Timothy (19 page)

Of course he did, and he probably always had the best costume
, I thought, feeling the familiar knot forming in my stomach. “Then there's probably a list somewhere—I'm sure Carson knows where it is.” I looked down at my book again so she couldn't see my face reddening.

“Yes, of course.” She hurried out of the library.

I walked down to the office, not wanting to be there when she got back. I knew I was behaving childishly—he was dead, for God's sake, I shouldn't feel so threatened by a dead man. I sat down at the desk, and buried my face in my hands. It was still raining; maybe it was just the gloom of the past few days getting to me. I felt trapped in the house. And Carlo was leaving again in the morning—this time to London for a few days—and of course, he'd told me I would just be “bored” if I went with him.

Like I would ever be bored in London—but he refused to even discuss it.

He's ashamed of you—he doesn't want to be seen with you in public. He feels like he's making a mistake.

Someone cleared their throat in the doorway.

I looked up and saw Carson standing there, his face impassive as always.

“Yes, Carson?” I asked wearily. The last thing I wanted to do was deal with his contempt in my current mood. “Mrs. Sullivan was just looking for you.”

“She found me, thank you, sir.” He entered the room. “The guest list for the last ball should be located in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, sir.”

I waved my hand. “Then get it for her, Carson.”

He walked past me and I heard a drawer of the filing cabinet open and shut behind me. Noiselessly he passed out of the room again, but he paused in the door. “Please forgive my asking, sir, but have you had any success in deciding upon a costume for the ball?”

“No,” I replied. “And I'm about to just give up and not wear one. If Carlo can get away without a costume, there's no reason for me to wear one.”

“Perhaps I might be of some use to you?”

Slowly, I looked up at him in wonder. He was smiling at me—or at least what passed for a smile from Carson. “Why would you want to help me?”

He tentatively stepped back into the office and pulled the door shut behind him. He cleared his throat again. “Sir, I feel that I owe you an apology.”

I just stared at him, dumbfounded, unable to think of a thing to say in response.

“You see, sir, I was very devoted to Mr. Timothy,” his face colored, “and—and I didn't like the thought of anyone trying to take his place. I deeply resented you, sir, and it wasn't my place. I'm terribly sorry, sir, and must humbly ask for your forgiveness. Could you possibly find it in your heart to forgive me, sir, and perhaps we could start over?”

I opened my mouth and closed it again. I was so stunned I couldn't speak, so I simply nodded.

“You see, I helped Mr. Timothy with his costumes for the ball every year—it was I who came up with the ideas for them, sir. And I would be more than happy to do the same for you this year.”

Somehow I managed to say, “That would be very kind of you, Carson.”

“Are you going to be here in your office for a while, sir?”

“Actually, I should get upstairs and check on Minette,” I said with a glance out the windows. The rain seemed to finally be passing, and the sun was shining on the sea. “She hasn't been exercised since the rain began.”

“Oh, please, sir, wait for me in your rooms while I drop this list off to Mrs. Sullivan. I can meet you up there in a few minutes. I have some pictures—ideas, really—in my room that could be very useful to you.”

“Fine, Carson, I'll wait for you there.”

“Very good, sir.” He gave me a slight bow and walked away.

As I climbed the stairs, I had to resist the urge to whistle. Carson was coming around! I couldn't deny that having him dislike me so much had been bothering me. But if he was coming around—and if things with Carlo weren't quite the way they'd been in Miami and Manhattan, well, at least we were spending some time together before he left on his trip. He enjoyed watching his favorite old films with me, often explaining to me information about the actors or the director that I didn't know.

By the time I reached my bedroom the sky had completely cleared, and it seemed like a sign to me. Carson was coming around—the sun had come out and everything was right with the world. Even Minette greeted me cheerfully and looked happier than I'd seen her in days. I knelt down and scratched her ears. “Yes, we'll go for a nice long walk in a little bit, Minette, would you like that? But we're going to have wait—I have something to talk about with Carson first, and then we can spend as much time as we want outside, okay, girl?”

