By The Sea, Book Two: Amanda (3 page)

"She was a beautiful, historic yacht, but
I'd have given her up gladly to save even one of the six crew who
were lost with her," the old man said.

Hell and damnation
, Geoff thought.
This was not where he wanted the conversation to go. Soon Lipton
would be asking to see his war wounds. "Thank God all that's behind
us now, sir," Geoff said meaningfully.

"You're right, you're right; put it behind.
That's why I'm having a new
Erin
built, bigger and better.
How about you, then?" he asked with a careful look. "No bigger, no
better?"

"You might say that, Sir Thomas."

"Well, it takes time. In fact"—he looked at
his watch—"I'll tell you what, son. I'm due ashore in a while at a
little party, part business of course, and I'd like to have you
come along. I'm thinking you need a little geniality, and I could
use the company."

He meant it. The extraordinary thing about
Sir Thomas Lipton, world-renowned tea magnate, was that he had
almost no really close friends. A bachelor, an only child, both
parents dead—it made for an isolated man. He hobnobbed with
royalty; he had ten thousand employees; and all of working-class
America adored him. But except for close friendships with Tom
Dewar, the Scotch whiskey magnate, and one or two other pals,
Lipton kept to himself. It was absurd to feel sorry for him, and
yet Geoff did.

So they left together for Westport, a
bedroom community on the Connecticut shore where harried New
Yorkers could escape the commodities exchange and legal briefs, if
only for the weekend. Geoff offered to take his car, and Lipton
accepted, saying he might be staying the night. Driving on the
right was a harrowing novelty for a Brit, especially through
Brooklyn, but in Connecticut Geoff relaxed and opened it up a bit.
Never mind about the twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit, he told
Lipton. Hadn't Howdy Wilcox averaged over eighty-eight miles an
hour in last year's Indianapolis Speedway contest?

"This is not," said Lipton as he gripped a
hand strap in the sedan, "the Indianapolis Speedway."

Geoff throttled back respectfully and Lipton
resumed normal breathing.

"Say, Geoff," he said after a while, "what
do you know about sculpture?"

"That depends. What period?"

"The period of June 1920. The thing was
finished last week, and I was asked my opinion of it. As all the
world knows, my formal schooling is practically nil, and besides,
the thing was ugly in my simple opinion. But I hemmed and hawed and
finally the young lady went away. I say this to you by way of a
warning, because for all I know it may be lurking still in the
house we're bound for, and if it is, you'll be asked what you think
of it sure."

"Is the young lady the owner or the creator
of it?"

"She never did say; either way she has
warped ideas, if you ask me. But then, as I say, I'm a simple
man."

"Well, thanks for the tip." There was a
pause. "Is the young lady pretty?"

"Equally hard to say. Not in the ordinary
sense, though sometimes she can be truly striking. But even there,
not in the ordinary sense. I'd call her ... odd."

Not a Lotsy, then. Geoff lost interest
immediately. The talk turned to the upcoming Cup races, which were
being held in July this year, and to the dozens of distinguished
trophies Lipton's sailing yachts had won for him over the years.
"I've won the hand of every bridesmaid around," he said cheerfully,
"but not yet the bride."

"This will be the year, sir."

"I think so myself. But in the meantime my
fourth
Shamrock
is an expensive wench, and I've got to pay
her bills. Business is still business. Our host this evening claims
to have a proposal that will save me millions. He's gone from being
a ship broker to being a shipbuilder as well. I've chartered a ship
or two from him in the past, and he knows of my aversion for
middlemen. It's my guess that he means to sell me a ship for my
own. I suppose he hasn't heard about Belfast shipbuilders," he
added, chuckling.

"On the other hand,
I
didn't know
there was any merchant shipbuilding to speak of in the States,"
Geoff said.

"There ain't, which is one reason Jim Fain
is hauling it in hand over fist. The other reason is, he's building
for the Navy as well. Fain isn't afraid of work, or to take a
chance. He reminds me of me," Lipton finished up modestly. "A
bootstrapper if ever there was one. Turn right at the corner;
they're right on the water."

"Where's the shipyard?" asked Geoff,
interested despite himself. His uncle owned a small boatyard on the
Isle of Wight, and Geoff had a definite soft spot for marine
railways.

