She took off her deck shoes and placed them side by side on the floor, then curled up on one end of the sofa. She patted the cushion. "Sit down, Douglas. You've come all this way, relax for a few minutes."
He could not remember that she had agreed to do what he asked. "Lo? Are you going to help me out with this?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe? You said you would when I called you."
"Sit down, Doug."
Shit, he thought. "Lois, I need you to do this for me."
"Don't you love to sit and listen to the rain? Open the windows."
Doug turned and looked out. Rain dripped silently off the eaves. There was no view of the ocean from here, nothing but a heavy wall of vegetation that seemed to press against the cottage from all sides. As if he were suffocating, he grabbed the window crank and turned it. Damp air floated in.
He said, "I have a meeting—"
"Call and say you'll be late." The only color in Lois's face was the pink gash of her narrow lips. "Douglas. I said sit down with me. Please?"
"Just for a few minutes." He sat facing her with his back against the arm of the sofa. His knee on the cushion served as a barrier.
Lois said, "What if Joan wants to go home?"
"Tell her the storm is coming."
"If she wants to go, I can't stop her."
"Actually, Lois, you can. Talk Tom into persuading her. Don't lend her a cart. Make her a pitcher of martinis. Lock the gate. And get rid of Arnel tomorrow too. Okay?" Doug smiled. "I need your help, cupcake."
Lois leaned over to stroke his hand. Her fingers were dry and cool. She said, "I like it when you say you need me."
"When is Tom coming over? Did he say?"
"About seven-thirty. I'm skipping dinner. I have nothing to do all evening." Lois unfolded a leg. With mounting distaste Doug watched her bare foot as it slid across the sofa. Her toes were long and white. Calluses rimmed her heel. She nudged his thigh. "Douglas, what is going on with Tom?"
"Going on?"
"Martin thinks he wants to marry Joan. Does he?"
"He's not going to marry her."
"Why wouldn't he?"
"Because she's nuts, my dear. Ten minutes in her company, he'll notice, believe me."
"What's going to happen with the guardianship? Are you forgetting about my dock?"
"The guardianship is still on. Don't worry about it." Doug looked at his watch. It was time to go.
Lois moved toward him. "You said I could have the dock."
"You'll have the dock."
"Tom is going to tell Martin not to give it to me."
"You can have the fucking dock!" Doug got up. "You will have the dock, Lois. All right? I promise. If that's what you want, it's yours."
"How, if Joan is living there?"
"You will have the dock because one way or the other, Aunt Joan will end up in state care. She will slip her gears, and someone—possibly even good old Tom—will call the police. They will take her away in a straitjacket to a mental ward."
Her eyes were fixed on him. "Are you still planning to move to the island?"
"I didn't say I was going to move here, just fix the house."
"You said you were going to live in the house. You said we'd be neighbors."
Doug was sweating. He rested his hands on her shoulders. Strands of frizzy blond hair hung over her high, tanned forehead. She raised her brows, waiting for him to speak, and lines furrowed her skin. "Yes, Lo. I'll live there. We'll be neighbors."
Her face relaxed. "Let me tell Martin. He'll be so excited."
"No, don't do that. Wait. Let me get some plans in place first. All right?"
"Yes. Whatever you want." Lois slid her hands up his chest, then down, snagging one of his nipples with her fingernail.
He jerked away. "Hey, what are you—"
"I love you." Her arms went around his hips, and she pressed her face into his stomach. Her voice was muffled. "Oh, God, Douglas, love me. Love me."
He wanted to scream. It came out as a little laugh, and he took her arms and pushed her away. "Come on, Lois. I have to go. I have a meeting."
"You're afraid, aren't you? You're afraid to love again."
"I guess that's true. I'm not ready yet." Her hands were like snakes, crawling over him.
"I know you want me." She stood up and followed him as he backed away. "Why would you come here, to my house, to see me alone, if you didn't want me?"
"I need to go, Lois."
"Please, Douglas, stay with me tonight. Stay."
"I've got a meeting in half an hour, and if I'm not there—"
"Listen to me!" Her face was red, and her lips trembled. "We're supposed to be together. You said so."
