Jane (16 page)

On the next run-through, Mr. Rathburn yelled at Dennis again. “Now you’re lagging behind the bass. I need it soulful
and
up-tempo. Can’t you manage both?” I’m sure I would have found Mr. Rathburn frightening if I didn’t know how quickly his anger could give way to the gentler self that hid behind the scowl.

Just then, Bianca sidled up to where Maddy was pirouetting, taking shot after shot until the little girl looked up, noticed her audience, and began posing for her, smiling, even curtseying. Bianca
frowned and moved off as quickly as she’d swooped in, apparently annoyed that her subject had ceased to be spontaneous and natural. Maddy looked to me, puzzled.

It was no use trying to speak to Maddy; I would have to shout to be heard. Instead, I beckoned to her, and she sat beside me, her head on my lap. Together we listened as the band finally made it all the way through the difficult song.

“Not bad,” Mr. Rathburn pronounced. “But let’s try it again. We can still get it tighter.”

A few run-throughs later, the band took a break. While Mr. Rathburn conferred with Dennis, Bianca Ingram joined them onstage for some close-ups, one after another, first of the pair of them, then of Mr. Rathburn alone, his guitar still dangling at his hip.

“You get enough of those yet?” he asked her, teasing. “Isn’t it time you found yourself another subject?”

“Not yet.” She dropped her camera and made a little spinning motion with her hand. “Now turn around so I can get a picture of that famous ass of yours.”

Mr. Rathburn laughed. “You’ll have to catch me when my back’s turned. And good luck with that; it’s not like I can take my eyes off you.”

Bianca moved in closer and said something I couldn’t hear. Mr. Rathburn, his arm slung across her shoulder, whispered something back. They looked so natural together — two supremely confident beings, drawn together by the inexorable laws of celebrity.

Mr. Rathburn whispered something else in Bianca’s ear, and she slipped from under his arm. “Not here,” I heard her say with a laugh. “You naughty thing. Later. Tonight.”

“Is that a promise?”

“I don’t make promises. Catch up with me later and convince me all over again.”

“Huh. There’s nothing I like more than a challenge.” His finger sought her neat little chin, tipping her face up toward his. For a moment, I held my breath, sure that he would kiss her. “But there’s one thing you can do for me now. Right here — on the spot.”

She leaned and whispered in his ear.

“What a dirty mind you have.” His tone made it clear that he approved of whatever proposition she’d made. “Save that for later. Right now, though, you can let me do this.” His hand found the butterfly clip that held up her hair. He removed it, and the black silk fell down her long back. “Wear it like this — the way I like it.”

“I don’t take orders from men. Not even men like you.”

“No kidding.” He genuflected. “You’re the queen, and I’m just one of your subjects. So consider it my humble request. Let me drown in that black hair of yours.” He straightened and drew closer to her, taking a deep breath, apparently inhaling the scent of her shampoo. Didn’t they realize I was watching?

“You’re insane.” Bianca sounded pleased. Then he took her hand, turned it over in his, and kissed the delicate skin of her inner wrist.

I felt my heart pause, as though I had just realized the river I’d been wading in contained piranhas. Every word and gesture of their exchange bit into me, but nothing hurt more than the sight of that kiss. I couldn’t stop myself; I looked on, helpless. And I wasn’t alone. Maddy had sat up in her chair and was watching them with wide-eyed interest. I wanted to put my hands over her eyes.
Instead, I got to my feet. “It’s your quiet time,” I told her in the firmest voice I could muster at that moment. “Let’s go.”

She protested mildly, and I was able to get her to her room without too much of a struggle. After reading her a story, I sat on her bed for a moment, considering what I should do next. Mr. Rathburn had virtually ordered me to be present for the rehearsal, but the thought of returning for a front-row view of his intimacies with Bianca, of what I might overhear next… well, I just couldn’t imagine it. I slipped quietly out of Maddy’s room and prepared to hide under the covers of my own bed until the rest of the spectacle was over. Before I could get to my door, though, I noticed something bright and small on the plush hallway carpet — one of Maddy’s pigtail holders. As I stooped to pick it up, I heard someone turn the corner. Rising hastily, I stood face-to-face with Mr. Rathburn.

“How are you?” he asked me. It seemed like an odd question. How should I be?

“Okay,” I said. “Fine.”

