DeBeers 02 Wicked Forest

by V. C. Andrews

  "Is that what I think it is?" he asked while the others streamed in to take their seats.

  "Yes."

  "I guess I underestimated how involved you were when I asked. Congratulations. When is the wedding?"

  "End of June. You'll be invited," I told him. and he laughed.

  "Wait awhile before sending it out. You may hate my class and decide to have nothing more to do with me."

  "I doubt it." I said, and his eyes warmed.

  I enjoyed his class right from the beginning. He had an informal way of teaching and seemed to work from invisible notes scribbled an his lectern. After the first few sessions. I began to feel as if we were all just a group of people very interested in the subject who gathered twice a week to have a good discussion. Even when he scheduled a test or made an

  assignment, it didn't impose a heavy burden, at least not on me.

  I enjoyed all my teachers and all my classes. The first week. I grew friendly with a pair of twin sisters. Lani and Petula Butterworth. They were attractive women with strawberry blond hair and patches of freckles in exactly the same places on their creamy faces, on the crests of their cheeks and along their temples. Both were about my height but with more petite figures, making them look years younger. I quickly learned that Petula had been nicknamed Pet by her father and was called that by most of her friends, but not by Loni. There was significant sibling rivalry, and Loni was quick to tell me, "Petula is my father's pet." Pet denied it, of course, but seemed to enjoy the accusation anyway. I thought they would make for a great psychological study and even, when I felt comfortable enough with him, mentioned it to Professor Fuentes, who said he couldn't agree more.

  "Take mental notes." he advised me. "You might use it someday. I think I read somewhere in your father's papers," he added. ''that he said for anyone in psychology, there are no wasted

  experiences. We're always in the midst of some research, something to add and to use."

  "That was the way my father lived," I agreed.

  Most of the people I met at the school, especially my teachers, were interesting to me. If I had inherited anything from my father in that regard. I guessed it to be his insatiable curiosity about people, especially people he had just met. He would go after them like some sort of mental cannibal, deyouring their life histories, with an endless appetite for tragic, emotional, or significant events in their lives. I suppose his genius came from his ability to question wisely and make efficient use of every moment he spent with someone, no matter how difficult the situation or how short the time.

  I was curious about Holden Mitchell, He was outgoing and talkative, yet seemed to have a strange restraint about him as if he was afraid of revealing something dark about himself. I quickly learned that no one, not even those who'd known him before, got too close to Holden Mitchell.

  He came from a well-to-do family and lived in what Palm Beach residents would call a modest home, but most everyone else in the country would call a mansion. What I did learn was that his father had been married before and divorced with no children and was nearly twenty years older than his mother.

  Although Holden was just twenty, his father was sixty-eight and now a fully retired dental surgeon who had enjoyed a very successful practice. I got most of this in dribs and drabs from Holden himself, although socializing at college was no longer of much interest to me.

  My college life and my life back at Jaya del Mar were so different from each other that at times I felt I should be carrying a passport because I was moving between two separate countries. The people I associated with at college were almost another species from the socialites who, as Thatcher predicted, began to chase after me.

  It began with an invitation to lunch at a private Palm Beach club. Manon Florette, the owner's daughter and the granddaughter of the originator of the club, first sent me a written invitation and then. before I could RSVP, phoned to be certain I had received it and was going to attend.

  "You should be flattered." Thatcher told me when I described it all to him.

  Why?

  "Club Florette is the most exclusive of all the private clubs in Palm Beach. Each year upwards of seven to eight hundred people apply for membership. and Henri Florette admits ten."

  "Ten? Out of that many? How does he decide, net worth?"

  "No. Actually, he told me he looks for the most interesting people to add to the mix and doesn't concern himself with their net worth. To join, you have to pay five thousand dollars, and then the yearly dues are three thousand."

  "Just to eat at this place?"

  "And be known as a member. It's like getting another ribbon to put on your chest." Thatcher said. "Anyway, the fact that she called to follow up shows you how much they want to know you."

