Embers (39 page)

He waited for Meg to speak.

"
Because
...
because
... ."
She sighed and closed her eyes, frustrated beyond measure that she couldn
'
t just blurt out the truth about her feelings for him and be done with it.

For a minute or so, neither of them spoke. Then, while her eyes were still closed, she felt the featherlight stroke of the back of his fingers on her cheek. It was an overwhelming moment for Meg. At any other time
—
in any other life
—
she would have let that stroke lead to something. But not now. Not in this life. She bit her lip, determined not to betray her emotions.

"
Just how much
does
Allie mean to you?
"
he asked.

"
Everything,
"
Meg said simply. She opened her eyes and stared ahead, unseeing.
"
Nothing comes before her.
"

"
It was a stupid question,
"
Tom said, a hard edge creeping into his voice.

But he wasn
'
t willing to let it drop. A moment later, he said,
"
You
'
re not doing her
any favors by creating a dream-
world for her to live in. Sooner or later, Allie
'
s going to have to take a knock on the chin.
"

"
She
'
s had her share of knocks
—
as you know,
"
Meg said.

"
You know what I mean, Meg: I mean the fact that you spend
your
life trying to shape
her
life. She
'
s not a kid anymore.
"

"
Everyone needs someone to lean on once in a while,
"
Meg said defensively.

"
You
'
ve gone beyond moral support,
"
Tom suggested.
"
I think
you
need her to need you more than she actually needs you.
'
,

"
What kind of psychobabble is
that?
"
Meg asked, surprised that he
'
d even tread on such hallowed ground. A bond between
sisters
...
he had no business tinkering with it.

"
I throw it out for what it
'
s worth,
"
he said with careful nonchalance.
"
At least think about it.
"

Meg thoroughly resented his attempt to analyze her.
She
wasn
'
t the one with a problem. Maybe
he
had a thing about water; maybe
Allie
had a thing about alcohol. But as far as Meg knew, she was phobia and addiction free.

They were outside of town now, nearly at the granite pillars that marked the entrance to the winding drive that led to the Fairlawn estate. Meg had absolutely no enthusiasm for the
evening before her. She glanced at Tom, whose handsome, chiseled profile seemed etched
from the same granite as Fair
lawn
'
s pillars, and looked away. Three hours of torture: that was all that lay ahead.

Tom turned into the drive, lined with trees threaded with thousands of sparkling white lights, and rolled to a stop in the portico of the grand shingle-style mansion. A valet opened Meg
'
s door and helped her out, then accepted the keys from Tom and drove off to park his Cutlass. Tom offered his arm with barely a hint of irony to Meg and escorted her past potted corkscrew topiaries through the double oak doors, where they handed their tickets over to a sweet old lady sitting at a card table and marched up to the receiving line of Meg
'
s first
—
a
nd probably only
—
fling with Bar Harbor
'
s Four Hundred.

The reception committee consisted of Camplin
'
s ex-wife Dorothea, chairwoman of the event; a couple of officials of the Children
'
s Charity; and the owners of Fairlawn. Meg introduced herself and shook hands down the line, exchanging pleasantries: delighted to come; a wonderful place;
such
a good cause; enchantingly done. Tom was right behind her, presumably offering variations on her themes.

They
'
d arrived at the height of the crush, which was a blessing; Meg had half expected Dorothea Camplin to buttonhole her and demand to know what the
hell
she was doing mucking up the family name. But Dorothea was far too much of a socialite to give Meg more than a cursory smile as she scanned the guests behind her for more familiar faces. A guest or two later, Meg heard her say,
"
Helen!
You must
see my garden be
fore the Japanese Iris are done."

Meg and Tom were bumped out into a drawing room of dark-paneled and chandeliered elegance, where large round tables covered in damask offered a tempting array of hors d
'
oeuvres.

Allie showed up thirty seconds later balancing a tray of her own.
"
Madame?
"
she said to her sister, prodding her with the tray.
"
Voulez-vous du saumon fume?
"

"
Allie, what
are
you talking about?
"
Meg said in a low mutter.
"
And where
'
s Gordon Camplin? I don
'
t want him seeing me first.
"

Allie giggled and said,
"
One of the girls from
Quebec
is going around
voulez-vous-ing
everybody, so I thought I
'
d try it. She says I have a terrific accent. I
really
should be on the stage. As for old Gordy, don
'
t worry about him. I saw him go into the library with the owner a minute ago.
"

Allie turned to Tom and lowered her gaze in that semi-shy way she had that made men want to ravish her.
"
You
look awfully dapper tonight, Mr. Gatsby,
"
she said.

