The Heart's Victory (16 page)

“She must be very annoyed,” Foxy murmured. She walked to the edge of the terrace where the shadows deepened. With sudden clarity, she was reminded of the night of Kirk's party when she had sought out the scent of spring; the first time Lance had kissed her, on the glider in the moonlight. “Were they . . . ” Foxy shut her eyes and bit her lip. “Were they . . . ”

“Lovers?” Melissa supplied helpfully, taking a sip of Foxy's wine. “I imagine. Lance seems quite the physical sort to me.” Glancing over, she studied Foxy's back. “You're not the jealous type, are you?”

“Yes,” Foxy murmured without turning around. “Yes, I think I am.”

“Oh dear,” Melissa said into the champagne. “That's too bad. In any case, that was Chapter One, this is Chapter Two. Oh, and as for Jonathan.” Melissa finished the wine and gently crushed her cigarette under her heel. “He's a dangerous flirt and hopelessly charming and insincere. I've decided to marry him.”

“Oh.” Foxy turned back now and stared at her strange fountain of information. “Well, congratulations.”

“Oh, not yet, darling.” After rising, Melissa carefully brushed out her skirts. The pearls at her throat gleamed white in the moonlight. “He doesn't know he's going to ask me yet. I shouldn't think the idea will occur to him until around Christmastime.”

“Oh,” Foxy said blankly, then frowned at the empty glass Melissa handed her.

“You're perfectly free to flirt with him,” she added generously. “I'm not the jealous type at all. I believe I'd like a spring wedding, perhaps May. A four-month engagement is perfectly long enough, don't you think? We'd best go back in,” she said, linking her arm with Foxy's before she could answer. “I have to begin enchanting him.”

Chapter 12

During the next week, Foxy established a routine. On a search through the house, she had located the perfect site for her darkroom. Her time was absorbed with the clearing out of a basement storage room, arranging for her equipment to be shipped from New York and altering the room to suit its new function. Lance's days were spent in his Boston office while Foxy spent hers relocating her career base. Before she could continue with the creative aspects of her work, there were practicalities to be seen to. There was cleaning, plumbing to be installed, equipment to be set up. During the transition, Foxy was grateful that Mrs. Trilby proved to be efficient indeed, and quite proprietary about the top three stories of the house. She left the basement to Foxy without a murmur of protest. But there was no doubt in Foxy's mind that the tiny, prim lady in crepe-soled shoes would have snarled like a tiger if she had interfered with the working routine of the living quarters. Foxy left the polishing of the Georgian silver to Mrs. Trilby while she set up her enlarger and bathing tanks. The arrangement suited them both.

Foxy alternated work in her darkroom with solitary explorations of the city. She shot roll after roll of film, recording her impressions and feelings with her camera. She became reacquainted with loneliness. It surprised her that after so many years of thoughtless independence, she should so strongly need another's company. Knowing Lance's business needed careful attention after his months on the road helped her to keep any complaints to herself. Complaints, in any case, were something she rarely uttered. Problems were made to be worked out, and she was accustomed to doing so for herself. The loneliness itself was fleeting, forgotten when she and Lance were together, dulled by her fascination with the city that was now her home. When loneliness threatened, she fought it. Work was her panacea, and Foxy indulged in it lavishly. Within a week, her darkroom was operable, and the prints of the racing season were half completed.

As she studied a set of drying work prints Kirk jumped into her mind. Had it only been three weeks since the accident? she mused as she brushed her hair away from her eyes. It seemed like a lifetime. Wasn't it, in essence? In some strange way, Kirk's accident had been the catalyst that had altered her life. The world she existed in now was far removed from the one she had known as Cynthia Fox. With an unconscious gesture, she fingered her wedding ring.

Hanging wet and glossy, a print of the white racer as it would never be again caught Foxy's attention. She had highlighted it, muting the background into a smudge of varied colors without shape. It had been an unconscious tribute to her brother as she had once thought of him—indestructible. Abruptly a flood of homesickness overwhelmed her. It was an odd sensation and a new one. There had been no truly consistent home in her life in over ten years. But there had been Kirk. Impulsively Foxy left her work in the darkroom and rushed up the steps to the first floor. Hearing the hum of the vacuum in the upstairs hall, she ducked into Lance's study.

Closing herself in the room, she dropped into the chair behind Lance's walnut desk and picked up the phone. In moments, the lines were clicking between Massachusetts and New York.

“Pam!” Foxy felt a quick rush of pleasure the instant she heard the quiet, Southern voice. “It's Foxy.”

“Well, if it isn't Mrs. Matthews. How are things in Boston?”