"The yard's nowhere near. It's in New
London, which makes for a long drive half the days of the week for
Fain. The other half he's at his brokerage offices in New
York."

"Mr. Fain sounds like a good candidate for a
heart attack."

"Not a bit of it; hard work never hurt
anyone. But there—you're the younger generation. We won't get into
that,"
Lipton said good-naturedly. "Hey now. What's
this?"

They were driving up the circular
cobblestoned path to the newly built, shingle-style waterfront
mansion of the clearly wealthy shipbuilder when a gleaming yellow
Daniels Submarine Speedster, low and sleek and sounding powerful,
cut them off and pulled up with a squeal of brakes in front of the
portico. Immediately a young woman who looked to Geoff only half
dressed ran out of the house and around to the driver's side.

"Get out of my car, David," she shouted,
clutching the door handle. "Out! Now!" She swung the door open and
grabbed the fellow inside by the arm.

He twisted away from her. "Don't be such a
witch, Amanda!" he growled, pulling the door closed again. "You
know my car's in the garage. I'll have this back in a few hours,
and you said you're staying over at mom and dad's tonight,
anyway."

"No! Borrow a car from your pals! Wreck
theirs! You're drunk again, David. Don't tell me you're not!" She
leaned across his chest, reaching for the ignition.

"I told you, I need it!" the young man
shouted, and he floored the gas pedal of the low convertible,
knocking the woman nearly down to the cobblestone drive.

Before Geoff could jump out to help her,
she'd regained her balance and was storming back into the house.
She seemed totally unaware of Lipton and him.

"That's her," said Lipton.

"Her who?"

"The one who owns or made The Thing."

"Huh. She didn't look odd to me," said
Geoff. "She looked naked."

"That's the way some of them dress over
here."

"They don't catch cold?" Geoff had a
distinct recollection of nipples through thin fabric, and he'd seen
far more arm and leg than ever before, outside of a beach.

Lipton turned to him with a pitying look.
"You haven't been in the States before this?"

"Not since before the war—but that was only
six years ago."

"Son, consider those to be dog-years.

Fain's man came out then to park their
car—at least, Geoff assumed he was Fain's man; he might have been a
car thief for all the arrogance of his manner—and Geoff followed
Lipton past an aproned maid into the drawing room where an
extravagantly high tea had been put out for about a dozen guests
who had gathered there. A few months ago the group would have been
gathered around cocktails, but Jim Fain was obeying to the letter
the spirit of Prohibition. It was anybody's guess whether he was
doing so in honor of his guest or to protect his lucrative Navy
contracts.

Lipton took Geoff directly to Mrs. Fain, a
comfortably stout woman with thin curly hair and a look of mild
amazement in her pale blue eyes. "All this," her look seemed to
say, "and I have to do something with it." She didn't do much. A
painful smile here, a nod and a bob of her head there—Mrs. Fain had
no stomach for entertainments, even on so modest a scale as
afternoon tea.

Not so Mr. Fain. Here was a man born to
move, and what he could not move, he would shake free. Jim Fain was
a back-slapper, a hand-pumper, and a by-Godder. It was tiring just
to watch him work the room. As soon as he could he hurried over,
slapping, pumping, saying, "By God, Sir Tom, you were able to make
it after all. It'll be worth your while, by God. I hope you're
ready to stay the night; I want you to see the shipyard
tomorrow."

Lipton's smile was of the "we'll see" sort.
He introduced Geoff, who was pumped but not slapped and took it
practically as a cut.

"What business you in, Geoff?" Fain asked
bluntly.

"At the moment, sir, none. I'm casting a
keen eye around me for something really worthwhile," said Geoff
without a trace of irony.

Fain looked him up and looked him down and
said, "Hmmn. I've got a son like that. Sir Tom, I want you to meet
my yard manager."

Off they went. Geoff was left alone within
range of Mrs. Fain and two other ladies. Ghastly thought. Why on
earth had he come? He cast around the room: no one under fifty. Not
a Lotsy in sight.
Oh, hell,
he thought, and waded into the
nearest conversation, which happened to be about Boston
bulldogs.

