****
If Quinta Powers was adept at seeing what she wanted to see, Cindy Seton was an expert. When Cindy arrived, clad in crimson and black, she felt utterly confident that she would be the belle of the ball. It did not occur to her that anyone would have a more beautiful dress. It did not occur to her that anyone would have a more beautiful face or figure. It did not occur to her that she'd need an invitation.
"I'm very sorry, Miss, er, Delgrave," said the elderly committeewoman who had agreed to man the table in the entry hall. "But without a ticket you really cannot be admitted."
"I can't imagine why not," answered Cindy in an ice-cold voice. "I know everyone inside."
"Yes, I'm certain you do," the blue-haired lady agreed, not without irony. "But the ball is sold out; there are no available tickets."
"I had no intentions of buying one," Cindy retorted, amazed. "Is Alan Seton inside?"
"Of course he is. Ah, you'll excuse me." The committeewoman looked up at the new arrivals. "Good evening. May I have your invitations, please?"
While the gentleman patted the pockets of his tuxedo, Cindy edged away. Either there was no receiving line, she thought, or it had dispersed. All the better. Someday she would laugh about this insult, but not tonight. She was about to cross into the great hall that lay beyond the entry hall when a ham-sized hand wrapped gently around her thin arm.
"Now, this won't do, ma'am. There's no getting in without an invitation," said the moonlighting policeman who seemed to have dropped down from the chandelier. "You young ladies are all alike. You think the Cup crewmen are standing around inside with their thumbs up their noses and nothing to do. Let me assure you, they all have dates. If you want to crash a party, try The Breakers," he offered. "They're probably having a heck of a bigger fund-raiser over there."
Cindy stared at the hairy, sunburnt hand that lay across her pale forearm. "How disgusting," she murmured. She brought up her right hand and coolly, quietly, slapped the policeman's face.
Shocked, he dropped her arm. She turned and began walking away, and he gave a jerking, automatic lurch after her, then checked himself. Breathing hard, he watched her stroll magnificently down the marble steps and toward the iron gates.
He turned to the committeewoman. "Didn't see any point in causing a scene," he said in grim tones to her. He clenched his jaw, then growled, "I've turned away dozens of crashers from these things in my time, some of them a lot better dressed than she was, and never once have I been slapped for my trouble. That little—"
Bitch, he thought to himself.
****
Quinta had finished her tour of the disco tent on the grounds, as well as the several rooms that were made available to guests: the somber paneled library, the exquisitely delicate music room, the east-facing breakfast room, the his-and-hers reception rooms. All in all, she preferred the simplicity and logic of twentieth-century living. It was fun to imagine a life of extravagance, but living it seemed like an awful lot of work. Besides, look at what a fascination with the good life had done for her father. No: it was better not to pine.
Nonetheless, steeped in extravagance and Strauss waltzes as she was tonight, Quinta discovered that she was pining a lot. When Alan Seton took Mavis Moran in his arms and whirled her around the dance floor, Quinta felt surprisingly awful. When someone cut in for Mavis and Alan retired to the sidelines, Quinta still felt bad: Alan was staring at the auburn-haired woman far too intently. Then he and Mavis danced together again, and Quinta felt her spirits sink still more.
After that, a young man who wrote for Yachting Magazine recognized Quinta and asked her to dance. That made her feel even worse, because she didn't know how to ballroom-dance. It never occurred to her, as she disentangled her feet from her partner's, that maybe the young man was making a botch of it
After the waltz was over Quinta excused herself to go to the powder room. She took up her place in a line of gowned and jeweled beauties and thought, At last, the great equalizer—the line to the john. It made her feel better. Looking back over the evening so far, Quinta decided that her sorrow had begun when she stopped being a nicely dressed member of the audience and tried to join the players on stage. She never should've stepped out on that parquet floor. This was not the Regency period, and she was not a character in a Jane Austen novel. Absolutely, positively, she had danced her last dance. There was only one thing to do: find the host, thank him for having invited her, and get the heck out. Enough was enough.
