Cara dropped her head, unable to face his penetrating eyes. She was very conscious of his hands on her shoulders. It made her feel strange indeed, and then she managed to tell him, “What a nice thing to say, Phil. You’ve been a breath of fresh air to me.”
Phil laughed and said, “Well, that’s the first step on the emancipation of Cara Lanier.”
Startled, Cara looked up at him. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, now that you’re not condemned to painting one daisy after another, we’ll have to find new ways to spend some time together. For example, why don’t we go out in the garden and take a little walk?”
“Oh, I couldn’t!”
“See there? You’re not emancipated yet. Come on, Cara,” he urged. “I’m your guest. There’s nothing wrong with going for a little walk. You need to show me all your beautiful flowers that you’ve been painting.”
Cara knew that Dr. McKenzie would object and her father, if he discovered it, which he probably would, would be angry. In fact, he might even forbid any more visitors. Nevertheless, it was too tempting. “All right, Phil,” she said, “let me get a coat.”
Phil waited until she pulled a light off-white jacket out of the chifferobe, then he helped her put it around her shoulders. Moving ahead, he opened the door for her. When they walked downstairs, they encountered Mary Ann and George Camrose, who were still in the parlor.
Mary Ann jumped up from the couch, saying, “Why, Cara, what are you doing?”
“I’m only going out to walk around the garden and to show Phil the flowers,” Cara said quickly. She hesitated, then said, “I’ll be all right, Mary Ann. Please don’t tell Father.”
When the two stepped outside, Mary Ann turned to Camrose and her face filled with astonishment. “If Father finds out she’s gone outside, he’ll have a fit.”
Camrose understood Mary Ann’s concern completely. He had already felt enough of Oliver Lanier’s displeasure to understand what the man was like. “Then don’t tell him,” he smiled. “And tell the servants not to tell him. It’ll be our little conspiracy.”
“I thought preachers weren’t supposed to do things like that.”
“It will give Cara a little happiness and some freedom. That’s not wrong,” he said simply.
Mary Ann was touched by his obvious consideration for Cara. She touched his chest and said, “How sweet of you.”
“Then I’ll have a reward for being so sweet.” Camrose leaned over and kissed her on the lips, then leaned back. “That’s another thing preachers get criticized for. Kissing pretty girls. I don’t think it’s such a sin though, not when the girl is you.” He smiled broadly at her expression. “Sit down again. I’ll tell you some more about Africa.”
Outside in the garden, Cara walked slowly on the cobblestones and saw the shock on the gardener’s face as he looked up from where he was digging in the rich brown soil. “Hello, Henry,” she said. “The snapdragons are magnificent. You’ve done so well.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Cara.” He stood to his feet, dirt on his knees, the look of astonishment obvious on his face. “You’re lookin’ better. Glad to see you outside, and good day to you, sir.”
“This is Henry. He’s the best gardener in America, or anywhere else for that matter,” Cara said, smiling.
“I believe it, looking at these flowers. You’ve done a great job, Henry. I commend you on it.”
“Why, thank you, sir.” The gardener watched as the two walked on down the rows of red and gold and yellow flowers and muttered, “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”
Cara enjoyed the fresh air and stroll for thirty minutes, but it seemed like only a few seconds to her. Finally she turned and said, “I must be going in now. Thank you so much for coming by. It was thoughtful of you.”
“Do I get the picture?”
“No,” she said. “I want to keep it for myself.” A humorous light touched her eyes, and she smiled. “I like the job I’ve done on Charley.”
“What a put-down,” Phil groaned. Then he took her hand and said, “I’ll be going then, but I’ll get even with you.”
“Why, what do you mean by that, Phil?”
“It’s my turn to do a painting of you now. I’ll come next Tuesday and you can sit for me.”
“All right. That would be nice.”
He walked her to the door, and when she stepped inside, he said, “Good-bye. I’ll see you when I come by for your first sitting.”
“Good-bye, Phil.”
