by Greg Herren
“Now, DARLING, Carlo undoubtedly feels like a complete ASS, and if I KNOW my brother, you can EXPECT a most EXPENSIVE apology gift,” she called out.
I buckled my belt and walked back into the bedroom carrying a pair of socks and my suede Bass shoes. I sat down and slipped my feet into my socks. “I don’t want an expensive gift.”
“Darling, don’t be ABSURD.” She smiled at me, which looked rather bizarre given her Bo Peep makeup. “TRUST me, he’ll be TERRIBLY contrite.” She sighed. “I SHOULD have gotten another DRINK before I came up. You look quite NICE in that suit, dear.”
“Thank you.” I got up and straightened the color of my shirt in the mirror. “And I really appreciate what you’re trying to do, Joyce. But I think it’s best that Carlo and I admit we made a mistake and split up.”
She goggled at me. Her mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out. Finally, she said in a hoarse whisper, “Darling, WHAT are you talking ABOUT?”
I shrugged. “He goes on trips and doesn’t want me to come with him. We sleep in separate rooms. Half the time he isn’t here, and most of the time when he actually is here he can’t be bothered with me. I don’t know why he married me in the first place. Clearly, he isn’t over Timothy, and I’m tired of him looking at me and being disappointed because I’m not him.”
My voice was flat and devoid of emotion. The numbness had worn off, replaced by tired resignation. What was, was, and no matter how much I wanted it to be different it would never be.
“Oh, my dear,” she whispered, and her eyes glistened with tears.
“I’ll talk to Carlo about it in the morning,” I went on. “And now, don’t you think we need to get back downstairs before the guests start talking?” I checked myself out in the mirror again. “I think the story we tell people about my costume was that it tore, so of course I had to go change. They’ll believe that, won’t they?”
“Yes, of course.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “We really need to be getting back down.” She stood up, and blew her nose, smearing some of her makeup.
“Carlo might be angry with me for wearing Timothy’s costume,” I said, “but he’ll be even angrier if everyone is talking about how I’m missing from the party, won’t he?”
“Timothy’s costume?” Joyce looked at me, clearly bewildered.
“That woman—the one dressed as Cleopatra—she said—”
“That was MIDGE HUNTLEY.” Joyce waved a hand and sniffed disdainfully. “Ever since Timothy DIED, Midge has acted like they were BEST friends—which they were most definitely NOT. Timothy DISLIKED her. He used to IMITATE her in a MOST cruel way.” She shook her head. “So she has NO idea what Timothy’s costume WOULD have been last YEAR—he would have NEVER told HER. Besides, Timothy ALWAYS kept his costume a SECRET until the party.”
I bit my lower lip. “Like I did this year?”
She sighed. “Yes, like you did THIS year. It was SO strange…” Her voice trailed off.
“Well, if I’d known he kept his costume a secret every year…”
“How WOULD you have known? None of us EVER talk about HIM.” She shook her head and changed the subject. “Midge Huntley’s a BITCH, and she wanted you to hear her say that.” Her eyes took on a nasty gleam. “Don’t WORRY, I know how to deal with HER.”
“Then why was Carlo so angry?” I was confused. “If it wasn’t the same costume…I don’t understand.”
“It DOES have to do WITH Timothy.” She sighed, and sat down on the side of the bed. Minette hopped up next to her, shoving her head under Joyce’s hand so she would pet her. Absently, Joyce began stroking her head. “Timothy ALWAYS wore SOMETHING like that—revealing. They FOUGHT about it EVERY year.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I replied. “He was an underwear model. Everyone saw him in his underwear, all the time.”
“Yes, WELL, that was Carlo’s POINT. I know, it doesn’t MAKE sense, but Carlo…” She let her voice trail off, trying to think of the right words. “Carlo THOUGHT it was INAPPROPRIATE. And when YOU came down those STAIRS…well, it WAS quite a SHOCK to ALL of us. I SWEAR my first THOUGHT was dear GOD, he’s risen from the DEAD…”
Carson, I thought, he knew, and did this deliberately. Every costume in that folder—all of them were revealing, something Timothy would have worn. He had to have known Carlo disapproved—he knew everything that went on around here. But I was still too numb to feel anything—even anger. Yes, Carson had deliberately set me up—to create problems between Carlo and me. He still hated me, wanted me gone. But I’d think about that some other time—it couldn’t be dealt with tonight, anyway.