Sixty endless, mind-numbing minutes later
Geoff knew all there was to know and more about the care and
feeding of the little beasts. Every once in a while he'd come up
for air, only to see Lipton still engrossed with Jim Fain. It
became obvious that Lipton was interested enough in the business
deal to spend the night. Geoff was waiting for a pause—there
couldn't be much left to say—in the dog talk, so that he could flee
from the House of Fain.

The lull came, and he began making his
excuses. Then in walked the owner of the Daniels Speedster, draped
in a dress no more sturdy than the first one he'd seen on her.

"Oh, here's my Amanda," said Mrs. Fain with
shy affection. "Where are you off to, dear?" She made no effort to
introduce her Amanda to the company, conceivably because she did
not know anyone else's name.

"I won't be going anywhere unless I can
borrow Daddy's car," complained her daughter. "David's stolen
mine."

"Oh well, you know David." Mrs. Fain made it
sound as if thieves were quite common in the family. "Why don't you
go ask your pa?" she offered.

"He'll just say no. He threw a fit the last
time I asked. I don't know what to do."

"I'd ask him for you, but he does look deep
in it with Sir Lipton. I don't suppose he'd think much of me
barging in on him," said Mrs. Fain nervously.

While this embarrassingly candid
conversation was going on between mother and daughter, Geoff and
the other guests were left to stare alternately at their
fingernails or the exquisitely detailed ceiling. Geoff chose the
ceiling. The house was really quite handsome, an excellent example
of the type, if much larger than any of its neighbors. How this
ill-mannered family had had the grace to stumble into it was
nothing less than a burning question in his mind.

Amanda, whose back was to Geoff as she
studied the situation with her father across the room, finally
raised her shoulders high and exhaled violently. "All right. I'll
do it." Joan of Arc might have used such a tone, he thought.

Definitely, she was not wearing a corset, or
even a brassiere. He looked hard for evidence of hooks or straps,
but there was none. It amazed him. Trying not to stare, he caught a
glimpse of swaying, determined hips under the short, loosely
flowing crepe; nothing binding there either. Her black hair was cut
short. "Bobbed," the wild ones called it, and his mother was right:
it lacked something of the feminine. It did highlight a rather
gracefully turned out neck, though, and ferociously straight
shoulders. Her legs and arms, all out there for the world to see,
were—okay. No more, no less. As for her face, he hadn't caught more
than a glimpse of it yet, but two things were clear: when she was
angry she was not all that pretty; and when she pouted, even less
so.

Geoff, who'd had his fill of
les nouveaux
riches
for the day, bid farewell to Mrs. Fain, who clearly had
no idea who he was or where he'd come from, and began to make his
way slowly across the room, timing it so that he'd arrive at Mr.
Fain's side after his daughter had done with him. Instead,
Fain—obviously happy with the way things were going with
Lipton—held onto his daughter by the arm and beckoned Geoff
over.

"Amanda, this is Geoff Seton, another one of
your lost generation. You two should have a lot in common."

Sir Tom gave Geoff a quick wink.

"I'm very pleased to meet you," said Geoff
politely, extending his hand.
Spoiled little ….

Amanda took it and gave him a curt reply.
"Charmed. I'd love to stay and compare notes—"

"Not so fast, Amanda. Where's your manners?
My daughter's an
artiste,"
Fain explained to Geoff. "They're
above it all."

"Daddy, I've got to move the bronze, if it's
all the same to you. The gallery closes in an hour. Can I have the
keys—please?" she added with lemon-sweetness.

"What's your hurry? The gallery won't be
open tomorrow. Take it Monday."

She let the lids of her eyes drop down just
enough to let everyone know she was working up some sort of hex,
then opened them again. "Fine. Monday."

"C'mon, I'm just pulling your leg, Mandy,"
her father said jovially. "Here." He tossed her a keyring. "But
you'll need help with that—that thing."

Sir Tom dared to wink again. "Get this fella
to help you lug it to the car," he suggested.

Geoff, amused, said, "You can count on
me."

"It isn't heavy," she said coldly.

"The hell it isn't!" her father shot back.
"It damn near gave me a hernia when I lifted it! Be careful, Geoff.
And if you can figure out what the hell it is, let me know."