by Sally Mason
And the man walking toward him, as tall and broad-shouldered as Forrest, is a man who thrives in that atmosphere, wallowing in the admiration of lesser specimens.
Forrest needs no introduction to know that this is Porter Pringle.
But Eric does the introductions, and when Porter takes Forrest’s hand and squeezes it in a painful grip, Forrest (sighing inwardly) squeezes back and sees the little glimmer of surprise in Porter’s eyes.
Then the surprise is replaced with something cold and calculating, and Forrest curses himself for being drawn into this pathetic display of machismo.
He should have left his grip limp as a banana.
The last thing he needs is this idiot’s attention.
“So where do you hail from, Forrest?” Porter says.
“Boston, originally.”
“And how have you washed up on our shores?”
Darcy takes Forrest’s arm and says, “We’re cluttering the stairs, let’s go on in. We can chat inside.” She flicks her eyes over to Paige. “You look wonderful, my dear. Isn’t it amazing what they can do with maternity wear these days?”
And Forrest, letting her draw him up the stairs and into the ugly little fake Spanish building, feels a twinge of admiration for Darcy Pringle.
Darcy walks into the spotlight that has been waiting to ambush her, and the band strikes up “Livin' La Vida Loca,” the song that had always been Darcy’s and Porter’s.
Nobody had thought to brief the bandleader to come up with an alternative.
And, with every eye on her and Forrest Forbes, it’s all Darcy can do to smile and nod graciously at a smattering of applause from the packed room.
The spotlight skids off Darcy and finds Porter and Paige, right on their heels.
She is gratified at the noticeably less enthusiastic applause, the major clapping coming from Carlotta McCourt, standing up out of her seat at her aisle table, leaning into Porter and whispering something into his ear that makes him smile one of his hungry smiles.
As she and Forrest take their table right up by the bandstand, Darcy thinks back to that moment on the stairs.
What was it that she had seen when the men shook hands?
There was that very male sizing up thing, and she couldn’t help but notice the silly schoolyard squeezing session, but it was the expression in Porter’s eyes that she couldn’t shake, when he’d looked from her to Forrest.
An expression of ownership.
He still loves me, Darcy thinks and despite herself her heart skips a beat.
Idiot.
It’s just that alpha male thing.
Even though he’s moved on, in Porter’s mind Darcy is still his property.
If bigamy were legal in this country, she realizes, Porter would have stocked up on wives like gangbusters.
She looks over at Porter sitting at the next table, lifting a glass of champagne to his lips, and conflicting emotions swirl through her.
Sadness.
Loss.
And something unfamiliar.
For the first time she’s able to really feel what Eric has been urging her to feel for months: a raw jolt of hundred-proof anger.
Porter, lifting his glass to her in salute, says, “Cheers.”
And she smiles her best smile, raises her glass in turn and mouths, “I hope you choke on the bubbles, you cheating bastard.”
This is Eric’s fourth Spring Ball, and the food (canapés and some chicken thing that he shoves away in disgust) is as revolting as ever.
The band are somnambulistic, snoozing their way though elevator-muzak standards.
He (like the awkward family member at a wedding) is seated at a table at the rear, with the horribly dull couple who own the dry-cleaners.
They are clearly terrified of him (a real live one of them at their table) and he knows it was clod-heads like these who’d been so pleased with Proposition 8.
Not that Eric Porter would consider marriage, even if it were legal in this state.
No, no.
He values his freedom far too much.
And marriage causes pain and heartache, as the lovely Darcy can attest.
Then he shoves these thoughts from his mind.
The only part of the evening that Eric enjoys is about to begin.
Porter struts up to the microphone as the band wheezes to a halt.
Smiling the best smile that dentistry can buy, he thanks one and all for coming, vacuums up the applause like the true egoist he is, and allows Darcy the stage.
This is where Darcy Pringle shines, and tonight, in her beautiful dress, with her diamond earrings and matching necklace dangling over those very shapely collarbones, is no different.
“Welcome,” she says, scanning the crowd, “it’s a real pleasure to see such a wonderful turnout.”
Eric is filled with pride when he hears no hesitation in her voice, even though he knows how tough this is for her.
“Please get ready to dig deep into those wallets. There are a bunch of very special children out there whose lives will be transformed by your generosity.”
And so begins the auction.
The objects are not important: drinking glasses, bottles of unremarkable wine and boxes of chocolates, merely an excuse to get these people to part with their money.
Darcy holds up an ugly German beer stein.
“The opening bid for this is one thousand dollars.”
With no trouble at all, Darcy rattles through a series of bids and unloads the tankard on a local contractor for five thousand dollars.
She gets good money for a Chilean cabernet and the ugliest vase he has ever seen.
Eric, as always, waits for the last item to be auctioned before he joins the fray.
This is when the fun begins, when the big boys take each other on.
Darcy, holding up a bottle of sparkling wine says, “We are now on our last bid. Traditionally showdown time here at the Spring Ball. Who will give me five thousand dollars?”
And Porter, also waiting, lifts his hand. “Six,” he says.
Eric wags a finger. “Seven.”
“Eight,” Porter says.
