DeBeers 01 Willow

by V. C. Andrews

  "So," he concluded, "please feel free to ask me anything you want."

  He sat back, waiting for my brilliant inquiries. I could feel the panic swirling around within ine, building into a tornado of hysteria.

  "I think I'd like to see something of the world here first, get a sense of it so that I don't waste your time with generalities." I said.

  He nodded but looked disappointed.

  "I'd like permission to return as soon as rye begun my study," I quickly added.

  "Absolutely. I'll find the time for you. I'd want to do it for your father." he said. "He did a great deal for me and was always available whenever I needed his expertise."

  "Thank you."

  I stood up, and he rose and came around the desk.

  "I'll have my receptionist write out the address you need, and as I said. I'll make a call and alert these people that you are coming to see them. I'll try to think of one or two other people who would be of some value to your project. The rest will depend on your own talents and abilities."

  ''As it should," I said.

  He smiled, "I see Dr. De Beers had a good influence on his own child. You are very fortunate to have grown up with him as a father, I'm sure."

  "Yes, yes, I was." I said.

  He opened the door and told the receptionist to write out the address for what he called Soya del Mar,

  "Excuse me, but is that a hotel?" I asked the receptionist as she wrote on a slip of paper.

  She looked up at Dr. Anderson, who laughed.

  "No. You know you're in a core home in Palm Beach when the house and the grounds have a name. This one simply means "Jewel of the Sea." It has its own beach front. I suppose to most people in this country, it would look like a resort. But don't let me give any of this away," he said, winking. "You're about to discover another country, another world, which, as you might imagine, and as you just heard through some small examples, provides me with plenty of work."

  His receptionist laughed.

  I thanked them both and left.

  Outside. I released all the hot, pent-up air in my lungs. I clutched the note with the address in my hand.

  I had found out what I had come to find out. My mother was still here. She was not in therapy. She was out there somewhere, waiting for something to fill the empty spot in her life and never imagining, perhaps, what it was she was waiting for. Would she be disappointed when I appeared on her doorstep? Would she be angry because I was threatening her new life, her very sanity, perhaps? Would I bring too much pain along with me?

  Aside from that one letter in which she had remarked about the pictures of me my father had sent, there was no other evidence that she had tried to find out about me. Perhaps she had come to terms with it all. She had traveled past her regret and her sadness. What right did I have to bring her back to it? 6

  Joya del Mar

  .

  I decided to return to The Breakers for some breakfast. My nerves kept me from haying much of an appetite. but I knew I should eat something before attempting to do any more. For a while I sat sipping my coffee, nibbling on a danish, and staring at the slip of paper on which Dr. Anderson's secretary had written the address that had been my mother's. What would the people who lived there now tell me that would matter to me? Why bother with them at all?

  Wasn't I wasting my time pretending to be a student doing a study of Palm Beach life? Shouldn't I just find out where my mother was and go directly to her, shock or no shock? Was I just procrastinating? Now that I was actually here and I had gone forward with my first steps, the tension had my fingers trembling so much that I almost spilled my coffee twice. I sat there fighting with myself. truly a split personality.

  One part of me was tiring me to check out of the hotel immediately and just return to college.

  Go home, the voice told me. The deanwill fix everything again. Your teachers, your friends, maybe even Allanwould attribute your impulsive actions to the terrible grief following your father's death. After all, the -woman you're attempting to see and get to know is really a stranger. What you're doing to her is unfair. Do you dare simply appear and explode in her face like some sort of bomb? What if you were responsible for driving- her to another breakdown? Wouldn't the rest of her blame you and hate you and rightly so? What good would you have accomplished? Could you accomplish more than simply satisfying- your curiosity, anyway?

  The other side of me snapped back with just as much passion: Your cowardice is making you selfish. Of course you should go. Why shouldn't she see you, get to know you and to know what happened during- all these years? A real relationship is not a one-sided affair, You will give to her as much as, if not more than, she will give to you Maybe not having you, not having a family, has left her a broken, lonely person. You have the power to repair that, to restore some

  meaning, to her life, too. Couldn't it be that your -father intended for you to do this someday? Why else would he have left you his diary? Who do you think you are? my counter self asked. You can't do that, restore meaning to someone's life. You have enough trouble doing- it for yourself much less for someone else. You're carrying, too much psychological baggage. You're like a handicapped person diving into the water to save a drowning victim.

  Nonsense. Don't listen to that. You are your father's daughter. You have his backbone. You can do it.

  "Excuse me," I heard a soft voice say. For a moment. I thought that was in my mind. too. "I know it's not any of my business, but are you all right, miss?"

  I looked up and into the deepest, dark blue eyes I had ever seen. There was a brightness to them, a distinct glint of intelligence, but the way the young man lifted his eyebrows and curled his strong, straight lips at the corners indicated an underlying current of amusement in this handsome, well-tanned face. That complexion, his beautiful eyes, and his perfectly straight white teeth made the face seem positively electric. cinematic. His styled dark brown hair was just on the border between being distinguished and businesslike and a little wild, young, carefree.

