Willow

by V. C. Andrews

  contemporaries saw or socialized with her for months and months. She was so rarely seen that she was forgotten, so she could have been pregnant and no one would have known."

  '"Why did they permit her to have a child?"

  "Bunny, my mother. says Grace kept her pregnancy a secret and actually wore girdles. She says it was part of the girl's madness or shame. It's not uncommon for a woman to blame herself for a man's aggression. I have had to talk some of my clients into going after the men in their lives, and justly so."

  "What did Jackie Lee do to make it look as if she were pregnant, stuff pillows in her dress?"

  "Exactly."

  'That's hard to believe.'

  "Not really. Take it from one who knows." he said. "For the residents, creating fantasies about themselves is a Palm Beach parlor game, and even if you know someone is fabricating, you go along with it It's almost being considerate to do so."

  "What does Linden do?" I asked. "I mean, just paint, or did he go to school for something?"

  Thatcher laughed.

  "What's so funny? You said he didn't make much money painting, didn't you?"

  "You can always tell when someone isn't from Palm Beach, People here don't do anything. They live to spend, not earn. If you don't know that, you're not from Palm Beach."

  "But you said the Montgomerys were destitute."

  "In Palm Beach terms but not in actuality. They have a handsome income from the rental and some trust and Social Security funds. Linden is just an artist, or at least he believes he is. As I said, occasionally, people buy one of his paintings as a form of amusement. They are all so dark and depressing, but they've become something to stimulate talk at a cocktail party. If yon really are interested. I'll take you to the Richard Hanson Gallery on Worth Avenue and you can see a few."

  "You said people here live to spend. but you work," I pointed out, and he laughed.

  "I like to think of myself as different." He looked up at me. "I hope you do, too."

  "I don't know you well enough to decide one way or another," I said.

  The waiter brought us our drinks before he could respond.

  "Well, then." he said after the waiter left. "Here's to your getting to know me well enough."

  He clinked his glass with mine and looked over the rim as he sipped. those eyes of his twinkling with delight.

  What are you doing Willow De Beers? I asked myself. End this; and get back to your purpose before you...

  Before I what?

  That wasn't a very difficult question. The answer hung on Thatcher's every smile and rested comfortably in the softness of my heart: be careful before you fall into something you'll not be able-- or willing -- to escape.

  8

  Blowing My Cover

  .

  We both ordered a light dinner, and Thatcher

  chose a bottle of white wine. When he read off the wine list to me, I tried to pretend I was familiar with some of them. Neither my adoptive mother nor Daddy drank much wine at home. My A.M. loved

  champagne, but she usually had it in the house only when they had a special dinner party.

  My limited social experiences would surely unmask me. I thought. He would soon realize I was much younger than I had claimed, certainly no graduate-level student.

  "So let's talk a little about you." he said. "Where are you from?"

  I hated piling one lie over another and decided I would tell as much of the truth as I could.

  "I'm from a little community near Columbia. South Carolina, called Spring City."

  "I don't see any engagement ring on your finger. Have you no serious relationship awaiting your return?"

  "Not anymore," I replied.

  "Ah-ha! Recent breakup, then?"

  "Is this heading for the, what did you call it. the Shiny?"

  He laughed. "Hardly. Have you had many serious relationships?"

  "No."

  "Too busy, too involved with your work?"

  "Something like that." I said. "I didn't go to college to find a husband. and I'm not afraid of being on my own," I said firmly.

  "Now that we have that settled." he said. laughing.

  "Well. I'm not!" I insisted,

  "An independent woman. Good. Have you done much traveling?" he asked.

  "No, not really. My mother wasn't fond of traveling, especially with a child, and my father was a workaholic."

  "Wasn't fond?"

  "She was killed in a car accident a little over two years ago."

  "Oh. Sorry. What does your father do?"

  "He's a doctor." I said.

  Thatcher smiled.

  "What?" I asked, holding my breath.

