“Ever since that day you found me in the gazebo, that first day we met, I’ve felt protected by you,” I replied, and I meant every word.
Again he tried to smile, but without much success. After a brief moment, he said, “You must always come to me, whatever the problem. I won’t let you down, I promise.” A small sigh escaped him, and he said, almost to himself, “You were such a lovely child. You touched my heart.”
And now he was dead, and no longer there to protect me, and my life would be that much poorer without him. I pushed my face into the pillow and it was a long time before I could stem the tears.
I must have eventually fallen asleep, for when I awakened with a start sunlight was streaming in through the many windows. Last night I had forgotten to draw the curtains and a new day had dawned. I could hear the chirping of the birds outside, and far away, in the distance, the cawk cawk of the Canada geese circling the lake.
I eyed the clock on the bedside table, saw that it was almost seven, and slid down into the bed, luxuriating for a few moments longer in the comfort and warmth. And then reality thrust itself into my consciousness, and with a rush of sudden intense pain I remembered the events of yesterday.
Sebastian was dead. I would never see him again.
I held myself still, breathing deeply, thinking about him, recalling so much about him, so many little things. We had been divorced for eight years, and I hadn’t seen all that much of him in the last three. But before then he had been such an important and integral part of my life for over twenty-one years. Twenty-one. An auspicious number to me. I had been twenty-one years old when Sebastian had first made love to me.
His image was so very clear in my mind at this moment. I saw him exactly as he was that year, 1979. I was twenty-one. He was forty-one. Twenty years older than I, but he never seemed it, not ever.
Closing my eyes, I pictured him walking into the library downstairs. It was the night of my twenty-first birthday. Sebastian had thrown a fantastic party for me at Laurel Creek Farm, held in two flower-decked marquees in the garden. The food had been delicious, the wine superb, the band the best, imported for the occasion from Manhattan. It had been a glorious evening. Until Luciana had ruined it. She had been so nasty to me toward the end of the evening I had been taken by surprise, thrown off balance, and horrified by the mean and hateful things she had said to me. Stunned and hurt, I had fled. I had come home to Ridgehill. . .
Tires screeched, slowed to a stop on the gravel. A car door banged ferociously.
A split-second later Sebastian stormed into the library, his body taut, his face white.
Forlornly, I stood by the French windows leading out to the garden. My handkerchief was screwed into a damp ball in my hand; tears were still close to the surface.
I had never seen him looking so furious before, and as I stared at him I realized he was terribly upset.
He stared back at me, and his eyes were chips of blue ice in his drawn face. “Why did you run away like that? Like a frightened colt?” he demanded in a stern voice. Then he crossed the room in a few long strides and drew to a standstill in front of me, stood looking down at me.
I was silent.
“Why?” he demanded again.
“I can’t tell you.”
“You can tell me anything, and you know it! You’ve been confiding in me since you were a little girl,” he said, his anger still apparent but under tight control.
“I just can’t. Not about this.”
“Why not?”
I continued to gape at him stupidly. Then I shook my head emphatically. “I can’t.”
“Come along,” he exclaimed in a warmer, more cajoling tone. “We’ve always been such good friends, you and I. Real pals. Vivienne, please tell me what happened, what made you bolt.”
When I said nothing, he went on swiftly, “It was Luciana, wasn’t it? She upset you.”
I nodded, but still I did not open my mouth.
“She hurt you . . . she said something . . . contemptible. Didn’t she?”
“How do you know?”
“I know my daughter only too well,” he snapped. “Tell me what she said.”
“Sebastian, I can’t. I’m not a snitch.”
He scrutinized me a little more intently, and nodded to himself. “Integrity’s bred in the bone, especially in your bones. Do you know, Vivienne, you’re the most honorable person I’ve ever met, and whilst I understand your reluctance to tell tales out of school, I do think you ought to confide in me. After all, the party was very special . . . to us both. Certainly giving it for you meant a great deal to me, and I was startled when you ran off the way you did, looking so upset. In all fairness, I think you should tell me exactly what happened.”
