Emerald

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  I went through the terrace doors to find Keith playing catch with Ralph Reese. Whatever his unpleasanter traits, Ralph seemed to like small boys, and Keith clearly liked him. He wasn’t the friend I’d have chosen, but for now he would have to do.

  Annabella was not enjoying the ball game. She sat on the wall, her black velvet tail twitching slightly as she made sarcastic remarks. Her angelic companions remained in silent attendance on either side, ears pointed as they listened attentively to their queen. They moved their heads in unison with the tossed ball, even as they listened. A movement Annabella scorned to follow.

  Out here on the terrace, bougainvillea spilled abundantly over balconies, and decorative plantings had been set about in great earthen pots. In one grew a lemon tree hung with ripening globes—a splash of sunny yellow—while red geraniums thrived in a planter. Even a few potted palms grew in this limited space.

  The view was endlessly fascinating, with the low buildings of Palm Springs spread out in divided squares trimmed neatly with palm trees, the desert and all the Coachella Valley beyond, reaching to the brown mountains on the horizon. I’d already studied maps and knew that Palm Canyon Drive ran along the base of Mt. San Jacinto, turning into Highway 111 at the city limits, and then following the range through the little neighboring cities. South of Palm Springs came Cathedral City, then Rancho Mirage, Palm Desert, Indian Wells, and on through Indio—all their boundaries touching, so that it must be difficult to tell where one ended and the next began.

  “We’re going to look around the house,” I told Keith. “Want to come along?”

  He turned first to the Siamese and they exchanged a few secret remarks. Annabella, satisfied to let him go, walked along the wall, sweeping the expanse of the valley with her cool blue gaze.

  Linda spoke to Ralph. “I think you’d better go up to Miss Arlen. She may not be feeling very well.”

  The young man cocked an eyebrow, made a slightly mocking salute, and disappeared toward the far end of the house. Beyond the garage area there appeared to be a second, private terrace, exclusively Monica’s. Chairs invited, though no one sat in them. Linda said that the room behind was Monica’s private living room, but that she seldom used it, preferring her upstairs apartment.

  “He’ll get her quiet,” Linda said as Ralph went off. “In his way he’s useful. Now we’ll just have to wait and see what turn she takes next.”

  Again these seemed ominous and discouraging words. So much for my fantasy of finding someone of my own blood, to whom I could become close. So much for all those years when I’d ached for family of my own, and set Aunt Monica in that empty place in my heart. Well, I was a big girl now, and I had Keith to fill my life.

  At least my son seemed more cheerful since his game with Ralph, and I could be thankful for that as the three of us went into the house to explore.

  The blond woman I’d noticed earlier turned from her stove with a pleasant greeting as Linda introduced us. There was no gray in her smoothly combed hair, and her face was plump and lineless. Yet in spite of her smile, her light blue eyes were watchful. Everyone at Smoke Tree House seemed to watch everyone else, I thought with that continuing sense of unease.

  “Helsa Carlson has been with Miss Arlen many more years than I have,” Linda explained. “We couldn’t get along without her. Helsa, this is Carol …” Linda hesitated, and then to my relief said, “Miss Carol Hamilton, Miss Arlen’s great-niece. You remember, I’ve spoken about her over the years.”

  Helsa bowed courteously, watchfully, and said she was pleased to meet me. I had the feeling that she’d had no idea I was coming.

  We went up a second flight of stairs and Linda pointed out bedrooms as we followed the upper level. When we’d returned downstairs, Linda spoke to Keith.

  “We’ll go outside now. I want to show you our own secret garden.”

  We went out a door into the forbidding rise of the mountain that made a constant rock barrier behind the house. On the higher ledge above us, palm trees flourished behind the chain link fence, and slab steps pointed upward to a narrow entrance into the garden above.

  “I’m going up there!” Keith cried.

  Linda put a hand on my arm as I moved to stop him. “Let him go. There’s no way he can get off Monica’s property, and there’s not even a place where he can fall off the mountain.”

