Poinciana

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  “Would you like me to stay home?” I asked Ross.

  “Of course not. Run along, you two.”

  Gretchen came with me when I went, upstairs to change, as though she was afraid I might have second thoughts about this luncheon date.

  “Do you really think anyone in the house would dare to touch your father’s netsuke collection?” I asked her when we reached my room.

  “Who knows? The staff has been with us for years. And there aren’t many of the rest of us to choose from, are there? Besides, what would any of us want with the netsuke?”

  That seemed true enough. Gretchen was wealthy in her own name, and the money a few such objects would bring could hardly be an incentive. Not even if it ran to thousands of dollars.

  She went out on the loggia to wait for me, and I put on a white dress flowered in pale blue, and changed to open-toed shoes. When I sat before the dressing table mirror, I discovered a lone ant wandering over my comb, and I brushed it away in disgust, considering whether I should tell Gretchen about what I’d found here last night. Better not. Better to play everything by ear for the moment until I knew my true direction. Anger could wait, and perhaps be strengthened by the very delay. The intent against me—which others were discounting—was too serious and alarming for me to dismiss. Nor could I be sure that Gretchen wasn’t behind what had happened.

  When I rejoined her, we went down to the front door, where a car was waiting for us. She got in behind the wheel and I sat beside her, still puzzled by her manner, which seemed to alternate between antagonism and an effort to be friendly that I didn’t really trust. Right now some secret purpose seemed to be pushing her, and the very fact made me watchful and alert.

  In her red Jag we drove along South Ocean Boulevard past impressive houses. She pointed out the Addison Mizner touch of red-tiled Spanish roofs visible amidst tropical growth. We cut across the island on Royal Palm Way, where handsome, big-boled palms marched down a wide strip of grass that divided the street. No Palm Beach street that ran east and west could be very long, because of the water boundary each way. Our destination, Gretchen said, was Worth Avenue, and we turned off to reach it.

  Among the magical shopping streets of the world, Worth stood near the top, though it was only a few blocks long. Rimming its sidewalks were the most famous of shops, where elegance and wealth were almost commonplace. Here were offered jewels and perfume, clothes by the great designers, to say nothing of fabulous art works. On this island where the Gulf Stream flowed nearest the shore, thus moderating temperatures the year round, there existed what some had called the American Riviera. The rich and famous played and rested in Palm Beach, and celebrities abounded. Worth had been called the “Mink Mile.”

  At the end of the First World War, Addison Mizner had appeared to put the mark of his own architectural whimsy upon the island that Flagler had developed, giving Palm Beach its Spanish-Moorish-Mediterranean character. He had lived in Spain and South America and California. He had borrowed, and he had also created out of his own imagination. It was he who designed Worth Avenue, with its Spanish façades, and charming arcades. As an architect, he had sometimes been more imaginative than practical, and odd “mistakes” sometimes turned up in his houses.

  His own apartment, Gretchen pointed out, had been up there under the red-tiled tower that dominated the street.

  We drove past Bentleys and Rolls-Royces, Cadillacs and Mercedes-Benz cars that were a common sight at the curbs of this famous street, and found a place to park. Palm trees grew along the way, and there were plants everywhere, in tubs, or thriving lushly in courtyards. Bougainvillea climbed the walls and spilled over balconies, and the scarlet of hibiscus could be glimpsed everywhere.

  In some ways the street reminded me of the French Quarter of New Orleans, and as we walked along I was treated to glimpses of fountains, tiled walks, archways, and arcades.

  Gretchen drew me past an inner fountain to stop before a Gucci window. She seemed to move in a leisurely way, yet I had the feeling that she was merely marking time as we approached some event that lay ahead. It wasn’t likely that she had invited me out for the pleasure of my company. Something was going to happen—eventually—and when it did, I suspected that I would not like it.

  Out again on the street, she stopped for purchases in a shop with shining mirrors and a gleaming marble floor, where the saleswoman knew her and greeted her by name.

