DeBeers 01 Willow

by V. C. Andrews

  "Go home, Willow," I whispered. "Don't let your head rest on this pillow tonight. Who knows what nightmares are stored within it, what images would haunt your sleep?

  "Go home. Willow, go home. You have ghosts enough there to populate your dark world of dreams as it is. You don't have to add the ones who reside here."

  Thinking so deeply, I left the room and didn't realize I was on the rear loggia until Jennings cleared his throat behind me and brought my iced tea on a silver tray.

  "Thank you, Jennings. When does Mrs. Eaton rise?"

  "It varies." he said almost solely out of the right corner of his mouth. "depending on the evening before, which often extends into the day after."

  "I see."

  "Yes," he said. "If you don't, you soon will." he added without emotion, "Do you require anything else, miss? Some crackers and cheese. perhaps?"

  "No, thank you." I said.

  "Very good, If you need anything. I'll be close by," he said, and retreated into a corridor as if he were a statue that came to life at the sound of his name.

  The service people here don't respect the people for who they work. I thought. but I doubt that it bothers people like Bunny and Asher Eaton. It was almost as if they saw themselves as levels and levels above the rest of the world whose criticism and ridicule fell far too short to disturb them, much less do them any harm. This certainly was a unique place. I thought. Maybe my contrived reason for being here, my study, was a good idea after all. I laughed to myself. sipped some iced tea, and sat back to look out at the sea and think.

  Less than a minute or so later, I saw Linden emerge from the house carrying his leather case in one hand and his easel over his left shoulder like a lance. He made his way down the beach and disappeared around the bend. My heartbeat quickened with the realization that if I was going to do this. I should do it now, immediately, or else go home.

  I rose and walked down the path to the beach and then followed in his footsteps. When I came around the bend. I saw he was just setting up his easel. He didn't see or hear me approaching. Rather than come right on him. I thought I would call out.

  "Hi," I said.

  He paused and looked at me, with a face not angry this time so much as it was surprised and curious.

  "Looks like we'll never be rid of you as long as the Eatons are our tenants," He turned away from me and continued to set up his easel.

  "I'm really not the big bad bogeyman." I said. "You've misunderstood my motives and my purpose."

  "Right," he muttered. Of course, it has to be my fault."

  "I like your work." I said, ignoring his sarcasm.

  He turned back to me. his right eyebrow lifted. "Is that so? And where did you see my work?" he challenged with angry disbelief. "The Eatons don't have anything in the house. One of the first things they asked when they moved in was to have my paintings taken down and out. Bunny, as she likes to be called, said they were too depressing and would upset their guests. The truth is, all of their guests depress and even sicken me," he said.

  "Oh," I said.

  He tilted his head a bit. "You're now one of their guests?"

  "I'm afraid so." I replied. He almost smiled. He nodded and unzipped his case instead.

  "I'd be afraid so. too. So." he continued. "where did you see my work-- or is that just something you think will win me over?" he stabbed,

  "No, it's not. I am not in the habit of saying things I don't mean." I shot back at him, my face filling with crimson indignation.

  This time, he did soften his lips into something bordering on a smile.

  "Really. We have a sincere person in the world of insincerity, pretension. and cosmetic surgery."

  "For your information_. I saw three of your paintings at a gallery last night."

  "Oh." He turned, his skepticism challenged, "And?'

  "I think your work is very interesting, especially the way you put something sureal into the real."

  I was so nervous I used Thatcher's words and hoped they were the right ones. I did believe it.

  Now both of Linden's eyebrows were up. "Is that so? Have you studied art?"

  "In college. yes."

  "Who are your favorite artists?" he asked, whipping his question like someone testing and challenging.

  "I'm not crazy about abstract art. but I find works like

  Mondrian's Broadway Boogie-Woogie fun, I like Jackson Pollock's Moon Woman and actually have a poster of it in my room at home. My father loved Salvador Dali and had a large print of Three Sphinxes of Bikini in his office. Something about your work reminds me of Dali. Maybe it's the colors."

