Emerald

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  She had been staring at me as intently as I stared at her. Now, abruptly, pointedly, she turned her back and disappeared into the house. Before I could speak, or manage a greeting, she had dismissed and rejected me. In an instant she had ceased to be a ghost and became a presence that refused to have anything to do with me. That rejected me outright. So much for foolish dreams! This was the end of the picture—an all too modern ending. I must leave the theater forever and go out into the cold where no such brightness as I’d seen in Monica Arlen would ever comfort me again.

  Keith stared after her in disbelief. “Was that Aunt Monica?”

  I shrugged in an effort to recover, and sat down on a rock near Keith. I didn’t want him to guess my shock and disappointment. “People get older. We couldn’t expect her to be like the pictures I have of her when she was young.” But I had expected, however foolishly.

  “I’m scared of her,” Keith said.

  “You needn’t be.” I tried to sound reassuring. Keith must never guess how badly the brief, silent exchange had shaken me, and I tried to sound reasonable as I went on. “No one likes getting old. Especially someone who was beautiful when she was young.”

  “She doesn’t want us here.”

  That was obvious, but I tried again for his sake. “Perhaps not, darling. But Linda thinks she’ll change her mind.”

  His father had seen to it that Keith was never allowed those silver dreams that had nourished me for so long, and he believed none of this. The cat was more interesting to him, and much more real. He was becoming too fearful of human relationships, which, after all, had so often failed him.

  For a few moments longer the back of the house offered an emptiness in which nothing moved, and I sat very still on my rock, too stunned for any activity. Only Annabella’s need for “conversation” broke the mountain’s silence. I was still trying to absorb my shock when a man burst suddenly through a lower door of the house and came running up to the garden level, shouting Linda’s name. He was a stocky, slightly balding little man with a healthy tan and an excitable manner. To my New York accustomed eyes, his clothes seemed blindingly colorful—a firehouse-red shirt overhanging plaid pants of no accepted tartan.

  When he saw Keith, the cats, and me, he stopped to regard us in surprise. “Oops! I was looking for Linda. I’m Wally Davis.”

  I remembered Linda’s friend, her fiancé, whom she’d mentioned occasionally in her letters.

  “Linda’s over by the pool,” I said. “I’m Carol Hamilton, and this is my son, Keith. Monica Arlen is my great-aunt.”

  Wally Davis had a plump, rather expressive face, and it changed from astonishment to recognition of my name. “Oh—you’re the writer from New York? Linda didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  “I didn’t know myself.”

  He lowered his voice and nodded toward the balcony. “How is she taking it? Your coming here, I mean?”

  “Not very well, I’m afraid. Linda wants me to be patient.”

  “Mm.” He continued to stare at me with the searching air of a man who considers how to use this new piece of a puzzle. He paid little attention to Keith, and ignored Annabella’s insistent comments.

  “Well, come along,” he directed. “I have something exciting to tell Linda, and maybe you’re part of it now too.”

  Without waiting for me to precede him, he dashed ahead toward the pool, moving with remarkable alacrity for so rotund a man. It would have been hard to guess his age, because he had the sort of face that was unlikely to fade into wrinkles, though I knew from Linda’s letters that he was thirty-nine—a little younger than she was.

  “You can stay and play with Annabella, if you like,” I told Keith, and followed Wally Davis toward the pool.

  He was already bouncing around Linda’s chair when I got there, and I thought unflatteringly of a colorful beach ball. She’d taken off her dark glasses, and her enormous brown eyes with their extraordinary lashes watched him with an amusement that was not entirely affectionate.

  “Do calm down, Wally. I can’t make head or tail of what you’re saying. Have you met Carol?”

  He waved me aside. “Yes, yes! You’re just not listening! There’s going to be a benefit at the Annenberg Theater in the museum. To honor some of the older stars who first came here from Hollywood. You know—the real thing.”

  “That should be a good fund raiser,” Linda said dryly, “though not exactly original.”

