Timothy (14 page)

The hug was tight, to the point I worried one of my ribs might crack under the pressure. Joyce was about five-eight, and she had the trim, fit figure of a woman half her age. Her thick reddish hair was pulled back into a French braid that dropped halfway down her back. She blinked at me, stepping back and looking me up and down. Her round gray eyes were warm, framed by long lashes. Her gold-framed glasses fit her face perfectly, complementing the strong cheekbones she shared with Carlo. Her wide smile, exposing her almost impossibly white teeth, never faltered for a second. She was wearing a form-fitting white tennis dress that reached halfway down her muscular thighs, which were tanned a golden brown. She had a full bosom; the low-cut neckline showed off her tanned, deep cleavage. She was also wearing white tennis shoes, with those little white socks with a little pom-pom at the ankle to keep them from slipping down inside her shoes.

“DON'T mind the way I'm dressed—don't judge ME!” she warned with mock severity, wagging an index finger with a perfect French manicure at me. She placed emphasis on certain words when she spoke—like the entire word was capitalized in her head. “I HAVE to play tennis this afternoon, and I didn't WANT to cut my visit ONE minute short to have to run home and CHANGE. Oh, dear, you're SPEECHLESS in HORROR at my CLOTHES.” She looked stricken.

“No, no really, I'm not,” I insisted.

“Are you overwhelmed?” She waved a hand around. “Spindrift CAN be a bit MUCH at first, until you get USED to it. The FIRST time I brought my husband here he COULDN'T keep his mouth closed—he looked like a FISH gasping for AIR the whole time.” She rolled her eyes as she took me by the hand and led me out of the library and down the hall to a smaller, more intimate dining room than the one I'd seen earlier. A Latina woman in a maid's uniform, who I assumed was Juana, was setting a tray of luncheon meats down on a sideboard, and the table was laid with two place settings. Juana excused herself and disappeared out a side door. Joyce hadn't stopped talking as we walked—talking so rapidly I honestly couldn't keep up with her as she gently pushed me into a chair and sat down next to me.

“—and of course my children will be home for the summer soon, and they're dying to meet their new uncle, of course they can be dreadful beasts but they're actually quite lovely, really, they turned out far better than anyone could have hoped given what their father was like—he was certainly a piece of work, as my mother used to say, but he's long gone and not my problem anymore—well, any of our problem, really—the fact he has absolutely NO interest in his children certainly TELLS you WHAT kind of man he WAS, doesn't it? WHAT was I thinking? Ah, well, I was BARELY more than a CHILD myself.” She paused for breath, her face clouding at the mention of her first husband, but she shook it off quickly and started up again. “But then, YOU'RE little more than a CHILD yourself, aren't you?”

I inhaled sharply, but before I could say anything she looked mortified and her hand flew up to her mouth.

“Oh my GOD, I SWEAR sometimes I should just have my tongue AMPUTATED and be DONE with it.” She shook her head, the heavy braid swinging behind her back. “I'm SO sorry, darling, CAN you ever forgive me? Thank GOD Carlo isn't here—what a SCOLDING he'd give me—and deservedly SO. You MUST forgive me. My only EXCUSE is I'm so worried about making a POSITIVE impression on you that I don't KNOW what I'm saying. You MUST think I'm a perfectly AWFUL creature with NO manners. PLEASE forgive me, and you must PROMISE me you won't BREATHE a word of my HORRIBLE behavior to Carlo!”

I couldn't help myself—the shock wore off and I started laughing. “You—were—worried—about making a good impression on
me
?”

“Of course!” She goggled at me, and started laughing with me. “I'm making an UTTER fool of myself, as always.” She wiped tears out of her eyes. “Come on, darling, let's have a sandwich. I'm STARVING.”

I made myself a turkey sandwich and sat down, filling my glass from the pitcher of iced tea. I was suddenly ravenous—all I'd thus far had to eat had been the toast. The bread tasted fresh, and the turkey was delicious.

“I don't SUPPOSE you play tennis by ANY chance?” she asked me between bites of her roast beef.

“I've never played,” I replied, washing down another bite with some tea, “but I'm afraid I'm not very athletic.”

