Once Mrs. Broderick heard me opening and closing doors, and came out of her own room to ask if she could help me. I thanked her and went on in the face of what I sensed as disapproval. To her I was still an intruder, but she would have to get used to me.
Looking out a window, I discovered for myself the servants’ wing, set on a lower level from the main floor, and apart from the house by a roofed passageway.
Of course the tower drew me. I wanted to see it when I was alone, and not with anyone who would instruct and inform. Information could come later. Right now I wanted to sense Allegra as she must once have been. If old houses were haunted by ghosts, then Allegra’s must surely walk these halls, and perhaps had already begun to haunt me, filling my imagination, leading me in a direction in which I felt compelled to go.
I found my way to the iron treads that circled up to a third-floor level in the tower, and climbed, clinging to the rail. The steps opened from a landing into a room where all the shutters were closed and little light penetrated. There was a musty odor, a slight dampness, and what furniture remained had been shrouded in white covers.
The stairs led me upward, and I climbed to the top level, where window shutters stood open, and a breeze blew in from the sea. At one side a door opened onto a tiny, circling balcony, and I went through it to stand high above the red-tiled roofs of the house. It was like being at the top of a lighthouse, and I loved the mild wind on my face the view of ocean breakers rolling in upon a narrow strip of beach. I could see the swimming pool down there, and the tennis court. But the room itself interested me even more, and I returned to examine it.
Here no shrouding had been done. Comfortable rattan furniture covered with bright chintzes invited one. Across one corner was set a small desk and chair. Allegra had perhaps come to this tower room to free her mind when it was troubled, to feel close to the shaggy tops of the palm trees outside, and to view sky, sea, and lake, as they were visible from every window.
This, however, was not an unused room. An open portfolio of photographs lay on the desk, and tacked on the brief space of wall between windows were double photos in black and white. Both were pictures of Ross, and I went to stand before them, my interest caught.
Each was an action shot in which Ross had been moving toward the camera. In one he was striding free, his arms swinging, athletic and handsome, as I had so often seen him, his head up and eyes alight with characteristic vitality. He seemed to move with force and purpose and that eagerness for life that I loved in him, since it was the force that had brought me back to life.
The other photograph was in startling contrast, and it disturbed me deeply. Again Ross moved toward the camera, but now his arms were bent at the elbow, fists clenched, as if he were running. Late sun threw shadows slanting across his face, giving it a look of dark fury. I had never noticed that faintly diabolic slant of his brows before, or the way deep lines could etch his mouth, giving it a sinister look. Yet in this picture too he was driven by some vital force, so that he charged at the camera angrily, as though he meant to destroy it.
The contrast between the two shots was startling and unsettling. In the one picture, he moved into sunlight with confidence and courage, and you knew he was a man who could do anything he chose. In the other, he charged like a bull and the force that drove him was destructive—an ancient, dangerous force that grew out of some terrible frustration and despair. Only a despairing man could be as angry as that.
“What do you think?” said a light voice behind me. “Which one do you think he is like?”
I whirled about and knew that the small, sturdy young woman in tight jeans and plaid shirt must be Gretchen Karl. If no other clue was given me, the spreading purples of the bruise about one eye would have been enough.
Chapter 3
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Sharon. I hope I’m not intruding up here. The tower drew me, and your father said I might explore.”
Her expression reminded me of the dark look worn by the man in the second photograph, with no smile, no brightening of the dark eyes that stared at me. She was examining me carefully, rudely, detail by detail from head to toe, and I stood quite still, meeting her searching look.
Then she said coldly, “You’ll be just fine for his collection.” Her meaning was clearly insulting.
I tried to ignore her manner, studying the picture again, searching for something to say.
“You haven’t replied to my question,” she went on. “What do you think of those photos?”
“I only know the man on the right,” I told her quietly. “I’ve never seen the other one.” Or had I, briefly, that last night in Kyoto?
“He tried to smash my camera on the day that was taken.” Her lips twisted wryly. “I grabbed it and ran—so I saved the picture.”
“What was it that made him so angry?”
Her eyes flashed with the indignation of memory, and she moved her head so that black hair, cut in the thick, swirling bob that Sassoon had stamped upon the country, flew out, and then fell back, with every strand in place.
“He was angry with my mother—and so with me for defending her. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill her one of those times before they were divorced. You have something to look forward to if you haven’t seen him angry yet. My father can be a very destructive man.”
She was throwing out one challenge after another. Antagonism toward me seethed in her voice, in her contemptuous look. Yet I wanted to make some tentative gesture toward her that might lessen this hostility. I glanced down at the open portfolio of photographs on the desk.
“You’re very good,” I said. “Do you do this professionally?”
“I don’t do anything professionally.” But her tone softened just a little and she seemed to relent. “The library asked me about exhibiting some of my work, and I’ve been wondering whether to let them.”
“It’s a wonderful idea. Have you picked out the pictures you might use?”
“I couldn’t make up my mind.”
“May I look at them?”
