23

THE DAY HAD BEEN THE HOTTEST OF THE SUMMER YET, and at sunset it was still warm enough to swim. Astrid had spent its final blue hours beside the Marsh Hall pool, which was set somewhat beyond the house, between a pair of white stucco bungalows and two rows of tall, thin cypress trees. She had let the sun brown her skin and wondered whether she should explain to Charlie what she had erroneously believed, or just let it go unmentioned and try to be sweet to him all the time. Now, as the sky gave over to the pyrotechnics of dying light, she did a lazy back crawl, listening to the chirping of birds and the gardeners talking somewhere not far off, and watching the pink clouds drift.

"Nice evening, isn't it?"

Surprised, she rolled over, splashing noisily in the water. Billie was sitting on one of the white lounge chairs, wearing a Roman-striped swimming cape and a white turban over her dark hair. She had arrived on the deck without Astrid's noticing and had apparently been there long enough to get comfortable.

"It is," Astrid said, before ducking backward into a somersault. She enjoyed that sensation of being underwater, the outside world muted, and when she came up she decided that if she wasn't alone, then she wasn't going to be able to enjoy swimming anymore, really. By the time she emerged from the pool, Billie had rested her head back against her chair, her eyes closed, with that vague, calm smile of contentment that comes easily in the fine weather.

"All yours, darling," Astrid said as she pulled a white French terry cloth robe with yellow piping over her navy blue tank suit.

Billie remained in a posture of utter relaxation, as she advised, "I wouldn't go up there if I were you."

Astrid, who was trying to get a bothersome amount of water out of her ear, hardly acknowledged Billie. As she walked away across the gra.s.s, her damp, bare feet sinking into the blades, she let the comment stray from her consciousness. Discovering that Charlie was not a cad after all had left her feeling pleasantly drained, and she had a heightened sense of the perfection of the day thus far. There was the buzzing of mosquitoes somewhere, and the flash of a firefly now and then.

She was just coming up the hill toward the house when she heard something crashing, followed by an eruption of loud, angry voices. She hurried the rest of the way, through the library with its leaded windows and the big front foyer, and out onto the gravel drive in front. The big cream-colored Studebaker was parked at an angle, as though someone had driven it from the garage in a hurry; its canvas top was down, and the backseats were full of luggage. Midway between the door and the car was a pile of broken gla.s.s and what looked to be the shards of a waist-high, blue-and-white Chinese vase that had stood, as long as she could remember, on the second-floor hallway, beside its identical twin.

The driver-side door of the car opened, and Luke stepped out, wearing a rather shamefaced expression. Astrid's lips parted, but before she could react to his presence, the second blue-and-white vase crashed through a gla.s.s window above, soared briefly in the air, and then erupted in tiny pieces on the gravel. There was a shriek of feminine fury, followed by a low bellow of male aggression, and she heard her stepfather yell, "Get out!"

Behind her on the stairs were hurried, thudding footsteps, and then her mother appeared, running in a loose-fitting, V-neck apricot chiffon dress, her face taut with rage.

"Oh, good, Astrid-there you are," she said. Without pausing to take in her daughter's expression, she strode outside toward the Studebaker. A few seconds later, Harrison Marsh II came down the stairs, his face boiling and red; like his wife, he did not bother to glance at Astrid as he pa.s.sed through the threshold.

"Get out!" he screamed again as he dashed onto the lawn.

"You couldn't pay pay me to stay here!" the third Mrs. Marsh spat back. me to stay here!" the third Mrs. Marsh spat back.

"Someone will have have to pay you," he returned, his voice growing crueler as it became quieter. "A woman like her doesn't live cheap, young man," he added, addressing Luke. to pay you," he returned, his voice growing crueler as it became quieter. "A woman like her doesn't live cheap, young man," he added, addressing Luke.

"Sir, I-"

"Shut up, Luke," the lady of the house interrupted, hoisting up her shoulders and trying to repin her straw cloche, which had become slightly askew during the fighting. "I always hated those vases," she said to no one in particular. "Astrid, come. We're leaving."

Astrid paused on the front step, the terry cloth robe open-she had not been able to find the tie when she had gotten ready to swim-and her short, damp hair clumping to her neck. She stared at the three people on the drive, each wearing their own wretched expression, and felt a little ill. "Where are you going?" she said eventually.

"To the St. Regis. We'll stay there until I decide what our next move is-Europe or ... I don't know."

