“Thank you,” she whispered, finding that she believed it to be true. She was a long way from home, and in the company of a boy she barely knew, and yet she felt curiously more like herself with every passing second. But she couldn‧t find the words to express that to Thom, and so instead she asked, “What is all this?” as the wind whipped her skirt against her bare legs.
“Right now it‧s just a lot of metal.” He paused to light a cigarette, which was not so easy up there. “But someday it‧s going to be a skyscraper, the tallest one in the world. It‧s Mr. Chrysler‧s project.”
“Mr. Chrysler who makes cars?”
“Yup.” Thom exhaled. “It‧s only thirty or so stories now, but they say it‧s going to be more than seventy by the time it‧s done.”
Cordelia whistled, picturing the tallest building in Union. The dreariness of the place she was from came back to her for a moment, and before she could help it, she heard herself say, “You can‧t imagine how different my life was a week ago—and Darius … my father … has been so good to me.”
“I suppose he has,” Thom replied quietly.
She turned her face away, showing him her profile and focusing her gaze toward the faraway tip of the island. With all the courage of that panorama, she continued: “But I didn‧t come all this way just to follow another set of rules. That‧s what I came to get away from.”
“We‧ll find a way.” After that he looked into her eyes a long time.
Nothing more needed to be said, and when their time was up, he took her hand to lead her back. They were more careful on their return trip, and though earlier Cordelia had hoped for dancing, it was she who‧d suggested they not go anywhere they might be recognized. They spent a few hours sitting in his car by the side of a country road, and she told him all about her childhood and how she‧d come to decide to run away to the city. She‧d trimmed any mention of John from her stories, of course; perhaps she‧d tell him someday, though the image of him from the train had been too private even to share with Letty.
“You‧d better get me home,” she said, lifting her head off his chest when she saw that the sky was getting lighter.
He nodded sadly.
At the pier, she kissed him good night, but neither of them had had enough, and he insisted on walking her all the way home. This didn‧t seem like a good idea, and she furrowed her brow, but she couldn‧t stand the thought of parting yet, either. After a minute of pretending to decide what to do, she showed him the trapdoor, and then he escorted her all the long way through the dark tunnel so that he could really kiss her good-bye, one final time, beneath the library at Dogwood and three floors of sleeping members of the Grey family bootlegging concern.
Their lips parted, and he stepped back.
“I‧ll figure out a way to see you soon,” he said and turned.
She watched as he began walking back down the tunnel. Then she remembered what it was to miss him, how it hurt her like a physical ailment. “Thom!” she gasped.
When he paused, her heart leapt. It was so quiet down there that she could hear both of them breathing.
“I‧ve told you all about my silly childhood, and you‧ve told me nothing of yours …”
Then he twisted, and even in the darkness she could see the perfect white teeth that his smile revealed. “I guess I haven‧t.”
“Well, then the night can‧t be over yet,” she whispered.
As they tiptoed up the servants’ stairs, her brain began to whir with the implications. But somehow—despite the men all over the house who slept with guns under their pillows—what they were doing didn‧t feel wrong. They simply had too much more to say to each other.
By the time they had made sure the door was locked, and she had hung her red silk dress up to prevent wrinkles, it was very late indeed. When she lay down in her slip beside Thom, her thoughts grew blurry. Contentment spread through her bones, and just before she fell asleep, his lips brushed gently across hers. Tomorrow he would tell her all the places he‧d been and all his secrets and who he really was inside. But for now it was enough that she fit so nicely in his arms.
20
“DON‧T TAKE IT HARD ABOUT LUKE, DARLING.”
Astrid, who had practically forgotten Luke since she‧d last seen him at the White Cove Country Club, lowered the glossy pages of her magazine and peered at her mother, who was unfortunately up earlier than was customary for Mrs. Marsh. A moment ago, Astrid had been happily ensconced under the pale pink bedding of her low, wide bed. Now her mother had joined her, propped against the half moon-shaped, polished oak headboard. The third Mrs. Marsh had washed off the effects of whatever she had done the previous evening, and she was now dressed in an ivory kimono and her hair was drawn back in a simple, flattering bun. She had once been a beauty—so everyone said—and her daughter despised moments when she caught a glimpse of this truth.
