A Wedding in December_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [14]
Agnes would ask another question then. If a man didn’t have the courage of his convictions, was he still a good man?
But how did one define “good”? Agnes wondered. She thought of Bill and Bridget, grasping at a bit of happiness before what might become a dreadful time for both of them. Could a woman truly love a man who had left his wife and child to be with her? Was Bill a good man? Was the romance real, even though the man had shown himself to be capable of betrayal? What price was Bill’s wife paying for his happiness? And conversely, what price was Jim’s wife—Carol, such a cold name—paying as she unwittingly lived with a man who didn’t love her?
Of course, Agnes would say none of this.
Jim’s last letter to Agnes had been in June. Agnes had written to Jim twice since 9/11, but she had had no reply.
Agnes cherished Jim’s letters. They were full of declarations of love and passion. They were full of remembering. He was the only person on the other side of their shared history. Agnes believed in Jim’s letters wholeheartedly.
Agnes had waited for so long. She could wait some more.
Stories, Agnes thought, were usually about things that had occurred. Her particular story was about things that had not occurred. What had not occurred was the sum of all the days and years she and Jim had not had together, the days and years that could never be returned. But, she thought, her story wasn’t over yet. Possibilities remained. Sometimes Agnes felt frozen in the expectation of a remarkable destiny that might still materialize.
Agnes followed well-posted signs for the inn (tasteful gold lettering on a dark green background) through small villages and then along a narrow road and finally up a long drive. She pulled into the parking area, relieved to have found the place with no wrong turns. She got out of her Honda Civic, her knee stiff from having remained so long in one position, and limped a bit as she retrieved her luggage from the backseat. Briefly she admired the view, which had not changed, before turning her attention to the house that now gleamed in the sunlight.
My God, she thought, what a transformation!
The house she remembered, Carl Laski’s house, had been in near derelict condition, the paint peeling, the sills rotting, the porch floor tentative in places. Now the facade of the inn, with its new cottage windows, fresh paint, and remade porch, resembled a spread one might see in a magazine. Tubs of thriving yellow mums flanked the entrance. The front door, on which there was a Christmas wreath, had been propped open. What day was this anyway? December 7? December 8?
Agnes hoisted her orange nylon duffel bag and her backpack over her shoulder and made her way up the steps and into the lobby. Before her was a long hallway with a highly polished dark wood floor, a stairway with intricately curved posts, and to her right, a reception desk, uninhabited. Agnes set down her luggage. She could hear voices from behind the reception desk. She wandered, arms crossed against her chest, to the sitting room at the right. Two sofas and several armchairs had been arranged in three groupings. Instantly Agnes wanted to lie down. There was a fireplace, not lit, at one end of the room, and at the other, an octagonal game table of black wood. Agnes recalled for a moment the old sitting room, dark with walnut furniture, an upright piano against one wall, the tables and floor covered with books and magazines, wineglasses and ashtrays.
Agnes crossed the hallway and entered another room, one wall of which was a bank of windows that looked out to the shallow mountains in the distance, the sky above them blue dust. She tried to remember what the room had been before the renovation: Carl’s office maybe? She heard footsteps on the wooden floor and returned to the hallway. A young woman with thin blond hair was standing behind the desk running her finger down a page of a large guest book. She looked up and noticed Agnes.
“Oh, hi,” the woman said. “You just got here?” Her glance slid to the orange duffel