Vicky Banning (4 page)

Vicky affected her most charming smile, not entirely a put-on. How had she missed seeing
him
before? “Certainly,” she said, then patted the blue velvet cushion beside her. “It’s
Mi
z
, Banning incidentally,” she said. “But you can call me Vicky.”

The man hitched the knees of his trousers and half-sat, sideways on the sofa, facing her. He seemed embarrassed, yet concerned, the brow beneath his white widow’s peak was slightly furrowed. “I feel rather awkward,” he said. “My name is Burton Williams. “

“How do you do?” Vicky responded. “I’m so happy to meet you. I’ve met only Sarah
Carstairs
, so far. It’s very nice of you to introduce yourself…makes a person feel so welcome.”
If I get any sweeter, I’ll gag
, she thought. “May I call you
Burton
?”

“Yes, of course,”
Burton
said, trying to smile, but looking more and more uncomfortable. “Please do.”

Vicky watched him study her face, his gray eyes narrowing behind the bifocals as his head tipped to one side. “Ms.,
er
…Vicky,” he began, “please believe that I’m not the sort of man who listens to
wom
…to idle gossip, but I’ve just heard something that concerns quite a few of us here.”

“Oh?” Vicky said, smiling still. “And what might that be?”

Burton
lowered his eyes to his hands, watching his thumbnails flick at each other.

“We heard about your son,” he said softly.

“Keith?” Vicky said, looking pleasantly surprised. “What about him?”

Burton
looked up at her, slowly, his face tinted with a most becoming blush. “We’ve been told about him being at
Three Mile Island
.” His tone apologized for breaching so delicate a subject. “Since a number of us have families in that area we’re, naturally, concerned about anything that might affect them.”

“Well, of course you are,” Vicky said with great sympathy. She switched her look, abruptly, to one of confusion. “But what has that to do with my son?”

“We know what happened to him because he worked there,”
Burton
mumbled.

“
My
son?” Vicky laughed. “My son is a banker in
Boston
,” she said.
Or a butcher in
Barstow
, or a baker in
Berkeley
,
” Vicky thought.
Whatever’s convenient.
“What made you think he worked at
Three Mile Island
?”

It was
Burton
’s turn to look confused, but his look extended into total consternation. “Didn’t you tell Sarah”—he halted, realizing that he’d let the name slip out but, since he couldn’t retract it, continued—“that you and your husband, a Swedish count, had a son who turned black after the incident at Three Mile? That the man who carried your bags into The Sanctuary was your son?”

Vicky’s eyes and mouth flew open with surprise. She allowed a long pause and held the pose until she was sure it had registered, then chuckled softly before letting it blossom into full-
chested
(such as it was) laughter, watching all the while as the group of “bystanders” drew near. “My son?” she said, between gasps, she forced her laughter to subside to a
Cheshire
grin. “The man who carried my bags was a taxi driver, an extremely nice and intelligent gentleman, I might add. I’m sure that any woman would be proud to call him her son, but how could anyone imagine him to be mine?

“As for my husband, I don’t remember mentioning to Sarah that I was even married, much less to a Swedish count. It’s a lovely thought, I must say, but I’m afraid I’ve never met one, much less having married one. Banning is an English name, not Swedish, and Gerald, my son’s father, was an actor.”
A little truth can’t hurt.
“From
Akron
.”
Not too much, though.
“Tell me,” she said, lowering her voice to a stage whisper, “does Sarah often make up stories? Or maybe like to tipple a bit? Poor dear, she must be older than I thought. Probably doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.”

Burton
looked dumbfounded. “But, when the driver left, you told him not to forget to write.”

Vicky nodded. “As I said, he’s a very intelligent man. He told me that when he gets home from work he’s so tired that he often forgets to work on the book he’s writing. So I said to him…oh, my goodness…and you thought I meant for him to write to
me
.” Effervescent giggles burst forth from her again.

While Vicky was so engaged,
Burton
turned away from her, leading with his firm lower jaw, to glare at Sarah, who had made her way to the forefront of the observers. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time,” he snapped at her. “Always the troublemaker, aren’t you?” He stood, stretched his long, lean body to its fullest height. “Now you’re trying to make fools of us all while picking on this charming little lady here. Well, I’ve had it with you. I don’t want to hear another gossipy word, or anything else you have to say.”

