DeBeers 02 Wicked Forest

by V. C. Andrews

  "I used to fantasize about your father and me getting married. It was always a simple ceremony, but somewhere beautiful, not in the back room of some justice of the peace's house. I think deep down, no matter what face we put on to the public, we all want something romantic and wonderful. Willow. It's a chance to be a star, to shine and glitter, to be queen for the day."

  "Here you can't be queen for the day. Mother." I said. 'It's either a lifetime appointment or nothing."

  Mother laughed.

  "Won't we have fun though." she said.

  I glanced at her as we drove on. She was looking out the window, but I could see from the way her eyes took on that dreamy far-off look that she was gazing inside herself rather than at the scenery. She was remembering good times, wonderful times, loving times. I had helped her revive that. At least for now, in doing all this I had given her something. I thought.

  I felt very good about it all, Nothing Bunny Eaton could throw our way would change that. I concluded, We would bring the jeweled glitter back to our home. Thatcher and I, and Mother and Linden.

  Weddings were times when people believed with all their hearts in the line, "And they lived happily after."

  Let it be true for us, I prayed.

  .

  Now that Thatcher's and my wedding was a reality, I was not surprised to receive a phone call from Thatcher's sister. Whitney. It came just before we were about to begin dinner. Thatcher had called to say he was going to be involved with a dinner meeting, taking on some interesting new clients. Mother and I were having so much fun preparing dinner that Linden came out to see what was causing all the commotion. and I put him to work peeling potatoes. Mother and I performed imitations of Bunny Eaton for Linden, and we had him roaring with laughter. It was the warmest, happiest time all of us spent together yet. It was so good to hear the sound of Linden's laughter. Mother and I were so bright with happiness, we didn't need lights.

  Then Whitney called.

  "Now that this all appears to be a reality," she began, "I suppose you and I should have lunch."

  "Yes, lunch usually follows," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. It was the way she pronounced 'reality.' making it like a disease had been diagnosed and confirmed and not a wedding and a marriage.

  She missed my tone, perhaps deliberately. I had met Whitney only a few times before and always found her to be cold and aloof. She was a tall woman, actually as tall if not a bit taller than Thatcher. She had a long, lean face with thin lips that fell into a habitual slash of pale red with the corners tucked in tightly as she contemplated someone or listened to someone speak. In just the short period I had been in her company, she'd struck me as one of those people who are always looking for flaws and weaknesses in others, taking pleasure in pointing them out because it made her feel superior.

  I had to admit she had striking rust-tinted eyes that were so powerful they glued her gaze to the face of whomever she was speaking to, commanding them to pay strict attention to her valuable comments and criticisms. She was the type of person in whose company you were never really comfortable, but if you were in her company and she wasn't singling you out for some criticism or another, you felt grateful, even a bit superior to the others who were victimized.

  Whitney's husband. Hans Shugar, was. as Bunny had told me, years older than Whitney. actually old enough to be her father. They made such an unlikely couple, showing no warmth or affection toward each other whenever I saw them together. I would have suspected that their two children. Laurel, age fifteen. and Quentin, age thirteen, were adopted, if they didn't look so much like their parents. Laurel more like Whitney's side of the family. Quentin almost a clone of Hans.

  I agreed to meet Whitney at the Brazilian Court's Chancellor restaurant at one o'clock the following day. It was on Australian Avenue, only two blocks from Worth Avenue, so on my way there the next day. I stopped by the bridal gown shop to pick out two dresses for Mother to consider. which Monique gave me to take home so Mother could try them on in the comfort and security of her own house. Monique understood we would make more progress that way.

  Whitney wasn't there yet when I arrived, but the hostess brought me to our table in the courtyard near the grand fountain. After fifteen minutes. I ordered a glass of white wine. It was a pleasant and actually quite romantic place, but being made to wait like this began to stir up my insides, making my stomach feel like a concrete mixer. Nearly twenty after one. Whitney sauntered in, paused to greet a number of people and then, finally, turned her attention to me.

