Dark Homecoming (20 page)

L
iz stood in the foyer, greeting the guests as they arrived. They had invited eight couples, and all but one had accepted, seemingly eager to get an up-close look at David's new wife. The Delacortes were there, of course. Mrs. Delacorte air-kissed Liz as if they were old pals, though she never made eye contact with her. Mr. Delacorte winked at her, which made Liz distinctly uneasy. He was introduced as “Dr. Delacorte,” but what kind of doctor he was, Liz had no idea. The Merriwells were incredibly snooty, calling Liz “Lisa” three times before she corrected them. The Claytons were a little better; when Liz told Mrs. Clayton that she was from New Jersey, the older woman had replied that she was, too. For a moment Liz had thought she'd found a friend—until the overly made-up lady (her pancake and rouge had to be half an inch thick) leaned in and said, “But my parents insisted I go to school in Connecticut and Massachusetts. Miss Porter's, then Smith.” Her eyes twinkled. “Where did
you
go to school, Liz?”

“Trenton High,” she replied. “And then the College of New Jersey.”

Mrs. Clayton retreated to her dinner plate and didn't speak to Liz again.

Most everyone was in their fifties or sixties; only two couples seemed to be in their thirties, and only one had a wife anywhere near Liz's age, though she was a textbook example of a gold digger. “You did good, honey,” she said, leaning into Liz, her bracelets jangling. “We gals from the wrong side of the tracks have to be pretty damn shrewd if we want to catch a big fish.” And then she giggled, jangling away on her wealthy husband's arm.

So that's what they think of me,
Liz thought, steaming.
That I'm some floozy from “the wrong side of the tracks” who married David for his money.

They all had some connection to David's business. The older couples had been friends with his parents for years. All of them came expecting the elder Huntingtons to be there. Indeed, Liz had expected the same thing. But a few hours before the party David had told her that his mother and father had declined.

“They can't get away from New York,” he'd said. “Too much going on.”

“Talk about canceling at the last minute.”

David had looked away.

“David,” Liz had said, a realization dawning on her. “You knew about this! How long?”

“I'm sorry, darling. I forgot to tell you . . .”

“You forgot? David, that's not something you forget. Here I was, all anxious about meeting your parents, and you don't let me know they're not coming . . .”

“I'm sorry, Liz. Dad mentioned it yesterday when we were on the phone talking about business matters. It slipped my mind.”

“Why aren't they coming?”

He still hadn't looked at her. “I told you. There's too much going on for them. To fly down to Florida would just be too much . . .”

“They've known about this for some time!”

“Dad was very apologetic.”

Liz had glared at him. “They don't want to meet me. Isn't that it? They don't approve.”

“Liz, stop imagining things. Stop playing the victim.”

“Playing the victim? Listen, David—”

“Can we not argue, darling? Let's just have a wonderful dinner party without them. All right?”

So Liz had refrained from saying any more. But all through the event she couldn't shake the idea that David's parents had canceled because they didn't want to give their friends the impression that they approved of their son's marriage to this girl from the wrong side of the tracks.

At the table, the silver and china sparkled under the light of the chandelier. Mrs. Hoffman had had the maids polishing and shining all day. Liz sat with Mr.—or rather Dr.—Delacorte on her right and some man whose name she'd forgotten on her left. Mrs. Merriwell sat opposite her. The conversation mostly went over Liz's head. The men talked business with David; the women talked about people they all knew but whose names meant nothing to Liz. She mostly stayed quiet, picking at her salad, not in the least bit hungry.

“And do you have a career, Liz?” Mrs. Merriwell asked at last, startling her into life.

“I'm a dancer,” Liz replied. Eyelids flickered around the table as people tried to get a look at each other, as if to say:
A dancer?

David chimed in helpfully. “She's thinking of opening her own dance academy here in town.”

Liz saw Mrs. Clayton sneak a peek at Mrs. Delacorte as she forked a slice of tomato from her salad into her mouth.

“I haven't decided definitely on that yet,” Liz said. “But possibly.”

“Are your parents still living?” Mrs. Merriwell asked.

Here it comes,
Liz thought.
They're trying to find out what sort of family I come from.

“I don't know if my father is still alive,” she said honestly. “He walked out on us years ago.”