  "I bet he's into psychiatric medicine. right?" "What makes you say that?"

  "You're interested in the subject. It's common for children to want to do what their parents have done."

  "Is your father an attorney?" I countered.

  "Hardly," he said. My grandfather began the Eaton department store chain in New England. My father assumed an executive position the day after he graduated from the University of Pennsylvania with a bachelor of arts degree and practically no business education. His first executive act was to appoint someone who knew what he was doing to be his assistant, and then he got back to the golf course."

  "He doesn't have a New England accent," I commented.

  "All his life, he went to private schools here and in Europe. Not long after my mother and he were married, my grandfather passed away. My

  grandmother had died the year before. and Daddy was the sole heir. He sold off a majority interest in the stores, and he and my mother came to Palm Beach for the season and then spent their winters on the Cote d'Azur, My sister and I attended private schools from the moment we could. I grew up thinking parents were people you visited on holidays."

  "I had a nanny care for me most of my life," I confessed. His warm tone of revelation encouraged my own. "My mother wasn't really into being a mother. either."

  "So, you see, we have a lot in common after all," he declared.

  "I often wonder if I'll be that sort of parent." I looked up at him. "I bet you wonder the same thing, and that's why you're not involved with anyone."

  "Oh," he said. smiling, "I'm being analyzed. Wonderful. What makes you so sure I'm not involved with anyone?"

  "Your parents as much as said so. and you've asked me out to dinner in your hometown where people know you. Am I right?"

  His smile seemed to turn more into a mask attempting to hide his true feelings. "It's so much more interesting and exciting for a man and a woman to leave some mystery, some questions between them, don't you think? If we analyze and examine each other too thoroughly, we'll touch old wounds, strip away some scars. Secrets are romantic," he added, returning that twinkle to his eyes.

  "Okay," I said. seizing the opportunity. "No more revelations. No more personal questions. then."

  "Let's drink to it," he said, pouring the remaining wine into our glasses.

  He was a little too agreeable, too quickly. I thought. but I didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  We toasted, his eyes moving from boyish charm to manly interest as they swept over my face and made me aware of my own feelings. The wine was getting to me quickly because of my emotional fatigue. I thought. I was actually a bit frightened of myself of the warm feelings I felt when I looked at him, of the excitement in my heart and the way that excitement washed down over my breasts and into the small of my stomach.

  I'd really believed I was in love with Allan, but maybe it was solely because I convinced myself I had to be. He was perfect and correct and confident, everything I expected a man for me should be, but after only a few hours with Thatcher. I felt something I had not felt before. It was as if his smiles, his eyes, his fingers touching my hand, had awakened some sleeping wildness within me. I could see myself shake out my hair. I could feel my eyes burning with desire. I could taste sex on my lips and feel the blood fill my face with exquisite he
at. Did he see this? I wondered and felt myself blush with embarrassment.

  "Are you all right?" he asked when I looked down quickly.

  "To be honest," I said, "I'm not used to drinking much, even wine at dinner."

  "Good. I'll save money."

  "Maybe I should go back to the hotel," I suggested.

  "Of course not!" he cried. "I promised to show vou some of the Palm Beach nightlife. We're going over to the Leopard Lounge at the Chesterfield Hotel, It should be jumping enough by now. And don't worry about drinking. You put ginger ale in a champagne glass like some of the women do at affairs here, and no one will know the difference."

  He signaled for the waiter before I could offer any resistance, and soon after, we were pulling up to the Chesterfield on Cocoanut Row. Everyone seemed to know Thatcher there. We couldn't move a foot without someone reaching to shake his hand or a young woman trying to hug him or kiss him on the cheek. The music was loud, everyone trying to talk and laugh over it.

