By The Sea, Book Four: The Heirs (10 page)

And now I'm hallucinating,
she
thought.

"Mavis!" came the hoarse cry. "Wake up!"

With a sense that she was about to do battle
against unequal forces, Mavis threw the batik wrap around her
too-warm, naked body and slipped through the French doors onto the
stone balcony.

Part of her was outraged, and she tried to
hold that note as she peered down from the balcony into the
silver-mooned night below. The backdrop of bright light let her see
Alan quite clearly, still in his press conference clothes, but
minus his shoes and socks.

"If you've come to recite Shakespeare, I
prefer Yeats," she said cooly.

"I only know the Bard," he answered, and he
began, indeed, reciting.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate—

"Uh, wait, let me rephrase," he corrected.
"Lovely, yes—but I dunno about temperate."

Snorting, Mavis said, "No gentleman, but
clearly a scholar," and turned to leave.

With a startling shift in tone he quoted in
a light, teasing voice: "
O! When she's angry she is keen and
shrewd
."

For a man in his cups he was too quick by
half, she thought, a smile of appreciation hovering on her lips.
Seton and Shakespeare were a natural combination. Over her shoulder
she called out, "Good night, skipper."

"Mavis, open the damn door," he commanded
impatiently.

"Or you'll blow the house down? Try." It was
absurd to goad him, of course. But satisfying.

"All right, then; I'll let myself in!" He
said it in a shout, injecting a dramatic note into the
proceedings.

The stone wall supporting the balcony was
overrun with thick ivy. Mavis heard a rustling in the ivy, then,
"Ow! Ow!" and a thud. She leaned over the balcony.

"No shoes," Alan said sheepishly, looking up
at her from his seat on the grass.

With Queen-of-England restraint, Mavis
smiled formally and waved her farewell. She wouldn't have to call
the police after all.

She was locking the French doors from inside
when she saw the top four feet of a ladder pass over the
balustrade.

"Really, this is too much." She'd been
riding an emotional Ferris wheel long enough that night; it wasn't
fun anymore. Annoyance erupted into steadily burning anger as she
re-crossed the terrace in two strides and grabbed the ladder
ends.

"Alas, no boiling oil," she said with real
regret. "You'll forgive this more practical approach." And she
shoved the ladder from the balustrade with all of her considerable
strength.

"Whoa!" In a flash Seton grabbed her wrist
in one hand, the balustrade with the other, slamming the ladder
back into position between them. "Are you crazy?"

Suddenly it wasn't a game any longer, but an
elemental, almost primitive contest of force. Mavis had the
advantage of position; he, of physical strength. Towering above
him, imperious in her fury, she said, "I'll have you charged,
Seton."

"Over my dead body," Alan answered in a
calmer voice. "Which it very nearly was," he added, and she could
imagine the slow smile gathering momentum behind the
afterthought.

It infuriated her still more, this male
inability to take her threat seriously. He was so near. His
scent—rum, tobacco, the sweat from camera lights and a long day's
tension—mocked her own washed and perfumed womanliness. Dared her.
Again she tried to shove the ladder into oblivion; again he held
fast to her. Both were breathing heavily now.

"Mavis," he said, and this time his voice
was entreating, "Don't you get it? I have nowhere else to
go
."

"I ... don't believe you." It was barely a
whisper, definitely a lie. She did believe him. "Where are all your
crew?"

He held her wrist, though she was still.
"Scattered. Some of us got out of the van on Ocean Drive; we split
in different directions, trying to ditch the press. The guys can
hitch rides back to Seacliff. Me, I can't go back there," he added
quietly.

She didn't bother asking why. The media;
memories of his wife; the end of his dream. Mavis couldn't have
returned either, in the same situation. "All right, then. For a cup
of coffee. You sure as hell need one."

He released her, his face absolutely
expressionless. It threw her. Everything about him threw her. She
led the way across the softly lit terrace, suddenly aware that she
was wearing nothing but a thin robe. They both reached for the door
latch at the same time and she jumped back from the touch of his
hand; it allowed him the point for chivalry as he got the door, a
point she hated to concede.