“Fine,” Foxy replied automatically. “Yes, fine,” she repeated, unconsciously adding a nod for emphasis. “Well.” She sighed and settled back in the chair with a laugh. “Different certainly. How's Kirk?”

“He's doing very well,” Pam's voice continued lightly. “Impatient, naturally, to get out of the hospital. I'm afraid you've missed him just now. He's down in X-ray.”

“Oh.” Her disappointment was clear, but Foxy pushed it away. “Well, how are you? Are you managing to keep Kirk in line and maintain your sanity?”

“Just barely.” Pam's laugh was easy and familiar. Foxy smiled with the pleasure of hearing it. “He'll be sorry he missed your call.”

“I missed him all of a sudden,” Foxy confessed with a small shake of her head. “Everything's moved so fast in the past few weeks, sometimes I almost feel like someone else. I think I needed him to remind me I was still the same person.” She stopped and laughed again. “Am I rambling?”

“Only a tad. Kirk's not only reconciled to your marriage now, but quite pleased about it. I think he's talked himself into believing he arranged the entire thing between races.” Pam waited a beat, then continued in the same tone. “Are you happy, Foxy?”

Knowing Pam had meant the question seriously and not as casual conversation, Foxy took a moment to answer. She thought of Lance, and a smile coaxed her lips upward. “Yes, I'm happy. I love Lance, and on top of that, I'm lucky enough to love the house and Boston. I suppose I've been a bit lost, especially since Lance is back at his office. Everything here is so different, at times I feel I've stepped through the looking glass.”

“Boston society can be a wonderland of sorts, I imagine,” Pam replied. “Have you been spending your time chasing white rabbits?”

“I've been working, my friend,” Foxy countered in a tone that reflected her raised brows. “My darkroom here is now fully operable. I'll be sending you the prints in a week or so. I'll send you numbered work prints. If you need more copies, or want something enlarged or reduced, give me the number.”

“Sounds good. How many prints do you have so far?”

“Finished?” Foxy's brow furrowed as she considered. “A couple hundred if you count the ones I have drying.”

“My, my,” Pam remarked. “You have been a busy one, haven't you?”

“Photography has become not only my career but my salvation. It saves me from luncheons.” There was a smile in her voice now as she settled back into the deep cushion of the chair. “I went to my first, and my last, earlier this week. Nothing and no one will induce me to go through that again. I'm simply not cut out for
functions
.”

“Ah well,” Pam comforted with a cluck of her tongue. “They will probably carry on without you. I take it you've met Lance's family by now.”

“Yes. He has a cousin, Melissa, who's really a character. I like her. His grandmother was rather sweet to me. For the rest”—Foxy paused and wrinkled her nose—“there's been everything from casual friendliness to rank disapproval.” Pam could all but hear the shrug in her voice. “I'm looking at this first round of social obligations and introductions as kind of a pledge week. After it's done, I'll know them, and they'll know me, and that will be that.” She grinned. “I hope.”

“Lance's mother is a . . . formidable lady,” Pam commented.

“Yes,” Foxy agreed, surprised. “How did you know?”

“My mother and she are slightly acquainted,” she answered. Foxy was reminded that Pam had been born and bred in the world she had found herself thrust into by marriage. “I met her myself once when I was covering a story on art patrons.” Pam recalled her impression of an elegant, aristocratic woman with cool eyes and beautiful skin. She remembered no warmth at all. “Just keep your feet planted, Foxy. It'll all settle in a few months.”

Toying with the brass model of a Formula One that served as a paperweight, Foxy sighed. “I'm trying, Pam, but I do wish Lance and I could just lock the doors for a while. Our honeymoon was interrupted before it had really begun. I'm selfish enough to want a week or two alone with him while I'm getting used to being a wife.”

“That sounds more reasonable than selfish,” Pam corrected. “Maybe you'll be able to get away once he's finished designing this new car for Kirk. From what I gather, it's a bit complicated because of some new safety features Lance is working on.”

“What car?” Foxy demanded softly as she felt her blood turn cold.

“The new Formula One Lance is designing for Kirk. Hasn't he told you about it?”

“No, no he hasn't.” Foxy's voice was normal but her eyes were dull and lifeless as she stared down at the polished surface of Lance's desk. “I suppose it's for next season.”

“That's why they're pushing to move it along,” Pam agreed. “It's practically all Kirk can talk about. He's hoping to fly into Boston as soon as he's out of here so that he can be in on it before it's a finished project. The doctors seem to feel his avid interest in the car is a good motivation for getting him back on his feet quickly.” Pam rambled on while Foxy stared without seeing anything. “There's no doubt he's cooperating so well with his therapist because he wants to walk out of here by the first of the year.”