  I tilted my head suspiciously. "Are you a member of this club?"

  "Never applied, never was asked to apply, but maybe now we will be." he decided.

  "I'm sure we'll find better places to waste our money," I muttered, and he laughed,

  "Waste not, want not is different here. It's waste not, why not?" We both laughed.

  As long as we both could laugh at the world we were in. I guessed it would be all right.

  At first sight, Club Florette looked like it fit its reputation for being exclusive. It was well off South Ocean Boulevard and tucked neatly behind very high hedges and a gate with a security guard. Even the gate wasn't just an ordinary gate: It was gilded and scrolled with palm frees. My name had been left at the gate, which was then opened, moving as slowly as I imagined the gates of heaven would. The grounds were beautiful, with a large pond populated by swans and pink flamingos. Everywhere I looked, flowers bloomed radiantly and uniformed gardeners pruned and nurtured the fauna.

  The building itself looked more like a small beach hotel than a restaurant. It was a plush. sprawling Mediterranean-style structure in mauve stucco with a white marble portico. The valet stepped out to receive me as I drove up. He opened my door and welcomed me to the club. Almost every other car parked there was either a Mercedes or a Rolls. I saw a Lamborghini side by side with a Porsche. No wonder the valet smiled when he got into my car. I thought. It was a new experience for him to park something worth less than fifty thousand dollars.

  The moment I entered the club, a zray-haired man in a tuxedo approached. He surprised me by addressing me by name as if he'd known me for a long time. Was my picture already in the Shiny?

  "Miss De Beers," he said with a smile blossoming as he drew closer. He extended his hand. "My name is Jorge. Welcome to Club Florette. Your hostess and her guests are already seated. Please, let me show you the way."

  He took me through the small but elaborately appointed lobby with its oil paintings in gilded frames, its rich-looking leather settees and glass tables set around plush Persian area rugs, and brought me to a small but lavish dining room, the windows all draped in red satin and gold curtains. All of the tables were occupied, but everyone was speaking softly as though no one wanted to be overheard.

  For a few seconds all conversation stopped and all heads turned my way. Then the conversations resumed as if I were too insignificant to require another second of pause and attention.

  Manon Florette sat with three other women, all about the same age, mid- to late twenties, perhaps early thirties. She was an attractive light brunette about five feet eight with cerulean eyes. Like the other women at the table, she wore far more jewelry than I would ever think necessary, especially for lunch: diamond teardrop earrings, ropes of pearls, a cameo with a diamond set in the face pinned above her right breast. All the fingers of her left hand bore rings, and she had an engagement ring nearly twice the size of mine, as well as a diamond-studded gold band. The belt of her black pantsuit glittered with jewels as well.

  "Willow, how nice of you to come," she said, extending her hand.

  "Thank you for the invitation." I told her, which were apparently the exact words she was waiting to hear. She nodded softly at her companions, who looked just as
satisfied.

  "Let me introduce you to a few of my friends. This is Liana Knapp,- she began.

  Liana was a much taller woman with short, dark brown hair and Green speckled eyes. Her eyes were her best feature. Her mouth was wide and her lips uneven. She had an abrupt chin and a long neck that brought back visions of the flamingos I had just seen.

  "Pleased to meet you," Liana said, giving- me her hand, but holding it out limply as if I was to take it and kiss it as someone would kiss the hand of a queen.

  I gave it a quick shake, and her hand fell like lead to her lap.

  "And this is Sharon Hollis," Manon continued, The much shorter woman with ebony hair and a dark complexion rose a little from her chair to extend her hand to me. I thought she had a pleasant, friendly smile and cute features, including a button nose and nearly gray pearl eyes.

  "Hi," she said quickly.

  "Finally. Marjorie Lane." Manon said.

  "Why do you always manage to introduce me last. Manon, and always preface the introduction with 'finally'?" Marjorie asked.

