Thum, THUM, thum, thum, THUM, went the beat of her heart in the silence of the dark, murky waters; all she could think of, and all she could hear, was the beat of her heart going thum, THUM—wait a minute. This wasn’t a dream. She rolled over, knuckling groggily at her eyes, and shouted, “What?”
Ricky’s voice resonated through the wood. “You’re late for supper. Did you want any?”
She emitted something between a groan and a whimper, and briefly stuck her head under her pillows and tried to think. She wasn’t hungry, but if she didn’t get up now, she’d never sleep the night through. “I’ll be down in a minute,” she mumbled to her sheet.
“Did you say something?”
“I said I’ll be down in a minute!” That, irately.
She heard him laugh. “Well, you didn’t need to shout.”
Dragging herself out of bed was possibly one of the hardest things she’d ever done, but a quick, cold splash of water dispelled the grogginess, and she slipped on a fresh set of clothes with the neat economy of a student well used to calculating such early morning routines down to a second. After a few strokes at her hair with her brush, she slipped out of her bedroom and ran lightly down to the dining room, supper and her family.
“Sorry,” she said to her mother, who intensely disliked tardiness. She fell into her customary seat, smiled a bit wanly at her father and looked without much interest at the serving dishes. Horrors, there was creamed corn.
“Liz fixed you a salad,” said Irene, to her daughter’s disgusted shudder.
“I’d better get it.” She started to slide back to her feet.
“No need, sweetie.” The housekeeper came around from behind her, set the salad by her plate, along with her favorite dressing. She smiled her thanks as Liz winked at her and then left.
“Yeow!” Ricky uttered, wincing extravagantly as he looked at her.
Irene looked weary. “Is that noise really necessary?”
Her son ignored her and leaned forward on both elbows. “That must have been some party,” he observed. “I could trip and disappear into those shadows under your eyes. Hangover?”
“Your sympathy overwhelms me,” she said to him drily. “But as it happens, no. I just got a headache driving today, that’s all.”
Her father subjected her to a silent, piercing scrutiny while he thoughtfully chewed. He reached for his water glass to drink before asking laconically, “Have a good time?”
She pulled a face. “Should I lie?”
“Good heavens,” said her mother, touching a napkin delicately to her red lips. “Whatever went wrong?”
“Nothing,” replied Caprice tersely. Everything. Unexplainable. She bent her blonde head to her salad and concentrated on an even distribution of the Italian dressing, fully aware of her mother’s exasperated glance.
Irene pressed. “There must have been something wrong. Why, everyone knows that the Langstons’ hospitality is superb! Who chaperoned?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Langston. Look, the weekend went as well as could be expected—I just didn’t enjoy myself, that’s all. I was bored!”
“Meet the older son?” asked her father idly.
She felt a strange, unexpected leap in her chest, and swallowed past something in her throat. “Yes. Look, do we have to talk about this now? I’m still groggy from my nap.”
Irene paused in eating and looked at her. “For God’s sake, why so reticent about it? Come on, tell us a little about what you did, who you met. Is the older boy as handsome as they say?”
Caprice took a deep breath, staring down at the salad she didn’t want, feeling all urge to eat it fade away. She pushed it away from her. “He’s no boy. I didn’t scream when I looked at him the first time. All we did was dance, play tennis and swim. The weather was nice. Jeffrey was not.” Her head angled sideways, sending a hard, angry glare to her mother. “Would you like to know when I went to bed last night, too?”
Irene drew in a swift breath. Then, furiously, “Young lady, there’s no cause for such abominable behavior. If you can’t be civil to your own family, then I suggest you leave until you can.”
“Irene,” said Richard, a low aside. “She’s tired.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Caprice in brittle tones. She stood. “I didn’t want supper anyway.” Ricky raised his dark head to stare after her as she swiftly exited.
