Wicked Forest (22 page)

"You're lying, He would have hated you." She laughed.

"Hated? In the end, he came to thank me.

Perhaps you don't know my brother as well as you think you do. Willow. Maybe my mother is right: The two of you are rushing into this too quickly."

Could she be telling the truth? I wondered. She was so sure of herself, so arrogant and confident.

Maybe there was a part of Thatcher I didn't know or would never know.

I sat back. silent.

"I will say this for you," she continued. "my brother never moved so determinedly and so quickly before. You have him hypnotized."

"I think of it as love, not manipulation.

V67hitney."

"Whatever," she said, "The point now is, we have to learn to like each other for the good of the family. I asked you to lunch so we could get to know each other better and, also, to advise you not to try to pry Thatcher away from his family."

"I have no intention of doing that. Thatcher's unhappiness with things you and Bunny have done appears to have a history that predates me. Whitney."

Again, those eyebrows rose.

The waiter brought our salads.

"I imagine you're planning on setting up house at Joya del Mar."

"Yes."

"You don't think it might be too hard living on top of each other like that? I mean, with your half brother's special problems?"

"I hardly think it's possible to live on top of one another at Joya del Mar. It's as big as many hotels.

From what Bunny has told me, she could go days, even weeks, without seeing Thatcher."

"Frankly speaking, I couldn't imagine living with my mother in the same house."

"That's your mother, not mine," I retorted. She winced, but didn't pick up the hatchet,

"You're still intending to pursue a college education and a career?"

"Of course." She smiled to herself as if I were the one deluding myself now.

"We've already talked about that. Whitney.

There's no problem."

"I always think of promises between men and women to be of the same timber as the promises we made to the Indians." she quipped. "Most men, my brother included, speak with forked tongue."

"I don't pretend to be an expert vet on human behavior or relations. but I think it's pretty safe to say that any relationship has to begin with a high degree of trust. Don't you have that with Hans?"

She started to laugh so hard, she had to sit back.

"Hans? Hans Shugar? My husband has brought deception to an art form. He carries it over from business into his personal relationships."

I shook my head. How could a woman speak so critically of her husband and still be married to him?

As if she heard my thoughts, she leaned forward again.

"I simply don't permit myself any fantasies.

Willow. I'm a realist, a cold realist."

'Are you happy?" I countered.

She blinked rapidly, dug her fork into her salad, ate some, sipped some wine, nodded to someone at another table, and at last replied. "Happiness is too high a goal to set for ourselves. Moments of contentment, satisfaction, pleasure, and absence of pain are about all we can hope to achieve. Anyone who thinks otherwise is..."

"What?"

"Walking a tightrope without a net beneath. It's a hard fall," she declared.

Suddenly. I understood her completely. I

thought. Whitney was afraid. Perhaps she had been afraid all her life. When I considered the home in which she had been raised and the experiences she had witnessing her own parent's marriage, it was understandable. but I wasn't going to permit her to put the dark clouds over my days and into my future.

"Do you know what having trust means.

Whitney?"

"I have the feeling you're about to tell me." she said.

"It's being willing to take a risk. Yes, it's like walking on a tightrope and maybe it is without a net, but if you put yourself in a cocoon of thick cynicism, you'll never know what it's like to be up there, to be free, to feel the wind in your hair and the love in your heart."

She smiled coldly at me. "You're exactly what I expected," she said. "With all the vulnerability to be a Thatcher Eaton woman, I wish you luck." She raised her glass and downed the remaining champagne. "But let's forget about all this." she added quickly, "and talk about your wedding plans." She reached into her purse. "I have some suggestions for you after speaking with Bunny.'

Now it was my turn to smile to myself.

Thatcher could be marrying the devil, for all she and Bunny cared. It was the affair, the reception, the event that mattered the most.

After all, they would say it themselves: This is Palm Beach.

9

The Club d'Amour

.

There were times when I stopped to consider what I proposed to accomplish within the next six months and found myself breaking out in a cold sweat of absolute panic. For a few moments I would become almost catatonic, unable to swallow, my body trembling. I was, after all, no longer responsible only for myself. I had convinced Mother and Linden to take this journey with me, buoying them up with as much of my inflated confidence as I could spare, helping them to see every formidable task as manageable.

First. I had to find the time to prepare all of the preliminary reading for my college classes. Professor Fuentes was right when he called me ambitious after he saw the pile of books I had gathered at the college bookstore. It was going to be difficult enough to get all the required reading completed, much less do anything extra. One of Daddy's characteristics was his ability to always be realistic about himself and others.

It frightened me a bit that I had overestimated my capability and underestimated the tasks I had to accomplish in the time allotted. I felt like the pilot of a plane who only after takeoff realizes she isn't as capable of flying and navigating as she first thought.

And there were precious passengers aboard!

Reading, taking notes, and organizing myself to start an entirely new college experience. I had little time and no tolerance for frivolous things. and Bunny Eaton seemingly had no end of those when it came to tossing them my way.

At least two or three times a day, our phone would ring and she would be on it with a question or a request for input about such earth-shattering things as the shape of the chairs for the tables at the wedding reception, the design of the chair covers, and the calor of the servants' uniforms. She always insisted that both Mother and I be on the phone if we didn't want to come right up to the house for another planning session. We usually opted for the phone. Mother on the one in the kitchen, me on the one in my bedroom.

She justified this persistence and intensity by continually bemoaning how pressured she was because of what she described as her imminent evacuation from Joya del Mar: Not only was there packing to do, but also decorating for her new home.

Despite this claim of heavier burdens. she wanted to stick her nose into everything we did by ourselves and. I found out, actually visited the dress shop to see the gown I had chosen and inquire as to what I had brought home for Mother to try.

