Two Down (4 page)

The term “your little lady” bombarded Rosco’s brain, but he managed a seemingly nonchalant, “Sure, why not?”

“Watch out for her, Rosco. She spells trouble with a capital
T
.”

“Funny, that’s just what Pepper said.”

“Well, maybe you should heed his warning.”

The “powder room” was rose pink and dove gray, and festooned with so many orchids in baskets and cachepots that Belle almost wondered whether she’d wandered into a florist’s shop. The two rooms were also chockablock with seriously primping party goers. She watched a rainbow of lipsticks, lip pencils, lip glosses, eye shadows, blush, foundation, and powder flash from jeweled, beaded, and embroidered evening bags. Perfume spritzes clouded the air, while frothy conversation and a good deal of purposeful gossip continued amid a patter of “Fabulous color!” “I don’t know
what
he did with my hair, this time” “Do you really like it?” “I thought I’d resurrect it for the night” and a bevy of “Great party!” “Isn’t it a gorgeous party?” “Glorious evening.” In typical fashion, the women glanced only at the faces reflected in the mirror.
No dialogue, either serious or otherwise, was conducted face-to-face.

Belle smiled at the frivolity of the atmosphere and flicked a comb quickly through her hair as Genie and Jamaica suddenly joined the throng. No one turned to look at the newcomers, although every pair of eyes swiveled toward their mirror images. Belle sensed that Jamaica was keenly aware of the reaction, but also recognized that the actress was feigning indifference. Her voice became louder than necessary.

“Darling, it’s simply too divine,” she said to Genie. “Something out of a play by A. R. Gurney. All these marvelous WASPs buzzing around their natural habitat. An endangered species, I’d say . . .”

Genie appeared slightly unnerved by her friend’s remarks, but she also seemed to be feeling the effects of champagne and a full orchestra. There was something giddy and reckless in her demeanor. She grinned mischievously into the mirror, catching curious glances from the other women gathered at the long dressing table while Jamaica continued her languid speech.

“. . . It almost makes me regret my decision to become an entertainer. I should have followed your example, Genevieve, and snagged a domesticated male . . .”

The powder room had hushed to near silence.

“. . . According to my dear mama, however, a career on the stage was an excellent first step in capturing a wealthy man. She was from the Marion Davies School.”

Teasing her hair, Genie answered her friend in a stagy tone. “But surely there are wealthy men in Los Angeles, Jamaica.”

“Too many secrets out there, darling. One never knows for certain whether a partner is gay or straight or in between—even after marriage . . .”

A gasp from an elderly matron seemed to pass Jamaica unnoticed.

“. . . And that goes for the young men as well as the old. Ah, me, what’s a working girl to do?” Then the actress suddenly noticed Belle standing there. “Your husband’s quite a dish,” she said without taking her eyes off her own reflection.

At first Belle was unaware she was being addressed, then she stammered, “He’s not my husband.” The words sounded hideously loud in her ears. She realized she’d become an additional focal point for the women primping at the mirror.

“No? I assumed everyone in this charming little ville was respectably wed.”

Belle found herself growing irritated at Jamaica’s patronizing assumptions. “Not all of us, no.” The terse reply was intended to denote not only an autonomous state but also Belle’s career, education, and proud self-reliance. The actress batted aside the response as if it were a mere ball of fluff.

“You’re a pretty girl. I can’t imagine you’ve been lacking in marriage proposals.”

Whether it was the term “girl” or the actress’s snooty tone, Belle flushed angrily. “I
was
married,” she answered.

“Ah . . .” Jamaica calmly replied. “So, you tested the waters and found them tepid . . . or possibly too hot?”

In answer, Belle jammed her comb into her purse and snapped it shut. She was not about to discuss romance with a woman for whom the word had no meaning. Jamaica, however, had other ideas.

“And now you’re on the rebound with a private dick—”

“That’s not how I would categorize our relationship,”
Belle interrupted hotly, but Jamaica hadn’t finished her performance.