"I didn't—"
"You said it, and don't think you can change your mind and push me away! I won't let you. You think I won't do anything about it, but you're wrong. I could write to all your clients and tell them what a cheat and a liar you are. I could file a complaint with The Florida Bar. I would do all this for your own good, Douglas, but I'd rather not. Do you think I want to hurt you?"
He stared at her, rage choking off his ability to speak. He wanted to put his hands around her neck, feel his fingers digging in, pound her head against the floor. Bitch. You crazy fucking bitch. I'm going to smash your face.
Her thin pink lips turned up in a smile. "I'll help you with Joan, but you have to stop hiding your true feelings. I know you love me. Say it."
Doug's muscles ached and began to tremble from the effort of holding back what he wanted to do to her. He cursed himself for having come here. He cleared his throat. "I am starting to feel something for you. Maybe you're right."
"I am so, so right about us." She put her arms around his neck.
"Lois, please. I have to go. Look. I'm sweating. I can't take any more of this."
"Kiss me." Her pubic bone was sharp in his groin. He felt himself shrivel. She whispered, "One kiss. That's all I'm asking for tonight. We'll start there."
When he put his lips on hers, he felt her wet, probing tongue, and pulled back. "Okay. I've got to go." He patted her shoulder and fled to the door and flung it open. "Thank you, Lois. Call me when you've got Joan all squared away."
"I will. I'll call you tonight when I'm in bed." Lois's hand trailed over him as he went past. "Good night, my love."
Doug couldn't get down the stairs fast enough.
17
Kshh-kshh-kshh-kshh—
Joan Sinclair crossed her room to lift the phonograph needle from the record. The automatic return had broken a long time ago. Nancy Wilson's Lush Life slowed to a stop. Joan blew off some dust and slid the record back into the sleeve. Flipping through the stack of LPs, she decided on Gilberto Joao. She dropped the needle into the groove, flipped the switch to start the turntable, and closed the lid.
A few samba steps took her back across the room. She hummed the tune, unable to understand the words. She could ask directions or order dinner in several languages, but had never learned Portuguese. And one of her lovers had been from Rio too. What he had taught her wouldn't be found in any phrase book.
Picking up her martini glass she caught sight of herself in the standing mirror across the room. Her hair was in a towel, like a turban. Her skin was polished ivory. She made a slow circle, and feathers fluttered at the hem of her red satin robe. More feathers tickled her neck and floated around the wide cuffs. Matching red slippers appeared and vanished as she walked.
The chandelier was on a dimmer, and it seemed that a dozen candles were suspended over her head. Arnel Goode had grumbled about hanging a chandelier in a bedroom, but she had insisted. It was real Bavarian crystal. It was perfect for the room. The wallpaper was embossed silk, the furniture French provincial. An oriental carpet softened the parquet under her feet. A shantung silk divan was positioned by the windows so she could open the curtains and look out at the night. The four-poster bed held so many pillows that she barely had a place to lie down. Her movie posters were
on the walls in gorgeous gold frames. Her refuge, her sanctuary.
She returned to the dresser and finished her martini. There was more in the ice bucket, but she didn't want to get smashed, not tonight. She pushed her sleeves to her elbows and uncapped a tube of makeup. Candles flickered in the candelabra, twinkling on the atomizers and perfume bottles, the gold powder box with the long-handled puff for doing her neck and shoulders. She didn't need a strong light. In Hollywood she'd paid close attention to the makeup artists, and she could have done this in the dark. Base makeup, contour, highlight. Quick, easy. The vanity's three-way mirror let her see her profile, right and left. She powdered lightly then flicked a camel's-hair brush over her face. Her eyes looked so strange, almost not there at all. Her face was a blank. She felt naked.
Sitting back she let her robe drop down on her shoulders. What jewelry tonight? Her ruby pendant? She scooted the cushioned stool back to get into one of the side drawers. She lifted out a box and rummaged through the necklaces. The gold was warm, sliding through her fingers. A simple gold chain with a diamond pendant, that would do it. She fastened it around her neck. She opened another section for the rings. An emerald caught her eye, and she put it on, thinking of Alexei. He'd been only twenty-three. He had worn her out. She tossed the ring back into the box and tried on a diamond. No, no, too much, too flashy. Now who the hell had given it to her? Yves or Jean-Paul?
