Trolls in the Hamptons (27 page)

“How did they reach that conclusion? Grandma's tea leaves?”

“Crystal balls are just as effective. Checking sunspots for energy fluxes, watching which way butterflies migrate, how many infants are born left-handed. Lots of ways.”

I couldn't tell if he was kidding or not. I still didn't believe half of what he said, except the parts I wanted to, like how he'd come back.

The phone rang before I could ask any more questions.

Grant waited until I said it was Susan, then headed for the shower while I talked. Or listened.

It seemed Uncle Bernie had decided to close the restaurant with the power flickering and the streets so treacherous. He'd leave two waiters to serve coffee and sandwiches to the road crews by the low light of the auxiliary generator as long as they could, but no paying customers were getting past the roadblocks. Uncle Bernie didn't want to serve anyone stupid enough to try.

Unfortunately, they had a lot of half-cooked food Susan refused to save and serve tomorrow, especially with the power so uncertain and the freezer full. Besides, Uncle Bernie and Grandma Eve and Lou were worried about me alone out at Rosehill. They'd gone to the Breakaway for dinner, before the lights went out, she and Lou.

“I'm not alone. Grant is here.”

“Oh.” I heard her speak to someone in the background. “Grandma wants to come anyway.”

Of course she did. With Grant here, Grandma was more certain than ever that I needed a decent meal. And Rosehill had a generator; Garland Farms did not. They could get here in half an hour. “Okay?”

No. But I said, “Sure. I'll invite the guys at the guesthouse, too. I don't know if they have any power back to cook by. But how are you going to get here if the roads are closed? I missed a falling tree by inches on my way back this afternoon.”

“We'll go around them. Grandma still has that old Jeep that can manage anything. I have a lobster dish and stuffed flounder. And a vegetable gratin for Grandma.”

“Perfect.”

“She says she really wants to talk to Grant.”

Maybe not so perfect. I lowered my voice, even though I could hear water running in the bathroom. “You keep her away from him. I don't want her interfering.”

“In what?”

“In it's none of your business either.”

“That good, huh?”

“Better.”

 

Grant took the dogs out while I had a quick shower. I should have told Susan to wait an hour. We could have shared that Jacuzzi. Now I had to scramble just to tie my wet hair back, find clean clothes the dogs hadn't played with or slept on, and set the table.

I didn't feel comfortable seating my guests in the huge chrome-and-glass dining room with the crystal stemware on display in lighted cabinets, and porcelain plates with pedigrees longer than mine.

I did find nice, everyday dishes in the pantry along with tablecloths, paper napkins and glasses I wouldn't be afraid of dropping. The kitchen table was large enough, if I moved my laptop and the portable printer I'd brought with me.

The guys from the guest cottage brought a bottle of wine and extra flashlights for me, just in case.

The restaurant group arrived, along with Uncle Bernie's much younger second wife, Ginnie, who acted as hostess for the restaurant. She wanted to meet Grant, too, once Susan described him. I gave her a dirty look, to stop her drooling.

It seemed half the people there knew his father, or each other, or had mutual acquaintances. Susan, who had spent one summer at the Royce Institute, asked about some of her instructors and advisers. Even Ginnie had gone to college in England for one year. Gossip was she'd flunked out for partying, but she and Kenneth thought they attended one or two of the same courses.

I was the only outsider, and I spent more time talking to the dogs than to my company.

While Susan heated up her leftovers in Rosehill's huge commercial ovens, Grant asked about the roads.

According to Grandma and Uncle Bernie, the damage was terrible. Everyone with a chain saw would be out tomorrow gathering firewood for the winter. They saw a few deep puddles, but no washouts. There would be beach erosion, and heaven knew how long power would be out on some of the private streets or to individual houses.

No one mentioned a fried figment of my imagination. They went back to asking about former friends. Grant kept giving me smiles of reassurance that did not do the job while he answered questions. I kept the poodles by my chair, feeding them crumbs so they'd stay with me.

Susan's cooking was extraordinary, of course, making my offer of macaroni and cheese—from a box, no less—look slapdash, lazy, and incompetent. The lobster was mixed with asparagus and peas, and the flounder was stuffed with crabmeat. Everything had been caught, cleaned, or harvested within twenty-four hours. I'd forgotten how different real food tasted and almost started to enjoy myself until Grandma noticed the razor burn on my cheek.

“I bumped into the door when the lights went out. It's an unfamiliar house, you know.”

“You should have had the candles and flashlights ready once you knew how bad the storm was. You'd been warned. In fact, you should have left your mother's house much sooner.”

I should have been in New York City, where I felt like a capable, intelligent adult most times. I'd been warned by a guy who pumped gas. And how could I have left Little Red any sooner? I felt horrible about leaving him alone now. “No one said anything about such a major storm. Not even on the radio.”

“It was localized.”

I asked Uncle Bernie about business, trying to be part of my own party. Ginnie didn't want to discuss the restaurant; she wanted to hear all about Grant's work, as much as he could tell her.

He talked about linguistics. I doubt she understood one word, but I think she got the message when Grant turned to Susan and asked about her parents.

They'd stayed in Stony Brook, rather than drive out in the storm. Her father was better, although not entirely cured. Grandma added that Cousin Lily had called to report that her pregnant daughter was doing fine, that Lily was enjoying her spoiled grandchild more than Parker's spoiled dogs.

For dessert, I pulled out my ice cream. Grandma had made incredible strawberry topping from blemished fruit. Lou looked orgasmic, and Kenneth and Colin swore they'd never go back to their cottage until it was all gone. Ginnie declared herself on too much of a diet to eat any. Good. That left more for the rest of us.

