Summer's Awakening

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Summer's Awakening Page 18

by Anne Weale


  'No coffee for you?' he asked.

  'No. I'm going up to dry my hair. Goodnight,' she said tersely.

  'Goodnight, Summer. Sleep well.'

  She had a feeling he smiled at her as she passed him, but she kept her own gaze averted.

  A few minutes later, in her bathroom, the sight of her naked body as she took off the robe was a mortifying reminder of the way his lean hands had both restrained and caressed her while she fought to free herself. Quickly she put on her nightdress and used her dryer which, luckily, wasn't a noisy one. As soon as her hair was dry, she turned off the light and returned to the moonlit bedroom.

  An hour later she was still awake, unable to switch off her troubled thoughts.

  A few days before, when she and Emily had gone to the Selby Library to use the reference section, she had picked up a leaflet issued by the American National Red Cross and headed HURRICANE SAFETY RULES.

  The leaflet had given advice on what to do during the months from June to November if the National Weather Service gave warning of an approaching hurricane.

  Among the instructions had been a paragraph about the eye of the hurricane. She could remember it word for word.

  If the calm storm center passes directly overhead, there will be a lull in the wind lasting from a few minutes to half an hour or more. Stay in a safe place unless emergency repairs are absolutely necessary. But remember, at the other side of the eye, the winds rise very rapidly to hurricane force, and come from the opposite direction.

  As she lay on her side, looking at the motionless fronds of the tall palm not far from her window, it seemed to her that paragraph expressed precisely the effect James Gardiner had had on her life.

  He had borne down on Cranmere with all the disruptive force of a major hurricane. There had followed a lull, until tonight, without any advance warning, he had burst upon her a second time. And whereas before he had been totally, crushingly indifferent to her as a woman, this time it was the reverse. Now, because of the unfortunate circumstances in which he had caught her, he was too much aware of her femininity. And in spite of her ultimatum, from him, if he chose to be difficult, there was no safe refuge.

  Next morning she overslept and was woken by Emily.

  'What time is it?' Summer asked.

  'Ten o'clock.'

  'Oh, my goodness! Why didn't you wake me earlier?'

  'James wouldn't let me. He said you'd had a disturbed night... that you'd heard him arrive and cooked something for him.'

  She had certainly had a disturbed night, thought Summer, as she rolled out of bed.

  'We're going out to dinner and then to the theatre,' Emily told her.

  'The Asolo Theater? How exciting. You can wear your new dress.'

  Mrs Hardy, a talented dressmaker who made many of her own clothes, had recently made a charming dress for Emily.

  'What'll you wear? You haven't a dress. All your English clothes are too big now.'

  'I think your uncle intends this to be an evening à deux... just the two of you.'

  'No, he doesn't. Everyone's going. Mrs Hardy as well. He wasn't going to include her, but I said it would be unkind to leave her on her own. Why don't you buy a dress, Summer? The red one you liked in the window of the shop near the traffic lights.'

  This was a dress which had caught Summer's eye on their way home from an afternoon's shelling. She had stopped the car to have a look at it, but it hadn't been her intention to buy any expensive clothes until she had reached her target weight, and the red dress had been made of silk, not a synthetic imitation.

  'It probably wasn't my size. I'm not sure how much people dress up for the theatre here. Perhaps my green things will do. I'll have to ask Mrs Hardy. I'll be down in about fifteen minutes,' she added, on her way to the shower.

  They were by the pool, James stretched on a chaise-longue with Emily seated on the foot of it, when she joined them.

  Seeing her approaching, he stood up. 'Good morning.' His tawny eyes took in her bathing-suit; the navy blue halter-tied one piece she had bought in Sarasota.

  'Good morning.' She was willing herself not to blush at the memory of last night's encounter.

  This morning he was wearing a pair of faded Madras cotton boxer swim trunks.

  'I applaud the new hairdo,' he said. 'Much more becoming.'

  'Thank you,' she said, without smiling. 'As Emily had only a short break from lessons at Christmas, she can take a few days off now if you'd like to spend some time together.'

