The Secret Heiress (11 page)

“Probably because of the party,” Frans said. “They must be swamped.”

Bianca got out of bed and slipped a caftan over her head. “I’ll go get some,” she said. “I know they’ll have plenty out at the clubhouse.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.” She kissed him. “Why don’t you hop into that big Jacuzzi like you wanted to?”

Frans grinned. “Only if you promise to hop in with me when you get back.”

“It’s a promise.”

Frans kissed her and padded into the big bathroom, where he turned on the taps in the Jacuzzi. “I’m going to have it nice and full when you get back,” he called out to her.

“I’ll hurry,” she said. She left the room and dashed along the beautifully lit path that led to the clubhouse. Loads of revelers were dancing, some of them making out on the dance floor. Most of the couches and chairs were occupied by couples involved in various stages of foreplay. The big bar was crowded with people engaged in drunken conversation, and raucous laughs punctuated the music. Waiters with trays of champagne passed, but she didn’t take any. She wanted to get them a bottle.

She went to the bar and waited. When the bartender finally reached her, she said, “There’s no champagne left in our minifridge, and I couldn’t get room service. Could I get a bottle to take back, please?”

“Of course,” he replied. “Hold on just a minute.” He disappeared into a room behind the bar.

Bianca drummed her fingernails on the bar. She could hardly wait to get back.

“Bianca?”

She turned toward the voice. It was Honor Hurlstone with a friend. “Hi,” she said. “Are you having fun?”

“Yes, darling,” Honor said. “Do you know Consuela?”

“I’m sure we’ve met,” Bianca said. “How are you?”

“Wonderful,” Consuela replied, “and yes, we have met, Bianca. I believe it was at another party for Niki.”

The women chatted at the bar for some time. The bartender returned and placed a bottle of champagne and two glasses on a tray. “If you can wait, I’ll have someone take it to your cottage.”

“Oh, no. That won’t be necessary,” Bianca replied.

“Shall I open it for you?”

She shook her head. “We can manage, thanks.”

Consuela, who was telling them about her latest boyfriend, kept talking as if the bartender didn’t exist. On and on she went, and Bianca grew increasingly anxious to get away, but she wanted to be polite and wait for the right opportunity. Honor finally came to her rescue.

“Oh, Bianca, darling!” she exclaimed. “Your boyfriend, Frans. I completely forgot. You must be dying to get back to him.”

“Well, I find Consuela’s story fascinating, but to be honest I would like to get back to our cottage.”

Consuela laid an arm heavy with glittering bangle bracelets on Bianca’s. “Rush to him, you divine creature!” she exclaimed. “How polite you’ve been to listen to an old hag like me natter on. Go!”

Bianca laughed. “You’re anything but an old hag, Consuela.”

She left the clubhouse with the bottle in one hand and the two glasses in the other, being careful on the path. When she reached the cottage, she heard laughter as she pushed her way inside.

What on earth?
she wondered.

The bathroom door was closed, and the laughter was definitely coming from there, that and the churn of the Jacuzzi.

She went to the bathroom door, which had been left open a crack, she discovered. Pushing it open, she stepped into the room. For a moment, she thought she would be sick. In the Jacuzzi, oblivious to her, Frans and Niki were splashing each other, laughing as if they were children playing a game. Only they weren’t children. They were naked, and between splashes they were giving each other playful little pinches.

Bianca’s shock quickly turned to a white-hot rage.

Suddenly Frans saw her. “Bianca!” he cried excitedly. “Come and join us. This is so much fun!”

Fun! Who is he kidding?
She felt like battering his head with the champagne bottle.

“Niki gave me a drink with ecstasy in it, and it’s so much fun!” Frans grinned at her, deliriously happy.

Bianca glared at them, her body still trembling with rage.

“You bet it’s fun.” Niki giggled. “Come on in. There’s some more ecstasy. Over there on the vanity.”

Bianca threw the champagne bottle and glasses toward the tile shower. The glasses shattered, but the bottle hit the wall and fell to the floor, rolling back toward her.

“Oh, Bianca!” Niki cried. “Don’t be a spoilsport!” She shoved her hands underwater and giggled wildly. “Frans has plenty for both of us!”

Bianca felt bile rise in her throat. She wanted to throw up, but she turned and ran from the cottage.

A
riadne wrapped her striped woolen scarf around her neck several times and pulled her wool watch cap down over her ears, then turned the collar on her jacket up.
I probably look like Nanook of the North,
she thought,
but I don’t care.
It was extremely cold and windy outside with snow on the ground, and she might have to wait awhile for the bus that would take her within easy walking distance of her dorm on the Williams campus. Set at last, she pushed on the big glass door and stepped out into the already darkening day. She hurried along under the covered walkway that led to the street.

When she reached the curb, she looked up at the late-afternoon sky. It was the same depressing, uniform gray that it had been when she’d come to the Clark Institute a couple of hours earlier.
There’s going to be more snow,
she thought. Normally, she wouldn’t mind it too much, and usually she thought the snow falling was beautiful. But today the biting wind and gray sky and descending darkness matched her mood.

What a lousy day,
she thought, reaching the shelter where the bus stopped. She knew why her spirits were so low, but that didn’t help make her feel any better. Kurt had called earlier in the week and asked her to go out to dinner tonight. Then he’d called back this morning and canceled. He couldn’t turn down an invitation to go skiing with a bunch of buddies at a nearby ski resort, could he? She hadn’t been asked—it was a bunch of guys, after all—but she was disappointed that she’d been brushed off, virtually at the last minute.
Why am I not surprised?
she wondered.