He turned back to Vicky. “I am so sorry for all of this,” he said, spreading his hands before him. “Would you like to join us? We’re going to the TV lounge to watch Lawrence
Welk
.”

The Beatles were more Vicky’s style, but she said, “Yes, thank you. I would. You go on, though and I’ll be along in just a few moments. Please save me a seat,” she added for
Burton
’s ears only. The members of the elderly group filed from the room through the far door. Each avoided Sarah, who had sunk defeated and without a word into an armchair, as they passed.

Vicky felt a twinge of guilt at Sarah’s forlorn figure, but she felt, as she always had, that if you’re going to get caught telling lies about someone, you should at least make up your
own
lies.

Sarah was studying the fingertips on one hand as they pressed against the tips of the other, seemingly deep in thought. Vicky rose with her magazine and crossed behind her chair. “I
told
you it was a secret,” she said lightly as she swept from the room.

It must have taken Sarah a few moments to realize what Vicky had said, to discover that now she didn’t know which story was true, if either.

As Vicky made her exit, she was followed by a long, wailing, “
Whaaaaat
?”

The following morning, Vicky was in her bathroom, wrestling with a fluffy pink thing that refused to give up its hold on the toilet seat, when she heard a knock on her bedroom door. After a last futile tug, she uttered a wrathful “I shall return,” and retreated, temporarily. Opening the door only slightly, she peeked through the crack to see a slight young man with a blond wave sweeping across his forehead, and a hint of a cleft in his chin. He was dressed in a denim suit; his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, to reveal a spray of russet chest-hair.

Gorgeous
, she thought, and wondered just what services the Sanctuary
did
provide.

“Yes?” she asked. “Can I help you?”

The young man cocked his head to one side, paralleling Vicky’s, and smiled. “Ms. Banning?”

She nodded.

“I’m Roger Grant,” he said. “I was dropping off a few things for one of my clients here, and
Doris
said you might want to see me.”

Clever girl
, thought Vicky. She’d like to see a great deal of this cute young thing, but how would
Doris
know? She eyed him up and down before asking, “About what?”

“I’m an interior decorator,” Roger said.

“Oh!” Vicky exclaimed and chuckled at what she’d been thinking. She studied him even more closely. “But you don’t look
gay
!” she said, with accusing brusqueness.

Roger’s blue-gray eyes widened with surprise. “Who said I
was
?”

“No one, darling,” said Vicky. “But all my decorator friends—the best ones at least—are all gay…some of them real screamers. So? What’s your story?”

An amused smirk crooked one corner of Roger’s mouth. “I don’t mean to sound rude, Ms. Banning,” he said. “But frankly, it’s none of your business.”

Vicky laughed delightedly. “You’re absolutely right, my dear, it is none of my business, and I love people who have the gumption to tell me so.” She paused. “Well,” she continued, “if you’re a decorator, what do you think of”—she swung the door open wide—“this?”

Roger gasped. “Jesus Christ,” he blurted. “It looks like the change room at a drag ball.”

“Good enough, honey,” Vicky said and, grabbing his hand, led him into the room. “I think we’re going to get along just fine. Wait here a minute while I get dressed.” She retrieved a blue pantsuit from the closet. “And don’t touch anything; I think some of it might be catching.”

When she emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, Roger was still standing in the center of the room, rotating slowly, his face incredulous. “This may sound terribly unprofessional,” he said, “but who…did this?”

“Flora Flounce,” Vicky quipped. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get out of here. I don’t want you to be affected by whatever caused this.” Slipping her arm into his, she led him from the room and down the hall. She found the close proximity that the tiny elevator forced them into quite pleasurable and wished the ride would last longer. “I’d like to see what kind of work you do,” she said as they stepped out onto the main floor. She didn’t add aloud that was thinking of more than just decorating work. “Can you show me any rooms you’ve done?”

“Quite a few,” Roger said, after a moment. “But I can’t really drop in on my clients without giving them notice. They might not appreciate it. However, I’ve done some of the rooms here at the Sanctuary. Maybe…”

“No,” Vicky said quickly. “I don’t want to get too involved with the people here yet. If and when they want me to see their rooms, they’ll invite me.”

