Sleeping Beauty (10 page)

Ethan swiveled his chair and brooded at the lake beyond the wide, sloping lawn. Brown and gray waves churned beneath a steady rain and dissolved into the gray horizon. I hope Anne took her umbrella, he thought. But she did like the rain. Once I saw her dancing on the grass in her bare feet in a rain just like this one. That was a long time ago. I hadn't
realized that; I haven't seen her dance for a long time. She hasn't done anything like that for years. “Tell Vince I want to talk to him,” he said to Charles without turning.

“He's at the office.”

“Call him.”

“I tried to believe Anne,” Charles said to his father's back. “But it's a terrible thing to think that someone in your family . . . It's too terrible to believe. And she wouldn't talk to us.”

“Help us,” Ethan muttered, staring at the lake. “That's what Marian said to her.” He swung around and glared at Charles. “We asked
her
to help
us.
Who the devil was helping Anne? My God, my God, what did we do to that child? Failed her, betrayed her . . . How could we do that to her?” He lowered his head and wept.

What's wrong with this family that we don't go out of our way to protect each other?

They'd all let her down, but he was the worst. He was her grandfather, the head of the family. The worst, he thought, the worst, the worst. Because he should have been enraged. Anne's story demanded it. And if he had stood with her, enraged and insistent on resolving it, he could have swept everyone with him to a confrontation that would have brought out the truth.

Brought out the truth, he thought. But I know the truth. Why did I ignore it? As soon as that poor beleaguered child became difficult and uncooperative, I abandoned her. We all did. That's what this family does when there's trouble. We want things comfortable, clear-cut, manageable. And when they're not, we turn tail and run. Like a bunch of cockroaches scared by the light. We're no better than that.

He was still sitting there two hours later, when Vince and Charles walked in. “Not you, Charles,” Ethan said. “Close the door behind you.” He waited until Charles was gone. “How long did it go on?” he asked Vince.

“Jesus Christ, Dad, not again,” Vince protested. He sat in a leather chair in the corner of the library. Behind him shelves of books reached to the ceiling, and illuminated
globes of the world stood about the room on mahogany stands. He put his feet on a leather hassock, crossing the ankles. “We went through this a dozen times last night. I told you, I don't know what got into her. I haven't a clue why she picked me. She's got a lot of problems, you know. Rita was right about her being unpopular, and she didn't like school—”

“How do you know that?”

“I don't; how could I, for sure? But whenever somebody asked her about school at dinner she didn't seem excited, or even much interested. Did she? To you?”

“I don't know,” Ethan replied, troubled because he had not noticed.

“My guess is, she was into drugs. I wouldn't say that to Charles, but that's what I think. God knows what kind of group she got in with at school—well, if God doesn't, Marian might—” He smiled briefly at his father; then his face became somber. “I've worried about her for some time, you know. I worry about all the young people today; they seem so lost. Too much drugs and alcohol and rebellion. But I worry about you, too, Dad. You can't blame yourself for Anne's craziness. She's enough of a grown-up to know she has a responsibility to her family, and if she walks out on us, we can't say it's our fault; we have to let her go. I'm not saying we shouldn't do our damndest to find her, and I'll help all I can, but if she's really gone, I think we should accept her decision and not get all worked up over it. I have a feeling she'll be fine. Underneath all that posturing and smart-aleck talk, she's a pretty strong girl.”

There was a long silence in the library. Ethan listened to the echo of Vince's satisfied voice. In his memory, he saw Anne as a child, with gangly arms and legs and heavy black hair falling over her eyes, alone most of the time, trying to get attention in ways that often were rude and even wild. Once Ethan had watched her in the garden, talking to herself. A lonely, vulnerable little girl who never really felt at home in Marian's house.

For the first time, Ethan felt the pain of Anne's loneliness.
He saw again her desperate face at the dinner table as she said those terrible words, and then her crumpled figure, crushed and defeated by the wavering of her family.

“Are you feeling all right?” Vince asked. “Can I get you anything? Tea? It's about that time, isn't it? I'll ring.”

