Claire at Sixteen (14 page)

“Nervous?” Scotty asked, as all the other grooms seemed to be asking all the other brides.

“No,” Claire said. “You?”

“No,” he replied. “I was nervous before we got here, but now it feels right.”

“In a lot of ways, I love you,” Claire said. Then she laughed. “It figures I'd fall at least a little in love when I was sixteen.”

“In a lot of ways, I love you, too,” Scotty replied. “And I will no matter how things turn out.”

“If I ever have a baby, I'll name him for you,” Claire promised. Why not? It was her grandfather's name, too.

“That I'm not ready to promise,” Scotty said. “My wife might have some say in the matter.”

The couple sitting next to them gave them a funny look. Scotty and Claire laughed. “It's a private joke,” Claire said. “I hate my name. I would never name a baby after me.”

“I know how you feel,” the woman said. “Besides, I think it's terrible, when the girl is a junior. Nancy Junior or Cheryl Junior. There are so many pretty girls' names, too, to choose from.”

Claire nodded. “His name is Prescott,” she said. “It's an old family name. I think it sounds so distinguished.”

“This one is Charlie,” the woman said, punching the arm of the man sitting next to her. “I suppose Charlie Junior is okay. Or we could call him Chuck.”

“Over my dead body,” Charlie said.

“We have a while to decide,” the woman said. “No kids right away. That's what we agreed on. Right, Charlie.”

“No kids forever, as far as I'm concerned,” Charlie said. “I already have two and the support payments are killing me.”

“We'll have kids when the time is right,” the woman said. “The two of you are so young. Is it one of those, you know, you have to get married situations?”

“Not the way you think,” Claire replied, but before she had a chance to make up a reasonable explanation, Scotty's name was called.

“That's us,” she said. “Good luck.”

“Good luck to you, too,” the woman said. “Many happy years together.”

Claire smiled. They'd be lucky if they had many happy minutes. She took Scotty's hand, and they walked to the door.

“Remember,” Scotty whispered to her. “When you let Thea know, be gentle. I don't want this to hurt her too much.”

“I promise,” Claire said. It figured. Scotty would see to it that Thea was included in their wedding party. “Shall we get this over with?”

“That's fine with me,” Scotty said. He opened the door, and he and Claire and Thea's ghost and Sybil's future all joined hands in wedded bliss.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

“Mom. Oh, Mom.”

Claire watched as Scotty threw himself into his mother's arms. His mother stood still for a moment, then embraced him. “It'll be all right, darling,” she murmured. “We'll get you out of this mess somehow.”

“Could I sit down, please?” Claire asked. “I feel faint.”

“My God,” Scotty's father said. “You aren't pregnant.”

“No,” Claire said. “Just hungry.”

“This way,” Mr. Hughes said. Claire followed him into the living room. Scotty had called his parents from the airport in New York to tell them what he'd done, so his family had had a couple of hours to work their way into total hysteria. Claire would have preferred to spring it on them at the front door, but she wasn't about to argue with Scotty. Not when he'd done all she'd asked him to and more. Not when he was starting to realize just what it was he had done, and what the consequences might be if Claire didn't live up to her end of the bargain.

Neither one had spoken during the flight back to Boston. There were no strategy meetings, no descriptions of parents and grandparents to ease Claire's mind. The drive to Concord had been almost as quiet. Now they were back, and now the noise would begin.

“You are a beauty,” Mr. Hughes said, looking Claire over. “I can see how you might sway Scotty.”

Claire sat down on one of the sofas. She felt less like a beauty than she ever had before. She was grimy, wrinkled, and close to tears. She clutched her once-new handkerchief and wished she were twenty years older and a thousand miles away.

“How could you do this to my son?” Mrs. Hughes asked. She dragged Scotty into the room with her, and stood in front of Claire, her eyes glaring. Scotty looked fifteen, at most. Claire would have felt sorry for him if she could.

“I'd really like to freshen up,” Claire said. “May I be excused for a moment?”

“Certainly,” Mr. Hughes said. “The bathroom is down the hallway.”

