Claire at Sixteen (15 page)

“Why should we believe you?” Mr. Hughes asked.

A reasonable question, Claire thought. She tried to count up how many lies and half-truths she'd told since entering their house, but there were too many to keep track of. “How could anyone not love Scotty?” she asked instead. “He's smart and handsome and gentle. Mrs. Hughes, you understand, don't you? He's your son, you must see how special he is.”

Scotty's mother put her hand on Scotty's. “He's my baby,” she said. “He'll always be special to me.”

Scotty stared at his mother in wonderment. “I didn't know you felt that way,” he said. “That I was special.”

“She said special to her,” Scotty's father declared. “A son is always special to his mother. That has nothing to do with the issues at hand here.”

Claire looked at Scotty's parents. His mother was a Prescott, and at least half an aunt to Claire. His father was a Bradford, and undoubtedly somewhere in Boston history, Bradfords had intermarried with Winslows. These people shared blood with Nicky and Megs, yet they couldn't be less like them. Parents certainly were luck of the draw, but this was the first time Claire could remember feeling pleased with the pair she'd been dealt.

“Why did you marry our son?” Mr. Hughes thundered. Claire was surprised he had that much lung power.

“Because I love him,” she replied.

“Scotty, why did you marry this girl?” his father asked.

Scotty looked too dazed to reply. Claire doubted that he remembered his lines, anyway.

“Because I wouldn't go to bed with him otherwise,” she said.

“What?” Mr. Hughes said. Mrs. Hughes merely looked pale. She held on to Scotty's hand even more tightly.

“You heard me,” Claire said. “Scotty was frantic to go to bed with me. Why do you think he brought me here? To admire your antiques? But I wouldn't sleep with him unless we were married. That's the kind of girl I am. That's how I was brought up.”

“Have you slept with him since you got married?” Mr. Hughes asked.

“We haven't had the chance,” Claire replied. “Scotty changed his mind about the whole thing as soon as we exchanged our vows. He insisted we come back here right away, before we could give in to temptation. So we took the next shuttle back. He said you'd know how to get him out of this mess.” Claire risked letting a tear fall silently down her cheek. “I hate him thinking of me as a mess,” she said. “I love him so much. Oh, Scotty.” She reached her arm out toward him, but Mrs. Hughes protectively pulled him even closer to her.

“So the marriage hasn't been consummated,” Mr. Hughes said.

“No,” Claire said. “It's a marriage in name only. But if you'll just give us a chance, I know I can make Scotty a good wife. I love him so much. I'd give up anything for him.”

“No!” Scotty said. “Claire, no. It was a mistake. Let's get out of it before there's too much damage.”

Claire was uncomfortably aware that, just as Scotty could no longer trust her, she could no longer trust him as well. Every one of his words had a double meaning. Only the reassuring thought that Sebastian Prescott was in the house with her kept her from panicking.

“I don't suppose you have a lawyer,” Mr. Hughes said.

“Of course not,” Claire said.

“You're better off without one,” Mr. Hughes said. “You are young, and I can see how you might have gotten carried away. Young blood runs hot. Passion overpowers common sense. My attorney can handle the entire annulment proceedings. It will be as though the two of you never met, let alone wed. A few papers will be signed, perhaps a court appearance will be required, and then you can go on with your separate lives. Scotty, of course, will return to college. And you can go back to Oregon or Missouri or wherever it is your parents are currently camped out.”

Claire didn't care for his tone. She knew she'd promised Scotty not to take any money from his parents, but she didn't have to take any garbage from them, either. She was their daughter-in-law, after all, and all they'd given her was a lousy cup of tea. And that hadn't even been volunteered.

“I'm not trash,” she finally said. “And even if I were trash, you could learn a few manners.”

“I doubt a girl like you has anything to teach me about manners,” Mr. Hughes said.

Claire yearned to slug him in his weak chin. No wonder Nicky avoided all the Boston aspects of Megs's life. “I don't know what ‘a girl like you' means exactly,” she said. “Could you be more specific?”

Mr. Hughes stared at her. “Cheap,” he said finally. “Whorish. Someone who uses her body to get what she wants.”