  “Oh, it will be! Everybody’s thrilled about my contribution. I’ve suggested that they make it an Arlen-Scott affair and show Mirage. That El Mirador scene in the picture gives it a tie-in with Palm Springs. Then if we can get Monica and Saxon to come out on the stage together and receive an award—that will be the whole show. A first! After all these years, together again!”

  “You’re a lunatic.” Linda’s tone was still not entirely fond. “You know perfectly well that Monica never leaves this house unless she’s in disguise. And she hates Saxon. She’d never set foot on the same stage with him. Nor would he with her. Don’t be a fool.”

  “Ah-hah!” Wally sounded triumphant. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve already talked to Saxon and he’s agreed. If we can get Monica to appear.”

  Linda shook her head. “It’s not remotely possible. I’m even surprised that he would agree. And I know damned well how upset she’d be if I even suggested it. Or breathed it!”

  I was sure she was right. The woman I’d just seen would prefer to hide forever from a world that remembered only her beauty.

  Wally was still circling Linda’s chair, but now he stopped before me. “Maybe you can manage it?”

  “With Aunt Monica?” I shook my head as vigorously as Linda. “She hasn’t even met me. She’s made it quite clear she doesn’t want anything to do with me. And she’s told Linda that we must leave. I saw her just now, and she pointedly turned her back on me and went inside before I could say a word. I hardly think I’d have any influence.”

  The small-boy delight went out of Wally Davis, but his determination never wavered. “Then we’ll have to dream up something else. This is too good a chance to pass by. Never—not once since I’ve worked for Saxon, has he agreed to meet Monica. I’ve always said it would be top publicity, and he’s always refused.”

  “You work for Mr. Scott?” I asked in surprise.

  Linda explained before he could answer. “Wally is an entrepreneur of the old school. PR is his racket. He’d have thrived in early Hollywood. He keeps an eye on Saxon’s affairs, and he lives and breathes publicity.”

  “But not for Sax,” Wally said. “He won’t allow me full rein. Though I’ve done a bit for his restaurant. The Mirage Room was my idea. He’s always wanted to play it cool, stay in the background—until now. We could pack a theater ten times the size of the Annenberg if we could get those two together in public. Do you know how many times they’ve both been invited to present awards at the Oscar ceremonies?”

  Linda changed the subject abruptly. “Never mind all that dream stuff. Is there any word yet about Al Brampton?”

  “Does she know?” Wally glanced at me.

  “I haven’t told her yet, but I might as well. It’s very bad news, Carol. I didn’t want to worry you any more than you were already worried, but you have to know. Al Brampton has managed Monica’s business investments for years, and we’d all trusted him.”

  “Not me!” Wally broke in. “And no, there’s nothing new on the whole fiasco.”

  “Al skipped the country just a month ago,” Linda said, “and he took most of Monica’s fortune with him. He must have been preparing this for a long time. Now she has hardly anything left. But it needn’t affect you immediately, Carol. She may have to unload this place, and certainly her house in Beverly Hills. I don’t know how good she’ll be at tightening her belt.”

  “She could start making appearances again,” Wally put in. “Give lectures or readings or something. She could name her own price.”

  I felt a sudden pity
for the wraith I’d seen on the balcony. The idea of even one “appearance” seemed remote. No one would want to see this Monica Arlen. A sadness for her came over me, as well as new alarm for myself and Keith. Where else could we go? Where could we turn?

  “It’s a wonderful plan, Wally,” Linda assured him more kindly. “But you’d better forget about asking her, even if Saxon is willing to appear.”

  He jutted out his chin stubbornly, and I suspected that he wasn’t always cheerful and good-natured. There was a hint of bulldog here, and a suggestion that if he could reach the end he wanted, any means might do.

  “Well, okay for now,” he said. “I’ve got to get going. Do bring it up with Monica anyway.”

  “Can’t you stay for lunch?” Linda asked. “Jason will be here too.”