“Nine,” Eric says, alarming the couple at his table.
And so it goes on, a realtor and a hotelier entering the brawl, and finally at fifty thousand, Porter thinks he has it all sewn up as always—the guy with biggest bid—when Eric says, “Sixty thousand.”
Mrs Chemi-clean nearly swallows her dentures, and Eric is pleased to see Porter narrowing his eyes like a gunslinger.
Porter has money, but sixty thousand in this economic climate—with an expensive divorce under his belt—has got to bruise him.
“Sixty-five,” Porter says.
Eric, enjoying himself now, keeps increasing the bid in multiples of ten, and Porter looking increasingly less affable, trumps him each time.
The room falls silent when Eric says “One hundred thousand dollars,” by far the biggest bid every recorded in the history of the Spring Ball.
You could hear a mouse burp as Eric looks across at Porter.
The man glugs down his champagne and blinks.
When he speaks his voice is just a little hoarse.
“One hundred and five thousand dollars.”
Eric is tempted to go higher, but he decides he has punished Porter sufficiently and shakes his head.
Darcy, her smile as dazzling as her necklace, says, “Sold to the fabulously generous Porter Pringle for one hundred and five thousand dollars.”
The band strikes up something noisy and Darcy steps down, blowing Eric a kiss.
He raises his glass.
“Bad luck,” Mr. Chemi-clean says with a smug smile.
“Oh, the better man won,” Eric says, drowning his laugh in the cheap bubbly.
Forrest, rinsing his hands in the men’s room, sees Porter Pringle in the mirror, stepping up to the sink beside him.
“Congratulations,” Forrest says.
“Why, thank you.” Porter squirt
s soap onto hands and washes them. “I notice you never bid, Mr. Forbes?”
“Oh, I don’t believe in meddling in tribal rituals foreign to me.”
Porter flicks water off his fingers, quite deliberately splashing Forrest’s face.
“Is that how you see us? As tribesmen?”
“Merely a figure of speech.”
Porter crosses to the wall where he yanks a loop of towel from the dispenser. Forrest is amused to see that the man is battling to contain his rage.
Forrest dries his hands under the hot blower and nods to Porter.
“Enjoy the rest of the evening.”
Porter sticks out an arm and blocks Forrest’s way.
Forrest, still feeling the pain of the recent beating, knows he is in no shape to take this moron on.
And the painkillers, lack of food and too much sticky champagne have left him lightheaded.
“I’m on to you, Mr. Ivy League,” Porter says.
“Are you now?”
“Word is that you met Darcy up at some vineyard in Napa?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
Forrest is relieved to see an elderly man entering the washroom.
“Evening, Porter.”
“Evening, Earl.”
“Very generous as always,” the man says.
Porter grunts and when Forrest prods at his arm he lets it drop, but he dogs Forrest’s heels, whispering in his ear.
“This whole thing stinks.”
“Yes, maybe they should throw a few more of those little balls into the urinals.”
“Listen you smug bastard, I know what’s going on.”
“Really?”
“That little fairy Eric Royce organized this, didn’t he?”
“You’ve lost me, old boy.”
“I think you’re playacting, old boy. I know my Darcy, she’d never get involved with someone like you.”
“She’s hardly your Darcy any longer, is she?” Forrest says as lightly as he can.
“I’m going to put the word out, smartass. You’ll leave here tonight with your tail between your legs.”
As he walks away Forrest feels Porter Pringle’s eyes on his back, and he realizes that he has underestimated the man.
A small town oaf he may be, but a shrewd one.
Carlotta McCourt, fanning herself with a menu, watching couples lumbering around the dance floor, thinks she’s dreaming when somebody takes her arm and she turns and looks up into the face of Porter Pringle.
“May I have the honor of this dance,” he says.
“Oh, Porter, of course,” she stammers, back in high school again, her braces getting in a tangle every time she sees to-die-for Porter in his football gear.
Porter takes her onto the floor, and leans in close.
For one crazy, wonderful, second Carlotta thinks he’s going to kiss her, and her eyes are already closing, her lips puckering, when he whispers, “You don’t like Darcy much, do you?”
Her eyes blink open and she stumbles.
Porter keeps her afloat with a strong arm at her waist.
“Why do you say that?” she says.
“C’mon, Lottie, it’s okay. I’m on your side?”
“You are?”
“Yep. And I know something that I think you’ll find very interesting.”
“You do?”
“Uh huh.”
“What?”
“This guy, this Forrest Gump character who Darcy has dragged here tonight, I think he’s a fake. I think it’s a set up to get back at me.”
“Really? He seems very attentive to her.”
“He’s playing a role. He’s some, what do you call them? Gigolo.”
Carlotta stares at him in amazement. “How do you know this?”
“I just know it, Lottie. No way in hell is that guy Darcy’s type.”
“He is . . . unusual for a town like this.”
“He’s a stooge. It’s all the work of Eric Joyce, that I can tell you.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“What you do best, Lottie. Talk. Gossip. Get the word out.” The music ends and Porter gives her a little shove. “Go on, what are you waiting for?”
