Chapter 14
Trevor sat in the pantry for a few minutes to collect his thoughts. Callista was correct as usual; after all, she had been speaking to Maggie earlier, gaining valuable insight into her emotions. There was no difference between men and women who had been married for a long time. When the marriage ended, there was such a longing for a partner that it was easy to run after anyone who dangled the promise of physical contact, if only for one night. Maggie was in danger, facing the same sadness that he had experienced when he began his life as a newly single man. Trevor felt that he had a duty to save her, a responsibility to protect her with his wisdom and bitter experience. The only way he could do that was to open up, to put aside his reticence and speak freely and honestly, without shame.
Three months after Allison’s death, when he went to Los Angeles, he lived in a nightmare of young actresses pretending to love him, throwing themselves at him and using him to obtain an audition or a role. Now he knew that he had been a fool, to think that they were offering more than a night of sex in a cold business transaction. His picture had been in the gossip columns back then, and just like Maggie he was upset and embarrassed by the publicity. For the sake of a companion in his bed he had accepted the invitations of three different women, and his heart was torn up three different times before he finally understood the game. He touched his cheek where Maggie had kissed him, too shy to put her lips on is. Even if she did not want him anymore, he had to help her; Maggie was too delicate to survive such a storm of emotion.
His mind made up and filled with resolve, Trevor walked out of the pantry with a new found energy. Searching the kitchen, he found only Will’s friends sitting on the stools that were placed across from the working area of the kitchen. Behind the cooking island, the catering crew was busy at the huge stove, a professional grade model that was set into a grotto in the wall as if it were a religious icon. At the sink along the front wall he found the wait staff busily washing glasses and loading the dishwashers. Looking all around him, checking the mob sitting at the kitchen table, he saw only friends of his children who were making their own party, helping themselves to the assortment of food before it could make its way upstairs to the dining room.
Holding center stage in the room that was designed as a tribute to cooking was Will Harwood, talking to Maggie, and the young man must have introduced her to his girlfriend Susan and Callista’s fiancé Colin. Before Trevor could reach her, she was bounding back up the stairs, off to the powder room he presumed, and Trevor took the opportunity to visit his kitchen party guests before returning to the main party on the floor above. He loved the celebrations in the kitchen, especially after all the work he had done with the architect to get the flow of the room just right. All the elegant appointments, the best cooking equipment, had been installed to create this temple of cookery and fine cuisine. The catering company loved Harwood’s kitchen.
He made a swing through the dining room to check on the food supply, and then he returned to the drawing room, but Maggie was eluding the prowling lion. Ian and his wife were preparing to go back home, not being the sort to stay up half the night in the middle of the workweek. Jane McCullough was bubbling over with cheer as she praised Maggie, a delightful girl who was kind enough to laugh at Ian’s old jokes, “The ones that most people had heard dozens of times already, not that they were hysterically funny on the first telling.”
Jane was out the door while the two men confirmed their plans for tennis on Saturday, with one of Ian’s business associates making a fourth because Will had other commitments. Trevor wandered back to the drawing room to enjoy the conversation. He chatted with Nigel, discussed the Hofmeier film with Bob Hurleburt, and constantly hunted for his prey. Ciaran and his mates were busy amusing a group of women, and Trevor was on the verge of jumping for joy because Maggie was not in the female circle. She did not seem to be anywhere, as a matter of fact, and Trevor retraced his path through the dining room and down the hall to the back staircase, heading back to the kitchen.
The university crowd was milling around the cooking island, twirling spaghetti on forks. “Dad, where have you been?” Will asked. “Try this, I would have saved you a bit, but it’s too fabulous to stop eating.”
Will offered his plate, which held only about four or five strands of pasta. Flecks of tomato shone with the gleam of olive oil, and the little streaks of sauce that puddled in the plate smelled of garlic and basil. Colin was wiping his dish clean with a slice of bread, and Susan was scraping up the errant tomato pieces and licking them off the back of the fork. “This is excellent, Will. I don’t recall any Italian dishes on Callista’s menu, not one in fact.” Trevor copied Colin with a hunk of bread to soak up the last drops from the plate.
