Cutler 3 - Twilight's Child (32 page)

"Clayton?" a female voice called.

We all turned. Leslie Osborne had come into the hallway. She wore a jade-green blouse and jeans. I thought she had the figure of a dancer—small-breasted with a narrow waist and long, sleek legs. She had very light brown hair tied behind her head with a turquoise ribbon and wore no makeup, but she had the sort of face that didn't require much. Her lips were naturally bright red, her blue eyes crystalline and her complexion perfect, her skin as smooth and as clear as alabaster.

"Why are you staying in the entryway so long?" she asked.

"We were just greeting one another," he explained quickly. "This is my wife, Leslie," he said. She stepped toward us, extending her hand. I saw she wore two diamond stud earrings in her pierced ears.

"How do you do?" she said.

I took her hand in mine. Her fingers were long and thin, but her palms were puffy with muscle. Artist's hands, I thought. I felt she was a substantially warmer and less threatened person than her husband, and even though her eyes scanned me quickly, they were friendly eyes.

"Forgive me for staring," she said, smiling. "I often forget I'm doing it. It's an occupational hazard. You see, I'm an artist."

"I understand," I said. I had almost said, "I know," but I didn't, because I didn't want her to know how much spying we had done.

"Well, Clayton?" she said, turning to him.

"You take them into the living room, and I'll get Kelly," he instructed.

"Right this way," Leslie said, indicating the room to the right.

"Thank you," I said, and jimmy and I walked into their living room.

The Osbornes' townhouse appeared to be a large two-story building with thick carpets and elegant old furniture immaculately maintained. From what I could see, every room was a showcase filled with expensive and beautiful things. There were paintings everywhere, and because of the signature I spotted on them, I knew most were Leslie's. But here and there were rural scenes painted by other artists. Fern had been brought up in this world, a world of elegance and art, a world filled with rich and good things, I thought. I wondered how it had shaped her.

"Please have a seat," Leslie said, indicating the chestnut silk sofa. "And quickly tell me something about yourselves before they arrive. Where do you live?" she asked, sitting on the matching settee.

"We live in Cutler's Cove, Virginia, where I manage my family's resort, the Cutler's Cove Hotel."

"Oh, I've heard of it," Leslie said. "It must be beautiful there."

"It is."

"And how did you two . . ." She gestured.

"Get together?"

"Yes," she said, still smiling.

I looked at Jimmy. We both understood how difficult it would be to tell our story quickly.

"I guess we always realized we were in love.. After Jimmy joined the army we pledged ourselves to each other," I said, still looking at Jimmy. "When he was discharged we got married. By then I was living in Cutler's Cove."

"Oh, how nice," she said. Jimmy had yet to say a word to her. She stared at him, but before she could say anything to him or he could say anything to her, Clayton Osborne and Fern appeared in the doorway.

Despite our promises to pretend to be people we weren't, neither of us could help but fix our gazes intently, almost hungrily on Fern. I saw immediately that she sensed we were looking at her in a way that was much different from how her parents' other friends might look. Her dark eyebrows rose like question marks.

She was tall for her age and looked more like a girl of twelve or thirteen, which made sense when I recalled how tall Momma Longchamp was. She wore her hair in a pageboy; it was as dark and shiny as black onyx. Momma Longchamp's hair, I thought. She had Jimmy's dark eyes, but hers were smaller.

Clayton was right to characterize her as advanced for her age. Although she was only ten, she had begun to develop a figure. The outline of her training bra was just visible beneath the light green cotton blouse. She had long arms and slim shoulders, her body trim and sleek like a cat's. In fact, I realized she had cat's eyes—narrow, sharp, searching, probing and poking, driven by a feline curiosity.

Even so, she was a pretty girl with a smooth, dark complexion. She had Momma's nose and mouth and Daddy's chin and jaw. It wouldn't be hard to see Jimmy beside her and not know they were related, I thought.

"This is Mr. and Mrs. Longchamp," Clayton said. "Our daughter Kelly."

"Hello," I said first. For a moment I thought Jimmy wasn't going to say anything.

"Hi," he finally added.

She studied us as if trying to decide whether to talk or just glare. Her mouth opened slightly, but she made no sound. She looked from Jimmy to me and then back to Jimmy.

"It's polite to return a greeting when you get one, Kelly," Clayton chastised.

"Hello," she said.

"Sit down, Kelly," Clayton commanded.

Reluctantly, she sauntered over to the easy chair and plopped into it, keeping her eyes glued to us.

"Kelly," Clayton snapped, "since when do you treat the furniture like that? And in front of guests?"

"It's all right, Clayton," Leslie said. "Kelly is just a little bit depressed today," she explained, turning to us. "She's had a bad day at school."

"It wasn't my fault!"

"This isn't the time for this discussion," Clayton said, fixing his eyes firmly on Fern. She shot a gaze at us and then looked away. "Mr. and Mrs. Longchamp are old friends who have come a long way and are here for only a few minutes," he continued.

The way he limited our visit caught Fern's attention, and she turned back to us with renewed interest.

"How far did you come?" she asked.

"From Virginia," I said.

"Did you drive or fly?" she followed.

"We flew," Jimmy said, smiling. His warm expression drew her gaze, and for a moment, a fleeting moment, I was sure I saw something in her eyes, some note of recognition, or at least some deep-seated curiosity.

"Wasn't I born in Virginia?" she demanded of Leslie. Leslie smiled softly.

"I've told you dozens of times, Kelly," Leslie explained. "You were born in the emergency room of a hospital just outside of Richmond, Virginia. Your father and I had wandered off too far while I was in the ninth month."

