by Nora Roberts
“Part of that, then.” Ray nodded. “You have to find your own, Phil. And make your own. You’re getting there. You did a fine job with Seth today. So did she,” he said, glancing up at the light shining through Sybill’s bedroom window. “You make a fine team, even when you’re pulling in different directions. That’s because you both care, more than you might understand.”
“Did you know he was your grandson?”
“No. Not at first.” He sighed now. “When Gloria found me she hit me with all of it at once. I never knew about her, and there she was, shouting, swearing, accusing, demanding. Couldn’t calm her down or make sense of it. Next thing I knew she’d gone to the dean with that story about how I’d molested her. She’s a troubled young woman.”
“She’s a bitch.”
Ray only moved his shoulders. “If I’d known about her sooner . . . well, that’s done. I couldn’t save Gloria, but I could save Seth. One look at him and I knew. So I paid her. Maybe that was wrong, but the boy needed me. It took me weeks to track down Barbara. All I wanted from her was confirmation. I wrote to her, three times. Even called Paris, but she wouldn’t speak to me. I was still working on that when I had the accident. Stupid,” he admitted. “I let Gloria upset me. I was angry with her, myself, everything, worried about Seth, about how the three of you would take it when I explained it all. Driving too fast, not paying attention. Well.”
“We would have stood with you.”
“I know that. I let myself forget it, and that was stupid, too. Stella was gone, the three of you had your own lives, and I let myself brood, and forget. You’re standing with Seth now, and that’s more important.”
“We’re nearly there. With Sybill adding her voice, the permanent guardianship’s a given.”
“She’s adding more than her voice, and she’ll add more yet. She’s stronger than she gives herself credit for. Than anyone gives her credit for.”
In a swift change of mood, Ray clucked his tongue, shook his head. “I guess you’re going up there.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Never quite lost that unfortunate skill. Maybe this time that’s a good thing. That girl could use some surprises in her life.” Ray winked again. “Watch your step.”
“You’re not going to come up, are you?”
“No.” Ray slapped Phillip’s shoulder and let out a hearty laugh. “Some things a father just doesn’t need to see.”
“Good. But since you’re here, make it easier for me. Give me a boost up to that first balcony.”
“Sure. They can’t arrest me, can they?”
Ray cupped his hands, giving Phillip’s foot a helpful push, then stood back to watch him make the climb. He watched, and he smiled. “I’m going to miss you,” he said quietly and faded into shadows.
IN THE PARLOR, SYBILL CONcentrated fiercely on her work. She didn’t give a damn if it had been petty, unreasonable behavior to ignore Phillip’s knock. She’d had enough emotional upheaval for one weekend. And besides, he’d given up quickly enough, hadn’t he?
She listened to the wind rattle against her windows, set her teeth, and pounded the keyboard.
The import of internal news appears to outweigh that of the external. While television, newspapers, and other information sources are as readily available in the small community as they are in large urban areas, the actions and involvements of one’s neighbors take precedent when the population is limited.
Information is passed on, with varying degrees of accuracy, through word of mouth. Gossip is an accepted form of communication. The network is admirably quick and efficient.
Disattending—the pretense of not hearing a private conversation in a public place—is not as prevalent in the small community as in the large city. However, in transient areas such as hotels, disattending is still a consistent and acceptable behavioral pattern. I would conclude that the reason for this is the regular comings and goings of outsiders in this type of area. Overt attention is paid, however, in other areas such as
Her fingers froze, her mouth dropped open, as she watched Phillip slide her terrace door open and step inside.
“What—”
“The locks on these things are pathetic,” he said. He walked to the front door, opened it, and picked up the basket and vase of flowers he’d left there. “I figured I could risk these. We don’t get a lot of thievery around here. You might want to add that to your notes.” He set the vase of roses on her desk.
“You climbed up the building?” She could only stare at him, amazed.
“The wind’s a bitch, too.” He opened the basket, took out the first bottle. “I could use a drink. How about you?”
“You climbed up the building?”
“We’ve already established that.” He opened the wine with an expert and muffled pop.
“You can’t . . .” She gestured wildly. “Just break in here, open champagne.”
“I just did.” He poured two glasses and discovered it didn’t do his ego any harm to have her gaping at him. “I’m sorry about this morning, Sybill.” Smiling, he offered her a glass of champagne. “I was feeling pretty rough, and I took it out on you.”
“So you apologize by breaking into my room.”
“I didn’t break anything. Besides, you weren’t going to open the door, and the flowers wanted to be in here. So did I. Truce?” he said and waited.
He’d climbed up the building. She still couldn’t get over it. No one had ever committed such a bold and foolish act for her. She stared at him, into those golden angel eyes, and felt herself softening. “I have work.”
He grinned because he saw the yielding. “I have beluga.”
She tapped her fingers on the wrist rest of her keyboard. “Flowers, champagne, caviar. Do you usually come so well equipped when you break and enter?”
“Only when I want to apologize and throw myself on the mercy of a beautiful woman. Got any mercy to spare, Sybill?”