She seemed to smile at me in that way spaniels have, and I sat down at my desk.

I was checking my e-mail when Carson knocked on my door. “Come in,” I called, turning in the swivel chair. Carson entered, carrying a manila file folder stuffed full of clippings. He closed the door behind him and walked noiselessly over to the desk. He was smiling that odd little smile of his when he handed me the folder.

“Let's see what we have here,” I murmured, opening the folder. The first clipping I immediately dismissed as impractical—it was a man in a merman costume. Carson was standing next to me as I went through the clippings. He had never been so close to me before, and I could smell him—a strange combination of clove and antiseptic. I wanted to ask him to step a little bit away from me—but since we were now on a friendly basis I didn't want to risk offending him. I rejected each costume possibility until I reached the image of an angel.

I stared at it, amazed.

The costume was beautiful, and so was the man wearing it. He was dark, with curly dark hair. He had big full white wings and was wearing a skimpy pair of white square-cut swim trunks. A golden halo rested on his hair.

I sighed. “That's absolutely lovely, but I could never wear anything quite so revealing.”

“But why not, sir?” Carson asked, his eyebrows going up. “I think you would look rather appealing in this costume.”

“Thank you, but I don't have the kind of build that someone would need to wear this costume,” I replied with a little laugh. “I mean, look at his body, Carson. There's no fat on him anywhere. And that muscle tone!” I shook my head. “No, I'm soft and have no muscles. People would laugh at me if I dared wear something like that.”

“I think you're being too hard on yourself, sir,” he said slowly, conviction in his tone. “You're very slender, sir, if you don't mind my saying so, and there's still almost six full weeks before the ball. There's absolutely no reason why you couldn't get yourself into that kind of shape by then. Perhaps not this kind of shape,” he touched the clipping, “but you just need to put on a little bit of muscle and perhaps some definition, and you would be the sensation of the ball, sir.” He tapped his fingers against his chin. “In fact, there's a wonderful trainer you could hire—he's done wonders with his clients. He worked with Mr. Timothy whenever he had a photo shoot coming up—and I'm sure you've seen the results! His name is Brad Collins. You could work with him several times a week, and of course, he would work with Delia to come up with an eating plan for you, to maximize the effects of the exercise.” He snapped his fingers. “And all you'd need is to get a little sun—you could use the tanning bed in the exercise room; I can call them to come make sure it's working properly—it hasn't been used in over a year. Yes, you would definitely be the hit of the ball if you wore that costume.”

“Do you think so?” I asked dubiously. “I'd hate to have the costume made and then not look good enough to wear it.”

“You look good enough to wear it now, sir,” he insisted. “I really don't think it would be an issue. This is your debut, sir, and you really want to make a splash, don't you?”

I stared down at the picture and bit my lip. I remember the long board shorts I'd bought in Miami to wear on the beach to hide my body from everyone else. I remembered the shame and embarrassment of changing in the locker room for gym class in high school. I pictured myself coming down the grand staircase in that costume, with my halo draped over my hair, the enormous feathered wings attached to my back with a harness. I pictured the faces of everyone turning up to me as I paused for effect on the landing. I imagined the look of pride on Carlo's face as he introduced me to his friends as his spouse.

My excitement began growing. “Thank you, Carson. Can you get me the trainer's phone number so I can make an appointment?”

“I'll take care of it for you, sir.” He smiled, gathering up all the other clippings and shoving them back into the folder, leaving the angel image on my desk. “Leave it all to me.”

The door shut behind him, and I grabbed Minette's leash, which sent her into paroxysms of joy. “Did you hear that, Minette? I'm going to be the belle of the ball!”

I floated on a cloud of excitement and happiness the rest of the day. Even the fact that Carlo was leaving for a week the following morning wasn't enough to bring me down from it. There was no sign of Nell and her dogs next door, even though Minette and I stayed out for over an hour in the yard. The storm had done some damage—branches were down, and a lot of leaves had been stripped from the hedges. The pool was filled with debris and dirt and sand. I even took Minette out on the pier all the way to the end where the boathouse sat.

