The Glass Flame

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  He was saying the things one had to say in the face of loss—the old things that were always said, when nothing at all can really comfort in the immediate and empty present. Only he didn’t know that none of the clichés applied to me. I wasn’t weeping for my own loss, but for David’s—tears for the ending of a life, but not in the way Trevor meant. I had wanted to be free—but not this way.

  When I’d managed to swallow my tears I tried to speak in a voice that wouldn’t break. It was necessary, somehow, to make him understand.

  “I’m not crying because I loved David, but perhaps because I cheated him. We cheated each other.”

  He nodded, sitting stiffly beside me. “Yes, he told us a little about that. But you always went back to him, didn’t you? He knew he could count on you for that, at least.”

  My tears were gone in an instant, and I stared at him, shocked. What had David said? What lies about me had he told?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I managed, and realized as I spoke that it was useless to defend myself. Now I was beginning to understand the prejudice against me. “Never mind. I don’t suppose it matters now what he may have said. I wasn’t crying because I loved him any longer, but because he was so full of raging life. And now it’s all wiped out. Now I do owe him a debt. Someone caused that fire. Someone caused his death. And I’m going to stay here until I know who it was. That’s all that matters now.”

  Trevor started the car with an explosive burst of speed, and I could tell by his carved-in-stone profile how much I had shocked him. He had shocked me just as much, but there was nothing to be done about that.

  On the drive back to his house he didn’t speak to me at all, and there seemed nothing left that I could say to him. He couldn’t possibly understand. Not ever.

  Three

  When we reached the house a red Ferrari stood in the space before the garage.

  “Lori and Chris are back,” Trevor said. “You’d better come inside and meet them.”

  In spite of everything I had told myself about his never understanding, I found that I couldn’t let him go until I at least tried to explain. “Wait, please. I’ve told you badly. There’s so much more.”

  “Knowing my brother, I don’t doubt it,” Trevor said. He got out of the car and came around to my door, the box Keegan had given him under one arm. “In any case, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  I had spoken those same words a little while ago, and I already knew they were false. “It matters to me. It does matter!”

  Clearly he wasn’t interested in what mattered to me. “Let’s skip it,” he said, and I sensed that something had pushed him close to the exploding point. Perhaps something that had little to do with me.

  I let him help me from the car, feeling more hopeless than ever. As we approached the house a girl appeared in the doorway. She was generously built, with a shining fall of blond hair caught by a ribbon at the nape of her neck. Her young, sober face was turned worriedly toward Trevor.

  “This is Lu-Ellen, who helps to keep us running,” Trevor said. “Lu-Ellen, this is Mrs. Hallam.”

  She gave me a sympathetic look, said, “Hi,” and went on urgently to Trevor. “Mrs. Andrews and Chris are back. You saw the car? Mr. Giff is staying for lunch, but Mr. Eric’s having a big go-round in there with all of them right now. I don’t think he’ll stay.”

  “Thank you,” Trevor said.

  The girl went on, clearly feeling herself one of the family. “I don’t reckon Mrs. Andrews is feeling much better.”

  Trevor nodded, and Lu-Ellen disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. He turned back to me. “You’d better come in and meet the rest of the family. Lori’s inclined to be—emotional these days. I don’t know—” He stared at me for a moment and then gestured toward the door.

  Before we could go through it, however, a large, rather burly man came toward us down the hall in an angry rush, pulling himself to a halt when he saw Trevor.

  “I thought getting Lori away to Asheville would help!” he burst out. “But I can’t do anything with her. Maybe you’d better take over.”

  “I’ll manage,” Trevor said. “Karen, this is Eric Caton, Lori’s uncle, and our nearest neighbor. Eric, this is—”

  “Yes, I know. David’s wife.” He regarded me from beneath bushy gray eyebrows—a penetrating look that probed disconcertingly. “You’ve popped into a hornet’s nest, young lady. I hope you’re not allergic to bee venom.”

  Maggie’s husband was a bit overwhelming and I had no answer for his remark.