  He wasn't quite six feet tall, but he filled out his gray pinstriped suit jacket with athletic broad shoulders. It was a custom-made suit, fitted to his slim waist. I caught sight of a gold cufflink with a tiny diamond in the center. It glittered in the sunlight that seemed like a spotlight capturing both of us on some stage for the moment.

  I saw him glance at another man at the table across from mine and wink. He, too, was in a suit and tie and looked about the same age, which I estimated to be thirty at the most.

  "What?" He widened his smile. "My associate and I couldn't help but notice how troubled you looked," he explained. "I should add that I am a trial attorney and make it my business to read people's faces, especially when they are on the witness stand or they are sitting in a jury. I'm very good at it Can I help you in any way?"

  "No," I said sharply. That he was right about me suddenly annoyed me. I didn't like the fact that I was under observation, especially without my being aware of it. It was embarrassing. Had I been talking to myself? Were my lips moving? Did they think I was some sort of crackpot? The way my adoptive mother used to pounce on me if I spoke to my imaginary friends or my dolls came storming back.

  I looked at this man and then at his friend again. What audacity!

  "I'm usually not mistaken," he insisted when I didn't reply quickly enough for him.

  "Well, you're not in a courtroom now," I said as sharply as I could. "And you are mistaken."

  The humor and warmth in his eyes popped like a bubble, and those blues took on the steely, cold glint of someone who had been reprimanded. The speed with which he changed expression actually quickened my heartbeat.

  "I didn't mean to be intrusive." he said, pulling back. "I'm sorry,"

  He turned quickly and returned to his table. His associate asked him something, but he shook his head and put his credit card on the bill. I tried not to look at them. but I was so self-conscious now. I signaled the waiter for my bill, signed it, and actually left be
fore they paid theirs.

  I was outside waiting for my car moments later. Out of the corner of my eye. I saw them approaching, but they didn't have to wait for their vehicle. They got into the gold Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible that had been parked nearby, glittering like a jeweled chariot in the sun. That, plus the self-satisfied grin on their faces, infuriated me as they drove off.

  Minutes later. I got into my rental car and started for my mother's family property, hoping that whatever turmoil that arrogant young man had discerned in my face would not be as visible to anyone else I was about to meet.

  Dr. Anderson's receptionist had scribbled some quick directions for me on the same slip of paper. Perusing the map the car rental agency had given me. I was able to find my way easily to South Ocean Boulevard. The majestic properties, walled estates well hidden by the sixty-foot-high hedges, reinforced what I had read in the Palm Beach magazine in my hotel room. These were homes built to be monuments to pleasure and privacy.

  When I reached Jaya del Mar. I was no less impressed. I pulled up to the walled gates which looked as if they locked away their inhabitants from the outside world forever. For a moment. I puzzled over how anyone announced his or her arrival. I saw a television camera in the top corner of the gate, but what was I supposed to do, wait here until someone looked at a monitor and saw I had pulled into the drive? Finally. I spotted what looked like a call box almost completely obscured by a pink bougainvillea bush. I had to get out to press the button. After a moment. I heard a man in a very irritable voice say, "Yes?"

  "My name is Isabel Amou," I said. "Dr. Anderson was supposed to call to..."

  "Yes, yes," I heard, in the same tone of impatience.

  The entry groaned and started to part. I hurried back to my vehicle and watched the gates slowly open as if they were doing so reluctantly, against their better judgment. When they had parted and I was able to look into the estate, I truly thought I was entering the closest to heaven on earth man could create.

  The mauve driveway looked as though it were swept and scrubbed after each and every car drove over it. It continued for what looked like a good third of a mile toward the Mediterranean-style pearl-white mansion that loomed against an azure sky. Against the walls of the grounds to my right and left, oleander bushes close to twenty feet high bloomed in salmon pink, red, and white blossoms, a startling sea of color. The grass over the grounds was more like fine green carpet, trimmed and cut so perfectly that one would think it was maintained by a small army of gardeners on their luiees, each armed with a pair of scissors.

  On my right was a very large pond with a fountain jetting over some smooth boulders. An egret was perched to the side of one of the boulders, standing on one leg, so still I thought at first it was a statue. Then it moved, and I smiled to myself.

  Closer to the house, the royal coconut palm trees stood like sentinels lining the circular entry drive. In addition to the main building, the house spread over four pavilion-like structures punctuated by graceful arches. The entrance was under a loggia or arcade made of cast stone. I could see the ocean behind the house and another building down toward the beach.

  My heart was thumping so hard. I had to sit quietly for a few moments before attempting to turn off the engine and get out of the car. I was here under false pretenses. What if these people saw right through me and asked me to leave? What if they made a biz, scene? Not only wouldn't I have met my real mother. but I would have embarrassed her without having met her and without her knowing I was here. I felt as if I were caught in some hurricane of my own making, spinning from one mistake to another. Once again. I thought I should turn right around and go home before it was too late and I was swimming in a pool of dark regret.

  A knock on the passenger-side window caused me to jump and cry out in surprise because I was so deep in my own thoughts. A plump, short man with hair like Harpo Marx peered in at me, his chubbyfingered right hand shading his eyes. His nose widened with the lifting of his lips, so pink I thought he might be wearing lipstick.