“She was telling the truth,” Ethan said.

Vince had been halfway out of his chair. He jerked upright. “You don't mean that.” He stood with his weight on one foot, his hands in his pockets. “She was lying, Dad; I told you. I told you it wasn't true.”

“I heard you. I believe Anne.”

“You can't believe her! Dad, she was lying! Kids lie; everybody knows that. You wouldn't choose her over me; you're my father, for Christ's sake!”

His head thrust forward, his hands flat on his desk, Ethan contemplated Vince in silence.

Vince let out his breath. His body grew slack. He took one hand from his pocket and spun the globe beside him, gazing at it pensively. With his other hand he made a small gesture of helplessness. “I don't know how to convince you. I didn't have anything to do with her. Dad, you've got to believe me. She's a child! And I've got a wife and a child of my own; how could I do that to
them?
But how do I prove it if my own father doesn't believe me?”

Ethan was silent.

“In fact, I did try to be friends with her.” Vince spun the globe again. “A few times I tried to talk to her, draw her out, but she wouldn't have anything to do with me. It hurt me, you know. It wasn't that she was so warm and outgoing with everyone else—we all know she wasn't; in fact, she was damned rude to us most of the time—but I made a special effort to be friendly, to let her know she had an uncle who cared about her. I did admire her, you know; she had so many fine qualities, really fine qualities. Admirable. But she wouldn't have anything to do with me. She must have had something against me even then—this was at least a couple of years ago—and whatever it was she stored it up for a long time; why else would she pull a stunt like this? Christ, why would she accuse me, when I'd tried the hardest of anyone
to be her friend? I suppose she needed extra attention—poor kid, she really must have been miserable, with nobody liking her or wanting her around, and she must have known she brought it all on herself by being so unpleasant—but why pick on me? We haven't exchanged more than a couple dozen words in all these years. What did I do to her? What did I do to you, Dad, that you don't believe me? Here's a kid I barely knew, who was almost never around—she was off in that clearing in the forest or in her room—and out of the blue she makes up this damned crazy story, and when nobody believes her, she runs away, and then you don't believe me!” He sat on the edge of a chair near Ethan's desk, gripping his hands. “It's a nightmare.”

“What clearing in the forest?” Ethan asked.

“What? Oh, some place she had; Marian told her not to go there, but she did. She always did what she wanted, no matter what anyone said. Maybe you don't know her as well as you think, Dad. As far as I could tell, she always did exactly what she wanted. Of course she's a remarkable girl and quite capable of taking care of herself, but she won't bend for anybody. Nobody ever forced her, you know; nobody could make her do a damned thing she didn't feel like doing.”

Ethan scowled. How well had he known Anne? She was fifteen; he was sixty-seven. She was a schoolgirl, just beginning her life; he was closer to the end of his, already making plans to cut back as head of the company he had built and spend more time in his mountain paradise. How well could he know her? He admired her spirit and her strength, and enjoyed her sharp tongue, but how well did he understand her?

Vince went on, his voice picking up strength. “I haven't wanted to say this; I hoped I could avoid it—it's not the kind of thing you want to say about any young girl, much less one in your own family—but, knowing her as well as we do, why do we assume she's innocent at all, or has been for a long time? How do we know what she does, whom she meets, when she runs off after dinner, and on weekends? I'm not saying she's not a good girl—I'd never criticize her;
she's my niece and a lovable kid and I care deeply for her—but there are a lot of kids running around these days with nobody watching, and she probably got herself in too deep with some of them. I'd lay odds she got herself pregnant and panicked and looked for somebody to blame . . . and for some reason she picked me. I'm not saying that's exactly what happened, of course—how can we ever know, since she wouldn't talk to us even when we all begged her to?—but, with all the wild kids around these days, it's as good a guess as any. I'm just sorry—well, to tell you the truth, Dad, I'm damned mad—that she laid it on me. I did try to help her out, give her a few pointers, give her a little affection, and this is what I get. Damn it, I don't deserve this! I suppose she thought I'd let her get away with it; maybe she figured I was a patsy since I had a soft spot for her and she had a good time playing on people's sympathies—”

