…
The days that followed were to carry Christina through a spectrum of feelings and experiences, each awakening her awareness to unfamiliar dimensions within herself. With a great reluctance that had been mixed with a sense of naïve commitment to a fantasy shared with her father, Christina had left H. Trent’s side for the first time in her life. The seven days away from Seattle and responsibilities had rushed by and though she remained concerned about her father’s health she found the sense of freedom instilling a growing sense of confidence that was exhilarating.
She had never imagined herself away from her father and, until now, simply being his daughter had seemed quite enough of a role to fulfill her needs. Now suddenly, an encounter with independence was excitingly confusing. Perhaps it was her newly gained diving skills and the alternate tension and wonderment of becoming comfortable under the surface of the sea. Perhaps it was from being carefully guided by Clay’s thorough instructions and his ever present physical assuredness, a professional relationship that had proceeded between them despite the tension that seem to mark many of their personal encounters. It could be the perspective she was gaining about her relationship with Arthur or, she sometimes pondered, could it be the anticipation of the search for the cannon?
Christina didn’t know where her daily feelings of excitement and anticipation were coming from, but she found herself hurrying through dinners with the Vaughn’s and retiring early to seemingly bring the next morning , the next day, the next lesson, more quickly.
During the week, in addition to her lessons, she and Arthur had met twice with the captain of the The Endeavor and Joe, Clay’s partner. Christina was pleased that he would be assisting them on the boat in the coming weeks.
In each of the meetings the group had carefully reviewed the copies of the old ship’s logs and maps. Christina felt, in these meetings a sense of efficacy, a sense of belonging to something very meaningful to her quite apart from any eventual meaning it might have for her father.
Christina was becoming keenly aware of a growing sense of independence and control and then Arthur, over dinner, announced unexpectedly, “Clay Corbett has finally agreed to be the official photographer of our expedition.” Arthur’s announcement arrived in the middle of the soup course and shook Christina’s passive attention away from Agatha’s review of the guest list for the party that was planned for the next evening.
Christina mechanically moved her gaze from Agatha to the water goblet near her right hand and with an air of preoccupation, turned its stem between her fingers. Without looking at Arthur, she brought the goblet just near her lips and with a tone of carefully controlled indifference said, “I’m sorry Arthur, what did you say?”
She needed a moment to think. No one had mentioned the possibility that Clay might join them in their six day expedition. She had not remotely considered that their relationship would continue after the lessons ended. Clay had acted casually impersonal towards Christina since the jeep ride, though as an instructor, she thought him probably the most capable and professional man she had ever met. Her trust was so completely given over to him in the water that she knew her progress and skills were directly attributable to this.
“Clay was unsure if he would be able to join us next week. That was he on the phone just before we sat down.” Arthur’s voice reflected an inward pleasure. “We are so fortunate that he is going to be able to do this. In addition to being the best diving instructor you can find, he is a recognized oceanic photographer. He dabbles in photographs of locals and their impoverishment, but that work is largely ignored. It’s his photography skills in the ocean that have brought him sometimes significant recognition.”
“I didn’t know he was a photographer too.” Christina lowered her goblet and though trembling a little, inner warmth began to spread throughout her body.
“I believe his last book is in your cottage Christina,” Agatha added, “though why a man with Haywood and Amanda Corbett for parents, would end up becoming actually famous for taking pictures of unemployed fishermen and coral reefs, is more than I can comprehend. Arthur be a dear and pour more wine would you please.”
Christina had come to learn that Agatha, for all her apparent breeding, was basically judgmental and snobbish. She attributed her reference to Clay’s parents and his ensuing success as her usual lack of regard for people who crossed class lines by effort rather than birth.
As Arthur attended his mother’s glass, Christina felt impatience for the meal to end and she longed to retire to her quarters and find the book that Agatha had mentioned. Agatha’s review of the plans for the party and meaningless descriptions of the various expected guests, however, were not to be hurried and it was well past 10 o’clock before Agatha announced that it was “quite late” and they should all retire.
Turning to say goodnight to Arthur at the door of the guesthouse, the moonlight and the glow of the garden lights gave Christina’s deepening tan a rich bronze-like tone against her pale beige dress.
His hands pressing against the bottom of his sport coat pockets, Arthur looked self-consciously into Christina’s face, “The week has gone by quite rapidly, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, it has.”
Nervousness appearing in his voice, Arthur half turned and looked off into the garden. “I hope Christina, that…that you’re not too disappointed in your visit here so far. We’ve kept you all too busy, I’m afraid, and life here at the house can be rather…well, rather dull I suspect for an outsider.”
Sensing Arthur’s sincere concern and rather apologetic manner Christina moved to his side.
“Arthur, I’m having a perfectly marvelous time. I can’t remember when I’ve felt so relaxed and…, well…, don’t laugh…, but, grown up.”
Arthur had turned back toward her and she took the edges of his coat lapels near the buttons in her hands and pulled them together, almost comfortingly.