  He stared, a look of amazement on his face.

  "What's the matter?" I asked.

  "Nothing," he said quickly.

  "You thought I was just humoring you and that I knew absolutely nothing about art. correct?"

  "Most people I meet here are empty, mindless. I call them Hollows. They don't even have enough substance to cast shadows," he said bitterly.

  "I noticed that."

  "Noticed what?" he asked quickly.

  "In your paintings, the people, except for the woman and the boy, cast no shadows."

  Now, he actually smiled. "You do surprise me. Miss... what was your name?"

  It was so heavily on the tip of my tongue to tell him the truth that I actually fumbled with it for a moment.

  "What did you say?"

  "Isabel," I said, remaining the coward.

  "Right, yes. Well. Isabel. I will admit I'm a little impressed.' -Thank you. What are you planning on doing today?"

  "Don't you remember what Thatcher said?"

  I shook my head.

  "I set up. and I wait. I cast my line for inspiration, and on a good day, I catch something."

  "I hope this will be a good day for you," I said.

  He nodded. "How long are you to be a guest of the Eatons?"

  "Not that long," I replied. "A few days, maybe a week. Would it disturb you if I just sat here?" I asked.

  Without replying, he continued to set up his paints. Then, suddenly, he turned on me, his face back to that look of rage.

  "I don't understand what you're doing here. What do you want from us?"

  I had seen my father defuse people, as he liked to call it, often enough to know what to do. I shrugged and smiled, looking as calm as I could,

  To be honest. Linden. I don't know myself. I had this idea, and it was approved, and now I'm struggling to make sense out of it."

  My honesty took him by surprise. The nearly blue rage in his face began to recede.

  "I have this theory that we all have trouble enough dealing with what's real and what isn't in our lives, but people who are insulated more, protected by their wealth and position, might have an even more difficult time discerning what's real and what isn't. Of course. they might not care, anyway."

  He stared at me again and then shook his head. "All right." he said. "I'm curious, What have you been told about my mother and me?"

  "Oh, not that much. really."

  "You weren't told she was raped by her stepfather and as a result had a mental breakdown and was placed in a clinic?" he asked, the bitterness practically dripping from his mouth.

  My heart was pounding. but I kept as cool as I could and gazed out at the sea first to find support in the beauty it possessed.

  "Yes," I said. "I was told something like that, but that isn't exactly the sort of information I'm here to gather."

  "Oh, that's not the sort of information you're here to gather. It's not important. huh?"

  "That's not what I'm saving, I'm trying..."

  "Have you any idea what it's like to have people looking at you, thinking there he is, the child of a rapist? I'll tell you so von don't have to guess or do research. You have a feeling of nonidentity, almost as if you don't exist at all. When I was younger but old enough to understand. I often looked into the mirror, half expecting to see no reflection.

  "Of course. my grandmother did the best s
he could. For most of my life. I lived believing my grandmother was my mother. You've heard that. I'm sure," he said, his eves steely cold, "We're a favorite coffeetime conversation topic. I bear the Montgomery name, but it's like a gift of charity. I have no blood relationship to it. I might as well think of myself as an adopted child who just happens to be living now with his real mother."

  I couldn't respond for a few moments. How alike we are I thought. Most of my life, my adoptive mother had me believe I was the child of a rapist. too. Could I tell him without revealing it all?

  "I had no intention of getting into those sorts of things. Linden."

  "Well, what sorts of things are you getting into. then?"

  "The Montgomerys were very wealthy once, weren't they?"

  "So?"

  "Well, your mother experienced a life of great wealth and now lives a different life. I simply thought she might be a very good resource. You. too. I suppose." I said. "You and your mother are people who have lived the changes and could make comparisons."

  His eves calmed. I could almost see the waves receding inside them.