“That's enough!” Ethan was on his feet, his face dark, his breathing harsh, at last feeling the rage he should have felt for Anne the night before. “I saw her face! It wasn't easy for her, she wasn't having a good time, and
it was the truth!
You can spread your filth, but I understand her better than you think. You took advantage of her, you used her because she was young and weak. You like weak people; that's why you chose Charles of all of us to latch onto. You use people, Vince; you always have. Do you think I'm blind, that I don't see what you do? You use the family; you use the people in the company. You're shrewd and sharp and you get things done, and I'm ashamed to say I've ignored a lot of your little tricks because we benefited; the company benefited. That was my greed, I suppose; I let you go on making money for us. But to take advantage of Anne! To be so warped, so demented—so evil!—that you'd seduce that poor helpless child and then force her to . . . receive you . . . for . . . How long?
How long did you
—Good!” he roared as Vince sprang up and started for the door. “Get out of here! Out of my sight, out of my house,
out of my company!”

Vince stopped short and swung around. His eyes were stunned. “What?”

“Out of my company!
I don't want you in it. It's a family
company and I want you out of the family. You've disgraced us; I don't want to see your smarmy face again!” Ethan felt tears sting his eyes with the pain of what he was doing. “A man should look at his sons and know them, enjoy them, call them friends and partners. I don't recognize you anymore.” His voice dropped. “I'm sick of you.”

Vince watched his father's shoulders slump. “Dad.” His voice was tight but very careful. “You don't mean that. Not any of it. You don't
know
she was telling the truth; for some reason you just feel it. You're entitled to your feelings, but so am I, don't you think? And I know I did nothing wrong. But I won't argue with you about it any more; in fact, I think we'd better not argue about anything. We have too much at stake. What about Tamarack, Dad? I thought it was your dream as much as mine; you can't take chances with it because of one girl. We still have a lot to do there; isn't that more important than any one person?” He waited, but Ethan was silent. “Dad, let's forget this whole mess. We'll forget everything we said today. We'll find Anne and bring her back and she'll be fine; we'll all help her, and we'll forget this ever happened.”

Ethan looked at him from beneath heavy brows. “I told you to get out.”

“But I know you didn't mean it.” Vince smiled gently. “We're all tense from this whole thing, Dad, I understand that, I understand what you're going through. But it will pass. We have too much at stake—”

“I want you out of your office by tomorrow; I have other plans for it. And you'll be out of your office in Tamarack by the end of the week.”

The smile faded from Vince's face. He stared across the width of the room at his father, who stood slump-shouldered behind his desk. “You'll regret this,” Vince said at last. “I own shares in the company.”

“And what would you do with them?” Ethan asked contemptuously. “Force a vote on your job? Who'd vote for you against me?”

Slowly, Vince nodded. “You'd win, but it wouldn't be a meeting you'd enjoy. I'd force it, though, if I had to.”

Ethan waited; he knew more was coming.

“I'll need money. The easiest way would be to sell my shares.”

“I'll buy them,” Ethan said instantly. “Call the attorney; tell him to be here tomorrow.”

Vince pulled open the door. Ethan felt a surge of pride in his son for his instant acceptance of the inevitable. He had seen him like this before, making decisions swiftly and decisively, without visible regret. We have that in common, Ethan thought; there are ways in which he is so clearly my son.

“You might wish me luck,” said Vince, standing in the doorway.

Ethan's pride faded and tears again came to his eyes. He was thinking of Vince as a baby: the most beautiful of all his children, the quickest to walk and talk, the one with the brightest smile. The most clever, the most charming, the greediest. “Stay away from young girls,” he said.

Vince walked out.

Fury propelled him. He walked the length of the living room and into the dining room and on through every room of the house in a swift, enraged tour. He had not lived there since he was eighteen, but he still thought of it as home, and now he was leaving it for good. No regrets, he thought. Except for Tamarack.