The Deception Dance (14 page)

Tobias paces back and forth on the foyer’s carpet, while Linnie
and Chauncey rest on a bench.

“Only a few more places to show you ladies,” he says as
he spins and marches out the front door.

We follow and pause in the driveway, between the three houses.

“This, as you know,” he gestures to our guest house, “Is
our visitor accommodations, constructed at the same time as the main
house. By our grandfather’s orders, men are not allowed to
enter, while unmarried women are in residence...”

Linnie coughs, with her gaze on Chauncey.

“...So, I will not be showing you this part of our residence.
And this,” (he gestures to the identical house on the other
side) “Is a gentlemen’s club, open to members in the
Skane area.”

“Gentlemen’s club?” Chauncey shows her first
enthusiasm of the morning.

“Our club is under construction at the moment, so you will see
little foot-traffic.” He examines Chauncey and clears his
throat. “And women are never allowed inside.”

"So, no woman has ever been in there?" Chauncey asks,
sounding unconvinced.

"We are not sexists. We actually tried admitting a woman once,
one of Stephen's friends, Cassidy Dixon." He says the name with
obvious distaste. "The invite was on Stephen's insistence; she
behaved disgracefully, it was a mistake, and no woman will be ever be
invited in again.”

“Uh-oh,” Linnie whispers nudging me with her elbow, “the
west wing is forbidden.”

I stifle a laugh, I wonder if this Cassidy could have possibly
out-disgraced Chauncey. From Tobias's pinched lips, I can tell the
opportunity for discussing anything interesting, like past
embarrassments, is over.

Tobias clears his throat again, for the millionth annoying time. “If
you will follow me.” He walks through the space between the
men’s club and the main house, to a large building behind.

“Is that the stables?” Linnie says, bouncing with every
step. “I noticed you have horses.”

“No, our stables are across the grounds, I’m not taking
you on that tour. Grandfather said to give you a tour of the house,
not the grounds.” Yet another throat clearing. “This is
our garage.”

Even though cars are really not my specialty, I appreciate the spread
in their garage. We take an elevator to a lower level, where the
really expensive cars gleam in rows. They also have every shape and
size of motorcycle I could imagine. I smile as I notice a beat-up
little red Vespa scooter at the end of the line of gleaming cruisers
and sport bikes.

“I like this one,” I say, laughing, to Linnie.

She pats me on the shoulder. “Only you, Raven, only you.”

“As much as I want to climb into every one of these Ferraris,
if I don’t lie down soon, I will collapse,” Chauncey
says, griping.

Tobias sniffs and straightens his posture. “I also have matters
to attend to. I'm a busy man. Thank you ladies for taking my tour,
I’ll leave you here.” He turns on his heal and crosses to
the open elevator.

Linnie and I call after him, “Thank you!”

“Thank God,” Chauncey says under her breath.

Tobias holds up his hand in a stiff wave without turning, walks into
the elevator and out of view.

Linnie runs over to Chauncey and slings an arm around her shoulder.
“Didn’t get much sleep last night?”

Chauncey lays her head on Linnie’s shoulder, “I thought
the tour would never end.”

Linnie strokes her head. “Let’s get you to bed, huh?”

I follow the girls, about ten paces behind, to the elevator. I
pretend to be admiring a grey Lamborghini, which truly deserves
admiration, and tell them I’ll wait for the elevator to come
back.

Would Linnie still love her as much if she knew what Chauncey’s
really like? Not that I’ll tell her; I wouldn’t do that.
Maybe I should. I mean, Linnie trusts her and Chauncey’s evil.
I decide that I shouldn’t tell her; I’m not getting in
between them, especially since we’re stuck with Chauncey for
the rest of this vacation.

Linnie waits on the steps of the guesthouse,
when I meander over. She links her arm in mine. “I’m
starving!”

Deciding we would get lost, navigating through the guesthouse, we
walk around to the guesthouse kitchen. Even though this kitchen
supposedly only serves guests, our kitchen at home could fit in here
twice-over. This space has more of a laid-back feel than anywhere
else I’ve seen in these mansions; pots and pans hang along one
wall, and years of chopping and dicing wears and notches the central
counter. The cook we saw yesterday is not here, but Nicholas and
Stephen are.