  Of course, it was easy to see why the bar was known as the Leopard Lounge. Everything had spots on it: tablecloths, drapes, rugs, wallpaper, chairs, even the vests the waiters wore. Overhead was a painting of red satyrs with voluptuous nude women. I thought I spotted a famous female pop singer sitting at the corner of the bar, and later. I was positive I saw an actor who was in the most recent blockbuster. Money, celebrity, glitter, and excitement flowed in waves through this club, and Thatcher seemed accustomed to it and quite at home.

  He pointed out a Saudi billionaire, two bestselling female authors, and a British lord, Everywhere I looked, there were attractive young women dressed in suggestive, abbreviated clothing. People around me seemed to be competing with jewelry and designer garments. When I made a remark about it to Thatcher, he pulled me back so we could talk and look at the crowd,

  "I don't want to write your paper for you, but if you observe with any sort of objective eye, you can see that despite their wealth, people here are very insecure."

  "How do you mean?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "Older women, even the very rich ones, are threatened by the more attractive younger ones capturing their husbands' eyes. Everyone worries about his standing on the social ladder, even to the point of what table they are given at restaurants and certainly where they are seated at events.

  Disappointment over things like that can lead to deep depression. You could do well starting your career here." he said. "But for now, just enjoy it," he declared, and pulled me out onto the dance floor,

  Was I wrong to be having such a good time? When we went to order another drink. I opted for a vodka and tonic instead of the ginger ale. He raised his eyebrows but smiled and ordered it A little while later, we were dancing again. It did seem as if I were at some great party, even a New Year's celebration.

  "Does this go on every night?" I screamed,

  "During the season, yes." he shouted back. "But I'm not out every night. You heard my parents. To them. I always have my nose to the grindstone and don't enjoy myself enough."

  "That doesn't seem true." I cried,

  He drew closer to me. "Enough to them is ninety percent play and ten percent work. Everyone says life's too short and justifies the hedonism and partying with that. You can practically hear it in the music and see it in their faces: life's too short."

  "Isn't that true?"

  The more they say it, the shorter it gets," he said, and we both laughed.

  For a while. I lost myself in the music. I had another drink and then felt myself sink in the chair. My eyes seemed to have a mind of their own and kept trying to shut.

  "I guess I had better get you back to your hotel," he said, gazing at me. "I 'mow that look when I see it. I've seen it enough."

  "What look?"

  "Trust me," he said, taking my hand. He put down money for the bill, and we made our way out.

  When we stepped outside. I felt as if I had just popped out of a womb of madness. The music was still ringing in my ears. The whole world seemed to go topsy-turvy. He helped me into the Rolls, and we flew off. The warm night air flowed around me, through my hair, caressing my face.

  "So, what do you think of Palm Beach nightlife so far?"

  "I can see why everyone wants to be rich and ignore reality," I declared.

  "Do you? Really? After so short a visit, you've made that conclusion?"

  "I don't know," I said. "I'm too tired to think."

  He laughed and drove on. When we reached the hotel. he insisted on escorting me to my room.

  "I don't want any more geriatric Don Juans making passes at you, especially now," he said, "when you're so helpless."

  "I am not helpless," I insisted, but nearly tripped over my own two feet.

  He held my hand, and we went through the lobby and into the elevator. Moments later, he was standing with me at the door.

  "Allow me," he said when I took out my key. He opened my door for me.

  We both looked into the room and then at each other. Was he going to suggest he come in? Was I going to let him? My good old inner arguments were starting, a part of me hoping he would, a part of me bawling myself out for having that hope and reminding me why I had come here in the first place.

  "You'd better get some sleep," he said, quickly ending the struggle within me. "Me, too. I have a deposition at nine in the morning. It should take only an hour and a half, and then I'll come by and pick you up to take you to my parents' brunch. okay?"

  "Yes," I said "Thank you. I had a good time."

  "I'm glad. You're a lot of fun to be with." he added.

  It brought a smile to my face, and he filled that smile quickly with a soft but lingering kiss on my lips and then whispered. "Good night."