“I know,” Claire said. She got up and left the Hughes family behind. Mrs. Hughes was hugging Scotty again. Claire was sure that was the most Scotty had ever been hugged in his life. One good thing at least had come from the marriage.

She used the bathroom, then took a few moments to wash her face, brush her hair, and straighten herself out as best she could without a change of clothing available. She wished she'd packed a few extra items, but she had miscalculated how long getting married would take. She only hoped that was all she'd miscalculated.

I am beautiful, she told her reflection. I am beautiful and I'm smart, and I can handle anything. I know what I want, what I need, and I know how to get it. She held on to the sides of the sink and willed herself to be strong. Only when she was sure she could handle the Hugheses did she rejoin them in the living room.

“How did you know where the bathroom was?” Mr. Hughes asked before she even had a chance to sit down.

“Scotty brought me here,” she said. “A few days ago. It's a beautiful house.”

Mr. Hughes frowned. “You never told us that, Scotty,” he said.

“Claire wanted to see what it looked like,” Scotty said.

“She wanted to see how rich you were,” his father said. “Let me assure you, young lady, that looks can be deceptive. This house has been in the family for generations, as have most of the furnishings. On my income, I could hardly afford to buy most of what we display here.”

Claire tried hard not to laugh. “Would a cup of tea bankrupt you?” she asked. “I could really use one.”

“She wants tea,” Mr. Hughes said, obviously affronted by the idea.

“I can make it for myself, if you want,” Claire said. “I know where the kitchen is, too.”

“I'll ring for Edna,” Mrs. Hughes replied, and she did. A maid materialized almost immediately, and Mrs. Hughes asked for tea for all of them. Claire wondered if the maid had been inherited as well, but refrained from asking.

Claire used the distraction as an opportunity to examine Scotty's parents. Bradford Hughes was Clark's first cousin. He was a couple of years older than Clark, and had a bit less hair, but Claire could see the resemblance. It was the weak chin, she decided, the aristocratic pallor. Neither were men Claire would ever want to deal with; both were now men vitally important in her life.

It was Scotty's mother who really intrigued her, though. This was Sebastian Prescott's daughter. This was Nicky's half sister, Claire's aunt. There was a family look to them, although it was hard to pin down just what it was. Bone structure, she finally decided, the shape of the face, and the nose. And their bearing was identical. That was it, the way they walked and sat and stared into you. Claire had always thought of it as Nicky's Spanish-grandee look, and she was uncomfortable seeing it on a stranger, no matter how intimately they were related.

The tea was served, and Mrs. Hughes poured Claire a cup. Claire sipped from it gratefully. The day had turned bitter cold, and the atmosphere in Scotty's home wasn't warming her up any.

“I believe Scotty said your name was Claire Sebastian,” Mrs. Hughes said.

Claire nodded. “You know my sister Evvie,” she said. “You met her at Eastgate, when she was saying with our great-aunt, Grace Winslow. And I feel as though I already know you, Mr. Hughes, from all that your cousin Clark has told us about you. He's my mother's oldest friend.”

“You don't look like Evvie Sebastian,” Mrs. Hughes declared. “She was a blond girl, very pretty.”

“She still is,” Claire said. “You may know my mother, Mr. Hughes. Margaret Winslow Sebastian?”

“We met when she was quite young,” Mr. Hughes said. “Have you told your parents what you've done?”

Claire shook her head. “They're in Oregon right now,” she replied. “I didn't have the chance.”

“Oregon?” Mrs. Hughes asked. “What are they doing in Oregon?”

“Remember that Thanksgiving I spent with the Sebastians?” Scotty asked. Claire was grateful to see he was still alive. “Sybil, that's Claire's sister, was in an accident. She's in Oregon now at a rehab center and her parents are with her.”

“I didn't think you lived in Oregon,” Mrs. Hughes said. “I thought your family lived in Pennsylvania.”

“We did for a while,” Claire said. “Lately we've been living in Missouri. But we may be moving to Oregon now.”

“Not much stability,” Mr. Hughes said. “I suppose you felt if you married our son, he'd provide you with a home.”

Claire didn't know how to answer, so she drank the tea instead.

“We weren't really thinking when we got married,” Scotty said. “Hell, Dad, haven't you ever done something spontaneous?”