She made straight for the den, where a small yet well-stocked bar was kept, and she mixed herself a rather careless martini, chucking in with a liberal hand several green olives from the tiny refrigerator below the counter. She loved olives, could sit and eat a small jar at one sitting, puckering in sour ecstasy the whole while. Her mother and father never had to worry about her nipping at the alcohol when she was a curious child. But they’d had a running battle to keep any olives stocked in the house.
Ricky slouched gracefully into the room and threw himself onto the nearby couch while she sat leaning forward in an armchair, rubbing tiredly at the back of her aching neck. “Nasty temper,” he remarked, his manner supremely disinterested. “Unlike you.”
“Did you follow me just to tell me that?” she marveled sarcastically, and drank at her martini.
“Oh, no. I was finished eating,” he assured her. “You know she’s going to make you apologize.”
“She can take a hike,” Caprice retorted, direct on the heels of his statement.
His head came up, and he stared at her for a few moments before saying slowly, “That attitude is not exactly conducive to a serene home life. Are you sure you want to push principles that far?”
“Look, she’s the one who pushed at me first. I didn’t want to talk about it, and I made that perfectly clear.” She set her glass down on the table beside her, a sharp, punctuating chink. “If she wants to ignore my wishes, then she’s going to have to expect that I’ll get angry about it.”
He held up his hands. “Hey, no argument. But you know how she hates it when we talk back to her. She’s going to be in a royal brood for the rest of the week.”
She bowed her head, so tired, so tired, longing to go back to bed, knowing she shouldn’t. As she closed her eyes, tears stung at the back of them, and she ran her hands through her disheveled, fine hair. The fingers met on either side of her neck, at the nape. Pierce had kissed her there. “If you can’t speak your mind in your own home, then what kind of a home is it?” she said bitterly. She sighed heavily, her mouth turning down, an unhappy bow. “I’ll—apologize tomorrow. I can’t tonight.”
Ricky took in her huddled posture. “You do what you think best.”
She raised her head and grimaced at him. “It’s not fair that you and Dad should put up with her brooding just because of me.”
“Tell her that. No, on second thought, don’t mention it.”
She grinned weakly. She watched as her brother sat, still regarding her with his bright eyes.
“Just one thing, though,” he said softly. She raised an inquiring eyebrow. “What did happen over the weekend?”
Chapter Six
Caprice did apologize to her mother that very next morning, hiding her still present resentment, putting on a show of sunny spirits. She was good at putting on a show. Irene said a few sharp words to her bland daughter, realized how silly her pique had been, and no more was said over the subject.
As the week melted away under the scorching sun of high summer, Caprice’s low spirits began to disappear. It had been a stupid mistake, that weekend. She was heartily thankful it was all over with.
The weekend promised to be dismal and wet, with leaden gray skies looming sullenly overhead and the weatherman forecasting dire news. Roxanne was in a gloom because it was the end of the month, and no matter how much pleading she did, her father obstinately refused to advance her the next month’s allowance.
The brunette simply couldn’t understand the arrangement Caprice had with her father. She had to smile whenever she thought of Roxanne’s frank envy, for no amount of explanations could con
vince the other girl that their system would not work for the Cauleighs. She and Richard would periodically sit down together to discuss the state of her finances. Aside from a set amount already determined for the upkeep of the Porsche, which was her responsibility, she could ask for as much money as she wished and, as long as she could present a logical reason for having it, she got it. The arrangement was based on confidentiality, for it never would have worked with Ricky either, and a mutual trust. Many times Caprice didn’t request any, as she couldn’t see the point of asking for money when she couldn’t or didn’t want to spend it. As a consequence, for less, she ultimately got more, in the way of her father’s silent respect.
All Friday morning she’d spent visiting Liz and helping in the kitchen, for she liked the other woman’s sense of humor and cheerful common sense. But when the afternoon rolled around, she found herself itching to do something and left the house for a long car drive. The wind was too cool for anything more than cracking her window open, and the dull sky seemed to suck all color from the surrounding landscape so that everything looked lifeless, without vitality.