"You don't have to go, Astrid dear," her stepfather said, his voice quieting some as he turned to face her. He was sweating profusely and wiped his forehead with the white-and-green handkerchief he carried. A moment later, Astrid's heart dropped-she realized it was the bandana she'd taken from Luke the day before, and that it must have been the cause of the fight. "Your mother's gone entirely hysterical, I'm afraid. I don't know that you should be under her care. You can stay on here as long as you want."

"Don't be absurd," Astrid's mother snorted. "She'd sooner die than stay in this stuffy old house. Come dear, it will be fun, just like when you were small and we lived at the hotel. Don't you remember?"

Astrid did remember; it had not been fun. At the St. Regis, she had not been allowed to have a pet or run in the halls after an incident that involved waking up one of the Mrs. Astors, whose townhouse was then under renovation, from an afternoon nap. Avoiding all their eyes, she walked forward-the gravel hurt her soft, bare feet, but she didn't think much of that-toward the garage, the great front doors of which Luke had left open.

"Astrid, don't be a headache, now!" she heard her mother yelling. When she didn't turn around, her mother groaned in irritation and started barking orders at Luke.

In the garage-a separate building with a gla.s.s roof that seemed large enough to house airplanes-all was quiet. She sighed and pulled her robe around her, turning the small collar up to warm her neck. Astrid opened the door of the red Marmon sports coupe, which her stepfather had given to Billie for her twentieth birthday, and slid into the driver's seat. She had operated an automobile only a few times, with Charlie on the lawn at Dogwood, and she did briefly consider the possibility that now was not the time to test her solo skills. But then she saw that the key was already in the ignition, and her desire to be far away became too great to bear. The part she'd played in the drama made her ill.

"Astrid Donal!" her mother shrieked as she drove past.

But the motor was loud, and she concentrated on staying off the gra.s.s. She was not particularly strong and was trying hard to keep a firm grip on the wheel; she stalled out just before she reached the low hedge fence, but by then she knew that stopping would involve a great deal of yelling and that her mother would demand to know what she had been thinking. She managed to restart the engine and to turn onto the drive that ran along the cove.

A mile or so of country lanes separated the entrances of Marsh Hall and Dogwood, and if any local residents had happened to go out for a leisure drive or else been returning early from the city that afternoon, they would have been treated to the sight of one of the more promising socialites of the coming generation, wrapped in a knee-length robe, apres-swim, cursing like a galley cook.

The car stalled more than once, and on several occasions she believed herself destined to land in a ditch. But somehow she managed to stay on the road and eventually arrive at the tall, iron gates of Dogwood.

"Miss Donal!" Danny said, stepping forward from the guardhouse. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, quite," Astrid replied, running her fingers through her hair, so that the strands went straight back from her forehead. She put on a wide smile. "Only, there was such a scene at home, and all I want is to change out of these clothes and have a cup of tea with the magnificent Greys, and maybe not go home for quite a while." She batted her eyelashes. "Won't you let me in?"

Danny grinned and went to push back the gate. She drove the car through the allee of lindens, but it soon proved too much of an incline for her. The Marmon came to a rest just off the drive, on the gra.s.s, and she ran up the rest of the lawn and into the house. She was relieved to be here, far from the world where people married to accrue old names and money, at a place where people earned their own keep, whatever that meant.

"Charlie!" she called as she ascended the main stairs, her arms wrapped tight around her waist, her feet moving at a quick jog. She stumbled on the last step, stubbing her toe, but the pain did not then seem relevant to her. "Charlie!"

But no one peeped his head out to see who it might be, so she continued toward Charlie's room. When she pulled back the door, she knew immediately that he was inside. She could smell him. But her relief quickly curdled, for she knew someone else was there with him, too.

"Charlie?" she whispered.

The curtains were pulled, casting the whole room in a rather shabby light. He did not hear her right away, even though she had crept forward and was now standing not far from the big bra.s.s bed. He wasn't facing her, and all she could see was his white trousered legs and naked torso bearing down like an animal. The other person was invisible to her, but she knew that it was a girl, by the feminine whimpers she emitted.

"Charlie!" Astrid tried to yell his name, though the sound again more closely resembled a whisper. She glanced down and noticed that her toe was bleeding.