“And this
ex-husband
you are so loath to discuss . . . I assume he’s the spitting image of your parents?”

Belle’s jaw dropped. She wanted to contradict the statement, but couldn’t. Jamaica was correct. Garet had manifested many traits of the elder Grahams—and not the better ones, either.

“You see, Genie?” Jamaica continued. “There is the psychology of true drama . . . the inner life of the mind . . . That’s what made
you
a good performer. You were able to enter your characters’ brains and inhabit the murky unconscious. Subliminally, we all want Mummy and Daddy; we want to be carefree babies again.” Then she turned toward Belle, adding a seemingly benevolent: “Following the end of a permanent relationship, you must always beware of ‘transitional’ situations, darling. I’ve had a number of such impermanent types in my life. It’s important to know that some lovers are not intended to linger. Many, in fact.”

“Oh, really, Jamaica,” Genie said with a wry shake of her head. “What a wicked thing to say to this poor woman. To say nothing of presumptuous!” Genie extended her hand. “I’m Tom Pepper’s wife,” she said with a genuine smile. “We haven’t met, although I know you by reputation.”

“Belle Graham.” The look Belle gave Genie was full of gratitude—as well as a core recognition that Jamaica with her clever verbiage and facile innuendo would continue to spin circles around them all.

The actress intruded upon the incipient friendship. “A word to the wise never hurt anyone, Genie darling. ‘Transitional’ doesn’t mean impossible.”

Genie turned away from Belle and studied her friend. “You’re a vicious person, Jamaica,” she said with a bemused chuckle. “And I disagree with your previous statement. Words can do a great deal of harm.”

T
ry as she might, the term “transitional” had stuck in Belle’s brain. Jamaica’s obnoxious warning had nearly ruined the remainder of the dinner dance. Sunday had also seen Belle laboring under its gloomy shadow; she’d had a difficult time thinking about Rosco without the epithet sneakily inserting itself into the picture. He was so very different from Garet, so very different from the aloof and bookwormish people with whom she’d been raised.

Involuntarily, she began questioning her decision, wondering whether Rosco was merely a passing fancy, someone she’d “get over” when she “came to her senses.” It bothered her horribly that she could hear parental disapproval whispering in her ears—especially since her mother was long dead and her father almost incommunicado from his distant home in the Florida Keys. I’m thirty-two years old, Belle reminded herself repeatedly. I don’t have to please anyone but myself. Gentrified Garet was the
aberration, not Rosco. It’s normal to have a big, tumultuous family rather than the other way around. But Rosco’s descriptions of the Polycrates clan kept clanking ominously through her thoughts.

For these reasons—and maybe a hundred others—having tea on Monday with Sara Crane Briephs was the last thing Belle wanted to do. But she’d agreed, and she never reneged on her word. If she happened to catch pneumonia or break her leg in a freak fall down the stairs, well, that would be another thing . . .

Disconcertingly whole and healthy, Belle rang the bell at White Caps precisely at four o’clock Monday afternoon. As before, Emma led the way through the austere foyer, conducting her to the house’s mistress as if delivering a sacrificial lamb.

After a few murmured pleasantries, Belle found herself seated with her ankles demurely crossed and her back barely touching the rigid frame of an antique chair. An inquisition conducted by a grade-school headmistress could not have begun more forbiddingly. The great lady poured; Emma proffered the filled cup; Belle sipped and then sipped again; the weather was mentioned, likewise the “journey from Captain’s Walk” (all of fourteen minutes away). Belle began counting the seconds until she could reasonably take her leave. Rosco was going to have to face this grueling friendship alone.

“More tea, Belle?” The hostess sat rigidly erect in a crimson-backed chair so stiff and imposing it resembled a medieval throne. She can’t possibly be comfortable, Belle thought, but inadvertently sat straighter in her own high-backed chair.