It was a glorious afternoon.

Joyce and Frank came over for dinner that evening, and I was very pleased to tell them I'd finally solved my costume dilemma.

“Oh, WHAT are you going to BE?” Joyce asked, her face alight with her curiosity, “Tell me, Mouse! I'm DYING here!”

“I'm not going to tell—you're just going to have to wait like everyone else,” I replied with a laugh. “It's a surprise—but I think everyone is going to love it.” I glanced over at Carlo, who winked at me.

“Oh, COME on!” she pleaded. “I can't WAIT until the ball to FIND out! I shall simply die of curiosity!”

“Now, now, Joyce, don't press him.” Carlo gave me an indulgent smile and a bit of a wink. “Isn't the whole point of a costume that it's a surprise? And if Mouse wants to surprise us, we should let him, don't you think?”

“Oh, all right,” Joyce said begrudgingly. She gave me a sly look. “But if you need some help with it—”

“Joyce!” Frank warned her, and she rolled her eyes.

And that apparently closed the subject.

The next morning I kissed Carlo good-bye just before he drove off for the airport. I stood on the front gallery and watched until the gate closed. “I won't be sad, I won't be sad,” I said to myself as I went back inside to have breakfast.

“Brad will be here at eleven, sir,” Carson said as I sat down with another cup of coffee in the dining room. “And I've taken the liberty of making an appointment for you in the city with the costume designer, for two o'clock tomorrow. I also,” he bowed his head, “took the liberty of arranging tickets for you to see that new musical everyone is talking about, Roberts can drive you in and drive you back the following morning. Is that all right with you, sir?”

“Why, thank you, Carson, that was very kind of you.” I smiled at him, genuinely touched. He was clearly trying to make up for his behavior. He gave me a smile, and bowed before walking out of the room.

I walked Minette after my coffee—the landscaping team was cleaning up the yard from the aftermath of the storm, and I wanted to make sure she was walked and back inside before they started running the mowers. She was absolutely terrified of the mowers—and after the days of thunderstorms I didn't want to traumatize her any further. I checked next door from the beach but there was no sign of Nell. I considered walking up and knocking on her back door, but finally decided it was better to not bother her. Obviously, her comment about Timothy being murdered had just been meant to rattle me—she wanted to see how I reacted—and so there was no point in bringing it up ever again. I hesitated when we walked past the studio—but decided ultimately to forget about it. Maybe when Carlo came back I'd talk to him about clearing out Timothy's things from there, so the little building could be put to some kind of use.

Of course, it was much easier to think about discussing Timothy with Carlo when he was out of town.

Brad Collins arrived promptly at eleven, and he looked vaguely familiar to me. He was wearing a string tank top that exposed enormous muscles, and his legs were like tree trunks. He was fair-skinned with curly auburn hair and startlingly light blue eyes, and he had more freckles than anyone I'd ever seen. He gripped my hand tightly when I introduced myself, and veins popped out in his forearms as he shook my hand.

“Thank you for squeezing me into your schedule,” I said as we walked down the hallway to the workout room. “I need to get in better shape for the Independence Ball—my costume is going to be a little bit daring. But you need to know I am terribly uncoordinated, and I've never lifted a weight in my life.”

He grinned, showing big strong even white teeth, and two dimples sank into his cheeks. His smile was exceptional—his entire face lit up when he smiled. “Not to worry—it's much easier to put on weight than it is to lose it in six weeks.”

I opened the door to the exercise room, which I'd only peeked my head inside of once. Like all the other rooms in the main section of the house, there were enormous windows with an extraordinary view of the ocean and the backyard. The room was a fully equipped gym—we'd done a photo shoot for
Street Talk
at one of the most popular gyms in Manhattan once, and there wasn't anything that health club had that wasn't in the Spindrift exercise room. There were a couple of treadmills, elliptical machines, and stationary bicycles lined up against one wall. Every wall was covered with mirrors, and there were full sets of weights and dumbbells. There was every conceivable kind of bench, as well as squat racks.