This time he'd heard. His head jerked back, and when he turned his face toward her, his lower jaw dropped in panting chagrin. He lurched upward, his wide-set brown eyes reckless, his chin at a defiant angle. Astrid's eyes flickered from him to the girl he had been on top of; it was Gracie Northrup, lying in a rather compromised position, her stupid polka-dotted blouse undone to reveal the elaborate contraption of her bra.s.siere. The girl's skin was blotchy, and her face, somewhat buried among pillows, held a dumb expression.

"Oh, Charlie, I'm going to be sick," Astrid heard herself say. Her unpainted lips, which had been smiling mere minutes ago in antic.i.p.ation of seeing him, were now pickled and tight.

"Astrid," Charlie said, stepping awkwardly off the bed, his belt loop swinging.

"Don't." She inched backward, but he kept coming toward her. "Don't!" she shrieked. "Don't, don't, don't, don't, don't!"

As she ran back down the stairs, she held her arms out for balance and let her robe flap behind her. She could not think about her toe, or the red trail it left. When she emerged from the house, the sky was not yet totally dark, but all the brilliance had gone out of the sunset. As soon as she reached the Marmon, she tried to start it up, but by then she was shaking too much and the engine kept stalling out.

"Ah!" she cried, pounding her hand against the steering wheel in frustration.

"Miss Donal, what are you doing?"

She paused, looked up, and saw Danny, who had hurried over from the guardhouse. Briefly her sense of revulsion eased. Realizing what she had to do made her feel a little cool, almost calm.

"Why, Danny," she said. Then she smiled.

"What are you doing?" he asked again, but this time in a less urgent tone.

"Danny, I need your help." She glanced down shyly, at her rosy thighs on the calfskin seat, visible where her robe was parted. "I don't drive very well, you see, and I need to get into the city right away."

"To Manhattan?" Nervousness had crept into Danny's tone.

"Yes. Won't you drive me?" She could see that he wasn't supposed to-that he was on duty and would be punished for leaving-but she needed to be moving fast, away from this place, so she smiled wider and said, "Danny, this car is really too much trouble for my family just now. Drive me into the city, and then take if off our hands, won't you?"

He closed his eyes, as though calculating the consequences. By the time he'd opened them, he was already walking around to the driver's side. She scooted over to the pa.s.senger's seat and folded her legs up girlishly between them.

"Thank you very much, Danny," she said, as they turned onto the main road.

But he was too nervous to meet her gaze. "Where to?" he asked flatly.

Astrid let her eyelids close and twisted her neck so that the wind would hit her face straight on and dry her hair. What does it matter? What does it matter? she wanted to say to him. "To the St. Regis," she said instead. she wanted to say to him. "To the St. Regis," she said instead.

At the St. Regis, at just that moment, Letty stepped into the spotlight, the clunks of her calfskin heels echoing against the stage. She managed a smile, but she could not stop her growing sense of unease. The room was not what she had expected-it was not nearly as large or adorned. There were serious wood beams overhead, and the walls were paneled in masculine dark mahogany. Instead of a great crowd, she made out only twenty or so faces, pointed at her in expectation, several of them chomping cigars. They were all men, every single person in the room, many of them with the added girth of good living beneath their very expensive-looking suits. Amory was seated toward the side, with a few other men his own age.

Trying to keep calm, she twisted and faced the band. They did not fit her expectations, either, for there were only four of them. She had imagined a full orchestra to back her, but she tried to remind herself that the show must always go on, that she was only just starting out, and that perhaps this would allow her voice to shine more anyway.

"Do you know 'I'm Gonna Make You Breakfast in the Morning'?" she asked, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up her courage.

The drummer nodded without smiling and tapped the snare drum. The noise did nothing to dispel her unease, but she turned and began to count time with her open palm against the side of her hip. A few smiles grew under mustaches in the audience. She arched an eyebrow and began to rock her shoulders. She lifted her hands, and swayed.

Once she began to sing, she knew that everything was going to be all right. She had the confidence of her voice, and she felt herself lifted by the rhythm of the music. As the song ended, she threw her arms even higher and closed her eyes. She listened to the applause-it wasn't really as enthusiastic as she'd hoped, but it was nice nonetheless, and she knew she'd win them over with the next one.

"Thank you," she purred.

She was just deciding which tune to follow with when the drummer, and then the rest of the band, began to play again. It was slower and more sultry than the previous number. Spinning around, she glanced at each of the men, hoping they might give a clue what she should do, but none of them would meet her gaze. She stood there, her feet wide apart, her back to the audience, her heart thumping. To her surprise, someone behind her whistled.

