Danny and Eliot chatted while I looked out of the window, feeling warm and complete. My husband, baby and best friend were all there and all mine for a couple of days. Weather fears aside, I knew we would have fun. We'd go into Southampton one day and feel like natives for a few hours by walking around the deserted streets. The store windows would be full of inappropriately bright things, hibernating there until the flashy summer crowd returned and started whipping out their credit cards.
What else would we do? Build big fires in the living-room fireplace, cook marshmallows on sticks. Mae had never seen a marshmallow. For that matter, she'd never seen a fire! Oh sure, a second's match flick here and there, but never a luxuriously big blast of yellow and heat dancing off red brick. No sir, never that! It was about time.
«I'm hungry.»
«Danny, we haven't even got to Port Jefferson yet!»
«Cullen, please reach down and hand me a large sandwich, pickle and a can of cream soda. I'm hungry, there's a basket full of food and if you want to have an argument with my stomach – go right ahead.»
«I guess that's touchй to you, toots!»
«Pipe down, Eliot. You can't have any food anyway. Hello, Mae darling. Would _you_ like a sandwich?»
There was snow on the ground by the time we passed the sign for Westhampton, the exit you would take if you were going to Weber Gregston's house. How did I know that? Because I looked it up on a map before we left, that's how. I watched the sign approach, get larger and larger, flick by. Weber. Was he in New York again? Did I want him to call me? See me? Eliot asked those questions this morning and I had had to shrug. No. Yes. No. Yes. Maybe.
But Eliot's interest in the Weber Gregston affair was purely academic because, next to me, he was Danny's greatest supporter. He would have been aghast if I had done anything about Weber besides fantasize. Yet I was still more honest with him about certain things than I was with Dan. Eliot heard every Rondua dream and seemed perpetually fascinated by them. He was now convinced they were an important part of my well-being. The E. Kilbertus analysis was that Cullen James was an interesting person who, at the moment, wasn't able to live up to her potential because of the humdrum busy work involved in taking care of an infant. As a result, I let my unconscious take off nightly and the adventures in Rondua compensated for the mundaneness of my everyday. That logical and highly complimentary view – coming from one who knew every detail of the situation – reassured me mightily. It also helped to know that what he said agreed essentially with what Dr. Rottensteiner had told me months before: if the dreams didn't have any bad effects, just leave them alone. It reminded me of the dust motes that float around in front of our eyes; follow them with your eye and they remain in your vision much longer than if you ignore them and let them drift away.
And how about the time I realized with a hefty jolt how much I would _miss_ those damned dreams if they were suddenly to go away? Anything that is wholly ours sets us apart from the rest of the universe .
Overall, the only thing that tickled my mind the wrong way was what in God's name had I done to Weber that day I put up my hand and sent him flying across his hotel room? That haunted me when I let myself think about it – which, believe me, was _not_ often.
The first thing that struck me about my parents' house when we pulled into the driveway was how forlorn it looked: ready to be filled and have some fun with people moving around in its belly, turning up all the heat.
As we ferried back and forth to and from the car with all the bags and boxes we'd brought, Eliot pulled me aside out of Danny's earshot and said we _had_ to make a safari over to Remsenberg one day to check out Villa Gregston. I agreed with a curt nod, but a white light of excitement clicked on in my heart as I did so. I know I wouldn't have gone alone, but how could I say no with Eliot _insisting_. . . .
The first night out on the Island, Eliot whipped up his family's secret bean soup which we ate from hot bowls by the fireplace along with thick chunks of cheese and homemade bread and a good French red wine. Mae was transfixed by the fire, but very blase about the marshmallows we toasted for her. She fell asleep with a fat black one in her hand, but we kept her there with us to complete our circle as we sat around, dreaming and not saying much.
The next afternoon, Danny said there was a Rutgers basketball game on television he wanted to see. He volunteered to babysit if Eliot and I wanted to go out and wander around.
With that perfect excuse to sneak over to Weber's house, I suddenly had no desire to go. But Eliot piped up and loudly announced his willingness to be chauffeured around and shown all the interesting sights in the neighborhood.
An hour later we were halfway there, feeling like ten-year-olds who were sneaking into an «R» rated movie without their parents along.
It was love at first sight for me and Remsenberg. White wooden houses hundreds of years old sat quietly next to each other in that proud, justifiable arrogance old beauty often has.
There was no real town center – no stores or gas stations. Only the houses simply but perfectly maintained, very sure of their great value. What an uncommon place.
An old man in a plucky Tarn O'Shanter hat who was walking a sweet-faced greyhound gave us directions to the lane where Weber lived. Turning on to it and feeling my hands go a little sweaty, I was reminded of those roads in rural Italy that are lined on either side by cypress trees which commonly give you the feeling they're soldiers waiting to be reviewed. Only here on Long Island, there were cedar trees with a solid, rocky look to them which said they had stood guard over this part of town for a long time.
The road twisted here and there. Finally, after a strangely sharp right turn, it became a narrow dirt road. I pulled the car over and we both got out to have a look. Sure enough, Eliot found the mailbox a few feet away under a tree with the name «Gregston» written under it in small, unobtrusive letters.
«Eliot, I think we should walk in, don't you? If he is in there, we don't want to surprise him. What if he's with someone, or something?»
«And maybe you're scared stiff, Cullen James. Where's your spirit of adventure?»
«In Rondua, Mr. Tracy. Let's go.»
The driveway meandered in and out of a neat, very thick forest of trees and was only wide enough for one car at a time. It went on for about a quarter of a mile. Then you were socked in the eye with _one beautiful view!_ Weber's «Laughing Hat» house sat plunk on the edge of a bay and fitted perfectly into the surroundings of sea and birds flying everywhere. It was a little Victorian gem, white and cobalt blue, which reminded me of a Carl Larson illustration for a children's book. Every detail was singular and kooky – gingerbread moulding, orange copper drains, giant bay windows that gave the impression the house was all eyes looking carefully out at everything.
There was no car around. Tiptoeing up closer, we saw no lights on inside either.
«Damn it! I wanted him to be in there with Meryl Streep.»
«Meryl's married, Eliot.»
«Frankly, my dear, so are you. You want to go inside? You've got the keys, right?»
«Yes, but I don't want to do that, Eliot. I feel voyeuristic enough as it is.»
«Oh my! I've been a peeping Tom all my life. There's just never anything very interesting to peep _at_! Are you sure? Can you imagine what he's got hidden in those closets?»
«No, I really don't want to. But I think we can peek in through the windows. That'd be okay.»
We made a complete circuit of the house. Since so much of it was glass, we got a good idea of his taste from out there. There were lots of empty white walls, wooden furniture covered with black silk pillows, some posters of work by artists I'd never heard of before but liked a lot: Leslie Baker, Alex Colville, Martina Niegel. And there was no one «kind» of picture or theme – they were as eclectic as you could get.