  "Hello, Willow," she said.

  "I thought you said one o'clock." I snapped. I could see she had no intention of apologizing for being so late.

  "Were you here at exactly one? Everyone from Palm Beach knows to be twenty minutes late."

  "I'm not Palm Beach. I'm from a place where people make an effort to be on time."

  She raised her eyebrows. I thought whoever advised her about her makeup believed in a heavy hand. She used too much rouge and painted her lips too thickly, probably to make up for their thinness.

  "I was hoping we wouldn't start off on the wrong foot," she said. Before I could respond, she turned to the waiter and ordered a champagne split. "I have decided to have your shower at my house." she blurted, turning back to me. "You can give me a list of the people you would like to invite."

  "I don't know anyone here vet, really. and I don't think anyone I know from back home or even my relatives would fly down for a shower."

  "Why not?" she demanded. "It's not like traveling in a covered wagon. They're on a plane for a few hours at the most, and then here. I'd think they'd love to use it as an excuse to come to Palm Beach."

  "Not everyone is so fascinated with this place. Whitney, I think too many people who live here are under that illusion. I mean, we don't exactly have the world's most fascinating natural scenery, and you can look at the homes of the rich and famous in dozens of places nowadays, as well as on television and in magazines."

  "If you think so little. of Palm Beach, why did you decide to make it your home?" she snapped.

  "I didn't say I thought so little of it. I'm simply realistic about it. and I'm here because it's my mother's and my brother's home-- and, now, the home of my future husband as well," I told her.

  The waiter brought her champagne split.

  "Do you want to wait to order?" he asked.

  "No. I'll have my usual," she said with a flip of her long hand. I glanced at the menu, and ordered a shrimp salad,

  "That's my usual," Whitney remarked as if I had won a contest.

  "Lucky for me," I quipped.

  "I thought you would sound a bit more grateful concerning your shower. Willow."

  "I'm not asking you to do anything for me. Whitney," I said I leaned across the table to return one of her intense stares and lock eyes. "I know how hard you tried to prevent Thatcher and me from becoming engaged and married. I know all about the Kirby Scott fabrication."

  "I didn't know it was a fabrication," she replied. "But I'm not making any excuses for my mother or myself. For a long time now, I have had to look after Thatcher when it came to his involvement with women."

  "Excuse me?"

  She sipped her champagne and then leaned forward, too.

  "I have to look out for my brother. When it comes to women. Thatcher loses his superior intelligence. His hormones overcome his reason. He thinks with his penis," she said.

  "And what makes you so superior that you know who is best for him and what is best for him?"

  Whitney smiled coldly.

  "I know him better than he knows himself. Who do you think mothered him when he needed it the most? Bunny? Hardly. It was left to me, only a few years older chronologically, but years older mentally and physically.

  "I can't tell you how many times I've gotten him out of trouble with the wrong woman." she bragged. 'little does anyone know, but I was the one who saved him from Mai Stone. I told her things that kept her from closing her grimy hand
s around him."

  "You're lying, He would have hated you." She laughed.

  "Hated? In the end, he came to thank me. Perhaps you don't know my brother as well as you think you do. Willow. Maybe my mother is right: The two of you are rushing into this too quickly."

  Could she be telling the truth? I wondered. She was so sure of herself, so arrogant and confident. Maybe there was a part of Thatcher I didn't know or would never know.

  I sat back. silent.

  "I will say this for you," she continued. "my brother never moved so determinedly and so quickly before. You have him hypnotized."

  "I think of it as love, not manipulation. V67hitney."

  "Whatever," she said, "The point now is, we have to learn to like each other for the good of the family. I asked you to lunch so we could get to know each other better and, also, to advise you not to try to pry Thatcher away from his family."

  "I have no intention of doing that. Thatcher's unhappiness with things you and Bunny have done appears to have a history that predates me. Whitney."