“Nonsense—you're YOUNG, young people can do ANYTHING.” She winked at me as she dabbed at some horseradish sauce that had dribbled on her chin. “They JUST don't realize it, of course.”

“I'm afraid I might be the one exception to that rule, Joyce,” I demurred with a slight shake of my head. “Really, I am embarrassingly uncoordinated.”

She shook her head. “I WON'T hear of it, especially with that LOVELY tennis court on the grounds HERE. My husband doesn't PLAY, so WHENEVER I need a partner for mixed doubles, I'm ALWAYS stuck playing with the most TERRIBLE players—the ones NO ONE else wants as a partner, and we ALWAYS lose.” She winked at me. “I HATE to lose. And I know JUST the pro who can COAX the tennis champion from you—his name is Chris and he's MARVELOUS, simply MARVELOUS. Why, a few sessions with him and he IMPROVED my serve—you wouldn't KNOW I was the same player as the old Joyce.” She fished a phone out of her purse and pressed a button. When it beeped, she spoke into it. “Remind me this afternoon to CHECK with Chris Thoresson to SEE if he's got SOME time for Mouse.” She slid the phone back into her purse once it confirmed the reminder message. She frowned. “Now, that's THAT.” She glanced at her watch and blanched. “Where DID the time go?” She shoved the rest of the sandwich into her mouth. “I HAVE to be on my way, I forgot, I have to—oh, you don't CARE about any of that.” She leaped to her feet, tossed the straps of her bag over her shoulder, and kissed me on the cheek. “I'll call you ONCE I confirm with Chris, and when Carlo's back you two simply MUST come over for dinner—and I'll try to stop by and see you—mustn't have you getting LONELY in this big old place by yourself.”

And she was gone out the door, just like that, leaving me feeling like I'd just weathered a tornado.

I shook my head and finished my turkey sandwich. I liked Joyce, very much, and if her husband and children were
anything
like her, I'd married into a very nice new family, indeed.

Juana came in to clear as I finished, and the moment I stepped out into the hallway, I heard a discreet cough just to my right. Carson had materialized without a sound—which was more than a little unnerving. I smiled at him, but he just looked at me, his face completely expressionless and distant. His eyes, though, were cold and one corner of his mouth was twitching, as though he couldn't decide whether to laugh at me or just sneer. “I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time, sir.”

“Of course.” My smile faded under his withering stare, and I felt my face starting to redden. “What do you need, Carson?”

His facial expression didn't change, but his eyes somehow grew colder and more contemptuous. “I had placed the menu selections on your desk, and was wondering if you'd made any decisions? Delia would like to get to the market soon and needs to know what to purchase. Mr. Carlo had requested prime rib for dinner this evening, so she needs to get the marketing out of the way soon, or else the meal won't be ready to be served at seven sharp.” He folded his hands together in front of his chest. “And Mr. Carlo always wants dinner to be served promptly at seven.”

Flustered and confused, I stammered out. “My—desk? I didn't see anything—”

“The desk in your office, sir.” His tone dripped scorn.

The office.

I bit my lower lip. “I—I'm sorry, Carson, I didn't think—surely anything you would select would be fine.”

This time he did allow his lip to curl. “I'm afraid that just wouldn't do, sir.”

Mortified, I knew exactly what he was thinking—
Mr. Timothy would have never asked a servant to choose the menus.
“I'll do it right now, of course, Carson,” I said quickly and walked down the hall as fast as I could without running. I opened the door to the office and closed it behind me.

I let out my breath and walked over to the desk, sitting down. On the blotter in the center was the list. I scanned it quickly—everything looked fine, although there were some things I had no earthly idea what they were—and so I scrawled my initials next to each meal. Someone knocked on the door and Carson entered silently when I called “come in.” He walked over to the desk and without a word took the list from me. He paused at the door. “Do you have any instruction regarding the flowers, sir?”

“No, they're fine as they are.” I didn't look up at him. “Just keep using the same ones.”

One of his eyebrows went up briefly and came back down.

I swallowed. “But I'd like roses in my bedroom. Yellow ones.”

“Yellow roses?” He bowed his head slightly, his eyes glittering with contempt.

What's wrong with yellow roses?

I took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Of course, sir.” The door closed silently behind him.