“Dad!” Scotty said.

“Really, Brad,” Mrs. Hughes said. “I think you should keep such opinions to yourself.”

“That's right,” Claire said. “Because if I am what you said, then I'll do anything I can to get money out of you. And if I'm not, then you're just going to make me angry, and I might seek revenge by getting money out of you.” She smiled just to see his reaction. He didn't smile back, but there was a greater look of respect in his eyes.

“You're tougher than I thought,” he said.

Claire nodded. “I'm tough,” she said. “But I'm not cheap and whorish.”

“Please apologize to her, Brad,” Mrs. Hughes said. “This is a terrible situation, and we don't want to make things worse by alienating her. Scotty's future depends on what we do.”

Scotty looked miserable. Claire remembered how he'd been the night before in New York and tried to decide whether marriage or being back home was the problem. Probably both. She was in no mood to take all the blame.

“I spoke in haste,” Mr. Hughes said. “I'm sorry if I offended you.”

Claire laughed. “You called me a whore,” she pointed out. “Of course you offended me.”

“Then I am indeed sorry,” Mr. Hughes said. “My wife is right. This is no occasion for name-calling. I lost my temper. It's natural that I would be worried about Scotty. He's only nineteen, and his future lies ahead of him. You can destroy that future, and that alarms me.”

It was a pretty speech, the sort Claire might make under similar circumstances. “I never meant to hurt Scotty,” Claire replied. She felt as though she were speaking in a foreign language, one whose words she knew but wasn't comfortable with. “I love him, and I thought he loved me. I guess I was wrong. I guess it doesn't matter. Even if he does still love me, we wouldn't stand a chance. Not without your blessing.”

“I cannot possibly offer you my blessing,” Mr. Hughes declared. “When Scotty is older, and picks a bride more, shall we say, more conventional, then I'll bestow my blessing.”

“I hope he'll be very happy then,” Claire said. “I do want that for Scotty, that he should be happy. You believe me, don't you, Mrs. Hughes?”

Scotty's mother nodded. Claire realized that she didn't even know her own aunt's name. This was hardly the time to ask. Evvie might know.

“I'm sure you're a very nice girl,” Mrs. Hughes said. “Young and impetuous, but respectable. Not any of those things Brad said about you. And I know you appreciate how worried we are about Scotty. Someday you'll have a son, and then you'll truly understand.”

If Claire had had any fantasies about mothering, she'd lost all interest in the past ten minutes. “I only hope I'll be as good a mother as you are,” she said. “Scotty loves you so much. He told me about the time you share together, how he doesn't get to see nearly enough of you, but when he does, how much he cherishes that time. That's one of the things I love about Scotty. How much he loves you, even though you almost never had enough time for him. I mean, with him.” She smiled and poured herself another cup of tea.

“There will be legal arrangements to be made,” Mr. Hughes said. “Can we count on your cooperation?”

Claire nodded. She lifted the teacup to her mouth, and as she looked up, she saw a young man dazzling in his good looks. He had to be Schyler, she realized, her heart pounding. He was perfect. It should have been the two of them together. They would have made a couple so glorious that the world would have stopped to worship them.

Schyler stared straight at her, and smiled a smile of pure recognition. It wasn't so much that they looked alike, although there was a resemblance. It was the shared soul of two great beauties. Claire yearned to make love with him. It would be like making love with a mirror.

“It's Grandfather,” he said. “He wants to speak with Scotty.”

“No,” Scotty said.

“I'll speak with him,” Claire said. She wished Schyler weren't there to confuse her. “If he's going to be angry, he might as well be angry with me.” She stood up, realized she was still holding the teacup, then bent down to put it on its saucer. As she rose, she again made eye contact with him. Their shared gaze was so powerful it hurt.

“I'll take you,” Schyler said.

“No,” Claire said. “Just tell me how to find him. I'll go myself.”

“Upstairs,” Schyler replied. “Second door on the right.”