“So, yes, Carlo WAS angry because it reminded HIM of something Timothy WOULD have worn. I’m SURE he was caught off guard JUST as we were.” She took my hand. “Darling, SURELY you understand? Had I KNOWN I would have STOPPED you.”
“Of course.” I pulled my hand away. “Because who would have ever thought someone like me would wear something like that?” My voice sounded more tired than bitter to me.
“Oh, darling, you mustn’t think like that.” Her voice was low and subdued. “You looked amazing. I knew you’d been training with Brad, but I had no idea you’d been working so hard. It’s been quite a transformation. You should be very proud of yourself.”
I leaned down and kissed her cheek. “You’re a dear, Joyce, you really are. You’ve been so very kind to me…always. I appreciate it more than you’ll ever know.” And finally, I forced myself to say the words I’d always known were true but would never admit to anyone. “But I know he’s still in love with Timothy and hasn’t gotten over him—and I don’t know if he ever will. I was just a poor replacement, some kind of experiment to see if he could move on—well, I guess we know the answer to that, don’t we?” I laughed bitterly. “And no doubt seeing me in something like Timothy would have worn only brought that home all the more to Carlo.”
She stared at me, her mouth open. After a moment, she said, “Is that really what you think? You can’t really believe that! But my dear—”
I walked out of my room without waiting to hear the rest of it.
I took a deep breath and walked down the hall, my head held high. I glided down the grand staircase and smiled at Frank and Carlo as I walked up to them. “Sorry I was gone for so long,” I said, managing to keep my voice even and light, almost cheerful. “Better late than never.”
Carlo looked at me, his face expressionless, but before he could say anything a couple dressed as what I took to be George and Martha Washington walked through the front door and we turned to greet them. I don’t remember their names—but right after they moved on to the party, Joyce came down the stairs and stood next to me. “Darling, we need to have a talk—a serious talk,” she whispered under her breath as yet another group of people—dressed as Harry Potter and friends—came through the front door.
I just smiled at them.
Somehow, I managed to get through the ordeal of greeting the new arrivals. No one would have guessed that my heart was broken or that my marriage had ended earlier that night. I was polite and friendly, and made small talk with everyone who came into the great house—but it was all just a blur to me. I was on autopilot, careful not to let the emptiness and numbness I was feeling inside be seen by anyone. It was torture, sheer torture. The whole time Carlo stood next to me, but never said a word directly to me. With a big smile on his face he would introduce me, and I would just smile and nod, accept congratulations, shake hands, kiss cheeks. Every so often I would catch Joyce watching me, her eyes sad. The costumes were extraordinary, and some were incredibly clever, ranging from the Scooby gang to the Beatles to Lady Gaga to Tippi Hedron from The Birds. Some made me laugh out loud. Maureen showed up with a group of people, all dressed in costumes from Dangerous Liaisons, their faces powdered and wigs towering on the women’s heads. Maureen tapped me with her fan and pulled me aside to whisper into my ear, “Find me later—I have some things to tell you.” I just smiled at her. I no longer cared a
bout how Timothy died.
All I cared about was somehow getting through this evening.
Around eleven Joyce decided we no longer needed to stay in the foyer and I escaped into the party as quickly as I could without a word to either of them. I made my way to the nearest bar, got a glass of red wine, and disappeared into the nearby shadows while I sipped at it, watching the guests milling about or dancing. After a few moments, I took a deep breath and entered the fray, a smile plastered on my face. I played host as best I could, wandering around and checking ashtrays and drinks, making sure the buffet table was stocked, smiling and nodding politely to people as I passed within their line of vision. I never stayed stationary long enough for anyone to engage me in conversation—though many tried. My role as cohost enabled me to make a quick escape, with a promise to come back to finish the conversation—promises I had no intention of keeping. “Lovely party,” I was told over and over again, and I just smiled and nodded my thanks and kept moving, weaving my way in and out of the endless crowd of guests. I kept my eyes moving, trying to avoid Carlo and Joyce. The disc jockey was playing dance music at a rather high volume, and out on the dancing area there was a crowd of younger guests dancing madly.
I only saw Carson once, when he come out of the kitchen. He stood on the gallery, looking out over the party, an unreadable expression on his face. Was it triumph, celebration for what he had accomplished that night? I stared at him, wondering what drove him, what kind of person could take pleasure in seeing another suffer.
For just a moment, a spark of anger cut through the numbness, but it quickly faded away.
