her mother's tears, and finally, the day the old man had left for good and notified them that they were forever cut out of his will.
The loss of the money did not upset her mother, though the loss of the old man's love most surely did. Still, she adapted to these new circumstances and devoted more time than ever to her own family, giving them all her love. In four years, she had gotten over her loss — and then her father had died. And her brother, William Barnaby, did not even notify her of the old man's passing until he had been buried for nearly a month. This delay, William insisted on the phone, was at his father's command, a clause in the old man's will. Her mother, aware that old man Barnaby could be extremely vindictive, even carrying a grudge to the grave, was still not satisfied with William's flimsy explanation. But she was more content, after this final insult, to let the estrangement between her and her brother continue — an arrangement that William was not only willing, but eager, to see perpetuated. He still professed a great dislike for Richard Keller and told his sister she would yet one day regret the marriage, despite her lovely twins.
The letter continued with this:
“Of course, your father proved himself a man of admirable wit, cunning and rare business acumen. His success, I must admit, was a great surprise to me. But you must believe that it was a pleasant surprise, and that I was always so very glad for Louise.”
Sitting in her small kitchen, in the pleasant apartment which her trust fund allowances easily paid for, Gwyn smiled sadly at what, without realizing it, her Uncle William had just said. Money makes the man… Keller was worthless, an unpedigreed bum, an outcast compared to the so-daily conscious Barnaby family — until he'd started making big money. With a fortune, he was more acceptable. And, of course, he was easier to accept now that he was dead and gone…
“I did not learn that Louise and Richard were killed in the airplane accident until six months after they were gone. I was stunned, Gwyn, and horribly depressed for some time afterward. I could not understand why you didn't immediately inform me of the disaster, Gwyn. That was two years ago, but you were seventeen and old enough to understand that relatives should be contacted, that certain priorities in…”
She skipped over the remainder of that paragraph. She did not think Uncle William was so dense as to misunderstand her motives for not informing him, post haste, of his sister's death. Could he really have forgotten how badly he had hurt Louise when he withheld the news of old man Barnaby's death?
“I waited six additional months, after getting the belated news of the tragedy, and I finally contacted the bank that I knew would be managing your father's inheritance until you come of age. They graciously provided me with your address, there at school, but I have required nearly another year to gather the nerve to write these few lines.”
She turned to the second page of the letter:
“Gwyn, let's let the past bury itself. Let's do what should have been done so long ago; let's reunite what's left of the descendants of my father. I have apologized by letter, a very cowardly beginning, but a beginning nonetheless. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, and to forgive, by association, my father, perhaps these years of pointless animosity can be done away with.
“I would like you to spend your summer here in Massachusetts, at the homestead, Barnaby Manor, with me and my wife, Elaine, whom you have never met. I am fifty years old, Gwyn, finally mature enough to admit my mistakes. I pray that you are mature enough to have learned the value of forgiveness, and that we can make a start of repairing old bridges. I will anxiously await your reply.
“Love to you,
“Uncle Bill Barnaby.”
Gwyn did not know at what point during the letter she had begun to cry, but now fat tears rolled down her cheeks like jewels of water, fell off the end of her chin, leaving a trace of saltiness at the corners of her mouth. She wiped at them with her hand, and she knew what her answer would be. She hadn't realized, until now, how much alone she was, how cut off from people, how without love and protection. She wanted a family, someone to turn to, someone to confide in, and she was more than willing to forgive old angers, old prejudices.
She got paper and pen from the desk in the living room and sat down to compose the reply.
She had no trouble with it. The words came as easily as if they were familiar lines of a favorite verse that she had memorized. In two weeks, when the semester ended, she would go to Calder, Massachusetts, to Barnaby Manor, to her Uncle William.
And life would start all over again.
She posted the letter that same afternoon and, in a better mood than any she had experienced since before her parents' death two long years ago, she treated herself to a movie that she'd been wanting to see for some time. And she went shopping for some new summer clothes — light dresses, swim-suits, shorts and airy blouses, sneakers — that might be suitable for the social life and the leisure time on the beach of the Massachusetts seacoast
That night, she had a nightmare which was old and familiar but which, for the first time did not terrify her. In the dream, she was standing alone on a barren plain with nothing but grotesque, stark rock formations twisting up on every side… The sky was flat gray and high, and she knew that no other living thing existed in all this world… She sat down on the sandy earth of the plain overwhelmed by the soul-deadening emptiness of the world, and she knew that the sky would soon lower (as it always did without fail), and that the rocks would close in (as they always did without fail), eventually crushing her to death while she screamed and screamed — knowing that there would be no answer to her calls for help. This time Uncle William appeared out of nowhere and reached for her smiling broadly. And this time she was not crushed and she was not alone.
In the morning, waking refreshed, she knew that now she was not without friends, without family or without hope. This one contact, yet so brief, with someone who might love her was enough to drive off the nightmare.
During the following two weeks, she did not have a single urge to sleep late or to take naps in the afternoon, and she knew that when her nightmare had gone away, her sickness had disappeared too.
She looked forward to the summer at Barnaby Manor with the enthusiasm of a small child preparing for Christmas morning. In her free time she did more shopping — not only for clothes for herself, but for gifts that she wanted to bring her aunt and uncle, small things given not so much because of their value but because they represented her own ardent desire to give in order to make their relationship a good and lasting one. These were gifts of care, gifts of sentiment, and she shopped especially carefully for each.
Finally on the first day of June, which was a Thursday, she packed her four large suitcases in her Opel coupe locked her apartment for the summer, paid her landlady three months' rent in advance and set out for the drive from Carlisle, Pennsylvania, to the small town of Calder, Massachusetts where a bright, new future awaited her, a chance to re-establish contacts with people who wanted to love her in a world where, she had learned the hard way, love was at a premium.
TWO
When she first saw Barnaby Manor, still more than a quarter of a mile away at the top of the narrow and badly paved macadam driveway she stopped her car along the berm. She sat there, peering through the bright windshield against which the afternoon sun reflected, and she took time to carefully examine this place where she would spend the following three months and where, perhaps an old grudge would finally be laid to rest…
At first the house did not look particularly promising and seemed to threaten rather than to welcome. It was huge, with at least thirty rooms on three different levels, spotted with railed porches and balconies its slate roof