  He seemed to expect none, and I suspected that he rather enjoyed taking people by surprise.

  “I’ll leave Lori to you, Trevor. The family has done all they can for now. We understand, all right, but we don’t approve. If you need help, I can send Maggie down. Sometimes she listens to Maggie. Right now she’s upsetting Chris badly.”

  Trevor said nothing, and glancing at him, I once more had the impression of a powerful anger held in check.

  Eric threw me a wry look and strode off in the direction of the path through the woods.

  “If you like,” I offered, “I can go to my room and stay out of sight for a while. I’m sure you don’t want me intruding in the middle of family problems.”

  “You are already in the middle. Come along, and we’ll get it over with.”

  There was no escape. He opened the door for me, and then went ahead down the hall. Before we reached the living room a boy of about ten came hurtling toward us. I had a quick impression that he was tall for his age, and thin, with very fair hair. He would have run straight by, but Trevor reached out with one hand and caught him.

  “Chris!” he said. “Chris—what’s the matter?”

  The boy struggled in his father’s grasp, broke away and ran out of the house. For just an instant I glimpsed the look of pain on Trevor’s face, and then his guard was up again, rigid and controlled.

  “Come along, Karen.”

  There was nothing I wanted less than to “come along.” I felt as though I were marching into a battle line when I didn’t know what the war was about. But there was no help for it and I went with him. When we reached the wide door of the living room I could look through glass to the big semicircle of deck beyond, reaching out over the side of the mountain. Two, people stood at the rail, with their backs to us. The man was tall and slender, with ash-blond hair as pale as that of the slight woman who stood beside him, leaning against his arm. Her cousin, Giff Caton, undoubtedly, and the woman—Lori. She was crying bitterly, weeping aloud like a child, and he was doing his best to quiet and comfort her.

  “Stay here,” Trevor said. “And hold this, please.” He thrust the box the deputy had given him into my hands and went to the deck.

  I stood helplessly in the living room, bewildered by unleashed emotions that seemed to be flying in all directions, and wanting only to escape. In order to distract myself, I looked about the big room that made a pool of calm and quiet in the center of what seemed a serious storm.

  Colors of bark and beige and rust had been used in the furniture. The beautiful, shaggy rugs were undoubtedly mountain crafted—handwoven from natural dyed yarns in browns and tans. The walls were a light neutral color that added to the sense of stillness. Both ends of the room were solid background, with only clerestory windows set high at one end, lending a translucence to the room. In just one place a full window, tall and narrow, had been set into an end wall. It stood alone, perfectly framing a long-needled pine tree. A lovely touch. All the rest of the glass was across the front, opening out upon the mountains, decorating the room with the magnificent view. It needed to be a quiet, unemphatic room, with the mountains out there running to the horizon in every direction, and the sky painting the ceiling.

  “It is beautiful, isn’t it?” said a voice from an opposite corner. I turned to see Nona Andrews sitting quietly in her wheelchair watching me. “Come over here,” she said. “My chair doesn’t move easily on the rugs.”

/>   From the open doors the sound of sobbing had lessened, and I kept my eyes away from the deck, not wanting to stare. Obediently, I went to sit upon a leather hassock beside Nona’s chair.

  “It’s a good thing Trevor got home,” she said. “Sometimes Lori listens to him when she won’t to anyone else. Giff is fine when she wants to go on a spree, but not for this sort of thing. And her Uncle Eric can’t do much but roar around when she really goes to pieces. If she’s gone to pieces. That’s quite a performance she’s putting on out there.”

  Nona had changed to another long gown, this time of rusty red, and had clipped on dangling ruby earrings. Her graying hair that I had last seen in a heavy braid over one shoulder had been wound into a thick coil on top of her head, giving her a look of dignity no wheelchair could lessen. Her bright green eyes were ashine with lively malice as she watched the scene on the deck.

  “Why is she crying like that?” I asked.

  “Because she thinks Chris is behind the fires and she’s blaming everyone in sight for not controlling him. Or at least this is what she is claiming this time. We all know better. Even Chris knows better.”

