Timothy (15 page)

There was a door on the second floor in the east wing that was always locked. I asked Juana about it, but all she would say was, “Ask Carson.”

And of course, I wasn't about to do that—no matter how curious I was about what was behind that door.

I kept my distance from Carson, and he did the same. There were, of course, times when we had to speak to each other—matters about the house that couldn't be avoided—but he was always icily polite to me. I tried to convince myself that his disdain for me was merely a figment of my imagination. I reasoned, alone in the library or while walking Minette, that it was just my insecurities and worries about my new life as co-master of Spindrift.

Then I would talk to him, and I could see the dislike in his eyes, hear the scorn dripping from his oh-so-polite voice.

Joyce was true to her word, and I began my tennis lessons on Monday afternoon. She could barely contain her excitement when she called to tell me.

“You're going to LOVE Chris, he's an AMAZING teacher, and before you know it we'll be WINNING the mixed doubles at the tennis club this summer!”

I rather doubted that, but it was hard to get a word in edgewise when Joyce was excited.

It was hot on Monday afternoon when I walked out to the tennis court for my first lesson. Joyce had asked me my sizes, and Monday morning bags of tennis clothing had arrived from the pro shop at the tennis club. When I called to thank her, she told me “You can THANK me by being tournament ready by the END of the summer.”

The tennis pro, Chris Thoresson, towered over me when he introduced himself. He was at least six foot four, and quite handsome, actually. He was very muscular with broad shoulders and thick legs, a narrow waist and a flat stomach. He was wearing a U.S. Open baseball cap, but I could see he had dark brown hair. His voice was deep, and he had enormous hands—mine was lost inside his strong grip when we shook hands. He also had the most remarkably blue eyes. They were deep blue, but seemed lit from behind. I was very quick to point out to him that I knew next to nothing about tennis and was terribly uncoordinated.

Joyce had included a racket with the clothes, and he very patiently taught me the different grips of the racket, what they were for, and how to swing it properly. That first day I didn't hit a single ball. He was very insistent that I needed to learn how to hold my racket properly, how to switch grips and the different strokes—forehand, backhand, slice, and overhand—and get to the point where I could switch the grips without having to think about it first. Once I had mastered the grips and the stroke, then and only then would he let me start swinging at an actual ball. He was an excellent teacher, explaining every aspect of the game to me in his deep, friendly voice so that it all made sense to me. He was incredibly patient—unlike all the PE teachers whose classes I'd suffered through as a child—and by the end of that first hour I was quite surprised to realize that I was looking forward to my next lesson.

“Just keep practicing your grips and your strokes,” he said with a cheerful smile as we scheduled another lesson for Wednesday afternoon, “and you'll be playing before you know it.” He took a swig from his bottle of water and wiped sweat from his forehead with a small towel. “To be honest, I never thought I'd ever be out on the court at Spindrift again.”

My heart sank. I was positive he had not been here giving Carlo lessons, and as he continued talking, I was proven right.

Once again,
he
was there first.

“You're nothing like Timothy,” he said, shaking his head. “Timothy was too impatient and always let his temper get the best of him.” He shrugged. “He wanted to be a championship level player immediately, and it simply doesn't work that way. Tennis is no different than anything else—you have to practice, and the more you do, the better you get. But things always came easily for him, I guess, and he wasn't used to having to work at anything.” His face changed, and he scowled. “He was kind of difficult.”

“
Oh,” I replied politely, dying to know what he meant but not knowing precisely how to ask.

He looked off into the distance for a moment, remembering, and then smiled again with a little shake of his head.
“
I'm sorry—you don't care about any of that, of course. Anyway, make sure you practice your grips and strokes, and I'll see you on Wednesday morning.”

He slung his tennis bag strap over his shoulder and strolled off around the house.

What did he mean?
I wondered as I showered.
Difficult? It seemed like he didn't like Timothy very much.

I'm not sure what it says about me as a person, but it raised my spirits a bit to know that not everyone thought Timothy was
perfect.