  He let the suggestion ride, saying, 'Among other things you've been studying the Gulf Stream, I hear?'

  'Yes, and the history of Florida. But Emily's curriculum is something I'd like to discuss with you.'

  'Providing you're teaching her to think for herself, I don't feel it matters what means you use. The history of Florida or the history of France... the aim is the same. To equip her mind to take off on its own adventures. You know what Sam Johnson said about knowledge. There are two kinds. We know a subject ourselves, or we know where we can find information upon it. I don't give a damn if today Emily has never heard of Jacques Cartier as long as she can produce a file on him this time next week. Could you do that, Emily?'

  'Oh, yes—easily,' she answered confidently. 'We hadn't been here five minutes before Summer discovered a terrific library down near that strange-shaped, lilac-coloured building.'

  'The Van Wezel Hall. I don't care for that colour either, but the auditorium is impressive and they put on some excellent concerts. You haven't been to one yet, I gather?'

  The child shook her head.

  He turned to Summer. 'Why not? Don't you care for music?'

  He asked the question with an uplifted eyebrow and an expression which suggested that if the answer were negative it would be received with displeasure.

  For her age, Emily was very sensitive to nuances. Before her tutor could reply, she said defensively, 'Summer loves music. She adores the violin concerto your computer plays. She must have played it a hundred times.'

  Summer smiled at her, touched by her loyalty. To James, she said, 'It doesn't damage the mechanism to play that music for pleasure sometimes, I hope?'

  'Not at all. But the computer only plays the first movement. The second and third are on tape in the library, as perhaps you've discovered.'

  'No, we haven't liked to use your music library for fear of doing some damage,' she answered. 'The equipment looks rather complicated, and I know that records can be spoiled if they're not handled properly.'

  'So can books. You had the run of the library at Cranmere. I'm sure you won't do any harm to my records and tapes. Later on today I'll show you how the music centre operates. Mrs Hardy has her own record-player so I've never shown her how mine works. It should have occurred to me to send you instructions.'

  At this point Skip Newman appeared, considerably later than usual for reasons which, after shaking hands with James, he explained.

  When Emily had followed him to the pool-house, her uncle said, 'Why haven't you been to the Van Wezel yet? Surely you realised that I would be happy to pay for you to take Emily there as often as you cared to go? You have carte blanche as far as expenses of that sort are concerned.'

  'Thank you, but if we had thought of going I should have been glad to pay for the tickets out of my salary,' she answered. 'I suppose the reasons we haven't been to the Van Wezel yet are three-fold. Neither of us is used to going out at night; we've found quite a lot to interest us on television; and leading a more energetic, outdoor life, we tend to go to bed earlier now.'

  'I see. Well, we have to pass the Hall on our way to dinner tonight so I'll pick up the current programme and from now on I suggest you go at least once a week, certainly to all the ballets and operas they put on. Because her father only knew John Peel is no reason why Emily should grow up a musical philistine. You've taken her to the Ringling Museums, presumably?'

  'Oh, yes. Once to the Circus Museum, once to the Ringlings' mansion, and several times to th
e Art Museum.'

  'John Ringling was an interesting man. Not the brash vulgarian you might expect of the boss of "The Greatest Show on Earth". At the peak of his career he was one of the twenty richest men in the United States. In the 1920s, before the stock market crash which contributed to his downfall, he used to go to Europe every year, looking for new circus acts and also going round the art galleries. I don't share his passion for huge Baroque paintings like the four Rubens, and one can't applaud Mabel Ringling's taste in designing and furnishing their house, but nevertheless they were a remarkable pair who did a great deal to enrich the lives of people living here now.'

  'Their mansion is rather hideous compared with Cranmere,' said Summer. 'The paintings I like best in the Art Museum are the Boucher of a girl reading a letter, and the Duplessis portraits of French kings given by Mrs Caples. What has happened to Cranmere? Has it been sold yet?'

  'Not yet. Have you had any news of the cottage?'