  I started to ask a further question, but she leaned forward and tapped the box I had rested on my knees.

  “What’s that?”

  I hesitated for just a moment and then opened it to show her.

  She looked inside and recoiled. “Close it, close it! I don’t like dead things.” Then as I was replacing the lid, she stopped me. “Wait!” One small, bony hand darted in, clasped the ring in her fingers and drew it out. With a macabre playfulness, she dropped it over the tip of a forefinger and let it slide loosely down to the knuckle. “I see the sapphire stone is gone.”

  Sapphire, I thought. So the ring had contained David’s birthstone.

  “I never saw that ring before,” I said. “He must have bought it since he came here.”

  She shook her head, her small, firm mouth stretching into a cat’s grin. “He didn’t buy it. Lori gave it to him. She found it in one of the craft shops in Gatlinburg.”

  I sat very still, returning her look, hardly blinking. This, I knew, was the edge of real trouble, the rim of disaster. Or perhaps not the rim of anything, but the eye of a hurricane.

  “You might as well know,” Nona said. “I don’t suppose anyone else will tell you. I went up to see Maggie in my car this morning and she said she hadn’t said a word to you about it. Trevor’s hoping you’ll just go away before someone speaks out. But Maggie told me you’re planning to stay awhile. So you’d better know. Probably it wasn’t altogether Lori’s fault, though God knows she can be impulsive. And often a little cruel. Her mistake was to take David seriously, and not know he was just trying to spite his brother. She still hasn’t realized that. So his death has hit her hard.”

  I wanted to put my hands over my ears, to stop her words from penetrating. But I had heard them all. Trevor’s wife and my husband. Now a number of small pieces began to fall into place. Nona had understood David very well, as poor Lori might not have done.

  “David was really a stinker,” she went on. “I don’t think I need to tell you that. And Lori was ripe for the picking. Maybe that was partly Trevor’s own fault. It didn’t take much effort on David’s part to have Lori adoring him. She’s smart in some ways, pretty silly in others. But I expect you know what David could do. You must have been there too, once upon a time. Though I doubt you are anymore. Not from what David told us.”

  “I hope you’re not being as cruel as this to Lori,” I said.

  She blinked at me, veiling her green look as the wisps of hair danced about her face. “So? You’re not as meek as you seem? Good—I like a little spirit. And you needn’t think I took everything David said as gospel truth. Maybe we haven’t been too welcoming, Karen, but we had to expect David’s wife to be a poor sort. Maybe-we were wrong. Anyway, if you need help, come to me. I make it my business to know what’s going on, and sometimes I have more influence than you might expect.”

  Now she was talking in riddles. I set the box on a table and left my hassock to move about the room. I had to think of something else quickly. Anger with David was futile now. I looked at the paintings on the walls and saw that they were good. No more ferns. Here a little drama of color and execution had been permitted in the quiet room. I admired what looked like a De Kooning abstraction, and a Bermuda impression by Charles Demuth. Both comparatively old and good. Trevor’s taste or Lori’s? But I thought I knew. Nona had given me an all too betraying glimpse of Lori, and Maggie had spoken of Lori’s liking for the mural of ferns.

  All this art appreciation was playing games, I knew, to keep me from thinking of David.

  Behind me I heard movement and I turned to see Giff Caton coming through the glass doors from the deck, with Trevor and Lori moving slowly behind him, Trevor’s arm supporting his wife.

  Lori’s cousin came toward me; moving with no great animation. His blue eyes had a rather sleepy look that made me wonder if it was real or assumed. His mouth seemed sensitive and mobile, though thin-lipped, his hose a little too classically carved. He missed being extraordinarily handsome.

  “I’m Gifford Caton,” he said, “and of course you are Karen. I’m sorry about what happened to David. Useless words, but perhaps there’s a little comfort in hearing them spoken.”

  I put my hand into the one he held out and thanked him. Oddly enough, he was the first one who had uttered any real regret over David’s death. Maggie hadn’t sounded too sincere in her offhand words.

