Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (123 page)

Yet in my dreams something nagged, something nasty; a kind of warning.

That shouted obscenity.
Fuck you
, he’d said. It was not a wholly idyllic spot after all.

I was awakened by a repetitive sound that sent me spinning out of sleep. I reached out, from long habit, for the alarm: the noise came again and I was fully awake.

It was, I discovered, pebbles being thrown at my bedroom window. I looked at the clock. Eight in the morning … had Eric started before dawn?

But it was not my Eric. It was Tom Lestrange, standing outside with his hands in his pockets, trying to look grown up.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi, you awake?”

“I am now.”

“It’s a nice day,” he offered.

“It seems lovely.”

He stood there clearly waiting for an invitation. I asked if he had had breakfast.

“No,” he answered. “It’s too early; no one’s up.”

“I’m up, and hungry. How about joining me?”

“Great,” he said.

“Come around to the back, I’ll let you in.”

He smiled, very pleased. Someone wanted him. I thought of Brenda and Kenny with a pang.

I opened the back door for him, asked him to sit down while I got into something more respectable, and left him, to change into pants and a shirt. Meanwhile he had found the coffee urn and was measuring out Taster’s Choice into the filter. He said a little gruffly, “Just thought I’d get things started.”

“Fine,” I said. “You can be in charge of the coffee, then, and I’ll do the eggs. How do you like your bacon, Tom?”

“Almost burned,” he said.

“Me too; well get along all right.”

He gave me another of his attractive little grins, and we sat down to the table shortly thereafter. Tom had the appetite of a young wolf, and I got up to make seconds. It was good having company, and I told him so.

“Yeah?” he said, and dimples appeared in his cheeks.

I asked him what his diversions were during the day. He said nothing much, the pool generally.

“A swimming pool?”

“Yeah, there’s only one; it belongs to Uncle Paul.”

“Why not the beach?”

“I’m considered too young,” he said disgustedly. “They’re afraid I’ll drown or something.”

“They wouldn’t mind if you were with me, would they?”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” He perked up. “You going down there after we finish breakfast?”

“Ordinarily I would be, but I’m waiting for a friend who’s driving up.”

“Oh.” He looked crestfallen.

“You’ll like him,” I said. “His name’s Eric and we’re sort of engaged.” I felt a little queasy about this. The child might soon find out that Eric shared my bed. I hadn’t banked on a minor on the premises.

It would have to be played by ear. Children have an innate sense of cognition, and often accept reality without question.

Que sera
… “Have you thought about a hobby?” I asked him.

“Not yet, but I’m taking it into consideration,” he said. “You’re right, of course. I’m not your average, garden-variety lotus eater. I’m really putting my mind to it, Jan.”

“Good. Oh, must you go?”

“Sure, if you’re expecting your friend,” he said, and I walked with him to the front door. There was no one about outside except for a handsome red setter running across the lawn and snapping at flies.

“Terrific breakfast,” Tom said. “Thanks a lot.”

“Not at all, Tom. See you.”

“Sure.”

I watched him go off, walking jauntily, his hands, as always, in his pockets. That’s a nice boy, I thought, and went in to wash up our dishes.

I was drying them and putting them away when my doorbell rang. I went to answer it, framing a welcome for Eric, and automatically smoothing down my hair.

But it wasn’t Eric.

It was a tall, dark-haired woman a few years older than myself. The woman who stood on my doorstep was more than pretty — she was a knockout. She was one of those truly attractive brunettes who can make blondes feel pale and washed out. She had full, red lips, a rich, magnolia skin and dazzling white teeth. She was wearing what my practiced eye knew to be a Lillums dress, in lush pinks and greens, and she sported almost non-existent sandals.

She was fulsome, a little too much so, actually, but her height permitted some voluptuousness. Also, her waist was very slender and obviously a point of pride with her; it was snugly girdled with a string belt, her stomach was tight and flat. On her well-manicured fingers were a profusion of rings, none of them costume jewelry.

Her smile was ravishing followed by an apologetic little grimace. “Forgive me?” she said. “I won’t keep you. I’m Bobo. Bobo Lestrange, Tom’s mother. It’s about Tom. Is he bothering you?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “Not at all, he’s darling.”