  I wavered in the doorway and watched him turn and go back to the elevator, Then I stepped into my room and closed the door.

  I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.

  .

  And I overslept.

  What woke me was Thatcher's call from his car telling me he had finished with his deposition and was on his way to the hotel.

  "What?" I cried, looking at the clock. "Oh. no!"

  "I woke you?"

  "Yes, but I'll be ready." I promised.

  I hurried to shower and dress, chastising myself for permitting this to happen. I wanted to go back to Joya del Mar very much, hoping somehow to find a way to see my mother again. I brushed my hair quickly and tied it back as my mother had tied hers the day before. When I gazed at myself in the mirror. I thought anyone could see the resemblances between us. Was it wishful thinking?

  I put on a sleeveless light blue sweater and a ball skirt. Just in case it was breezy, I tied a matching cardigan over my shoulders and then slipped into a pair of sandals I had brought along. I hoped I wasn't dressed too casually. but I didn't have much time to think about it and worry over it. Thatcher was already knocking on my door.

  "Amazing," he said. smiling.

  He wore a blue blazer, a pair of white slacks, and black loafers. "What?"

  "I expected to find you still rushing around, half dressed."

  "Sorry to disappoint you," I replied.

  "Believe me. Isabel, you're not in the least disappointing," he countered.

  He kept his eves on me as if he were

  determining the meaning of every aspect of my reaction: the look in my eyes, the movement of my lips, the way my shoulders turned.

  "Shouldn't we be going?" I asked to fill the soft silence.

  He nodded. I stepped out and closed the door. There was something about the way he looked at me and then looked away that stirred my pulse. He was quiet all the way down and through the lobby, even after we pulled away from the hotel.

  "Something wrong?" I finally asked. 'I'm not intruding or anything, after all. am I?"

  "Oh, no. Far from it. My parents love impressing strangers and love meeting new people. That's the variety now that adds the spice to their lives. Different people are like different flavors of ice
cream or different recipes for dinner. They love nothing more than experimenting," he said. "Even here, people grow tired of each other."

  "I must say you puzzle me. Thatcher. How can you live and work in a world for which you have so little respect?" I asked.

  "Is that really so unusual?' he threw back. "I read somewhere that something like eighty percent of working people hate their jobs and are bored with their social lives." He smiled at ine. "You don't have to be rich to be unhappy."

  I laughed. "Funny way to put it," I said.

  "At least I'm being honest with you, aren't I, Isabel?" His voice had taken on a harder, colder tone.

  "Yes" I said "And I do appreciate that."

  "Good. So now, let me ask you to reciprocate."

  "Pardon me?"

  He drove in silence for a while, and then he pulled off to the side of the road at a place where we could see the ocean quite unobstructed.

  "I'm pretty friendly with everyone at The Breakers," he began, "as you can imagine. I often have a business lunch there. and I've been to many, many socials there. I've been involved with

  representing the hotel and some of its more affluent guests."

  "What are you getting at. Thatcher?"

  "I know the people behind the desk well, too, and one of them, a woman. I'll admit, who might have catty motives, asked me about you this morning and how I knew you, et cetera."

  "Oh?"

  "She didn't refer to you as Isabel Amou. She referred to the name on your credit card instead."

  "Oh." I said, feeling my stomach fill with lead. I turned away from him and looked out at the soft, undulating waves. Why hadn't I thought of that?

  "Who are you? Why are you here under false pretenses?" he asked. "I'm sorry, but I'm bringing you into my home, exposing my parents to you. I have to know. I don't think you're some sort of spy or some sort of con, but... well, you can understand my surprise and curiosity, can't you?"

  I nodded. "Well?"

  This was too soon. I thought, too soon for someone other than my real mother to know the whole truth. And shouldn't she be the first to know it. anyway?

  "You were right last night when you guessed my father was a psychiatrist." I began. "What you don't know, perhaps, is that he was one of the nation's most prominent."