell. I’ve found some of your criticism of television and theater nothing short of brilliant.”

Bell told her that he was living at Live Oak, writing Hamilton Speke’s biography, and that this was Hamilton Speke’s personal assistant, Sarah Warren. Erika Spyri’s hand was cool and hard, the touch of a wooden saint, one of the abstracted, preoccupied saints, not one of fire and steel.

Sarah saw what was wrong.

Erika blinked frequently, and held her head stiff, touching her hair with her hands in quick gestures. She needed reassurance. The woman was struggling to conceal anxiety, or perhaps an even stronger emotion. “I am so pleased to meet both of you,” she said. She met Sarah’s eye again, and her look said: please leave. Leave now. I don’t want you here.

Bell complimented her on the gallery’s appearance, but compliments were not, for the moment, being entertained. “I know that you could hardly write about Hamilton Speke without delving into the nature of his marriage,” said Erika brightly. Nearly too brightly, Sarah thought.

“You must know Maria quite well,” said Bell.

She did not respond directly to his remark. “A marriage is so often a matter of some mystery, to outsiders.” She paused. “But we don’t usually help with research ourselves,” she added smoothly. “We aren’t really organized to assist even when we would like to.”

“I don’t think you’ll find our questions terribly taxing. And, of course, your gallery will be mentioned in the book.”

“That will be very pleasing,” she replied, politely but with no trace of joy.

The gray carpet contrasted with the brilliant splashes of color on the walls. Erika led them on a tour of the gallery, a way, Sarah guessed, of showing how successful it was, and how little time she had for them. It was also a way of avoiding conversation. “Maria’s one of our more successful artists. I think people find her watercolors soothing.”

Maria’s work had a room to itself, flower shapes staining the paper like blossoms just beginning to dissolve. Sarah did not find them soothing.

“But, of course, living near Maria, and near Mr. Speke, would allow you to know her much better than I ever could.”

Sarah was thankful that she herself wore no makeup, and that she wore simple clothing. No one could compete with this swan, this smile, this amazing voice. And yet she heard herself respond, “I’m charmed by Maria. It’s such a joy to have her at Live Oak.”

To her own ear this sounded strained. There was a hesitation. Erika was about to make a decision. “Such a joy,” she said at last, “that you want to learn more.”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” said Bell. Sarah gave her best smile.

Something had worked. Bell’s charm, and Sarah’s presence, and perhaps a dash of Erika Spyri’s business sense. A command was given, and coffee was served in an office furnished in black leather.

“This is exactly what we need, all of us. The study of a happy marriage,” Erika said. “A successful artist and a very successful playwright. People love reading about successful people, don’t they?”

“I’m especially interested in her background,” said Bell.

Erika Spyri had perfect lipstick. She did not bother to sip her coffee. “There is a question of discretion.”

“Of course,” said Bell. “There always is.”

Erika was choosing her words. “Maria has asked us not to respond to any questions about her past.”

Bell seemed to ignore this statement. “I’ve seen the lists of shows, and awards. But,” he said, “I need to know something about her childhood. Her teenage years. Her young adult years.” He gestured, a wave that meant: you know I’m being entirely reasonable. “I can’t write about her relationship with Hamilton Speke unless I know something about her.”

“But my dear Mr. Bell, you probably know her much better than I do.”

She did not have to say: the two of you are not here researching a book. There is something troubling you. “This is difficult,” she said. “This is what happens sometimes. Someone wants to know the provenance of a painting, and the owner has asked me not to divulge his name. A wealthy man might need to sell a Bonnard to raise some spending money. You know where that leaves us—in a difficult position.”

Erika met Sarah’s eye. Sarah understood her glance. It said: this man chooses not to see, but you understand. There are secrets I cannot tell.

“I certainly wouldn’t want to put you in a difficult position,” said Bell.

There was quiet laughter. No, we certainly wouldn’t want that.

Then Erika looked upward, and away from them. In another human being this might have seemed mannered. But it was plainly nothing more than her way of beginning to share a secret, or several secrets.

