Love in Another Town

After swallowing a few gulps, he went through into the living room, draped his sports jacket over a chair back and returned to the kitchen. Within a few minutes he had opened a can of corned beef and a jar of pickles and made himself a sandwich.

Carrying the plate and the beer back into the living room, he put them on the small glass coffee table, sat down, picked up the remote control and flicked on the television. He ate his sandwich and drank his beer, staring at the set. It was a sitcom on one of the networks and he wasn’t paying much attention.

Jake was preoccupied with the drama group, The Crucible and the two women he had left a short while before. They were opposites, but they were both very nice and he liked them. And so he had let himself be persuaded to do the lighting for the play. Now he wished he hadn’t agreed. He had done so against his better judgement and instinctively he knew it was going to be more trouble than it was worth. Why did I let myself get swept up into this? he asked himself yet again.

Suddenly impatient with the television and with himself, he flicked off the set and leaned back in the chair, taking an occasional swallow of beer.

After a moment Jake got up, walked over to the window, stood looking out at the night sky. He wondered what she was really like, Maggie Sorrell, but he figured he would never get to know her well enough to find out.

CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_710748c5-ef79-5f2a-b8a8-b4a88bd83c95)

MAGGIE SORRELL AWAKENED with a start. Reaching out, she turned on the bedside lamp and looked at the alarm clock. It was three-thirty.

Groaning to herself, she doused the light, slid down under the covers and attempted to go back to sleep. But her mind raced when she began to think about the living room and library of the house in Roxbury she was redecorating for a client. Fabric patterns, carpet swatches, paint colours and wood finishes swirled around in her head.

She finally gave up trying to envision a scheme. Jake Cantrell kept intruding into her thoughts. There was something about him that was appealing, very engaging, and of course he was stunning looking. But he doesn’t know it, not really, she thought again, as she had a few hours ago. And then remembering the sadness she had detected in his light green eyes, she wondered what had gone awry in his life.

Obviously someone had hurt Jake Cantrell and very badly. She recognized that look only too well. The shell-shocked look she called it.

A woman did him in, Maggie thought, still focusing on Jake. She sighed to herself. Women. Men. What they did to each other in the name of love was diabolical. It bordered on the criminal. She ought to know, it had been done to her.

Mike Sorrell had destroyed her just as surely as if he had stuck a knife in her. But then he’d been killing her soul for years, hadn’t he?

The big upheaval had happened two years ago, but the memory of it was still there. Although most of the pain had receded, there were moments when it came rushing back, took her by surprise with its intensity. She tried to squash the bad memories but they seemed determined to linger.

I’ll be forty-four next month, she thought. Forty-four. It didn’t seem possible. Time had rushed by with the speed of light. Where had all the years gone? Well, she knew the answer to that. Mike Sorrell had devoured them. She had devoted most of her life to Michael William Sorrell, attorney-at-law by profession, and to their twins, Hannah and Peter, college students both, soon to be twenty-one years old.

The three of them were gone from her life and she had learned to live without them. But it still pained her when she thought of the twins. They had sided with their father, even though she had done nothing wrong. He was the guilty party. But then he was Mr Money Bags and that apparently carried weight with them.

How terrible it was to know your children were greedy, avaricious and selfish, when you’d tried so hard to bring them up right, to instil proper values in them. But there it was. They had proved to her that she had failed with them.

In taking his side they had destroyed something fundamental deep within her. She had borne them, brought them up, looked after them when they were sick. She had always been there for them and guided them all of their lives. What they had done to her was rotten, in her opinion. They had flung all that caring back in her face. Flung her love for them back at her, as if it were meaningless.

In a sense, their cold-hearted defection had stunned her more than Mike’s ugly betrayal of her. He’d dumped her when she was nearly forty-two for a younger woman, a woman of twenty-seven who was a lawyer in another Chicago law firm.

But I survived, Maggie reminded herself, thanks mainly to Samantha. And myself, of course.

It was Samantha who had reached out to her two years ago, that awful day in May, the day of her birthday when she had finally admitted to herself that she would be spending it alone.

Hannah and Peter were both attending Northwestern, but were far too busy with their own lives to make time for their mother’s birthday celebration. And their father had left that morning on a business trip without wishing her a happy birthday. Apparently he hadn’t even remembered it.

That May morning, sitting alone in the kitchen of their apartment on Lake Shore Drive, she had felt totally, completely alone. And without her husband and children she was. Her parents were dead and she had been an only child. That special morning she had felt something else – abandoned, cast aside, of no use to anyone anymore. Even now, so long after, she was unable to pinpoint her exact feelings, but she had been disturbed, she knew that.

When the phone had rung and she had answered, had heard Samantha singing ‘Happy birthday’, she had burst into tears. Between sobs she had explained that she was spending her birthday alone because the kids didn’t have time for her and Mike had gone away on a business trip.