  "I told you what I think of these wealthy people." he said, tossing a gesture toward the house. "They think of themselves as substantial, important, meaningful because they can buy yachts and estates and have grand parties and wear designer clothing. My mother has more substance in her pinkie finger than most of them have in their whole bodies, in all their bodies together!"

  "That's why I'd like to meet her and talk with her," I said quickly.

  He studied me a moment. "Who are you?" he asked. "I don't mean your name. I mean, where are you from? Who are your people?"

  "I'm from South Carolina. I'm an only child. I've lost both my parents ."

  Are you engaged or anything?"

  "No," I said. "How about you?"

  He threw his head back and laughed madly-- so madly and so long I 'vas a bit frightened.

  "Me? You have to be kidding, of course. Why, I'm like a leper in this town. A girl here take me seriously? Please. I used to go places, hang out with some friends, but I've became too weird for them-- or too bitter," he added more honestly. "I am bitter."

  "My nanny used to say that bitterness is like an animal feeding on itself, a buzzard that eats its own heart. Um corvo que coma seu proprio coracao."

  "What?" he asked smiling.

  "She was Portuguese. She was really the one who brought me up." I said. The more of the truth I revealed, the better I felt about my white lies and little deceptions.

  "Yeah, well, for me, bitterness keeps me alive," he said.

  "Sometimes, we are unhappy so much, we think we can't live without it," I said.

  "Is that another of your nanny's sayings?"

  "Yes, in a way."

  He stared again and then nodded as some conclusion came to him. "Okay," he said. "'I'll make a deal with you."

  "What?"

  "I'll talk to you. I'll answer as many questions as I can for you. I'll even let you meet my mother."

  "What do I have to do?" I asked, holding my breath.

  "Pose."

  "Pardon?"

  "Pose for me so I can paint you."

  "Pose?"

  "I don't mean nude," he said. "although I'll admit that from a purely artistic viewpoint, you are beautiful and would make an excellent subject. However, I'd like you more in a flowing long skirt with just a little of your leg showing as you sit on the dune here. I'd like you barefoot. and I'd like your hair down and to have you wear an off-the-shoulder peasant girl's blouse. No jewelry, not even earrings. No makeup. either. Just you sitting here looking out at the ocean is all I want."

  "I don't have that sort of clothes with me." I said.

  "It's all right. My mother has the clothes. She'll lend them to you, or to us, I should say. and I'm sure they will fit you well enough. Well?" he followed quickly.

  "How long do I pose? I mean, hours and hours?" I asked.

  He finally laughed warmly, freely, and when he did, his face looked much younger.

  "No more than two hours a day for three days. How's that?"

  "Okay," I said. "It's a deal."

  His eves brightened, and then he looked out at the sea. "For now, though. I'd like to be alone." His voice had changed back to the harder, colder, angrier tone. It was as if he had another self a part of him that came from the dark side and took him over firmly,

  "Okay." I stood up. "When can I meet your mother?" I dared to ask, and held my breath,

  "Tomorrow, after we have our first session on the beach. I'll be out here by ten, which should give you enough time to rise, have breakfast."

  "What about the clothing?" "It'll be here. You can go over the hill there and change."

  "And your mother?"

  "You'll come to the house about two-thirty. She and I have a glass of lemonade together and just sit quietly on the patio.

  "Don't tell her about our bargain," he added sharply. All right."

  "I don't want her to think... I mean, she might not understand," he said.

  "But you're getting her to give me the skirt and blouse," I reminded him.

  "I didn't say that. I said she would lend them to us. She just doesn't have to know she is." he added.

  I was going to ask why keeping it a secret was so important. but I thought I heard Daddy tell me to stop, to be grateful for what

  I had achieved, and not to push too hard. Everyone is fragile, he would say.

  "Okay. See you later." I said, and walked back toward the house, When I looked at him again, he had gone down to the water. He stood in the incoming tide and stared out as if he saw something. I could see nothing, but then again. I wasn't looking at the world through his eyes.

  .