  I bought nothing. How could I need for anything with all that Ross had given me from the stores of London and Tokyo and Kyoto? Yet all the while as I followed Gretchen, I felt as though I floated in a sea of unreality. This was a world of such expensive artifice that it had little to do with the realities of living.

  It wasn’t that I couldn’t respond to luxury with my senses, or that I couldn’t enjoy this sort of artificial beauty. I had lived very close to this world for a good part of my life. I had seen such shopwindows in New York, London, Paris, Rome, but I had never really belonged to this fantasy world, and I couldn’t belong to it now.

  As we left the last shop, Gretchen said, “You look a bit dazed. What are you thinking about?”

  “I’m not quite sure. I love to look in the windows, to go into the shops, watch the people. But I feel as though I were attending a not very real play.”

  “I know what you mean!” There was a sudden passion in Gretchen’s words that startled me. “I grew up with all this, and sometimes I hate it. Sometimes I hate everything about the Logan money, and all my father’s power. Sometimes I hate everything about Poinciana except Gran. And Gran is being sent away because he is afraid of her. She was always the real one. Even though she could make unreal things happen, she kept in touch with life. My father has never had that touch. That’s why he employs men like Jarrett Nichols, who are real. That’s why I married Vasily Karl—because he’s real.”

  That surprised me still more. We were walking back to her car, and I could think of no response to make.

  When we got in and she drove away from the curb, Gretchen gave me a smiling look that challenged whatever I was thinking. “A fortune hunter can be very real, you know. Oh, don’t feel embarrassed. I know exactly why he married me, and I know why I married him. We understand each other, and we have something very good going between us. But I’ve made you uncomfortable, haven’t I? Because you aren’t used to talking about things as they really are. Are you, Mrs. Ross Logan?”

  “I don’t think you know very much about me,” I said. “Are you judging me?”

  “Of course. Why shouldn’t I? Don’t we all judge everyone else? It just surprised me a little that you would even recognize that all of this is make-believe. Of course, we compromise and satisfy our egos. Jarrett Nichols too—though he’s closer to the real world than the rest of us.”

  “I wish I could be as sure as you are,” I said. “I don’t know where the boundaries are any more. Perhaps you’ve escaped to some extent through your camera.”

  She said nothing to that, and we drove a block or two in silence before Gretchen parked the car again and glanced at her watch. “I’ve made a reservation at the Brazilian Court, so come along.”

  We walked through a large open court where tables were shaded by bright umbrellas, and went up a few steps to an enclosed pavilion. Here again Gretchen was recognized and we were seated by a window. I noted a third place setting, and Gretchen cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “I’ve invited someone to join us. Someone you really ought to know. But we needn’t wait. We can decide about lunch right away.”

  So this was the event we had been moving toward. I studied the menu, while my uneasiness grew. When I looked up and saw Brett Inness coming toward us across the room, I knew my fears were justified.

  “She doesn’t know you’re to be here either,” Gretchen whispered, grinning.

  I was furious with her for her presumption, but there was nothing to do but face it out now.

  Her mother wore a sleeveless blue linen frock, elegantly simple, with a
strand of white coral beads at her throat. Gretchen commented first on her dress.

  “I do like that. It’s your own design, isn’t it?” And then to me, “My mother is a marvelous dress designer. She has her own shop here in town. Sharon, I’d like you to meet Brett Inness. And Brett, this is Ross’s new wife, Sharon. I thought you two ought to know each other.”

  Long experience in dealing with the unexpected around Ysobel came to my aid, and I managed to be polite and a little remote. Brett was clearly as annoyed with her daughter as I, but she acknowledged the introduction and sat down opposite me.

  “Outrageous,” she said to Gretchen, and then looked at me. “I suppose we’ll have to make the best of it.”

  “I’m sorry that I didn’t know who you were when I saw you on the grounds the other day,” I said.

  “I thought it just as well if you didn’t. I’m trying not to annoy Ross, since I want to be able to visit Allegra on occasion.”

