The Family Fortune (14 page)

At midnight when I arrived at the Inn at Long Last, it was like a tomb. I didn't see anyone at the front desk. I stood there for a moment, then knocked on the counter. A boy came out from a back room.

“Do I have any messages?” I asked. “Jane Fortune.”

He handed over a slip of paper and yawned. I took it and went up to my room.

The paper said, “He's gone and good riddance. You might find him at the Butterfly Museum. Last time I saw him he was working there. Good luck. Maureen Mackey.” The Butterfly Mu
seum? I sat there staring at the note, then started to laugh. My bad-boy Jack Reilly was at the Butterfly Museum?

 

The next morning when I arrived at the ski house only Heather and Lindsay were downstairs. Eventually, Winnie joined us. She sat at the head of the table in a blue quilted bathrobe that made her look like she was eighty years old.

“I have the sniffles,” she said, looking sour. “It's so unfair. I really wanted to go skiing.”

“You don't seem very sick,” Heather said. “You could still go if you wanted to.” Heather folded a linen napkin into squares and placed it under a fork.

“And get pneumonia? I don't think so. I really don't. I'll just stay here in front of the fire.”

“Lazy cow,” Heather said under her breath.

“What did you say?” Winnie asked.

“Nothing.” Lindsay and Heather gave each other a look.

Max and Charlie came down. Both were freshly shaven and showered. Max smelled faintly of Old Spice.

Because Winnie wasn't going with us, we were only five and were able to squeeze into one car. I love everything about an early morning on a mountain, from lugging the skis to buying the tickets.

We decided to ski together, which meant that since we were five, one of us wouldn't have a partner for the chairlift. Everyone protested weakly that they would be happy to be “single,” but in the end I was the one who skied off to the separate line. I was four from the front when I was paired with another skier. In his hat and goggles, I didn't immediately recognize him. It wasn't until we had been scooped into the air that he turned toward me.

“I know you,” he said.

The sun was behind him and I squinted into his face.

“You do?”

“Aren't you staying at the Inn at Long Last?”

He was the man from the stairs, the soap-opera-star man, the man who had looked familiar.

“I'm Guy Callow,” he said, and extended a leather glove.

“Jane Fortune.” There couldn't be too many Guy Callows in the world. This must be Miranda's Guy. I had met him only once, and briefly.

“Are you related to Miranda Fortune?” he asked.

“She's my sister.”

“So you are
that
Jane Fortune,” he said.

We reached the top of the slope and were deposited onto the mountain. We skied away from the lift and toward a clump of trees. I pulled to a stop beneath some firs to wait for the others. Guy Callow pulled up beside me.

Since the family mythology regarding Guy Callow was so unpleasant, I was guarded, but then I remembered that the story had come from Teddy and Miranda.

“How is Miranda?” Guy asked.

“She's great. She's in Palm Beach with my father.” Even at this late date, I wanted him to think that she'd gone on happily without him. I wished I could have said that she was married to some politician or captain of industry, but Palm Beach was the best I could do.

“Are you here alone?” he asked.

“No,” I said, which was technically true, but not in the way he meant it.

“Of course, why would you be?”

I could think of plenty of reasons but was flattered anyway.

Charlie and Heather finally came off the chairlift. Max and Lindsay would be next. Charlie waved at me as he skied toward us.

“Well, maybe we'll see each other around,” Guy said.

I nodded. Guy Callow skied away, down an expert slope. I was envious of his freedom to take whatever run he wanted. We were stuck with Heather and Lindsay, who were only beginners. Charlie swooshed up beside me, followed by Heather, who ran over my skis. Both Charlie and I had to catch her to steady her.

“Who was that?” Heather said. “I feel like I've seen him on TV. Is he a weatherman or something?”

“He's an old friend of the family,” I said.

“Why didn't he stick around?” Charlie asked.

“We could use another man,” Heather added. She pulled out a lip gloss and slathered it on her lips.

“I don't know,” I said. I could have asked him to join us, but I wasn't in the habit of doing things like that. And I didn't think I should be too receptive after what he did to Miranda—whatever it was, and no one really knew. There was such a thing as family loyalty.