Cara shut the door and walked slowly down the hall. Her heart was beating fast, and when she passed the sitting room, Mary Ann came flying out. “Oh, how nice that you two are able to talk! He is nice, isn’t he, George?”
“Fine fellow. He’s coming to church Sunday,” Camrose said.
“Yes. He has relatives who are missionaries in Africa.”
“Does he, indeed!” Camrose exclaimed. “I’ll have to ask him about that. They might be of some assistance when I arrive there.”
Mary Ann reached out and took her sister’s hand. She whispered, “Do you like him, Cara?”
“Yes. I do indeed, Mary Ann. I like him very much!”
CHAPTER SIX
A Family Affair
June 15 was a target day for the Four Musketeers. The big race on Long Island was set to begin at one o’clock that afternoon. Clinton was more excited than any of the others. He had made excuses to be out of the house at night and had even managed to slip away from the office during the day several times to come and check on the progress of the car. He had been permitted to drive the Jolie Blonde on a test run, and when he had come back, he jumped out and threw his arms around Jolie unselfconsciously. “There’s nothing like it!” he shouted, spinning her around, his eyes blazing with excitement.
Jolie was crushed to his chest and laughed. “Put me down! You’re going to break my ribs!”
Embarrassed, Clinton quickly set her on her feet and apologized. Over the weeks they had become close friends as they worked on the race car. He liked to take her out for coffee and talk about racing, and she enjoyed listening to him.
On the fourteenth, they finished tuning the car up in the backyard, and when Peter and Easy decided to go out early to Long Island and sleep there, waiting for the events of the next day, Clinton said enviously, “I wish I could go.”
“So do I. Let me go with you, Peter,” Jolie pleaded.
“Oh, that’s no place for a woman, sleeping out under the stars,” Peter said firmly.
Jolie begged, but Peter was firm, and finally Clinton said, “Let’s you and I go out and get something to eat. I’ve got to be in fairly early, but I’m starving.”
“That sounds like fun.”
The two of them went to an Italian restaurant named Mama Mia, a small place Jolie had discovered one day when she was out for a stroll. It was a family-run business, and Mama herself came to take their order.
“I’ll have manicotti a la romana with ricotta, and bring me some of that eggplant parmigiana.”
“I didn’t know you spoke Italian,” Clinton said with astonishment.
“I don’t, except to know the names of some food. What will you have, Clinton?”
“The same, I guess.” He grinned at the large woman with the black eyes. “Bring me twice as much as you bring her.”
While they waited for their orders to come, Clinton talked excitedly about the upcoming race. In the meanwhile, they ate huge chunks of freshly baked bread layered with butter.
After Mama had returned with their food, Clinton ate with enthusiasm. “This is great,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I just never tried Italian food before. I didn’t know what I was missing.”
“Well, it’s cheap and filling. I guess rich people don’t have to worry about that,” Jolie said wryly.
Clinton’s face flushed. “I wish you wouldn’t call me rich,” he protested.
“Well, you are rich, aren’t you?”
Squirming uncomfortably, Cli
nton picked up the bread, broke off a piece, and buttered it. After he had nibbled at it, he said, “I guess so, but it sounds like a bad disease the way you say it.”
“Why, I don’t have anything against being rich,” Jolie said with surprise.
She underscored her protest with a sweet smile and indeed made a charming picture. Her coal black hair formed a halo of thick curls, and with it her light gray dress, trimmed with lace and pearl buttons made a perfect frame for her expressive face. As she continued to speak, he admired her enormous blue eyes and mobile mouth, which could subtly tease as well as express her delightful moments of gaiety. Clinton found her most provocative, a beautiful picture of a woman like no woman he had ever known before, and he felt the things that a man feels when he looks upon beauty and knows it will never be for him.
“Clinton,” she asked abruptly, “do you intend to spend the rest of your life doing exactly what your father tells you to do? Don’t you ever hope to have any life of your own?”