  Again, those eyebrows rose.

  The waiter brought our salads.

  "I imagine you're planning on setting up house at Joya del Mar."

  "Yes."

  "You don't think it might be too hard living on top of each other like that? I mean, with your half brother's special problems?"

  "I hardly think it's possible to live on top of one another at Joya del Mar. It's as big as many hotels. From what Bunny has told me, she could go days, even weeks, without seeing Thatcher."

  "Frankly speaking, I couldn't imagine living with my mother in the same house."

  "That's your mother, not mine," I retorted. She winced, but didn't pick up the hatchet,

  "You're still intending to pursue a college education and a career?"

  "Of course." She smiled to herself as if I were the one deluding myself now.

  "We've already talked about that. Whitney. There's no problem."

  "I always think of promises between men and women to be of the same timber as the promises we made to the Indians." she quipped. "Most men, my brother included, speak with forked tongue."

  "I don't pretend to be an expert vet on human behavior or relations. but I think it's pretty safe to say that any relationship has to begin with a high degree of trust. Don't you have that with Hans?"

  She started to laugh so hard, she had to sit back.

  "Hans? Hans Shugar? My husband has brought deception to an art form. He carries it over from business into his personal relationships."

  I shook my head. How could a woman speak so critically of her husband and still be married to him? As if she heard my thoughts, she leaned forward again.

  "I simply don't permit myself any fantasies. Willow. I'm a realist, a cold realist."

  'Are you happy?" I countered.

  She blinked rapidly, dug her fork into her salad, ate some, sipped some wine, nodded to someone at another table, and at last replied. "Happiness is too high a goal to set for ourselves. Moments of contentment, satisfaction, pleasure, and absence of pain are about all we can hope to achieve. Anyone who thinks otherwise is..."

  "What?"

  "Walking a tightrope without a net beneath. It's a hard fall," she declared.

  Suddenly. I understood her completely. I thought. Whitney was afraid. Perhaps she had been afraid all her life. When I considered the home in which she had been raised and the experiences she had witnessing her own parent's marriage, it was understandable. but I wasn't going to permit her to put the dark clouds over my days and into my future.

  "Do you know what having trust means. Whitney?"

  "I have the feeling you're about to tell me." she said.

  "It's being willing to take a risk. Yes, it's like walking on a tightrope and maybe it is without a net, but if you put yourself in a cocoon of thick cynicism, you'll never know what it's like to be up there, to be free, to feel the wind in your hair and the love in your heart."

  She smiled coldly at me. "You're exactly what I expected," she said. "With all the vulnerability to be a Thatcher Eaton woman, I wish you luck." She raised her glass and downed the remaining champagne. "But let's forget about all this." she added quickly, "and talk about your wedding plans." She reached into her purse. "I have some suggestions for you after speaking with Bunny.'

  Now it was my turn to smile to myself.

  Thatcher could be marrying the devil, for all she and Bunny cared. It was the affair, the reception, the event that mattered the most.

  After all, they would say it themselves: This is Palm Beach.

  9

  The Club d'Amour

  .

  There were times when I stopped to consider

  what I proposed to accomplish within the next six months and found myself breaking out in a cold sweat of absolute panic. For a few moments I would become almost catatonic, unable to swallow, my body trembling. I was, after all, no longer responsible only for myself. I had convinced Mother and Linden to take this journey with me, buoying them up with as much of my inflated confidence as I could spare, helping them to see every formidable task as manageable.

  First. I had to find the time to prepare all of the preliminary reading for my college classes. Professor Fuentes was right when he called me ambitious after he saw the pile of books I had gathered at the college bookstore. It was going to be difficult enough to get all the required reading completed, much less do anything extra. One of Daddy's characteristics was his ability to always be realistic about himself and others. It frightened me a bit that I had overestimated my capability and underestimated the tasks I had to accomplish in the time allotted. I felt like the pilot of a plane who only after takeoff realizes she isn't as capable of flying and navigating as she first thought. And there were precious passengers aboard!