  Just before I turned to go back up the walkway to the house. I heard a vigorous honking of a boat horn and looked out to see someone in a long speedboat waving and bouncing along toward the shoreline. As he drew closer, I realized it was Thatcher. He gestured emphatically for me to go down to the dock which was just below the beach house. Surprised and amused. I hurried back over the beach as he pulled the boat alongside the dock.

  "What are you doing?" I called. "I thought you were very busy today."

  "I had a postponement at court and then met with the client who owns this boat. I gave him four hours for free in exchange for using the boat. Come on aboard.'

  "Come aboard? But..." I looked back at the house. "I haven't even met with your mother today yet. She doesn't know I am here. and..."

  'She's probably still in bed. C'mon. I only have four hours."

  "But..."

  He reached up and helped me get into the boat,

  "What is this?" I asked, looking over the strangely shaped boat, "It looks like a giant bullet."

  Thatcher laughed. "It travels that way. Its a Magnum 80 with a top speed of seventy-four miles an hour. Those are twin eighteen-hundred-horsepower engines. It sleeps ten." he said, then shifted and shot off before I had a chance to say a word. In seconds, we were bouncing over the water so hard I screamed, The spray flew up around me.

  "I'm not dressed for this!" I shouted.

  "Just hold on."

  I can't deny it was very exciting, so much so that it took my breath away.

  The way this boat was customized, it cost about a million, eight hundred thousand." Thatcher explained when he slowed us down. "Not bad. huh?"

  "It's like an airplane on water."

  "Yes. Here." he said, putting me in charge of the controls, "Take it for a spin."

  "Me?"

  "Why not? Try it," he urged. I shook my head. "C'mon. Willow, take some chances. Once in a while, it's fun to challenge fate."

  The way he looked at me, fixed his eyes intently on my face, made me think he knew everything,

  With great hesitation. I changed places and listened to his instructions. Moments later. I could feel the boat humming beneath me, its power and size impressive. It was like riding a whale. I thought being a passen
ger was exciting, but having some control of it was twice as thrilling.

  "You're doing fine." he said. "Give it to her,"

  I shook my head, but he accelerated, and we shot forward, hitting the waves so hard I thought my heart was going up and down like a yo-yo inside me. After a while, we slowed again and just cruised calmly.

  "I know a great spot for lunch," he said, taking over

  I sat back. The fingers of the wind had played havoc with my hair. but I didn't care. The salt spray, sunshine, and warm air were beguiling. I truly felt as if I had stepped onto a magic carpet.

  "Do you do this often?" I asked him.

  "I used to do a lot of sailing, but lately I haven't been out on the water very much. I can't remember the last time I did something like this on a weekday," he added, his eyes twinkling at me.

  "Maybe I'm a bad influence." "Maybe you're a good influence. You heard Bunny. I work too hard."

  "Where's this wonderful place for lunch?" I asked as we continued farther out to sea and the shoreline began to disappear. "Cuba?"

  "You'll see," he promised.

  After a few more minutes, he cut the engines and dropped anchor.

  "I don't understand," I said. "Why have you stopped?"

  "We're here." he declared, and held out his arms. "Can you find a prettier, quieter, more private place? This happens to be my favorite spot," he said, and started down the steps. "C'mon, help me bring up lunch,"

  I followed him to the galley, where there were breads and rolls, meats, cheeses, bottles of wine, and fresh fruit,

  "Well?" he said.

  "It's a banquet." I declared.

  We fixed our sandwiches and platters of fruit, and then he brought up the wine. Sitting at the table with the wide expanse of ocean around us, far enough out so we could no longer see the shore. I did feel we were in a special place. Occasionally. we caught sight of a sailboat, but it was as if there were invisible walls between us and the rest of the world. No one came very close.

  He poured the wine, and we toasted.

  "A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou beside me," he recited.

  "You know how to sweep a girl off her feet," I said.

  "Are you off your feet. Willow?" he asked, his face suddenly so serious.