  “All the more reason not to stay.” Wally rolled his eyes at me. “Linda’s brother doesn’t consider me the best possible match for his sister.” He dropped a quick kiss on Linda’s cheek, gave me a casual wave of his hand, and rushed away, leaving the air behind in furious motion.

  I was still staring after him when Linda spoke in the same dry tone I’d heard before. “I expect my main appeal for Wally is my connection with Monica Arlen.”

  “You don’t sound very much in love.”

  “Who’s talking about love? Marriage isn’t always dependent on love. We’re useful to each other, and I suppose we even complement each other. Neither of us is the type for a great and glorious romance, and anyway, marriage is a long way off, if ever. I met him through Saxon.”

  I returned to the question that had puzzled me earlier. “From your letters I never guessed that you knew Saxon Scott.”

  A slight, unexpected flush brightened Linda’s cheeks, and I considered her reaction thoughtfully. One blushed for shame, embarrassment, guilt. Perhaps all three?

  “Exactly what are you up to?” I asked bluntly.

  “Nothing you need worry about, Carol.” Her slightly cynical air of mockery fell away, and once more she reminded me of changing desert sands. “Anyway, I’d never do anything to hurt Monica. She has to come first with me. There’s no one else to look after her. I just couldn’t explain to you about Saxon in a letter, and frankly I don’t want to explain now. Can you just leave it alone—take me on trust?”

  I wasn’t sure how far I could take her on trust, but I would have to try. Without Linda, and with Monica’s obvious rejection, I was lost until I could find another place to hide, a place where we could heal our wounds and build a new life.

  “If you want it that way,” I said. “You know how grateful I am to you, and I don’t want to make any more difficulties. I’ve caused enough trouble, judging by the way Aunt Monica looked at me just now.”

  Linda stretched and stood up. “I’d better go and see if she’s all right. We’re having an early lunch—eleven-thirty—since that’s when Jason is free. I’m anxious to have you meet him.”

  I couldn’t think about her brother now. “About this Brampton—the manager who’s skipped—” I began.

  “Not now, please, Carol. We’re still trying to put the pieces together. Of course I had to tell Monica, and she’s upset about it, though she doesn’t quite believe it yet. The telephone call from Saxon is what really shocked her. If she would just tell me …” She left the thought unfinished.

  “I’ll collect Keith and we’ll get ready for lunch,” I said, moving toward the house.

  A cloud crossed the sun and in the momentary shade I saw that the little smoke tree really bore out its name. Its thin, rather hairy foliage drifted like a haze of smoke, and in a strong wind I could imagine that it would blow like smoke.

  When I called Keith, he left Annabella reluctantly. At least I was glad he’d made a friend.

  As we went down the stone steps at the back, Ralph Reese came into view.

  “She wants you,” he told Linda. “She’s in a real frenzy.”

  “I was just going up,” Linda said. “Run along, Carol. We’ll meet for drinks before lunch.”

  She went off and Ralph followed us into the house, his good-looking face marred by an expression of perpetual malice.

  “I’m sorry if my coming has upset my aunt,” I told him.

  “Oh, she won’t be upset for long. She’ll recover as soon as you’re gone.”

  He turned to give Keith a more friendly grin and disappeared toward the kitchen. I learned later that he ate all his meals with Monica, carrying up her trays and serving her, then sitting down to offer the only company she chose to tolerate just now. Though I disliked him, I could see that he sang for his supper in his own way.

  While Keith, always independent, got into clean jeans and a pullover sweater, I took a small folder from my suitcase and sat on the edge of the bed to look through it. I needed some touch with my own realities before I dressed and went downstairs. Again and again, these few pictures had brought me a thread of comfort when my life had begun to seem intolerable.

  There were two or three old snapshots of the parents I could barely recall. They weren’t nearly so real to me as Monica had become. I stared at a favorite small photo of Monica, and tried to find something reassuring in her remembered face. But this was a face that no longer existed. It was as if Monica too had died—long ago—and as I studied the picture, foolish tears of loss came into my eyes. How terrible the change in her—and how young, how untouched by life was the lovely face in the print.

