Meredith slumped back against the wall. “I’m not as worried about this summer as I am about three months from now.”
Lisa knew she was referring to the battle she was having with her father over which college to attend. Several universities had offered Lisa full scholarships, and she’d chosen Northwestern University because Meredith was planning to go there. Meredith’s father, however, had insisted she apply to Maryville College, which was little more than an exclusive finishing school in a Chicago suburb. Meredith had compromised by applying to both, and she’d been accepted by both. Now she and her father were in a complete standoff on the issue. “Do you honestly think you’re going to be able to talk him out of sending you to Maryville?”
“I am not going there!”
“You know that and I know that, but your father is the one who has to agree to pay the tuition.”
Sighing, Meredith said, “He’ll give in. He’s impossibly overprotective of me, but he wants the best for me, he really does, and Northwestern’s business school is the best. A degree from Maryville isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.”
Lisa’s anger gave way to bafflement as she considered Philip Bancroft, a man she’d come to know and yet could not understand. “I realize he wants the best for you,” she said. “And I admit he’s not like most of the parents who send their kids to school here. At least he gives a damn about you. He calls you every week and he’s been here for every single major school event.” Lisa had been shocked their first year at Bensonhurst when she realized most of the other girls’ parents seemed to live wholly apart from their children, and that expensive gifts that arrived in the mail were usually a substitute for parental visits, phone calls, and letters. “Maybe I should talk to him privately and try to convince him to let you go to Northwestern.”
Meredith shot her a wry look. “What do you think that would accomplish?”
Bending over, Lisa gave a frustrated yank on her left sock and retied her shoe. “The same thing it accomplished the last time I stood up to him and took your side—he’d start thinking I’m a bad influence on you.” In order to prevent Philip from thinking exactly that, Lisa had, except once, treated Philip Bancroft like a beloved, respected benefactor who’d gotten her admitted to Bensonhurst. Around him she was the personification of deferential courtesy and feminine decorum, a role that was so opposite to her blunt, outspoken personality that it chafed on her terribly and usually made Meredith laugh.
At first Philip seemed to regard Lisa as some sort of foundling he’d sponsored and who was surprising him by acquitting herself well at Bensonhurst. As time passed, however, he showed in his own gruff, undemonstrative way that he was proud of her and perhaps felt a modicum of affection for her. Lisa’s parents couldn’t afford to come to Bensonhurst for any school functions, so Philip had assumed their role, taking her out to dinner when he took Meredith out, and generally showing an interest in her school activities. In the spring of the girls’ freshman year Philip had even gone so far as to have his secretary call Mrs. Pontini and ask if there was anything she wanted him to take to Lisa when he flew to Vermont for Parents’ Weekend. Mrs. Pontini had eagerly accepted his offer and arranged to meet him at the airport. There, she presented him with a white bakery box filled with cannoli and other Italian pastries, and a brown paper bag containing long, pungent rolls of salami. Irritated at having to board his flight looking—he later told Meredith—like a damned hobo boarding a Greyhound bus with his lunch in his arms, Philip nevertheless delivered his parcels into Lisa’s hands, and he continued to act as surrogate parent to her at Bensonhurst.
Last night, in honor of graduation, he presented Meredith with a rose topaz pendant on a heavy gold chain from Tiffany’s. To Lisa, he gave a much less expensive, but unquestionably lovely, gold bracelet with her initials and the date artfully engraved among the swirls on its surface. It, too, had been purchased at Tiffany’s.
