Willow (12 page)

I looked at this man and then at his friend again. What audacity!
"I'm usually not mistaken," he insisted when
I
didn't reply quickly enough for him.
"Well, you're not in a courtroom now," I said as sharply as
I
could. "And you are mistaken."
The humor and warmth in his eyes popped like a bubble, and those blues took on the steely, cold glint of someone who had been reprimanded. The speed with which he changed expression actually quickened my heartbeat.
"I didn't mean to be intrusive." he said, pulling back. "I'm sorry,"
He turned quickly and returned to his table. His associate asked him something, but he shook his head and put his credit card on the bill.
I
tried not to look at them. but I was so self-conscious now. I signaled the waiter for my bill, signed it, and actually left before they paid theirs.
I was outside waiting for my car moments later. Out of the corner of my eye.
I
saw them approaching, but they didn't have to wait for their vehicle. They got into the gold Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible that had been parked nearby, glittering like a jeweled chariot in the sun. That, plus the self-satisfied grin on their faces, infuriated me as they drove off.
Minutes later. I got into my rental car and started for my mother's family property, hoping that whatever turmoil that arrogant young man had discerned in my face would not be as visible to anyone else I was about to meet.
Dr. Anderson's receptionist had scribbled some quick directions for me on the same slip of paper. Perusing the map the car rental agency had given me.
I
was able to find my way easily to South Ocean Boulevard. The majestic properties, walled estates well hidden by the sixty-foot-high hedges, reinforced what I had read in the Palm Beach magazine in my hotel room. These were homes built to be monuments to pleasure and privacy.
When I reached Jaya del Mar. I was no less impressed.
I
pulled up to the walled gates which looked as if they locked away their inhabitants from the outside world forever. For a moment. I puzzled over how anyone announced his or her arrival.
I
saw a television camera in the top corner of the gate, but what was I supposed to do, wait here until someone looked at a monitor and saw I had pulled into the drive? Finally.
I
spotted what looked like a call box almost completely obscured by a pink bougainvillea bush.
I
had to get out to press the button. After a moment. I heard a man in a very irritable voice say, "Yes?"
"My name is Isabel Amou," I said. "Dr. Anderson was supposed to call to..."
"Yes, yes,"
I
heard, in the same tone of impatience.
The entry groaned and started to part.
I
hurried back to my vehicle and watched the gates slowly open as if they were doing so reluctantly, against their better judgment. When they had parted and I was able to look into the estate,
I
truly thought I was entering the closest to heaven on earth man could create.
The mauve driveway looked as though it were swept and scrubbed after each and every car drove over it. It continued for what looked like a good third of a mile toward the Mediterranean-style pearl-white mansion that loomed against an azure sky. Against the walls of the grounds to my right and left, oleander bushes close to twenty feet high bloomed in salmon pink, red, and white blossoms, a startling sea of color. The grass over the grounds was more like fine green carpet, trimmed and cut so perfectly that one would think it was maintained by a small army of gardeners on their luiees, each armed with a pair of scissors.
On my right was a very large pond with a fountain jetting over some smooth boulders. An egret was perched to the side of one of the boulders, standing on one leg, so still I thought at first it was a statue. Then it moved, and I smiled to myself.
Closer to the house, the royal coconut palm trees stood like sentinels lining the circular entry drive. In addition to the main building, the house spread over four pavilion-like structures punctuated by graceful arches. The entrance was under a loggia or arcade made of cast stone.
I
could see the ocean behind the house and another building down toward the beach.
My heart was thumping so hard. I had to sit quietly for a few moments before attempting to turn off the engine and get out of the car. I was here under false pretenses. What if these people saw right through me and asked me to leave? What if they made a biz
^,
scene? Not only wouldn't I have met my real mother. but I would have embarrassed her without having met her and without her knowing I was here. I felt as if
I
were caught in some hurricane of my own making, spinning from one mistake to another. Once again.
I
thought
I
should turn right around and go home before it was too late and I was swimming in a pool of dark regret.