He was right, of course he was. Taking a deep breath, I plunged: “She said I was a problem to you. A nuisance. That you wanted to be rid of me. She said you resented me, resented having to look after me, having to pay my tuition at Wellesley. She said I was a charity case, a nobody, just the brat of one of your—” I stopped short, unable to continue, and swallowed hard.
“Go on,” he commanded in a clipped, rather brusque tone.
“Luciana . . . She said I was just the brat of . . . of one of your whores,” I whispered.
His mouth tightened in anger, and I waited for him to explode. But he did not. He merely shook his head, looking dismayed, and muttered in a tight voice, “She’s a liar, my daughter. There are times, Vivienne, when I believe she’s the cleverest liar I’ve ever known. A better liar than Cyrus, and that’s saying something. But she’s very often foolhardy, stupid in the lies she tells. As she has been tonight. Yes, Luciana is a little fool.”
“I’m not a nuisance to you, am I?” I whispered.
“Of course not! Surely you must know that by now. Haven’t I proved to you that I care about you, care about your well-being? And what about your party? I wanted to give it for you, and I enjoyed doing so.”
I nodded. I could not say a word. It wasn’t that I was tongue-tied. Rather, I was mortified and angry with myself. I realized how ridiculous I must look to him, how untrusting of him I must appear. He had never let me down, and I knew him to be a scrupulous man, a man of his word. Naturally he didn’t resent me. Nor did it matter to him what my school fees cost, or my clothes and my upkeep. Money had never mattered to him. He had so much of it, he was almost contemptuous of it. Or so it seemed to me. Certainly he gave a great deal of it away. I had been an idiot, listening to Luciana. She had driven me away because she was jealous of me and my relationship with her father. All of a sudden I thought of her jealousy when we were children. She had manipulated me tonight; worst of all, I had allowed that manipulation.
He put his hand under my chin and lifted my face to his. “Tears, Vivienne? Oh dear, what a sad ending to such a beautiful evening.”
“I’m sorry, Sebastian,” I answered, sounding choked. “I’m so very sorry.”
Wiping my damp cheeks with his hand, he murmured, “Hush, darling, hush, there’s nothing to be sorry about.”
“I shouldn’t have listened to her.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” he agreed. “And remember, don’t pay attention to a thing she says in the future. Or anything Jack says, for that matter. He’s not quite as bad as she is, and he’s not a liar, but he can be devious.”
“I won’t listen to either of them,” I promised. I took a step forward, looked up into those bright blue eyes which were so carefully regarding me. My own expression was intense. “Please say it’s all right between us.”
His sudden wide smile made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Nothing will ever come between us, Vivienne. We’re far too close, and we always have been. We’re friends for life, you and I. There’s a very special bond there. Well, there is, isn’t there?”
I nodded. I couldn’t speak. I was overwhelmed by him, by the potency of his looks, his sexuality; and I was engulfed by my own erupting emotions. I wanted him to belong to me, I wanted to belong to h
im in the truest sense. I tried to say something but no words would come.
Looking momentarily puzzled, he gave me a questioning glance, his eyes narrowing as he said, “You’ve got the most peculiar expression on your face. What are you thinking?”
I took another step nearer, leaned into him, and kissed him on the cheek. Finally finding my voice, I said, “I was thinking how wonderful you are, and how wonderful you’ve always been to me. And I want to thank you for my birthday party. My very special party.”
“You’re very welcome,” he said.
Holding my head on one side, I gazed up into his face. “I’m twenty-one. I’m grown up.”
“You are indeed,” he said with a faintly amused smile.
“Sebastian?”
“Yes?”
“I’m a woman now.”
There must have been something unusual in my expression, or perhaps it was the inflection in my voice. But whatever it was, he stared back at me in the oddest way and for the longest moment, that puzzled look more pronounced. Unexpectedly, he took a step toward me, then he stopped abruptly.