“Thank you, Mrs. Briephs.”

Emma removed Belle’s gold-rimmed porcelain cup and relayed it to her mistress, who then lifted both cup
and saucer in one hand while raising the teapot in the other. Steaming, golden liquid cascaded unhesitatingly through the air in a ritual so practiced it looked faintly religious.

“Another slice of lemon?”

“Please.” Belle very nearly added, “ma’am.” Instead, she uncrossed and recrossed her ankles in an involuntary replication of childhood.

“So, both of your parents were professors?”

“Yes . . .”

“Up until your mother’s untimely demise, I should say?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” Again, a traitorous voice almost inserted a squeaky “ma’am.”

“And your father no longer teaches?”

“He lives in Florida.” The answer struck both Belle and Sara as odd—as if the entire state contained no institutions of higher learning. Sara raised a quizzical eyebrow while Belle hastened to amend the statement. “He has a house in the Keys . . . in Marathon. We rarely see each other.”

Sara paused as if considering an appropriate response, then silently passed the refilled cup to Emma, who returned it to Belle before withdrawing noiselessly to the tea cart.

Belle fidgeted with the cup, picked up her teaspoon, and stabbed the lemon slice floating on the surface of the hot liquid, an activity her hostess regarded with a quick, basilisk stare. Repressing a sigh, Belle placed the dainty silver spoon on her saucer. What, she wondered, would a person do with a sugar lump or two?

“Marathon,” Sara mused. “Part of a
tetrapolis
in ancient Attica . . . the sight of the famous battle in which the Greeks defeated the Persians in 490
B
.
C
. . . . Did your father choose his domicile because of the name association?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Briephs.”

The answer seemed to take Sara by surprise. “But surely you must have discussed the historical reference? It’s so very obvious.”

“My father and I seldom . . .” Belle began, then changed tack, opting for the simpler: “No, we didn’t talk about it.”

“The relationship between parent and child is a vital one, young lady. My son and I were very close. We were not only family, we were best of friends.”

Belle’s determined lack of response made Sara pause. She studied the younger woman, then redirected her conversation. “. . . So, your cerebral upbringing inspired you with an appreciation for learning and the mastery of language, which facility enabled you to establish a career as a word maven—similar to my son’s chosen profession?”

“Well, no . . . not precisely in that order,” Belle said.

A round crystal plate containing minute cucumber sandwiches arrayed on a lace doily was passed by the mute Emma. Mrs. Briephs declined the comestible with a slight but gracious smile, then turned to Belle with a dictatorial: “From our garden. The seeds were brought from England by my forebears. No one else grows cucumbers like these.”

Belle juggled her cup in one hand to select a tiny sandwich, then wondered where to put it. “Thank you, Emma,” she murmured, repressing a groan. She imagined the phone ringing to announce a disaster, the kitchen catching fire, the furnace exploding: anything that would curtail this hideous conversation.

“ ‘Not precisely’ like my son’s vocation, do you mean?” Sara demanded. “Or are you referring to your own career path?”

Belle felt her hackles rise. Sara’s questions had become far too intrusive. Life wasn’t precise; how could anyone suggest that work—or relationships—have an orderly flow? If routine and safety were prerequisites to living, she wouldn’t have met Rosco. In fact, she’d probably still be married to the lordly Garet. Or—and here, Belle’s imagination began taking giddy flight—she would have waltzed away from college, decamped to Paris, where she’d currently be living in bohemian splendor on the infamous Left Bank.

Then, before she knew it, the damnable word “transitional” roared into her head. Belle clutched the saucer tighter. She was very tempted to heave it onto the table and run hollering from the room.

Instead, reason and a grudging respect for Sara’s age took charge. “I used the term ‘not precisely,’ Mrs. Briephs, because I didn’t set out to write crossword puzzles. I intended to become a poet.”

“Who stopped you?”

“No one. I stopped myself . . . I wasn’t very good.”