“I just wouldn’t want him to be a trouble.”

“No no. Not at all. Don’t think that.”

She shrugged. “Of course it will wear off in a day or two. Children are like animals, interested one moment and the next … they forget.”

“But won’t you come in, Mrs. Lestrange?”

She looked tempted. “I did say I wouldn’t keep you.”

“It’s all right, do come in. Let me give you some coffee.”

“All right,” she said, and walked through the door. I saw her look around curiously, but she didn’t say anything about what she might think of my cottage, just stood there with her eyes wandering over the furniture, lamps and general decor.

I asked her to sit down, and went for coffee. I put some cookies and some brownies on the tray and returned to the living room.

But she wasn’t there.

“Mrs. Lestrange?” I called, and she appeared in the doorway of my bedroom.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I just wanted to see your view.”

There was no particular view from the bedroom. The view was off the kitchen, but I made no comment. I decided that she had simply wanted to see what kind of clothes were hanging in my closet, and if so, who cared?

Yet it was a bit odd, her wandering into the bedroom.

We had our coffee seated together on a sofa, and she inserted a cigarette into a long ivory holder.

Virtually the only person I can think of who didn’t look outré with a cigarette holder was Franklin Roosevelt, and if he hadn’t come from a patrician family and been such a noble Roman senatorial sort he might have seemed to be overdoing it, too. Furthermore, her speech was careful but …
too
careful. Her beauty, as well, was a shade too lush, a little too blatant. She didn’t seem to me your genteel, Christmas cotillion, post debutante, understated and refined. I could almost picture her in a chorus line, or a Copacabana revue.

Ordinarily, the name Bobo would have had nothing to do with my overall impression. Society’s darlings are often called Honey this, or Bubbles that; one of the most impeccably-lineaged women of my professional acquaintance is also nicknamed Bobo. Yet on this woman even this was wrong. It only added to the aspects that jarred about her. Of
all
people, she should have eschewed such a coy tag, should have insisted on Susan, Nancy, Jane …

This was a woman who should never wear flashy furs, or too much perfume, or … use cigarette holders.

Well, I thought, she had done one thing right. She had produced a most appealing son.

I said as much. “Your son’s really a dear.”

“He’s a nice boy,” she said blandly. “All the boys are nice, and we get along fairly well. None of them have ever treated me badly.”

And then, of course, it dawned on me. This woman was only in her early thirties, and couldn’t possibly be the mother of the older sons, at any rate. She was their stepmother.

Bobo offered information freely about the first Mrs. Lestrange. “Lucille married again too,” she confided. “The children’s mother. There are no hard feelings, thank God.”

“That’s comforting, isn’t it? It can be a problem, I know.”

“We’re going sailing,” she said. “You care to come?”

“That’s very nice of you, but I’m expecting my fiancé. Thanks, though. Eric and I work pretty hard and are just glad to take it easy while we’re here.”

“That doesn’t sound very exciting.”

“But restful, which is what we need. I’m terribly grateful to Caroline for letting me the cottage.”

She gave me a startled look, and the words came out, I felt, unbidden. “You call her Caroline?” she said quickly, and then, as she drew in her breath, I knew she could have bitten off her tongue.

She didn’t stay long after that, and took her leave quite gracefully: she had learned a lot, this woman, from the family she had married into. She was all poise again.

I went with her to the door, and as I opened it, caught sight of a man just nearing it. He saw me, gave me a quick, comprehensive glance, and smiled.

“Good morning,” he said, and looked past me at my visitor. “I thought you might be here,” he said to Bobo, and then to me, “I’m Garrison Lestrange, and a warm welcome to you, Miss Stewart. Are you enjoying the cottage?”

“Yes, very much, thanks.”

“Good, fine. Are you coming, Bobo?”

She went past me and joined him. “Thanks for the coffee,” she said.

“Thanks for the visit.”

I watched them walk away, and wondered about them. They were heading for the house almost directly across from the cottage; they left the flagstoned path for the grass, and in a short time Garrison Lestrange was walking a pace or two in front of his wife. They were soon separated by a couple of paces from each other. Nor was there any conversation between the two.