“When I arrived last weekend, I’ll admit that I felt as though we should have acted like long separated lovers, but I think it was a fantasy that grew and carried me through some very lonely days this past winter. Being here with you is very nice and Arthur, I hope you won’t misunderstand, but I feel like…” she paused and looked up into his eyes, “like you and I could become very, very good friends.”
Arthur’s face looked hardened for a moment and then softened into a smile. “I’m not exactly a romantic swashbuckler am I?” he observed in an amused, but self-effacing manner.
Feeling almost guilty at her admission Christina quickly rejoined, “Oh Arthur, it’s not you, it’s just that I think I used some romantic notion about you being here, almost as a way to keep from being afraid of leaving Seattle and truly being on my own.” Christina knew her confession to be only partially true, but she saw Arthur, like herself, a devoted child, unsure of himself outside his role with his parent. At the moment she felt strong enough to accept the entire responsibility for the direction of their relationship.
“I like you Arthur. I do and being here on Tortola is making me very happy.”
Arthur’s smile broadened and she felt a sudden impulse to hug him close to her. The impulse appeared to be mutual and in moments they were laughing in friendly emotional relief as they shared a brief but caring embrace that bid “goodbye” to the strain both of them had felt with each other in recent days.
Chapter 9
Once inside the sanctuary of the cottage Christina found that she had not realized how many books filled the shelves between the various artifacts. Her impatience could hardly be contained as she alternately knelt down, turned her head sideways and stood on a chair to find the name “Corbett” on a jacket. When she finally located it, her mouth became dry in apprehension, as if she were about to look into the very personal diary of a friend. But why? This was silly she told herself. It was a book that probably hundreds of people, maybe thousands had already looked at. The thought of the book being sought out and appreciated by others increased the magical quality of the beautiful
ly bound book titled, The Fragile Seas. Holding the book carefully, Christina placed it on the table.
Opening its pages near the back of the book and leafing forward, Christina found herself lost in wonderfully colored photographs of the sea life that she had so recently become acquainted with. Each picture was not only a beautiful representation of its subject, but also held a powerful sense of design and emotional content. Coral formations around the world were being endangered by man. Clay’s photographs played the subjects of oceanic life and death and its impact on humans against one another with great sensitivity. He had carefully and intuitively interspersed pictures of the challenges faced by island natives with overwhelmingly emotive photographs of the decline of the sea life. The impact on the standards of living by the oceanic abuse of humans was reflected in carefully studied and selected photographs of impoverished people. Christina like other tourists had been able to look past the faces when in town or at the dock, with total naiveté. Clay had stopped and seen the people; not in a maudlin, depressing fashion, but from a sensitive, loving perspective.
Christina’s eyes widened with the enchantment as she looked at the creative work of the man she had spent much of the last week with. She felt somewhat like she imagined her father must have when he began to discover the pieces to the story of the ring that brought her here.
Just after the title page, the dedication of the book jolted Christina from her fantasies, “With great love and respect to Penny, who has endured.” An unfamiliar feeling of jealousy swept through Christina as she read the dedication a second and then a third time.
With an audible sigh Christina put the book on the settee, her fingers lingering momentarily on its cover. She rose and walked wearily into the bathroom and in one graceful movement loosened her hair. Christina looked deep into her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Her face seemed somehow changed in the past week. Beyond the golden highlights of her tan some other change had taken place. Her expression seemed to her older and suddenly serious, the look of hopefulness and wonderment gone as if she had suddenly reached the front of some line only to learn that the tickets to some wondrous event had all been sold.
“Damn,” she said to her image, pulling a brush intensely through her silken hair. It was well and good to have clarified her feelings with Arthur, but somehow it felt as if she had hastily let go of an important fantasy only to have another whisked away by the stark reality of a dedication page in a book. Clay had become so frighteningly attractive to her that she almost disliked him for it, but in the same moments found herself drawn to him, his physical presence, his maturity and his self-confidence. As their hours together passed in the preceding week she had found herself inexplicably studying the muscles of his arms just below the taut surface of his bronzed skin. At another moment, her senses would be captured by the sunlight as it glistened in the curls of hair that lay against the power of his neck. She was angered and dismayed at her impulse and was shocked at her memory of watching the movement of his wet swimsuit against the power of his lower back and thighs.
The brush strained against her hair. “To Penny, who has endured; I bet she had to endure plenty with Mr. Clayton Corbett around the house,” Christina thought aloud barely suppressing her anger.
“Damn,” she repeated as she slammed the brush down hard against the rosewood table. “Damn, damn, damn.”
Christina jerked back the covers of the bed and dropped angrily onto the satin pillow.
“Who needs them?” she exclaimed to the emptiness of the room. Wind chimes from the distant terrace sounded the only response and a feeling of loneliness unlike any she had ever felt swept over Christina as tears filled her eyes.