“Maggie made it for me,” Will said, a big, proud grin on his face. “I mentioned that I was hungry, and I wished for something Italian, so we raided the larder and Maggie cooked for us.”
“What, a guest at my party?” Trevor was outraged, as if his son had treated Maggie like the hired help. “I did not ask her to come tonight so that she could stand in the kitchen and prepare your dinner.”
“She didn’t just offer, Dad, she insisted,” Will explained.
“It’s true, Mr. Harwood,” Colin added, his mouth stuffed with bread. “She was practically pleading, you see, and she mentioned how tired she was of living in a hotel and eating in restaurants every night, and English food is too bland. It would have been cruel to say no.”
“We can’t be surprised to hear that she hates English food, Colin,” Trevor said, “Even we hate English food, and it is bland.”
“She’s brilliant, Dad,” Will said, as ebullient as Callista had been. “I’m glad she had a chance to cook, it really made her happy. Say, Colin, tell my dad about her university prank.”
“Apparently, she broke into a maintenance shed with her friends one night,” Colin tried not to laugh before getting the story out, “and they found some spare commodes, so they took them. Then, at the first lecture the next morning…”
Colin was roaring with laughter, unable to finish, so Will took up the baton and ran on. “The philosophy professor, the one they thought was so pretentious, he nearly had a stroke when he saw that his chair had been replaced with a toilet,” and Will erupted into guffaws, his mind filled with the picture that Maggie had painted so well.
She was too good to be true; it was impossible that Trevor Harwood had found the perfect woman for his later years, the time in his life when his children were grown and gone from home. His dream of two breasts big enough to fill his hands had come to life in Maggie, and right now it did not matter if they were real or plastic. Tonight, in the kitchen he designed as an entertainment area, his wife’s stage where she would cook while surrounded by their friends, Maggie had stood in the spotlight and fussed over his guests. Idle chatter and laughter had filled this kitchen while Maggie whipped up something special, cheerfully spoiling Will while taking herself away from a party that she seemed to be enjoying.
Trevor could close his eyes and actually see into the future. Maggie was at the cooker, stirring and sautéing, telling her jokes and laughing at the ladies’ stories while he tended the bar, set up in the butler’s pantry on the opposite side of the kitchen where the men would be lingering over their cocktails. There was no cookbook, no measuring spoons, not even a timer. Allison had been a terrible cook, too harried and nervous to chat with people while trying to get dinner on the table. Maggie was Trevor’s dream, the lover he longed for after Allison had died.
“Where is our guest chef?” Trevor asked happily, scanning the room again for a sign of her shaggy blonde head. Told that she went back to the party, trying to keep up her end of the bargain as she said, Trevor raced up the stairs and down the hallway to the front of the house, looking for Maggie, to tell her how incredible she was, but he could only find Nigel, who was talking with Ken and Roger.
“Nigel, where’s Maggie?” Trevor asked in a rush as he hunted for her in the crowd.
“The last I saw of her, she was talking to Marjorie and Dorie about public schools. Women with children always manage to come around to the topic of education, it is amazing how predictable they are.”
Maggie had heard the sound of the piano and loud voices singing a bit drunkenly, emanating from the music room situated across the foyer. She walked over, admiring the comfortable space that must have served as the Harwood family’s main living area. More than a music room, it contained stereo equipment and a television, and rows of shelves covered with books and awards. Trevor’s two Tony awards were featured prominently, polished to a high sheen and definitely not collecting dust. Scattered here and there were photos, sitting on side tables and along the mantel of the fireplace. There were family shots, such as a lovely picture of Trevor and Allison with their young children, and Maggie could see that Callista favored her mother. Not a great beauty, but she had a warm and pleasant face, with a stunning head of auburn hair. It made Maggie think of home, of the picture of Franco and Joey that she had placed on her mantel after Franco died. Several photos of Will and Callista that represented various stages of their growing up years were mixed in with some yellowed photos that looked like they came from the war years. The youthful man in a soldier’s uniform must be Trevor’s father, and next to that was a wedding picture that was surely his parents on their special day. Framed newspaper clippings and plaques were displayed on the walls, making for a very cozy room filled with modern, overstuffed furniture. It was such an inviting space that it was no wonder that some guests would gravitate to the warm atmosphere.