I closed the door. I had to admit that Garrison Lestrange was a most impressive figure of a man. Tall, handsome, tanned, and clearly to the manor born. The kind of man who belonged to the best clubs, played squash every day for his waistline and was a benevolent despot with his office staff.

And he was at least thirty years older than his wife.

I was, in spite of myself, fascinated by Tom, that nice, gentle boy whose father was certainly nearing sixty, and whose stepmother called to mind a courtesan.

Well, I thought, like it or not, I was becoming slowly involved in the lives of the Lestranges. That woman hadn’t come over to my cottage to apologize for her stepson. She had showed up, I was almost certain, out of curiosity.

Why? I was only a paying guest on the grounds.

And Garrison Lestrange. Why had he made it a point to make an appearance?

I had the distinct feeling that it was to make an assessment of me, that he was none too pleased about an outsider sharing the family compound and that he wanted to take the measure of Caroline’s “protégée.”

I didn’t have much time for reflection, however. Only a scant half hour later, Eric’s car churned up the gravel in front of my cottage, and he came in bearing gifts. “Steaks,” he said. “Shell steaks for the grill. Country corn, fruit, beefsteak tomatoes. Take a look.”

“Bless you,” I said, hugging him. “You must be exhausted. What time did you start out?”

“Pretty early, but I went to bed with the chickens.”

“I’ll feed you, and then you can have a nap.”

“Sounds nice, I could use a little shut-eye.”

• • •

Caroline rang up as we lay slumbering in our naps. When I got my eyes open, Eric was picking up the receiver. I could hear the staccato voice at the other end, that now-familiar, high-bred, high-pitched voice that was uniquely Caroline Lestrange’s.

Eric didn’t hand over the receiver for quite some time: clearly my friend Caroline was not averse to a young man’s charms, and was having a nice little chat with my man. I waited with no impatience; I felt delightfully rested and
unwound
, and it was so nice to lie there in comfort on this balmy spring day with nothing much to do.

There was birdsong, and the occasional barking of the dog I had seen earlier, and now and then a murmur of voices from, probably, the domestics on the property. There was, as well, the throb of the surf on the beach, contrapuntal and hypnotic. I felt fulfilled and happy, euphoric.

“It’s Caroline,” Eric said, handing me the phone.

“No kidding.”

I said hello.

“I’ve just had a nice talk with your young man,” she told me. “He’s got a good voice, hasn’t he?”

“And other charms too,” I said. “How are you today?”

“Very well indeed, and I want you for lunch, you and your beau.”

It wasn’t so much an invitation as a command. I stifled a laugh and accepted. “About what time, Caroline?”

“Oneish or so.”

“Oneish will be splendid. Do you want us to dress up or anything?”

“Good heavens, wear anything, come in your skin if you’ve a mind to. I’ve a visitor, but I daresay your skin would do nicely for him.”

“Oh, you have another guest?”

“A house guest, yes. He’s a Viscount, but don’t let that distress you. He’s almost totally indigent and no catch at all, though he’ll make a great effort to charm you.”

“That sounds lovely. I don’t mind a little attention. Well, see you quite soon, then. And thanks very much.”

She never said good-bye, and she didn’t now. The phone was plumped down smartly and my own good-bye uttered to dead air. “Lunch with Her Grace,” I told Eric “You don’t mind?”

“A little, but nothing’s perfect.” He squished up his pillow. “Oneish, I gathered.”

“Yes, so get up, you slug, and shower. We don’t have all that much time.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Certainly, sir. Very good, sir.”

I thought, as Eric went to have his shower, that very likely Garrison Lestrange and his Bobo had once had such a loving and companionable relationship, teasing each other and laughing. And now they walked several steps apart, and no longer seemed friends.

I couldn’t imagine what I would do if Eric stopped loving me.

In spite of what Caroline had said I took some pains with my appearance. Ordinarily I would have gone over in tattered jeans cut off at the buttocks and a sloppy shirt, but instead I slithered into a striped samsong skirt cut to the thigh on one side, and a Riviera blouse. I added the gold chain Eric had given me last Christmas.

After all, Caroline had a visitor. “I forgot to tell you,” I called to Eric, who was buttoning his shirt. “She has a visitor, and he’s a Viscount.”