“I suppose I might. I wasn’t keeping Gloria’s phone call from you, Phillip.”
“I know you weren’t. Believe me, if I hadn’t figured that out myself, Cam would have beaten it into my head this morning.”
“Cam.” She blinked in shock. “He doesn’t like me.”
“You’re wrong. He was worried about you. Can I persuade you to take a break from work?”
“All right.” She saved her file, shut down the machine. “I’m glad we’re not angry with each other. It only complicates things. I saw Seth this afternoon.”
“So I hear.”
She accepted the wine, sipped. “Did you and your brothers clean up the house?”
He gave her a pained and pitiful look. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going to have nightmares as it is.” He took her hand, drew her over to the sofa. “Let’s talk about something less frightening. Seth showed me the charcoal sketch of his boat that you helped him with.”
“He’s really good. He catches on so quickly. Really listens, pays attention. He’s got a fine eye for detail and perspective.”
“I saw the one you did of the house, too.” Casually, Phillip leaned forward for the bottle and topped off her wine. “You’re really good, too. I’m surprised you didn’t pursue art as a profession.”
“I had lessons as a girl. Art, music, dance. I took a few courses in college.” Desperately relieved that they were no longer at odds, she settled back and enjoyed her wine. “It wasn’t anything serious. I’d always known I’d go into psychology.”
“Always?”
“More or less. The arts aren’t for people like me.”
“Why?”
The question confused her, put her on guard. “It wasn’t practical. Did you say you had beluga in there?”
There, he thought, the first step back. He’d simply have to go around her. “Mmm-hmm.” He took out the container and the toast points, refilled her glass. “What instrument do you play?”
“Piano.”
“Yeah? Me, too.” He shot her an easy sm
ile. “We’ll have to work up a duet. My parents loved music. All of us play something.”
“It’s important that a child learn to appreciate music.”
“Sure, it’s fun.” He spread a toast point, offered it. “Sometimes the five of us would kill a Saturday night playing together.”
“You all played together? That was nice. I always hated playing in front of anyone. It’s so easy to make a mistake.”
“So what if you did? Nobody’s going to cut off your fingers for hitting a sour note.”
“My mother would be mortified, and that would be worse than—” She caught herself, frowned into her wine, started to set it aside. He moved smoothly, adding more to her glass.
“My mother really loved to play the piano. That’s why I picked it up at first. I wanted to share something with her specifically. I was so in love with her. We all were, but for me she was everything strong and right and kind about women. I wanted her to be proud of me. Whenever I saw that she was, whenever she told me she was, it was the most amazing feeling.”
“Some people strive all their lives for their parents’ approval and never come close to gaining their pride.” There was something bitter and cold in her voice. She caught it herself and managed a weak laugh. “I’m drinking too much. It’s going to my head.”
Deliberately he filled her glass again. “You’re among friends.”
“Overindulging in alcohol—even lovely alcohol—is an abuse.”
“Overindulging on a regular basis is an abuse,” he corrected. “Ever been drunk, Sybill?”
“Of course not.”
“You’re due.” He tapped his glass to hers. “Tell me about the first time you tasted champagne.”
“I don’t remember. We were often served watered wine at dinner when we were children. It was important that we learn to appreciate the proper wines, how they were served, what to serve them with, the correct glass for red, the correct glass for white. I could easily have coordinated a formal dinner party for twenty when I was twelve.”
“Really?”
She laughed a little, let the wine froth in her head. “It’s an important skill. Can you imagine the horror if one bungles the seating? Or serves an inferior wine with the main course? An evening in ruins, reputations in tatters. People expect a certain level of tedium at such affairs, but not a substandard Merlot.”
“You attended a lot of formal dinner parties?”
“Yes, indeed. First, several smaller, what you might term ‘practice’ ones with intimates of my parents, so that I could be judged ready. When I was sixteen, my mother gave a large, important dinner for the French ambassador and his wife. That was my first official appearance. I was terrified.”
“Not enough practice?”
“Oh, I had plenty of practice, hours of instruction on protocol. I was just so painfully shy.”
“Were you?” he murmured, tucking her hair behind her ear. Score one for Mother Crawford, he thought.
“So silly. But any time I had to face people that way, my stomach would seize up and my heart would pound so hard. I lived in terror that I would spill something, say something I shouldn’t, or have nothing to say at all.”
“Did you tell your parents?”
“Tell them what?”
“That you were afraid?”
“Oh.” She waved her hand at that, as if it were the most absurd of questions, then picked up the bottle to pour more champagne. “What would be the point? I had to do what was expected of me.”
“Why? What would happen if you didn’t? Would they beat you, lock you in a closet?”
“Of course not. They weren’t monsters. They’d be disappointed, they’d disapprove. It was horrible when they looked at you that way—tight-lipped, cold-eyed—as if you were defective. It was easier just to get through it, and after a while, you learned how to deal with it.”
“Observe rather than participate,” he said quietly.
