“Yes, I’m a journalist,” she chattered on. “I write for magazines. Not anything as big as LIFE, but, well, I’m working on it. . . . Also newspapers. Small, regional papers mostly. Feature newspaper articles about people’s lives. I am extremely interested in people.” The guests went on gaping at her as if she had three heads. Libby shot her friend a grateful look, a wry smile twisting up her lips, and made her escape from the room.
It was dusk, the sky a dusty-plum color, by the time all the comforters finally departed. Libby stood with her back to the door, her arms outstretched, as if to prevent the crowd from pushing its way back in while Trilby gathered up glasses of amber-colored ice tea and melting ice, shaking her head over spills and damp rings. Henry collapsed as soon as the final guest left, her legs dangling over the edge of a sofa.
Libby held her pose at the door a moment longer. “Well, that was fun,” she said.
Henry did not answer. The silence of the brick house came as a relief. Together, wordlessly, the two moved to the square back porch, cooled by the shade of a red-leafed copper beech tree in the yard. Because they had been friends since grade school, they had spent countless hours together, and now the weight of those lost hours seemed to sink down on them all at once. They sat side by side on a glider, using the toes of their shoes to push themselves back and forth. The glider creaked. The beech tree’s leaves sparkled like pennies.
“Tell me,” Henry said. “How well do you know this Irish uncle and cousin?”
“There’s an aunt too,” Libby explained. “But she comes and goes.”
“That must be nice,” mused Henrietta.
“We knew them well when I was small,” Libby went on. “Then there was a falling out with my father, after my mother died.”
“I see,” said Henrietta. Mr. Archer had fallen out with nearly everyone, sooner or later. Alcohol was usually at the center of it.
Libby went on. “They are as American as we are, only they have lived close to Belfast for many years now, on the Ards Peninsula. It’s beautiful—I’ve seen pictures. Uncle Sachs is my mother’s brother. Cousin Lazarus is five years older than I am—an only child. He was adopted. People always said he’d been gotten on the black market. There’s something wrong with his heart, I think. He was a wonderful athlete as a boy, the fastest runner I ever saw. He was quite a character. When we were small, he kept plunking down on one knee to propose marriage.”
“Then he had good taste,” Henry said with a smile.
Libby stared at her black ballet flats. She flexed and pointed her feet at the end of her long, slim legs. “It’s sad. He never married, or worked or really did anything,” she said. “He never even got to finish school, because of poor health, and he was brilliant. He had beautiful, strange white-gold hair as a boy—towheaded, they called it. It made him look old. I’m sure it’s darkened by now. They invited me the instant they heard about Father. My aunt will meet me in Dublin and take me up to the country house. Cousin Lazarus may be in a wheelchair by now.”
“Well, don’t let them introduce you to any unmarried Irish lords,” Henrietta said. “We want you back exactly as you are. No changes.”
Libby turned her clear gaze to her friend. “Why would I go into the world, just to oppose it? No.” She shook her head slowly but firmly. “I haven’t seen anything. I haven’t done anything! Please don’t tell me not to change. I hope to be completely transformed.”
“Then I’d better visit before you become unrecognizable,” Henrietta said.
Libby reached for Henry’s empty glass. “I wish you would! People say they’ll do things, and then don’t follow through.”
Henry hung on to the glass an instant, forcing Libby to look at her. “I always do as I promise. So does Mr. Lockwood. He may be pigheaded and stubborn, but I’ve never known him to go back on his word. Have you?”
“Were we talking about Cap Lockwood?” asked Libby.
“I was hoping to be.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” said Libby. She left to get more lemonade, but on her way out she gave her friend’s swing a vigorous push from behind.
Henry shut her eyes and swayed back and forth in the sun. “He’ll need a helping hand, that man . . .”
Chapter Two
The office of Lockwood Inc. ran according to a logical and well-considered system. The rooms had a stripped-down, functional look—the furniture was all Danish Modern, in light wood and curved, clean lines. Caspar Lockwood, the company’s energetic young founder, president, and proprietor, typically wore a white shirt, dark jacket, and narrow tie. His male employees, taking no chances, followed suit.