Slowly, she turned back around. There was a smattering of applause. A few more whistles followed, and then the man sitting beside Amory, whose dark hair was just as slick and whose eyes were glazed, called out, "Show us what you've got under that dress, baby!"

Her chest seized with indignation. Clearly, Amory's friend had had too much to drink, and now he was acting like a boor. She waited for Amory to defend her. But when he didn't, it began to dawn on her that the friend was not the only boor in the room, and not the only man who wanted her to take her clothes off. They were all clapping and whistling.

Letty's eyelids sank shut as she realized what those thirty-five dollars were really for. What a fool she was. Meanwhile, the band played on, the beat growing louder and more ominous behind her.

"Show us!" the man next to Amory yelled again.

She took a breath and wondered what a real professional would do. The show must go on, The show must go on, Mother always said-that's what professionals did. Since she was small, she'd wanted nothing but to be on stage, and now she was, with an audience of show-business men who, after all, might remember her kindly if only she could bring herself to give them what they were calling out for. Mother always said-that's what professionals did. Since she was small, she'd wanted nothing but to be on stage, and now she was, with an audience of show-business men who, after all, might remember her kindly if only she could bring herself to give them what they were calling out for.

Obediently, she put her thumb under the strap of her dress and tugged it down from her shoulder. She was shaking now, but not to the music-in fact, she could not bring herself to do anything remotely like a dance. Her lips had begun to tremble, and when she opened her eyes, she saw that most of the audience was standing up, staring at her like wolves. Ever since she was a young girl, she had been trained to do as she was told, and so the idea of rushing from the stage-however much she wanted to be far, far from those awful leers-seemed wrong. But she knew if she stayed another moment, she would begin to bawl. She let go of the strap and ran.

By some grace of G.o.d her tears held until she was offstage, but then they came in a hot, salty torrent. She threw herself down in the chair, draping her body forward over the vanity table, shaking and gasping for air. She cried for the way those men had looked at her, and she cried for the beautiful illusion she had lost. She would have gone on crying-but her solitude was short-lived.

"What's wrong with you?" Amory screamed as he came rushing through the door. His face was redder now, and his eyes had become narrow and mean. "Edmund Laurel, the actor, is getting married tomorrow. This is his bachelor party. This is his last chance to see another woman's natural form before he is tied down forever. Now you've ruined it."

"I thought ...," she sobbed. "I thought-"

"That I was going to pay you thirty-five dollars to sing?" sing?" he spat. he spat.

Amory raised his hand and brought it down hard against her face. The line of her left cheekbone, the delicate curve of her eye socket, throbbed. There would be no more tears; the impact of Amory's palm had knocked them out of her. A cold, hard shock stilled her, and she braced for more.

But he had stepped away. She could hear the seething of his breath, but she did not dare look up at him.

"Leave," he ordered with barely contained fury. "Leave now, and don't think you're going to get a single penny for that pathetic tease of a show. You'll never make it in this business!"

Keeping her head down and her eyes averted, she grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair and crept back through that unremarkable hall. If any of the bellhops or guests noticed her flight through the lobby, she was not aware of them. She felt her smallness as she hurried down the darkened avenue, and would have counted it a wonder if anyone had been able to see her at all.

But Astrid did notice Letty, however briefly, as she made her way through the lobby to the subdued, elegant bar, and she wondered why the pet.i.te girl with the beaded dress was crying.

"Where's Luke?" she asked, as she took the stool next to her mother. There was a low sepia light in the room, and bouquets of peac.o.c.k feathers placed strategically here and there, to give some patrons privacy and enable the sightlines of others. Virginia Donal de Gruyter Marsh's slender legs were crossed under her apricot chiffon, and in the dimness it was difficult to make out the wear on her face. She looked up from her c.o.c.ktail without a hint of surprise in her eyes, and then scanned her daughter from head to toe.

"Whatever are you wearing?" she replied dryly.

Before coming into the hotel, Astrid had opened the glove compartment and found the black scarf that Billie wore around her neck when she was behind the wheel, as well as her brown driving moccasins; the robe was now tied with the scarf, and her wounded toe was hidden by the moccasins. Her hair had dried, but it was still carelessly pushed straight back from her forehead.

"Darling, don't be ridiculous, it's the latest fad."

