Ivy Secrets (3 page)

But the edge of his words had caught Charlie’s guilt and inched under her skin. She could almost hear Elizabeth’s unspoken accusation:
You only married my son for his money. Your college degree was only a ruse to get your claws into the Hobart fortune.

She readjusted the clip in her hair and tried to push the ghost of her mother-in-law from her mind. “Besides,” she said, “I’m sure you know that Ellen is not the only reason I’m upset.”

“The divorce? Are you angry she mentioned that?”

Charlie let her hands go limp at her sides. She was too tired to quarrel with Peter, too tired and too defeated. Still, Charlie knew Peter would expect her to carry on as she always had—as though Elizabeth didn’t bother her, belittle her, or make her feel undeserving. Peter would expect it because Charlie had let him believe it. It had been easier that way.

She returned to her seat on the sofa. Peter believed that Charlie had everything under control … much the same way his mother had. A strange thought passed through Charlie’s mind: Maybe Elizabeth, too, had put up a front. Maybe Elizabeth had been just as insecure, as weak, and as scared as Charlie. Maybe she had acted otherwise because she had been so damn afraid of losing everything she’d worked so hard to get.

Maybe Charlie wasn’t so different from Elizabeth, after all.

She felt Peter’s eyes on her now. She raised her head to meet his gaze. Suddenly, Charlie saw not the capable, grown man before her, but a little boy. A little boy who had just lost his mother, the woman who’d always kept everything well in hand; a little boy who needed a woman to tell him what to do next.

“What would you think about selling this place?” she asked. “About getting a place of our own?”

Peter laughed. “Charlie, this is our home now. Yours, mine, and Jenny’s. Besides, you heard the will. If we leave here, the money will go into the foundation.”

“You’ll make enough money as chairman.”

He winced and averted his eyes from Charlie. She watched his gaze slowly roam the room, past the fireplace, over the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, around the pedestal of the antique globe, then stopped at the huge cherry desk with the intricate brass drawer pulls and hand-tooled leather top.

“This was my father’s desk,” he said quietly.

Charlie was torn between wanting to comfort him and wanting to groan.

“I can still see him sitting here. No matter how busy he was, he always had time to read to me. And to John.” He blinked and looked back at her. “I don’t want to leave here.”

Charlie had a sinking feeling of futility.

“I am almost forty years old, Charlie. I am almost forty years old and I have no parents. I feel like an orphan.”

She tried to quell her rising irritation.
She
was the one who should be upset now.
She
was the one who had been treated badly by Elizabeth.
She
, not Peter. “You have a family, Peter. You have me. And Jenny.” She twisted on the sofa and wondered why everything always seemed to come back to him. Why were his needs more important? Was he the only one who had a right to be happy—or sad? Charlie stared at her husband and wondered if all men were so self-centered.

“My family belongs here,” he continued. “This is the house I was born in.” Then Peter dropped his head. “Are you sorry you married me?”

She looked at the carpet, then back at Peter. The years in college flowed back to her mind, the years of eager anticipation, of hope, of early love. Then she thought of her mother, of her mother’s ongoing struggles. And Charlie remembered that life could have been worse.

“No, Peter,” she said quietly, “I’m not sorry I married you.” She rubbed the edge of the velvet sofa and noticed the cording was thin. Perhaps it was time to redecorate this room—no, this entire old tomb, now that the queen was dead. Perhaps she should continue to carry on as before, and hope that life would be easier with Elizabeth gone.

But then Charlie thought of Jenny, standing by the window,
staring out. She thought of the responsibility she had to Jenny to give her the best life possible. “I’m not upset for myself so much,” Charlie said, “as for Jenny.”

“Mother never knew how much Jenny means to us. Especially after …” he cleared his throat as his words trailed off into nothingness. “At least she left her a Fabergé.”

“A token,” Charlie said, surprised at the sudden venom that spit from her voice.