Doris
strolled in from the veranda, sorting through a stack of mail, as Vicky reached the entranceway. “Good morning,” she called.

“Good morning,” Vicky responded with a wave. “Anything for me?”

“Not so far,”
Doris
replied, continuing to sort. When she reached the last letter, she looked up and said, “Nothing today. Were you expecting something special?”

“Not really,” Vicky answered. “Since it’s such a lovely morning, I’m going to try to convince this handsome young man to show me the area.” She glanced timidly up at Roger and added, “Unless you’re too busy, of course.”

“Not at all,” Roger said. “We can talk about your tastes in furnishing styles and colors while we drive. Maybe we can stop by my place so I can show you my portfolio.”

“Marvelous,” Vicky said, thinking: A
nd maybe some of your etchings as well?

Roger grinned and, turning to
Doris
, said, “Thank you for recommending me.”

Doris
smiled back at him, a warm, gentle smile, Vicky noticed. She wondered if there was something special between them. “I was only too happy to do so,”
Doris
said, then looked at Vicky. “May I speak to you for a moment?”

“Of course,” Vicky replied. “Roger, I’ll meet you outside, okay?”

Roger nodded. As he left,
Doris
set the mail on a low marble-top table beside the stairs, beneath a spray of yellow jonquils. She seemed hesitant, uneasy, quite unlike the take-charge woman Vicky knew her to be. When she turned back to Vicky, her face was drawn, apologetic. “Ms. Ban…”

“Vicky, please.”

“Vicky, then. I try to make it a firm rule never to interfere with any of our guests’ personal business,” she began. “But one of the women insisted on telling me all about what happened between you and Mrs.
Carstairs
last night.”

Vicky laughed, but it sounded uncomfortable, forced, even to her. She didn’t want to have to review the whole evening again—at least not with
Doris
. She admired her, felt a friendship was possible, and hoped
Doris
wouldn’t turn into a didactic bore and ruin everything. “There was no harm done,” she said. “She just made up some wild…”

“Vicky,”
Doris
interrupted with the firmness of a congenial but wise teacher. “I’ve known Sarah
Carstairs
for almost fifteen years. She doesn’t have anywhere near that creative an imagination.” Her lips compressed into a tight smile, as if she were trying to contain her mirth. “And she certainly hasn’t the sense of humor to invent an incredible story like that one.”

Vicky grinned coyly up at her. “And you think I do?”

Laughter trickled forth from
Doris
. “I think,” she said, “that with very little effort, you could make Scheherazade seem dull.” She was forcing control, her lips pursing tightly, but her eyes were aglitter, her rotund bosom bouncing beneath her striped tent-dress, as if she were being tickled from inside.

“The story couldn’t have been too farfetched,” Vicky said with a shrug. “
Burton
and many of the others seem to have swallowed it.”

“Don’t you believe it,”
Doris
said with a shake of her head. “Your story was simply convenient for them.
Burton
and some of the others just used it as an excuse to get back at Sarah. She has told some…well, never mind about that. Just remember, they may be old but they’re no dummies. Believe me. And, despite what you may think, neither is Sarah.”
Doris
’s amused look faded to seriousness. “She’s also not known as a forgiving person,” she said pointedly. “You may well have created quite a vindictive adversary for yourself.”

“That’s a pity,” Vicky said, genuinely concerned. “It was all meant in fun, not to be vicious. Spite is such a waste of energy at our age. I’ll have to see how I can make all this up to her.” She took
Doris
’s hand, felt the warm, soft pressure in her own. “Thank you for telling me. And I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any trouble. I mean that.”

Doris
raised an eyebrow. “Fore-warned is fore-armed, I’ve heard.”

Vicky grinned. “I think I can take care of myself.”

Doris
returned her smile. “Of that I have no doubt. No doubt at all.”

* * * *

“Something wrong?” Roger asked as they followed the path to the street, Vicky’s arm linked in his. “You look worried.”