“Darling,” Astrid replied as she slowly turned a page, “I never take anything hard.”
“No …” Virginia paused, and her dark eyes roved the room. “I never used to, either.”
Astrid had lived in many fine houses, and her quarters in Marsh Hall were neither the best nor the worst that she had occupied. The walls were painted a lovely glacial shade, the ceiling was coved and cream colored, and the furniture was simple and handsome, with either polished marquetry finish or pale pink upholstery. The décor was perhaps a little serious for a girl who so appreciated fun, and was not nearly as fine as the suite sometimes occupied by Billie, who was after all a Marsh by blood. But Astrid had long ago come to view a residence as a very temporary factor in a girl‧s life, and regarded this particular space with no greater or lesser importance than she would have any other dressing room.
“Never taking anything too hard is a luxury of youth,” her mother went on, pushing herself up on one arm.
“Don‧t be melodramatic!” Astrid tossed her magazine aside and, picking up the oval mirror on the bedside table, began rearranging the hair that crossed her forehead. She found her reflection very pretty just then, and didn‧t want anything spoiling the joy of that. “I suppose you heard the Greys are having another party tonight, and wanted to see if I could get you an invitation …”
“There are so many parties tonight, I couldn‧t possibly even if they did invite me.” Virginia drew her fingers across the bedspread and then began to fuss with its threads aggressively, the way a child might. “Anyway, that isn‧t what I meant at all … it‧s only—how is it between you and Charlie these days?”
“Oh, very well, I suppose.” Astrid put away the mirror and met her mother‧s eyes.
“Very well?”
“Yes.” Astrid watched as her mother‧s large green irises rolled toward her hands and back to meet her daughter‧s. She tried to keep her gaze steady and to show no signs of weakness, for she couldn‧t stand the idea of her mother knowing that she suspected Charlie of cheating.
“It seems to me you haven‧t seen Charlie lately quite so much as you usually do. And—he couldn‧t have liked the way you were looking at Luke the other day.”
“You may be right.” Astrid gave a delicate little shrug. “But he doesn‧t know about that, does he?”
Now it was the mother‧s turn to sigh; she pushed herself up and walked across the plush carpet, pausing in such a way that both women could see themselves in the polished oak standing mirror. They had the same eyes, but Astrid shuddered at the comparison.
“All I am saying, my dear, is do be sweet with Charlie … He‧s quite a catch for you.”
“Well, I should think I am quite a catch for him.” Astrid threw back the covers, stood up, and wrapped herself in a pink silk robe. “Anyway, I am always sweet with everybody.”
“Well, don‧t be sweet with other boys, or—”
“I wonder that you care,” Astrid interrupted aridly. She walked across the sunken main part of the room and rested her hand against the doorknob to the bathroom. “You never used to care who was courting me.”
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Her mother stepped to the window and glanced down. Behind her the grounds stretched out, dense and leafy, and for a brief moment, Astrid appreciated the striking profile that had made her mother famous as a debutante.
“Of course I did,” she answered carefully. “Only, it matters more now. You see, things are not very good between Harrison and me at present … You know, of course, the difficulties of unmarried women with expensive taste … and the Greys do do very well.”
“Oh!” Astrid rolled her eyes and flipped her short hair. Things were never very good with Mother and any of her husbands, and she scoffed at the notion that she should now be responsible for their keep. “You can‧t be serious.”
The older woman gave a heavy sigh and turned to look at her daughter. There was something sad, even serious, in her face, and Astrid, who had woken with the conviction that she would allow nothing weighty and melancholy into her day, glanced away before striding into the next room and drawing a very hot, fragrant bath.