“Why didn’t you come speak to me in the barn?” Another strange question. He’d been busy, and then he’d been deep in conversation with Bianca.

“I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“What have you been up to while I’ve been busy with my guests?”

“Nothing much. Watching Maddy, as usual.”

“You look pale. I noticed it all the way from the stage. Are you coming down with something?”

“I’m just tired.”

“And a little depressed,” he said. “What about? Tell me.”

“Nothing, Mr. Rathburn. I’m not depressed.”

“But you look sad. I haven’t seen you smile all morning, and right now it looks like you’re holding back tears.”

At this observation, the tears spilled; it was impossible to keep them back. Mr. Rathburn reached toward me as though he might wipe them from my face with his bare hands. Then he pulled back and felt in the pockets of his black jeans. “I don’t have a handkerchief on me.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just go and…”

“I have to get back to the barn,” he said. “The guys are waiting. I’ll let you go, Jane. For a little while. But after dinner tonight, I want you out on the deck with my other guests. Wherever we are, I want you to be there for the rest of their visit. Now go, get some rest.” And then he reached toward me again, this time with both arms, as though he might wrap them around me to give me some comfort. But then he stopped, bit his lip, folded his arms, and strode away.

That night after Maddy’s bedtime, the music continued, though now it was loose and informal. On the back deck, overlooking the woods, Mr. Rathburn sat barefoot on a step, strumming one of his acoustic guitars, playing folk songs, a few of which I recognized. Beside him, Dennis played along. From an Adirondack chair behind him, Mike blew his harmonica. The rest of the group — Tom and Lonnie, Yvonne and Kitty, Bianca, her long hair still floating about her shoulders — nursed Heinekens and sang along. At the end of each song, the group hooted with joy; the singers called out requests.

I sat on a bench at the opposite end of the porch; if I had to be out on the back deck, I would be as far away from Mr. Rathburn and Bianca as I could get. After she’d had a few drinks, Yvonne came over to invite me to join the rest of them. I thanked her
sincerely but told her I was comfortable where I was, and she returned to the group.

Mr. Rathburn seemed loose and happy. As the night progressed, he became more and more of a showman. “Bianca, you haven’t made a request yet. Isn’t there anything you want to hear?”

“I don’t know.” Bianca took a long swallow from her Heineken. “How about ‘The Highwayman’?”

“Which version? There are three I know of, probably more.”

“Any version. I love any variation on the Highwayman ballad. I’m a sucker for the bad boys.”

“You hear that?” Mr. Rathburn asked the others. “Which of us fits that description?”

“Oh, please,” Lonnie said. “Don’t you read your own press?”

“You’re the baddest of the bad,” Mike added. “I read it in
People
magazine. It must be true.”

Mr. Rathburn grinned. “Well then, this song is dedicated to the beautiful Bianca Ingram.” He launched into the ballad, and the others listened. Once again I felt a stinging in my heart. Hearing him sing those lyrics, about an innkeeper’s daughter who shoots herself to save the highwayman with whom she has fallen in love, brought me close to tears again. I was glad when the song was over — that is, I would have been glad if he hadn’t turned around and called my name.

“What about you, Jane? Any requests? Have you been enjoying our little hootenanny?”

I struggled for a response.

“Leave the little girl alone,” Bianca commanded in a mocking voice. “Can’t you see she’d rather be inside watching
American Idol
?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be taking pictures, Bianca?” Dennis’s tone was perfectly calibrated to sound playful. “Instead of picking on the help?”

“Ooooh.” Bianca took another long swig of beer. “Clever boy.”

“You’re missing an excellent photo op,” Mr. Rathburn interjected, “but I guess even the queen of celebrity photographers needs to take a vacation every once in a while. Dennis, push over. Go sit by Mike. I’m not kidding.” After Dennis moved, Bianca slipped into his place next to Mr. Rathburn. “If your voice is as stunning as the rest of you,” he told her, “we’d better sing a duet — the first of many, I hope.”