  There was no time for anything else because Trevor was drawing Lori toward me. She looked at me with brimming eyes, her soft mouth trembling as she made an effort to speak. Then she gave up and fled from the room. Trevor followed, but in a few minutes he rejoined us and I could sense the mingling in him of pain, deep resentment and that smoldering anger he couldn’t release.

  I hated what David had done. I could understand better now Trevor’s coldness toward me, but I had no way of lessening it in my own defense.

  Nona moved a hand, as though she dismissed Lori. “I’ve set things out for Lu-Ellen to get us a light lunch. She can make a passable omelet, though I’ve never convinced her to do anything but wave at us when a meal is ready.”

  I turned to see the shining, well-scrubbed Lu-Ellen gesturing hospitably from the doorway to the dining room.

  “Lori’s gone to lie down,” Trevor said. “Lu-Ellen will take her something later. Chris often likes to eat lunch in the kitchen and escape the grownups.”

  Oddly enough, after the glimpse I’d had of storm, this was a pleasanter meal than we’d enjoyed at this table last night. Giff Caton could take credit for smoothing troubled waters. He had the southern man’s natural charm, and a gift for easy conversation. He could talk rather lazily and well on almost any subject, and he and Nona carried on a good-natured sparring, in which he lost to her gracefully. With Trevor he seemed slightly less comfortable, and I sensed some core of contention between them—perhaps because Giff was Lori’s cousin and Eric Caton’s son?

  During the course of the meal I tried to tell Trevor how much I liked his house, inside and out, but he only listened remotely and I began to run down very quickly.

  “I took some pictures this morning,” I wound up feebly. “I’m not sure the lighting was right and I want to go back to that rock out there for more.”

  “Lover’s Leap,” Nona said.

  I glanced at her and saw that the ring with the missing stone was gone from her finger and wondered what she had done with it. Not that it mattered. It was nothing I wanted to keep. Indeed, I wanted to keep nothing in that box. All its horror should be buried with David.

  “I don’t know of anyone who has leaped off that rock,” Trevor said.

  Nona grinned at him. “I’ll wager we could find somebody if we dug back far enough. There are always lover’s leaps.”

  Trevor seemed annoyed, but Giff picked up the subject. “Of course the real Lover’s Leap is down
on the island—Belle Isle. There’s a spooky place for you to photograph, Karen. I can show it to you sometime, if you like.”

  “I’ve already been to Belle Isle, and I don’t specialize in spooky places,” I said. “I like to photograph houses. Modern houses.”

  Trevor’s remote look focused a little. “Doesn’t that become pretty limiting after a while?”

  From him such a remark was unexpected, and I wondered if he was baiting me. “Limiting? You’re an architect. You keep on designing houses.”

  “People live in my houses. Haven’t you wanted to broaden your field—take pictures of people, animals—anything alive?”

  That was a large and rather sore subject, as Trevor couldn’t know. I had wanted to branch out more ambitiously. There had been times when I grew tired of even the finest and most handsome of houses. Human expression—faces and the lives behind those faces—had always drawn me, and I had talked to David about trying my hand in a new field. Not studio portraits—more an action type of picture. The sort of thing that might flash a story at the beholder and leave him with better understanding. David had been against my experimenting from the first, and I could remember his very words: You’ve got a good thing going that you’re paid for well. Why dilute your efforts?

  I hadn’t felt that it would be dilution, but perhaps a step into a more challenging and interesting skill. I’d thought about it a lot, but I’d lacked the confidence to persist in the face of David’s discouragement. He had become a master at putting me down, and though I knew that in an odd way he had been jealous of what I did, I’d given up and let him stop me. Now Trevor had opened the door a crack with his question, and something in me, too long suppressed, responded.

  I smiled at him so warmly that he looked surprised. “That’s something I’ve always wanted to do. Photograph people, I mean. Not just faces—but human beings in real situations. Perhaps even in stress situations.”

  Nona shook her head in disapproval. “That’s the very thing that ought to be stopped. News photographers poking their cameras into the faces of the bereaved, the suffering. Horrible!”