Max and Lindsay skied over to us.

“Who was that?” Max asked.

“Old friend of the Fortune family,” Heather answered for me.

“Coincidence,” Max said. He leaned against one of his ski poles.

“Oh, that sort of thing always happens on mountains,” I said in a flirtatious voice.

“It does?” Max asked.

“To me.” I kept my voice light.

Maybe Max was going to marry Lindsay, but this was my chance to let him see me as something more than terminally single, so I took it.

 

Jack Reilly wasn't at the Butterfly Museum.

The woman in the office said he had been one of the best employees they'd ever had, except that three weeks ago he left without giving notice. He didn't even leave a forwarding address for his last paycheck.

“If you find him, can you give him this?” She looked up through large red bifocals. She was neither young nor old: she was of indeterminate age—somewhere between thirty and fifty. She gave me a note written on violet stationery. This wasn't an official missive, unless the Butterfly Museum used purple paper. “He's something, that Jack Reilly,” she said. “You don't meet many men like him.”

How many men had she met at her post at the Butterfly Museum? In
a way, she was too much like me, hidden away, single, and of no definite age. No wonder Jack Reilly had made such an impression on her.

“I'll give this to him if I see him, but I may never find him,” I said.

“I hope you do. He left so quickly. I never had a chance to say goodbye.” Her light blue eyes were watery and distant as she stood by the inner door gazing out. Did I look like her, vague and dreamy and completely out of touch with reality?

“What does he look like?” I asked.

“Oh, he's lovely.” She smiled. Even the thought of Jack Reilly made her glow.

“Yes,” I said, “but what does he look like?”

She cocked her head to one side, licked her lips, and worried the edge of her Peter Pan collar with unkempt fingernails.

“I suppose he isn't a conventional beauty,” she said, “but I like to think of him as a tiger swallowtail.”

Her eyes misted over.

I assumed a tiger swallowtail was a type of butterfly—at least I hoped it was. Of course, this description was of no help whatsoever, but then Jack Reilly's looks were not important.

“Could I see a picture of one?”

“One what?” the vague woman asked.

“A tiger swallowtail?”

“Oh, of course.” She went back to her desk and shuffled through a deck of cards. She pulled one out and handed it over. “You can keep that,” she said.

I thanked her. The butterfly—and it was a butterfly—was large and striped, yellow and black. It was a glorious thing.

I tucked the violet letter and the card into my coat pocket. I was tempted to read the letter, but I would never do that, if for no other reason than that it would be very bad manners. I put my hand in my pocket and fingered the card with the butterfly picture on it like a worry stone, rubbing my thumb and forefinger against it over and over.

 

The Franklins' estate covered ten acres of prime Vermont real estate. Nora took us on a tour of the main house. It was spacious and modern with many windows.

“We struggled for so long. Book after book. Tiny apartment after tiny apartment. I never even had a dishwasher until we came here. All that time, though, I knew Duke would make it. I always believed in him.”

Nora had worked in restaurants and Laundromats. And after all these years, she and Duke were still together. She had the courage I hadn't had. She was willing to throw her lot in with Duke no matter what. It was no wonder that Max still resented me.

All the women—Lindsay, Heather, Winnie, and I—followed Nora outside and down a path to another house. Duke's studio was in a building that sat high on the property with a view that stretched toward the lights of the town below. There were four workstations. One table held an old manual typewriter, another an IBM Selectric, and still another held a computer. The old oak desk was empty except for a sheaf of paper and a fountain pen. Piles of different-colored papers were stacked against one wall. Nora explained that these were “the drafts.” She said it with a reverence usually reserved for objects of devotion.

When we returned to the main house, Duke was ladling mulled wine from a pot on the stove.

“It's got vodka in it,” he warned. “Wine and vodka. A lethal combination. It's an old Scandinavian recipe.” He looked at his wife.

“Scandinavian—my sweet ass,” she said.

“And it is, dear.” Duke gave her a pat on the behind.

