“It can be difficult sometimes for our families to accept us as people separate from who they are. As separate souls. When we’re young, we’re taught to behave as our parents do—to cherish what they cherish and believe what they believe. And for a while, that’s as it should be. But as adults, sometimes we have our own desires, our own hopes, that are at odds with how our parents view the world.”
“Is that how it was for you? You grew to be at odds with your parents?”
His jaw tightened; he took a longer breath. “Oh, for a while, yes. It was inevitable, I think. My father and I used to lock horns on so many things. Where I would attend school. What I would study. My companions, my ambitions . . . He was so determined that he knew the best path for me. And I, of course, was determined that he was wrong.” He shook his head. “All these years later, I see that we were both right, and both wrong. I wish I could tell him so now.”
An owl began to call from below them, earnest and deep. Another answered, closer to the sea. The golden lights in the woods winked and glowed.
“But your father must have been so proud of you,” she said. “No matter how you locked horns. Look at you. Look at all you’ve done.”
“What have I done, do you imagine?”
“Why,” she said, astonished, “you’re John Jacob Astor. You’re—you’re incomparable, really. Everyone in the world has heard of you. Every man and woman in the world admires you.”
“My money, do you mean?”
He said it mildly, and without looking at her, but she felt the nick of it anyway.
“Not just that. Certainly that, but not just. You’ve invented things, useful things. I’ve read about them, the road improver—the—that special brake, for stopping bicycles. You volunteered to go to war when you didn’t even have to. You’ve funded all sorts of charities, for people and places that need things so desperately—”
“Stop,” he said, now on a laugh. “I beg you. You’re making my head swell.”
“You’ve written a book,” she went on. “An entire book.”
“A passing fancy.”
“A book of fiction about exploring the solar system. Men in spaceships, landing on Saturn and Jupiter. Finding new life. Only someone tremendously clever would think of that.”
He leaned forward, braced both hands against the balcony railing as if to assess its strength, then shook his head. “It was a while ago. A lifetime ago, it seems.”
She tasted the punch again—it really was delicious!—then lowered the glass. “May I read it? Would you mind?”
“Oh, it’s not very good, I’m afraid. Just a clutter of ideas I had when I was younger.”
“But I want to know your ideas. I want to read your words, your book, because I might find a part of you inside those pages. A part I won’t have a chance to know any other way. And I would love to know every aspect of you, Jack Astor. Do they have it here at the library in town?”
“No,” he said, after a long, dumbfounded moment. And then, “Yes, I suppose they might. But I’ll give you a copy. You needn’t borrow it.”
“Thank you.”
He looked at her then with those winter gray eyes, and she looked back without shrinking. Around them rose the warm spill of light, of music, of every splendid fantasy she’d ever nurtured about him suddenly, wildly possible.
Then he straightened, turning away once more. When he spoke again, it was with deliberation, as if he were testing out the words before he said them.
“We live in a marvelous age, Madeleine. A magnificent age. We are witness to innovations and ideas never before imagined upon this earth. Science, philosophy, the arts. We’re fortunate enough to be cast amid these times, destined to be amazed at man’s ideas and innovations. Destined to be improved by them.”
“How beautifully you’ve captured it. You’ve rather swept me away.”
He ran a hand down his hair, then sent her a look she could not read, small and slight and maybe abashed.
CHAPTER 5
There are certain people in this world who have the ability to make you feel as if you’re the only person in the universe who matters to them. Whether it’s moment by moment or enough years to count up to a lifetime, they look you in the eyes and smile at you, direct and sincere—and you’re smitten.
They draw you into their realm, into their rendering of events and ideas and rituals. Everything they say becomes vitally important. Every action of theirs becomes truth. Sometimes these people are innocents—this is a charisma they were born with; they did not earn it; it’s simply their birthright—and sometimes it is a craft they practice, a manipulation. They set out to entice you, to seduce you, simply because they can—or because they want something in return.