by Greg Herren
I couldn’t help myself—the shock wore off and I started laughing. “You—were—worried—about making a good impression on me?”
“Of course!” She goggled at me, and started laughing with me. “I’m making an UTTER fool of myself, as always.” She wiped tears out of her eyes. “Come on, darling, let’s have a sandwich. I’m STARVING.”
I made myself a turkey sandwich and sat down, filling my glass from the pitcher of iced tea. I was suddenly ravenous—all I’d thus far had to eat had been the toast. The bread tasted fresh, and the turkey was delicious.
“I don’t SUPPOSE you play tennis by ANY chance?” she asked me between bites of her roast beef.
“I’ve never played,” I replied, washing down another bite with some tea, “but I’m afraid I’m not very athletic.”
“Nonsense—you’re YOUNG, young people can do ANYTHING.” She winked at me as she dabbed at some horseradish sauce that had dribbled on her chin. “They JUST don’t realize it, of course.”
“I’m afraid I might be the one exception to that rule, Joyce,” I demurred with a slight shake of my head. “Really, I am embarrassingly uncoordinated.”
She shook her head. “I WON’T hear of it, especially with that LOVELY tennis court on the grounds HERE. My husband doesn’t PLAY, so WHENEVER I need a partner for mixed doubles, I’m ALWAYS stuck playing with the most TERRIBLE players—the ones NO ONE else wants as a partner, and we ALWAYS lose.” She winked at me. “I HATE to lose. And I know JUST the pro who can COAX the tennis champion from you—his name is Chris and he’s MARVELOUS, simply MARVELOUS. Why, a few sessions with him and he IMPROVED my serve—you wouldn’t KNOW I was the same player as the old Joyce.” She fished a phone out of her purse and pressed a button. When it beeped, she spoke into it. “Remind me this afternoon to CHECK with Chris Thoresson to SEE if he’s got SOME time for Mouse.” She slid the phone back into her purse once it confirmed the reminder message. She frowned. “Now, that’s THAT.” She glanced at her watch and blanched. “Where DID the time go?” She shoved the rest of the sandwich into her mouth. “I HAVE to be on my way, I forgot, I have to—oh, you don’t CARE about any of that.” She leaped to her feet, tossed the straps of her bag over her shoulder, and kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll call you ONCE I confirm with Chris, and when Carlo’s back you two simply MUST come over for dinner—and I’ll try to stop by and see you—mustn’t have you getting LONELY in this big old place by yourself.”
And she was gone out the door, just like that, leaving me feeling like I’d just weathered a tornado.
I shook my head and finished my turkey sandwich. I liked Joyce, very much, and if her husband and children were anything like her, I’d married into a very nice new family, indeed.
Juana came in to clear as I finished, and the moment I stepped out into the hallway, I heard a discreet cough just to my right. Carson had materialized without a sound—which was more than a little unnerving. I smiled at him, but he just looked at me, his face completely expressionless and distant. His eyes, though, were cold and one corner of his mouth was twitching, as though he couldn’t decide whether to laugh at me or just sneer. “I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time, sir.”
“Of course.” My smile faded under his withering stare, and I felt my face starting to redden. “What do you need, Carson?”
His facial expression didn’t change, but his eyes somehow grew colder and more contemptuous. “I had placed the menu selections on your desk, and was wondering if you’d made any decisions? Delia would like to get to the market soon and needs to know what to purchase. Mr. Carlo had requested prime rib for dinner this evening, so she needs to get the marketing out of the way soon, or else the meal won’t be ready to be served at seven sharp.” He folded his hands together in front of his chest. “And Mr. Carlo always wants dinner to be served promptly at seven.”
Flustered and confused, I stammered out. “My—desk? I didn’t see anything—”
“The desk in your office, sir.” His tone dripped scorn.
The office.
I bit my lower lip. “I—I’m sorry, Carson, I didn’t think—surely anything you would select would be fine.”
This time he did allow his lip to curl. “I’m afraid that just wouldn’t do, sir.”
Mortified, I knew exactly what he was thinking—Mr. Timothy would have never asked a servant to choose the menus. “I’ll do it right now, of course, Carson,” I said quickly and walked down the hall as fast as I could without running. I opened the door to the office and closed it behind me.
I let out my breath and walked over to the desk, sitting down. On the blotter in the center was the list. I scanned it quickly—everything looked fine, although there were some things I had no earthly idea what they were—and so I scrawled my initials next to each meal. Someone knocked on the door and Carson entered silently when I called “come in.” He walked over to the desk and without a word took the list from me. He paused at the door. “Do you have any instruction regarding the flowers, sir?”
“No, they’re fine as they are.” I didn’t look up at him. “Just keep using the same ones.”
One of his eyebrows went up briefly and came back down.
I swallowed. “But I’d like roses in my bedroom. Yellow ones.”
“Yellow roses?” He bowed his head slightly, his eyes glittering with contempt.
What’s wrong with yellow roses?
I took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Of course, sir.” The door closed silently behind him.
The silence was overwhelming. Other than the waves, there was no sound anywhere in the house.
I was trembling.