But the steaming water only proved to make things worse—as she sank into the vast marble tub, thoughts of her embarrassing mother and the boyfriend whom she could never bend to her will steeped along with the rest of her. And so when she returned to her bedroom, damp and with her blood at a boil, she decided that she couldn‧t stand the idea of lunching with her mother, and instead dressed for an afternoon at the White Cove Country Club.
“Hey there.” Astrid, wearing beige jodhpurs, knee-high black boots, and a starched white shirt, leaned girlishly against the white fence and waited. In a few seconds, Luke turned around to look at her. He tried not to smile, but failed. Then he gave the reins in his hand a gentle tug and came walking toward her in the bright sunlight, with his tall, handsome horse close behind. The club was over her shoulder, and the fine ladies lunching there were too far away to be heard, or to hear.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his black hair falling forward over his sparkly eyes.
“Don‧t worry, I don‧t have any messages from my mother.”
Luke averted his gaze.
“I have a present for your friend.” Astrid smiled and produced a shiny red apple. The roan horse ambled forward, splashing mud. When Astrid offered her the treat, the animal quickly bent to take it.
“Thank you,” Luke said. He had been trying to look at his shoes, but now his gaze returned, fixedly and with some yearning, to Astrid‧s face. “But you‧ll spoil her.”
“That‧s exactly the point.” Astrid winked and leaned more heavily on the fence. She could smell the sweat on the horse‧s coat and the grass behind her, but she wanted to be close enough to smell Luke. “All girls should be spoiled.”
“But you‧re not,” he replied, his voice becoming tentative and intimate.
Astrid shielded her eyes from the sun, which had just emerged from behind a cloud. “Of course I am! And I suspect you rather like me that way.”
“Miss Donal—” he began, trying to sound serious.
“Oh, don‧t worry, darling. I am not here to make things complicated for you. Only … I had hoped you would give me a riding lesson.”
“Yes,” he answered, too quickly. The eagerness in his tone could only have been more satisfying to her if her mother was on hand to witness it. A flush overcame his cheeks, and his mouth struggled between a smile and a frown. “Only, I can‧t today.”
“Tomorrow?”
After a minute, he gave a shy, sweet nod. “You wear the riding clothes well, miss,” he added.
For a moment they stood silently watching each other. She liked the way his face was transformed by happiness, and it was almost worth coming here for that alone, and not just because flirting with him was excellent vengeance on her mother and Charlie. Then, before she could help it, her thoughts had turned toward Charlie, and the despicable earring—and she decided that she wanted a trophy, too. She stepped forward, and placed her fingers on the back of his neck. Their faces were so close that for a moment there was the suggestion of a kiss. Instead she unknotted the bandana he wore around his neck. It was white and green, the club‧s colors, and his name was embroidered in the corner. Holding his gaze, she stepped back and tied it jauntily just over her collar.
“Better now, isn‧t it?” she asked, her mouth twisting into a mercurial grin.
Before he could answer, she twirled and walked back toward the club, slowly enough that he could admire her walk for a good while. At the luncheon room, she found two other of Miss Porter‧s girls and sat with them for an hour or so, picking at a Waldorf salad, saying little, and feeling tremendously gratified. By the time she walked back into the cool foyer of Marsh Hall, her mood was entirely improved. She had put her mother‧s shaming gloominess, and her own fears about Charlie, out of her mind, and she undid the bandana as she crossed toward the stairs. When she passed her mother‧s suite, she dropped her trophy in front of the door, just to let the old lady wonder.
But perhaps that sensation of lightness was something ineffable and wonderful in the air, for at just that moment, in another corner of White Cove, her friend Cordelia was waking up, taking in slow, sweet breaths, and feeling equally invigorated. There was still an imprint in the bed where Thom had slept, and her slip was clinging to her skin with a delicate sweat. Her body felt well rested and warm, and when she put her fingers lightly against the skin of her face, she realized she was already smiling.