Inside her bedroom Alan looked around
briefly, said, "Nice," and nodded across the ivory and delft
Chinese rug toward the adjoining bathroom. "Would you mind if I
grabbed a quick shower? Anything to feel a little less like a beast
of the jungle," he added.

"Shoes might help," said Mavis, distracted
by her pulse rate.

"Yeah. I lost one in a crevice between two
rocks on Cliff Walk. I threw the other one in the ocean."

Mavis lifted her eyebrows slightly. "Nice
touch." Then, on her way out of the room, she turned suddenly and
said, "Are you part Irish?"

Seton, already stripped of his shirt and on
his way out of his shorts, stopped mid-zip and grinned. "Who isn't?
Why? Do you sense a kindred soul in me?"

It was Mavis's turn to smile. "Please. It's
inconceivable to me that I would ever throw a shoe into the
ocean."

"You've never done anything impulsive?"

"Never."

"Put your shoes on then—and maybe clothes,"
he said promptly, "and I'll take you for a stroll along Cliff Walk.
Big tourist stuff around here, and you've probably never even seen
it."

"I spent lots of time in Newport as a child,
thanks. I've seen it."

"But not by night, I'll bet."

Unconsciously she touched the bruise on her
chin, which he seemed to notice for the first time.

Whether he remembered the details from the
robbery or whether he took his cue from her pained look, Alan said
nothing more, and she left him.

She headed for the kitchen, a true chef's
fantasy. There, function reigned supreme; it was not a place for
friendly gatherings among friends and family. Acres of stainless
steel, restaurant-sized appliances, food processors that really
worked—caterers would surely fight for the right to prepare food in
it for the inevitable cocktail parties that filled a Newport
summer.

If Mavis ever chose to host one, that is.
Despite her wealth, she had declined to go the route of Newport's
legendary
g
randes dames.
She had long ago convinced
herself that she neither needed nor valued the opinion of others.
The intricacies of social one-upmanship bored her; in that, she
wasn't the first to believe that the real purpose of Society was to
make one's friends miserable.

And why was she convinced? Because when she
was ten years old, her grandmother had sat her down and
administered a no-nonsense dose of reality to her.

"I was a laundry maid; my mother was a
cook," Tess Moran had said, "and nothing can change that. Never
will you be admitted to the few dozen backbones of American
Society. Nothing—not even marriage—will make you into an Astor or a
Wilson or a Baker, or even a Vanderbilt."

Mavis remembered still the sudden, puzzling
rush of feeling ordinary. It must have shown in her face because
her grandmother had hugged her and offered consolation: "Never
mind, my darling," she had said. "With my money and your face
you'll be able to do anything, go anywhere, and be anyone you want.
You can be your own woman; that's all that matters. If you don't
want to marry, you certainly won't have to."

So here she was, a fully independent woman,
trying to sober up an inebriated ex-rival in the most elitist of
sports. If her grandmother could see her now.

Annoyed by the mission thrust on her, Mavis
swept past the espresso machine, the electric coffee grinder, and
the commercial twin-station drip coffee brewer. She took down the
smallest pot on the rack overhead, a four-quart copper saucepan,
filled it with tap water, and set it to boil. Rejecting the bone
china tea cups, she chose instead two souvenir mugs emblazoned with
images of the America's Cup trophy which someone had given her as a
joke. They were deep and substantial and probably offensive, given
Alan's afternoon, but she did not want to have to return to the
kitchen, like the little missus, to get a refill for Alan Seton.
One mugful, and out.

The freeze-dried crystals had barely
dissolved when Alan ambled in, wrapped in a spa knee-length robe.
"I filched this from another bedroom. It had no gentleman's name
label sewn in, so I assume it's generic."

She gave him a narrow look. "And your
clothes are …?"

"A little ripe at this point; I'll put 'em
back on after I've enjoyed my coffee. Which hopefully I can drink
somewhere else than in this engine room," he added, blinking in the
crisp white light. "May we?" And with a courtly gesture he
indicated the large living area which lay adjacent.

