Logan 05 Olivia

by V. C. Andrews

  Now that Belinda was safely and securely filed away like some embarrassing set of documents, Daddy turned more of his attention to me, and, without my realizing it, arranged for me to have a date with Clayton Keiser, the son of our accountant. There was nothing subtle about it. On the way home from our offices one day, Daddy told me the Keisers were coming to our home for dinner on Friday.

  I had met Clayton before, of course. He was five years older than I, and he, too, worked for his father now that he had graduated college. I had never given him more than a passing glance, and, during the whole time I knew him and his family, I had spoken little more than a dozen words with him.

  Clayton's father Harrison Keiser looked like he had been discovered by a casting director to play the role of an accountant. He was a slim, beady-eyed man obsessed with details, no matter how small or insignificant they might be to other people. His son Clayton was practically a clone. They both had small, round faces, large dull brown eyes and thin noses with the tiniest nostrils. Clayton also inherited his father's pasty complexion and soft, very feminine lips. The one gift from his mother's side was his auburn hair, rich and thick, which he kept cut close to his head, almost in military style.

  I was too many classes behind him to remember him in school, but I knew he was unathletic, the quintessential bookworm with his thick glasses and meek manner. Although he was an excellent student, he wasn't class valedictorian because the school policy averaged in physical education grades. Daddy told me there was a big argument about it at the time, but the policy wasn't changed to suit Clayton. I thought teachers and administrators simply didn't want him to be the valedictorian and represent the best of the school in front of all those parents and guests.

  Clayton wasn't more than two or three inches taller than I. He was still a very slim, almost fragilelooking man, quiet, but with a scrutinizing look that made me feel he was assessing my assets and liabilities on some net worth document entitled "Olivia Gordon."

  I was oblivious at first to what Daddy and Harrison Keiser had plotted and didn't notice how much of the conversation at dinner that night centered around both Clayton and myself until Daddy finally said, "Maybe Clayton should ask Olivia to the opening of that new show at the Sea and Shore Art Gallery. I think they share an interest in art."

  I know I turned a shade brighter than crimson. My eyes darted from Daddy to Clayton to my mother who sat smiling like a Cheshire cat.

  "Not a bad thought, eh Clayton?" Harrison Keiser followed quickly.

  "No, sir."

  "Well then," his father coaxed, nodding in my direction.

  Clayton looked up from his plate at me as if he had just realized I was there, too. He dabbed his lips with his napkin and cleared his throat.

  "Yes. How would you like to go to dinner and to the gallery opening, Olivia?" Clayton asked in front of the entire table. It might as well have been declared on the front pages of the local newspapers.

  Nevertheless, for a moment I couldn't speak. It was as if my vocal cords had declared a mutiny. I saw Daddy staring at me, expectantly. Finally, I gathered enough air in my lungs to utter a response. Of course it was yes. What else could I do?

  The conversation then turned to what was the best restaurant for us to go to before the opening. Clayton had no opinion and neither did I. In fact, our entire evening was planned by our parents as if we were pieces on a chess board. Clayton's father suggested he go to his men's shop to get a new suit and tie. His mother thought he should do something different with his hair. My mother talked about a dress she had just seen, a dress that she decided would be perfect for me for such an occasion.

  The four of them continued their discussion of our arranged date without once turning to either Clayton or myself and asking us for an opinion or a reaction. Clayton glanced at me a few times, but for most of the dinner, he sat with his eyes directed downward, concentrating on eating as he lifted the spoon and the fork with his father's precision, blotting his lips with his napkin almost in synchronization with his father. They were so alike, it was frightening.

  At the end of the evening, before the Keisers left, Clayton finally turned to me. Everyone stopped talking as though the prince was about to utter some royal edict.

  "I'll come by at six-fifteen, if that's all right with you," he said. "It will take fifteen minutes to get to the restaurant, which will leave us an hour for dinner and then it's about twelve minutes from the restaurant to the gallery."