We exchanged a long look, one so deep, so knowing, so full of longing, I felt my breath catch in my throat. Before I could stop myself, and almost against my own volition, I began to move forward, drawing closer to him.
It seemed to me that he watched every step I took, and then without uttering a word, Sebastian reached out for me. He pulled me into his arms with such fierceness, I was startled. And he held me so tightly I could scarcely breathe.
And everything changed. I changed. Sebastian changed. Our lives changed irrevocably. The past was demolished. Only the present remained. The present and the future. Our future together. We were meant to be, he and I. At least, so I believed. It had always been so. Our course had long been set. Somehow I knew this. Moving his head slightly, Sebastian bent down and kissed me. When he moved his tongue lightly against my lips, I parted them quite naturally. Our tongues touched. My legs felt weak and I held onto him tighter than ever for support, as he continued to kiss me in this most intimate manner. Without warning, he stopped, held me away from him almost roughly and looked down into my face.
Again our eyes locked. I knew he wanted me as much as I wanted him. He had already told me so without uttering a word. And yet I detected hesitation in him.
I took hold of his hand and led him upstairs. Once inside the room, he let go of my hand and moved away from me, hovered in the center of the floor. I felt, rather than observed, his uncertainty. After a moment, he said in a strangled voice, “I came to take you back to your birthday party . . .” His voice trailed off.
“No! I don’t want to go back. I want to be here. To be with you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, Sebastian.”
“Vivienne . . .”
We moved at the same time.
We were in each other’s arms, holding onto each other. Eventually we drew apart. He struggled out of his dinner jacket, threw it on a chair, undid his bow tie as he walked to the bedroom door. With one hand he locked it; with the other he began to remove the sapphire studs from his evening shirt, and his eyes never left my face as he walked back to me.
I opened my arms to him. He came into them swiftly, held me close to him. He undid my zipper and suddenly my evening dress was a pile of white lace at my feet. Drawing me toward the bed without a word, he pushed me down on it, lay next to me, took me in his arms once more. His mouth found mine. He caressed every part of me, his hands moving over me with such expertise I was soon fully aroused, spiralling into ecstasy. When he entered me a moment later, I gasped, cried out and he stopped, staring down at me. I assured him I was all right, urged him on, wrapping my arms around him. My hands were firm and strong on his broad back and I found his rhythm, moved with him, inflamed by his passion and my own urgent desire. And so we soared upward together, and as we reached the peak I cried out again, as did he.
We lay together silently. Sebastian’s breathing was labored and his body was damp. I went to the bathroom, found a towel, came back and rubbed him dry. He half smiled at me, pulled me to him, wrapped his long legs around my body, and rested against me, still without speaking. But there was no awkwardness in our silence, only eloquence, ease.
I let my fingers slide into his thick black hair; I ran my hands over his shoulders and his back. I kissed him as I wanted to kiss him. It was not long before we made love again and we did so without constraint.
Satiated and a little sore, we eventually lay still. After a while, Sebastian raised himself on one elbow, looked down at me. Moving a strand of hair, he said quietly, “If I’d known you were a virgin, I wouldn’t—”
I pressed my fingers against his lips. “Don’t say it.”
He shook his head. “It never occurred to me, Vivi, not in this day and age . . .” His sentence trickled away and he shook his head, a little helplessly, I thought.
I said, “I was saving myself.”
A dark brow lifted above those piercing blue eyes.
“For you,” I explained with a smug smile. “I saved myself for you, Sebastian. I’ve wanted you to make love to me for as long as I can remember.”
“Oh Vivi, and I never even guessed.”
I reached out, touched his face. “I love you, Sebastian Locke. I’ve always loved you. And I always will . . . all the days of my life.”
He bent down and kissed me softly on the lips, and then he put his arms around me, holding me close to him, keeping me safe.
The phone was screaming in my ear.