For some reason, for no reason, she thought of Pierce, and she wondered what he was doing, where he was going. Who he was seeing. She shook her head, angry at herself. She had thought of him entirely too often this last week. Not a day would pass but that she let her mind wander to him.
Him. What kind of man was he, to attract her attention and hold it without even being present? No one else had been able to prompt that in her. She loved to go out and did quite often, with anybody and everybody who was presentable enough and who asked. She loved men, all men: young, old, silly, wise. She could talk with them seriously and intelligently when she chose, but she could also flirt with the best of them.
She liked how males looked at her, the caressing, admiring glances, the amusement and, sometimes, the startled respect. And she never had settled for one deep relationship, for, as she always expostulated, why pick a book when you can have the whole library to browse through?
Why, then, why did she remember Pierce’s quiet words and angry voice? Why did the thought of his gentleness and his sudden passion stir her? He was just another man! Her hands slid on her steering wheel, fingers unconsciously working. She attempted to dismiss his image, but her mind was traitorous. A splendid, elegant figure of a man; an intelligent, responsible man; an exciting man. But not for her: oh, no. He wasn’t her type.
Then why had it hurt so when she’d overheard someone else espouse the same sentiments? Of course; naturally, it had been her pride that was dented. She liked to think herself good enough for any man, as anyone did, and it irked her to know that someone else thought differently.
She loved to drive for long periods at a time, alone, with low music playing over her excellent car stereo. She whiled away the entire afternoon, driving toward the east coast with no definite goal in mind, then turning back toward Richmond when she began to feel tired. She had to stop for gas, stretching her legs once she was out of the driver’s seat and suddenly longing to be going somewhere, really going somewhere, with a destination and a goal and an ending.
But she was merely going home. As she pulled in to the wide, spacious drive, she noted the sleek, dark Jaguar tucked into the parking space that shot off the main asphalt strip, leaving passage free to the garage. As she pulled in to her garage space, she mentally ran over the families whom she knew to have such a model. There were perhaps four she could name off the top of her head, but none with the right color. Of course, the Langstons owned one that particular hue, but Jeffrey drove a convertible. She frowned, puzzled. Could Mr. and Mrs. Langston have come for a visit?
She checked her watch. Almost six, and the evening meal was at seven. Whoever it was must have been invited to stay.
She looked down at her slim legs, encased in skintight, faded jeans, with diminutive Nike tennis shoes beneath. She was a mess, and Mrs. Langston always appeared to be coolly elegant. She would slip in the back way, sneak upstairs to wash and change, and then come down to make her appearance.
Through the kitchen and lightly stepping in the hall, she managed to escape detection. With the long length of stairs ahead of her, she prepared to leap up them quickly when Ricky appeared in the hall, whistling tunelessly. He caught sight of her and strolled her way.
“Hiyah,” he said.
“Ssh! I don’t want Mother to know I’m here until I’ve had a chance to clean up,” she whispered, and then she stared at him, for he was wearing a peculiar smile. “Who is it? The only family I could think of who owns that color Jaguar is the Langstons—is it Mr. and Mrs. Langston, or both?”
“Oh, Mr. Langston,” said Ricky cheerfully. “Come on, move it or lose it. I’m headed upstairs myself.”
She still didn’t get it, even after his odd smile and that rather devilish twinkle at the back of his eyes. She was too preoccupied with wondering why Jeffrey’s father had come, and could make no sense of it. Not even once did she guess the truth as she quickly showered and slipped on a pale mauve dress that had tiny, thin silver stripes running vertically and slimmed her figure even more. Silver sleek pumps and three thin silver necklaces completed the outfit, and, after touching up her makeup and brushing her hair, she slipped back downstairs.