I was acutely aware that I was in a room that used to be Timothy’s sole territory, and I opened the center drawer, curious about my predecessor. The drawer smelled vaguely of the cologne I instantly recognized as his signature fragrance, the one I’d stopped wearing so Carlo wouldn’t be reminded. There was stationery, similar to the stationery I’d found in the penthouse, only here there were almost matching envelopes and note pads, all with his signature in raised print across the top. There was also a box of business cards, but all they said on them was Timothy Burke. I closed the drawer, and opened the top drawer on the right.
All it contained was a framed photograph of Carlo and Timothy. Both were wearing tuxedos, and they were smiling into each other’s eyes, their arms around each other.
I touched the glass.
He was so beautiful.
They looked so happy.
I bit my lower lip and put the picture back.
I got up and walked over to the bookcases to see what was in them, and when I walked past a small side table my hand accidentally hit a china statue of a dog that looked just like Minette and it fell, smashing to pieces on the floor.
I stared at it, mortified.
Surely it was Timothy’s, just as Minette had been his.
It was probably priceless as well.
Quickly, I gathered the broken pieces and hid them in the bottom drawer of the desk. After all, this was my office now—Carlo would never come in here and need never know I’d broken something of Timothy’s.
I left the room and hurried upstairs as quickly as I could.
Chapter Seven
Carlo left Spindrift the following morning, and didn’t return until Wednesday.
He stayed in my room the night before he left and woke me to tell me good-bye. There was a poignant sadness in his face that touched me deeply, and I managed to hold my own emotions in check until the door had shut behind him. Then I gave vent to my own tears, burying my face in the pillow and sobbing until I was exhausted and the emotional gave way to the practical. I was going to have to get used to being separated from him, and rather than moping around feeling sorry for myself, I would use the time productively, to learn the things I needed to know so I wouldn’t embarrass him in front of his friends and business associates—and there was that enormous library full of books. Surely, th
ere must be books in there with the information I desired.
Carlo called me several times a day, of course—which never failed to make me feel warm inside and delighted me no end. I looked forward to the calls, and my cell phone was never out of my reach. I missed him terribly—the days were bearable as I could distract myself—but the nights were lonely and awful for me up in the green suite. I missed the feel of his arms around me, his lips pressed against mine, the warmth of his skin, and his unique smell. He was always apologetic, promising to make it up to me—which of course was ridiculous. He already thought I was little more than a child—so I wasn’t about to let him know how much it hurt me that he went away so soon after we came home to Spindrift. I was proud of myself for behaving so maturely about the entire thing—which wasn’t easy.
Yet despite knowing and accepting the reality of what my marriage was going to be like, there was a small, selfish part of me that did feel wounded and abandoned. I had plenty of practice, of course, in ignoring that part of my personality; I’d been doing it my entire life. That was the small child deep inside who resented the father who wasn’t interested in letting me be a child, who listened with burning jealousy as other kids talked about trips to circuses and amusement parks and Disney films or television programs they enjoyed watching—all things I was never allowed to enjoy. My father thought he was being “enlightened” by not treating me as a child; he rather treated me as an adult who hadn’t quite matured physically yet. On the one hand, I was grateful to him for this—this enabled me to get good grades because I retreated into books to avoid conversations with other children—conversations that would ultimately result in their discovery how strange and different from theirs my home life actually was. With Carlo in New York and with endless hours to fill without him at Spindrift, I found myself with the time to reflect on my childhood and my years in college, and ultimately found them wanting on many different levels.
But recognizing how my father failed me by not allowing me to have a normal childhood didn’t mean that I should give rein to the willful petulance of the angry child within. Carlo was my husband and he was opening an entire new life full of possibilities to me. So no matter how much that child wanted to pout and cry and demand he return at once, no matter how sorry that child wanted to feel for itself at being abandoned by his husband so soon after the wedding, I would not permit that child to speak to Carlo on the telephone. I read books and learned about the art in the house—and found myself staggered by their value. I watched films on the enormous flat-screen television mounted on the wall in the den. I explored the house, determined to learn once and for all which door led to which room, so that I wouldn’t get lost or confused.
There was a door on the second floor in the east wing that was always locked. I asked Juana about it, but all she would say was, “Ask Carson.”
And of course, I wasn’t about to do that—no matter how curious I was about what was behind that door.
I kept my distance from Carson, and he did the same. There were, of course, times when we had to speak to each other—matters about the house that couldn’t be avoided—but he was always icily polite to me. I tried to convince myself that his disdain for me was merely a figment of my imagination. I reasoned, alone in the library or while walking Minette, that it was just my insecurities and worries about my new life as co-master of Spindrift.
Then I would talk to him, and I could see the dislike in his eyes, hear the scorn dripping from his oh-so-polite voice.
Joyce was true to her word, and I began my tennis lessons on Monday afternoon. She could barely contain her excitement when she called to tell me.
“You’re going to LOVE Chris, he’s an AMAZING teacher, and before you know it we’ll be WINNING the mixed doubles at the tennis club this summer!”
I rather doubted that, but it was hard to get a word in edgewise when Joyce was excited.
