Mirror Bride

by Jane Peart

  Her father did not disagree but added, "Sometimes those are the ones who are most irresistible."

  Davida turned to give him a long, searching look. "Well . . . I only hope Kip doesn't get hurt."

  "Little girl," said the Colonel gently, "you can't protect your son from that kind of hurt."

  If Davida had not been so preoccupied with her concern over the flirtatious twin and Kip's infatuation, she might have noticed the faraway look that crept into Kendall Carpenter's eyes. He was remembering his own hopeless love for Rose Meredith. If she had, she might have recalled hearing once that the only love that lasts, unchanging, is unrequited love.

  chapter 3

  THE NEXT WEEK everything changed with the arrival of three of Kip's Harvard classmates, whose families came to the Cape every year. The same Friday, Scott and Vance Langley showed up. They were staying with some university friends who had rented a beach house for the summer. When the Montrose cousins, the Merediths from Milford, opened their summer cottage, their son and daughter, Emily and Norville, joined the group of young people that soon made Fair Winds their headquarters.

  For all of them that summer, life was a party—an endless round of sailing excursions and lobster bakes, volleyball games on the beach, and songfests on the veranda.

  A month of perfect days passed before Cara awakened out of a dream one morning with the tantalizing sensation that something wonderful was about to happen. Wide awake now, she lay quite still, savoring the pleasant tingle. Knowing it would be impossible to try to go back to sleep, she slipped out of bed and went to the open window.

  The scene before her was so pure and lovely that her eyes misted with tears. The rising ball of sun slanted its rays off the deep blue water, and in the canopy of clear sky, white gulls dipped and dived for their breakfast, their hoarse cries announcing the success of the catch.

  Cara found her clothes and dressed quietly so as not to awaken her sleeping sister, then tiptoed downstairs, carrying her shoes. She stopped only long enough to take one of Aggie's cinnamon rolls set out in a basket on the hutch, wrap it in a napkin, and tuck it into her cardigan pocket. Then she let herself out the door, breathing rapturously of the tangy salt air.

  Being out so early with no one about appealed to her sense of adventure, and she felt the rush of exhilaration. She ran down the porch steps, over the dunes, and onto the beach, feeling the cool, damp sand between her toes. On and on she ran, feeling completely free and at one with the world around her.

  The beach was deserted, the ocean, a smooth sheet of blue glass. After a while, she slowed to a walk and began wading along the ocean's edge, stopping every once in awhile to pick up a shell, hold it in her hand, and examine it briefly before tossing it into the water. She'd never had much use for collecting things. Life was too exciting to spend precious time hunting for objects. Not when the world was so full of fascinating people.

  Cara had gone quite a distance down the beach when she saw a figure approaching from the opposite direction. He was tall and lean, and his head was hunched into his shoulders as if he were in deep thought. They passed each other with a nod and a mere glance, as if in recognition of a "kindred soul," assuming anyone walking the beach at daybreak must crave solitude.

  She had gone only a little farther when she heard someone calling. Turning, she saw that it was the man who had passed her moments before. In his hand he was holding something bright and colorful, waving it high above his head.

  She halted, frowning. Who was he and what did he want?

  Then, as he drew nearer, she saw that he was holding out her scarf.

  "I'm afraid is soaked . . . the tide's coming in—" He panted, a little breathless from running.

  "Oh, yes, thank you." She took the slip of sodden silk, shaking it out a little.

  He smiled, and she noticed even white teeth against a golden tan.

  "It's great out here this time of day, isn't it?" he asked. "I love it when there's n o one around. I feel like I own it all—" H e laughed, spreading his arms to encompass the scene.

  "Yes—" She studied him more closely, thinking he must be a new visitor to the Island. "Are you on vacation?"

  "Well, not exactly. I'm staying with some friends up the beach. But I'm also working part-time at the Dover Inn to earn money for next year's college expenses." H e made no move to leave, then said, "I'm Owen Brandt." The way he offered his name almost required that she give hers.

  Well, there was no reason not to, Cara told herself. Here at the Cape everything was informal with no need to stick to silly old rules of protocol. "Cara Cameron."