  He wore a tuxedo jacket and a bow tie. He gestured for me to roll down the window. I turned on the key and pressed the button for it.

  "Thank you." he said, and wiped his forehead with the back of his right hand. "I'm sorry, but you must come in now if you're coming in. Mr. and Mrs. Eaton want to go to bed."

  "Pardon me?"

  "You are this Isabel Amou, are you not?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Well, either get out and come in, or please drive away," he said in a voice wrapped in

  intolerance. He turned and started back toward the front entrance. He had a squat body and waddled like a duck, his wide hips swinging the tails of his tuxedo jacket as he moved along.

  I got out and followed him. At the door, he turned, pressed his lips tightly, and nodded to indicate I should continue into the house. I paused in the large entryway. On the right was hung a tremendous tapestry depicting lords and ladies adoring Bacchus. the Greek-Roman god of wine. It looked like an authentic piece of fifteenth-century art, faded and distressed with time.

  "This way," he said, gesturing to his right to direct me over the marble floors. Along the hallway were hung gold-leaf family crests. I wondered if they belonged to my mother's family or the tenant's.

  Just ahead of us. I heard a loud female peal of laughter and then a man's voice saying, "She said that? How ticky-tacky."

  My eyes were everywhere, nibbling at the grand art, the statuary, the frescoes, the marble-topped tables holding large Lladro and Lalique figurines. the Bristol crystal chandeliers, and the wall sconces with cherubs seemingly growing out of them. We passed two lavish Dresden urns and entered a sitting room with a coffered ceiling and more tapestries, frescoes, and paintings. Every bit of available floor and wall space was occupied with some valuable work of art.

  Before me stood a large convex fireplace covered with a mosaic of colorful shards of tile. For a moment. I was so taken with everything in the house I didn't notice the couple sprawled on the circular sofa. At their feet was an oversized marble table holding two bottles of champagne in ice buckets and what looked like a silver tray of beluga caviar on crackers.

  The man sat up. He wore an elegantly styled light gray tuxedo with dark gray pinstripes, gray satin lapels, and a round diamond where a bow tie ordinarily would be. He was a handsome man of about fifty. I thought, with streaks of gray at his temples, but none running through his wavy, thick sable hair. His lightly tanned face was still dark enough to contrast with and highlight his hazel eyes. Despite his narrow, lean face, there was a hint of an oncoming, not to be denied, double chin. He was not stout, but he was a good ten to fifteen pounds overweight. A smile of curiosity and some impishness formed first around his eyes and then softened his lips.

  "Well, hello there," he said, "Welcome to Joya del Mar." The woman beside him cackled. She was still somewhat slouched. She wore a light mauve silk crepe gown with spaghetti straps and a slit to her thigh that revealed a trim, attractive left leg. Off-white iridescent sequins and pearl flowers were sewn on the bodice of her dress. She had her shoes kicked off and stared at me with a silly grin on her face.

  I thought she was a woman in her mid- to late forties who had held onto a youthful look, perhaps with the help of a cosmetic surgeon's magic wand. She had her long brown hair streaked vermilion and swept back from her face, a face with kitten features: small button nose, soft, pretty mouth, and cerulean eves. A small dimple flashed in her left cheek.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't know you were on your way someplace. Perhaps I could come back at another time and..."

  They both laughed.

  "On our way? Hardly." he said. "We've just come home."

  "Oh."

  "We were at the charity ball at Mar-a-Lago. You must have just arrived in Palm Beach if you didn't know that was being held last night."

  "And this morning." his wife added. They both laughed again,

  "Yes, it did go well into the morning. As you see, we'
re having a little breakfast," he added, nodding at the tray of caviar and the champagne.

  "Asher, perhaps you should introduce us," his wife suggested, "and offer the young lady a glass of shampoo."

  "Champagne," Asher said. "I'm Asher Eaton, and this foolish woman beside me is my wife, I-lope."

  "Oh, please call me Bunny," she said, finally sitting up.

  I smiled. "I'm Isabel Amou."

  "Yes, we know. We received Dr. Anderson's call just as you walked in."

  "Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to burst in on you like this."

  "It's all right. For ten minutes or so," Asher Eaton said. "After that, we must, like vampires, go to bed, I'm afraid. A bit too much of everything last night."

  "And this morning," Bunny reminded him.

  "And this morning. So, how about some champagne?" he asked, tipping the bottle toward a glass.

  "No, thank you. It's still early for me," I said. "Have a seat, please," he offered, holding his hand toward the settee across from them. "Are you a reporter or a writer?" he asked as soon as I sat.

  "Oh, no. no. I'm still a college student," I said.

  They stared a moment and then glanced at each other.

  "Oh, we thought Dr. Anderson had said you were writing about Palm Beach society."

  "I am, but it's a college project, a sociological study," I explained.

  Mrs. Eaton's excitement deflated from her face like air out of a balloon. She sank back into her slouch, "I was wondering why you didn't bring a camera," she said. "Last Friday, we were featured in the Shiny Sheet," she added with pride.