“So,” Nicholas says, as he leans on the counter, his tone
laced with mischief. “Learn anything interesting on your tour?”

“Yeah,” I say, as I near, “That you two are not
supposed to be here.”

Stephen grabs a plum from a basket on the counter and tosses it from
hand to hand. “Yeah, we don’t follow that rule. This is
where Dina cooks, so this is where we eat. You unmarried women can’t
scare us off.”

“Actually,” Nicholas says grinning, “I’m here
to see if you want a rematch.”

Linnie snatches Stephen’s plum out of the air and takes a bite.
“Rematch?”

“I vanquished Raven in a race yesterday. I just wonder if she
wants to win back her honor.”

“Oh, she does.” Linnie wiggles her
eyebrows. “It’s a matter of motivation: you need stakes.”

Nicholas crosses to where Linnie stands. “What are you
thinking?”

“If Raven wins, she and I get full use of the little Vespa in
the garage while we’re here, plus as much gas as we want. And
if you win...”

“...An American date, with Raven,” He finishes her
sentence, “At a restaurant in Hoganas.”

"What's an American date?" Linnie and I ask in unison.

"Swedes don't go on dates, we go out in groups," Stephen
says.

I say, “Not going to happen,” just as Linnie says, “it’s
on.”

I ask, “Don’t I get a say in this?”

“No,” they all answer.

Linnie continues, “It’ll have to be a short sprint, maybe
a forty yard dash. Do you have a track?”

“I’m in,” Stephen says, as he grabs another plum.

“What?” Nicholas glares. “‘
In’
what?”

“I’m
in
the race, same stakes. If I win, I take
Raven on a date.”

“No chance.” Nicholas back-steps toward me.

Stephen tosses up and catches his plum, “First of all, the
Vepsa belongs to me, so I have more right to be in this race than you
do. Second, I smoke, so I’ll be no competition.”

Nicholas points. “Yeah, but you cheat.”

Stephen shrugs. “My Vespa; I’m in.”

“And I’ll judge!” Linnie chimes, “Here, show
me the track. I’m Raven’s management.”

Nicholas leads Linnie out, then ducks back into the kitchen a second
later, his eyebrows lower and tense, as he stares at Stephen. “Aren’t
you coming?”

I force myself to look at Stephens face; if I flinch, he'll see it.

Stephen’s blue-eyes twinkle, as he smiles my way. “In a
moment.”

Nicholas makes a huffing sound, hesitates, then leaves.

Stephen’s smile melts off the scar-free half of his face. The
absence of his smile seems so unnatural. When we can no longer hear
Linnie and Nicholas, chatting outside, he says, “Don’t be
afraid." He pauses long enough for me to consider telling him
I'm not afraid (which is a lie), but before I do he continues, "I’m
not planning on pursuing you. I'm not blind." He raises his hand
to his face, then holds it out to me, as if I might object. "I
just… I don't like the way Nicholas is going about this and
this is my only way of challenging him."

I look at him for the first time, really look at him; if not for the
huge scar and the way all his features pull toward it, his face would
be similar to Nicholas's.

He was probably never as conventionally good looking as Nicholas, but
from his high cheek-bones and big crystal blue eyes, I bet he had a
pretty-boyish charm before something split his face open. Too sad.
His smile returns, making his eyes gleam roguishly. He winks. “Also,
I can never pass up an opportunity for an American date with a
beautiful woman, even if I have to trick her into it.”

“It wasn't my idea to come here. I'm not trying to mess up your
family or anything. I just wanted to go on vacation with my sister."

"Raven, I don't object to you; Nicholas just has ...”

I'm not sure if he's going to say, 'a duty,' or 'standards he needs
to live up to,' or however he wants to justify why I'm unfit for
Nicholas, but I don't want to hear it, so I interrupt him. “I
know. I'm just, um, I'm not trying to fall in love or anything, not
on vacation, anyway.”

Stephen laughs. “Good luck.” He bites into his plum and
walks out of the room, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

Wow, thanks! ‘Good luck’? Could he say anything more
annoying? I take a seat at the kitchen table and kick the chair leg.

“You look so angry, your eyes could boil water,” a woman
with a thick accent, probably Russian, says, behind me. I look back,
just as a jar and knife plop on the table in front of me. “For
you, open the jar.” A curvy petite unnaturally redheaded woman
says, taking a step back.