Without speaking they took seats opposite
one another, each in an L-shaped sofa covered in creamy silk. The
sofas jutted out from a spectacular pillared fireplace of rose
marble; a low wide table topped in inlaid mahogany squatted between
them, keeping them at a safe distance from one another.

Like diplomats of unfriendly nations, they
eyed one another warily.

"So,"
he said. "This would be what,
the family room?"

"If I had a family."

He ran a hand across the silk cushion. "Not
exactly pet-friendly. Your place, or rented?"

"You don't know?"

"I haven't been getting out much."

"It was my grandmother's."

He smacked his forehead dramatically. "Of
course! Tess Moran of the Moran Mills empire. I knew that. So Moran
isn't your married name. Why did you choose to keep it?"

"You've just said the reason: the Moran
Mills empire. My husband was fine with my decision. And since I
wasn't married for long, it was the right decision."

"Huh. How's the textile business doing, by
the way? Any mills left, or have you sold them all to developers
and shipped the work to China?"

"I still own half the mills."

"Ah. Well—good for you. These are tough
times for the industry."

She shrugged, not wishing to be drawn into a
discussion of either fabrics or fortunes, and was surprised when he
asked, "Do you plan to sell this place, too?"

Despite herself, she said, "Why would I do
that?"

Now it was his turn to shrug. "After this
summer, Newport will be just another tourist town. Like
Provincetown. Or the Vineyard. The unique, international ambience
will have gone—and with it, of course, your 'quality' people."
There was heavy irony in his voice.

She saw where he was headed, but she refused
to believe it. "Because?"

"The Cup will be in Australia," he said
flatly. "Perth, Australia. Ever been there? Clean. New. Tall.
Bland." He frowned and, averting her gaze, sipped from his mug.

"So you think the Cup will really go this
time? After a hundred and thirty-two years of consecutive
victories?"

"Of course. And so do you. So does anyone
with twenty-twenty vision who's seen
Australia II
on the
water."

"Well, count me out," she said firmly. "It's
a fast boat, and well sailed, I admit. The Australians are better
than any of the foreign challengers, I admit. So what? The U.S. is
... the U.S.," she added in a sublime flight of optimism. "No one
is taking anything for granted, least of all Australia's winged
keel—despite its illegality," she said, still appalled that the New
York Yacht Club allowed the radical design into the
competition.

Again he shrugged. "The keel's legal.
Period. Ask the Brits, ask Olin Stephens, ask anyone who can
discuss it without getting hysterical at the thought of the U.S.
losing its beloved Cup."

"Which apparently
you
can do easily
enough," she snapped.

"I've shed my last tear," he answered
tiredly.

"Shadow
is fast.
Shadow
may
well be the fastest American boat," Mavis said stubbornly. She
threw it down like a challenge.

He neither accepted nor turned away from it.
"
Shadow
looks fast because I'm good on the helm," he said
simply.

"
Are
you." He was so exasperating.
She tried hard to keep herself from boiling over.
Turn down the
flame,
she cautioned herself. "If you're so good
,"
she
said, "why are you leaving your country in the lurch?" In a low,
intense rush she added, "Some might call you a traitor."

He pretended not to hear her last remark.
"Well, Mavis, one or two things. First is the question of whether
Cindy is actually dead or alive. Perhaps you didn't realize—no, of
course you couldn't know," he said with a thin smile, "that someone
has come forward with a description of a gentleman friend of
Cindy's who seems to fit your description of this Delgado fella.
They were once seen on a Cape Cod beach, which is possible but not
likely since Cindy hated the sun. There's also the unworn
high-heeled shoe that was found on the front seat. The
investigation continues, discreetly, into whether my wife is not a
suicide at all but the moll of a two-bit gangster."

Without acknowledging Mavis's look of sudden
understanding, he plowed ahead. "Then there's the matter of the
innocent Newporter she's crippled for life. His paralysis is a
fact, whether Cindy is dead or alive; that I know. And so here's a
question for you: is a yacht race—even a very old yacht
race—between rich men worth two legs of an ordinary citizen?"