Her arms are tired, and it’s difficult to heft the knife, which has become surprisingly heavy. But she doesn’t have much time left, she has to persevere.
DIE! DIE! she screams, repeatedly, a manic chant, DIE! DIE! each shout punctuated by a thrust of her metallic blade, dripping with blood, DIE! DIE! as she pursues her grim revenge. DIE! DIE! DIE!
And she’s still screaming DIE! DIE! when she wakes up.
She sits bolt upright in horror, her body bathed in a clammy sweat.
She’s alone, still in the same bed. Blades of sunlight pierce the fragile drapery. It must still be mid-afternoon. She hears footsteps running down the hall toward her room.
Covering her face with her hands, Sunshine begins to sob quietly.
Transition
Book 2: Conflict
Part 5:
The Party
2.5.1: Dallas
The sun, a sultry red orb, is already low on the horizon, but the weatherman says that it’s still over ninety degrees in the shade. The high humidity and the deathly stillness make the thick air feel even hotter than that.
And it’s hotter still under the canopy of the oversized tent. Even though its sides have been rolled up so that the tent is actually little more than a brightly colored canvas roof, fiery heat rises from the barbecue pit in waves too powerful to entirely escape through the circular opening at the tent’s peak.
“Who’s that?” Kimberly Overdorf asks in a stage whisper, nudging Jillian with an elbow for the umpteenth time. “He’s dreamy.” They stand at the edge of the tent, well away from the fire but still protected from the fierce sun.
“Kim, I don’t know,” Jillian says, with mounting exasperation. “I told you, I don’t know half of these people.”
“Miss Kendal?” A man in a heavily starched white uniform wheels a large, shiny, metallic cart toward them. “Miss Kendal, I am sorry to disturb you, but do you know where your mother is? I am not sure where she wants me to put this.”
“I haven’t seen her, Manolo, but you might try over by the bar. That’s always a safe bet.” She smiles at Manolo, sharing a private joke, but Manolo looks nervously at Kimberly and then down at the ground. Jillian sighs. She’ll hear about this later. She has obviously just earned another rendition of Manolo’s lecture about Not Talking About Your Mother Like That In Front Of People Who Are Not In The Family. But Kimberly is family, sort of, Jillian thinks. And anyway, she’s much too busy ogling every man who walks by to pay any attention to a conversation between me and a servant.
“Who’s that, over there by the girl in the green dress?” Kimberly grabs Jillian’s arm with one hand and points with the glass she holds in the other. “The tall guy with the blond hair. See him? What a hunk.”
“Why don’t you just leave the cart here, Manolo,” Jillian suggests. “Everybody will find it.”
“I think he’s looking at you, Jill,” Kimberly giggles. “Oh my God, he’s coming over this way. Is my hair okay?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Kendal, I don’t think I should do that, meaning no disrespect.” Manolo meets her eyes briefly, then looks away, scanning the crowd as he speaks. “Your mother, as you yourself know, she is very particular about the way things are arranged. She wants everything just a certain way. I will go and find her, you will excuse me.” And he rolls the heavy cart away.
“Jill!” The tall, blond hunk weaves his way through the crowd, a plastic cup of beer in one hand. “Jill, have you seen my sister? I can’t find her anywhere. She said she’d be here.”
“Your sister?” Am I supposed to know his sister? Jillian wonders, as Kimberly gives her a not-so-subtle nudge in the side. “Oh, Kim, this is Jason Stackhouse. Jason, Kim Overdorf. Umm, Jason, I’m not sure I know who your sister is.”
“Hiiii!” Kimberly beams her sunniest smile and extends her hand. Jason shakes it absently.
“Sure you do, Jill,” he says, puzzled. “Michelle. You remember Michelle. She hasn’t raced for a couple of years, but I’m pretty sure that you went up against her a few times before she quit. And she said that she saw you a couple of weeks ago. She was working with some newslady on some TV station.” He grins. “I think she said that you had some kind of run-in with her. The newslady, I mean, not my sister. Linda something-or-other.”