It was with a grim and focused air that two men bent over the same desk, on which sat a square black phonograph.
“Let’s hear the worst,” said Lockwood.
The other man made a slight motion. There was an audible scratching sound, a steady clicking, and then a man’s voice began to wail:
My baby took the sugar,
I’m feeling blue.
She lef’ me high and dry,
What can I do?
My baby lef’ me, lef’ me, lef’ me . . .
The needle stuck, the other man hurried to lift it while Caspar Lockwood groaned, striking his forehead with the heel of his hand.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” said the younger man.
“What if we calibrate the needle?” Lockwood asked.
“You mean recalibrate it, sir.”
Lockwood made a tent of his hands and covered his nose and mouth with it, peering at the other man. He spoke through his hands. “We’ve already done it?”
“Three times.”
Lockwood tapped his fingertips together. Then he leaned forward onto the desk again. “What are we doing wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” said the other.
“I’m not accusing you. I am asking: what are we getting wrong? It’s not the needle, obviously.”
“I don’t think so, sir. We have the best needle on the market.”
Lockwood nodded. “Good. What then? Don’t be afraid to say.”
“Perhaps—” the man hesitated. “Perhaps the material of the playing disk, the record itself. There may be a way to refine the grooves, to extend playing time.”
“Interesting. So, something like . . .”
“Metals might work. At faster and at slower speeds. For instance, lightweight aluminum. I was thinking—”
There was a knock on the door, and a younger man entered, dressed like the other two but with a more rumpled appearance.
“Cousin Caspar,” the young man said. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“Who is it?” barked the man. “What do they want?”
“It’s a person named Libby Archer—”
Lockwood made a gesture of surprise that sent a jar of pencils flying.
“Never mind,” he said, his voice sounding suddenly younger, lighter, and if possible, even more energetic. “Let it be. Let it. Send her in, Richie.”
Libby Archer, dressed in her slim black sheath, appeared in the doorway. “I’ve sent myself in.” Her smile looked uncertain.
Lockwood scrambled to his feet. He was long-legged, muscular, and looked at that moment a little menacing. “Ah. All right. Roger, we’ll talk again later. Thank you. Thanks very much.”
The other two men scattered as if they’d been shot at.
“Libby,” Caspar said, pointing with one broad hand. “Have a seat. Please.”
She sat. People tended to obey Lockwood without thinking. He waited till she was seated to resume his own chair. He placed two pencils side by side on his desk and nudged them together. His expression was more reserved than welcoming. “You are coming to see me in my place of business,” he said. “That can’t mean anything good.”
“I am going away soon,” Libby said. “To Ireland. Henrietta thought I ought to tell you in person.”
Instead of answering, the firm-looking young man rummaged for something in his top desk drawer and removed a small printed c
ard. He had a stern, dark appearance, and often seemed to be scowling when he wasn’t. He tossed the card faceup on the desk between them. “Yes,” he said. “I received this announcement. I guess all your nearest and dearest friends got them.”
“I’m sorry,” said Libby, “if it seemed impersonal.”
“It has your address in Ireland,” he said, waving a hand. “A phone number. But it doesn’t say how long you will be gone. Or when you’ll be back. Or more importantly, why you are going.”
“We don’t always know why we do things.”
Cap looked at her steadily, his brown eyes so dark they appeared nearly black. Libby had often heard the phrase a burning gaze, but she had never personally experienced one. She might be turned to cinders if she held still another instant. She looked away, feeling the heat rush away from her face.
“I expect to be gone at least a year,” she said.
“A year!” said Lockwood, registering surprise. “I don’t like it. I don’t approve.”
Libby made a sudden motion—of rebellion—as if his words had betrayed him. “You don’t approve,” she echoed, “of my having some freedom.”
“Don’t pretend to misunderstand me,” he said. “I don’t mean approval in the conventional sense. You and I are not conventional. But I don’t approve of this plan. It’s a bad one.”