A chorus of
ohh
s sounded from around the table.

Liz considered adding, just to slake their curiosity, that her father had been a traveling salesman before he took off, and that her mother was currently working in a Laundromat. But she figured she'd given them enough information to chew on for the moment.

“If you'll excuse me,” she said, standing, “I'll see about the soup.”

She felt eyes on her as she walked out of the room into the kitchen.

Waiting for her was Rita.

“Is everything all right, ma'am?”

“Yes,” she lied. “I just thought I'd let Variola know that we're . . . we're ready for the soup.”

Rita surprised her by taking her hands in hers. “They're horrible people, aren't they?” Rita asked. “They think they're better than you. Better than all of us.”

Liz didn't know how to respond. “Rita, they're Mr. Huntington's friends . . .”

A small smile spread across the maid's face. “I'm sure he knows how phony they all are, and why he subjects you to them, I don't understand. Well, stay strong. Don't let them make you feel bad about yourself.”

Liz was speechless.

“I'll let Variola know about the soup, and we'll bring it out right away.” Rita squeezed Liz's hands, then let them go. “Everything is going to be all right, Mrs. Huntington. You can trust me.” Her smile broadened. “I'm your friend.”

Liz still didn't know what to say. She watched Rita hurry off. Taking a deep breath, she returned to the table.

“It is hard getting and keeping good help these days,” Mrs. Merriwell was saying as Liz sat back down. “You can never be sure if they're legal, first of all, and second of all, you can never be quite sure whom you can trust. I'm always afraid they're going to steal the silver.”

Mrs. Delacorte was nodding. “It's terribly unfair that we can't feel safe in our own homes.”

Dr. Delacorte smiled at his wife, then leaned in toward Liz. “Do
you
feel safe in your own home, my dear?” he whispered.

Liz thought it a very odd question, given everything she'd been through. “Now that David is back home,” she replied, “I feel very safe and very happy.”

“Oh, that's good,” Delacorte said, looking at her with his sunken green eyes in such a way that Liz felt very uncomfortable. “I like it when pretty girls like you are happy.”

Liz was eager to change the subject. “So what do you do at Huntington Enterprises, Dr. Delacorte?” she asked.

“Oh, I don't work for Huntington. I'm just on the board of directors. And a stockholder, so I have a stake in any advice I give David.” He chuckled. A piece of lettuce was stuck between his teeth. “The rest of the time, I'm an anesthesiologist.”

“An anesthesiologist,” Liz repeated.

“Yes. I put people to sleep.”

Liz thought this entire dinner party was putting her to sleep.

Suddenly she felt a hand on her knee. Delacorte was grinning up at her. Even as his wife was speaking, sharing her rich-people's problems, he was slipping his hand under the table to make a pass at his host's wife.

Liz moved her leg sharply, knocking his hand away.

Horrible people, indeed.

A
couple of maids were carrying the soup—a hot Caribbean blend of fruits and spices—out to the table when Rita noticed a girl she'd never seen before.

The girl was coming through the back door into the kitchen. She was pretty, but Rita noticed she was a little bit older than the other maids, with blond hair and a tad too much makeup. Mrs. Hoffman would definitely not approve if she got a look at her. Since she wasn't wearing a maid's uniform, Rita assumed she's been hired as extra kitchen help. Variola often requested assistants for big dinner parties like this one.

But the girl never joined the chef at the stove. After she came through the door, she turned abruptly and headed straight up the back stairs. How very odd, Rita thought. This unknown girl just walked in here like she owned the place, and now she was heading upstairs as if she knew exactly where she was going. Who the heck was she?

Rita decided to find out.

Stealing through the kitchen, sidestepping sous chefs and Variola herself, who was busy chopping red and green peppers, Rita made her way to the back stairs.

She caught a glimpse of the girl turning down the upstairs hallway.

Who was she? Where was she going?

Suddenly Rita thought she knew.