Minette, of course, was a godsend. I showered her with affection, and she more than returned it. Whenever I was feeling lonely, all I had to do was call her and she would come on the run, tongue hanging out and panting, and would jump all over me and lick me to death. She would follow me everywhere if I would let her. She slept in the bed with me, curling up on the pillow next to mine, and that made me feel somewhat less lonely. Several times a day I would put her leash on her and we would go for a walk around the grounds. The sound of me getting the leash always excited her, and I couldn't help but smile at her delight. Seriously, how could anyone be depressed or sad with such an adorable dog who was so clearly delighted to be in your company?

Every time I hugged her and she licked my face, I wondered what I would do without her.

On Tuesday morning we were out for our usual walk when I heard dogs barking on the other side of the hedge, from the house on the east side. I wasn't paying attention. I was lost in thought, going over the grips and strokes in my head again. Minette never really tugged on the leash, so I'd gotten into the habit of holding on to it loosely—but as soon as the dogs began barking next door she leaped forward. She pulled the leash right out of my hand and took off across the lawn toward the hedge and the barking dogs. Calling her name, I ran after her, but wasn't able to catch her before she wiggled under the hedges and into the neighboring yard. I couldn't fit underneath—there was barely enough room for Minette—and cursing under my breath, I forced my way through thick branches that slashed at my arms and face. When I made it through, I saw Minette happily playing with two other spaniels with the same coloring.

“Well, there you are at last,” sniffed the older woman holding the leashes of the other two dogs. “Minette! Hetty! Charlie! Sit!”

All three dogs immediately stopped playing and sat, staring at her with their heads cocked to one side.

“I'm so sorry,” I said, grabbing Minette's leash and pulling her away from the other dogs. Minette gave me such a sad, mournful look that I felt like a monster.

“For heaven's sake,” the old woman snapped, clearly exasperated. “I wasn't talking about Minette—she's always welcome here. These are her parents, you foolish young man.”

“Oh.” I felt myself blushing again. “I'm sorry—”

“You're the new husband, aren't you?” She peered at me over the top of her glasses. She stepped forward and stuck out her right hand. “Eleanor Chamberlain, but my friends call me Nell.”

I shook her hand and told her my name.

She was remarkably tall, and her white hair was tucked into a bun perched on the back of her head. Her glasses were thick, making her brown eyes seem much more enormous than they actually were. Her face was wrinkled, and some loose skin hung from underneath her chin. Her hands were brown with protruding blue veins, but her nails were perfectly manicured. She was wearing a loose-fitting dress of white cotton, but her figure was still quite trim and her bare legs looked strong. She was wearing brown leather sandals on her feet.

She was still peering at me like I was a bug under a microscope. “You're quite a bit different than the last one, aren't you?” she finally said with a snort, just as the silence was getting a bit uncomfortable. “I suppose Carlo wanted something different. Lord knows he wasn't going to find another Timothy Burke! That one was far too good-looking for his own good, if you ask me. But he certainly went pretty far in the other direction.”

I could feel the blood rushing to my face.

She noticed, and rolled her eyes. “I didn't mean that the way it sounded—I'm an old bitch, but I'm not that mean.” She reached down and unhooked her dogs from their leashes. “There you go—you wanted off so badly, go on with you now!” She looked over at me. “You can unhook Minette—they just want to run and play, you know.”

I knelt down and unhooked Minette's collar from her leash, and the three dogs took off for the beach, barking and playing.

“Come on up to the house with me and have some tea,” she commanded, tucking her hand through my arm. “I've been dying of curiosity ever since I heard the news that Carlo had remarried. I knew his parents, you know,” she went on, “I've known him and that sister of his since they were babies, and I've watched them grow up. Seems like just yesterday Joyce brought that fortune-hunting gigolo home.” She laughed, and it was a nice sound.