For an instant, I thought she might refuse, but she shrugged instead and flung herself into a rattan chair, legs outstretched, toes upturned in dirty sneakers. I was uncomfortably aware of my silk tunic and trousers and Saint Laurent perfume. I had a feeling that she disapproved thoroughly of everything about me.
Trying to move as quietly as though I were in the company of a wild animal cub, I went behind the desk and sat down. One by one, I turned over the large glossy prints, now and then setting one aside, aware of her watchfulness that was still guarded and suspicious.
The photographs were good. Very good. “You’ve a special gift for seeing,” I said. “The lighting is exactly right and your subjects come to life. But a photographer has to see quickly and choose the perfect instant—which you’ve done. These pictures are never static.”
“I hate studio portraits,” she admitted.
“They’d be easier to do than this. It takes tremendous skill to catch someone in motion at the one precise moment.” I was speaking the truth, but if I’d thought to win her with it, I’d failed.
“What the hell do you know about it?” she challenged.
“Very little. I know more about painting. Mostly from visiting museums when my parents parked me somewhere while they traveled.”
I could sense her thinking about that, but I said nothing more, turning the pictures again. One photograph stopped me. It was of a young woman standing against a strange, many-trunked tree, looking up at a boy of five or six stretched upon a massive branch above her head. I had met an older version of the boy—Keith Nichols.
Gretchen came out of her chair to see which picture had caught my attention. “That’s Pamela Nichols, Jarrett’s wife. Was. She’s dead.”
I looked more closely at the slim figure in Bermudas, her dark hair thick about her shoulders, her small, rather humorous face tilted to look up at her son.
“She doesn’t look unstable,” I said. “Myra Ritter told me there
was some concern about possible suicide.”
With a quick, violent movement that startled me, Gretchen reached for the print and ripped it in two, tossing the pieces on the floor. Then she closed the portfolio with a slap.
“That’s enough! I’ll pick the ones I might show myself. If I show any.”
For an instant I considered trying to talk to her about the really good prints I had pulled out, but I knew this wasn’t the time. I rose and came around the desk, moving slowly toward the stairs.
“This is a charming room,” I said. “Was it your grandmother’s?”
Her voice changed. It was a voice that could show lively color and resonance, or could be as light and wispy as air. Now she sounded wistful.
“Yes, it was Gran’s. I haven’t changed a stick of it since the days when she used to come here.” She went around the desk and dropped into the chair I had left, suddenly forlorn. “I miss my grandmother. She was the only one around here who knew how to be kind. She would tell me what to do—if only she could!”
To my dismay, tears spilled over as I watched, and rolled down her cheeks. She wept openly, like a child, and I wanted to comfort her, but dared not make a move, certain of rejection if I did. Instead, I turned my back and went to look out one of the windows, my eyes following the driveway that wound between ficus trees toward the front gate. What did Ross really know about his daughter? I wondered. Had he any idea that she was as lonely as this, that she still longed for her dead grandmother? How little parents really knew about their children.
I spoke softly. “Your father was disappointed when you didn’t meet him at the airport today.”
She raised her head and stared at me with tear-blinded eyes. “I hate airports!”
I agreed. “Airports are for saying goodbye. I hate them too.”
For just an instant there was a hint of understanding between us. Then her rejection of me surged back.
“Why did you have to come here? You’ll be sorry! He makes everyone sorry!”
I edged toward the stairs. There was nothing more I could say to her now. Just as I reached the top step, however, a man came rushing up, brushed past me and threw himself across the room, to kneel and envelop Gretchen impetuously in his arms.
“My darling! How I’ve hurt you! Will you ever forgive me?” It was all theatrical and more than a little startling, but Gretchen’s face lighted and she leaned into his arms for comfort.
“It was my fault, Vasily,” she told him, her wet cheek against his. “What could you do with a wildcat coming at you? You’re the one who must forgive me.”
Embarrassed by this outpouring, I turned away. I had found that retreat was the only solution when raw emotion reached out to engulf me. That was what throbbed in this room—raw, ungovernable emotion. Fury, despair, anguish, love, were all a part of it, and it was more than I wanted to face. I’d started down the stairs when Vasily Karl left his young wife and came to grasp my hand and draw me back to the room, speaking with his precise, foreign-born English.
“No—don’t go, please. You are Sharon, yes? This is all very unfortunate, but we are glad to have you here. I was a devotee of your mother’s. I saw her many times in London, Paris, Rome. My heart goes out to you in your loss.”
I kept my head down, shrinking from being pulled into this vortex. “Thank you. I must go downstairs now and find Ross.”
He continued to hold my hand, restraining me, so that I really had to look at him for the first time—and I received a shock. Somewhere, perhaps a long time ago, I had seen this man, and recognition seemed to carry with it a sense of unpleasantness, even of fear.