Grandma finished her bowl and said, “Speaking of spoiled, your mother would not approve of feeding dogs at the table.”

Or the wink Grant gave me. Or my wishing everyone would leave so I could take him back to bed. Maybe with some of the strawberry topping if the DUE men left any.

Over coffee and tea—Grandma brought her own; I had coffee—talk turned to Nicky Ryland. Again, no one mentioned Fafhrd, but everyone was concerned about the boy. He was one of theirs, almost kin, and an important prodigy. They speculated on why he was kidnapped five years ago, but not how the people at Royce suspected he was back in the country.

While they tossed implausible theories around, I wondered how I could have lived my entire life without realizing these people were so extraordinarily different. I always thought it was the small-town atmosphere that made them odd. Boy, was I wrong.

They all promised to work harder spreading the word and gathering information about the missing child.

Grant asked me to take off the necklace, and everyone passed it around. When it got to Colin, I watched carefully to see what he was doing. He pulled a lamp closer, then got his high-power flashlight and studied the back of the pendant. Then he closed his eyes, as if seeing in his head what his eyes had seen, or magnifying it like some psychic Photoshop.

I put paper and pencil beside him. He squeezed his eyes tight, then opened them and started writing, but not in any alphabet I'd ever seen. He told us he could not get the last section at all.

We looked at the page on its way toward Grant. He turned it upside down. “Ah.”

“Ah, what?”

“Ah, it's a love message.”

“Of course it is,” my grandmother snapped. “That is a wedding ring.”

“In what language?” I wanted to know.

Grant wasn't committing himself. “An old one.”

Grandma shared a look with Lou, who nodded.

“Can you read it?” Ginnie asked, gazing far too adoringly at Grant for a married woman.

Uncle Bernie patted her hand. “Of course he can. He's a pro.”

Grant shook his head. “I can only guess. The symbol for one is repeated. Twice, maybe three times. One—”

“Love, it has to be,” Susan said. She looked over at Kenneth. I'd have to set her straight about that later.

Meantime I asked Grant, “Are they all symbols, or can you say the words?”

“They are not really meant to be spoken out loud, I think.”

Grandma thought that was for the best. “You never know what else is embedded in an oath like that.”

Lou agreed. They both understood it was the language of Unity, filled with magic and meant to be received telepathically. “Yeah, boss. You might end up in love with the dog.”

Damn, I never imagined half the stuff everyone else took for granted.

A
FTER THE RELATIVES LEFT, we walked the dogs back to the gatehouse with Colin and Kenneth. Grant walked ahead with Colin, with a flashlight in case the lights went out. The men spoke too quietly for me to hear, but I knew Grant was giving instructions.

When we got back, he helped me clean up. How could you help liking a guy like that, a great lover who loaded the dishwasher? Now that's my idea of a real hero.

I thought he'd be in a hurry to go back to bed, but he went toward the brightest light in the housekeeper's living room with Colin's drawing of the necklace inscription. I spent the time playing with the dogs, explaining that they could not share my bed, not tonight.

I was really tired, and I knew Grant must be, too, but I was looking forward to a little cuddling, a little nestling, and sleeping wrapped in those strong arms. No bad storms or bad dreams could touch me there, I thought. After a little rest, maybe neither of us would mind another serving of dessert. I did not mean ice cream, either.

Before then, I wanted to know what my grandmother said when she took him aside as she was leaving. I'd done my best to keep them apart during dinner, but I'd been busy packing up Susan's pots and platters to go back to the restaurant. The old woman pounced, like a spider waiting near its web, and dragged Grant off to the little outside deck. She wasn't reading his tea leaves, I'd bet, and he was so damned closemouthed, I'd have to pry the information out of him with a crowbar. Or with a sexy negligee.

Unfortunately, I hadn't brought many clothes with me, not when I had to carry my laptop, camera, portable printer, and notebooks. I packed a couple of pairs of slacks, shorts, a bunch of T-shirts and jeans, one dressy dress just in case, a hoodie for cool days, and some comfortable exercise pants to sleep in. There wasn't a fuck-me outfit in the bunch.

At home I usually slept in sweats, or cotton shorts and a tee, stuff that was comfortable, wouldn't strangle me during a restless night, and I could answer the door in when Mrs. Abbottini knocked. My friend Sherrie once gave me a sheer black slip thingy, trimmed with black feathers. To spice up my love life, she said, while she was between husbands. Arlen got a feather up his nose and started wheezing. I think the nightie was in with my craft supplies, for if I ever needed the feathers.

I thought of looking in Cousin Lily's closet, but she was about three inches shorter than me, at least fifty pounds heavier, and thirty years older. Whatever she considered sexy wasn't going to work for Grant. Besides poking in her drawers being immoral, I really had no desire to see what my mother's widowed cousin slept in.

So I washed my face, brushed my hair out, and turned off all but one lamp in the bedroom. I called out a good night, then climbed under the covers in the best suit I had. Who knew how long he'd be gone? I wanted this night to last, in time, in memory.

I guess Grant had enough memories already, because I'd almost fallen asleep when he finally came into the bedroom.

He sat down beside me, but on top of the covers, with everything except his shoes still on. Maybe I'd been too impetuous, too hasty. Maybe he needed longer to recoup. Maybe I could keep the sheet wrapped around me so he wouldn't know I had hot expectations. Sex wasn't the only thing I was interested in, after all.

He was not thinking of sex. Before I could ask what my grandmother said, and how embarrassing it was, he told me, “I think I have the beginning of the ring's inscription.”