After Quinta emerged from the powder room, she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and steamed full speed ahead for Alan Seton, who was standing off to one side of the dance floor, talking with someone commodore-ish. He saw her coming.
"I was looking for you," Alan said with a smile she hadn't seen for three years. "Are you free for the next dance?"
Free? To make a fool of herself? To set her heart on its ear for nothing? To tear out another strap of a brand-new pair of shoes?
"Free as a butterfly," she answered.
As it happened, the gods conspired to prevent Quinta from having anything so rational as a second thought. The orchestra struck up a waltz, and she found herself being led gently but very firmly toward her personal Armageddon. She knew without looking that every eye was naturally focused on Alan Seton, the star of the show. And tomorrow over brunch they'd all rehash the ball and speculate about the bimbo in the polyester skirt. Not only that but—
Not only that, but she was dancing! Dancing pretty well! Never mind Alan's knock-down nearness; never mind the society photographer who stuck a camera in their faces and flashed. Suddenly she was dancing, getting neither underfoot nor overfoot, gliding in three-quarter time to heavenly strains with the handsomest man in the ballroom. Suddenly it was all coming together for her: the rainbow swirls of long gowns, the flowers, the music, the lighting, the laughter. Suddenly she understood; and—polyester or no polyester—she belonged.
The waltz was nearly over, and they hadn't exchanged a word. Quinta wondered whether Alan was always this way—so focused, so intense. Maybe that was how America's Cup skippers were. But no: she'd seen him murmuring pleasantly with Mavis Moran as he danced with her, and with the young woman in the receiving line from something-Industrial Corporation. So it must be Quinta's fault: he was assuming she couldn't dance and talk at the same time.
Well, she thought happily, he's right. She wanted the moment to stay perfect, and who knew where chit-chat might lead them.
When the dance was over he gave her a light and courtly bow, a replica of the one he'd bestowed on her three years earlier. Was he making fun of the article she'd written about him? She muttered, in some confusion, "What's new with you, Alan? Has the pizza man struck again?"
He looked surprised. "Yesterday, as a matter of fact. If you don't mind my saying so, you sound like an obvious suspect." He was smiling as he said it, but his blue eyes looked puzzled.
Just as she feared: she'd tripped over her own tongue and gone sprawling. "I'm innocent, honest," she said quickly. "I must have practical jokers on the brain; we've had one hard on our trail lately. I really didn't mean to pry."
The orchestra struck up another dance, a tango this time. Immediately the ballroom floor began to empty. Alan said, "This isn't my cup of tea. Do you mind if we sit this one out?"
She wanted to ask, Together? but stopped herself in time.
He led her through French doors which opened out onto a modest terrace, not so small that it would be considered intimate, not so large that it invited eavesdroppers. The night was deeply starry; a breeze lifted the folds of her long skirt and ruffled the jeweled sleeves of her top, sending pinpoints of starlight shimmering from her neckline. The setting was impossibly romantic. Quinta took it all in, the mathematician in her calculating the odds of something like this ever happening to her again.
Alan Seton, like the rest of the Pegasus crew, wore cream-colored flannels and a blue blazer, the more easily to stand out from the black-tie assembly. He too
k off his jacket and threw it on the balustrade; the night was warm, and he loosened his tie. I suppose I should be grateful that I don't have to wear a monkey suit," he said with a sigh. "You look extremely fetching, by the way. I found myself staring at you before I knew who you were."
"And after you found out?" she asked, not at all coyly.
"I did a double-take."
"Because?"
"Because you're a kid, or supposed to be, and you're not anymore, that's all." He laughed softly. "I don't think you understand how deeply ingrained a certain picture of you is in my mind. In my mind you'll always be wearing ratty jeans and have your hair in ... kind of loose, I think," he said, struggling to translate his vision of her into words. "You symbolized something to me then, something very special, a kind of life-must-go-on-attitude that carried me through some hard decisions. I think you still have whatever it was I saw in you, except that the wrapping is fancier now."