  With Keith out of hearing, I voiced the question that had been troubling me. “Something’s very wrong, isn’t it? Something you haven’t told me.”

  The bright smile Linda had produced several times faded, and she ran a nervous hand through fluffy brown hair. “Monica Arlen was my greatest idol when I came to work for her. Of course I was full of the way she used to be on the screen, and I’d read so much about her in magazines. I’m trying to preserve some of that, Carol. But she’s a bitter woman now, consumed by old resentments, and I’m afraid it’s getting worse. Sometimes I think she’ll die of her own corrosive emotions if she can’t be turned around. Maybe it’s already too late. Or maybe you can do something to help. That’s one of the reasons I wanted you to come.”

  Her apparent sincerity touched me for the first time. “Tell me what you mean.”

  She hesitated, considering. “Monica had a phone call from Saxon Scott a few days ago. It upset her badly, though she wouldn’t tell me why he called. That’s when she went into this latest ‘retreat’ of hers.”

  “Has Mr. Scott kept in touch with her over the years?”

  “Never—as far as I know. That’s why his call was especially strange. I’m worried because I don’t know what’s up.”

  “You said you knew Saxon Scott—can’t you ask him?”

  Caution altered her expression. “Yes, I know him,” she said shortly, and started up the granite steps leading to the garden above.

  My momentary relief faded. As soon as it was possible, I must see Monica Arlen myself—and alone. I didn’t know what was going on, but the sooner I found out the better. Perhaps—and this was a new thought—I might even have some responsibility here.

  Moving with a new determination, I climbed the stone steps and followed Linda through the narrow entrance into a glorious tropical garden.

  FOUR

  A stretch of mountain ledge had been filled in with soil. So that fig and orange and plum trees thrived in this place of morning sunlight. A paloverde had been transplanted here, and in the central spot grew the little smoke tree that gave the house its name.

  “Smoke trees usually grow in sandy washes in the desert,” Linda said, “but this one has done well up here.”

  Following a natural ledge, the garden wound along the hillside, overlooking the red-tiled roofs of the house, its character changing from the cultivated to something wild and untended.

  Keith ran ahead through a small latticework pavilion, also tiled in red. Its benches offered shelter from summer heat, and its open sides looked out over what we could see of Palm Springs beyond the roof of the house. A California gazebo. Farther along, we came upon a swimming pool that followed the mountain’s contour in its curving form. A strip of tiles offered comfort for sunbathers, and there were deck chairs, empty now. In morning sunlight the water shone blue.

  “She used to come up here to swim every morning,” Linda said, “but lately she’s stopped. She’s lost interest in everything.” Linda moved to one of the chairs and stretched out. “This is a good place to talk—away from the house. Keith, why don’t you look around for a bit?”

  “Okay. When can I go swimming, Mom?”

  “Later,” I said. “And not ever alone. Remember that.”

  Owen had seen to it that his son learned to swim at one of his own private clubs, and we often flew to St. Thomas to stay with a friend of Owen’s, so Keith loved the water. I was grateful for those past luxuries now, since at least he could get some safe exercise that would be unavailable if we were hidden away in an apartment. Perhaps Keith’s naturally adventurous spirit would return in these surroundings. If only I could re
move the threat he feared so deeply and terribly.

  As he ran off to explore, I too stretched out in one of the deck chairs and closed my eyes, wishing I could block out anxiety as easily as I could relax my body in the sun. I’d taken to jumping as nervously as Keith at every shadow, and every unknown corner seemed to hide an enemy.

  “How will you live?” Linda asked, direct as always. “Do you have any money of your own? Will you keep on writing your Carol Hamilton pieces?”

  “I must,” I said. “I’ll need to do a lot more with my writing now. I do have some savings, but I must earn an income as quickly as possible.”

  When I was first married, I’d been afraid that Owen might want me to give up writing. I hadn’t realized then just how much he valued success. He never read my articles, but when they appeared in Vogue, or Town and Country, and other good magazines, he added my triumphs to his own. He enjoyed possessions that gave him class, did him honor, and since he didn’t care what I did with “pin money,” I put those modest payments away in my own account. He was amused that I kept my maiden name as a writer, Carol Hamilton, and simply took care to make it known where it counted, that I belonged to him.