“If he's not on his feet,” Foxy put in slowly, “they can lift him out of his wheelchair and strap him into the cockpit.” Though it cost her some effort, she managed to keep her voice carefully level. “I'm sure Lance would have no objections.”

“I wouldn't be surprised if Kirk tried to arrange it.” Pam made a sound that was half laugh, half sigh. “Ah, well. What I would like, if you can do it, are some shots of the new car. Seeing as you have an in with the head man, you should be able to get close enough to take a shot or two. I'd especially like a few at the test track when it's progressed that far.”

Foxy shut her eyes on the headache that was beginning to throb. “I'll do what I can.”
Will I never get away from it?
she wondered and squeezed her eyes tighter.
Never?
“I have to get back to work, Pam. Give Kirk my love, will you? And take care of yourself.”

“Be happy, Foxy, and give our best to Lance.”

“Yes, I will. Bye.” With studied care, Foxy replaced the phone on its cradle. The cold shield over her skin remained, stretching out to extend to her brain. There was a void where her emotions might have been. Anger hovered on the edge of her consciousness, but failed to penetrate. Kirk's accident replayed in her head, not with the smooth motion of a movie, but with the quick, staccato succession of a slide show. Each frame was distinct and horrible.

There were countless grids in her memory, countless wrecks. They came back to her in a montage of cars and drivers and pit crews all jumbled together in a throbbing mass of speed. She sat, swamped by the largeness of Lance's chair, and remembered all of ten years as the light shifted with evening. Outside, the temperature began to drop with the sun. When the door to the study opened, Foxy turned her eyes to it with little interest.

“Here you are.” Lance strolled into the room, leaving the door open behind him. “Why are you sitting in the dark, Fox? Don't you get enough of that in your fortress in the basement?” Moving to her, he cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her. The gesture was casual and somehow possessive. When he received no response, he narrowed his eyes and studied her face. “What is it?”

Foxy looked up at him, but her eyes were shadowed in the dimming light. “I just talked to Pam.”

“Is it Kirk?” The quick concern in his voice melted the shield that covered her. Under it was the boiling fury of betrayal. She struggled to remain objective until she understood. “Are you concerned about his health?” she asked, but drops of anger burned through the words.

Frowning at the tone, Lance traced her jaw with his finger and felt the tension. “Of course I am. Has there been a complication?”

“Complication,” she repeated tonelessly as her nails bit into her palms. “That depends on your viewpoint, I suppose. Pam told me about the car.”

“What car?”

The blatant curiosity and puzzlement in his voice snapped her control. Knocking his hand from her face, Foxy rose, putting the chair and her temper between them. “How could you begin designs on a car while he's still in the hospital? Couldn't you even wait until he can walk again?”

Understanding replaced the puzzlement on Lance's face. He made no attempt to close the distance between them, but when he spoke, his voice was patient. “Fox, it takes time to design and build a car. Work was begun on this months ago.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” She tossed the words at him, more annoyed than soothed by the patience in his tone. “Why were you keeping it from me?”

“In the first place,” he began, frowning as he watched her, “designing cars is my business, and you're aware of it. I've designed cars for Kirk before, you're aware of that, too. Why is this different?”

“He was nearly killed less than a month ago.” Foxy gripped the supple leather of Lance's chair.

“He crashed,” Lance said calmly. “He's crashed before. You and I both know that there's always the chance he'll crash again. It's a professional risk.”

“A professional risk,” she repeated while fresh fury grew in her eyes. “Oh, how like you! That makes it all neat and tidy. How marvelous it must be to be so impersonally logical.”

“Be careful, Foxy,” Lance said evenly.

“Why are you encouraging him to go back to it?” she demanded, ignoring his warning. “He might have had enough this time. He has Pam now, he might . . . ”

“Wait a minute.” Though shadows washed the room, Foxy had no need to see his face clearly to recognize his anger. “Kirk doesn't need any encouraging. Accident or no accident, he'll be back on the grid next season. It's no use trying to delude yourself, Foxy. Neither a wreck nor a woman is going to keep Kirk out of a cockpit for long.”

“We'll never be sure of that now, will we?” she countered furiously. “You'll have one all ready for him. Custom fit. How can he resist?”

“If I didn't, someone else would.” Lance's hands slipped into his pockets as his voice became dangerously quiet. “I thought you understood him . . . and me.”

“All I understand is that you're planning to put him into another car, and he's not even able to stand up yet.” Her voice became desperate and she dragged an impatient hand through her hair. “I understand that you might have used your influence to persuade him to retire, and instead—”