In the beginning, Lisa had been completely uncertain of how to respond to him, for although he was unfailingly courteous to her, he was always aloof and undemonstrative—much as he behaved to Meredith. Later, upon weighing his actions and discarding his surface attitude, Lisa cheerfully announced to Meredith that she’d decided Philip was actually a soft-hearted teddy bear who was all bluff and no bite! That wholly erroneous conclusion led her to try to intercede for Meredith during the summer after their sophomore year. On that occasion Lisa had told Philip, very courteously and with her sweetest smile, that she truly thought Meredith deserved a little more freedom during the summer. Philip’s response to what he called Lisa’s “ingratitude” and “meddling” had been explosive, and only her abject and instantaneous apology prevented him from carrying out his threat to put an end to Meredith’s association with her and to suggest to Bensonhurst that her scholarship there be given to someone “more deserving.” The confrontation had left Lisa staggered by more than just his incredibly volatile reaction. From what he said to her, she finally realized that Philip had not merely suggested that the scholarship be given to her, but that the scholarship came from the Bancroft family’s private endowment to the school. The discovery made her feel like a complete ingrate, while his explosive reaction left her in a state of angry frustration.
Now Lisa felt again that same impotent anger and bewilderment at the rigid restrictions he imposed on Meredith. “Do you really, honestly believe,” she said, “that the reason he acts like your watchdog is because your mother cheated on him?”
“She didn’t cheat on him just once, she was a total slut who slept with everyone from horse trainers to truck drivers after they were married. She purposely made a laughingstock out of my father by having flagrant affairs with sleazy nobodies. Parker told me last year, when I asked him, what his parents knew about her. Evidently, everybody knew what she was like.”
“You told me all that, but what I don’t understand,” Lisa continued bitterly, “is why your father acts like lack of morals is some kind of genetic flaw you might have inherited.”
“He acts that way,” Meredith replied, “because he partially believes it.”
They both looked up guiltily as Philip Bancroft walked back into the room. One look at his grim face and Meredith forgot her own problems. “What’s wrong?”
“Your grandfather died this morning,” he said in a dazed, gruff voice. “A heart attack. I’ll go and check out of the motel and get my things. I’ve arranged for both of us to get on a flight that leaves in an hour.” He turned to Lisa. “I’ll rely on you to drive my car back home.” Meredith had talked him into driving instead of flying so that Lisa could ride back with them.
“Of course I will, Mr. Bancroft,” Lisa said quickly. “And I’m very sorry about your father.”
When he left, Lisa looked at Meredith, who was staring blankly at the empty doorway. “Mer? Are you okay?”
“I guess so,” Meredith said in an odd voice.
“Is this grandfather the guy who married his secretary years ago?”
Meredith nodded. “He and my father didn’t get along very well. I haven’t seen him since I was eleven. He called though, to talk to my father about things at the store, and to me. He was—he was—I liked him,” she finished helplessly. “He liked me too.” She looked up at Lisa, her eyes glazed with sorrow. “Besides my father, he was my only close relative. All I have left are a few fifth or sixth cousins who I don’t even know.”
7
In the foyer of Philip Bancroft’s house, Jonathan Sommers hesitated uneasily, searching through the crowds of people who, like himself, had come to pay the obligatory condolence visit on the day of Cyril Bancroft’s funeral. He stopped one of the caterer’s staff who was carrying a tray of drinks and helped himself to two that had been destined for other guests. After tossing down the vodka and tonic, Jonathan deposited the empty glass in a large potted fern, then he took a swallow of the scotch in the second glass and wrinkled his nose because it wasn’t Chivas Regal. The vodka, combined with gin he’d drunk from
a flask in the car outside, made him feel slightly better fortified to face the funeral amenities. Beside him, a tiny elderly woman was leaning on a cane, studying him with curiosity. Since good manners seemed to require that he speak to her, Jon cast about for some sort of polite conversation pertinent to the occasion. “I hate funerals, don’t you?” he said.
“I rather like them,” she said smugly. “At my age, I regard each funeral I attend as a personal triumph, because I was not the guest of honor.”
He swallowed a bark of laughter, because loud laughter on this austere occasion would be a severe breach of the etiquette he’d been taught to observe. Excusing himself, he put the unfinished scotch down on a small table beside him and went off in search of a better drink. Behind him, the elderly lady picked up the glass and took a dainty sip. “Cheap scotch!” she said in disgust, and put it back where he’d left it.