“Huh?”

“Open the jar,” she repeats.

I lean forward, take the glass container and unscrew the lid. A thick
coat of wax seals in (what I assume is) jam. I glance to the
redheaded woman, who is now twirling a whirlpool into a bowl of
batter with a wooden spoon; she’s the cook from last night.

“Use the knife,” she waves her batter-laden spoon.

“Okay,” I grumble as I saw into the thick seal. The wax
is too hard so I end up stabbing it repeatedly. When I finally slash
through to the jelly, I’m at a loss as to how to remove the
seal. I stand up to lever and force the wax out. I adjust my
position, then use all my strength to push out... and then the jam
explodes in my face and around the kitchen.

The woman gives an almost masculine chuckle. She bustles over and
hands me a rag, “For you.” She descends to the floor,
scrubbing, before I blink.

“Sorry!” I wipe jam off my cheek. “I’ll clean
up.”

“Do not worry.” She scours the last droplets of jam off
the floor. “Do you feel better now?”

I exhale a little laugh. “You know, I do.
Thank you.” I wipe the jam on my T-shirt but the red goo only
smears.

The woman stands, washes her hands and crosses
to pour some batter into the frying pan. “Are you ready to talk
about why you were so angry?”

“Um,” I sigh, “It’s really dumb. I just,
well, this isn’t how I planned my sister’s and my trip,
and we had it all planned out.” I stare at the table for a
moment, before adding, “…and if I get attention from one
more guy, I’ll scream. I feel as if all these different people
are trying to grab hold of me and drag me in different
directions...and all I want is to be with my sister.” I glance
up, “I’m sorry; I’m not making any sense.”

“No, I understand. You are blooming into a beautiful woman and
all the men are noticing and this is stressful.”

“I guess, and thanks.” I struggle to separate a sticky
strand of my hair. “Getting attention probably doesn’t
bother most people.”

“It is good the attention bothers you;
some girls need a man to tell them ‘you’re beautiful’
or ‘you’re sexy’ to make them like themselves. Be
content on your own, then you’ll have a good life.”

This is the advice most middle-aged adults give
to us youngsters, ‘be true to yourself.’ It’s nice
to hear, though, and it sounds especially wise with a Russian accent.

She places a plate with a thin pancake and fork on the table. “Use
the jam.”

My knife spreads a thin layer of the
hard-earned preserves over my pancake. “I was so excited about
spending all this time with my sister, Linnie. She’s been away
at college this past year and she calls me less and less. I thought
when we got back together, everything would go back to the way things
were before she left, but it hasn’t. She’s different now,
her friends are different, she dresses different and cares so much
about boys and partying and everything’s changed.”
Surprisingly, I choke up, “…and she brought along her
friend, who’s awful, and nothing like her, or me, or any of the
friends we grew up with.”

“And you are jealous.” She states this as if it’s a
fact.

My gaze snaps up. “No. I don't think I'm explaining myself
well; never mind.”

She makes an “ah” sound, not saying anything. She doesn't
get it.

After a few moments of silence, I cut into my pancake with my fork
and take a bite. I swallow and declare, “This is good. Are you
Dina?”

She huffs. “Most people call me Ms.
Petrov, but you may call me Dina, if those boys told you my name. I
suppose they will be running back here to devour and track mud in my
kitchen.” She sounds as if she’s talking about
six-year-olds.

I smile. “Yeah, I think so. How long have you worked here?”

“Thirty-two years, four months and twelve days, today.”
When I gape, she adds, “Tobias Leijonskjöld saved my life
that day.”

I furrow my brow. “Wow! He must have been
really young; he didn’t seem as if he could be over thirty.”

“No.” She chuckles. “Not the young one with the
pole up his pópa,
he
takes his father’s name,
Tobias Tapper; Tobias Leijonskjöld is his ancestor.”

I pause in my fork’s ascent and furrow my
brow again. “Do you mean his grandfather?”

She glances my way, narrows her eyelids and then returns to watching
her batter sizzle on the stove. “Yes, my English is not so
good; it is my fourth language.”

“I only know one, and not even that well,” I mutter, as I
take another bite. I want to ask what Tobias saved her from, but it's
too invasive, so I just stuff my face.