“Oh my God, that was Michelle. I thought she looked familiar. But she was just sort of hanging around, and she didn’t say anything to me, so I wasn’t sure.” Jillian grimaces. “And it wasn’t Linda, it was Leida, Leida Andersen. What a world-class bitch. Why was Michelle working with her?” Jillian asks, accusingly.
“Hey, you know,” Jason shrugs. “It was a job.” He rubs his fingers together in the universal signal for money changing hands.
“I need to find her and apologize for not saying anything to her,” Jillian says. “I honestly didn’t recognize her. She must think I’m an awful snob.”
“Well, if you do find her, tell her that I’m looking for her.” He glances around. “Right now, I need to find myself someplace to sit down.”
“The picnic tables are right over this way, Jason,” Kimberly says, as she grabs his arm and leads him away. “I’ll be happy to show you where they are.”
Jason looks back over his shoulder at Jillian as Kimberly drags him off. His eyes are wide in mock dismay, as if he were being spirited away against his will. Jillian rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but she’s smiling.
“Ooh, what big muscles you have,” Jillian hears Kimberly gush as she drags off her trophy. “You must be a triathlete. I’ll bet you’re real good.”
2.5.2: Dallas
“Mrs. Kendal?” Spotting his quarry, Manolo abandons the cart and wades into the crowd. “Mrs. Kendal?”
“Manolo, where have you been? Tom Harrington was looking for you. I think the pasta has arrived.” A tall, slender woman who might be in her early forties, Barbara Anne Kendal cuts a striking figure in her western barbecue hostess outfit (fringed western shirt, studded jeans, wide leather belt with BARBARA ANNE embossed in oversized letters on the back, Australian eel-skin boots with two-and-a-half-inch heels, the cord of a white cowboy hat looped around her shoulders). For the past hour she’s been greeting friends, welcoming guests, making small talk, and orchestrating the activities of three servants, five groundskeepers, and two catering companies.
“Yes, I have the pasta right here, señora.” Manolo gestures at the cart. “Where would you like me to place it?”
“Roll it over to the barbecue pit.” She glances around the tent quickly to confirm her decision. Sure enough, a good-sized crowd mills around the pit, which makes it the ideal spot. “Over there, on the far side, where the plates are stacked, do you see where I mean?”
“Si, señora.”
“And Manolo, make sure that the sauce is over there too. Tom Harrington will know where it is.”
“Si, señora.”
“And make sure that the sauce is hot, Manolo. It’s been standing around for a long time.”
“Si, señora.”
“Get Tom to heat it up for you, if you have to.”
“Si, señora.”
“Barbara Anne, darling, please do let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” An energetic woman who might be in her seventies smiles comfortingly and pats Barbara Anne’s arm. “You make it look so easy, dear, but believe me, I know how demanding these functions can be. We women do all the work, and the men take all the credit.”
“Isn’t that the way of the world?” Barbara Anne laughs. “But I think I’ve got everything under control. I’ll let you know if the next crisis overwhelms me.” She takes the older woman’s hand and squeezes it gratefully.
Instead of releasing Barbara Anne’s grip, the other woman begins to gently lead her toward a group of lawn chairs that stands off to the side of the tent. “Come,” she commands. “Let’s get you off your feet for a few minutes. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you all day.”
“Oh, Lorinda, I’d love to sit and chat,
” Barbara Anne says, resisting the surprisingly strong grip. “But the party will fall to pieces if I don’t keep an eye on it.”
“Nonsense,” Lorinda snorts. “No one will miss you for five minutes. Now, come, sit down, and tell me what you and that remarkable daughter of yours have been up to.”
“Well…” Barbara Anne is dubious, but Lorinda is insistent. “Maybe just for a minute.”
Lorinda flags down a waiter. “Young man,” she says, “if that’s champagne on your tray, please leave one here on the table for me. And one for Mrs. Kendal.”
“Actually,” Barbara Anne says, settling back into the chair, “I think I’m ready for something a little stronger. Make mine a Jack Daniels. With water.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Kendal. Right away.” The waiter places a solitary champagne glass on the table and hurries off.
“You must be very proud of your daughter.” Lorinda sniffs at the champagne, sips it, and nods approvingly. “I understand that she’s favored to win the race tomorrow.”