“No,” Vicky answered with a vague softness. “Not worried.” Her thoughts were on Sarah and how she’d been avoided by the Sanctuary’s members the night before. Vicky disliked snoopers intensely, but hadn’t meant to be the cause of someone’s being ostracized. If Sarah hadn’t been so devious — well, Vicky wouldn’t have told her the truth anyway—the truth was too deeply personal—but perhaps she wouldn’t have made the race-change story quite so convincing. It wasn’t actually meant to be believed, for gosh sakes; they should all have gotten a bit of a laugh out of it, while Sarah got the message that Vicky’s business was
Vicky’s
business. She shook her head, dismissing the matter for the time being. She, like Scarlett O’Hara, would think about it tomorrow—at
Tara
.

She looked up at Roger. “I was just wondering if
Playgirl
received my change of address in time,” she said with renewed brightness. “Ever read it?” She kept her eyes straight ahead, biting the inside of her cheeks to keep from smiling.

Roger grinned slyly, watching her from the corners of his eyes. In a sing-song voice he said, “You’re fishing.”

Vicky sang back, “You’re right.”

Roger laughed. “Well, at least you’re honest. But why are you so interested?” he asked as they reached the car. It was a small, Chevy station wagon, metallic green, with a
Penn
State
decal on the rear window.

“I’m interested in everything,” Vicky answered. “People, places, animals, art, relationships, you name it. I admit that your personal life is none of my business, but that doesn’t stop me from being interested. I enjoy learning about people, what they’re really like, how they think…but for the sake of knowing them alone, not for syndication to gossip mongers. Do you live alone?”

“Well, that was subtle,” Roger said, opening the door and holding it for Vicky to slip inside. “And the answer is ‘no,’ I do not live alone.’” He closed the door, circled the car and settled himself on the driver’s side. “I have a roommate.”

“Isn’t that a
coincidence,
” Vicky exclaimed as Roger started the car and drove along the tree-lined street. “I had a roommate, too…for years and years when I lived in the States. Our son’s name is Keith.”

Roger’s lower lip swept up and outward and the cheek, the one Vicky could see, sank between his teeth, laugh lines crinkling the corner of his eye. “Our little girl’s name is Muffin,” he said, and paused. “She’s a Yorkshire Terrier. Anything else you’d like to know?”

“Of
course!
” Vicky cried. “
Lots
of things
!
What’s your roommate’s
name? What does he do…for a living, I mean?”

Roger’s look of surprise was obviously feigned. “Who said my roommate is a
he?
”

Vicky was growing impatient. “Oh, please,” she complained. “Stop being so
closety
. This is the 1980's, and I lived with show people all my life. Gerald used to call me the Queen Mother. Personally, I don’t care who you sleep with”—she put on her little girl coquette voice—“unless, of course, you might want to hop into the sack with me.” She batted her eyelashes flirtatiously and reached across the seat to squeeze his kneecap. His leg jerked convulsively, nearly propelling the car through a STOP sign before he slammed on the brakes. The look of shock on his face made her laugh uproariously. “Don’t worry, sweetie,” she said, finally. “I’m not going to ravish you. In all my life, I’ve slept with only one man, and I’m not about to break my record at seventy-three.”

Roger turned to her, affecting a stern frown, then joined her in laughter. “I
was
going to take you to my home,” he said, “so you could see how it’s decorated. But now I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. It might not be safe…for me.”

“Don’t be silly,” Vicky said, calming her outburst. “Let’s go there. Is your
roomie
at work?”

“If you can call it work,” Roger said, smiling to himself. “He’s off playing in the dirt again. At least that’s what I always tell him. He’s a miner.”

“
Hold it! Pull over!
” Vicky shouted. Her eyes flared with fury, then narrowed menacingly as the car came to a halt. Her breath came in short gasps.

“What’s the matter?” Roger called. “Are you all right?”

Vicky spoke with the tone of an interrogator. Her jaw line was firmly set. “I’m pretty broad minded, Buddy, but here are some things that I will not tolerate, especially when it comes to children. Just how young is this roommate of yours?”

Roger looked totally baffled. His brows drew downward toward the bridge of his nose, his head tilted curiously. “Children?” he said. “What are you talking about? Steve’s in his
thir
…” As he stared at her, his eyes widened with comprehension and his mouth opened into a silent “
Ooooh
.”