  “He can’t forbid you the grounds,” Gretchen said. “If he tries, there will be a bang-up fight between us. So he’ll pretend not to know.”

  My attention was on Brett at that moment, and my first impression of a woman of will and authority was growing. She still wore her hair in the brown knob on top of her head, and perhaps it was right for her angular style. Florida sun had not spared her skin, and I noted the lines, the weathering. Now I could see her odd, violet eyes more closely, and I was aware of their chill regard. She showed no warmth, even toward her daughter, and in spite of Gretchen’s outrageous behavior, my sympathy for her grew. I knew about mothers.

  When we’d ordered, Gretchen looked from one to the other of us, serious now, and no longer impish.

  “I didn’t do this just to upset you both. There isn’t any reason why you should be friends. Or even acquaintances.”

  Her mother broke in. “Oh, I don’t know—we may have a lot in common. Though perhaps Mrs.—ah—Logan hasn’t worn that name long enough yet to be aware of this.”

  Anger would not serve me now, or resentment. I retreated into my glass case, where no words could reach me, and smiled politely, distantly, saying nothing. Neither of them could possibly touch me. That was the thought I must hold on to.

  Gretchen continued. “I brought you both here to talk about Allegra. To help me plan a battle—a war, if necessary. You’re already on her side, Brett, though I think it’s only because you like to oppose Ross. And I can tell that the Allegra legend has gotten through to Sharon, so perhaps she’ll help us too. Then we can work on this together.”

  My self-imposed retreat wasn’t working too well, I discovered. In spite of myself, I was becoming involved, and wondering about Gretchen. Ostensibly, she was fighting a battle for her grandmother, but I suspected that whether she knew it or not, this was only part of a larger war with her father. And there my sympathies were engaged, even more than for Allegra. Gretchen’s life still lay ahead of her.

  “How can you stop your father if he’s made up his mind?” I asked.

  “That’s what we have to figure out. My father isn’t an easy man to stop. But the way each of you feels should help. You’re a softy, Sharon. You’d like to help Gran because you’re tenderhearted. Oh, don’t look at me like that. You hide behind that front you wear, but the softness still shows. That’s the reason Dad married you. One of the reasons. He likes people close to him that he can hurt. Don’t I know!”

  “Stop it, Gretchen,” her mother said, her voice low. “You used to have a few manners.”

  Oddly enough, Gretchen subsided. “Well, what can we use for a lever with my father?” she asked, faintly sullen. “It’s not only Gran, you know. He’s after Vasily, too.”

  Someone was also after me, but this wasn’t the time to point that out.

  The waitress brought our orders and we said little until she went away. I had nothing practical to offer, and I felt increasingly uncomfortable in the presence of these two. Brett watched me obliquely, and Gretchen was obviously hoping to make me squirm. I wasn’t sure how fond she was of her mother, but I was still the interloper on territory that Gretchen had no wish to share. If Ross liked to hurt people, perhaps his daughter shared something of that trait as well.

  When the waitress had gone, she put her question again. “Any suggestions to offer?”

  I looked out the open windows at bright umbrellas in the courtyard and at people dining cheerfully at small tables. I tasted my shrimp-stuffed avocado, but I had no appetite.

  Brett said, “There is always l’affaire Pamela Nichols. A touch of blackmail can be useful at times. Ross has gotten away with too much for too many years.”

  I found it hard to swallow my food. “What about Pamela Nichols?”

  “Shut up,” Gretchen told her mother, as if for the first time she regretted her plan. “You don’t have a thing to go on.”

  “But Allegra does,” Brett said sweetly. She was enjoying her pompano almandine with an appetite neither Gretchen nor I had. “She knows something. She’s hinted as much to me. Don’t underestimate your grandmother when she’s lucid, Gretchen. Why else do you think Ross wants to put her away, except that she has something on him when it comes to Pam?”

  My attention was caught. I remembered Gretchen’s burst of temper that day in the belvedere when she’d snatched the picture of Jarrett’s wife and son from me and torn it up. And I remembered Ross’s evasion when I’d mentioned the incident to him.