“An item valued at a couple of hundred thousand dollars is hardly a ‘token.’ ”

Charlie laughed. “Come on, Peter. Your mother’s diamond and sapphire choker alone is worth more than any egg.” She rose again and paced to the window where Jenny had stood. She willed her control to return. “Besides,” she said as she waved her hand, “it isn’t about money, Peter. Elizabeth never accepted Jenny. Even in death.”

Peter walked up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sure Mother realized that Jenny will be my heir. Any money gleaned from the business will eventually go to her. As will the house.”

Charlie looked out the window. Jenny was crossing the lawn, head down, pace slow, headed toward the stables. “Tell that to a fourteen-year-old whose grandmother had just kicked her in the heart.”

Peter pulled his hands from her and marched toward the desk. “Dammit, Charlie! You’re acting like a spoiled brat. After all Mother did for you …” He slapped his palm on the edge of the desk. Charlie felt the sting as though he had slapped her face. He turned toward her again. “Oh, God, Charlie,” he said as he went back and stood, facing her, arms straight at his sides. “I’m sorry. That was a thoughtless remark.”

Charlie kept her arms tight around herself. She looked at her husband but didn’t answer.

“I don’t know why I said it.”

She unfolded her arms and took his hands. “You said it because you believe it is the truth.”

He shook his head. Tears formed in his eyes.

Charlie remembered their first night together here at the manor. She had seen tears in Peter’s eyes then, when he was faced with his mother’s rejection. It had been part of the reason Charlie tried so hard, part of why she immersed
herself in the symphony, the art museum, the ballet. They were things she thought would please Elizabeth, make Elizabeth accept her, make Peter glad he had married her. It had taken a couple of years for Charlie to realize Elizabeth found these pursuits frivolous—business was all she respected. Instead of bringing them closer together, Charlie’s efforts had only pushed them further apart. The irony was that business was what Charlie had once wanted for herself, long before Peter had entered her life, long before Elizabeth had made her feel so inferior. But Charlie had closed the door on a career, and staying busy, frenetically busy, became her refuge—a way to pass the time, a reason to get out of the manor, away from the watchful eye of the matriarch. And, she had hoped that someday Elizabeth would come to respect her and approve of her. Like Peter, she had kept trying.

“Your mother could not help the way she was,” Charlie said, as she reached to brush a tear from her husband’s cheek. “Any more than I can. We all do our best. It’s all we can do.”

Peter tipped back his head as if trying to hold back more tears. “I don’t know if I can handle things without her.”

Charlie felt the pain in his heart. Fifteen years of marriage, she reasoned, bonded one human being to another. She wondered if it had been love or the storms that had become the glue for their vows. “You’ll handle things, Peter,” she said with conviction. “Now, I think I’d better find Jenny. She doesn’t understand this the way we do.” She left her husband standing by the window and wondered if, in fact, he—or any of them—would really be able to handle things without Elizabeth Hobart.

    A pungent scent of manure and hay filled Charlie’s lungs as she walked into the stables. She swallowed quickly and made her way past the stalls, looking into each one for Jenny. She knew Jenny would be here; from a young age, the girl had seemed to relate better to animals than to people.

At the stall marked with the purple blanket that read Bluebell, Charlie stopped. Jenny stood inside, her chocolate
silk dress covered with hay, her ivory face pressed against the sleek side of the regal Morgan. She was whispering to the horse, words that Charlie could not understand.

When had her daughter become so somber? Charlie wondered. When had the vibrance of her childhood been dulled by this dark, melancholy cloud? And worse, why hadn’t Charlie noticed? She drew in a breath. “Honey, are you all right?”

The whispers ceased. Jenny lowered her chin and tossed back her long, dark hair. She began brushing the horse. “I’m fine, Mother. I just came out to groom Bluebell.”

Charlie took a step into the stall. “In your silk dress?”

Jenny kept brushing.

Charlie reached out for her. “Honey—” She broke off as Jenny moved to the other side of the horse.

“With all the funeral stuff going on I’ve been neglecting the horses,” Jenny said clearly, not looking at Charlie.

“That’s why we have grooms. It’s their job to see to the horses.”