  During these last years I’d made it my specialty to write about the famous and successful—the very people who had always attracted my admiration and envy—and I’d developed a talent for coaxing them to talk to me. The fact that I was genuinely interested, that I really cared, got me past a good many guards. While I wanted to reveal the unexpected truth about those I interviewed, I tried to do it sympathetically. The hatchet, or the sneaky undercut, was never for me. Which was one of the reasons people were willing to talk to me. Now that my name was becoming known, good assignments came my way, and I would have to make that work for me in earnest now.

  First, however, and before anything else, I must draw Keith back into a life where he could trust again, and feel love around him without threat.

  “I suppose you’ll go on writing interviews and articles about leading personalities?” Linda went on.

  I opened my eyes and looked at her searchingly. She’d taken dark glasses from a pocket of her jeans, and I couldn’t read her expression.

  “That’s probably what I do best, though I’m willing to write about anything that strikes me as interesting. Last night in the restaurant I even thought of introducing myself to Saxon Scott. Why didn’t you tell me there was a Saxon’s?”

  Linda’s mouth quirked, but I was not sure that her expression was mischievous. “I wanted you to be surprised.”

  “Perhaps he’d be a good person for me to start with, since I already know a lot about him. Do you suppose he’d be willing to talk to me?”

  “Why not? I can get you an introduction, if you like.”

  “Mentioning that I’m related to Monica?”

  “Naturally. He’s a fascinating man, and kind as well, unless you step on his toes. Of course Monica will give you a whole other view of him.”

  I had to challenge her. “In all the time we’ve been corresponding, you’ve never once mentioned Saxon Scott. And when I’ve asked questions, you haven’t answered. Why not?”

  The dark glasses hid not only her eyes, but a good part of her face, and she turned her head away from me. “I don’t know … divided loyalties, perhaps.”

  That was enigmatic, but I sensed that it was useless to follow up right now. The very turning of her head rejected my question, and I tried another tack.

  “Do you know the story of their breakup?”

  “Not all of it. That’s one of the things Monica will never talk about. I’ve always wondered what would happen if they should come together again.”

  Her voice had softened, taking on a dreamy quality, and I sensed something gentler beneath the front Linda chose to show the world.

  “I suspect you’re basically a romantic,” I said. “I’ve always been one too. Until lately. The idea of a meeting between those two is almost irresistible, isn’t it?”

  The softness vanished as she sat up and swung her feet to the tiles. “Not when I’m in my right mind! That’s the sort of fantasy that only happens in old movies. Monica’s feelings are fragile just now, and I don’t want to see her badly hurt. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t talk to Saxon Scott, if you want to.”

  “He hasn’t given an interview in years. Still, I’d like to follow through, if you think he’d see me.”

  “Maybe nobody’s asked him lately. Monica’s always seemed the mysterious one—a better story. Especially since Saxon hasn’t hidden himself away as she has. Her disappearing act increased her publicity value, you know. Though of course you’ll be on tricky ground if you go after him. I mean, if Monica knew you were talking to him, there’d be no way to keep you here. She’d explode all over the place. Something happened all those years ago for which she’s never forgiven him. And I think he feels the same way about her. It’s the deep dark secret at the bottom of their whole estrangement. That’s why it’s so odd that he should phone her now. Maybe it’s wiser if you stay out of it for a while as far as Saxon’s concerned. Though I’ll fix it up, if you want me to.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  Linda Trevor was a little like the desert. She drifted and changed subtly under my very eyes. Or perhaps it was just that her true goals hadn’t as yet become clear, and her seeming turns and twists were really taking her in one direction—if only I could discover what that direction was.

  Suddenly everything seemed too quiet on the sunny mountainside and my brief sense of relaxation disappeared. “I wonder what Keith’s doing?” I said, and left my chair.

  “Go and look. You might as well reassure yourself. I’ll stay here.”