It happened at every party; a group of people would eventually find the piano and a sing-song would break out. This time it was the Irish crowd, as the unmistakable sound of timeless Irish music wafted into the entry hall and spilled over into the drawing room. Maggie waltzed in a tight circle with Noel, the set dresser, her face glowing with a bright smile as she sang along with the crowd. “You’d think she was queen of the land,” came the chorus, “and her hair hung over her shoulders, tied up with a black velvet band.”
She was full of the joy of living at that moment, dancing as she had danced all her life. This song was a part of her history, the little girl standing on her father’s feet as he twirled her around the room. As the tune ended, she curtsied and thanked her partner, her face reflecting the pleasure that she was experiencing in a room full of people. “Another one, Maggie,” Noel insisted, holding her hand for a moment as he looked into her eyes, requesting a dance for now and her company for the rest of the night.
“Maggie, can I interrupt for just one moment?” Trevor asked.
He took her arm, pulling her away, while Noel held fast. Two men eyed one another across the battlefield until Maggie removed her hand, very gently, from Noel’s grasp. It was delicious, to be caught in such a tug of war, but Trevor’s face was a bit flushed, his upper lip damp with sweat, and Maggie was beginning to think that he meant to throw her out of his house as he led her back to the foyer.
“You really shouldn’t be cooking for Will, not with all the food that the caterer brought in,” he said to open the conversation. His hand was stroking her upper arm as he spoke, as if he was trying to be kind before he helped her into her coat.
“I did it because I wanted to, Trevor, he didn’t hold a knife to my throat and force me,” she replied, a bit angry and defensive. She was not going to take any shit, no indeed, and she let the words rip. “He was hungry, and the caterer didn’t happen to bring what he wanted so I made it for him, is that such a crime? I love to cook, and I’ve been stuck in a hotel room for over a week and I’m tired of eating in restaurants every night of the week. Besides, he enjoyed it and his friends had fun, and I really had the best time making pasta for them. So I spoiled your son, I indulged his whims, well I’m sorry but I’m Neapolitan on my mother’s side and I don’t know any other way to live than to do special things for the people around me and if you don’t like it I’m sorry but you won’t be bothered with me once I’ve gone. And I’ll clean up the kitchen if you’re worried about the mess.”
“Yes, well, I see that you would risk your life to retrieve a child’s toy,” he said, chuckling so that she would know he had made a joke. “I am quite upset with you, Maggie, because you didn’t make enough for me. All I had was one bite, and I had to steal that from Will’s plate. It was delicious, I wish I had more.”
“I’m sorry, but we could only find one can of tomatoes,” she said, apologizing with the sound of her voice. Obviously it was only a misunderstanding, she had torn into him because she jumped to a wrong conclusion, and now he must think that she was an absolute bitch from hell. “But I could make something for you another time. If you want me to, and we could go to a grocery store or a supermarket and I could get what I need, or you could tell me what you like and I could try to make that for you.”
“I am sorry, about, I didn’t make myself clear, and, yes, I, so soft, your arm…is it a bit warm in here?” With his hand gently touching her arm, he made his lips move, but most of his speech was unintelligible garble, as if the great actor could not speak unless a playwright put words into his mouth. “Yes, quite, thank you, that would be lovely.”
She waited patiently, watching his mouth working around a sentence that he was trying to spit out. He still had his hand on her arm, stroking in an absent-minded way that seemed to match the movements of the wheels grinding in his head. His eyes met hers, but he was his usual repressed, stodgy self as he finally said, “Still not dead drunk, Mrs. Angiolini, you may not stumble out of here on time if you don’t buckle down and get to work.”
“Behind schedule, sir,” she said, using the British pronunciation. She walked back to the music room and picked up another glass of champagne as the waiter came by, winking at Trevor as she sipped from the flute.
“I like to make love,” Noel said, grinning broadly as he reclaimed her. “Can we make that together?”