  “Hey, Mom, you getting ready?” Keith prodded me.

  There was no more comfort for me in old pictures. I put the folder away and got dressed. I hadn’t much choice in the few things I’d brought, but my white linen skirt and a violet silk blouse would do. I changed my loafers for white sandals, and was as ready as I could be to face whatever else this disturbing day held for me. By this time I had no confidence in Linda’s assurance that she would persuade Aunt Monica to let us stay for a while. Especially not with financial ruin facing her. And of course now I had to accept that all those letters I’d written to my famous aunt had never been addressed to anyone real, but only to someone who existed entirely in my imagination.

  Keith had gone to stand on the front balcony of our room and was staring out over the low rooftops of Palm Springs. He had returned to one of the long silences that so troubled me.

  “What are you thinking about?” I asked.

  He turned, his small face devoid of expression. “About him.”

  Not “my father”—“him.” That was what Owen had done to his son. During the time when he’d taken Keith, Owen had even told him that I was dead and he should forget me. That fear too haunted his dreams and his silences, and sometimes made him cling to me.

  Once more I tried to reassure him. “We’re safe here, darling.”

  “Not if she won’t let us stay.”

  “Linda thinks Aunt Monica will come around. So let’s not worry. Linda’s brother Jason, who works for the Desert Museum, is coming to lunch. That should be fun.”

  I wasn’t sure it would be, since Linda had said her brother disapproved of her working for Monica, but it was the best I could offer. We sat on the balcony, waiting until it was time to go downstairs. Keith came to lean against me, and I held him close. There had been times when he could hardly bear to let me out of his sight.

  Before long, a battered Dodge station wagon came up the one-way private road from town, and we watched as Jason Trevor parked beside Linda’s car and got out. Then we went inside and down to the small formal drawing room. Linda hadn’t appeared as yet, and I supposed she must be having a difficult time with Monica.

  Her brother came in from bright sunlight to join us. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Jason Trevor, Linda’s brother.”

  I held out my hand and introduced Keith and myself.

  He shook my hand rather coolly, and then took the hand my son thrust at him almost belligerently. Keith had begun to show a distrust of any man, so that it had been a relief when he’d accepted Ralph so readily. Owen, who could dis
pense with the idea of good manners for himself when he chose, had nevertheless insisted that his son be well taught—on however superficial a level. So Keith was going through the proper motions, even though suspicion was clearly uppermost.

  “Hi,” Jason said, accepting his hand, but not the challenge. “I was thinking about you this morning. I’m taking some kids on a field trip soon, and perhaps you’d like to come along. We’ll have a great time, and even learn a few things about desert animals. Do you like animals?”

  I spoke too hastily. “We’re not able to go out anywhere at all just now.”

  Keith’s face had brightened, but now he looked stoic again. Fun wasn’t something he expected of life and I changed my course quickly, knowing I couldn’t let my own fears, however real, do this to him.

  “Keith’s always been interested in animals,” I said. “Perhaps we can manage a visit to the museum before long.”

  “That will be fine,” Jason said smoothly, and went to sit in one of the damask chairs.

  “Let me show you something I found in the desert a few days ago,” he said to Keith, and took a small package from his pocket.

  I watched, finding that Linda’s brother resembled her very little. He was tall and his brown hair had been sun-bleached until it was almost blond. Its thickness encroached on his forehead as though combing didn’t particularly interest him. His features were strong, well defined, and on the rugged side. A Palm Springs tan was startlingly dark in contrast to his hair, and vertical concentration lines centered his forehead between brown eyes that had a tendency to squint. As though he’d looked too long into a burning landscape.

  If he noticed the bruise on Keith’s face, he gave no sign as he showed him the small white skull of a desert creature—a kangaroo rat. Keith was immediately fascinated, and as they talked Jason Trevor continued to ignore me to the point where I began to feel invisible. From his first greeting I’d sensed his hostility toward me, and I resented its unfairness. My connection with Monica hardly justified his dislike of me.