The box unfolded. This gold locket, a congratulations for her Oscar nomination. These rubies, a gift from Sam Goldwyn to woo her over to MGM, but she hadn't listened, fool that she was. This amethyst brooch from Vincent Price. What a great guy.
A gold bracelet from Frank after a gig at the Sands. A set of Tiffany earrings from the owner of Spago. A darling pair of plain pearl earrings from her housekeeper, Maria. Lovers, husbands, friends. Even down on her luck, starving, no money to pay her rent, she couldn't have sold any of her jewels. That would be like cutting out a piece of her heart. She closed drawers and panels and pushed the box aside. No time for this now.
Makeup pencils and cases rattled when she opened the center drawer of her vanity. Quickly she outlined her eyes, drawing the line across her lid to an upswept point. She checked her profile. Perfect. She had been lucky with her looks. High cheekbones, a straight nose. Eyes dark as night. Wing-like eyebrows. She shaped them with medium brown pencil. Tonight she would be a blond. The candlelight sent shadows dancing on her cheeks.
In the mirror she saw someone standing behind her. A man at the door. She tensed before realizing it was only Arnel. She had forgotten he was downstairs.
He said, "I w-w-won't come in."
"You'd better not, or I'll have your head. What do you want?"
"Is there anything else you n-n-need, Miss Sinclair?" He had eyes like water and thin, pale hair.
She kept her back to him and leaned closer to the mirror to touch the mascara wand to her lashes. "Have you finished the floors?"
"Yes."
"Is everything put away? Did you light the candles? I wanted the roses put in the Baccarat vase. Did you do that?"
"Yes, ma'am. Yes, I... did everything."
"That's all, then. You may go."
But he stood there gaping at her. He was like a child, really.
"You're v-v-very... beautiful tonight." When she made no reply he said, "Are you g-going out?"
"You've been eavesdropping. Naughty. That is a very bad habit, and I don't like it." She outlined her mouth with lip pencil.
"Are you... going out with Mr. Holtz?"
"Why shouldn't I? It's boring around here. I deserve to have some fun once in awhile." Joan went through four tubes of lipstick before finding precisely the right shade. Caramel Kiss.
A whisper came from the door. "I-I-I don't want you to go."
"Well, I'm going. Tom's taking me to dinner at the Inn." She put on the lipstick. "We'll have a small table by the window. Candles, an orchid. Champagne. I wonder if the band will be playing tonight. I love to dance. I'm going to wear my gold dress." Joan looked at Arnel to see his reaction. He was hanging his head.
"Mr. Holtz wants to marry you."
She pretended surprise. "Does he? Would you hate it very much if I said yes?"
"He's t-too old for you."
"Older men can be very attractive."
"He doesn't love you. He's... using you."
"You're wrong. Tom adores me." Joan pulled a scented tissue from the gold filigree dispenser and blotted her lips. "He would give me anything I wanted. We'll travel. We'll have parties and entertain our friends."
"P-P-Please don't do it."
"Go away, Arnel. You're always whining. Close my door on your way out."
"I don't... want you to get married. I don't want you to."
She screamed at him in the mirror. "Shut up! I don't care what you want! You won't control me, do you hear? You won't! Get out of my house!" She grabbed for something to hurl at him—a hand mirror. Bottles tipped over, and makeup scattered. She turned and drew back her arm, but Arnel was gone. She threw the mirror anyway, and it shattered to pieces in the hall. "Get out!" She could hear his footsteps thudding down the stairs.
18
The detour to Plantation Key had cost half an hour and put so much salt spray in her hair that Gail almost despaired of making herself presentable for dinner. Quick shower, blow-dry her hair, do her makeup, spritz of perfume, rush to the bedroom to take her black dress off its hanger. Anthony told her to hurry up, and she told him to leave her alone. A minute later she heard the TV in the living room go on.
Her dress had long sleeves, a short hem, and barely any neck at all. She fastened the skinny straps on her high-heeled sandals, checked to make sure she hadn't snagged her hose, then zipped opened her jewelry bag for her earrings. Half-carat diamond studs, Happy Valentine's Day from Anthony, smaller versions of her engagement ring. She held her hand up next to her face in the mirror, and the stones sparkled. Her makeup had come out all right, and her hair curled obediently behind her ears. "You'll do," she said to her image.
