Time After Time (26 page)

"What will you do?" Liz
asked, suppressing a sigh.

"Return it, of
course."

"I suppose that's
reasonable," Liz allowed. "Technically the pin was stolen —
although if it was special, I wonder why Christopher Eastman never
bothered to get it back from Victoria St. Onge."

She tried to imagine a
scenario but came up empty. "Damn," she added in a soft, sad voice.
"I wish we had the rest of the letter."

"Why?" asked Victoria,
shooting Liz a surprised look. "We don't need it." Clearly she felt
none of Liz's sense of being adrift. "As soon as I sneak the pin
back—"

"Sneak
it back? Why wouldn't you just explain to Jack what happened
and hand it over? Show him the letter if you like," Liz added with
a shrug. "I don't care." She wouldn't allow herself to care — not
where Jack was concerned. Not after the other night. She didn't
dare; who knows how badly she'd get hurt?

Victoria shook her head,
sending long red spirals of hair sailing back and forth. "The pin
was sneaked out; it has to be sneaked back in. Into Jack's bedroom
would be best. I'll do it when we're over there this weekend for
the company picnic."

Liz tried to argue with
her over taking such an unnecessary risk, but Victoria seemed to
find a rough cosmic justice in exposing herself to it. "It must be
done my way," she said simply. "This is why I'm here. This is what
the last six years have been leading up to: to return this pin. It
must be done ...
my way
.

"So! Now that that's
resolved," she said cheerfully to Liz, changing the subject, "can
we back up a little? When did Christopher Eastman appear to you the
second time?"

With considerable
reluctance, Liz drew a brief, vague sketch of the gentleman in
yachting duds that she'd seen on the deck of the
Déjà Vu.
"I suppose I
was projecting like mad," she said, admitting the obvious. "I was
so impressed by the boat: it was in such original pristine
condition. No Formica, no Ultrasuede. Stepping aboard was like
stepping back a hundred years; all it lacked was a Gilded Age
owner."

"Which you conjured up?"
asked Victoria, smiling. "I don't think so. We know what we know,"
she said cryptically. "I have to say — the boat does sound
exceptional."

"You have no idea. I doubt
that the yacht has suffered a day of neglect in its life. I mean,
there was another boat in the yard of about the same vintage—the
interior had been vandalized, actually — and it was in just awful
shape. It was little more than a piece of flotsam: peeling paint,
duct tape around the portholes, a bilge pump that never stopped
pumping. What a contrast. All I can say is, I hope I look as good
at a hundred as the
Déjà Vu
does."

"I want to go out on it
sometime," Victoria decided.

"You and Susy," said Liz.
"She acted as if she owned the thing. I can't get over the girl,"
she added, aware that the only way her daughter was ever going to
get a boat ride was at Disney World with her grandparents.
"Sometimes I think she's a changeling."

Victoria's laughter had a
surprisingly melancholy lilt to it. "When you think about it," she
said softly, "aren't we all, at some point in our
lives?"

The hurricane ended up
veering off the coast and heading out to sea, and Netta, for one,
was glad. They had enough on their minds without worrying where to
find seventy or eighty umbrellas.

Such a week! Why, the old
place hadn't seen such bustling since — "Well, I can't remember
when," said the housekeeper to David Penny as he nailed a makeshift
table together on the grounds at East Gate.

"I suppose it would be for
Mr. Eastman's thirtieth wedding anniversary. You weren't working at
the shipyard then, David. But take my word for it; it was quite the
gala affair, even for Newport."

The carpenter, dripping
wet from his efforts to hurry the project through before the guests
arrived, wiped his forehead on his arm and said laconically, "No,
that'd be before my time. Just like this here's after my
time."

"I know, I know," Netta
said, clucking sympathetically. "Any luck finding another job,
dear?"

"Bits and pieces here and
there," David said, sliding his hammer through his belt like Wyatt
Earp would a sixshooter. "Keeps me busy."

"Is Cynthia
coming?"

"She wouldn't miss
it."

"I still think you should
stay, David. You're perfectly entitled to.''

"Nope," he said, throwing
his shoulders back with proud resolve. "Got work to do."

Netta suspected that he'd
feel embarrassed to be among his old co-workers. And really, it was
a little awkward, with Cynthia getting her job at the shipyard just
because of him, and now him out of his own job. Well, he shouldn't
have got so full of himself and quit. Not before he had a better
offer lined up, anyway. Still, Jack was trying to use him whenever
he could for odd jobs; that was a nice thing. And Cynthia's medical
covered them both. Things could be worse.

David picked up the scraps
of lumber and hauled them out to his pickup, and Netta threw a
gingham-checked tablecloth over the unpainted impromptu table.
Lucky for them that they had extra plywood in the carriage house.
Who would've thought that you couldn't rent a table in this town?
Even if it
was
a
weekend in July.

Netta hurried back to the
house and was surprised to see Victoria and Elizabeth lollygagging
in front of one of the ancestral portraits in the cavernous entry
hail. There was no law against admiring the artwork, she supposed,
but it did seem odd that they were finding the time to do it just
now. The shipyard employees and their families would be arriving at
any moment, and then who was to say what crises mightn't take
place? Look what had happened at Caroline's birthday party, for
pity's sake.

She slowed her steps as
she approached the two women, not wishing to seem to be rushing
them. Victoria With-No-Last-Name: now there was an odd, fey
creature. Netta liked her, but she didn't understand her at all.
The young woman seemed to have lots of enthusiasm, but Netta could
never make out, at any given moment, what exactly the enthusiasm
was
for.
Victoria
had the look of someone who's won the lottery but hasn't yet picked
up her money.

Look at her,
thought Netta.
How
wide-eyed and excited she is. And over — what? Lavinia Eastman 's
cleavage? Because that sure seemed to be what she was pointing
at.