“That’s what I hear,” Barbara Anne says, flatly.
“Oh dear, why the lack of enthusiasm?”
“Is it that obvious?” Barbara Anne sighs. “I just wish that Jill would try to get interested in something more worthwhile.”
“Oh, come, my dear, you make it sound like she’s a child molester.” Lorinda laughs. “She’s already won an Olympic gold medal, and I understand that she may bring home another one soon. That sounds like a worthwhile endeavor to me. Aren’t you being a little hard on the child?”
“You don’t understand.” The waiter returns with Barbara Anne’s Jack Daniels. She waits until he’s out of earshot before continuing. “I don’t mind her interest in athletics. But, I swear, that’s all she thinks about. She has no balance in her life, her whole world revolves around these silly races. She doesn’t have a single boyfriend that I know of. It’s all I can do to get her to put on a little make-up once in a while.” She sighs. “I don’t know how she expects to attract a man if all she’s interested in doing is proving that she can run faster than they can. I just wish she’d show some interest in something more… I don’t know… more feminine. More ladylike.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Kendal. Sorry to interrupt.” A surprisingly large man, who looks more than a little uncomfortable in a sports jacket and tie, walks briskly up to the table.
“What is it, Darvell? Oh, Lorinda, this is Darvell Tallent, he’s in charge of security. Darvell, this is…”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ve worked parties for Mrs. St. Cloud. Good to see you again, ma’am. You’re looking well.”
“Thank you, Darvell. Aren’t you a little warm in that outfit?” Lorinda sounds concerned. “Couldn’t you at least loosen your tie?”
“Mr. Kendal asks that we dress this way, ma’am,” Tallent says, hesitantly. “And it’s really not as bad as it looks. You get used to it.”
“Darvell,” Barbara Anne interrupts, “I believe that you came over here to talk to me about something?”
“Yes ma’am. I really am sorry to bother you with this, but we have a gentleman at the gate without an invitation. He’s with one of the women triathletes, and she does have an invitation. And she claims to be a friend of your daughter’s.”
“Why are you coming to me with this?” Barbara Anne asks, clearly annoyed. “G.W. is supposed to be supervising security.”
“Yes ma’am, I know that,” Tallent says, apologetically. “But we can’t find Mr. Kendal right now. So I thought I’d better check with you.”
“Who is he, the man with Jill’s friend…” Barbara Anne frowns, trying to figure out why Tallent is bothering her about so trivial a matter. “Her boyfriend?”
“No ma’am.” Tallent looks apprehensive. “She says that he’s her ‘guru,’ is what I believe she called him. He seems to be a little… well, strange. I just didn’t want to let him in without clearing it with you or Mr. Kendal.”
“Her… her guru?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“And the girl claims to be a friend of Jillian’s?”
“Yes ma’am, she does.”
Barbara Anne sighs. “Well, why don’t we let Jillian handle this one, Darvell. If she says it’s all right, go ahead and let this guru person in.”
“Thank you, ma’am, I’ll do that.” With a parting nod to Lorinda, Darvell Tallent lumbers off to find Jillian.
“Please pardon my ignorance,” Lorinda says, as Tallent strides away, “but what exactly is a ‘guru’? Surely he isn’t one of those fellows who raises snakes from a basket?”
“I’d like to think not,” Barbara Anne says, but she doesn’t sound especially hopeful. “But this is one of Jillian’s friends, Lorinda. Anything is possible.” She shakes her head. “Anything.”
2.5.3: Dallas
“It sure is convenient for Jill,” she hears a familiar voice say caustically, as she walks down a gentle slope to the shore, where a small knot of triathletes sits on the grass overlooking the lake. “Having the race begin right in her backyard, and all.”
“Actually,” Jillian says, “the race starts all the way down at the far end of the lake. You can’t even see it from here.”
Carla Kwan looks back over her shoulder and grins up at Jillian. “Jill,” she says, without any hint of embarrassment. “We were just talking about you.”
“So I heard.”
“Well, tell us about swimming in White Rock Lake.” Carla stands and surveys the calm water, now shimmering red in the setting sun. “Give us the benefit of your experience.”