“She doesn’t like to talk,” Erika began. She gazed at her own nails, studying her hand. “I thought at first she wanted to give the impression of being a mask, an enigma.”

“Many artists are complicated,” said Sarah. Meaning: get to the point. And yet, she felt a certain compassion for this woman. Something held her, kept her from talking freely. It was as though they were being overheard.

Erika’s voice was silk. “But the fact that you, who should know her fairly well, have to come to me—this tells me something. This tells me how secretive Maria truly is. I didn’t mean to say ‘secretive.’ I meant to say ‘private.’”

More quiet laughter, but without humor. Sarah knew that Erika did not choose an incorrect word without purpose. And she guessed, how she could not be certain, that Erika was relieved to be able to discuss, however discreetly, something that troubled her.

“The truth is that Maria seemed to come from nowhere, bursting into the art world in the East, perhaps ten years ago. She had been recently widowed, a young woman of quiet attractiveness and a really amazing ability with watercolors. A gallery in New York began showing her work, and then there was a review, and then another, and in a few months everyone needed to buy a Maria Merriam. They were simple watercolors of flowers—who would have thought it?”

Erika considered her desk top, her nails. “Then she vanished a few years ago. Completely dropped out of sight. There were rumors of travel, marriage, dramatic artistic sulks. But the art world forgets. Maria was not the first glorious moth to flit in and flit out again. It was, I think, troubling to some of us. But”—Erika gestured with an open hand, what could one do?

“And then several months ago I was astounded and delighted to see her here, in this office, with new work. I was delighted enough to welcome her, and to avoid asking awkward questions. She came, as far as I know, out of nowhere.”

Erika watched them both, studying the effect of her story.

“So you don’t know anything about her, really?” asked Bell.

“I’ve just told you a good deal. I know that it is what you already knew.” She looked away, and seemed to listen for something far in the distance. “I don’t like mysteries,” said Erika. “I detest them. Let everyone tell all their secrets, all at once, and how bored we would be once we heard them. Then we could sweep them off into the dustbins and start our lives all over again.”

Sarah used her most soothing voice. “If it’s something shameful, of course, Mr. Bell wouldn’t dream of writing about it.”

“Of course not,” said Erika, with the most careful of smiles. “Of course he wouldn’t. And the truth is nothing shameful. Besides, nothing really is shameful, after all. No sins exist any more. There is no real embarrassment these days. Unless, of course, the truth is very painful, or there is some real reason to keep silent.”

Erika rose, and adjusted a black venetian blind at the window, quite unnecessarily, Sarah thought. The blinds had been, as they were now, perfectly unruffled.

“This is a difficult moment for me. In a minute or two I have clients—”

“Of course,” said Bell.

Erika hesitated at the window. She lowered her voice. “If only we could tell the truth about people by simply looking at them. But the face is a disguise, isn’t it? A mask.” She turned, and for the first time her face wore a simple, unguarded expression. “I don’t believe you are here because of the book you are writing.”

“Biographies are my profession,” said Bell.

“I can’t say any more than I have. Even the slightest possibility of danger to Maria or to this gallery—”

“What possible danger could there be?” asked Bell.

He was listening to the words, Sarah realized, but he was not hearing what was being said. And her own first impression of Erika had been accurate. She was more than anxious.

She was afraid.

Sarah touched Bell’s arm to silence him. “There’s a threat,” she said, meeting Erika’s eyes, “to all of us. Isn’t there?”

Erika’s expression said, for an instant, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Then she put her hands flat on the desktop and said, “Then you already have guessed.” She did not speak, listening once again to far off sounds. “I’m not certain,” she said. “I am only using my judgment, my sense of Maria, and her life. If I knew, without any doubt at all, I would call the police, regardless of my own safety. But this is precisely why I am talking with you.”

Bell sat, all attention, but Erika was speaking to Sarah when she said, “The woman the art world knows as Maria Merriam is a very frightened creature named Maria Asquith.”

Sarah could not speak for a while, feeling her soul contract. When she could draw a breath she said, “Please tell us everything.”