I roused myself from my half-dozing state and my memories instantly retreated. Reaching out, I lifted the receiver and mumbled, “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Jack said. “I’m coming over. With the newspapers.”
“Oh God, don’t tell me,” I groaned. “Lousy headlines, I’ve no doubt. And obituaries.”
“You got it, kid.”
“You’re going to be besieged by the press,” I muttered. “Perhaps you are better off coming here. Maybe you should bring Luciana with you, Jack.”
“She ain’t here, Viv. She’s skipped it, gone back to Manhattan.”
“I see,” I said and sat bolt upright. “Well, that’s not surprising.” Sliding my legs out of bed, I continued, “I’ll put coffee on. See you in about half an hour.”
“Make that twenty minutes,” he answered brusquely and hung up.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was quite obvious that Jack was in one of his peculiar moods. His face proclaimed it to me before he had walked even halfway across the kitchen.
“Good morning,” I said, carrying the coffeepot over to the table and putting it down. When I received merely a curious, gruntlike mumble from him, I added sharply, “So, we’re maungy this morning, are we?”
The use of this word caught his attention at once, and he glanced at me rapidly. “Maungy. What does that mean?”
“You’ve heard it before so don’t pretend you haven’t. It was a favorite of Gran’s. She often used to call you maungy when you were a snot-nosed little boy in short pants.”
Ignoring my acerbity, he said evenly, “I don’t remember,” and flopped into the nearest chair. “And I don’t know its meaning.”
“Then I’ll tell you,” I answered, leaning over the table, peering into his face. “It means peevish, bad tempered, or sulky, and it’s a Yorkshire word from the West Riding where my great-grandfather came from.” I paused, said in a lighter voice, “Surely you haven’t forgotten Gran’s marvelous stories about her father? She never failed to make us laugh.”
“George Spence. That was his name,” Jack said, and then grimaced. “I need a life-saving transfusion. Strong coffee. Immediately, sugar.” He reached for the pot, poured cups of coffee for both of us, and took a gulp of his.
“Jack, don’t start the day by calling me sugar. Please. And so that’s it, is it? You have a hangover.”
“A beaut. Hung one on. Last night. When I got back to the farm.”
His occasional bou
ts of drinking were nothing new and had worried me off and on, but I had stopped trying to reform him, nor did I chastise him anymore, since it was a futile waste of time. And so I refrained from commenting now. I simply sat down opposite him, eyeing the newspapers as I did. “How bad are they?”
“Not as bad as we expected. Quite laudatory, in fact. Not much muckraking. You’re mentioned. As one of his five wives. Front page stories. Obituaries inside.”
I pulled the newspapers toward me. Jack had brought the New York Post, the New York Times, and the Daily News, and as I spread them out in front of me I saw that they were more or less saying the same thing in their different ways. A great and good man had been found dead, circumstances suspicious. All three papers decried his death, sang his praises, mourned his passing. They carried photographs of Sebastian and they were all fairly recent ones, taken in the last couple of years. He looked wonderful—distinguished, handsome and loaded with glamour, dangerously so. But that had ceased to matter.
Skipping the Post and the News for the moment, I concentrated on the Times. The front page story by the reporter who had spoken to me on the phone yesterday was well written, careful in its details, cautious in its tone, and scrupulous in its accuracy. Furthermore, I was quoted verbatim and without one word I’d said being altered or paraphrased. So much for that. And certainly there was nothing sensationalized here.
I turned to the obituary section of the New York Times. A whole page was devoted to Sebastian Lyon Locke, scion of a great American dynasty, billionaire tycoon, head of Locke Industries, chairman of the Locke Foundation, and the world’s greatest philanthropist. There was a simplified version of his life story; every one of his good deeds was listed along with the charities he supported in America, and there was a fund of information about the charity work he did abroad, especially in Third World countries. It had obviously been written some years earlier, as most obituaries of famous people were, with the introduction and the last paragraph left open, to be added after the death of the particular individual had occurred.