Carlotta seeing him walking away from her, realizes that—yet again—he cares only for Darcy.
Still cares enough to want her humiliated.
Carlotta bottles her anger and disappointment and focuses it, staring across the room at where Darcy stands chatting to a group of people.
And, like a cowcatcher on the snout of a train, Carlotta forces her way though the crowd, ready to go and confront Darcy and bring the little bitch down a peg or two.
Forrest—hand under his shirt, rubbing at his mother’s ring to soothe him—watches Porter dancing with a hard-faced woman, their eyes drawn to Darcy, and has a crystal clear flash of precognition.
He knows without knowing how he knows that this woman is Darcy’s enemy.
And that Porter is priming her with what he has intuited.
When Porter unhands her at the end of the dance, and virtually shoves her in his ex-wife’s direction, the woman elbowing her way through the revelers to where Darcy stands, Forrest asks himself why he gives a damn.
This isn’t his fight.
He’s way above this.
And that’s his answer right there: why the hell should he stay meek and quiet in this room full of poorly dressed, jumped-up peasants?
He is a man of pedigree.
Of breeding.
He is also a man filled with painkillers and cheap bubbly.
A man looking for trouble as he spins on his heel and heads toward the bandstand.
Darcy, drinking champagne, talking to a group of Santa Sofia’s most prominent citizens—the mayor pumping her hand and thanking her for what she has achieved tonight—has been able to put her sadness, and her anger, aside.
The night has been a success.
Money (more money than ever before thanks to Eric) has been raised.
And Forrest Forbes has played his part impeccably.
He has drawn no attention to himself—even though his looks are show-stopping—and let her do what she is here to do.
He’s made sure she always has a drink in her hand, he’s danced with her (a good dancer without being flashy) and she feels that he somehow has got her, understood without being told what she needed tonight.
He deserves her thanks, but when she looks around the room, her eyes skidding over the odious Carlotta McCourt who is bearing down on her, and tries to find Forrest, he is nowhere to be seen.
Carlotta grabs her arm and says, “You’re paying him aren’t you?”
Darcy turns to her, “I beg your pardon?”
“That Forbes guy. You’re paying him. He’s like some escort, isn’t he?”
The mayor, his wife, and their friends are staring at Darcy, who feels her composure slipping.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You couldn’t bear to come here tonight on Eric Royce’s arm, not with Porter being here with his pregnant wife, so you paid some guy. I saw him arriving at your house with Eric Royce last night. He’s just some actor isn’t he? Pretending to be your date? God, Darcy, how humiliating!”
Darcy feels her cheeks burning and she’s ready to flee into the night when the band comes to a sudden ragged stop and she hears Forrest Forbes’s voice, saying, “Ladies and gentlemen if I may ask you to indulge me for a minute.”
She looks at the bandstand, and there he stands, in the spotlight, staring at her.
Is the man drunk?
Drugged?
Deranged?
All of the above?
“I’m sure some of you are wondering who I am,” he says.
“Oh, I’ve got your number, buster,” Carlotta says.
“Wondering how I was lucky enough to meet the wonderful Darcy?”
He points at her.
“I’ve known Darcy for only a few short weeks, but by knowing her my li
fe has become transformed and—even though she will find this display of public affection embarrassing—I want to declare my love for her and ask her a question.”
Darcy stands stunned as Forrest steps off the bandstand—looking nimble and lithe, no sign of his injuries—and walks over to her, the spotlight following him.
He kneels down on one knee and holds up a ring that sparkles like flame in the light.
“Darcy, will you be my wife?”
And Darcy, knowing in that moment exactly how a deer in the headlights feels, stares around the room:
Sees Porter with a stunned expression on his face.
Sees his silly child bride looking bewildered.
See Carlotta McCourt’s mouth fallen open in a cartoonish O.
And then she hears something, in the absolute silence that has followed Forrest Forbes’s outrageous declaration, hears a voice, realizes that it is her voice and that she is saying, “Of course, Forrest, of course I will marry you.”
And that ring—good God how many rocks on that thing?—slides onto her finger and when he stands and kisses her (the man can kiss) she swoons into his arms and allows herself to be swept onto the dance floor to the sound of loud applause, and it’s not the band she’s hearing stumbling through “Isn’t She Lovely”, it’s the sound of sitars and drums and swirling flutes.
19
Poor Billy Bigelow is down on the beach at dawn, staring at the wooden pier that disappears out into the fog, thinking the rickety jetty is a great metaphor for his life, his future stretching off into a cloud of nothingness.
When he humiliated himself the other night at Darcy’s he’d thought he’d hit bottom, but in the early hours of this morning, after his good friend Teddy the catering manager at the Country Club came to fill him in on the Ball (“I don’t care how late it is, you stop by an give me a blow-by-blow,” Poor Billy had instructed his old school pal) he’d sunk into a depression a thick as this ocean fog.
Darcy was to be married.
She’d been proposed to in a ridiculously public (and absurdly romantic) manner.
And, of course, she’d said yes.
Twenty years of dreams, gone.
Poor Billy looks down and sees that he is standing up to his ankles in the surf, his shoes and pants bottoms soaked.