He reached up and with the lightest possible touch lifted a strand of her hair and let it fall over her forehead, the way she let it do years ago. "There. You wore it something like that, he said softly. "Not so pulled back."
"I was a kid," she whispered, faint with pleasure. "As you said."
"And now you're not. I know." He swept her face with a searching look, as if he were making sure of it; and then he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her on her lips, in a gentle, almost melancholy acknowledgment of her womanhood.
To be kissed on a starry balcony at a ball is not the same as being kissed on the steps of your front porch. She held her breath, afraid to move, afraid to think.
He drew his lips away from hers and said softly, "Why did I do that?" He was as much amazed as she was. "What a dumb thing to do."
"It wasn't that bad," she said, suddenly crestfallen.
"Ah, Quinta ... this isn't the time; certainly not the place." He looked around quickly. "I have no right to take your life out of your hands and hand it over to the media. Forgive me."
"I handed a piece of your life over to the media," she reminded him promptly. "And I'm not sorry."
"My life's fair game," he said with a crooked smile. "But yours—yours is precious to me."
"If it's so precious, why didn't you ever call or write?" she blurted.
"I did write."
"To my father. Not to me."
He laughed a short, bemused, frustrated laugh. "What was my relationship to you? Friendly Dutch uncle?"
"Friend, period," she said gravely.
He murmured the word after her: "'Friend.' I don't think I have any of those."
"You mean you don't have time for any of those."
He grinned. "What a little scold you are."
She colored, then replied, "It comes from living with my father."
"I think you're the best thing that could happen to your father. He won't ever want to give you up," Alan added, lifting his hand and tracing her lips with a feather-light touch of his forefinger.
"Who says he's—?"
"Darling," came a voice behind Quinta. "People are beginning to grumble. I hate to tear you away, but the dog-and-pony show really must go on."
Quinta jumped guiltily away from Alan and turned to see Mavis Moran, an iceberg on fire, smiling at them. There was no question in Quinta's mind that her father's lurid speculations about the two were right on the money. So: she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Feeling very much like Cinderella at 11:59 P.M., she mumbled a flustered good night and left them on the terrace.
Chapter 14
How did Cinderella get home after her coach pumpkined out?
That was the question on Quinta's mind as she hurried to one of the cabs standing in the Ocean Court parking area. Did she flag down a hackney? Walk the rest of the way? With only one shoe? Would she have dared to hitch? These became burning questions to Quinta. She racked her memory of the Disney movie and the Golden Book for an answer. She could not remember, but the effort distracted her from recalling the kiss, at least for a little while.
A kiss was nothing. People kissed all the time, especially in Newport, for no apparent reason. Besides, she understood perfectly well what Alan meant by it: he was acknowledging that she'd grown up. No problem. She twisted the little string handle of her Taiwanese pearl bag absently round and round, and soon it came off in her hand. It's not as if it was a sexy kiss. It wasn't even open mouth. On the other hand, it wasn't a pass at the air beside her cheek, either. Whatever it was, it left her weak-kneed. It left her wanting more.
She bowed her head and shut her eyes tight. There he was, in full color: Alan Seton, black-haired, blue-eyed, his face coming nearer, nearer to hers.
"Oh God," she whispered. Don't let me be in love.
"This it, lady? The house with the peeling paint?"
Tense and angry with herself for possibly being in love, Quinta took it out on the tactless cab driver. "What're you—a moonlighter from the Preservation Society?" she snapped. "It'll get painted, if someone ever agrees to do it. Do you have any idea what kind of boom this town is enjoying? Just try getting a painter before December; every damn one of them is booked. This is a big house. I can't do it. My father can't do it. Do you want to do it? Give us an estimate."
Quinta threw a twenty at the stunned driver and for the first time in her life did not wait for change. She got out, leaving the door open, and stalked away disgusted. But something was wrong at home: every light in the house was on, upstairs and down, including the porch light and the floodlight over the stamp-sized back yard. She ran up the wheelchair ramp, threw her key in the door, shoved it open: there, at the other end of the hall, she saw her father, and his beloved black Lab Leggy, and she fought back a surge of panic and nausea.