  I felt as if I should synchronize my watch with his. I simply nodded. He pressed his lips together, which was his best effort at a smile, and then turned to join his parents at the door. Everyone said good night and they left.

  Immediately, I spun on Daddy.

  "Why did you do that? I felt like I was trapped and I had to say yes."

  "He's a fine young man, distinguishing himself in his father's firm. Such young men are not so easily found these days, Olivia."

  "I'd like to find my own young man," I said.

  I could see the reply in Daddy's face: You're not making any attempt to do so.

  "I'm just trying to help you, my dear. Surely, there's no harm in testing the waters. It will cost you nothing but your own time," he added, strongly reminding me I was doing nothing else with it. "And then there is this new showing at the gallery. You like that sort of thing, don't you? The bottom line is it's no big sacrifice."

  "I know, Daddy, but . . ."

  "Your father's right. You should go out more, dear," Mother said. "You should be seen socializing. Even if things don't work out between you and Clayton, other young men will see you dressed up and beautiful and think, there's someone I'd like to know. That's how wonderful things happen," she continued. "We'll have such fun fitting you for a dress, finding your shoes, getting you some new costume jewelry, going to the hairdresser."

  I realized that this was something Mother wanted to do for herself as well as for me. With Belinda gone, there wasn't much talk about romance in the house.

  "All right," I said, relenting, "but I can't imagine myself having a good time with Clayton Keiser."

  "You never know about these things, dear," Mother said. "When I first went out with your father, I thought the same thing."

  "You did not," Daddy remarked quickly.

  "I never told you, Winston, but I was deathly afraid of you that first night."

  "Really?" he said smiling as if that was something of which he could be proud.

  "Everyone told me to be careful. Winston Gordon is a man who gets what he wants and he wants a great deal. He has insatiable appetites," Mother explained.

  Daddy's eyes flitted from her to me and then to her for a quick smile.

  "Well, maybe that was true then, but I've become somewhat more restrained in my maturity. I try to find balance, analyze everything carefully."

  "Even this arranged date for me, Daddy?" I said with a bitter smile.

  He thought for a moment and then nodded.

  "Yes. Yes, Olivia, I think this is a sensible young man. I hope you enjoy your evening," he concluded and went off to smoke his cigar.

  Mother lost herself in a flurry of activity that week, preparing me for my "perfect" date. As it turned out, the dress she thought was just right was not and she insisted we go to Boston. I tried to change her mind.

  "It's not an important event for me, Mother. It's just a date. I even hate that word. It's not a date. It's a . . . scheduled event," I said.

  "Nonsense. Every time a young woman goes out in public, socializes, it's a major event, Olivia. There's no harm in your making yourself as attractive and as presentable as possible, is there?"

  "I guess not," I said reluctantly. Maybe she was right, I thought. Maybe I was not putting enough emphasis on myself, my looks, my image. Maybe it was time to be more of a woman than a successful daughter. I let her lead me about, have me measured, pampered, styled and dressed until I dared to look at myself in the mirror and conclude I, too, could be attractive, pretty, and I, too, coul
d break men's hearts. Belinda did not have a monopoly on beauty in this family. It was time I gave her some competition.

  Precisely at six-fifteen on the night of the gallery opening, Clayton drove up to our house and pressed the door buzzer. I waited upstairs, my heart pounding mostly because of sheer nervousness. I was just like an actress with stage fright, unsure that my feet would move forward. I had no reason to be insecure. My hair was cut and shaped into the most fashionable style. I wore a sparkling gold and diamond necklace, and gold earrings with tiny pearls. Mother gave me two of her rings as well. My dress was made of emerald green silk, with a V-shaped neckline that plunged farther than I would have liked. Mother insisted I put makeup on my neck and breast bone with just a touch of rouge on that part of my bosom that was visible. Many times I had chastised Belinda for looking too seductive. Now, I struggled not to chastise myself.