“I’ve made a good career out of it. Maybe I didn’t fulfill my obligations by making an important marriage and giving a lifetime of those beastly dinner parties and raising a pair of well-behaved, properly bred children,” she said with rising heat. “But I made good use of my education and a good career, which I’m certainly more suited for than the other. I’m out of wine.”
“Let’s slow down a little—”
“Why?” She laughed and plucked out the second bottle herself. “We’re among friends. I’m getting drunk, and I think I like it.”
What the hell, Phillip thought and took the bottle from her to open it. He’d wanted to dig under that proper and polished surface of hers. Now that he was there, there was no point in backing off.
“But you were married once,” he reminded her.
“I told you it didn’t count. It was not an important marriage. It was an impulse, a small and failed attempt at rebellion. I make a poor rebel. Mmm.” She swallowed champagne, gestured with her glass. “I was supposed to marry one of the sons of my father’s associate from Britain.”
“Which one?”
“Oh, either. They were both quite acceptable. Distant re- lations of the queen. My mother was quite determined to have her daughter associated by marriage with royalty. It would have been a triumph. Of course I was only fourteen, so she had plenty of time to work out the plan, the timing. I believe she’d decided I could become engaged, formally, to one or the other when I was eighteen. Marriage at twenty, first child at twenty-two. She had it all worked out.”
“But you didn’t cooperate.”
“I didn’t get the chance. I might very well have cooperated. I found it very difficult to oppose her.” She brooded over that for a moment, then washed it away with more champagne. “But Gloria seduced them both, at the same time, in the front parlor while my parents were attending the opera. I believe it was Vivaldi. Anyway . . .” She waved her hand again, drank again. “They came home, found this situation. There was quite a scene. I snuck downstairs and watched part of it. They were naked—not my parents.”
“Naturally.”
“High on something, too. There was a lot of shouting, threatening, pleading—this from the Oxford twins. Did I mention they were twins?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Identical. Blond, pale, lantern-jawed. Gloria didn’t give two damns about them, of course. She did it, knowing they’d be caught, because my mother had chosen them for me. She hated me. Gloria, not my mother.” Her brow knit. “My mother didn’t hate me.”
“What happened?”
“The twins were sent home in disgrace and Gloria was punished. Which led, inevitably, to her striking back by accusing my father’s friend of seducing her, which led to another miserable scene and her finally running off. It was certainly less disruptive with her gone, but it gave my parents more time to concentrate on forging me. I used to wonder why they saw me more as creation than child. Why they couldn’t love me. But then . . .” She settled back again. “I’m not very lovable. No one’s ever loved me.”
Aching for her, the woman and the child, he set his glass aside and framed her face gently with his hands. “You’re wrong.”
“No, I’m not.” Her smile was soaked in wine. “I’m a professional. I know these things. My parents never loved me, certainly Gloria didn’t. The husband, who didn’t count, didn’t love me. There wasn’t even one of those kindly, good-hearted servants you read about in books, who held me against her soft, generous bosom and loved me. No one even bothered to pretend enough to use the words. You, on the other hand, are very lovable.” She ran her free hand up his chest. “I’ve never had sex when I’ve been drunk. What do you suppose it’s like?”
“Sybill.” He caught her hand before she could distract him. “They underestimated and undervalued you. You shouldn’t do the same to yourself.”
“Phillip.” She leaned forward, managed to nip his bottom lip between her teeth. “My life’s been a predictable bore. Until you. The first time you kissed me, my mind just clicked
off. No one ever did that to me before. And when you touch me . . .” Slowly she brought their joined hand to her breast. “My skin gets hot and my heart pounds, and my insides get loose and liquid. You climbed up the building.” Her mouth roamed over his jaw. “You brought me roses. You wanted me, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I wanted you, but not just—”
“Take me.” She let her head fall back so she could look into those wonderful eyes. “I’ve never said that to a man before. Imagine that. Take me, Phillip.” And the words were part plea, part promise. “Just take me.”
The empty glass slipped out of her fingers as she wrapped her arms around him. Helpless to resist, he lowered her to the sofa. And took.
• • •
THE DULL ACHE BEHIND HER eyes, the more lively one dancing inside her temples, was no more than she deserved, Sybill decided as she tried to drown both of them under the hot spray of the shower.
She would never, as God was her witness, overindulge in any form of alcohol again.
She only wished the aftermath of drink had resulted in memory loss as well, as a hangover. But she remembered, much too clearly, the way she’d prattled on about herself. The things she’d told Phillip. Humiliating, private things, things she rarely even told herself.
Now she had to face him. She had to face him and the fact that in one short weekend she had wept in his arms, then had given him both her body and her most carefully guarded secrets.
And she had to face the fact that she was hopelessly, and dangerously, in love with him.
Which was totally irrational, of course. The very fact that she believed she could have developed such strong feelings for him in such a short amount of time and association was precisely why those emotions were hopeless. And dangerous.
Obviously she wasn’t thinking clearly. This barrage of feelings that had tumbled into her so quickly made it all but impossible to maintain an objective distance and analyze.
Once Seth was settled, once all the details were arranged, she would have to find that distance again. The simplest and most logical method was to begin with geographical distance and go back to New York.