"I don't mean to be an interfering mother-in-law before you even get married." she told me. "but I do wish you would consider Rose Le Carre's selections before settling on something. A wedding gown stays with you forever."

"I'm happy with my choice." I said firmly.

"Oh. I'm sorry," she said as if someone had died. She paused and then skipped to another topic, never discouraged.

One week she went on and on for days about the wedding favors.

"Wedding favors should be thought of as thank-you gifts to our guests for coming and for supporting our children's commitment to each other," she lectured first. "They'll serve as memories, but they can also be part of our decorations and they can be something of lasting value.

"In fact," she went on. laughing, "many wedding favors outlast the marriages around here."

"What is it you want us to choose now.

Bunny?" I asked, quickly losing my patience.

"Do you want bookmarks, key rings, pencils or pens, mag-nets, letter openers? Candles are big. I don't approve of those cheap disposable cameras. We have professional photographers and don't want to detract from that. Well?"

"Mother?"

"Pens are practical," she said.

"Yes, but bookmarks can be very elegant,"

Bunny said.

All right, then. bookmarks." I snapped. I had to get back to my reading for social psych. "You and Thatcher will have to pose for some preliminary photographs so we can get them on the bookmarks.

Now, what colors do you prefer? These aren't going to be those cheap paper things. They'll be leather."

"Why don't you choose the color. Bunny?" I said. "You know so much more about it."

"Yes, well. I was thinking we'd keep it in line with our theme, the same shades as the invitations."

"Perfect," I said.

At most recent wedding receptions I've

attended, they had golf tees. Perhaps we should have golf tees for the men and bookmarks for the women, or would that be too chauvinistic? Many women play golf here. I do, whenever I get the time."

My stomach was churning. "Mother..."

"You go off and do what you have to do.

Willow. Bunny and I can work this out." Mother mercifully volunteered,

"Really?" Bunny said. "I mean, if a bride doesn't give her full attention to these things—"

She trusts my judgment," Mother interceded. I couldn't see her, but I imagined her smiling.

"I do, Thank you." I said, and hung up before Bunny could utter another annoying syllable.

.

Ten days later, I began my first college

semester at my new school. I had Professor Fuentes's class at 11 A.M. Tuesdays and Thursdays. There were only fifteen students. All were friendly, one boy in particular, Holden Mitchell, quite a bit more attentive than anyone else. He and I shared a second class, a required English literature course. Tall and dark-haired with features nearly too perfect to be natural.

Holden had unusual blue eyes, cobalt blue with a shade of green. Most of the time, this extraordinary feature was hidden because he had a habit of squinting when he spoke directly to someone, as if he were trying to see some scene scorched on his brain. He sat behind me in both classes,

Professor Fuentes gave me a big hello when I first entered his classroom. Then he saw my engagement ring and widened his eyes with amused surprise.

"Is that what I think it is?" he asked while the others streamed in to take their seats.

"Yes."

"I guess I underestimated how involved you were when I asked. Congratulations. When is the wedding?"

"End of June. You'll be invited," I told him. and he laughed.

"Wait awhile before sending it out. You may hate my class and decide to have nothing more to do with me."

"I doubt it." I said, and his eyes warmed.

I enjoyed his class right from the beginning. He had an informal way of teaching and seemed to work from invisible notes scribbled an his lectern. After the first few sessions. I began to feel as if we were all just a group of people very interested in the subject who gathered twice a week to have a good discussion.

Even when he scheduled a test or made an

assignment, it didn't impose a heavy burden, at least not on me.

I enjoyed all my teachers and all my classes.

The first week. I grew friendly with a pair of twin sisters. Lani and Petula Butterworth. They were attractive women with strawberry blond hair and patches of freckles in exactly the same places on their creamy faces, on the crests of their cheeks and along their temples. Both were about my height but with more petite figures, making them look years younger.

I quickly learned that Petula had been nicknamed Pet by her father and was called that by most of her friends, but not by Loni. There was significant sibling rivalry, and Loni was quick to tell me, "Petula is my father's pet." Pet denied it, of course, but seemed to enjoy the accusation anyway. I thought they would make for a great psychological study and even, when I felt comfortable enough with him, mentioned it to Professor Fuentes, who said he couldn't agree more.

"Take mental notes." he advised me. "You might use it someday. I think I read somewhere in your father's papers," he added. ''that he said for anyone in psychology, there are no wasted experiences. We're always in the midst of some research, something to add and to use."

"That was the way my father lived," I agreed.

Most of the people I met at the school,

especially my teachers, were interesting to me. If I had inherited anything from my father in that regard. I guessed it to be his insatiable curiosity about people, especially people he had just met. He would go after them like some sort of mental cannibal, deyouring their life histories, with an endless appetite for tragic, emotional, or significant events in their lives. I suppose his genius came from his ability to question wisely and make efficient use of every moment he spent with someone, no matter how difficult the situation or how short the time.

I was curious about Holden Mitchell, He was outgoing and talkative, yet seemed to have a strange restraint about him as if he was afraid of revealing something dark about himself. I quickly learned that no one, not even those who'd known him before, got too close to Holden Mitchell.

He came from a well-to-do family and lived in what Palm Beach residents would call a modest home, but most everyone else in the country would call a mansion. What I did learn was that his father had been married before and divorced with no children and was nearly twenty years older than his mother.

Although Holden was just twenty, his father was sixty-eight and now a fully retired dental surgeon who had enjoyed a very successful practice. I got most of this in dribs and drabs from Holden himself, although socializing at college was no longer of much interest to me.

My college life and my life back at Jaya del Mar were so different from each other that at times I felt I should be carrying a passport because I was moving between two separate countries. The people I associated with at college were almost another species from the socialites who, as Thatcher predicted, began to chase after me.