Emerald Eyes

by Alicia Danielle Voss-Guillén

  The road dipped downward from the resort sign, as I had anticipated, and twisted around and swept out in little semicircles, like a spiral staircase. Still there were trees, dense and green, shutting us out from whatever lay beyond. But then suddenly, they dissipated and fell away from view and I could see, almost miraculously, the great blue-green stretch of the lake below, Secret Lake. It became clear to me then that massive, sandy cliffs along the water’s edge formed this hilly road of ups and downs and tucks and turns, great and sharp and steep.

  As our car continued downward, the cliffs followed suit, and then soft, golden stretches of beach became visible, smattered with flecks of color that were sun tents and gigantic umbrellas and brightly-patterned beach towels. I could see sunbathers, women whose round, ample hips protruded from skimpy bikinis, and men in Speedos who probably held too-high opinions of themselves.

  I could see waders near the shore, splashing and playing in the gentle, lapping tide beneath the warm June sun. Farther out, just ahead of the buoy line, swimmers were navigating the water with slick, surprising speed. Beyond them, past the bobbing buoys, jet boats and pontoon boats and sailboats, wave runners and jet skis skimmed and jumped over the surface of the lake. Far in the distance, a large, frothing waterfall—Indian Falls, for which this town was named—surged and splashed forcefully over the rocky edge of a cliff, cascading loudly into the lake beneath it, stirring and churning the otherwise placid waters.

  In spite of myself, I was rooted and captivated by the scene before me, and I nearly didn’t notice when we drew parallel with the resort’s hotel buildings. They towered, huge and stone, with gaping, shiny windows, sandwiched by the trees and the beach behind them and the grand, sweeping entrance drive that circled around to a parking lot in front of them.

  Still, Mom drove on, passing the buildings and heading the car up another rise, past another thick cluster of evergreens, fragrant even though our windows were rolled shut and the air conditioning was on. And then I saw them. The resort houses. I sucked in a breath and turned my head from Mom. I didn’t want her to know how impressed I was by their size, their splendor. Stone and shiny-windowed like the hotel, but somehow more imposing, more snobbish and grandiose with their sprawling front porches, their stained glass door panels, their flawlessly manicured front lawns. It was all backed by a panoramic view of lake and trees and cliffs and sky that almost didn’t seem real. Only filthy-rich people could afford to own a house here.

  But I hadn’t yet seen it all, because the largest house of the bunch was set apart; it was somehow more majestic than the rest, with a tall, sloping roof and a winding royal drive, standing importantly on a high jutting cliff by itself. This, I knew immediately by its lofty prominent position above its neighbors, was Chet Hollingworth’s house.

  Mom pulled up the drive to an elegant cast-iron gate banked by low stone walls. She put down her window and rang some sort of bell at the side of the left wall, then caught her breath and, gazing dreamily up at the house, gushed, “Oh, Molly! Isn’t it all so beautiful?”

  I murmured in reply and busied myself, pawing needlessly through the contents of my sling-sack until the gates swung open, at once graceful and mechanical, and Mom drove through and pulled around to the front porch.

  It was then that I laid eyes on Chet Hollingsworth for the very first time. Oh, I had seen the pictures, the digital prints, with which Mom had regaled me after her trip to Bermuda. But now, finally, unfortunately, Chet was a real person, right before my eyes. The man who was stealing my mother from me.

  Chet

  He was standing on the porch, one hand propping him casually against the front door; he’d been waiting because Mom had given him a call to tell him we were close. Upon our arrival, however, he dropped his hand and made his way briskly across the porch and down the wide, stone steps to the drive. He was every bit as tall and dark as Mom and the pictures had told me; his skin was tanned bronze, and his arms were strong and sinewy, as though he made a habit of working out. His Italian silk shirt was loose and draping and dark, the color of ebony, and his designer jeans were brand-new and just slightly clingy; a pair of expensive sunglasses perched in his short, stylish hair.

  Suddenly, he picked up speed, broke into a short sprint, and to my amazement, rather than flinging open the driver’s door and lift Mom into his arms, he flung open the passenger door and lifted me into his arms!

  “Why, Miss Molly!” he exclaimed, and I heard the deep, resonant swell of his thick Welsh accent, so dreamily described by Mom. He spun me in a tight little circle and then settled my feet on the ground and pushed back my hair and took me in.