  His eyes lighted up. "Cameron?" He paused. "Are you possibly any relation to Scott Cameron?"

  Cara was flustered. "Why, yes! He's my brother."

  "Small world. We're both staying at the Langleys."

  "Of course!" Cara exclaimed. "Vance said some of his friends from the University of Virginia were coming this weekend, and Scott—"

  As they stood there smiling at each other, suddenly Cara felt she could not draw a deep breath. At the same time, she was aware that Owen's eyes were the color of the ocean . . . just past where the swells end and before the waves begin to roll toward the shore.

  "Cara—" H e repeated her name, a pucker of a frown drawing his sun-bleached brows together over a strongly molded nose. "Cara . . . it's Italian, isn't it? I mean, from my meager knowledge of the language, it means 'heart' or something affectionate like 'beloved'—" He looked to her for confirmation.

  "No." Cara hesitated. Her heart was beating unnaturally fast. She wondered vaguely what was happening to her. This kind of bantering usually slid so easily from her practiced tongue. Instead, she seemed temporarily spellbound by Owen's eyes, so full of intelligence and merriment and all sorts of interesting possibilities—

  "Cara's my family's nickname for me. My real name is Carmella. It's Spanish. I was named for my grandmother." She tilted her head to one side and continued. "She was a gypsy from Seville—a dancer, I'm told. Not a very proper background, is it?"

  "I don't know if it's proper or not," Owen replied slowly, "but the name . . . whatever it means . . . suits you—" He paused again, then, "Maybe we'll be seeing each other again. Are you staying around here?" he asked hopefully.

  "My sister and I are houseguests of Meredith Montrose."

  "At Fair Winds?"

  "Yes." She nodded. "It belongs to Colonel Kendall Carpenter, her grandfather."

  "What a coincidence!" He grinned. "I was told we'd been invited to supper at the Carpenters' cottage tonight!"

  They looked at each other wordlessly for a long moment. Finally Owen backed away a few steps. "Well, then, I'll see you later . . . this evening!"

  "Yes," Cara replied mindlessly, unable to think of a single breezy remark. And after Owen turned around and walked down the beach, she stood watching him.

  That evening, when Owen showed up at Fair Winds with Scott and some of the other students from the university, their eyes met across the room. When Scott introduced them offhandedly, saying to Owen, "And this is the other half of my little twin sister set," Owen simply smiled and acknowledged the introduction as if they had mutually agreed to keep their earlier meeting a secret.

  Supper was set out in the dining room—a steaming tureen of thick, creamy clam chowder, buttery poppy-seed rolls, a brown pottery crock of baked beans, and a large vegetable salad. Everyone quickly gathered, ready to enjoy it.

  Scott held up his hand dramatically and, in his best thespian voice, declared, "Prithee, good folk, shall we then eat unblessed food?" With that, he made a sweeping bow to Owen. "I suggest we let the chaplain of this motley crew pronounce grace."

  All heads turned in Owen's direction, but he seemed not at all embarrassed and said good-naturedly, "Well, I think the Selkirk Grace, written by the renowned Scottish poet Robert Burns, would be appropriate." He paused, then bowing his head, recited,

  "Some hae meat and canna eat,

  And some wad eat that w
ant it.

  But we hae meat and we can eat

  And sae the Lord be thankit. Amen."

  At once they moved to fill their plates and, in groups of three or four, found places to eat and talk. Before Cara knew it, Owen was at her side. "Let's take ours out on the porch," he said as if their dining together had been prearranged.

  Finding a spot in a corner of the veranda, Owen drew up a bench where they could eat, undisturbed.

  "I didn't understand—" began Cara when their meal was underway. "Why did Scott ask you to say grace?"

  Owen took a sip of coffee, regarding her over the rim of the mug before answering. "You didn't know? I'm a divinity student."

  Cara felt a sharp sensation of disbelief, then of disappointment. A divinity student?! Suddenly all the silly fantasies she'd had about him all day came crashing down.

  "You mean you're going to be a minister?" Her tone registered her chagrin, and he laughed. She put down her fork and stared at him.

  "Well, it's not as if I'd just told you I'm Count Dracula!"