  Reading, taking notes, and organizing myself to start an entirely new college experience. I had little time and no tolerance for frivolous things. and Bunny Eaton seemingly had no end of those when it came to tossing them my way.

  At least two or three times a day, our phone would ring and she would be on it with a question or a request for input about such earth-shattering things as the shape of the chairs for the tables at the wedding reception, the design of the chair covers, and the calor of the servants' uniforms. She always insisted that both Mother and I be on the phone if we didn't want to come right up to the house for another planning session. We usually opted for the phone. Mother on the one in the kitchen, me on the one in my bedroom.

  She justified this persistence and intensity by continually bemoaning how pressured she was because of what she described as her imminent evacuation from Joya del Mar: Not only was there packing to do, but also decorating for her new home. Despite this claim of heavier burdens. she wanted to stick her nose into everything we did by ourselves and. I found out, actually visited the dress shop to see the gown I had chosen and inquire as to what I had brought home for Mother to try.

  "I don't mean to be an interfering mother-in-law before you even get married." she told me. "but I do wish you would consider Rose Le Carre's selections before settling on something. A wedding gown stays with you forever."

  "I'm happy with my choice." I said firmly. "Oh. I'm sorry," she said as if someone had died. She paused and then skipped to another topic, never discouraged.

  One week she went on and on for days about the wedding favors.

  "Wedding favors should be thought of as thankyou gifts to our guests for coming and for supporting our children's commitment to each other," she lectured first. "They'll serve as memories, but they can also be part of our decorations and they can be something of lasting value.

  "In fact," she went on. laughing, "many wedding favors outlast the marriages around here."

  "What is it you want us to choose now. Bunny?" I asked, quickly losing my patience.

  "Do you want bookmarks, key rings, pencils or pens, mag-nets, letter openers? Candles are big. I don't approve of those cheap disposab
le cameras. We have professional photographers and don't want to detract from that. Well?"

  "Mother?"

  "Pens are practical," she said.

  "Yes, but bookmarks can be very elegant," Bunny said.

  All right, then. bookmarks." I snapped. I had to get back to my reading for social psych. "You and Thatcher will have to pose for some preliminary photographs so we can get them on the bookmarks. Now, what colors do you prefer? These aren't going to be those cheap paper things. They'll be leather."

  "Why don't you choose the color. Bunny?" I said. "You know so much more about it."

  "Yes, well. I was thinking we'd keep it in line with our theme, the same shades as the invitations."

  "Perfect," I said.

  At most recent wedding receptions I've attended, they had golf tees. Perhaps we should have golf tees for the men and bookmarks for the women, or would that be too chauvinistic? Many women play golf here. I do, whenever I get the time."

  My stomach was churning. "Mother..."

  "You go off and do what you have to do. Willow. Bunny and I can work this out." Mother mercifully volunteered,

  "Really?" Bunny said. "I mean, if a bride doesn't give her full attention to these things--"

  She trusts my judgment," Mother interceded. I couldn't see her, but I imagined her smiling.

  "I do, Thank you." I said, and hung up before Bunny could utter another annoying syllable.

  .

  Ten days later, I began my first college semester at my new school. I had Professor Fuentes's class at 11 A.M. Tuesdays and Thursdays. There were only fifteen students. All were friendly, one boy in particular, Holden Mitchell, quite a bit more attentive than anyone else. He and I shared a second class, a required English literature course. Tall and darkhaired with features nearly too perfect to be natural. Holden had unusual blue eyes, cobalt blue with a shade of green. Most of the time, this extraordinary feature was hidden because he had a habit of squinting when he spoke directly to someone, as if he were trying to see some scene scorched on his brain. He sat behind me in both classes,

  Professor Fuentes gave me a big hello when I first entered his classroom. Then he saw my engagement ring and widened his eyes with amused surprise.