He was not someone to be easily forgotten. Probably in his mid-thirties, he was rather thin, with blond, waving hair and a face that just missed being too good-looking. It was his eyes, most of all, that gave me a sense of remembering. They were very dark in contrast to his light hair, and with a slightly Oriental tilt. A short white scar lifted the edge of his right eyebrow, giving him a permanent expression of cynical surprise.
“You are very lovely,” he said. “Mr. Logan is to be congratulated.”
I ignored this. “I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I? Surely we’ve met somewhere?”
The hand that held mine gently, yet with such strength, was long, with slender, sensitive fingers, and it tightened slightly on mine. He bent his head to kiss my hand in a gesture that was natural to him, and then looked at me with an amused, almost sleepy expression.
“Had I ever met you, Mrs. Logan, I would remember,” he said.
I withdrew my hand firmly, further embarrassed, and this time he let me go. Without looking back as I went down the circling stairs, I knew that he watched my flight, and that perhaps he was not altogether amused. I had seen him somewhere before, and not under happy circumstances. That much I knew, though memory eluded me. The answer would probably return when I wasn’t searching for it. Now all I wanted was to put the tower room behind me.
Outbursts of theatrical emotion were not unfamilar in my life. Both my father and mother had lived at a top vibrancy of feeling, and in self-defense I had learned to insulate myself. I was glad that most of the time Ross was the cool businessman, who would never let himself go in an emotional tantrum. I had seen him angry, but even then it was a sternly controlled anger that got him whatever he wanted. Certainly I had never seen the dark, destructive side that Gretchen had caught in her photo. At least I didn’t want to think I had.
Now I searched for the floating stairway that had brought me up from the foyer, and when I found it I followed its descent past red walls and white pillars, until I reached the marble floor below. The double doors beneath the stairs were open, and I could see a fire burning across a vast room. Ross stood beside a scrolled black marble mantelpiece, glass in hand, waiting for me, and I was struck again by his distinguished good looks.
In relief at the sight of his calm presence, and aware of soft and soothing colors, I crossed the gray-green carpet to a chair of rose brocade drawn beside the fire. Candles had been lighted in delicate girandoles that reflected their gleam from the walls, and here and there a lamp shed further subdued light on the elaborate and exquisite room. Pale draperies of rose damask were pulled across windows closed against the chill of evening. From one large wall a large classic mirror framed in thin gilt gave back the scene, increasing the room’s depth and width still more, and adding a further glow of rose and gold.
With a sense of luxury, I sank into the chair, accepting the glass Ross brought me, and let all thoughts of what had happened in the tower room flow away from me.
“I wish we could have the house to ourselves,” Ross said. “Perhaps that time will come. At least we can have our own rooms. Tomorrow you must look through the house and see if you find something that suits you better. I’ve been using my present bedroom for years whenever I came here for visits. But now I’m going to stay and work on my book, so we might as well settle in.”
“The book on netsuke?”
“Of course. I’ve been working on it off and on for some time, and Gretchen’s been doing the color photographs for it. Tomorrow I’ll show you my collection, and perhaps you can help me with it.”
There was unexpected fervor in his words, as though this was something he cared about with a passion that I’d not seen in him before. I had an odd sense of revelation—but of what? It was as though some basic emotion had surfaced in Ross that was new to me, and I wondered why it made me slightly uneasy. But he was waiting for my response, and I gave it hurriedly.
“I’d love to help, if I can. And of course I’m eager to see your collection.”
He was pleased with me, and that very fact warmed and reassured me. I sipped my drink, sitting quietly before the fire, and for the first time in a long while I began to feel entirely at peace. As though, at last, I had come home. Ysobel would have been astonished, and perhaps Ian too. They had always seen me as an adjunct to themselves. Someone not quite grown up as yet. Someone for whom
marriage lay in the distant future—if ever. Ysobel had sometimes been openly doubtful about my appeal for men. Too cool and chaste, she’d said, teasing me, and had never suspected the small, angry flame that had leapt inside me at her words.
Now I was mistress of this stunningly beautiful home, and I could have anything I wished, do anything I wanted. Though it might take a little time to convince myself of that. Most of all, I had a husband who loved and needed me, and I would never again doubt my own appeal for a man.
“You’re looking pensive,” Ross said. “What are you thinking about?”
I had no words to tell him. I had never learned how to express what I was feeling, and I was afraid of being laughed at for the turbulent emotions that could boil up inside me. So now I withdrew into being matter-of-fact.
“There’s so much to consider. So much that is new. So much to learn.” It was time now to tell him. “I’ve met Gretchen and Vasily,” I said.
The sense of peace was shattered in an instant. Ross came to my chair with a quick movement that set his drink tilting to the rim of the glass.
“He’s had the gall to come back? I hope Gretchen has told him where to get off. If she hasn’t I’ll see him myself and do it for her!”
“When I left them they were in each other’s arms and she was telling him that it was all her fault. It sounded as though she may have instigated their quarrel.”
“Nonsense—a little thing like that! There’s something vicious about that fellow. He actually struck her! Of course he only married her for her money, and the sooner she wakes up, the better.”
Poinciana Page 5