The response brought another quick smile to the old lady’s face. “Good answer,” she said. “I like honesty in people and architecture.”

While Belle, in order to subdue her ire, took another cucumber sandwich, and gave Emma a decidedly pointed: “Thank you.”

A conspiratorial glance passed between Sara Crane Briephs and her minion; and Emma withdrew, leaving the tea cart behind. Belle was strongly tempted to follow in her trail, but she stuck to her guns and chomped the last bite of wafer-thin bread.

“Your parents raised you properly, I’m happy to see,” Sara observed placidly. “Well-bred people are always
courteous and considerate to those who serve them. Only upstarts need to display their self-importance by humbling others.”

Belle imagined she was about to undergo additional queries on her history, but Sara apparently had dispensed with the past. “What is your impression of Edison Pepper?”

“We weren’t introduced,” Belle responded warily.

“Lucky for you!”

Belle was about to retort that Rosco had thoroughly enjoyed his conversation with Pepper, when the true cause of Sara’s wrath was revealed.

“That awful woman in that absurd dress! Did you see how she was trying to bamboozle Rosco?”

The archaic colloquialism made Belle’s bright eyes flash with humor—a mistake as she quickly realized.

“I see nothing funny about it, young lady! A woman of obvious artifice employing what was clearly a dearth of art. And nearly naked, to boot! In my day—”

“Rosco’s a grown man, Mrs. Briephs; he can take care of himself.”

“I’d be more careful if I were you. When a woman is that obvious in her flirtation, she will stop at nothing.”

Belle frowned, then began wondering whether Jamaica’s conversation in the powder room had been a ruse, an attempt to create a wedge between Rosco and herself. “We’ve been invited to dine at the Peppers’ home in a week or so,” she admitted slowly.

“Just so,” Sara growled. “Just so . . . Well, mind your p’s and q’s.”

Unbidden, a plethora of words beginning with
p
and
q
zoomed into Belle’s brain.
Potentate
, she thought.
Purpose, Pluck, Philanderer
 . . .
Quail, Quell, Quisling
 . . . Then Genie’s pronouncement “words can do a great deal
of harm” rushed forward. It seemed like a warning, as if Genie were well aware of Jamaica’s predatory nature.

“Genie seems pleasant,” Belle finally ventured.

Sara stared, perplexed.

“Genevieve . . . Mrs. Pepper . . . I met her in the loo . . . the ladies’ room—”

“I know what a ‘loo’ is, young lady. I’m not asking for an explanation of vulgarisms, I am seeking your opinion of this social climber Edison Pepper.”

Belle’s face turned fiery red. She opened her mouth to speak when the grand old woman suddenly slammed her teacup on the table. The vigor of her action nearly shattered the saucer.

“I’m sorry, Belle. Forgive me, please . . . I’ve gotten off to an exceedingly poor start with you. I’ve made myself seem like a cantankerous old cow . . . My son would not have been proud.” Tears swam into Sara’s eyes and down her powdered cheeks. She didn’t bother to dab them away. “In fact, he would have been appalled.”

Belle stared slack-jawed, then half rose from her seat. The sudden display of emotion had affected her more than she knew. She fumbled in her purse for a handkerchief, but found only a crumpled tissue. “I don’t seem to have a handkerchief, Mrs. Briephs—”

“Sara. Call me Sara.” The old lady swiped at her glistening cheeks with fingers bony and rigid with a lifetime’s worth of self-discipline. For the first time Belle understood the effort required to create such an indomitable facade.

“Yes, I will . . .” Belle was about to walk to the old woman’s side when the door flew open and a breathless Emma rushed in.

“Oh, madam, I just heard it on the radio in the butler’s pantry . . . Those Pepper people who bought the old
Drexel estate on the point . . . The Coast Guard says the missus’s boat caught fire in Buzzards Bay . . . a tragedy for all of Newcastle, the radio is saying . . . Both women are reported lost at sea. . . .”