A few minutes later Jon spotted Parker Reynolds standing in an alcove off the living room with two young women and another man. After stopping at the buffet table to get another drink, he walked over to join his friends. “Great party, isn’t it,” he remarked with a sarcastic smile.
“I thought you hated funerals and never went to them,” Parker said when the chorus of greetings was over.
“I do hate them. I’m not here to mourn Cyril Bancroft, I’m here today to protect my inheritance.” Jon took a swallow of his drink, trying to wash away the bitterness he felt over what he was about to say. “My father is threatening to disinherit me again, only I think the old bastard really means it this time.”
Leigh Ackerman, a pretty brunette with a lovely figure, looked at him in amused disbelief. “Your father is going to disinherit you if you don’t attend funerals?”
“No, my lovely, my father is threatening to disinherit me if I don’t ‘straighten up’ and make something of myself immediately. Translated, that means I am to appear at funerals of old family friends such as this one, and I am to participate in our family’s newest business venture. Or else I’m cut off from all that lovely money my family has.”
“Sounds dire,” Parker said with an unsympathetic grin. “What new business venture have you been assigned to?”
“Oil wells,” he said. “More oil wells. This time my old man has cut a deal with the Venezuelan government to carry out exploration operations over there.”
Shelly Fillmore glanced at the small gilt-framed mirror over Jon’s shoulder and touched a finger to the corner of her mouth, smoothing a tiny smudge of vermilion lipstick. “Don’t tell me he’s sending you to South America?”
“Nothing as essential as that,” Jon scoffed bitterly. “My father is turning me into a glorified personnel interviewer. He put me in charge of hiring the crews to go over there. And then you know what the old bastard did?”
His friends were as accustomed to Jon’s tirades against his father as they were to his drunkenness, but they waited to hear his newest complaints, anyway. “What did he do?” Doug Chalfont asked.
“He checked up on me. After I picked out the first fifteen able-bodied, experienced men, my old man insisted on meeting everyone I’d interviewed personally so that he could rate my ability to choose men. He rejected half of my choices. The only one he really liked was this guy named Farrell, who’s a steelworker and who I wasn’t going to hire. The closest Farrell’s ever been to an oil rig was two years ago, when he worked on a few little ones in some damned cornfield in Indiana. He’s never been near a big rig like we’ll have in South America. Furthermore, Farrell doesn’t give a damn about oil drilling. His only interest is the one-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar bonus he’ll get if he sticks it out for two years over there. He told my father that right to his face.”
“So why did your father hire him?”
“He said he liked Farrell’s style,” Jon sneered, tossing down the rest of his drink. “He liked Farrell’s ideas about what he planned to do with the bonus when he gets it. Shit, I half expected my father to change his mind about sending Farrell to Venezuela and offer him my office instead. As it is, I have been ordered to bring Farrell in next month and ‘acquaint him with our operation and introduce him around.’ ”
“Jon,” Leigh said calmly, “You’re getting drunk and your voice is getting loud.”
“Sorry,” he said, “but I’ve had to listen to my father singing this guy’s praises for two damned days. I’m telling you, Farrell is an arrogant, ambitious son of a bitch. He has no class, no money, no nothing!”
“He sounds divine,” Leigh joked.
When the other three remained silent, Jon said defensively, “If you think I’m exaggerating, I’ll bring him to the Fourth of July dance at the club and you can all see for yourself what sort of man my father thinks I ought to be.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Shelly warned him. “Your father may like him as an employee, but he’ll castrate you if you bring someone like that to Glenmoor.”
“I know,” Jon said with a tight smile, “but it would be worth it.”
“Just don’t dump him on us if you bring him there,” she warned after exchanging glances with Leigh. “We aren’t going to spend the evening trying to make small talk with some steelworker just so you can spite your father.”