  'Yes, Mr Watts wrote to me recently. The property market has been very slow this winter, but it seems to be picking up now. He thinks it will sell in the spring. Living here, one tends to forget the weather is still cold in England.'

  Only later did she realise how skilfully he had deflected her curiosity about Cranmere.

  Mrs Hardy, when consulted about what to wear for their outing that evening, said, 'Burdines have a sale this week. After lunch, why don't we go see if they've any good bargains. I love your new emerald outfit, but maybe it's a little casual for tonight.

  At lunchtime, Summer said to James, 'We usually go to the beach for a couple of hours in the afternoon. But perhaps you have other plans.'

  'Yes, I'm going to introduce Emily to the secret of the inner sanctum,' he said, with a teasing smile at his niece.

  'Really? Where's the inner sanctum?' she asked, agog.

  'Upstairs. It's time you and Oz got together.'

  'On, you mean the computer?'

  Because Skip had mentioned it in her hearing, Summer had been unable to prevent Emily reading the Newsweek piece about her uncle; but even if she had not learnt the name of his computer and his company from the article, the computer was widely advertised in all the media.

  'Presumably you named it after the Wizard of Oz?' she said to him.

  'Yes, it seemed an appropriate name for a machine with the powers of a wizard. Originally I intended to call it Merlin, after Merlin the Enchanter.'

  'That would have been a nicer name,' said Emily.

  Among her favourite books in the library at Cranmere had been Geoffrey of Monmouth's History of the Kings of Britain and the stories which it had inspired, Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur and Tennyson's The Idylls of the King.

  'I agree,' said James. 'But I was advised that Oz would have greater impact here in America, and since then Merlin has been used by British Telecom.' He turned to Summer. 'Would you care to meet Oz?'

  'Very much—some other time. This afternoon I'd like to go out with Mrs Hardy, if that's all right?'

  'By all means. Curtain time at the Asolo is eight-fifteen so we have to dine early, at a quarter to seven. I'd like to leave here not later than six-fifteen. As long as you're ready by then, do whatever you like this afternoon. You should have some regular time off, anyway. You can't be expected to spend every hour of your life in this child's company... a fearful fate,' he added, making Emily giggle.

  'I can think of worse,' Summer said lightly. 'I do leave Emily with Mrs Hardy from time to time.'

  'Only for your Weight Watchers meetings,' said Emily.

  'So that's the secret of your transformation,' said James. 'What or who made you decide to join Weight Watchers?'

  She hesitated, wishing Emily hadn't raised the subject. It was not a topic she wanted to discuss with him.

  To her vexation, his niece answered for her. 'A woman in a bathing-suit shop in Miami advised her to join.'

  'With impressive results,' was his comment. 'I've heard of Weight Watchers, but I don't know what their methods are. What's the secret of their success?'

  To her relief, at that moment the telephone rang. After a brief conversation he asked whoever was calling to hold the line while he went upstairs to take the rest of the call on the extension in his bedroom.

  Burdines store, which she and Mrs Hardy entered about an hour later, was part of a shopping complex on the southern outskirts of Sarasota. The most striking feature of the store was a glass elevator which, as it glided upwards to the second floor, gave an interesting view of the lay-out of the first floor. The style of Burdines reminded Summer of Harvey Nichols, a store near Harrods in London—smaller but in many ways more elegant—which she and Emily had looked round.

  One of the books which she had borrowed from Selby Library was Working Wardrobe by Janet Wallach, Fashion Director of Garfinckel's store in Washington, DC. The book explained Mrs Wallach's Capsule Concept, a way of avoiding expensive mistakes and always looking well-dressed.

  Impressed by the author's theories, Summer wandered through Burdines' women's departments, not looking for one special dress, but with an eye for separates adaptable to many occasions.

  A spectacular drop-dead dress was in her mind for the future when—if!—she achieved her target weight. Meanwhile, she was content to buy inexpensive, quiet clothes which she could discard without a qualm when she dropped to a smaller size.