Hurrying up the steps, she reached the top just in time to see the girl enter the last room on the left. Rita knew what that room was. It was an unused servant's bedroom. Occasionally, when the servants were asked to stay overnight for special events, they would use these small, plainly furnished rooms. And that last room on the left had a special significance for Rita. She'd stayed overnight in that room dozens of times, when the first Mrs. Huntington was alive. That was where David would meet her. How quiet Rita had been when she'd slipped inside that room, waiting for the arms of the man she loved to wrap around her. How quietly David would arrive, after everyone was asleep, after Mrs. Hoffman assumed Rita had left for the evening. How quietly they'd make love. Rita would start to fall asleep, her head on David's chest, listening to his heartbeat, when he'd nudge her gently and tell her it was time to leave.

All the while his wife slumbered, unaware, in another part of the house.

And now another woman waited in that room. Rita noticed how quietly, how carefully, the strange girl had closed the door to the room. Just as she had once done, when she'd wait there for David.

She could already imagine how the night would go. After their guests would leave, David would tell Liz that he was too wired to sleep; Dr. Delacorte or Mr. Merriwell or Mr. Whoever, he'd say, had gotten him all worked up about business. He was so worried about plunging stock prices or excessive overhead or some bullshit that he needed to make some business calls. That's what he'd tell his wife. In Europe, he'd point out, they were just getting up. He wanted to call and talk to his associates before they began their day. David would tell Liz that she should go on up to bed on her own, and that he'd be up in a while. He'd go into his study and do a little work. It was the only way, he would tell her, that he'd ever be able to fall asleep.

He'd do work all right. He'd sneak into the last room on the left and fuck the brains out of that blonde. Then he'd send her away as he used to do with Rita and creep back to his wife.

Oh, no. Not anymore.

Rita had wondered just how she was going to have her revenge on David. Just how she'd tell Liz the truth about her beloved, deceitful husband.

Fate had just given her a wonderful opportunity. How luck she had been to see that floozy slip in the back door.

David's fun was over.

Rita would see to that.

“A
re you certain, Rita?”

Liz looked into the maid's deep brown eyes. She had come back into the kitchen to see about coffee—that horrible dinner was nearly over but Liz had nonetheless needed another break from their pretentious conversation, so she'd ducked once more into the kitchen—and while there, she had been approached by Rita, who'd taken her aside and whispered something very strange to her.

“I'm absolutely certain, ma'am,” Rita told her.

“Are you sure she's not a temporary employee?”

“Very certain, ma'am. I asked Variola if she had hired anyone for this event, and she said she had not. It was only the regular staff on tonight.”

Liz tried to make sense of it. “So you're telling me you saw a woman you didn't recognize come in through the back door, go up the back stairs, and go into one of the servant bedrooms.”

“Exactly, ma'am. And she hasn't come out either. I've been watching.”

They were standing near the back stairs. Liz glanced up. It was dark at the top of the stairs.

“Well, why are you telling me? You should let Mrs. Hoffman know. She's in charge . . .”

“I thought you would want to know, ma'am.” A thin smile bloomed on her lips. “After all, you're mistress of the house. You should know what goes on under your own roof.”

Liz looked at her strangely. “What are you saying, Rita?”

“Just that I think you should find out who that woman is.”

“I . . . I should get David to go . . .”

Rita gently took her hands again, her dark eyes imploring. “If you send Mr. Huntington up there, I guarantee you that he'll report back that there was no girl there.”

Liz held her gaze. “How can you guarantee that, Rita?”

“Trust me, Mrs. Huntington.”

For some peculiar reason, Liz did.

“I'll go with you, ma'am. Let's go up and find out who that woman is, why she's trespassing in this house.”

“But . . . the guests . . . they expect me back at the table . . .”

Rita smirked. “Those snobs can wait.”

Liz looked up the stairs again. Could the woman who was up there be the same she'd seen that day on the estate? But Rita had said nothing about any deformities. Still, David had said they'd had problems in the past with “vagabonds” getting onto the property. Could this be another one?

But for some reason, Liz didn't think so. Rita said the woman had seemed to come into this house with a purpose. And she was implying that she knew what that purpose was.

“I should get Thad . . .” Liz said in a small voice.

“You need to see for yourself, ma'am,” Rita said. Her voice, though still a whisper, was becoming urgent. “You need to know what's going on under your own roof!”

Liz looked at her. She could see the fierceness in Rita's eyes.

What was she trying to tell her?

Without another word, Liz began climbing the stairs.