  “There’ll be no mistaking this little lady,” he said then, his tone low and almost raptured. He tentatively touched my green headband, the hem of my green summer top, and finally fixed his gaze on my green eyes. “Those eyes,” he whispered, “those eyes of pure emerald, possessed by few, very few.” His words were worshipful and his eyes never strayed from mine. I thought, for a moment, that I detected teardrops clinging to his lashes, but when I looked again, they had vanished.

  I felt awkward and horribly uneasy, and for all that, a little scared. In spite of myself, I even felt a bit sorry for Mom. This was her boyfriend. Why was he so intrigued by me?

  Fortunately, Mom was thankfully oblivious to Chet’s momentary brush-off. She sidetracked him then, rushing into his arms, and the inevitable kisses and hugs and expressions of affection ensued. At last, Mom took my shoulder and pulled me forward for the formal introduction, and I mumbled something practiced and polite, without emotion or enthusiasm. Mom shot me a meaningful look, but I conveniently ignored her.

  Chet put one arm around Mom and the other around me and ushered us into his house, talking nonstop, animated and expressive, calling over his shoulder for the chauffeur to take Mom’s keys and park our car in the garage and then carry our luggage up to our bedrooms. I stared intently at my feet and tried not to act impressed. That was not easy, though, because Chet’s house was absolutely amazing.

  The entryway was bright and spacious, opulent in its own right, with stone-tiled floors and a quaint whimsical fountain burbling pleasantly in the center. Peering over its edge, I spotted telltale coppery flashes that were swimming goldfish, the large, fancy variety that I’ve often seen in Oriental garden shops and restaurants. The ceiling was immensely high, with skylights that delivered a clear, enchanting view of the blue sky and the soft puffy clouds like white bunches of cotton. A double staircase banked the entryway, soaring upward to the second story of the house, which was every bit as bright and roomy and beautiful, enhanced by full-length windows and potted leafy plants and glossy light wood floors. The whole house was magnificent like that, airy and open and undeniably breathtaking.

  I thought I had seen it all. I couldn’t imagine anything much more incredible, until Chet showed Mom and me to the back of the house, down the gleaming, fragrant hallway past a number of gorgeous rooms sporting expensive leather furniture and massive stone fireplaces and tasteful wall-hangings, to the glass sliding back doors and the decks that lay beyond. I stifled a cry of disbelief.

  The decks were astonishing, all three of them, each progressively lower and adjoined by wide, gracefully winding stairways. The top deck contained quality outdoor furniture—chairs and tables arranged in private little clusters—and a sheltered outdoor kitchen with a grilling center, a tiki bar, and an outdoor fireplace. The second deck contained a large, luxurious, and tempting Jacuzzi tub, a walk-in sauna paneled in fine wood, and several lounge chairs and small, glass-surfaced tables. The third deck contained an Olympic-sized swimming pool, yet more lounges and chairs, and tables with gigantic sun umbrellas. It led to Chet’s private strip of gorgeous beach, where there was a boathouse, and a magnificent view of Indian Falls. I was spellbound.

  Chet apparently noticed the expression on my face because he laughed and tightened his grip on both Mom and me, squeezing our shoulders affectionately (which I loathed). He asked, �
��Are you in the least surprised, Miss Molly?” His tone was light and teasing.

  Truthfully, of course, I was dumbfounded, but I wasn’t fool enough to give Chet the satisfaction of saying so, not while he stood there, clinging to my mother and me as though he owned us. “You have a very nice place here,” I said simply, and again Mom threw me a look that I pretended not to see.

  Next, she and I were escorted to our rooms by Gabbie, Chet’s live-in housekeeper, who was round and pink-cheeked and smiling, with a thick roll of chestnut hair at the nape of her neck. I liked her immediately, and I thanked her graciously as she opened the door to my bedroom, which was just down the hall from Mom’s. Both of our rooms were upstairs, at the back of the house, overlooking Secret Lake and Indian Falls. I had expected my bedroom to be nice and big, but still I was surprised by its enormity.