  Cara laughed too, albeit somewhat uneasily. Then she recovered herself. "And what does a divinity student actually study?"

  "Right now we're heavily into the Old Testament and, of course, Greek and Hebrew—"

  "Oh, dear!" she said in open dismay.

  "Don't look like that," he pleaded in mock horror.

  "It's just that I realized—"

  But whatever she realized was never voiced because just then Scott, accompanied by Vance Langley, joined them and the topic changed. Before Cara and Owen could resume their conversation, Davida came to the door and invited them in for dessert.

  After that, it was dark, lamps were lighted, and someone suggested a game of Charades. Owen and Cara ended up on the same team. To Cara's delight, Owen was not only creative in selecting ideas that confounded their opposition but quick and intuitive in guessing the other side's subjects.

  "It seems you know much more than the Old Testament and a few dead languages," Cara confronted him when the game broke up and Meredith and Kitty had set out pitchers of lemonade and oatmeal cookies.

  "I'm interested in a great many things," he countered, smiling.

  "Well, I'm relieved to hear that. I confess I was a bit taken aback when I discovered I was dining with a prospective man of the cloth!"

  Owen threw back his head and laughed heartily. When Cara joined in, Kip glanced over at them and glared. Kitty intercepted the frown and knew that Kip was feeling the pinch of jealousy. Added to Vance Langley's attentions to Cara, he now must deal with the newcomer on the scene—Owen Brandt.

  Later that night, long after Kitty was sleeping soundly, Cara lay awake thinking about Owen. Her thoughts tumbled chaotically. She had never met anyone like him or felt so quickly drawn to anyone before. Certainly none of the young men who came over to Fern Grove on weekends from the nearby men's college and circled her like the proverbial moth around a flame.

  Of course, she had enjoyed flirting. But there was always an emptiness inside, a kind of "Is this all there is?" feeling at the end of the evening when the band played "Good-night, Sweetheart," With Owen, on the other hand, Cara suspected there were layers and layers to uncover and each one would be fascinating. Even on the surface he seemed ideal—considerate, intelligent, reserved yet fun-loving. He has a wonderful laugh, she thought, and a smile that simply lights up a room. But there was something more—deep spiritual qualities that, ironically, made him even more attractive.

  Cara had a moment of doubt. What did she, who had never had a serious thought in her life, have to offer a man like that?

  Still, when Owen's visits to Fair Winds became more and more frequent, no one seemed to notice how often he and Cara paired off for games or wandered off together to talk for hours. That is, nobody but Kip.

  chapter 4

  ON A TRIP into the village to collect the mail for Fair Winds, Kitty stopped by the harbor. Settling down on a bench to read her letters, she looked out at the ocean serenely smooth in the morning haze.

  Shifting her gaze to the tangle of boats and nets in the foreground, Kitty scanned the harbor for a glimpse of Merry, who had come here to buy fish for supper from the fishermen who sold their fresh catch right from their boats. But Kitty knew that wasn't Merry's sole reason for her daily trip to the harbor. She also hoped to steal a moment alone with Manuel Sousa, a handsome young Portuguese fisherman she had met.

  Spotting his dark head bent over Merry's fair one, Kitty saw that they were engaged in an intense conversation, and sighed. It hadn't taken long after her arrival to learn that Merry was smitten with the young sailor. And, knowing Davida Montrose's opinion of "fraternizing with people beneath one's station," she and Cara had entered into a protective conspiracy of silence about their friend's romance.

  No doubt Merry's mother would put her foot down at once on any but the most superficial relationship with such a person. The twins knew she would have, as Cara privately put it, "a conniption fit" if she had any idea that her only daughter was entertaining romantic notions regarding the swarthy young man. Most of the men who made their living by fishing off this coast claimed Portugal as their native country and its traditions as a way of life, traditions as different as night from day in heritage, language, and religions.

  Still, the twins agreed, Manuel Sousa did look like a hero straight out of a romantic novel—flashing dark eyes, a captivating smile, short hair curling like a well-fitting cap about his head. While the other men shouted back and forth to each other from their boats, Manny spoke to Meredith with a softness that was almost a verbal caress.