“Not something this stupid,” his father replied. “Or so potentially costly.”

“I don't want any money from you,” Claire said. “I'm not a gold digger, Mr. Hughes.”

“A good thing, too,” he said. “Since we have no gold for you to dig.”

“I don't think we need to talk about money,” Mrs. Hughes declared. “Not when we've just settled down like this. Claire, how is your sister? Evvie, I mean. She seemed like such a pleasant girl.”

“She's fine,” Claire said. And only what—twenty miles away? “She's at Harvard now, and she's engaged to marry a boy she met at Eastgate.”

“Sam Steinmetz,” Scotty said. “His grandparents owned the bookstore.”

“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Hughes said. “I believe Schyler mentioned something about that.”

“Where is Schyler?” Scotty asked. “Is he back here yet?”

“He's in the library with your grandfather,” Mr. Hughes declared. “Grandmother is at church, praying that you might get out of this dilemma without irreparable damage.”

“She wept,” Mrs. Hughes said. “I've never seen Mother so distraught, Scotty. And Father. You can imagine how angry he was when he heard. Schyler's with him just to keep him calm. He was threatening to disinherit you if it was true.”

“He wouldn't really do that?” Claire asked. “Disinherit Scotty?”

“What concern is it of yours?” Mr. Hughes asked. “You won't be in the picture by the time the will is read.”

“Please, Bradford,” Mrs. Hughes said. “All this is bad enough without talking as though Father were dead.” Claire thought she could hear a trace of southern accent in her voice. There was none left in Nicky's speech, proving, she supposed, that Nicky had created his own accent much as he had created his own history.

“I think it's important, dear, that this girl have a clear understanding of what the situation is,” Mr. Hughes declared. “She's tricked Scotty into a sham marriage, and now she supposes that this family's wealth will fall into her lap. It won't, young lady. You won't see a single penny from us. She may have used guile and deceit on Scotty, but we're older and smarter and a good deal less gullible.”

“I didn't marry Scotty for his money,” Claire said. “He's nineteen. I knew he wouldn't have any money of his own. And I certainly didn't marry him so that five years from now or ten or fifteen, whenever it would be that he'd inherit some, I'd stand to get my share. I'm sixteen years old. What do I care about how much Scotty's going to be worth in ten years?”

“You look older than sixteen,” Mrs. Hughes said, and Claire could see that for the first time Scotty's mother was really examining her. In spite of herself, she blushed. Was Mrs. Hughes noticing the resemblance between Claire and Sebastian Prescott? Was it conceivable she could make the connection? They did share that damned name Sebastian. Claire wished for the first and only time in her life that Nicky had had more imagination. “I thought there was a Sebastian girl closer to his age.”

“That's Thea,” Claire said. “She's eighteen. There are four of us.”

“And not a penny to your names, I suppose,” Mr. Hughes said. “Has your mother raised you to cash in on your looks by seducing innocent boys?”

Claire put her teacup down and stared straight at Bradford Hughes. “My mother is Margaret Winslow,” she said. “Of the Boston Winslows. She was brought up by her aunt Grace. They are not the sort of people who raise their daughters to be anything less than honorable. If you continue to speak that way about my mother, I'll leave this minute.”

“What makes you think we don't want that?” Mr. Hughes asked. “Your immediate departure from our home?”

“You're not a fool,” Claire replied, although she'd seen no proof to the contrary. “And I am your son's wife.”

“That's right,” Scotty said. “And you shouldn't talk to Claire that way, Dad. She isn't as bad as you think.”

Claire couldn't help laughing. After a moment, even Scotty's parents laughed.

Scotty looked puzzled for a moment. “I mean, she's really all right,” he said. “What I mean is, her family, well, they may not be social register, but she is a Winslow. At least her mother used to be. None of this is coming out right.”

“I appreciate it, anyway, Scotty,” Claire said. “Mr. and Mrs. Hughes, I know this must be a shock to you, and I appreciate that you want to protect Scotty. But I don't want to hurt him, either. I love him. He's the sweetest boy I've ever met. I wouldn't have married him if I didn't love him. I hope you believe me.”