  Up until the time Clayton arrived, Mother hovered about me like a magic sylph, fluttering her tiny wings, touching a strand of hair here, brushing out a crease there, straightening my necklace and checking to be sure my perfume was not too strong and not too weak.

  "Oh you're beautiful, Olivia. You really are. Belinda would be deathly jealous," she said, which brought a smile to my face.

  Belinda had called in the afternoon. Mother had kept her abreast of my preparations, and Belinda moaned and whined about not being able to be here to see me.

  "I'm stuck up here learning how to walk with a book on my head and sit properly and stand properly and choose the right fork and spoon, while you go out on dates! It's not fair, Olivia."

  "You've gone out on many dates, Belinda. One too many," I reminded her coldly. "And besides, while I was in finishing school learning these things, you were having more good times than you should."

  "Oh poop," she cried. "If you really cared about me, you'd get Daddy to have my prison sentence reduced up here. That's all this place is, Olivia, a fancy prison for snobs. I haven't been able to make a single friend. I just see lots of nostrils. They hold their noses too high."

  I had to laugh at that.

  "I'm absolutely, terribly miserable. Even the male teachers are . . . are like old ladies. They don't give me a second look unless it's to teach me something stupid like how to correctly address someone for the first time."

  "Just think of how accomplished you'll be when you graduate," I said.

  "I don't care," she said and started to catalogue a whole new set of complaints.

  "I've got to go," I interrupted. "I have too much to do to waste any more time."

  "Then go. Go and have a wonderful time and then think of me locked up and chained by the rules," she concluded.

  I heard the door buzzer and sucked in my breath.

  "That's Clayton," Mother declared. She opened my bedroom door as if she were pulling back a stage curtain. "Have a good time, Olivia."

  "Thank you, Mother," I said.

  Carmelita had let Clayton in. He stood in the foyer looking up as I descended. I thought he resembled a bank teller in his suit and tie, waiting to receive a deposit. I hoped he would stop being so stiff when we were alone.

  Daddy came rushing out of his office.

  "Well, now, looky here. Doesn't she look beautiful, Clayton?" he urged.

  "Yes, sir," he said and turned to me. "You look very nice."

  "Thank you."

  Carmelita stood off to the side, watching without expression. When I turned to her, however, her eyebrows rose and a look of genuine surprise formed on her face. It made me feel more confident. I guess I did look beautiful. I only wished Clayton would have been more demonstrative when he spoke and looked at me.

  "Well," he said gazing at his watch, "we're on schedule. Shall we go?"

  "Yes. Good night, Daddy," I said.

  "Have a good time. Both of you," he called.

  Clayton's car was immaculate. He opened the door for me and I got in and remarked about it as soon as he got in.

  "It's five years old," he said without gratitude for the compliment. It was more like he expected it. "You really have to keep a car about seven years these days to make the most of your investment," he said, and then went on to talk about depreciation schedules.

  When we sat in the restaurant and were given our menus, Clayton reviewed each entree, explaining the cost and value to me.

  "We handle a dozen restaurants," he continued, "so we know what the best values are."

  "Why don't you just order for me then," I said dryly and handed the waiter my menu.

  "I would be very happy to do that," Clayton said and did. Finally, his conversation turned to something other than assets and liabilities. Or, at least I thought it did when he began to ask me questions about myself, the work I did for my father, and what I did to entertain myself.

  Throughout the course of the meal, he glanced at his watch and commented about how we were doing. Most of the time, he concluded we were on schedule, but when the desserts he had ordered took longer than he anticipated, he became a little agitated.

  "We really don't have to be there just when it all begins, Clayton," I said. He looked at me as if being late for something was a violation of the eleventh commandment.

  "People are known by their sense of

  responsibility, how well they keep to their schedules," he assured me. "That's why our clients feel confident about doing business with our firm."

  "Oh. Well, not everything is business, Clayton."