Born on the road, I thought—the same sort of lie Momma and Daddy Longchamp had told me. When I looked at Fern to see her reaction, however, I found she was already staring intently at me, as if she wanted to see my reaction more than I wanted to see hers. Jimmy flashed a disdainful gaze my way. He didn't think much of their fabrication.

"And what do you do?" Fern asked. "Buy dozens and dozens of stocks and bonds like Daddy's other friends?"

"We own and operate one of the biggest hotels in Virginia Beach," I explained. "It's called Cutler's Cove."

"I've never been to Virginia Beach," Fern moaned.

"Oh, you poor, deprived child," Clayton said, cutting into her with his sarcasm. "You've only been to the beaches in Spain and France and all over the Caribbean islands."

"Do you have any children?" she asked me, ignoring Clayton.

"A little girl, Christie."

"How old?" she followed quickly.

"Kelly, it's not polite to cross-examine people like that," Leslie said. She turned to us. "She's a very inquisitive child. Clayton thinks she will become a journalist."

"Or work for the I.R.S.," he added, shaking his head.

"That's all right. I don't mind," I said, turning back to Fern. "Christie's just over five, actually five and a half."

"How come you have only one child, too?" she demanded.

"Kelly!" Clayton glanced down at us and then stepped toward her. "Didn't your mother just tell you not to cross-examine? There are ways to carry on a civilized conversation and there are ways not to."

"I'm just asking," she said.

"I did try to have another child," I told her, "only I had a miscarriage."

Fern's eyes brightened.

"Wow," she muttered. I saw a smile take form on Jimmy's face.

"What's your favorite subject in school?" he asked her. From the way he held himself as he gazed at her, I could feel his frustration . . . How he would like to jump up and embrace her, I thought. It was evident he saw all the resemblances to Momma Longchamp in her face, too.

"English," she replied, "because I can make up stuff and write it sometimes."

"Why, then, are you doing so poorly in the subject?" Clayton inquired.

"The teacher doesn't like me."

"None of your teachers likes you," Clayton commented. "Kelly's been having a little trouble adjusting to things this year," Leslie began.

"This year?" Clayton said, raising his eyebrows. Leslie continued, ignoring him.

"She happens to be a very bright girl who, whenever she wants to," she added, gazing at her, "can leap to the head of the class; but because the other students are a bit slower, she gets bored, and when she gets bored, she gets into trouble."

"She's bored a lot these days," Clayton inserted.

"Well, I hate the Marion Lewis School. All the kids there are snobs. I wish I was back in public school," she complained.

"I don't think your record in public school is much to brag about, Kelly," Clayton said. He turned to us. "We were hoping that if we enrolled Kelly in this private school, she would change, benefit from the special attention, but she has to want to change herself."

Fern pouted just the way I imagined she would. She embraced herself tightly and turned away, her lips pursed.

"Have you been having good hotel seasons at Cutler's Cove?" Leslie asked me.

"The last few years have been very good. We're going to expand the facilities next year. We're thinking of adding some tennis courts and buying a few more boats for the guests to use off our dock. We're getting younger guests these days," I explained.

"You own your own boats?" Fern asked, slowly drawn back by my description.

"Uh-huh," Jimmy said. "Sailboats and motorboats."

"What else does the hotel have?" she inquired.

"A large swimming pool, playing fields, gardens, a ball room, a game room, a card room . . ."

"Cool," Fern exclaimed.

"Kelly, I've asked you not to bring that juvenile jargon into the house," Clayton said. "One of Kelly's problems," he continued, "is her hanging around with children much older than she is. They are invariably bad influences."

"They're not children," Fern cried.

"Excuse me," he said. "Teenagers."

"How long are you staying in New York City?" Leslie asked, more to end the argument than to find out the answer.

"We're going to leave tomorrow," I said.

"Which hotel are you at?" Fern asked.

"The Waldorf," Jimmy said quickly.

"Coo . . . that's nice," she said, looking up at Clayton. All this time he had made no attempt to sit down, which underlined how short he wanted our visit to be. He gazed at his gold wristwatch.

"I think," he said slowly, nodding his head, "Kelly should go up and begin her homework, don't you, Leslie?"

"I got lots of time. I'm not going to school for two days," Fern said.

"What? Two days?" He spun around toward Leslie.

"We'll talk about it afterward, Clayton," Leslie said calmly.

"She's been suspended from school again?" he cried out in dismay.

"Later, Clayton," Leslie said, nodding in our direction. His pale skin flamed with a bright red fury as he bit down on his lips.

"Kelly," he snapped, "say good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Longchamp. I want you up in your room."

Reluctantly now, I thought, Fern rose from her seat.

"Good-bye," she said. She stopped in front of Jimmy, who couldn't keep his eyes off her, and extended her hand. "Why do your eyes look so watery, like you're about to cry?" she asked.

"Do they?" He forced a smile. "Maybe it's because I had a sister who would be just about your age now," he said, "and when I look at you, I'm reminded of her."

It was as if the air around us was suddenly filled with static electricity. Clayton Osborne's mouth dropped open; his face flamed even redder, so it seemed he might go up in smoke. An icy look of cold fear washed over Leslie Osborne's face. My heart began to pound as if it wanted to break out of my chest, and my breath caught in my throat and seemed to stay.

Fern, however, didn't take her eyes from Jimmy. Her lips curled into a strange smile.

"What happened to her?" she asked.

"She died."

"How?"

"Kelly, that's enough," Clayton said forbiddingly. "You can't keep asking people personal questions, especially painful ones. It's not only impolite, it's . . . it's"—he glared down at Jimmy—"cruel."

"I didn't mean anything," she moaned.

"Just go up and do your homework, no matter how much time you have to do it," he commanded. She lowered her head and started away, turning once in the doorway to look back at us. Then she ran out and pounded her way up the stairs.