Her mother smiled wanly at the joke. "He went back to White Cove," she said slowly. "Seems he was rather nervous about losing his job and didn't want to be involved in a big messy divorce story, after all."

"Oh." Astrid caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and was surprised by how like a child she looked without any makeup on. "Are you getting a divorce?"

"I don't know." The older woman picked up her c.o.c.ktail and downed the rest of it. Eyes glazed, she went on in a quiet voice, "But I think I'm going to be staying here awhile. How did you get here anyway? What made you change your mind?"

"I was worried about you," Astrid lied. "I realized I was being selfish, and that you shouldn't have to be alone just now," she continued, elaborating her yarn.

At that, her mother smiled again, in the same sad way, and reached for her daughter's hand. Blue veins emerged just below her knuckles. "I'm so glad you're here," she said, with a touch of melodrama.

"Would you like something, mademoiselle?" the bartender asked, placing a napkin in front of the younger lady.

"Yes," the former Mrs. Donal said. "One for her and one for me. Only ..." She turned on her stool to look at Astrid. "Go change into a dress, will you, darling? I have the old suite we used to stay in, and the maid put all my clothes in the closet. Choose any one you like. We'll make a night of it."

I don't care what we do, Astrid wanted to say. But that would have brought attention to the darkness lurking inside her, and anyway, she wanted right then to feel very pretty, and to have men look at her and ask her to dance. Most important, she wanted not to hear the name Astrid wanted to say. But that would have brought attention to the darkness lurking inside her, and anyway, she wanted right then to feel very pretty, and to have men look at her and ask her to dance. Most important, she wanted not to hear the name Charlie Charlie or to do anything that might conjure that disgusting image of him in bed, bearing down on Gracie Northrup. So she went upstairs, put on a lavender dress with one shoulder and a skirt that swung out in flounces midcalf, and darkened her lips and eyelids. When she came back down, a handsome British fellow who was probably twice her age was chatting with her mother, but Astrid sat down between them, and winked and flirted until the gentleman's attention was fully devoted to her. She didn't like herself for the way she spent her evening, but soon enough the room was spinning, and after that she couldn't remember very much. or to do anything that might conjure that disgusting image of him in bed, bearing down on Gracie Northrup. So she went upstairs, put on a lavender dress with one shoulder and a skirt that swung out in flounces midcalf, and darkened her lips and eyelids. When she came back down, a handsome British fellow who was probably twice her age was chatting with her mother, but Astrid sat down between them, and winked and flirted until the gentleman's attention was fully devoted to her. She didn't like herself for the way she spent her evening, but soon enough the room was spinning, and after that she couldn't remember very much.

24

IF IN THE LATE AFTERNOON CORDELIA HAD a.s.sUMED that her wide-brimmed black hat would make her less noticeable, she knew by sundown that this had been a ridiculous a.s.sumption. The shadows were long on the country road by then, and she could see, in her exaggerated silhouette, how the wide brim obscured her face while bringing attention to the rest of her. Especially now that it served no practical purpose. The guardhouse was curiously deserted, and anyway by then she had stopped worrying about being spotted. Every time she heard even the most distant noise that might possibly have been created by a car, her hopes bloomed, and every time it proved nothing, she sank further into a state of confused agitation.

For a while she told herself that Thom was not on the road because he was making arrangements for a very special evening. She was still wearing the same blue-and-white-striped shift she'd worn to the croquet party that morning, because she didn't want to appear to be going anywhere particular. Until half an hour ago, she hadn't even made up her mind whether she would meet him or not. She did not consider the possibility that he might have changed his mind.

Her happy thoughts of his impending arrival carried her for a while, but then a black sedan with the top up came hurtling by, seeming briefly to be heading straight toward her before swerving off in the direction of the city. For a few seconds her chest had lifted, thinking it might be Thom. But then the careless speed with which the sedan whooshed by unsettled her, and after that she couldn't help her sense of foreboding.

Thom was never late; it was always he who waited for her. And then she began to wonder if she wasn't the only one who had been warned by her family to stay away. She really had no idea what kind of man Duluth Hale was, except that his son didn't talk of him much and that Darius Grey didn't trust him. After that, her worries morphed-what if she had remembered wrong, and Thom had wanted her to meet on the pier, and when she hadn't shown, he'd walked through to the house? What if Charlie and Darius had him now? Her father had told her he wasn't a violent man-but he was was an awfully good shot. an awfully good shot.