“No problem. I’ll leave Farrell all by himself and let him flounder while my father looks on, watching him try to figure out what fork to use. My old man won’t be able to say a word to me either. After all, he’s the one who told me to ‘show Farrell the ropes’ and ‘look after him’ while he’s in Chicago.”
Parker chuckled at Jon’s ferocious expression. “There must be an easier way to solve your problem.”
“There is,” Jon said. “I can find myself a wealthy wife who can support me in my accustomed style, and then I can tell my old man to go fuck himself.” He glanced over his shoulder and signaled a pretty girl in a maid’s uniform who was passing a tray of drinks. She hurried over and he grinned at her. “You’re not only pretty,” he told her as he put his empty glass on her tray and took a fresh one, “You’re a life saver!” From the flustered way she smiled at him and then blushed, it was obvious to Jon, and to the rest of the group, that she was not immune to his six-foot-one muscular body and attractive features. Leaning close to her, Jon said in a stage whisper, “Is it possible that you’re only working for a caterer as a lark, but that your father actually owns a bank or a seat on the exchange?”
“What? I mean, no,” she said, charmingly flustered.
Jon’s smile turned teasing and sexy. “No seat on the exchange? How about some factories or some oil wells?”
“He’s—he’s a plumber,” she blurted out.
Jonathan’s grin faded, and he sighed. “Marriage is out of the question, then. There are certain financial and social requirements that the winning candidate for my wife will have to be able to meet. However, we could still have an affair. Why don’t you meet me in my car in a half hour. It’s the red Ferrari out in front.”
The girl left, looking both miffed and intrigued.
“That was completely obnoxious of you,” Shelly said, but Doug Chalfont nudged him and chuckled. “I’ll bet you fifty bucks that girl is waiting in your car when you leave.”
Jon turned his head and started to reply, but his attention was suddenly diverted by the sight of a breathtaking blonde wearing a black sheath with a high collar and short sleeves, who was walking down the stairs and into the living room. He stared at her with slackened jaw as she paused to talk to an elderly couple, and when a group of people shifted and blocked her from his view, he leaned sideways, trying to see her. “Who are you looking at?” Doug asked, following his gaze.
“I don’t know who she is, but I’d like to find out.”
“Where is she?” Shelly asked, and everyone looked in the direction he was staring.
“There!” Jon said, pointing with his glass as the crowd around the blond moved and he saw her again.
Parker recognized her and grinned. “You’ve all known her f
or years, you just haven’t seen her in a while.” Four blank faces turned to him, and his grin widened. “That, my friends, is Meredith Bancroft.”
“You’re out of your mind!” Jon said. He stared hard at her but could find little resemblance between the gauche, rather plain girl he remembered and the poised young beauty he beheld: Gone was the baby fat, the glasses, the braces, and the ever-present barrette that used to hold back her straight hair. Now that pale golden hair was caught up in a simple chignon with tendrils at her ears framing a face of classic, sculpted beauty. She looked up then, somewhere to the right of Jon’s group and nodded politely at someone, and he saw her eyes. Halfway across the room, he saw those large aquamarine eyes, and he suddenly remembered those same startling eyes peering up at him long ago.
Strangely exhausted, Meredith stood quietly, listening to people who spoke to her, smiling when they smiled, but she couldn’t seem to absorb the reality that her grandfather was dead, and that the hundreds of people who seemed to be drifting from room to room were here because of that. The fact that she hadn’t known him very well had reduced the grief she’d felt for the last few days to a dull ache.
She’d caught a glimpse of Parker at the graveside service, and she knew he could very well be somewhere in the house, but in view of the melancholy circumstances, it seemed wrong and disrespectful to go looking for him in hopes of furthering a romantic relationship at that time. Furthermore, she was growing just a little bit weary of always being the one who sought him out; it seemed to her that it was his turn to make some sort of move toward her. As if thinking of him had suddenly summoned him to her side, she heard an achingly familiar masculine voice say in her ear, “There’s a man over in that alcove who’s threatened my life if I don’t bring you over so that he can say hello.”