And they did, she taking one line and he the next, of a song I recognized, though I couldn’t recall its name or who had popularized it. I was chagrined to note that Bianca Ingram had, if not a stunning voice, a pretty one that blended very well with Mr. Rathburn’s idiosyncratic baritone. To tell the truth, though I stayed on the deck as ordered, I barely paid any attention to the rest of what was said or sung that night. All I could do was stew in the poisonous feelings roused by their voices harmonizing in the song’s chorus. I was jealous, of course, but it was more than that. I felt that I was watching my best friend make a tragic mistake. Whatever Bianca Ingram was, I was fairly certain about what she wasn’t: kind, loving, or even genuine. And I was disappointed that Mr. Rathburn hadn’t noticed the sharp edges of her personality, or that — enamored by her silky hair and long legs — he’d decided to overlook them. I would have been willing to bet that this relationship would end as unhappily as his others, but there was little — nothing — I could do about it.

From my place in the shadows, I saw Bianca Ingram lean her sleek head on Mr. Rathburn’s shoulder. I saw him draw closer to her, their two silhouettes merging. I tried to remember his less attractive qualities — his bad temper, his bossiness, his tendency to spoil his daughter one moment and to ignore her the next. Not to mention his strange insistence that I be present at moments like this, though there was no place for me in the circle of people sprawled around him. Once I had barely liked him. Now, with a shiver, I realized I’d gone well beyond liking him: I had fallen in love with him. Love had snuck up on me, and now I could hardly imagine a time when I hadn’t treasured his wry smile, his smoky eyes, his broad shoulders, his voice and its distinct, sandpapery edge. If only I could regain my indifference, but I doubted I could ever get it back.

When the revelry finally ended, it was almost two in the morning. As soon as the party broke up, I hurried to my own quiet room. Unlike the others, I couldn’t sleep in until noon. I would wake up feeling no more rested than I had the night before.

A storm moved in early the next day and stalled over Thornfield Park. Rehearsals went on anyway, despite cold, torrential rain, and the moat of mud that had formed around the barn. At lunchtime, Amber and Linda carried an urn of coffee and a tray of sandwiches into the barn, their hair flattened by their short run from the house. I’d kept Maddy home again that day; she’d petitioned her father on the matter before breakfast, and he’d given her permission to hang out in the barn. After lunch, she set up her figurines in a corner and listened to the band as she began one of her protracted games of pretend. I wrapped my hands around my coffee mug, trying to get warm, and was listening to what seemed like the hundredth iteration of a single song when Yvonne sidled up next to me.

“You bored yet?” she asked me. “Why does he make you sit here hour after hour?”

“I don’t pretend to understand his logic.” Rehearsals seemed not to be going particularly well, and Mr. Rathburn had been too preoccupied that morning even to pay much attention to Bianca. She continued her stealthy photography, hovering wherever the action seemed to be, but I thought I detected a brusque, slightly miffed air to her.

“Well, whatever,” Yvonne said. “When he’s not looking, slip out. You need to put Maddy down for her nap anyway, right? Once you’re out of the barn, come over to the guesthouse. I’ve got my tarot cards. I’ll tell your fortune.”

The opportunity to get away from rehearsals was a relief, even if I risked Mr. Rathburn’s censure. Less than an hour later, I knocked on the guesthouse door. Even with my umbrella, I was pretty wet around the edges.

“Take those shoes off!” Kitty ordered. “Make yourself comfy.”

I’d never had reason to be in the guesthouse before. Its living room was cheery — white and yellow, with a fire in the hearth. I settled onto the couch, and Kitty handed me a wooly red throw; I wrapped it around my shoulders. “Have you ever had a reading before?” she asked me. “Yvonne’s amazing.”

“The cards are amazing,” Yvonne corrected her. “I just know how to interpret them. I used to pull cards for myself every day, but I stopped. They were so right, they scared me.”

“So now we get to be scared,” Kitty said with a small shiver.

“You
should
be scared after the reading I did this morning. We got Miss Thang to put her camera down and sneak over here for a while.”

I recalled that there had been a brief stretch that morning
when Bianca hadn’t been present. It also dawned on me that neither Kitty nor Yvonne particularly liked Bianca. And why should they? In her days at Thornfield Park, I’d never once seen her speak to either woman; all her attention had been focused on the band.

“You read Bianca’s cards?” I asked. “What did they say?”

“Oh, she drew the Tower,” Yvonne said offhandedly. “Let’s just say her reading centered around a serious blow to her ego.”

“I’m not sure I want my fortune told,” I said. “If bad luck is lurking around the corner, I’d rather not know.”