  So when Mrs Hardy, who had good taste, plucked from the rails dresses which Summer liked but which were too distinctive to be worn again and again, she shook her head and continued searching.

  What she chose, in the end, was a black skirt of fine wool crêpe and a Liz Claiborne blouse which looked like ivory crêpe de Chine but was in fact polyester.

  'Now I need some black pumps, and earrings and perhaps some beads,' she said, her major purchases completed.

  A pair of black Chanel sling-backs were easy to find in the store's shoe department. Looking for earrings, she discovered that the ones she liked best were all made for pierced ears. She bought a pair of small pearls with clip fastenings, and resolved to have her ears pierced at the first opportunity.

  It was while she was looking for a necklace that, for the first time in her life, she fell in love with an object far beyond her means.

  It was a dramatic necklace made of sprigs of coral, river pearls, little chunks of gold and, as a pendant, the strangest and most beautiful shell.

  'What is this lovely shell?' she asked the girl behind the counter.

  'It's a lion's paw. Isn't it beautiful? Would you like to try it on?' the salesgirl asked.

  'Oh, no—thank you. I couldn't afford it, but it is lovely,' Summer said longingly.

  The shape was that of a half-open fan, with striations which reminded her of the bark-like pleats of the Mary McFadden dresses she had seen in Vogue magazine.

  It was the perfect accessory for her ivory blouse, and she had enough in her bank account to pay for it. Yet the idea of spending so much money on herself was completely at variance with her upbringing.

  She wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything. But it was a shell; fragile, breakable, as insubstantial as a bubble. The kind of amusing novelty bought by millionairesses, not ordinary people like herself.

  She turned away from the show-case and found a strand of imitation ivory beads. But all the way back to Baile del Sol she was haunted by the lion's paw necklace.

  The Café l'Europe on St Armand's Key, where James took them for dinner, was a more formal restaurant than the one he had chosen in London.

  Round tables spread with pink cloths and surrounded by dark bentwood chairs were arranged in a series of rooms separated by archways.

  When they entered the restaurant, they seemed to attract a good deal of attention from the diners already present. In Florida, quarter to seven was not an unduly early hour to dine. Summer and Emily had been puzzled to see long lines of elderly people waiting outside some of the restaurants on the Tamiami Trail—another name for US41 which ran all the way fro
m Tampa to Miami—as early as five o'clock. Mrs Hardy had explained that these were retired people living on pensions and attracted by the reduced prices at early sittings.

  However, the Café l'Europe's clientele were not elderly people on tight budgets. They were younger and richer looking, and Summer noticed the women's eyes resting with interest on James's tall figure. She wondered what conclusions they were drawing about his entourage of females.

  Mrs Hardy was old enough to be his mother and Emily could, at a pinch, be his daughter by a youthful marriage. But nobody was likely to mistake her for his second wife. Even though her figure could now be described as plump rather than obese, she didn't have the eye-catching presence which any woman of his—wife or mistress—would be sure to have.

  Would she ever?

  Yes... yes, I will, she thought fiercely. I've managed to reach the point where I can walk into a restaurant without feeling self-conscious or being stared at for unflattering reasons. I can progress further. I can make myself anything I want to be—and I want to be strikingly elegant with gorgeous clothes and unusual accessories, like that lion's paw necklace.

  Nobody glancing at her would have guessed from her expression that her mind was full of plans and ambitions for a much greater transformation than the one she had achieved to date.

  In fact no one was looking at her; or even at Emily, in her new dress, or Mrs Hardy in her stylish dark shirt-dress with a coral scarf tied in a bow at the neck.

  Those people who hadn't by now had the good manners to stop eyeing the new arrivals were still watching the man of the party. Their continued attention made Summer realise that it wasn't only because he was tall and personable, with an air of distinction which had nothing to do with the cut of his clothes.

  They recognised him.

  Forgetting that thousands of people besides herself would have read the piece in Newsweek, and that he had probably been the subject of articles in other periodicals and newspapers, she hadn't realised until now that, although not famous in England, in this country he must be a nationally-known celebrity.

 

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