Read Online The Weekend: A Novel by Peter Cameron - Free Book Online Page A

you?” asked Lyle.
    “I’m fine,” said John. “I like it here, too.”
    “It’s my favorite place in the world,” said Lyle.
    “Then you should visit it more often.”
    “I intend to,” said Lyle. “I needed a little time away from it, I think.”
    “We missed you,” said John. He, too, was looking at the wall, as if that were the focus of his attention.
    “I think your wall is beautiful,” said Lyle.
    They pressed themselves through the fir trees and walked up the lawn. The sun had swung high enough so that it struck the back of the house. The windows shimmered, and Lyle thought it had never looked more beautiful. Marian and Robert are somewhere in that house, he thought. But he could not imagine where they were, or what they could possibly be saying to each other.
     
     
    “Parts of the house date from the eighteenth century,” said Marian, as she led Robert up the stairs.
    “Which parts?” asked Robert.
    “Oh,” said Marian. “Well, parts of the cellar, I believe—there’s a what-do-you-call-it, a root cellar—and the fireplace in what was the parlor but’s now the library. Do you know Derek Deitz and Granger Salomon?”
    “No,” said Robert.
    “Well, they restore old houses. They’ve done quite a few up around here. This was one of the first they did. We used to just come up here on the weekends, but we moved here for good about two years ago.” They had reached the second floor and paused for a
moment, in a patch of sunlight on the landing. “The only thing that isn’t authentic about the house are these skylights,” Marian said, pointing above them to a paned window that was set into the sloping ceiling. “Derek and Granger almost sued me when I had them put in. But it was so gloomy up here, with the big trees so close to the house. And I can’t stand a gloomy house.”
    She paused, and Robert was aware he was supposed to make some remark, but he was at a loss: no one liked a gloomy house. He smiled.
    “I don’t think they look so bad,” Marian said. “At least they aren’t those awful modern ones that look like bubbles. And you can’t see them from the front. I had these especially made. I bought the windows at an auction and had a glazier reset them with tempered glass. But I think you can go too far with authenticity. I don’t want to live in a museum.”
    “I’ve always thought it would be nice to live in a museum,” said Robert. “They seem much nicer than homes.”
    “But they aren’t homes,” said Marian. “One should live in homes and visit museums.”
    “It depends on the home,” said Robert.
    Marian looked at him for a second, as if to discern if this remark was an observation or an attack. She could not tell. “I’m going to put you and Lyle in the yellow room. As a rule, I hate people who refer to rooms by their color, but it’s something we seem to do in the house, since all the rooms are different colors. You might be interested to know that the colors are replications of the ones Jefferson used at Monticello.”
    “Oh,” said Robert.
    “If all this house talk bores you, let me know. For some reason this house just compels me to talk about it. I can be an awful bore, I know.”
    “No,” said Robert. “It’s interesting. It’s a beautiful house.”
    Marian opened a door on the landing. “These are the back stairs,” she said. “They go down to the kitchen, if you’re looking for a shortcut. We keep the door closed, though, now that Roland is crawling.”
    “O.K.,” said Robert.
    “Your room is this way,” said Marian, walking down the hall. The walls were covered with framed photographs of many sizes, some old, some new. Robert noticed they were all of people, people from different decades in different countries, all jumbled together. Marian saw him looking at them. “There’s an awfully funny one of Lyle somewhere. Here it is.” She pointed to a photograph of Lyle dressed curiously, in what looked like knickers and a