  "Simply alphabetical order. Marjorie. No insult intended." Manon said with an impish arin. The other two widened their smiles. but Marjorie shook her heavy shoulders as if she were raffling feathers and then turned to me.

  She was the stoutest of the group, with a round face and thick lips. Her eyes were a dull brown that seemed to be infected by the flat coloring of her light brown hair, the strands of which hung limply down to her jawbone. She wore the least amount of makeup and, although also dressed in a black suit with almost as much jewelry adorning her as Manon wore, she didn't look as elegant,

  "Happy to make your acquaintance," she recited like some young girl ordered to say it and told exactly how to say it. She glared at Manon, then looked at the menu.

  "Please. sit," Manon told me. and I sat between Liana and Marjorie.

  "We've all been anxious to meet you," Sharon Hollis said. "Naturally, we hear a great deal about everyone in Palm Beach, but so much about Lou.

  "Really? I don't know why." I said, pretending surprise and ignorance.

  "You don't?" Marjorie said, looking up quickly from the menu.

  "Well. I know Thatcher is a respected attorney, and I imagine there would be interest in our wedding," I suggested,

  "Yes. yes." Marjorie said impatiently, "but surely you must know your family is one of the most famous in Palm Beach?"

  "I had no idea." I said, my eyes as amazed as I could make them.

  Mallon laughed.

  "Marjorie has a way of getting right to the heart of things. She doesn't enjoy preambles."

  "Does that mean she doesn't enjoy foreplay?" Liana asked, and everyone but Marjorie and me laughed.

  "Well, Marjorie?" Sharon followed. "Do you or don't you?"

  "Stop acting like a bunch of teenage girls," she snapped. She turned to me. "I just don't see the point in beating around the bush or being a hypocrite." she added, glaring back at her companions.

  "I probably agree with that," I said. "but I do enjoy foreplay, too."

  Now they all laughed, even Marjorie.

  "I don't want you to think of us as gossips." Manon said. That isn't why we invited you to lunch."

  "Oh, then why did you?" I asked.

  "We four consider ourselves a sort of welcoming committee, don't we. girls?"

  "Absolutely," Liana said. ''We won't be bringing a basket of fruit or a cake to your door, but we do like to greet new residents properly."

  "Everyone could use more friends," Sharon said, nodding at her own statement to get everyone's agreement.

  "A friend is something special," I said. "and so rare.

  "Precisely," Marjorie said. "That's why it's so important to make the effort to gain them, good ones, that is."

  "What would you like to drink. Willow?" Manon asked. She signaled the waiter with a movement of her eyes, and he turned from the table he was serving and hurried to us. "We're all having cosmopolitans."

  "Sounds good." I said, and she told the waiter, "Is everyone here a member of Club Florette?" I asked.

  "My father is," Sharon said.

  "No, none of us are actual members. We're Manon's guests. She invites us at least twice a year, but no more than that." Liana said pointedly.

  "You know I don't like to take advantage of my position, Liana," Sharon said.

  "No," Liana quipped. "I don't know that. In fact, as long as I've known you, you've taken advantage of your position."

  The others laughed, Manon joining them.

  Were they actually friends? I wondered, They each seemed anxious to jump on any opportunity to ridicule or criticize another. It was like some sort of socialite parlor game.

  "Do you plan on living at Jaya del Mar after you're married?" Marjorie asked.

  "I can't think of any reason why not. It's so beautiful," I said. "Yes, it is," Sharon agreed.

  "What about the Eatons? Are you all going to live together, one happy family?" Marjorie pursued.

  "Eatons? Thatcher and I are the Eatons," I said, pretending not to understand.

  "I meant his parents," she said sharply,

  "I don't know where they've established themselves, but understand its not far. Why?"

  "In-laws have a way of not letting go," she replied dryly.

  "Marjorie is recently divorced." Mallon explained. At the moment, she is quite bitter about marriage, in-laws, all of it. right. Marjorie?"

