EPILOGUE – KATE 1982
It seemed to Kate that the wheel of time was spinning faster, hurrying the days along, blending winter into spring and summer into autumn, until all the seasons and years blurred into one. She was in her late eighties now. Eighty what? Sometimes she forgot her exact age. She could face growing old, but she could not face the idea of growing old and slovenly, and she took great pains with her appearance. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a neat, erect figure of a woman, proud and indomitable.
She still went to her office every day, but it was a gesture, a ruse to ward off death. She attended every board meeting, but things were no longer as clear as they once had been. Everyone around her seemed to be speaking too rapidly. The most disturbing thing to Kate was that her mind played tricks on her. The past and present were constantly intermingling. Her world was closing in, becoming smaller and smaller.
If there was a lifeline that Kate clutched, a driving force that kept her alive, it was her passionate conviction that someone in the family must one day take charge of Kruger-Brent. Kate had no intention of letting outsiders take over what Jamie McGregor and Margaret and she and David had suffered and toiled so long and so hard for. Eve, on whom Kate had twice pinned such high hopes, was a murderer. And a grotesque. Kate had not had to punish her. She had seen Eve once. What had been done to her was punishment enough.
On the day Eve had seen her face in the mirror, she had tried to commit suicide. She had swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, but Keith had pumped out her stomach and brought her home, where he hovered over her constantly. When he had to be at the hospital, day and night nurses guarded her.
“Please let me die,” Eve begged her husband. “Please, Keith! I don’t want to live like this.”
“You belong to me now,” Keith told her, “and I’ll always love you.”
The image of what her face looked like was etched in Eve’s brain. She persuaded Keith to dismiss the nurses. She did not want anyone around her looking at her, staring at her.
Alexandra called again and again, but Eve refused to see her. All deliveries were left outside the front door so no one could see her face. The only person who saw her was Keith. He was, finally, the only one she had left. He was her only link with the world, and she became terrified that he would leave her, that she would be left alone with nothing but her ugliness—her unbearable ugliness.
Every morning at five o’clock, Keith arose to go to the hospital or clinic, and Eve was always up before him to fix his breakfast. She cooked dinner for him every night, and when he was late, she was filled with apprehension. What if he had found some other woman? What if he did not return to her?
When she heard his key in the door, she would rush to open it and go into his arms, holding him tightly. She never suggested they make love because she was afraid he might refuse, but when he did make love to her, Eve felt as though he was bestowing upon her a wonderful kindness.
Once she asked, timidly, “Darling, haven’t you punished me enough? Won’t you repair my face?” He looked at her and said proudly, “It can never be repaired.”
As time went on, Keith became more demanding, more peremptory, until Eve was finally and completely a slave to him, catering to his every whim. Her ugliness bound her to him more strongly than iron chains.
Alexandra and Peter had had a son, Robert, a bright, handsome boy. He reminded Kate of Tony when he was a child. Robert was almost eight now, and precocious for his age. Very precocious indeed, Kate thought. A really remarkable boy.
All the members of the family received their invitations on the same day. The invitation read: MRS. KATE BLACKWELL REQUESTS THE HONOR OF YOUR PRESENCE TO CELEBRATE HER NINETIETH BIRTHDAY AT CEDAR HILL HOUSE, DARK HARBOR, MAINE, ON SEPTEMBER 24, 1982, AT EIGHT O’CLOCK. BLACK TIE.
When Keith read the invitation, he looked at Eve and said, “We’re going.”
“Oh, no! I can’t! You go. I’ll—”
He said, “We’re both going.”
Tony Blackwell was in the garden of the sanitarium, painting, when his companion approached. “A letter for you, Tony.”
Tony opened the envelope, and a vague smile lighted his face. “That’s nice,” he said. “I like birthday parties.”
Peter Templeton studied the invitation. “I can’t believe the old girl’s ninety years old. She’s really amazing.”
“Yes, isn’t she?” Alexandra agreed. And she added thoughtfully, “Do you know something sweet? Robert received his own invitation, addressed to him.”