Jenny was silent. The sounds of her gentle strokes swished through the air.

“I thought you might be upset over Grandmother’s will,” Charlie said.

Jenny stopped brushing. “Why? Because Darrin got the house in the Hamptons? I’ve barely been there, Mother. I spend summers with Tess, remember?”

“I was referring to the jewelry. To the fact that she left it to Patsy.”

“Who needs jewelry? Tess says jewelry is a waste of money because the only people who enjoy it are the people looking at you. You can’t see it to enjoy it yourself.” She started brushing again. “Besides, I got an egg. At least it’s something I can see. It’s something I get to enjoy.”

Charlie wondered if Jenny was serious. Did Tess really feel that way? She thought of her old college friend, wrapped in long skirts and shawls, hair long and straight, face scrubbed of makeup. Yes, Charlie realized, Tess would have said that. Which was so ironic, because, unlike Charlie, Tess had been wealthy enough to have all the jewels she wanted.

The horse snorted. Jenny reached into the pocket of her four-hundred-dollar dress and pulled out an apple. She
tucked it between the horse’s large teeth. Charlie stepped back.

“Can I pick out my egg today?” Jenny asked. “Can I take it to show Tess?”

A vision of Jenny’s suitcase being tossed into the luggage compartment of a bus came to Charlie’s mind. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

Jenny moved to the corner of the stall and began fluffing the bed of hay. “I’ll be careful with it, Mom.”

Charlie shook her head. “No. It’s too valuable.”

“It’s so dumb. All those eggs do is sit in that cabinet in the drawing room. Nobody hardly looks at them anymore. Nobody hardly
enjoys
them.” She kept her back to Charlie, busy with her work.

“No. And I’d appreciate it if you came inside now. You’re going to ruin that dress.”

Jenny tossed back her hair. “Can we do something tonight? Rent a movie or something?”

Charlie closed her eyes. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to make Jenny’s life the way Jenny wanted it. “Not tonight,” she answered. “Your father and I have a cocktail party to attend.”

Jenny didn’t respond, but Charlie noticed a flush of pale crimson sear her daughter’s pale cheeks.

“The party is business,” Charlie continued, though she knew it sounded weak, a halfhearted excuse. “A company from China.”

Jenny set down the horse’s brush. “I’d better finish packing anyway. My bus leaves at seven in the morning.”

“We’ll miss you.”

“Sure.” Jenny whisked past her mother and headed out of the barn.

Charlie remained standing in the stall. The horse nudged her side. She stroked its forehead. “What are we going to do with her, Bluebell?” she whispered. She ran her hand down the silky coat of the horse’s neck and thought of the tender, sensitive care that Jenny gave Bluebell. And then Charlie realized that Jenny—like the Fabergé egg she’d just inherited—was not only beautiful, but also very fragile. She wondered if, in a few years, Jenny would go to Smith. If she did, Charlie would have to insist that she not live off campus with Tess. Because whether her daughter liked it or not, the artsy,
bohemian life that her old friend lived was simply not in Jenny’s genes.

Charlie slowly left the stall and went through the barn. She thought of Tess. She thought of Marina. And then Charlie wondered if what had seemed so right so long ago, had, in fact, been very, very wrong.

The small bell jingled above the door, sprinkling a warm summer welcome of melodic harmony. Tess entered the store and inhaled the thick smells of musty old books and rich, roasted coffee—intimate, comfortable smells of the cozy things that filled her heart. Familiarity had always been important to Tess; newness distressed her.

“Morning, Dell,” Tess called out.

From behind a rack of bound
National Geographics
shuffled a short, round woman, her gray hair pulled back in a single braid, her long, gathered skirt billowing behind her, her sleeveless gingham shirt peeking out from the waistband, revealing the same, soft, simple plumpness of the rag dolls Dell collected. There was a small catch in Tess’s throat as she realized that aside from the gray hair, aside from the long braid, Tess was almost a mirror image of Dell. The problem was, Dell was well into her sixties, nearly three decades older than Tess. She wondered how long it would be before her face, too, began to sag.