Her question cut Clinton Lanier deeply, for it was something he had been struggling with for some time. He was a clever young man, with a fair share of business acumen. Yet, despite his seeming success, he was not at peace with himself. At the office, he spent a great deal of time gazing out the window and daydreaming of what it would be like to be free in exactly the way Jolie suggested, but there always was the shadow of his father looming over him. He had often wondered if other fathers ruled as absolutely as Oliver Lanier did in his own house. Long ago, Clinton had determined that if he ever had a family, he would have none of his father’s autocratic ways. Now he twisted in his seat and lifted his hand to rub it along his jaw line, a certain sign that he was nervous. “I hope not, Jolie. I have dreams of my own,” he said finally.
They left the restaurant then, and he took her back to the rooming house. When they reached the front door, he said, “I enjoyed our time together, Jolie.”
“It was fun,” she said. She hesitated, then put out her hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the race.”
Taking her hand, he held it for a moment and nodded. An impulse came to him, and he studied her face, which seemed soft and glowing in the silver moonlight. The streets were vacant, and a strange silence hung over the neighborhood. “I promised my mother something once, but I’m going to break that promise.”
“Why, you shouldn’t break a promise to your mother,” Jolie exclaimed. “I’m sure she’s a nice woman!”
“Yes, she is, but I’m going to break this one.” He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I promised her I would never kiss a girl on the first date, but I’m going to.”
Leaning forward, he kissed Jolie on the lips, then straightened up. It was a quick caress, but he savored the warmth of her lips and smelled the fragrance of her hair. “You’re looking very pretty tonight, Jolie. Good night.”
Turning, he walked quickly away, got into the carriage, and drove off. Jolie stood watching him. She slowly reached up and touched her lips, then shook her head in wonder. “Well, what am I supposed to think about that, Mr. Clinton Lanier?” She was not shocked, for she had been kissed before, and yet there was something touching about this man. A dissatisfaction came to her then, and she said, “Clinton Lanier, you’re going to have to declare your independence someday,” then she turned and walked into the rooming house.
“I’d like for all of you to meet a good friend of mine,” Phil said. “This is Avis Warwick. She’s studying at the art institute—and she’s never seen an automobile race.” As he introduced his friends, he watched their faces nervously, never knowing when Avis would drop some outlandish remark that might shock them.
“I didn’t know automobile drivers were so handsome.” Avis greeted Peter with a gleam in her eyes. “If someone had told me, I’d have taken up racing myself instead of art.”
Peter was stunned, and a quick glance at Jolie told him that she was not pleased with Avis’s comment. Clearing his throat, he managed a grin, saying, “Oh, all of us drivers are good-looking—it’s a requirement.”
“Well now, you must show me this car of yours.” Avis took Peter’s arm possessively and led him away. She was looking up at him, smiling and giving him her full attention.
“Quite a lady friend you’ve got there, Phil,” Easy spoke up, a calculating look in his eyes. “Don’t take her long to decide if she likes a fellow or not.”
“She’s pretty outlandish,” Phil admitted, watching the two. He turned to Jolie and said, “Better keep your eye on Peter. I think she’s decided that a racing driver is a better catch than a starving artist.”
“He’s acting like a silly schoolboy,” Jolie practically spat out. “Can’t he see what she is?” By the time the call came for the drivers to man their cars, Avis had captivated Peter with her charms.
“Never met a woman quite like Avis,” Peter remarked as he walked toward the car beside Easy.
“No? Well, I’ve met a few in my day,” Easy shouted over the roar of the engine. “Better watch your step, buddy!”
Just before the race was about to begin, Peter climbed into the driver’s seat with Easy right beside him. Peter looked over and grinned. “I don’t know why two men have to be in these cars all cramped up. What are you going to do if we have engine trouble? Get out and fix it while we’re going ninety miles an hour?”
“Ninety miles an hour?” Easy laughed. “Don’t you wish it was so? What do you think? Have we got a chance, Peter?”
“I don’t know. All I plan on doing is to step on the gas and keep it there until we win, or run off the track, or hit somebody.”
“The competition looks pretty stiff,” Easy said.