  "Just my ex's," she muttered, and the others laughed.

  Neither Sharon nor Liana was wearing a wedding or engagement ring. Manon caught me glancing at their fingers.

  "These two were married as well_. Sharon twice and Liana only once. My husband is Earl Lapel, of the Lapel jewelry family," Manon said.

  "But you don't refer to yourself as Mrs. Lapel?" They all laughed.

  "You don't give up your name when you get married, unless your husband's name has more cachet and importance than your own, that is." Marjorie said. "I can understand your wanting to be known as Willow Eaton."

  "Really? You obviously don't know then that my father was Dr. De Beers, the renowned

  psychiatrist." I said with a smile that could work for the devil. "De Beers is far better known than Eaton.'

  "I was thinking more of the Montgomery connection," she said in defense.

  I turned to her, my eyes firm.

  "I am not ashamed of my mother or my brother. They happen to be wonderful people, sincere and caring people."

  "That's wonderful." Marion said quickly. "I'm sure Marjorie would agree, wouldn't you. Marjorie?" she asked with the force of a sledgehammer.

  "Yes," Marjorie said. "Of course."

  "So you've invited me here because you're all very curious about me and how I came to win the heart of Thatcher Eaton." I said. "Is that it?"

  "That's certainly a big part of the reason, yes," Sharon said eagerly. Marjorie raised her eyebrows.

  "Why beat around the bush?" I asked.

  She glanced at the others. They were all smiling now. I sat back.

  "It was like walking into a fairy tale." I began. The air itself was electric between us. We could see nothing else but each other. I've always been skeptical of romantic love, but there it was, vibrant, pulsating, full of passion and not to be denied."

  Their attention was glued to me, no one stirring.

  "We courted. I left, but we couldn't keep apart. I think I said yes because I was afraid he would die on the spot if I didn't. That, as well as the fact that I was head over heels in love with him as well. We've done many romantic things together, and we look forward to doing them again and again for the rest of our lives," I concluded, looking from one to the other. They all looked incapable of speech.

  "Wow," Sharon finally said. "I don't think I felt that way with either of my marriages. It's so unusual."

  "Unusual?"

  "She means here." Manon said. "Here, we see marriage as a result of good planning more than hot romance. First, we don't trust men
very much, do we. girls?"

  "Very- much? We don't trust them at all." Marjorie corrected.

  "For men, lying, betrayal. deceit, selfgratification are more natural than they are for women," Liana added.

  "So we've formed something of an alliance, and we have invited you here today not, as you think, purely out of curiosity, but more to see if you are a good candidate for our club, which we call the Club d'Amour. the Love Club."

  "What is it you do in this club?" I asked.

  "First, we vow to always be honest with each other, and second, we vow to look after each other's, shall we say, romantic interests?"

  The others nodded.

  "Think of us as a sort of insurance policy, a Palm Beach insurance policy," Liana said, and they laughed.

  "I still don't understand," I said.

  "Each of us has a different piece of the pie here." Mallon continued. leaning over the table. "We all attend similar functions, socialize with many of the same people, but each of us also has a different specialty. an area of expertise, if you will. and that helps us to bring together a more complete picture of things. events. especially events that could and often do impact on one or another of us."

  "Precisely," Marjorie said.

  For example." Liana continued. "it was Sharon here who first brought Marjorie's former husband Hugh Durrel's infidelities to her attention."

  "And then we helped her gather the information she needed to pin the tail on the donkey," Manon said. and they all laughed again.

  I stared for a moment, their words sinking in.

  "You mean to say you function as spies, private detectives for one another?"

  "Exactly," Manon said, nodding and sitting back. "We've just come to the realization that by ourselves, alone, we are not capable of competing with the men we many. Say what you will about our husbands and former husbands, they are all quite established, confident, and capable men, and all part of the good old boys' club"

  I shook my head.

  "Thank you for considering including me, but this all sounds too diabolical for me. If a man and a woman cannot have trust, they can't have love."