His retort was blatantly suggestive, but delivered with such humor that Maggie could not help but laugh. He was wooing her, full bore and all out, and she had never felt so special as she did just then, with Noel the set dresser and Ciaran the heart throb still on the prowl. She looked over her shoulder, hoping to find one other hunter in pursuit, but Trevor was wandering back to the main party with Nigel at his side.
Trevor had not eaten all night, but he was not particularly hungry, not now. Shuffling into the dining room, he noticed Bob Hurleburt standing near the buffet table, and Bob was giving him a most bizarre look, as if Harwood had just won an Oscar against impossible odds. The director hurried over, with a facial expression that was fairly shouting with congratulations and best wishes.
“If you need to pop out for a half-hour or so, the party can go on without you,” Bob suggested. “No, wait, not a half-hour. How long has she been without, Nigel?”
“Since Christmas at least, and Pam was implying that it was actually longer, maybe a matter of years,” Nigel said. “Bob is so terribly disappointed to discover that Maggie is not a wayward wife.”
“Makes the whole affair so dull and mundane. No irate husband at the door with a gun, ready to murder his wife’s lover,” Bob said amid the laughter.
“He could be an ex-husband who has not accepted the divorce, seeking revenge,” Trevor suggested a variation on the plot.
“A ghost story,” Nigel choked out the sentence while chortling over his quick wit.
Needing a stiff drink, Trevor went back to the drawing room, accompanied by Bob, Nigel and Nigel’s monologue. To be polite, he laughed when the others did, but he was not listening. He missed a cue and the smile slid from his face, to be replaced by an angry glare that was directed at Ciaran Doyle with his arm around Maggie.
“He simply will not give up,” Trevor said through clenched teeth.
“Why should he? She’s not turning him away,” Bob remarked. They watched as Ciaran whispered in her ear, a remark that made her laugh, and as she walked away towards the foyer she let her hand slide along his arm. As soon as she was out of view, Trevor hustled over to have it out with his rival.
“Can’t find an English woman who’ll have you back?” Trevor sneered at Ciaran. “Now you’re after an American who doesn’t know your style.”
“What are you talking about?” Ciaran asked, trying not to laugh at his host. “Do you think I’m trying to seduce Maggie, is that it?”
“Seduce is too genteel of a term, Ciaran, for what you want. I think fucking is more appropriate,” Trevor went on, too drunk to be polite and too upset to be sensible.
“You’d fuck her too if she’d spread her legs for you,” Ciaran spat back, trading insult for insult.
“But she’s too much of a lady to ask for it, even if she wanted one. Even if she wanted one from you, the great Trevor Harwood.”
“At least have the decency to use your own bed,” Trevor continued, growing more stupid as his temper raged. Without a doubt, he was behaving like a complete idiot, something that was unlike the way he used to be. “Or find a woman your own age.”
“I know how old Maggie is,” Ciaran said plainly, calm and in control of his emotions. “And it doesn’t matter to her or to me. You see, I talked to her. I had the decency to sit down and have a nice chat, asked her about her life and what she’s been through. You don’t know anything about her, do you? And what’s next, do you expect her to climb into your bed because she was invited to your party? Is that the plan, Trevor, does she have to pay for the invitation? Do you think she cares about meeting actors, do you imagine that she’s impressed with your awards?”
“I invited her to my home because I enjoy her company. And I don’t need a chat to know what she’s been through lately, I’ve had two years of it, Ciaran, and I think I can begin to comprehend the difficulties.”
“No, I don’t think you really do. Forget it, I’ll talk to you when we’re both sober, and then we can see how much you actually do understand. She’s stronger than she looks, Trevor, it’s frightening how strong she is.”
Ciaran walked away, in search of Maggie, to have a last drink together before they split apart for good. At the end of the week he was heading home, back to Manchester for a brief vacation with his mother and his sister Molly’s family. Maggie had told him to get away from the artificial world of the theatre, to get his feet back on the ground before he went off to find a wife. He would go home, for that was the real world, and then he would look for a woman like Maggie, someone who was gentle, loving and very patient with a thirty-seven year old man who never seemed to grow up, the life of the party.
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