And Liz Coppersmith — so
calm, so in control all week; but now she was just as wide-eyed as
the other one. For goodness' sake. Everyone knows that was the
style back then. What prudes. And that Madonna woman running around
in steel-pointed bras!

Victoria suddenly looked
up and spied Netta staring at them, which sent the two women
scurrying back to the kitchen like scullery maids, exactly what
Netta had wished to avoid. This was their event, not Netta's. In no
way were they obliged to her. She was only there to point out where
they kept the big pots.

The housekeeper paused
before the painting of Lavinia Eastman, wondering what was so
all-fired shocking about it. A nice buxom woman with thick dark
curls and mischievous eyes: Lavinia was a favorite of Jack's, and
Netta could see why. As for the gown, Netta had always rather liked
it. It was a simple flowing affair in a pale, creamy color,
unadorned except for the small heart-shaped pin at the low point of
the bustline. All in all, a much more appealing package than
Lavinia's more fetchingly painted daughter-in-law, whose portrait
faced opposite.

Netta gave that one — Blue
Brunhilde, she called it — her usual frown. Netta had always liked
the skill of the painter more than the subject. Brunhilde was tall,
blond, Teutonic. Better-looking than Lavinia by far, in a smashing
blue gown — and yet, well, those eyes. How piercingly empty they
were. How possibly cruel. Brunhilde was the kind of woman, Netta
felt sure, who would run over your dog with her carriage if it
meant avoiding a puddle in the road.

Beautiful, well-bred, with
money enough to bring to the marriage: nowadays they'd call
Brunhilde a trophy wife. But as far as Netta could make out, the
lady in the blue gown had launched a line of unhappy marriages that
continued to this day.

It's like a curse,
Netta thought, shaking her head before the proud,
imperious woman who hung above her in a gilded frame.
And this is the witch who's cast the
spell.

She shrugged off the
unpleasant sensation and went on her way to the kitchen, which was
humming like a medieval cooking room before a visit from the local
king and queen. Netta looked around with satisfaction; the caterer
and her two assistants seemed to have matters well in hand. Liz
Coppersmith seemed to think so, anyway: she spooned into one of the
salads, closed her eyes for the tasting, put the spoon down, and
gave the caterer a high-five.

The steaks, the lobsters,
the sausages and steamers and corn; the potatoes, the salads, the
carved-out watermelons with fruit — here was the plenitude of New
England, piled high on every counter, every table.

Netta beamed with pride.
It was a wonderful sight.

The shipyard people will
know that Jack cares about them,
she
thought, pleased that the picnic was being held at East Gate this
time.
They'll see all this and realize how
grateful Jack is that they're trying as hard as he is to make a go
of the yard.
She knew that Jack had just
negotiated a difficult contract with the yard workers. True, a
picnic was no ten percent raise; but it was a breaking of bread
together between management and labor. It was a celebration of past
success, and a toast to better times ahead.

She wondered whether any
of the yard help knew that Jack had convinced his father to take
out a sizable loan on East Gate and pour the money into the
shipyard. Probably not. Probably they looked around East Gate and
thought, there's plenty of money here for everyone. When in fact
nothing could be farther from the truth. Still, what could you do?
Jack would never try to get leverage by hinting to his men about
the loan; he wasn't like that.

Jack came into the kitchen
just then, and Netta thought he'd never looked better. Why, he'd
dropped ten years just since breakfast. Netta had a theory about
that, and it had to do with Liz Coppersmith. When Liz was around,
Jack Eastman lost the haggard look he habitually wore nowadays. Of
course, Netta had seen Jack snap to attention lots of times when a
beautiful woman walked into view.

But Elizabeth, she was
different. For one thing, though she was pretty, she wasn't really
what you'd call Jack's type. True, her hair was wonderful — thick
and shining in rich shades of brown and red and gold; and her hands
were very well formed, very graceful. But her height and shape were
more or less average. And those eyes! My goodness! Gypsy eyes, dark
and unfathomable.

Her smile, though, was
sunshine itself — when she chose to let you see it. Her teeth were
very white, very straight, and when she grinned, a small, easily
missed dimple showed up on the left side that gave her a lopsided
cheerfulness: somehow you wanted one to show up on the right side,
too. Yes. Very intriguing, she was.

Certainly Jack thought
so.
Look at him,
Netta thought with affection.
The
way he stares. One minute he's a man of the world on fire for her;
the next, he's a boy who 's come to school without his homework. He
doesn't know what to make of her, and that's a fact.

Netta smiled
sympathetically. Jack had always, always had his way with women:
the best, the brightest, the most beautiful of them had become meek
as hens when he cornered them. And right away, he'd lose
interest.

"What's wrong with
that
one?" Netta would
ask him every once in a while. "She looks like she'd make a good
wife."

And Jack, the confirmed
bachelor, would smile that dry smile of his and say, "You know the
old saying, Netta: 'Marriage is a covered dish.'

The man was raised in a
bad marriage, of course; naturally he'd think that way. So here he
was, past forty and still looking. Maybe
that
was his problem: he'd been
looking so long that he'd forgotten what he was looking
for.

Could it be
Liz?

Ah, but when he catches
her eye, she looks away, like right now, and not in a flirty kind
of way, either. If she were flirting, there'd be a trace of a smile
on those lips.
And there most definitely
wasn't. In fact, Liz was turning her back on him altogether, to
talk with Victoria.

Jack couldn't see Liz's
face where she stood beside the big Viking stove; but Netta could.
Some faces — that face — didn't lie: the cheeks were flushed, the
eyebrows pulled down in concern. The mouth was set in a determined
line. But Netta was sure that none of it had anything to do with
potato salad, which the conversation seemed to be about.