“He made it up. The alcoholic brew. Don't blame it on the Swedes.”

“Your mother gave me the recipe when we were first married.”

“So you say.” She took a mug from the counter and lifted it toward her husband. Duke poured more wine and vodka into the pot. He used no discernible measurements but instead poured with abandon, first from one bottle, then the other.

Basil came in through the back door. He didn't knock.

“Basil,” Duke accosted him with a ladle full of wine, “have a drink.”

“I think he needs a cup,” I said. Duke put the ladle back into the pot.

“Good thinking, Jane. Sensible girl.” Duke looked at Max as if he were somehow responsible for my good sense. That was reasonable, I supposed, since all of us were attached to Max in some way or we wouldn't be there.

Basil took the cup Duke offered and warmed his hands with it.

“It's cold out there,” he said, “but it's supposed to be clear tomorrow.”

“I heard it was supposed to snow,” Max said. He stood against the kitchen counter.

“No, clear,” Basil said. They stared at each other. Basil looked pointedly at Max, then turned to me. “Jane, I'd like to show you my work.”

I didn't want to leave the comfort of the kitchen. Duke's attention was now on another large pot on the stove; he looked up at the kitchen clock. “You've got twenty minutes before the stew is ready.”

The other women followed Nora into the warmth of the living room while I was dragged away to Basil's house. He took my arm when we got outside. The moon had slipped behind the clouds, so it was not only cold, it was dark.

“The Franklins should really put footlights in,” he said, “so I can find my way home in the dark.”

It had been a year since Cynthia died. Maybe they didn't want him to find his way back.

The Franklins' house was hidden from Basil's by a hill and some trees. Basil's was a smaller version of the main house—a little gem. I could understand why he wouldn't want to leave it.

He showed me the first of two bedrooms, which had its own bathroom, complete with Jacuzzi. Basil called the second bedroom his “studio.”

He led me in and turned on the lights. This man had been busy. His work was piled against the walls, hanging from ceiling hooks, and there were several pieces, unfinished—or so I assumed—on easels.

“Well,” I said. “Well, well.” I put my hands on my hips and looked around with as much interest as I could muster.

“I call them ‘the art of the word,'” he said, “which is why I think they are perfect for the
Euphemia Review
.”

There were words everywhere—stenciled, painted freehand, crayoned, inked—words, words, words on canvas, on watercolor paper, on plywood planks.

One said “L-O-V-E” in pink and green on a plank the size of a door. It reminded me of something I'd seen on a greeting card and I wondered if Basil was trying to make a reference to pop culture. I waited for something in that room to move me. Art is supposed to move you, isn't it? I checked my emotional temperature—nothing.

“That was the one I did especially for Cynthia,” Basil said, pointing to the L-O-V-E painting. “I was going to present it to her on our wedding day.”

It occurred to me that an accidental death might be preferable to standing in front of all your friends and relatives to accept this gift with a straight face. Still, it was obvious that Basil was serious about his art. Art books and magazines littered the countertops, and I eyed the
Euphemia Review
sticking out from under an
Artforum
.

Basil stared at the L-O-V-E painting. His shoulders drooped and his normal hangdog expression became even hangier and doggier. I thought he was overplaying his hand as the grieving lover.

I looked at my wrist, though I wasn't wearing a watch. I wanted to go back. I couldn't bear the thought of everyone sitting down to bowls of hearty stew while I stood here looking at words. There were other words: U-N-I-T-Y, F-A-I-T-H, P-A-S-S-I-O-N. Many, many words. Trite, sappy words. Maybe I would have liked his work if he had chosen better words.

“Jane,” Basil said, lowering his voice to a decibel level even lower than his usual key of grief.

“Yes, Basil?” I tried to make my voice gentle, the kind of voice you might use when visiting a person who had just suffered a psychotic break.

“I think you understand me.” He put a hand on my shoulder and we stood there together in awkward silence. Was the grief-man making a move on me? Would I recognize one if I saw one? “I want you to think about these pictures,” he said. “Think about adding art to the foundation's work. I could be your emissary, your Evan Bentley of the art world.”