  Knowing he couldn’t wander far, I hadn’t noticed the direction he’d taken. When I walked on beyond the pool, I discovered another small garden growing lushly, unrestrained. Wherever water and soil met, plants thrived in this oasis. Water, it seemed, was less a problem than elsewhere in California, tumbling down canyons, bubbling from the ground, even piped clear up here.

  “Keith?” I called. Birds twittered, and from the shade of a sprawling, gray-trunked fig tree a quiet figure looked at me. For an instant I was startled. Then I realized that the unclothed lady was sculpted in stone—a young, lithe figure, nearly life size, with a real robin perched on one cool shoulder. In some ways the work was crude, unfinished, but an impression of life had been brought into the stone. Or was it an extension of life? That extra dimension that is art? Whoever had created this figure had more than ordinary talent.

  “I beg your pardon,” I murmured, and retreated, almost falling over the stone fawn that rested at the statue’s feet.

  What a strange whimsy in this hidden place, where few must ever come. Twisted vines that crept around stone and the stains from years of weathering told me that everything here was old and neglected. In this unlikely spot, with the mountain itself in opposition, Monica had built her retreat long ago. A place to which she could escape when Hollywood became too much for her? A place that had now become her entire world. A marble bench rested under the fig tree, and I could imagine her coming here to sit quietly in the company of the stone maiden. To meditate? To grieve for what she’d lost?

  More than ever, I wanted to meet her, come to know her. Not just as she’d been in the past, but as she was now.

  I still hadn’t found Keith, and I returned to Linda resting beside the pool.

  “He must have gone the other way,” I said, and went back through the red-tiled summer house and into the more ordered garden, where some effort had been made to restrain tropical vegetation. Another of Ralph’s duties, I supposed, since Linda had mentioned “gardener” among his functions.

  Keith was here, and so was Annabella. He and the Siamese cat were playing a game with dry palm fronds. Seraphim and Cherubim watched sleepily from a spot of shade, and once more relief swept through me at the peaceful scene. How long would it last, this intense anxiety about my son? T
here must be an end to fear somewhere, and a truly safe life for us.

  I turned to view Monica’s house from this upper level, looking down on its tiled roof and rear gallery. That was when I saw her. She stood on her own balcony, a little way below me, looking up the mountain’s steep rise to the garden above. She must have been watching Keith, but now she turned her full attention on me, and the shock of what I saw was devastating.

  I had always spun my own fantasies about Arlen and Scott. Theirs was Romance as it should be. When I was very young, I thought it was what I wanted from life. Once, foolishly, I’d even imagined the impressive and overpowering Owen Barclay in Saxon Scott’s dashing role. Those bright visions helped me as a child and a young woman, when everything else had been drab and lifeless. That this magical being—Monica Arlen—was related to me, had been something to cherish in all my daydreams. Even married to Owen, I’d clung to the dream, unwilling to let reality tarnish it.

  Now, in a single moment, the enchantment vanished. Those passing years that had treated Saxon Scott kindly had destroyed Monica Arlen. Materialized before my eyes was a wraith, a revenant, gowned severely in gray. A ghostly presence that seemed unreal, unearthly. I could only stare in shock and dismay.

  Time had carved her to the bone, melting away soft contours, not wrinkling so much as stretching taut. Her slender nose with its delicate nostrils, her marvelous high cheekbones, could never be disguised, but the beautiful slanted eyes that had seemed so exotic on a screen had sunk into dark hollows. The once soft chin that had given her face a genuine gentleness—what was known in those days as a feminine look—was a grim line now, etched in bone and sharpened by age. Her shoulders had rounded, and the hands that grasped the railing before her, emerging from beneath a fringed shawl, were no longer beautiful. Nor did she wear on her finger the famous intaglio emerald ring, as I’d imagined her doing. Even her hair had coarsened, neither its original blond nor the chestnut shade she’d sometimes adopted, but a dull gray without shine—a color that did nothing to flatter, though she still wore it in the exaggerated pageboy style that had been fashionable in her movie days.