It was hot on Monday afternoon when I walked out to the tennis court for my first lesson. Joyce had asked me my sizes, and Monday morning bags of tennis clothing had arrived from the pro shop at the tennis club. When I called to thank her, she told me “You can THANK me by being tournament ready by the END of the summer.”
The tennis pro, Chris Thoresson, towered over me when he introduced himself. He was at least six foot four, and quite handsome, actually. He was very muscular with broad shoulders and thick legs, a narrow waist and a flat stomach. He was wearing a U.S. Open baseball cap, but I could see he had dark brown hair. His voice was deep, and he had enormous hands—mine was lost inside his strong grip when we shook hands. He also had the most remarkably blue eyes. They were deep blue, but seemed lit from behind. I was very quick to point out to him that I knew next to nothing about tennis and was terribly uncoordinated.
Joyce had included a racket with the clothes, and he very patiently taught me the different grips of the racket, what they were for, and how to swing it properly. That first day I didn’t hit a single ball. He was very insistent that I needed to learn how to hold my racket properly, how to switch grips and the different strokes—forehand, backhand, slice, and overhand—and get to the point where I could switch the grips without having to think about it first. Once I had mastered the grips and the stroke, then and only then would he let me start swinging at an actual ball. He was an excellent teacher, explaining every aspect of the game to me in his deep, friendly voice so that it all made sense to me. He was incredibly patient—unlike all the PE teachers whose classes I’d suffered through as a child—and by the end of that first hour I was quite surprised to realize that I was looking forward to my next lesson.
“Just keep practicing your grips and your strokes,” he said with a cheerful smile as we scheduled another lesson for Wednesday afternoon, “and you’ll be playing before you know it.” He took a swig from his bottle of water and wiped sweat from his forehead with a small towel. “To be honest, I never thought I’d ever be out on the court at Spindrift again.”
My heart sank. I was positive he had not been here giving Carlo lessons, and as he continued talking, I was proven right.
Once again, he was there first.
“You’re nothing like Timothy,” he said, shaking his head. “Timothy was too impatient and always let his temper get the best of him.” He shrugged. “He wanted to be a championship level player immediately, and it simply doesn’t work that way. Tennis is no different than anything else—you have to practice, and the more you do, the better you get. But things always came easily for him, I guess, and he wasn’t used to having to work at anything.” His face changed, and he scowled. “He was kind of difficult.”
“Oh,” I replied politely, dying to know what he meant but not knowing precisely how to ask.
He looked off into the distance for a moment, remembering, and then smiled again with a little shake of his head. “I’m sorry—you don’t care about any of that, of course. Anyway, make sure you practice your grips and strokes, and I’ll see you on Wednesday morning.”
He slung his tennis bag strap over his shoulder and strolled off around the house.
What did he mean? I wondered as I showered. Difficult? It seemed like he didn’t like Timothy very much.
I’m not sure what it says about me as a person, but it raised my spirits a bit to know that not everyone thought Timothy was perfect.
Minette, of course, was a godsend. I showered her with affection, and she more than returned it. Whenever I was feeling lonely, all I had to do was call her and she would come on the run, tongue hanging out and panting, and would jump all over me and lick me to death. She would follow me everywhere if I would let her. She slept in the bed with me, curling up on the pillow next to mine, and that made me feel somewhat less lonely. Several times a day I would put her leash on her and we would go for a walk around the grounds. The sound of me getting the leash always excited her, and I couldn’t help but smile at her delight. Seriously, how could anyone be depressed or sad with such an adorable dog who was so clearly delighted to be
in your company?
Every time I hugged her and she licked my face, I wondered what I would do without her.
On Tuesday morning we were out for our usual walk when I heard dogs barking on the other side of the hedge, from the house on the east side. I wasn’t paying attention. I was lost in thought, going over the grips and strokes in my head again. Minette never really tugged on the leash, so I’d gotten into the habit of holding on to it loosely—but as soon as the dogs began barking next door she leaped forward. She pulled the leash right out of my hand and took off across the lawn toward the hedge and the barking dogs. Calling her name, I ran after her, but wasn’t able to catch her before she wiggled under the hedges and into the neighboring yard. I couldn’t fit underneath—there was barely enough room for Minette—and cursing under my breath, I forced my way through thick branches that slashed at my arms and face. When I made it through, I saw Minette happily playing with two other spaniels with the same coloring.
“Well, there you are at last,” sniffed the older woman holding the leashes of the other two dogs. “Minette! Hetty! Charlie! Sit!”
All three dogs immediately stopped playing and sat, staring at her with their heads cocked to one side.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, grabbing Minette’s leash and pulling her away from the other dogs. Minette gave me such a sad, mournful look that I felt like a monster.
“For heaven’s sake,” the old woman snapped, clearly exasperated. “I wasn’t talking about Minette—she’s always welcome here. These are her parents, you foolish young man.”
“Oh.” I felt myself blushing again. “I’m sorry—”
“You’re the new husband, aren’t you?” She peered at me over the top of her glasses. She stepped forward and stuck out her right hand. “Eleanor Chamberlain, but my friends call me Nell.”
I shook her hand and told her my name.