  It had a king-sized bed and a vast expanse of lush, wall-to-wall carpeting that seemed to stretch on forever. All of the furniture was modern and highly polished, with the luster of glinting chrome. The color scheme was emerald green with mint green accents—even the carpeting and the silky coverlet spread across the bed were green—and tiny white lights were strung decoratively along the perimeter of the ceiling. The private bathroom was decorated in reverse; it was mint green with emerald accents, and had its own sizable, round Jacuzzi tub (which I was pleased to discover).

  And yet, something about my suite struck me as strange. I had taken a peek into Mom’s suite, and it was the way I’d expected it should be. But mine, even though I adored it, didn’t seem to fit with the rest of Chet’s house.

  As I began to unpack my bags, I realized suddenly what it was that was different and out-of-place. My bedroom, my bathroom, were decorated with the tastes of a teenager, or at least someone young. I had seen furniture and curtains and coverlets like these in pricey catalogs marketed to kids my age. How bizarre that Chet, who had no children, would choose to decorate a suite this way.

  For a moment, I glanced curiously about the room; then, with a shrug of my shoulders, I headed for the dresser drawers with an armful of clothes.

  The Guys

  Mom and Chet and I ate dinner that evening at a seafood and steak restaurant at the resort. (And how did we get there? In Chet’s very own chauffeured Rolls Royce, you might say!) I was amazed all over again that anyone could own all that Chet owned; nevertheless, I continued playing it cool, collected, and nonchalant.

  After dinner, Mom mentioned to me a teen club on the resort, which Chet had once told her about. Called Club Beach, it was located along the waterfront just beyond the hotel buildings. She thought I might like to give it a try, and having nothing else to do and hungry for the companionship of other teenagers, I agreed quite readily.

  On our way out of the restaurant, I stopped at the brochure rack between the double doors, found a map of the resort, and took it with me.

  When we had returned to Chet’s house, I called goodbye to Mom and started off down the hilly, winding road to the hotel buildings, basking in the golden light of a summer evening as I walked.

  “Have fun!” Mom called after me. “And don’t forget to call when you’re ready to come back. Chet will send the chauffeur over to give you a ride; it’ll be dark by then.”

  I ignored her, her newfound ease with this life of luxury disgusting me. I decided then and there not to call home for the chauffeur. Following the directions on the map, I easily found my way to Club Beach on the waterfront.

  There was a long, low recreation center, as well as an enormous, jutting pier alive with colorful lights and tiki torches, the familiar commotion of teenagers having fun, talking, laughing, and dancing to a live rock band at the end of the pier. I passed the rec center and continued to the pier, which was clustered with tables and chairs, refreshment stands, and a large, well-equipped outdoor stage where the band jammed wildly. I walked up a short flight of steps to the entrance gate of the pier, where stood some sort of a guard in pressed, dark uniform. He asked for proof of my “belonging” to The Resort at Secret Lake. I flashed him the ID card Chet had given me, and was admitted through the gate.

  I made my way down the pier, feeling confident and mature, even pretty. I was wearing the same outfit I had worn to the restaurant for dinner: a flouncy white halter dress I’d designed and sewn myself, with platform sandals and my biggest pair of hoop earrings, shiny and silver. I’d piled half of my hair atop my head, sticking mini jaw clips into it every which way, and left the rest of it to hang free down my neck, so that the result was cute and fashionably messy. I’d carefully smeared smoky green shadow in the creases of my eyelids, which, in my opinion at least, really enhanced my eyes and lent me somewhat of a mysterious air. I felt I must certainly look sixteen years old now.

  Clutching my white woven purse in one hand, I wandered toward the crowd of dancing kids and found a vacant place at a table to sit and watch. I decided I would wait out several songs before I joined in, so that I could have time to really get in to the beat of the music.

  The band was actually very good, and it wasn’t long before my feet were tapping on the floorboards of the pier beneath me. I drew my purse to my side and stood, just about to join the crazy crowd of dancers, when suddenly a tall, lanky boy with curly brown hair stepped up to my table. His skin was tanned a light golden shade, his nose was sharp and prominent, and his eyes were alive, the type of eyes that laugh and dance and crackle with zest and energy. He was good-looking, even cute in his own way, with a bright, lopsided smile and an easygoing lilt to his voice as he approached me. “Hey!” he exclaimed, extending his hand to me. “I haven’t seen you around here before! You new? Staying at the hotel? Renting a summer house? Do you wanna dance?”