  Gretchen glowered at her mother for a moment, and I knew this was a topic she was unwilling to face.

  “Pay no attention,” she told me. “I can tell you the real reason why my father wants to send Gran away. And it’s not this nonsense Brett is trying to foist on you.”

  I was silent, waiting. Brett waited too, but with a gleam in those violet eyes.

  “Of course, Dad is the main stockholder in Meridian Oil, but Gran holds the next-largest block of stock. Not that she does anything about it these days. Jarrett makes a big thing of consulting with her, and she votes her proxies as he and Dad think best. But if my father could have her declared incompetent, then everything of hers would pass into his hands, and he’d feel a lot surer of total control.”

  “That’s only part of it,” Brett said.

  “If this is true, why hasn’t he taken the step of sending her away before?” I asked. “She seems to have lapses of memory at times that would give him cause.”

  “I’ll tell you why,” Brett said. “He’s afraid of her—that’s why. When she is thinking clearly, she can be dangerous to him. So he’s afraid to bring in anyone else she can talk to openly. He probably feels that it’s also risky to send her away. But at least in the company of other loonies, no one is likely to pay much attention to what she says. Now that you’re here, Sharon, he hasn’t been able to keep you apart. She might talk to you at any time and let a few tigers out of the bag.”

  “What tigers are in the bag?” I asked.

  Gretchen answered me curtly. “I only want to see my father persuaded. I don’t want to damage him.”

  “Our goals aren’t exactly the same, are they?” Brett said. “But since you’ve called this little meeting and asked for suggestions, I’ve made one. Poor, foolish Pam might still be useful.”

  There was more than a hint of venom in Brett’s cultivated tones, and I retreated again, saying nothing more, not wanting to hear, willing myself not to participate. I didn’t know what they were talking about, and I didn’t want to know. To know might, on top of everything else, be more than I could bear. Nevertheless, I listened carefully to every word.

  Gretchen had cut her mother off sharply. “Pam has nothing to do with us now. We’ve got to decide what action to take in the present.” She buttered a roll, scowling.

  “You’ve always been clumsy, darling,” her mother said sweetly. “Impetuous. You thought that bringing Sharon and me together would be entertaining. But somehow it’s you who usually winds up in deep water. Nothing ever turns out right for you, does it?”


  “I don’t want anything to eat,” I said. “I’d rather not stay and listen to this.”

  “You’ll stay.” Gretchen’s hand was on my arm, and I couldn’t rise without a struggle.

  “You’d better not oppose her,” Brett said to me. “My daughter has a dreadful temper. Like her father. Being so unsure of themselves basically, they keep trying to prove something. And they fly into rages when they’re opposed.” Her angular face with its strong features seemed bright with a malice that equaled Gretchen’s.

  I made no further attempt to rise. Once more, it seemed to me that Gretchen needed help, even more than Allegra did. My sympathy for her had its roots in the past, in my own girlhood, and it continued even in the face of her behavior toward me.

  She released her hold on my arm and gave it a little pat, ignoring her mother’s words. “That’s better, Sharon. Everyone’s been giving in to me ever since I was three—just because I could make such awful scenes. People who are well brought up have a terrible handicap. They’ve been taught that the greatest sin of all is to be bad-mannered. So they’re at the mercy of people like me—who just don’t care. But to get back to our problem. I won’t stand by and see Gran railroaded. She’s not all that crazy, and maybe she’s the only person I’ve ever loved. Or who’s ever loved me.”

  “You aren’t always lovable, darling,” Brett said. “What about Jarrett Nichols. Won’t he help you?”

  “I’ve already talked to him. He’s not sufficiently against her being sent away. He even thinks it might help her. But I know what would happen. She’d be put away in some posh place where the horrors of rich families are kept hidden from the world. Gran doesn’t belong with the horrors, but she could become one of them if she’s put in that sort of big happy family!”

  I told them about speaking to Ross. “I asked him to bring Allegra back to her own rooms in the house. I still think that could be done.”