“I didn’t know that I needed your approval even of a bad plan,” said Libby, struggling to keep her voice under control.
“I hope you’d want it, though.”
She appeared to study the desk. “I’ll always be glad of your good opinion,” she said.
“You asked me to wait,” he said.
“I asked nothing of the kind!” she exclaimed, both hands flat on the desk. “I said nothing was possible so long as my father was ill.”
“He is ill no more,” said Lockwood. Libby’s head jerked up at this, but his expression had remained gentle. “How much time do you want now?” His voice was husky and soft.
“As much as I need.”
“A year? Two years?”
“Let us say two,” Libby answered with a smile.
“You say that too easily,” he snapped. “Why not ten years?”
Libby’s mouth hardened. “Let’s say ten then. A decade will be better. Come see me in ten years.”
“Where, exactly? Here, in my office? Or—” He leaned forward, as if to spring across the desk. He read from the printed card. “At Strangford, the Ards Peninsula, County Down. Tell me the time and place, Libby, and I will set my watch and my compass by them.”
“Don’t raise your voice,” said Libby.
He ignored this. “In ten years, in twenty, I will be the same. I am not changeable. The instant I saw you I was no longer master of my own soul. No. To be truthful, your looks didn’t captivate my attention at first. It was the sound of you. Maybe the smell of you too, if I’m being honest. But once I heard you speak, I’d never have settled for anyone else.”
She tried to speak lightly. “What momentous thing did I say?” She crossed her legs and jiggled her foot impatiently.
“You said, ‘I would like to take this book out of the library.’ And you set it down in front of me with a thud. Your jaw was clenched, just as it is now. The book was War and Peace.” He laughed, a short bark. “An ambitious choice. And did you ever read it, Libby? Did you finish it?”
She said nothing.
“Did you get even, let’s say, halfway through? You’re blushing, so I guess not. You have a good mind, Libby, but it doesn’t settle. You busy yourself with one distraction after another. You flit from one thought, one burning cause, one impulse to the next. You need to take hold of something. Why not take hold of me?” He held one strong, square, tanned hand out, appealingly. She looked at it a long moment before she answered.
“I think I must take hold of myself before I reach for anyone else.”
“That’s too easy. It’s unworthy of you.”
Her temper gave way. “Should I go straight from my father’s house to a husband’s? To be a model housewife, sitting in a new split-level with an electric clothes dryer and brand-new automatic coffeemaker? Is that the fate you consider worthy?”
He laughed bitterly. “You think I want to enslave you. It is to set you free that I wish to marry you—to make you as free as possible in your body and soul.”
“Oh yes,” said Libby, with a sardonic smile. “I understand your desire well enough.”
“I don’t think you do.” He rolled his shoulders impatiently. At that instant, he looked like the champion amateur boxer he had been a decade earlier. “I doubt you understand your own desires, much less mine. Do you think it’s easy to move through the world as a single young woman, even in 1954? I’m afraid you’ll find it a tight fit. And,” he added, “you will marry someone else.”
“Whatever else you fear, don’t be afraid of that.”
His mouth tightened. “So you say.” He bit the words off. “You’ve said other things to me as well—things you did not mean.”
“Are you accusing me of leading you on?” Her color was suffused, and her eyes sparkled with threatening tears, bringing out the orange fire in the iris.
“Do you deny it?”
Both were breathing hard. Libby turned away first. “I am sorry that you love me. I didn’t ask for it. I don’t see why I am to blame for it.”
“Don’t you?” He leaned toward her.
“No,” she said simply. “And sometimes I think you hate me. You’re always angry at me.”
He shook his head. His hair, while dark, was fine. His skin was coppery. He was sometimes mistaken for an American Indian, with his black straight hair and dark, even features. “Not angry, Libby. Disappointed.”
“Believe me, I have no interest at this moment in disappointing—or marrying—anyone.”