Only as she strode easily for the den did her own stupidity crash in on her, making her face quiver with the shock of it, making her steps falter and then stop as she heard the unmistakable nuances of Pierce replying to her mother’s light chatter. Later, the only reason that she could think why she had simply not considered him as a possibility, however remote she might have thought it to be, was because he never commuted to Virginia to visit the family. It was one of the principle reasons why she’d never met him before that last weekend.
Recovering sluggishly, she slowly approached the small, private room the family invariably met in before supper, and rounded the corner.
He sat on the couch, dressed as usual with casual elegance in black slacks and blazer, with a pale blue sweater underneath. His dark head had been turned attentively to Irene, whose eyes were avidly eating him up as she talked. They both looked up at her entrance, Pierce’s expression unreadable as he gave her a meaningless, flashing white smile, her mother’s expression full of enjoyment.
“Good heavens, Pierce, whatever are you doing here?” Caprice asked composedly, her churning emotions calling that composure a lie. She let her lips pull into a slight, cool, answering smile before she turned to her mother. “Hallo. Is Dad home yet?”
“No, dear,” replied Irene, rather impatient with the small talk. “Pierce stopped by to see you and, as you were out, I invited him to stay for supper. Where did you go?”
She broke out of that immobility that had held her fixed to one spot in the room, making smoothly for the bar. “I went for a drive. Tell me, Pierce, isn’t it rather unusual for you to come south for the weekend?”
“Yes,” he replied, speaking for the first time. His voice shivered into her, and she nearly dropped her glass. “Usually I go to the lodge when I wish to get out of New York. It’s much more quiet.”
Caprice splashed gin into her glass carelessly, and then tonic. She forgot to add her favorite twist of lime or to stir it, so when she sipped at it some moments later, the drink tasted terrible. She then turned and casually leaned back against the counter, gently swirling her glass.
Irene said gaily, “He’s been telling me all about his work in the family business! It’s so fascinating.” Her dark violet eyes widened at that, almost imperceptibly. Her mother had never been fascinated by business in her life.
A quickly shot glance to Pierce, who was quite relaxed with one arm along the arm of the couch, showed that he held a faint but unmistakable gleam of amusement in his eyes. Then he was looking at her, hard and flashing bright, and their eyes met with an almost audible clash. She wiped hers free of expression and let her gaze wander blankly away.
Then Ricky entered the room, nodding to Pierce pleas
antly, responding to Irene’s cheerfully warbled greeting, smiling a bit secretively to Caprice. By the time Richard had arrived home from work, changed and joined them, it was nearly seven.
Unsure of Pierce’s motives for being in Virginia, let alone at her own home, she retreated into an aloof silence, determined not to give him any encouragement. Of course, she was angry that he had come. Never mind that the candles, lit and burning in subdued elegance on the supper table, looked sparkling and brilliant and reminded her oddly of golden hung lanterns. Never mind that she had her ear tuned for everything he had to say, whether it was directed at her or one of her family. Never mind that the delicately flavored salmon, nestled in thin-shaved almond slices, tasted like sawdust, all her senses attuned and leaping at the dark lean man opposite her at the table.
She felt every thoughtful, searching look of his, dark eyes reflecting the flickering light of the candles. She remembered vividly his scent, which clung close and light to his body. She remembered every mannerism of his expressive hands, recalling each as he made them, astonished that she had noticed that much of him from last weekend. The expressions he wore, the quick-changing mouth, that mobile left eyebrow, the maturity of his features; she greeted them all like old friends.
She was in big, big trouble.
She was also quite aware that each of her family were sending her assessing glances in varying shades of speculation. At least her father and Ricky were discreet about it, but Irene had a terrible habit of glancing from Pierce, to her, back to Pierce again in the most obvious way.
Irene, growing impatient with Caprice’s continuing silence, said archly to their quiet guest, “You know, when Caprice got back from New England last weekend, she wouldn’t say a thing about what happened to her. We’re all dying to hear about it.”
Caprice Page 8