She grabbed her clutch purse, yanked open the door, and slowed down as she rounded the corner to the living room. She put a little swing in her hips, waiting for his reaction. "I'm ready to go."
Anthony nodded. He was standing in front of the television staring at the screen. It was an old movie; the colors were too vivid, and the hairstyle on the woman was way out of date. Platinum blond curls were piled on top of her head and lacquered in place. She was sitting on a stone bench in a garden at night, and waltz music played in the background. A tall man in a black suit put his hand on her shoulder. Closeup on his face: hooded eyes, chiseled lips, a beaked nose. "Come, my lovely one. Dance with me." Then to her face, which wavered between fear and guilty anticipation. "My fiancé would not be pleased." The man's smile gave a glimpse of canine teeth. "But your fiancé is not here."
"Oh, my God," Gail said. "That is so bad. What are you watching, Bride of Nosferatu?"
Anthony pointed. "Look. It's Joan Sinclair."
The actress rose from the bench and walked around it, putting a barrier between herself and the Count. Her waist was cinched in, and her breasts threatened to pop out of her virginal pink satin gown. "Charles and I are to be married next week. Please leave me." Nosferatu closed in. "You should not be alone in the garden after dark. It is dangerous."
A knock came at the door of the cottage, and Gail dragged her eyes away from the movie. "I think our limo is here." Billy had called earlier to say he would take them to the hotel so they wouldn't get wet in the rain.
Anthony aimed the remote and the screen went dark. He finally noticed Gail's dress, and his eyes raked over her body. "¡Qué bella! Look at this woman. I want to bite you." He put an openmouthed kiss on her neck.
At the door Billy opened a big umbrella and held it over them as they went down the steps. He lifted the rain panel aside so they could slide into the second seat. He took the front, and the cart moved along the lighted path, splashing throu
gh shallow puddles of water that had accumulated in the hard-packed sand.
Billy spoke over his shoulder. "Chip called me. He said you came by the store. Now I guess you know I wasn't lying about what time Sandra left. It was like fifteen minutes before I did."
"Yes, that's the only reason you aren't in jail." Anthony leaned closer to speak to him. "We found out—from another source—that Sandra wanted to see Doug Lindeman that night. She left him a message to call her, it was important. We don't know if he did call her, or what she wanted to tell him, but a couple of hours later she went to Movie Max and rented Bride of Nosferatu. According to Chip, she wanted to show it to someone. We think it was Lindeman."
Billy stared ahead. The raindrops made slashes in the weak light from the headlamps. "Was he the one she was going out with? That she wouldn't tell me about?"
"Probably so."
"Well, well. Doug Lindeman. I had a feeling about him."
"Sandra was planning to buy an apartment on South Beach. Did she ever mention that to you? Or where she would get the money to do it?"
"Yeah, I knew she wanted to move away. She didn't say anything about money, though. I don't blame her for wanting to get out of here. I'm leaving, too, soon as I can."
Gail touched his shoulder. "Billy, do you have any idea why Sandra wanted to show Bride of Nosferatu to Doug Lindeman? I mean, of all the movies on the shelf, why that one?"
"Not a clue," Billy said.
In the lobby of The Buttonwood Inn the coral-rock fireplace held a small, cheerful fire. Teri Greenwald laughed and said the weather had been so damp and gloomy she'd turned down the air conditioner and lit the gas logs. She took Gail's hands, drawing her closer, putting a quick Latina kiss on her cheek. "I love your dress. ¡Qué sexy!" But Teri herself wore nothing as ordinary as black: She was bright as a daffodil, and her dark hair flowed like silk across her shoulders. Her tanned legs were bare, and her sandals were almost invisible. If Gail hadn't liked her so much, she would have been horribly jealous.
Teri led them to the cozy arrangement of love seats and chairs near the fireplace. Lamps gleamed on the gold frames of Audubon prints and the collection of antique fishing rods over the mantel. Tom Holtz was there, a drink in his hand. Gail had expected to see Joan Sinclair with him. Tom said he was waiting for Arnel Goode to show up and take him over to Joan's house.
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