The silence was overwhelming. Other than the waves, there was no sound anywhere in the house.

I was trembling.

I was acutely aware that I was in a room that used to be Timothy's sole territory, and I opened the center drawer, curious about my predecessor. The drawer smelled vaguely of the cologne I instantly recognized as his signature fragrance, the one I'd stopped wearing so Carlo wouldn't be reminded. There was stationery, similar to the stationery I'd found in the penthouse, only here there were almost matching envelopes and note pads, all with his signature in raised print across the top. There was also a box of business cards, but all they said on them was
Timothy Burke
. I closed the drawer, and opened the top drawer on the right.

All it contained was a framed photograph of Carlo and Timothy. Both were wearing tuxedos, and they were smiling into each other's eyes, their arms around each other.

I touched the glass.

He was so beautiful.

They looked so happy.

I bit my lower lip and put the picture back.

I got up and walked over to the bookcases to see what was in them, and when I walked past a small side table my hand accidentally hit a china statue of a dog that looked just like Minette and it fell, smashing to pieces on the floor.

I stared at it, mortified.

Surely it was Timothy's, just as Minette had been his.

It was probably priceless as well.

Quickly, I gathered the broken pieces and hid them in the bottom drawer of the desk. After all, this was my office now—Carlo would never come in here and need never know I'd broken something of Timothy's.

I left the room and hurried upstairs as quickly as I could.

Carlo left Spindrift the following morning, and didn't return until Wednesday.

He stayed in my room the night before he left and woke me to tell me good-bye. There was a poignant sadness in his face that touched me deeply, and I managed to hold my own emotions in check until the door had shut behind him. Then I gave vent to my own tears, burying my face in the pillow and sobbing until I was exhausted and the emotional gave way to the practical. I was going to have to get used to being separated from him, and rather than moping around feeling sorry for myself, I would use the time productively, to learn the things I needed to know so I wouldn't embarrass him in front of his friends and business associates—and there was that enormous library full of books. Surely, there must be books in there with the information I desired.

Carlo called me several times a day, of course—which never failed to make me feel warm inside and delighted me no end. I looked forward to the calls, and my cell phone was never out of my reach. I missed him terribly—the days were bearable as I could distract myself—but the nights were lonely and awful for me up in the green suite. I missed the feel of his arms around me, his lips pressed against mine, the warmth of his skin, and his unique smell. He was always apologetic, promising to make it up to me—which of course was ridiculous. He already thought I was little more than a child—so I wasn't about to let him know how much it hurt me that he went away so soon after we came home to Spindrift. I was proud of myself for behaving so maturely about the entire thing—which wasn't easy.

Yet despite knowing and accepting the reality of what my marriage was going to be like, there was a small, selfish part of me that
did
feel wounded and abandoned. I had plenty of practice, of course, in ignoring that part of my personality; I'd been doing it my entire life. That was the small child deep inside who resented the father who wasn't interested in letting me be a child, who listened with burning jealousy as other kids talked about trips to circuses and amusement parks and Disney films or television programs they enjoyed watching—all things I was never allowed to enjoy. My father thought he was being “enlightened” by not treating me as a child; he rather treated me as an adult who hadn't quite matured physically yet. On the one hand, I was grateful to him for this—this enabled me to get good grades because I retreated into books to avoid conversations with other children—conversations that would ultimately result in their discovery how strange and different from theirs my home life actually was. With Carlo in New York and with endless hours to fill without him at Spindrift, I found myself with the time to reflect on my childhood and my years in college, and ultimately found them wanting on many different levels.

But recognizing how my father failed me by not allowing me to have a normal childhood didn't mean that I should give rein to the willful petulance of the angry child within. Carlo was my husband and he was opening an entire new life full of possibilities to me. So no matter how much that child wanted to pout and cry and demand he return at once, no matter how sorry that child wanted to feel for itself at being abandoned by his husband so soon after the wedding, I would not permit that child to speak to Carlo on the telephone. I read books and learned about the art in the house—and found myself staggered by their value. I watched films on the enormous flat-screen television mounted on the wall in the den. I explored the house, determined to learn once and for all which door led to which room, so that I wouldn't get lost or confused.