“Thank you,” Claire said. She was astounded she could still walk. She brushed past Schyler as she left the room, and wondered if everyone else could feel the electricity. Schyler could, she knew. He wanted her as much as she wanted him, and now, thanks to this ridiculous marriage, it might be years before they could ever get together.

Claire forced herself to concentrate on her mission. She was about to meet Sebastian Prescott, Nicky's father, Sybil's only hope. Nothing else mattered. Everything she'd gone through, she'd done for this moment. Everything she still had to face would be justified by the outcome of this meeting.

She knocked on the door, and waited for him to say, “Come in.” The voice was imperious and angry.

Claire took a deep breath and turned the knob until the door opened. There he was, sitting behind a desk in a room lined with first editions and paintings of setters and spaniels. There he was, Nicky's father, the only person in the world Nicky truly resembled, except for his daughter Claire.

Claire entered the room and walked straight toward the man. She'd managed to grab her overnight bag when she'd left the living room, and she held on to it tightly. When she reached the desk, she put the bag down first, then swung herself up on the desk until she was sitting two feet away from Sebastian Prescott. She witnessed his shocked response to her nerve, her closeness, her face, her very being.

“Hiya, Gramps,” she said. “It's about time we met, don't you think?”

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

Sebastian Prescott turned bright red.

Claire inched herself closer to him, while continuing to swing her legs off the side of the desk. “Oh, I'm sorry,” she said. “You must think I'm awfully presumptuous calling you Gramps just because I married your grandson a couple of hours ago.”

“Get off this desk immediately,” Mr. Prescott said. Claire was grateful that he could still speak. She should have found out if he had a blood pressure problem. It was too late now.

“Calm down,” she said, making no effort to move. “Relax. This won't be too painful, I promise.”

“If you're after money from me, the answer is no,” Mr. Prescott declared. “So you can forget your foolish schemes and leave at once.”

“Hear me out, Gramps,” Claire said. “Or do you prefer something more formal? Grandfather, maybe, or
Grand-père?
You're not French, though, are you. I'd love it if you were French.”

“You are a stupid young woman,” Mr. Prescott declared.

“No,” Claire replied. “You're wrong. You have no idea how wrong you are.”

“Why did you come in here in the first place?” he asked. “I wanted to see my grandson, not you.”

“Grandson, granddaughter, what difference does it make?” Claire replied. “Or haven't you seen the family resemblance?”

“You are delusional,” Mr. Prescott said. “Get out at once.”

“Not until I give you my father's regards,” Claire said. “Nicholas Sebastian is my father.”

“I've never heard of him,” Mr. Prescott declared.

“Oh, that's right, you wouldn't have,” Claire said. “The one time you met, he was still George Keefer.” She laughed. “I don't know anyone who looks less like a George Keefer than Nicky,” she declared. “It was right after he came to visit you that he changed his name. Nick Sebastian suits him so much better. The Sebastian, he borrowed from you, but I don't know why he picked Nicholas.” She paused for a moment to watch Sebastian Prescott's reaction, and she wasn't disappointed. He ceased being flushed with anger, and after a moment's puzzlement, turned pale. He clutched the desk with his hands, and stared straight at her.

“Surprise!” Claire said.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Mr. Prescott said. “Who's this George Keefer you keep mentioning?”

“You have a good memory, Gramps,” Claire said. “I only mentioned him once. You don't mind if I call you Gramps, do you? There's been a real shortage of grandparents in my life, and I always thought it would be great to have a Gramps of my own. And now I do.”

“I've never heard of a George Keefer,” Mr. Prescott said. “I don't know why you keep persisting in this fairy tale.”

“It's no fairy tale,” Claire replied. “A long time ago you had an affair with your secretary. I guess that was what businessmen were supposed to do in those days. She got pregnant, which wasn't in her job description, and you paid her off. No big deal, at least not to you. Only, eighteen years later, into your office walks George Keefer, calling you Dad and making like he wants a family reunion. You know and I know all he's after is some money, so you pay him off, too. You're good with the checkbook, Gramps. I'll give you that. Another twenty-five years or so pass, and in walks George's daughter Claire. Your granddaughter, Mr. Prescott. Your very own flesh and blood.”