“Thom,” she whispered aloud, just to experience the shivers the sound of his name always caused, before throwing back the covers, wrapping a robe around her shoulders, and crossing toward the balcony.
The sun was already high in the sky, and down below, the lawn was abuzz with activity. It did not occur to her that she should have been afraid of her nighttime activities being discovered, or worried about whether Thom had been able to sneak out of the house unnoticed, until after she saw her father. But by that time, Darius was walking in her direction—wearing light blue slacks and a matching waistcoat—his arm raised in greeting and his face smiling.
“Cord, my darling dear!” he called from three stories below, in a tone that left no doubt about the fact that she had gotten away with having Thom sleep in her bed, and that all was well at Dogwood.
“Good morning, Daddy!” she called, waving happily.
“You and Charlie have been so good, I thought I‧d bring a party to you tonight,” he went on, his voice raised so that she could hear him over the hubbub. He gestured to the caterers, bearing crates of lemons and limes and seltzers and other things necessary for a gay time. Lights were being strung along the perimeter of the white tent, and musicians were hauling their instruments across a great stretch of grass. “But in the meantime, get dressed—I want us to have a family lunch on the south verandah.”
“All right!” Cordelia turned and tried to forget the exquisite lightness with which Thom had held her. She stuffed her hands into her pockets, as though that would make it easier to act as though nothing in particular had occurred during the night. But as her fingers thrust into the linen robe, she felt a scrap of paper, and by the time she had unfolded it, she knew it was from Thom.
I didn‧t think it was wise for me to sleep, and slipped out before anyone else was awake. But I can‧t stand
another day without seeing you. Meet me on the dock, whenever you can get away? I will be waiting.
Cordelia bit her lip and wondered how she was going to be able to stand the hours between now and when she next saw him. Her blood had begun to move very rapidly, and it seemed to her that every second when she wasn‧t looking into Thom‧s eyes was going to be its own unique form of torture. She crossed to her dressing room and removed a cigarette from the pack that was lying on the top of the vanity table. They were Lucky Strikes—she had acquired them on one of her nights out, when she was still allowed to leave the house, and she was glad of them now, because the measured inhalations of smoke did bring a little calm. Then she held the lit match to the scrap of paper from Thom, dropped it into the sil
ver ashtray, and watched his words disappear in the flames.
When the cigarette was done, she dressed herself in a nude tunic, belting it with a black sash the way Astrid would have done, low on the hips. As she arranged her hair around her face, it occurred to her that a party was the perfect cover—after all, there would be so many people that she would not be easily missed, and the last time there was a fete on the grounds, her father had absented himself rather early. Just when the evening was really getting going, she would tell Milly that she needed a few hours of quiet and privacy, and then she could make her way through the tunnel, to him. She envisioned him waiting for her—crisp suit, dry smile—as she made her way down the main staircase and through the empty ballroom.
“The situation is not good,” she heard her father saying as she approached the French doors that led onto the verandah.
“In fact, it‧s bad,” Jones replied. Through the filmy white curtains, she could see the two men sitting at a round table that had been set for lunch. Charlie was standing a little ways in front of them, leaning against a stone column and staring out across the vast property. It was hard to imagine anything bad, surrounded by that quiet and lush summer landscape.
“I never trusted Duluth.”
“Well—you did, once.”
“I never should have.” Her father sighed heavily and cursed, and then she realized that he was truly worried. With a useless little twist in her stomach, she wished there was something she could do to help. “That man has no scruples,” he went on.
“None,” Jones agreed.
“I‧m worried he might—” But Darius broke off when he realized that Cordelia was standing there. He pushed back his chair and smiled, although it was a rather labored expression, and reached out to guide her to her place at the table. “Welcome, my dear. You look lovely.”
“Thank you.” She smoothed her skirt as she sat.
“Jones,” Darius said, “we‧ll finish this discussion after lunch. But see that we have all the men on duty tonight.”