  "In the end," he insisted, "everything is business."

  I didn't feel like arguing. We had our desserts and I let him rush me along. He remarked that we had arrived at the gallery two minutes later than he had anticipated, but it would be all right.

  "Thank goodness," I said. "I was beginning to worry." He nodded, missing my sarcasm.

  Many of the people who attended knew both Clayton and me. I saw the look of amusement in their eyes when they realized we were on a date. Many of them had nice things to say about my appearance.

  Clayton did appear to know a great deal about art, but he managed to evaluate each piece in terms of its potential market value, deciding which would be a good investment and which wouldn't.

  "Maybe some people want to buy it because they like it," I remarked, "and not for how much money it might bring them in twenty years."

  "You should always consider what something's going to be worth down the line," he retorted. "No matter what you do from birth to death."

  I was beginning to think Clayton Keiser had no emotions, no heart, just a calculator in his chest. However, after what he had planned to be our allotted time at the gallery, he surprised me by asking if I would like to see a piece of property he was considering purchasing.

  "I think it's the perfect location for a house," he said. "Just far enough away from people to give you privacy, but not so far that you feel out of touch. And there is a view," he added, "which of course raises its potential value."

  "Of course. Yes, I'd like to see it," I said. "Do we have enough time left on our schedule?" I kidded, but he didn't smile.

  "I believe so, yes."

  We drove about two miles out of Provincetown, south on the highway until he slowed down and made a turn up a side road. It was barely a road, with only a gravel bed, but it ended on land that rose and then sloped down toward the sea. There was a wonderful view of the night sky.

  "Well?" he said.

  "This is a beautiful place. You're right, Clayton."

  "Thank you," he said.

  "Should we get out?" I asked after a long silent moment.

  "No. It might be muddy or rough out there. You can see it all from here anyway," he replied dryly, but he didn't start the engine. Again, a long silence passed.

  "Clayton?" I said.

  He turned quickly and before I could react, leaned forward and kissed me. It took me by such surprise I was speechless. I thought I might even laugh. It was the most awkward kiss in history, I thought. He missed my lips and kissed my cheek.

&nbs
p; "Olivia Gordon, I do find myself attracted to you," he declared.

  "What?"

  "I think we could be very successful together." "Clayton, we've just gone out for the first time and I hardly think

  He lunged at me again, this time seizing my shoulders so he could pull me toward him. His lips fell on my neck. I started to struggle. He held me tightly, surprising me with the strength in his fingers, and then he practically dove at my breasts, pressing his mouth to them and shoving his tongue into my cleavage, the hot wetness nauseating me immediately. He groped at my bosom and maneuvered himself until his weight was on me, his left leg trapping my right leg.

  I cried out and continued to struggle, but he pressed on, pushing his pelvis against my hip. I felt his gyrations and heard his quickened breathing and moans. As he lowered more and more of his weight on me, I began to feel like someone drowning, someone being pushed under water.

  I managed to get my right hand out from between our bodies where it had been locked against his chest and my own, and I began to pound the top of his head. He didn't seem to mind or to feel it. His movements grew more frenzied until he cried out like a man in pain and collapsed against me.

  For a long moment we lay there, motionless. I was afraid to turn or straighten up, afraid he would initiate some new attack on me. His breathing grew more regular.

  Then, he suddenly sat up, straightened his tie and wiped back his hair.

  "Thank you," he said. "That was very nice."

  "Take me home immediately," I said with as much command in my voice as I could muster. I was still so surprised and frightened, I couldn't stop my heart from pounding.

  "Of course," he said calmly. "It's just the right time anyway."

  He started the engine. I sat as far from him as I could, my shoulder against the door. He turned the car around and drove down the gravel road, not speaking until we were on the highway.

  "So," he said, "you like the property. I'm going to buy it this week. I can build us a beautiful home there."

  "Not me," I said. "You can't do anything for me."

  "Pardon?"