“That’s cold comfort. You’re running away, Libby. Call it what you like. Fear is dangerous. You will find someone. Or they will find you. And it will be the wrong person. “
“Have you turned to fortune-telling now?” She leaned across the desk and touched his arm. “Cap, I wish we could be friends.”
He glanced at her hand on his arm. “I have enough friends. I don’t need more.”
She seemed stricken, though she tried to cover it by speaking evenly. “I’m sorry to hear it. I think one can never have too many friends.” She attempted a laugh, which failed. She stood and nervously smoothed down her black dress. “I’m very sorry if I seem to have changed my mind. Truly. Of course, it’s a woman’s prerogative—”
“If you’re going to use stupid clichés, you may as well get out.”
“That is unkind,” she said steadily. “My father just died. I am trying to find my way.”
“You’re right, you are right,” he muttered, almost to himself. He clutched at his head. “Then why don’t I believe you?”
“You think I’m lying? That my plan is to go to Ireland and marry someone else?”
“No,” he groaned. “I don’t think you’re lying to me—you’re lying to yourself!” His face was very dark at that moment, suffused with passion and, if Libby had admitted it to herself, very handsome. “You’re playing dumb. Telling yourself nonsense about what Libby Archer wants and needs. Travel abroad. Independence. You repeat these stories to yourself like a child with a favorite fairy tale. But it’s a hand-me-down story, not your own.”
“You accuse me of never finishing my books.” She twisted a small gold ring around and around on her pinky finger. It had belonged to her mother, a long time ago.
“Well, you’ll finish this one whether you like it or not.”
“You always think the worst of me!” she burst out. “You charge me with teasing, with flirting, deliberately lying. You tell me I am full of clichés; I am inauthentic. Why would you wish to be with such a person?”
“There’s no accounting for taste,” he said.
“I am not joking!” she said, near tears.
; “Neither am I.”
“You seem to enjoy tormenting me.”
His voice was steely. But every movement he made, even the slightest motion of his fingers, expressed longing. Had he been a cat, he would have sprung into her lap. “Do I seem to be enjoying myself now?”
“Oh, I told myself I wouldn’t cry!” she said, bursting into passionate tears. “No, stay away!” she warned, as he stood and approached. She put up her hands, as if she felt herself to be really in danger. “Don’t come any closer.”
He wheeled around. “You are a damnable creature! I will leave you here to compose yourself.” He headed to the office door.
“Just go!” she shouted after him vehemently. “I’ll be long gone before you get back.”
Chapter Three
Under certain circumstances, Lazarus Sachs thought, quoting, or more likely misquoting, something he’d once read: Under certain circumstances, there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.
The expanse of lawn behind Gardencourt, their fine, old Irish country house, was as velvety green as a billiard table. It overlooked the softly swelling drumlins and gorse hedgerows in the middle distance, but served almost as an extension of the house itself. The lawn was currently laid out for an elaborate tea, with white wicker chairs, a low table, and a scattering of books, gadgets, musical instruments, and oriental rugs.
Old Mr. Sachs sat in the deepest of the chairs, a bright-colored pillow at his back and an ancient paisley shawl over his legs. A border collie lay curled at his feet. The dog’s bright-amber eyes never left his owner’s face. Mr. Sachs held aloft a large persimmon-colored teacup in his hand, his eyes shut, as if drinking the last remaining sun of the June day. Daytime had done what it could; shadows lay long and flickering against the green turf. One could smell, if not quite see from here, the salty Irish coastline nearby. The sun would not reach its zenith for a few more hours, but the cool of evening came swirling in.
Lazarus and another young man, firm and fine of figure, strolled behind the old man’s chair, engaged in quiet, lively conversation. A smaller mutt dog romped at their feet, nearly tripping them up several times. Had Mr. Sachs turned to observe the young men, he would have noticed a striking contrast, for Lord Warburton was tall, fair-haired, and muscular, the very picture of health, while his only son, Lazarus, was all too obviously a walking invalid.
Beauty and Attention: A Novel Page 2