  At last, flushed and breathless, Merry joined Kitty and they walked back along the beach road to Fair Winds, where the crowd was sitting on the porch planning the day's activities.

  Everyone was there—the Meredith cousins with their house-guests, the Virginia contingent—all except Owen—and the fellows from Harvard. Kip was lounging on the steps beside Cara, doing his best to get her attention away from Vance, with whom she was flirting shamelessly.

  "Here's the mail, everybody!" announced Kitty, passing out envelopes and postcards. There was a letter from her mother, describing a birthday party for the Montroses' youngest child, Bryanne. "Just listen to this—" Kitty read from the letter. " T he party's theme was something right out of the Middle Ages, with knights and ladies. The children dressed in those wonderful medieval costumes and danced a Maypole dance with ribbon streamers—" Kitty laughed gaily. "Doesn't that sound just like Faith?"

  "Who is Faith?" asked Jenny Aidridge, Emily Meredith's roommate. "Our cousin, Faith Devlin Montrose. She's married to an artist, Jeff Montrose—"

  "Another cousin," Scott put in laconically.

  "Cousin married to cousin?" Norville raised his eyebrows.

  "No, not exactly—" Kitty looked to Cara for help. "Is all rather complicated—"

  "Southern families are always complicated," Norville commented.

  Scott shook his head, grinning. "Positively labyrinthine."

  "Well, anyhow, they live on the most marvelous island in a house that was brought over from England stone by stone and—"

  "It's almost medieval-looking," piped up Cara, "with dark panels and murals that Jeff has painted everywhere."

  "Murals?"

  "Yes, you wouldn't believe how wonderful they are! They really should be on display in a castle or church or somewhere for everyone to enjoy."

  "Are these religious murals, like Italian frescoes?"

  "Well, not exactly religious, except maybe for his illustration of The Canterbury Tales—you know, Chaucer's work. Jeff has painted the Abbess and the Priest and some of the others on their pilgrimage—"

  "Chaucer!" groaned Kip. "I remember trying to wade through all that old English muck!"

  "Muck!" Kitty sounded indignant.

  "You're displaying your ignorance, old boy," remarked Scott.

  Kip made an elaborate bow. "I admit my woeful lack of appreciation for the
classics."

  "And well you should," Cara said severely, frowning at him. "But you have to admire Jeff's painting."

  "Oh, yes, I'm a fan." Turning to Norville, he remarked, "Avalon is a most unusual house, I can vouch for that."

  "The only way to get there is by ferry," Kitty continued. "Avalon was named for the mythical island where King Arthur was supposedly taken after he was wounded—"

  "And from where—that is, if you believe all the other myths about him—he will be 'the once and future King of England'," Kip put in.

  "Oh, Kip, you're so annoying!" Cara said crossly. "You always put down anything you don't understand."

  "Who said I don't understand? I've read The Idylls of the King, for pete's sake! What I don't understand is why my uncle and his wife choose to isolate themselves the way Jeff and Faith do."

  "Jeff's an artist, Kip. Artists are different from other people, which proves my point. You simply don't understand!" Cara tossed her head. "You have to be sensitive yourself to really understand a creative spirit like Jeff."

  Undaunted, Kip persisted. "Come on, you'll have to agree they are rather strange, reclusive really. I know my father has invited them dozens of time to Montclair, and they always have some excuse not to come."

  "Well, of course, Jeff's always working on some painting. Artists have to concentrate," Cara went on. "They can't be distracted. Besides, I don't think Faith cares much for social life."

  "She's not at all like her mother, our Aunt Garnet," Kitty tried to explain. "But Faith does the most gorgeous tapestries—"

  "And that's another thing—" Kip interrupted. "Is positively medieval the way Faith dresses in those costumes and lets her hair hang down . . . and all that sitting at a tapestry frame . . . like the Lady of Shalott—" He threw out his hands. "If that isn't living in some kind of archaic shadow box, I don't know what is!"

  "If they're happy, why should you care?" demanded Cara. "And they are happy. I've never seen two happier people than Jeff and Faith."

  Kip seemed momentarily subdued. He returned Cara's irritated glance with a long, steady gaze, as if for once, he was seriously considering what she was saying.