…
Daybreak found the Vaughn home beginning its metamorphosis for the evening’s festive event. The noise from gardeners awakened Christina from a restless sleep and as the morning progressed she found the household preparations jostling her unusually sour mood. Agatha’s needless supervision of the workmen seemed particularly annoying to her and by lunch she excused herself and drove into town to shop and aimlessly sooth her feelings in the bakery and her favorite dress boutique. In the boutique, though she didn’t need it, she found a sensuously cut, black sheath with a delicate lace over-blouse. Standing before the mirror Christina held the dress before her with one hand while pulling her honey colored hair up and back with the other. She wondered for a moment if Clay found her attractive or was her sense of his interest in her simply imaginary? She was certain that Penny was not the only woman that held the interest of a man like Clay Corbett. Questions haunted her. Had Clay experienced many women? Did he prefer long hair, short hair, athletic women, intellectual women, simple dresses, black dresses…what kind of woman aroused him? How many had? How many had Clay covered his body with? How many had ridden his strength?
A feeling of embarrassed, self-anger flooded Christina’s cheeks as a salesperson interrupted her musings in front of the mirror.
The dress was beautiful and she wanted it. She didn’t have to please anyone anymore, though hearing that Clay’s name was on the invitation list had given the evening a certain specialness that excited her and gave her added concern for her appearance.
Leaving the shop, the packaged gown casually held under her arm, Christina’s lifting mood suddenly plummeted again as she remembered Arthur’s comment to his mother that Clay would probably bring a friend. Her mind flashed. How could she have missed the potential meaning of that comment?
Agatha had replied, “I hope not that little common girl from town. Oh, I do hope not.” Agatha’s thoughts had quickly trailed off to other more important matters, but concern had remained on her face.
Christina returned to the estate with a general feeling of unhappiness clouding her expression. Throwing the dress across the bed, she gave a fleeting thought to returning to the bakery and in a fit of self-pity staying there and eating until fitting into the tight contours of the sheath was out of the question. Restlessly blowing strands of hair away from her face, tiredness engulfed her and she found herself falling back onto the bed and sighing out of frustrated resignation.
…
As evening approached Christina dressed ambivalently, both apprehensive and excited about the upcoming evening. Somehow Clay’s presence would offer her the sense of security she felt when she was near him in the water, a feeling of protection amidst the many unfamiliar people that would be flooding into the house. She found herself agreeing with Agatha’s wish that he not bring the girl from town.
Adjusting the clasp on her earrings, Christina turned from her dressing table to attend the door to the cottage, small bells attached to a chain having announced someone’s presence on the front deck. She was not surprised by the identity of her guest but totally unprepared for her stunning entrance.
Agatha’s movement through the doorway was dramatized by her selection of an absolutely luminous, full length, pink, silk dress that was only surpassed by Agatha’s meticulously styled hair which was adorned on one side by an arrangement of six perfectly placed white orchids. At her throat, a single, magnificent tear drop diamond surrounded by dozens of delicate pale rubies captured the lights from the living room as well as Christina’s gaze. Agatha’s position at the party was clearly established.
“What a perfectly darling dress Christina, and the over-blouse…what a good idea for these evening breezes. You were so chilled looking in that little dress you wore last week, but you were tired that night and can be forgiven for that. I’m very pleased, very pleased Christina. You look absolutely lovely. Arthur will be so very proud.” Without giving her a chance to respond, Agatha walked into the doorway of the bedroom and continued, “I hope everything here is to your liking dear. I probably shouldn’t mention Arthur’s pride in you, but he does think so very highly of you, Christina.” Agatha walked near the wall and ran her fingertips over objects and books on the shelves. “These sorts of occasions, though I know it sounds silly, in a sense, are very importan
t to Arthur’s position. The friends that my son becomes close to, in turn, become an important part of his relationships here in the islands. Your being a…, do forgive me, how shall I put it…from a family that lives so far away…naturally everyone tonight will be immensely interested in finding out about you and particularly about your father’s position with the University. Not many of the other young women that you will meet this evening work at a job, as you do and they will probably ask you all sorts of questions…., you know how young girls can be.”
Christina found her stomach tightening as Agatha’s all too apparent purpose filled her with resentment and bewilderment. Arthur had obviously not mentioned the resolution they reached the previous evening.
Quickly deciding that it was none of Agatha’s business, Christina released any responsibility to alleviate Agatha’s anxiety. Turning her attention to the door, Christina closed it brusquely and observed, with an edge to her words, “I think that if anyone really is curious about my working they will find out that there is a very big difference between not having to work because of wealth and choosing to work because of one’s sense of self worth.” While feeling that she shouldn’t begin a disagreeable exchange with her hostess, Christina at the same time felt it necessary to make a point about her recognition of Agatha’s intent.
Agatha was looking coldly indifferent and had stopped before her studied image in a large wall mirror. Running a finger over the edge of the color on her top lip Agatha replied, “I’ve rather learned that self-worth can be directly proportionate to the power one has my dear. But let’s not quibble about our differing little philosophies. I just wanted to get a good look at you before the rush begins. I get so very busy at these things and I was afraid I wouldn’t get to see how lovely you hoped to look.”
Afraid I might out dress you Christina thought angrily, restraining her impulse she moved towards the door with a gesture of inviting Agatha to leave.
Courier of Love Page 8