Allie
'
s spirits were as high as Meg
'
s were low.
"
Okay, give me one of these things,
"
Meg said abruptly.
"
And then
circulate
,
for goodness
'
sake, or people will notice.
"

"
Meg!
"
her sister murmured, stricken.
"
Let me have
some
fun.
"

Chastened, Meg said,
"
I
'
m sorry. I just want to get this over with. I
'
d give anything to be home right now.
"

"
And I,
"
her sister said softly,
"
would give anything to be you right now.
"

She left them together, leaving Meg more wretched than before.

The buzz of polite talk around them had become a clamor as the room filled with hungry guests who went straight for the table with the shrimp. From a huge tent that had been set up next to the house, Meg heard a band strike up a tune
—
no dancing, obviously, would take place on the beautiful parquet floors of the mansion.

Echoing her thoughts, Tom said softly,
"
I hear music. Will you dance with me?
"

He might as well have said,
"
Will you make wild, abandoned love with me right now, on the floor?
"

Meg was truly scandalized. She couldn
'
t dance with him
—
couldn't
.
If she let herself be taken in his arms
...
if she let herself breathe in the scent of him
...
if she let herself come one millimeter closer to him than she was right now

"
Don
'
t ask me that,
"
she said in agony.
"
I
ca
n't
—
"

She turned away from him and found herself face-to-face with Gordon Camplin.

If Meg was hoping for something dramatic in the way of a reaction from Camplin, she got her wish. When he saw her, Camplin gasped and put his hand to his breast in oh-dear-God fashion, stopping dead in his tracks.

Guilty!
Meg decided on the spot. For a minute she thought she
'
d given him a heart attack, which would
'
ve been the simplest thing; but no, he recovered and, still not taking his eyes off her, he walked up to her uncertainly.

"
Please
...
excuse me
...
don
'
t I know you?
"
he asked in an utterly baffled, distressingly gentle voice. The Archbishop of Canterbury might have used that tone with her. Incredible.

"
We
'
ve never met, Mr. Camplin,
"
she said grimly.
"
I
'
m Margaret Mary Atwells Hazard,
"
she said, deliberately echoing her grandmother
'
s name. Her eyes glittered with pride and cool fury. So this was the man. Normally Meg
'
s handshake was firm, but she was so filled with loathing at the thought that his well-kept hand had worked with evil design on her grandmother
'
s body that she let her own hand lie limp in his, and then withdrew it.

"
Ah. Atwells. Yes
...
of course. I should
'
ve made the connection. Your
—
I suppose she would be, grandmother?
— worked at Eagle
'
s Nest one season.
"

"
The
season,
"
Meg said, refusing to let him get away with polite vagaries.

"
Yes, in
'
47. A terrible time. Tragic
...
utterly tragic. I have nightmares still. We all do, the old-timers in town.
"

Whatever else he was, Gordon Camplin was not an old
-
timer. He might have passed his seventh decade, but he
'
d done it at a brisk jog, as Meg knew well. He had the kind of body that scientists predict may someday last to a hundred and thirty: spare, wiry, not too tall, without an unnecessary ounce of body fat. And he still had all his hair. She hated him for not being fat and gouty and in chronic pain. She thought of Orel Tremblay: only the good died hurting.

Camplin looked expectantly at Tom, waiting for an introduction. Tom stuck out his hand and said,
"
Tom Wyler. Nice to meet you.
"

"
How do you do. Summer visitor?
"
Camplin asked.

Tom nodded and said,
"
Half the summer, anyway.
"

Camplin turned his attention back to Meg. Even she could see that he was trying hard not to stare, but without success. Good. Let him squirm.

"
I was just commenting on
Bar Harbor
'
s famous
'
cottages,
'
"
Tom said smoothly to Camplin.
"
Were you aware that there
'
s a replica of the Eagle
'
s Nest at the Inn Between?
"

"
The
Inn
Between?
"
Camplin repeated with a blank frown. Apparently bed-and-breakfasts were not a subject for polite conversation among his set.