A knock on the passenger-side window caused me to jump and cry out in surprise because
I
was so deep in my own thoughts. A plump, short man with hair like Harpo Marx peered in at me, his chubbyfingered right hand shading his eyes. His nose widened with the lifting of his lips, so pink I thought he might be wearing lipstick.
He wore a tuxedo jacket and a bow tie. He gestured for me to roll down the window. I turned on the key and pressed the button for it.
"Thank you." he said, and wiped his forehead with the back of his right hand. "I'm sorry, but you must come in now if you're coming in. Mr. and Mrs. Eaton want to go to bed."
"Pardon me?"
"You are this Isabel Amou, are you not?"
"Yes," I said.
"Well, either get out and come in, or please drive away," he said in a voice wrapped in
intolerance. He turned and started back toward the front entrance. He had a squat body and waddled like a duck, his wide hips swinging the tails of his tuxedo jacket as he moved along.
I
got out and followed him. At the door, he turned, pressed his lips tightly, and nodded to indicate
I
should continue into the house. I paused in the large entryway. On the right was hung a tremendous tapestry depicting lords and ladies adoring Bacchus. the Greek-Roman god of wine. It looked like an authentic piece of fifteenth-century art, faded and distressed with time.
"This way," he said, gesturing to his right to direct me over the marble floors. Along the hallway were hung gold-leaf family crests. I wondered if they belonged to my mother's family or the tenant's.
Just ahead of us.
I
heard a loud female peal of laughter and then a man's voice saying, "She said that? How ticky-tacky."
My eyes were everywhere, nibbling at the grand art, the statuary, the frescoes, the marble-topped tables holding large Lladro and Lalique figurines. the Bristol crystal chandeliers, and the wall sconces with cherubs seemingly growing out of them. We passed two lavish Dresden urns and entered a sitting room with a coffered ceiling and more tapestries, frescoes, and paintings. Every bit of available floor and wall space was occupied with some valuable work of art.
Before me stood a large convex fireplace covered with a mosaic of colorful shards of tile. For a moment. I was so taken with everything in the house I didn't notice the couple sprawled on the circular sofa. At their feet was an oversized marble table holding two bottles of champagne in ice buckets and what looked like a silver tray of beluga caviar on crackers.
The man sat up. He wore an elegantly styled light gray tuxedo with dark gray pinstripes, gray satin lapels, and a round diamond where a bow tie ordinarily would be. He was a handsome man of about fifty. I thought, with streaks of gray at his temples, but none running through his wavy, thick sable hair. His lightly tanned face was still dark enough to contrast with and highlight his hazel eyes. Despite his narrow, lean face, there was a hint of an oncoming, not to be denied, double chin. He was not stout, but he was a good ten to fifteen pounds overweight. A smile of curiosity and some impishness formed first around his eyes and then softened his lips.
"Well, hello there," he said, "Welcome to Joya del Mar." The woman beside him cackled. She was still somewhat slouched. She wore a light mauve silk crepe gown with spaghetti straps and a slit to her thigh that revealed a trim, attractive left leg. Off-white iridescent sequins and pearl flowers were sewn on the bodice of her dress. She had her shoes kicked off and stared at me with a silly grin on her face.
I
thought she was a woman in her mid- to late forties who had held onto a youthful look, perhaps with the help of a cosmetic surgeon's magic wand. She had her long brown hair streaked vermilion and swept back from her face, a face with kitten features: small button nose, soft, pretty mouth, and cerulean eves. A small dimple flashed in her left cheek.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't know you were on your way someplace. Perhaps I could come back at another time and..."
They both laughed.
"On our way? Hardly." he said. "We've just come home."
"Oh."
"We were at the charity ball at Mar-a-Lago. You must have just arrived in Palm Beach if you didn't know that was being held last night."
"And this morning." his wife added. They both laughed again,
"Yes, it did go well into the morning. As you see, we're having a little breakfast," he added, nodding at the tray of caviar and the champagne.
"Asher, perhaps you should introduce us," his wife suggested, "and offer the young lady a glass of shampoo."
"Champagne," Asher said. "I'm Asher Eaton, and this foolish woman beside me is my wife, I
^-
lope."
"Oh, please call me Bunny," she said, finally sitting up.