Turning back to the cab driver she screamed "Wait! Come back!" in a high shrill voice that stopped him in his tracks.
She ran back to the doorway of the living room, where her father lay on the floor, several feet away from his wheelchair, half hovering over his companion, his friend, his confidant. The dog was covered in vomit and was clearly in hideous pain, convulsed and panting. His eyes were dilated; his coat was wet and slick. His limbs twitched violently; his claws made scratching sounds on the parquet floor, as if he were running from a tiger in his sleep.
Neil Powers was numb with horror. "Again ... she did it again ... all over again ...."
"What happened, Dad? Did what?"
"Poisoned ... I saw her do it ... in a bowl of dog food .... I yelled ...."
"Hey lady—geez, my God, what happened here?" interrupted the cab driver, who'd come up behind Quinta.
She moved the dog from her father's lap and said, "Help me get my father in his chair ... then take the dog—Can you carry him?—into the cab. I'll call the vet—"
"Yeah, oh, geez, he's in a bad way ...."
He tried to help Quinta lift her father, who easily shook them both off. She had no idea how strong her father was; it shocked her. "Dad, please ... you're slowing me down .... I have to get him to the vet .... Do you want Leggy to die?"
"No, no," he mumbled, incoherent with grief. "Help him ... this time let it be all right ...."
The cabbie and Quinta hoisted him back into his wheelchair. The cabbie said, "Lady, I'm gonna need a blanket .... He'll ruin my seats .... I got fares to think about ...."
Quinta jumped up, catching her gown under her high heel and tearing it. She ran to her father's bed, grabbed a blanket, hurled it at the taxi driver. "Go!" she commanded. Then she ran to the phone, spun the Rolodex, punched the number with a shaking hand. "Hello? This is an emergency. Our dog's been poisoned. He's gone into convulsions. We're bringing him in ... I don't know; I don't know what kind of poison. No. Deliberately. Should we do anything before we get there?"
As she spoke she was yanking off one high heel, then the other. Slamming the phone back into its cradle, she ran to help the cab driver carry Leggy onto the blanket. The quivering dog weighed eighty pounds; it took both of them to get him up into the d
river's arms. Waste and vomit smeared across her dress, and even blood. Her heart grew faint; it was too late. The driver staggered through the doorway toward his cab; Quinta was grateful for the wheelchair ramp to ease his way.
She turned back to her father. "I'm going with him, Dad. We'll do our best. I hate to leave you ... you're not hurt?"
He shook his head, only mumbling, "Again ... I can't believe it ...."
It was an agonizing time for Quinta: too many decisions, too fast. She had to go. "Don't let anyone in, Dad," she pleaded. "No one."
Outside, the driver had struggled with his door and managed to lay the stricken animal on the back seat of his cab. Quinta got in beside Leggy as the driver, muttering about a hernia, went roaring the wrong way up the hill toward Spring Street.
"Can you call the police from your cab and have someone sent to watch my father's house? He said the dog was poisoned deliberately by someone. I'd feel better—"
"Yeah, we can do that." He called in the situation and Quinta thought with gratitude of the dozens of scanners that must be tuned, even at this late hour, to the conversation.
Let the whole city know there's a nut on the loose, she thought fervently. The more the merrier. She stroked the dog's heaving ribcage, utterly useless in her ministrations, hoping only to pass on her love for the animal. It was all she could do.
There was no sound in the cab except for the anguished breathing of the dog, punctuated by cryptic crackling sounds on the driver's radio. After a while the driver said, "How's he doin'?"
Quinta replied, "The same."
A little later the driver asked again, and though she answered, "The same," it seemed to her that the pain must be worse; or maybe it was her own heart breaking for the dog and for its master.
The vet was waiting for them at the hospital. She repeated the little she knew, and then the dog was taken away. Quinta thanked the driver, and apologized to him, and gave him all the money she had left.
By The Sea, Book Four: The Heirs Page 18