“To tell you the truth,” Jillian says, “I never even swam in it. It’s just always been right here, you know? I always thought of it as a boating lake, not a swimming lake. And I’ve never been much of a swimmer.” She laughs. “As you know.”
“So it is just a happy coincidence, yes?” asks one of the Kiergaard twins. Jillian first assumes that it’s Kristin, as Britte seldom speaks to her, but the acrid tone makes her suspect that it might be Britte after all. “It is just your good fortune to live on the lake where the Olympic trials are held.”
“I guess so, Kristin,” Jillian smiles. No matter which one of the twins she’s addressing, Jillian invariably calls her “Kristin.” If she’s correct, Kristin is pleased at the identification; if she’s not, Britte is irritated by the mistake. So it’s a no-lose situation. “They were holding triathlons here for a couple of years before I ever even thought about entering one.”
“I am certain that is so,” comes the clearly dubious response, and now Jillian is sure that it’s Britte – her English is better than Kristin’s, and the provocation is unmistakable.
“Hey, if you want to believe that having the race here gives me an advantage, that’s fine with me, Kristin,” Jillian says. “It’ll just make it that much easier for me to beat you.”
Britte rolls her eyes and laughs scornfully.
“Jill, baby, the twins aren’t racing tomorrow.” Scott Marcus lies sprawled out on the grass. “I know this’ll come as a shock to you, and I don’t want to clutter your pretty little head with boring details, but, in point of fact, the Kiergaard twins are not Americans. They raced today, sweetheart. Won, in fact.”
“I’ll drink to that,” somebody says, and half a dozen cups of beer are hoisted into the air.
“Well, congratulations, Kristin,” Jillian says, extending a hand. “It must have been a pleasant change for you.” Britte glares back at her for a moment, then turns and walks away. Jillian grins at her retreating back.
“Excuse me, Miss Kendal?” Darvell Tallent calls to her as he lumbers down the embankment. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”
֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍
“Personally,” Carla says as Jillian follows Tallent up the hill, “I think Jill’s in for a rude awakening. With all the drafting that’ll be going on tomorrow, she might not catch up with anybody on the bike leg. She may not be so unbeatable after all.”
“I’ll drink to that,�
� another voice chimes in.
And half a dozen plastic beer cups meet in a silent toast.
2.5.4: Dallas
“To the first Olympic Ironman.”
“‘Ironman’ is a trademark,” J. Stanton Kennedy points out. “We call it the ‘long-distance triathlon.’”
But G.W. doesn’t react to this news, he just sits there, leaning forward expectantly in his chair, holding out his glass. Finally taking the hint, Kennedy leans over and clinks his own glass against it. “And to your daughter’s continued success,” he says. “May she earn another gold medal for the Kendal trophy case.”
“I’ll drink to that,” G.W. says. “But I thought you were supposed to be impartial.”
“Officially, I am impartial, of course.” Kennedy leans back in the overstuffed chair and sips his drink. “Officially. Unofficially, however, I suspect that I’m pulling for Jill just as much as you are. Quite a girl you’ve got there, G.W. Not only does she possess a prodigious talent, but she even has her old man’s spunk. For better or for worse.”
“She shoots her mouth off too much, if that’s what you mean.” G.W. swirls the drink in his hand. “And she cusses like a sailor. But you’re right, she sure does come by that honest.”
They sit in silence for a few seconds, which gives Kennedy a chance to survey the room. The wood-paneled walls of the library are lined with western art, some tasteful, most sloppily sentimental. Kennedy recognizes a Remington and what might be a Russell – but for the most part, he decides, it’s pure kitsch.
A gold-plated, two-foot-tall model of an oil derrick stands garishly backlit in a velvet-lined trophy case. A plaque at its base reads “PERMIDIO, 1972.” A multi-colored ribbon draped over the derrick supports what is unmistakably an Olympic gold medal.
“I suppose we oughta mosey on back to the party, Stan.” G.W. sits up, pushing the footrest of the recliner back into its normal, vertical position. “If I know Barbara Anne, she’ll be having a hissy fit just about now.”
Transition Page 27