The first time she’d met Kurt in a class, she’d been drawn to him. He was very good-looking, tall and blond and well built, with a friendly manner and an easy smile. She’d soon discovered to her delight that he also possessed that rare combination of a very sharp intelligence along with his equally great looks. But after dating him for a few months, she’d begun to notice other, less attractive attributes as well. He was sometimes not only arrogant and rude but also self-involved and insensitive.

She’d gradually come to feel that she was a convenience to him. When he needed help on a difficult paper for a class, he asked her for assistance. When he needed a date for some function, he called her. When his buddies were all busy, and he didn’t want to eat alone, he would ask her to join him. And, of course, when he wanted to get laid, he would try to sweet-talk her into being accommodating in that respect as well. She was “the greatest” or “the best,” never “the greatest lover” or “the love of my life.”
Love,
in fact, was a word they’d both avoided, as if its utterance would destroy their relationship.

Tonight—all weekend in fact—she’d turned out to be inconvenient for him.
Well,
she thought,
he can start calling somebody else because I’ve had it.

While she was angry, she realized in all fairness that he had helped her as well. She’d been seen about campus with a hot-looking man, hadn’t she? Nor did she have to fret about being alone when there was an important event on campus. She could always tell the girls in the dorm that, yes, she had a date for whatever special occasion was coming up. Kurt was there, physically, if not necessarily emotionally.

She sighed and watched her breath dissipate in the freezing air, and stamped her feet to keep them warm. There was still no sign of the bus, and she had just decided to go back and watch for it in the warmth of the museum when she heard the honk of a car’s horn.

“Ariadne? Ariadne?”

An old, battered-looking black Jeep stopped at the walkway, and a man was leaning out the driver’s window. Who on earth? She didn’t know anybody with a Jeep like that, did she?

“It’s Matt,” the voice called. “Remember me?”

Matt?
He was smiling, and she could see his perfect white teeth from where she stood. She walked toward him. “How are you?” she asked.

“Fine, but you look like you’re freezing.”

“That’s because I am,” she replied with a laugh. “I’ve been waiting for the bus to take me back to the dorm.”

“Want a lift? I’ll be glad to take you.”

“Well . . .” She hesitated a moment, then thought,
Why not?
“Sure, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Hop in,” he said. He leaned across and pushed open the door on the passenger side.

Ariadne slipped gladly into the Jeep’s warmth. “Oh, this feels so good,” she said, pulling the door closed. “It’s really freezing out.”

“It looks like more snow, too,” he said cheerfully, disengaging the hand brake and putting the Jeep in gear. “Say, do you mind if I stop at my studio to pick something up? It won’t take a minute.”

“Of course not,” Ariadne replied, suddenly curious to see what his studio looked like.

“It’s just over there,” Matt said, pointing with a finger.

He stepped on the gas and drove into the parking lot, pulling into a space near the long brick building. “Why don’t you run in with me?” Matt asked. “I think you’d find it interesting.”

“I’d love to,” she said.

Matt shut off the engine, hopped out of the Jeep, and went around to her side and opened the door.

“Thank you,” Ariadne said, surprised by his manners. Nobody bothered nowadays with such old-fashioned courtesies.

The sidewalks had been salted, and their boots crunched on the crystals and melting snow. Inside, he led her down a long hallway. Ariadne wrinkled her nose at the intense smell. Although she could hear the hum of extractor fans, the air was filled with the odor of linseed oil and turpentine, mixed with other smells she couldn’t identify.

“Most of this area is studio space where paintings get cleaned, sometimes relined,” he said. “Depends on what’s needed. They’ll also get touch-ups or even repainting in some cases.”

Where doors had been left open, Ariadne peered into large rooms with skylights. She saw people bent over paintings, intent on their work. In most cases, they wore gloves in which they held small cotton balls, dampened with some kind of solution. They lightly brushed the cotton back and forth across small sections of canvas. The natural light was supplemented by high-intensity lamps with magnifiers built in, and the restorers peered through the magnifiers as they worked, closely evaluating the effects the cleaning solution was having on the canvas.

Down the hall, Matt took out a key and unlocked a door. “Here we are.” Ariadne followed him into the studio space, glancing around with fascination. It looked much like the others, except for the shelves that contained statuary composed of a variety of materials. She recognized marble, granite, bronze, and terra-cotta. On a long worktable, an army of tools was laid out with military precision. Stacks of various woods and wood veneers, cardboard, fiberboard, and paper of various colors and weights were placed neatly in rows along one side.

Matt crossed to a corner and picked up a small box. He tossed Styrofoam peanuts from a garbage bag into it. From a shelf he picked up a small structure made of wood and placed it in the box.

“What is that?” Ariadne asked.

“It’s a maquette,” he replied.

“A maquette?”

He nodded. “Yes. A model for a sculpture that I’m making.” He looked at her and shrugged. “Nearly all sculptors make them. They’re miniature versions of what you want to make. Like an architect’s model of a building.”

“May I see it?”

“Sure,” he said. He took the maquette out of the box and held it up.

The small three-dimensional structure was about six inches tall, wide, and deep, made of thin wood that had been cut and glued with precision. “It’s unbelievable,” she said. “It must take incredible patience.”

Matt groaned good-naturedly. “It does.”

“So it’s a model of a sculpture that you want to make?”

“Exactly. It’s a model for a piece that I’m working on now. It’s the third step . . . no, the fourth step in the process.”

“So many? What are the others?”

“First, imagining it in my mind’s eye. Second, drawing a two-dimensional model. Then, making the maquette.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“Thanks,” Matt said. “It’s taken a lot of work. I’ve been gluing and regluing and shaving the wood, reshaping it, trying to get it to look the way I imagined it.” He placed it back in the box, tossed a few more peanuts in, then closed the lid. Using a large tape dispenser, he sealed the box in one fluid motion.