We sat down at a table on her back veranda, and she pressed an intercom button and ordered a pitcher of iced tea. She smiled at me. “So how are you finding life here in the Hamptons? It must be a bit overwhelming for you.” She clicked her tongue at me, narrowing her eyes. “Dorian Castlemaine was insisting that you must be some kind of gold digger yesterday when we were playing bridge, and that is, I'm afraid, the general consensus around here. But Dorian can be a nasty bitch—a bit of a snob, that one is, always seems to forget she wasn't exactly born with a silver spoon in her mouth either—it was her curves and her pretty face that landed her a rich husband and a house in the Hamptons, not her pedigree.” She peered at me again over her glasses. “But with you right here in front of me, I'm afraid I just can't see that. No, you're not a gold digger at all, are you, young man?”

“No.” I bristled a little bit. “I had a job—”

“Working for that dreadful magazine in the city,” she cut me off. “But then, all magazines are dreadful these days—and one must make a living, I suppose, when one doesn't come from money.” She smiled at me. “I know it's rude and terribly snobbish, but people with money always assume people only marry into our class for money. As I pointed out to that rude bitch—who, like I said, married for money herself and is no better than she should be—Carlo Romaniello is a very handsome man, what the young people would call a hunk, so the probability of love was very high, even if you only knew him for a week before getting married.”

“It was rather quick,” I admitted. “But I do love him. I don't care so much about the money, to be honest. I'd almost rather he didn't have quite so much.”

“Don't be ridiculous, young man. The story that money can't buy happiness is a lie told by people who don't have any money so they can feel better about their little lives. Don't ever turn your nose up at money.” She laughed again. “It definitely has its advantages.”

I shook my head. “I'm not used to, you know, not having to look at price tags. Carlo thinks its funny. And living in Spindrift is like living in a hotel.”

“You'll get used to it—you'll be surprised at how quickly,” she replied as a uniformed woman brought a tray out and set it down on the table in front of us. “That's all, Doris, thank you.” The woman nodded and went back inside the house. “Be a dear boy and pour us a glass, will you? This damned arthritis is brutal on my hands.”

I obliged. The tea was delicious, and I said so.

“You'd think one couldn't ruin iced tea, but you'd be surprised,” she commented. She glanced at the watch on her arm. “I'd offer you something stronger but it's still too early.” She peered off toward the Beach. “I'm glad Minette has you now. Since Timothy died”—she paused for a moment, and cleared her throat—“since Timothy died no one's really had time for her, you know. I don't think Carlo much cares for dogs—he's never had one, which is all I need to know—and I've worried about her over there with no one to play with her or keep her company. I've thought about asking Carlo for her, you know, to take her back—Charlie and Hetty would be delighted to have one of their pups back, and I love dogs, can't get enough of them—but he's been hardly back at Spindrift since—well, since you know.” She fixed her eyes on me again. “But now you're there, and you clearly love her, so I don't have to worry about her anymore.”

I smiled back at her but didn't say anything.

Of course
, I was thinking,
of course the dog was Timothy's.
Everything
was his before it was mine.

“I didn't realize Minette was—was his.” I said.

“It doesn't make a difference, does it?” she asked.

“No, of course not.”

“Then forget about it.” She waved her hand. “He wanted one of Hetty and Charlie's pups in the worst way—and then once he had her, he never seemed to have any time for her. If I'd known—” She made a face. “But now she has you—and I can tell, you love her. And that's all that matters.”

“She's wonderful,” I replied, taking a sip of the tea. “She—she makes me feel less lonely, since Carlo's away.”

“So, what did you think of your tennis lesson?” she asked.

“How did you—”

She laughed and pointed upward. “The widow's walk. I can see everything that goes on at your house from up there. I like to go up there and watch the neighborhood sometimes—it keeps me from feeling lonely.”

My heart went out to her. “Oh, dear, do you get lonely?”

She made a face. “Don't be feeling sorry for me, boy.” She rapped the table with her knuckles. “My husband's dead this many years and my children are grown and moved away, but I have plenty of friends in this town.”