‘Pack a bag, get out to O’Hare and take a plane to New York! Immediately!’ Samantha had exclaimed. ‘I’ll book us into the Carlyle. I have some pull there, I can usually get rooms. I’m taking you out on the town tonight. Somewhere posh and smart. So pack your fanciest gear.’

When she had tried to protest, Samantha had said, ‘I’m not listening to your excuses. And I won’t take no for an answer. There’s a plane leaving every hour on the hour. Just get on one and get yourself to New York. Pronto, pronto, pronto, honey. I’ll meet you at the hotel.’

True to her word, Samantha had been there when she arrived, full of warmth and love, sympathy and support. They had enjoyed their two days together in Manhattan, doing a little shopping and eating at nice restaurants. A Broadway play and a trip to the Metropolitan Museum had been mandatory; they had also found time to talk endlessly, reminiscing about their days at Bennington College, when they first met, and their lives thereafter.

Samantha had married several years after Maggie. Her husband had been a British journalist based in New York. She and Angus McAllister had tied the knot when she was twenty-five and he was thirty-one. It had been a very happy marriage, but Angus had been tragically killed in a plane crash five years later, en route to the Far East on an assignment.

It was only a few months after this that Samantha, who was childless, moved back to Washington, Connecticut, where her parents had long owned a country house they used at weekends. Heartbroken though she had been, she had managed eventually to get her grief under control. But she had never remarried, although there had been several men in her life in the intervening years.

At one moment, during the birthday visit, Maggie had asked Samantha why this was so. Samantha had shaken her head and said, in her colourful way, ‘Ain’t found the right man, honey chile. I’m looking to fall head over heels in love, the way I did with Angus. I want my stomach to lurch and my knees to wobble.’ She had laughed, and finished, ‘I want to be swept off my feet, into his arms, into his bed and his life forever. It must be like that for me or it won’t work. And I’m still waiting to meet him.’

Later, on the plane going back to Chicago, Maggie had admitted to herself that her marriage to Mike was growing more and more unsatisfactory with the passing of every day. She did not know what to do about it. He did. A day later he returned from his trip. He walked into the apartment, announced he was leaving her for another woman, and walked right out again.

Once the shock had subsided and she had recovered her equilibrium to a degree, she had set about cleaning up the mess his unexpected departure had created.

Divorce proceedings were started, the apartment went on the market, and once it was sold she moved back east, back to her home town. New York.

She had lived there for six months in a small, rented studio. Her parents were already dead, she had no family, and she’d lost touch with all of her old friends from her youth. It was a lonely life for her.

It didn’t take much persuasion on Samantha’s part to get her to start looking at houses in the northwestern part of Connecticut.

Samantha also talked her into working as an interior designer again. Some years ago, she had been the junior member of a successful Chicago decorating firm and had loved every moment working there. She had finally given up her job because of pressure from Mike.

But she did what her best friend suggested and hung out her shingle, once she was installed in her small Connecticut colonial in Kent. The house, a little gem in her opinion, was only a few miles from Washington, where Samantha lived.

Thanks to Samantha’s many contacts, design work had started to come Maggie’s way quickly. They were small jobs. However, they had helped to pull her back into the swing of decorating, and the money she earned paid part of the mortgage.

Samantha, the eternal optimist, kept telling her a really big job would come her way one day soon. Maggie believed her because she was also an optimist.

Soon Maggie began to accept that sleep would be evasive for the rest of the night. Putting on the light, she peered at the alarm clock again and decided to get up. It was just turning four o’clock and she often rose at this hour. She accomplished a lot before eight whenever she did.

An hour later Maggie sat at her desk, sipping a mug of coffee. She was dressed and made up and ready for the day ahead. Later in the morning she would be driving over to Samantha’s studio in Washington to look at her latest handpainted fabrics for a bedroom she was doing in New Preston. Then she would be presenting the scheme for the library to the owner of the house in Roxbury. Pulling the swatches and samples together for this room was the order of the day and of vital importance.

Maggie began to assemble the small samples from various canvas bags at her feet. There was a variety of different greens and reds, colours the owner wanted, but not one of them was pleasing to her. Most of the reds were too bright, the greens too pale. Something sombre, she muttered under her breath. And then for a reason she couldn’t explain she thought of The Crucible, and of the meeting last night.

Again Jake Cantrell insinuated himself into her thoughts. If she were honest with herself, she’d have to admit she felt rather foolish, believing as she had, if only for a few moments, that he was Tom Cruise. But Samantha had sounded so convincing when she’d spotted him coming down the aisle of the auditorium. He’d taken them both by surprise when he started to talk about his ideas for the lighting. It was obvious to her from that moment on that he was knowledgeable about his work, and most likely as brilliant as Samantha said. Of course, you never knew with Sam. She had always liked a pretty face, Maggie thought, as she shuffled the samples on the desk, and then she stopped and sat back in her chair, staring into space. ‘But he’s too young for her,’ she muttered aloud. And for you too, she added to herself silently.