I smiled. "I'm Isabel Amou."
"Yes, we know. We received Dr. Anderson's call just as you walked in."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to burst in on you like this."
"It's all right. For ten minutes or so," Asher Eaton said. "After that, we must, like vampires, go to bed, I'm afraid. A bit too much of everything last night."
"And this morning," Bunny reminded him.
"And this morning. So, how about some champagne?" he asked, tipping the bottle toward a glass.
"No, thank you. It's still early for me," I said. "Have a seat, please," he offered, holding his hand toward the settee across from them. "Are you a reporter or a writer?" he asked as soon as I sat.
"Oh, no. no. I'm still a college student," I said.
They stared a moment and then glanced at each other.
"Oh, we thought Dr. Anderson had said you were writing about Palm Beach society."
"I am, but it's a college project, a sociological study," I explained.
Mrs. Eaton's excitement deflated from her face like air out of a balloon. She sank back into her slouch, "I was wondering why you didn't bring a camera," she said. "Last Friday, we were featured in the
Shiny Sheet
," she added with pride.
I shook my head. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with it."
"Of course you are It's the
Palm Beach Daily News.
We just call it that because of the paper it's printed on." she said, almost snapping at me.
"Oh. Yes. Why were you featured?"
"We had an affair here," she said, shaking her head. "The event to raise funds for battered women. We raised two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars, Really, I'm not quite sure why you've chosen us for your... what did you call it, study of Palm Beach society?"
"Why don't you give her a chance to explain it all, Bunny?"
"Fine." she said with a bit of a pout. Then her eyebrows rose, and her eyes widened. "It wasn't Dr. Anderson who recommended us, was it? I've never been in therapy, and neither has Asher, nor has either of our children. I mean, just because we've rented the property from Grace Montgomery... it would be like guilt by association, wouldn't it. Asher?"
"You're not giving the girl a chance," he repeated, and ate some caviar on a cracker.
"Who's Grace Montgomery'?" I asked as casually as I could.
"Our landlord," Asher Eaton replied, and smiled at his wife. She widened her smile. "It's a mutually beneficial arrangement," he continued.
"I'll say,," Bunny said. "If it weren't for us, she'd be living in Boca or, worse yet, Delray Beach in one of those retirement communities. You know," she continued, sitting up with some energy, "Florida is not, contrary to what everyone thinks. God's waiting room. There are people living here who are still very young and vigorous, and our social life compares with the social life anywhere. including Monte Carlo. Why, half my friends spend their summers in Monte Carlo.'
"You're doing it again, Bunny," Asher said after sipping from his glass of champagne. "You're not giving the girl a chance to say anything, to explain."
"I'm tired," she moaned. "I didn't realize how tired I was."
"Perhaps
I
could speak with Mrs.
Montgomery." I suggested. "Do you know where she is living?"
The two of them seemed to freeze for a moment. Then Bunny burst into laughter. "Where she's living? Why, dear, she's living in what was once the help's quarters down by the beach. Where else could she be living? We should be charging her rent." she told Asher.
"We've got a pretty good arrangement here. Bunny. You know that."
"I know, but it's still a bit of an embarrassment from time to time, especially when
I
have an outdoor party and worry that either she or that depressing son of hers will somehow come in contact with my guests." she said.
"Son?"
I
remembered reading in the folder that she had been pregnant by her stepfather. but I wanted them to think I knew absolutely nothing about the
Montgomery family.
"Yes," Bunny said, "She had a son with her stepfather, Kirby Scott. That's the truth, no matter what fiction she might tell you or anyone else, for that matter."
"What sort of fiction?" I asked.
"That Linden, that's her son, was really her mother's, Jackie Lee Houston Montgomery's, child." Asher said.
"Yes, poor dear Jackie Lee. She was childless with Winston, of course. The man was twenty-five years her senior, but a woman with a sixteen-year-old daughter from a previous marriage didn't have all that much choice, and besides, he was old money, one of the core families. Her first husband was a naval officer. Roland Houston. When he was killed in a helicopter accident, she came to Palm Beach with her daughter to start over, and even though Winston was twenty-five years older. he..."