Peter looked around with a worried expression. “I think that fellow Lancia driving the Fiat is the one to beat.”
“Yeah, I heard about him. He’s the son of a soap manufacturer. That’s some machine he’s driving. I heard he won the race up in Boston last week. The rest of the drivers didn’t see anything but dust.”
He looked around at all the cars lined up, their engines roaring, waiting for the starting signal. “We’re going to have to go some to beat these fellas. That fellow Charles Row—you see him in that horrible-looking yellow Wolseley? He won the Gordon Bennett cup in that last year, so when you see yellow try to go by it.”
As soon as Easy spoke, the gun sounded, and Peter yelled, “Here we go, Easy!”
The air was filled with a thunderous explosion as fourteen powerful cars started at once, roaring as they took off down the speedway. Since there was no grandstand, the crowd stood on both sides of the dirt track, quickly surrounded by the rising cloud of dust.
As they made the first turn, Peter shouted, “Well, we’re in the middle of the pack, Easy. All we got to do now is beat the other half.”
“Watch where you’re goin’! That guy in the Bugatti is going to close in on you and cut you off!” Easy hollered.
It was a demanding race, for some of the best drivers in America and a few from overseas had come to race for the prized trophy. The cars, all of them two-seaters, roared and jockeyed for position. Peter frequently wiped his goggles with a quick swipe of his arm, but before long they were again coated with dust. At times he was driving by little more than sheer instinct. One car rammed into the side of the Jolie Blonde, knocking it sideways, and Easy half rose and shook his fist, shouting at the driver, who grinned back at them and held one thumb up in the air.
“Knock him off the road, Peter!” Easy yelled.
“No time for that. We can fight after the race is over.”
Clinton and Phil stood along the side of the track with Jolie and Avis, watching the race. Jolie had been very cool to Avis but now forgot about her in the excitement. They watched as the cars spun around the track, all trying to move into a better position. Halfway through, one of them caught the wheel of the car in front and threw both cars into a spin. The others swerved, but another car coming up from behind them plowed into the spinning cars.
“Look out,
Peter!” Jolie cried. Only by expert driving did Peter manage to steer his way around the tangle.
Avis Warwick watched calmly for a while, then she, too, grew excited. She had a strong competitive streak in her, and now her eyes lit up as she saw that Peter had a chance to win.
The last lap became a duel between Peter and a big green Bugatti that roared like a banshee. They fought for first place, but when the checkered flag went down, it was the Bugatti that won.
“They lost!” Avis cried. “They came so close.”
“They did well to come in second in that field,” Clinton said. “Come on. Let’s go and congratulate them.”
They shouldered their way through the crowd and watched as the driver of the Bugatti took the cup and the prize, but then Peter was awarded a smaller cup and an envelope with cash in it.
Avis ran up and hugged Peter. “You did marvelous.” She suddenly reached up, pulled his head down, and kissed him.
Peter was taken aback, and glancing around, he saw Jolie staring at them with displeasure. “Time to go out and eat and celebrate. We didn’t win, but we came close.”
Phil begged off on the dinner that followed. Avis insisted on taking them to a French restaurant. As soon as they went in, all of her guests were immediately aware that this woman was no tourist. The head waiter came up and bowed as soon as he saw her.
“Ah, Madame Warwick, your usual table?”
“Yes, and you’ll have to treat us nice tonight. This is the famous racing driver, Mr. Peter Winslow.”
“Ah, Mr. Winslow, it is a pleasure. Please come this way.”
They were seated at a table over to one side of the glass-walled dining room, and at once Avis said, “Let me order the food. If you don’t like one dish, you’ll have another.” Immediately, she began to order in French. When the food arrived, it was constantly being whisked away and replaced with a new dish before they had finished.
“I don’t get enough of anything to eat,” Easy protested as the waiter removed his plate and put another one in front of him.
Avis laughed at him. “There’s plenty more to come. Peter, you’re going to dance with me. Clinton, why don’t you ask Jolie to dance?”
The Shadow Portrait Page 11