  His questions ran together with so much enthusiasm that I couldn’t help but laugh. I tossed my hair flirtatiously and reached out to shake his hand. “To answer your questions,” I said, “yes, no, no, and yes. I would love to dance, but not till you tell me your name!”

  We laughed together. “Sorry,” he replied, “I was just getting to that. I’m Nicky Goldberg. And you are…?”

  “Molly. Molly Hanover. This is my first day at the resort; my mom and I got in late this afternoon. What about you?” I fixed my alluring eyes on him.

  “My family has a—” Nicky stopped short, drew a deep breath, and dropped his arms stiffly to his sides. “Oh, my--oh, my gosh,” he stammered, the color draining from his face. “Oh, my gosh,” he repeated.

  “What? What is it?” I asked, feeling a slight skitter of fear spread through my chest. Why had he suddenly turned so pale; what could possibly have brought that sudden, haunted look into his eyes? “What’s wrong?” I prodded.

  Nicky shook his head as though to clear his thoughts. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low. “It’s just that your eyes—they—they look exactly like—like—”

  Very abruptly and unexpectedly, another boy appeared behind Nicky, clutching him tightly by the shoulder and jerking him backward a bit, as though in some strange, unspoken warning. He interrupted briskly and none too smoothly. “Your eyes look exactly like emeralds,” he finished in Nicky’s stead, his voice almost panicked-sounding. He shot Nicky a look that I couldn’t read, but I was able to decipher the puzzlement, the haunting, in his eyes as well.

  This scared me a little, but, before I had much time to mull over what had just happened, the second guy’s face softened and his voice took on a gentler edge. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Tucker Anderson, Nicky’s buddy. What’s your name?”

  Still slightly shaken, I reached to shake the hand he offered. “I’m Molly Hanover,” I replied automatically. Wow. Tucker was adorable, medium-built, with sun-pinked skin and dark blond hair. His eyes, which were clear and blue, didn’t crackle the way Nicky’s dark eyes did, but there was a soft understanding about them that enchanted me. Recovered from shock, I flashed a killer grin at him.

  “This is Molly’s first day ever at Secret Lake,” Nicky told Tucker, breaking through my thoug
hts. “She’s in for quite a time, isn’t she?”

  “Sure is,” Tucker agreed, turning to me. “Are you staying at the hotel?” he asked.

  I twisted my purse between my hands and stared down at it, suddenly self-conscious. “No,” I answered quietly. “No, my mom and I are staying at Chet Hollingsworth’s house.” I exhaled sharply and waited.

  I got the reaction I’d expected. Both sets of eyes—light and dark—grew immensely wide. Nicky exploded, “Chet Hollingsworth? You mean the dude who owns this whole dang place?” He made a wild, sweeping gesture with his hands.

  “Yeah,” I said uncomfortably. “He’s my mom’s…boyfriend. They met on vacation in Bermuda about a month ago.”

  Tucker’s mouth dropped open. “Her boyfriend? He’s your mom’s boyfriend? You’re kidding!”

  “No,” I replied morosely, “I’m not.”

  “Oh, man!” Nicky whistled low. “Chet hasn’t seen anyone since—since his divorce, at least not that I know of.” He faced me and explained, “My family and Tuck’s family both own summer houses here at the resort, and we hear all the juicy neighborhood gossip.” He rolled his eyes dramatically.

  “That’s right,” said Tucker. “We would undoubtedly have heard about it if Chet had a girlfriend.”

  But my head was still spinning with what Nicky had just told me, that both the Goldbergs and the Andersons owned summer houses at the resort. Summer houses! Not to mention the houses where they lived during the rest of the year! The mere thought was staggering.

  Oblivious, the guys continued to discuss Mom and Chet. “I didn’t think he’d ever see another woman,” Nicky remarked. “I mean—”

  Tucker elbowed him hard.

  I looked from one to the other of them. “Why?” I demanded. “Why wouldn’t Chet see anyone else?” I had the distinct feeling that both Tucker and Nicky were keeping something from me, but both just laughed off my question. Nicky made some lame excuse about Chet’s being too broken up over his ex-wife to even consider jumping back into the “dating game.”