I might be finished at Spindrift, but before I left this house for good Carson would pay for what he’d done to me.
As long as I lived I would never forget the look of triumph—and hatred—on his face as I stumbled up the grand staircase in humiliation and disgrace.
And as long as I lived, I would never forgive him for it.
Finally, exhausted, I hid in the darkness just below the gallery, sitting down on a stone bench in the shadows, tired of people, tired of forcing the muscles of my face to smile. I just wanted to be get away from people, to catch my breath and recharge, relax for a moment and decompress.
Just above me, two women were talking in hushed tones—unaware that someone had just sat down below where they stood on the gallery.
“Well, I suppose one shouldn’t have expected this ball to be as good as they used to be, when Timothy was alive,” one woman said disdainfully. “Did you get a look at the replacement? Whatever was Carlo thinking! He’s little more than a child. It’s disgusting.”
“Hush, Nicola!” the other woman whispered, but went on in her equally sly and smug voice, “You’re right, though, he isn’t much to look at, is he? Little wonder there’s so much talk that Carlo’s already tired of him and thinking he made a mistake.” She sniffed dismissively. “I certainly hope he was smart enough to have the boy sign a prenup—but if he didn’t he has no one to blame but himself.”
“I don’t think he’s in Kansas anymore,” the first woman deadpanned, and they both burst out in laughter. “Oh, I’m sure he’s nice enough—he seemed like a sweet child—but to be married to Carlo Romaniello? To live in this house? He looks more like a schoolteacher or a paid assistant.”
“That’s what he was, you know—to Valerie Franklin, you know—the editor of that dreadful magazine? That’s what he was doing when they met. Can you imagine?”
“If he looked like Timothy, I could. But that mousy child? Whatever was Carlo thinking?”
“Clearly, he wasn’t.” This was followed by more of the nasty laughter.
My stomach churned. I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch and hadn’t had anything stronger to drink than that one glass of red wine. I felt like I was going to throw up at any moment. I bit my lower lip and took a series of deep breaths, wiping the sudden wetness of hurt from my eyes. I glanced through the railing of the gallery—one of the women was dressed as Snow White, the other was Maleficent from Sleeping Beauty—a most appropriate costume for the bitch. I remembered meeting them when they arrived, but their names escaped me.
I knew I should stop listening, should go back to the party, but I couldn’t tear myself away—like when I had an aching tooth and couldn’t stop worrying it with my tongue.
“And that nonsense about his costume not fitting properly!” the one called Nicola, the one dressed as Snow White, was saying. “Midge told me he actually had the nerve to try to pull off the costume Timothy was going to wear last year, and Carlo would have none of it! Apparently there was a terrible scene, and Carlo ordered him to go upstairs and change!” Her laugh was a nasty sound. “Trouble in paradise—I don’t give that marriage another three months!”
“Midge would know, I suppose,” the other woman mused. “What did Carlo see in that boy? Do you think he was just lonely?”
I couldn’t stand to listen to anymore, so I stood and turned to look at them. I was pleased to hear the two bitches gasp as it slowly dawned on them that I’d heard everything they’d said. “Ladies,” I said, inclining my head ever so slightly. They gaped at me, unable to say anything. I smiled at them and walked across the lawn as quickly as I could, my head spinning and my stomach still tied in knots. I saw Cleopatra—Midge Huntley—standing near the pool, and it took all of my self-control to not go over and shove her into the deep end. Miserable, horrible woman!
As I made my way around the dance area, I could hear Valerie’s words echoing in my head: You have no idea what people in that circle are like—you have no experience with them and they will eat you alive.
I smiled and nodded at people, uttered inanities that meant nothing when a response was required, but through it all I wasn’t really listening. I didn’t know where Carlo was and I didn’t care. I didn’t want to see him or talk to him.
“There you are,” Maureen hissed, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me out of the light into the shadows. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Where can we go talk?”
Her wig was crooked, and I straightened it for her. “The studio?” I asked. I didn’t want to hear what she had to say—it no longer mattered, after all—but it would get me away from the party. So when she nodded, I escorted her through the darkness to the studio. There were some people on the dock, and others on the beach talking, but all the lights in the studio were off. I didn’t turn on the overhead lighting because even with the blinds and curtains closed people would be able to see the lights were on. I pulled out my cell phone and used the dim light from its screen to negotiate my way through the darkened studio, and turned on the desk lamp. Maureen stepped inside and shut the door behind her.
It was a small lamp, and I felt confident no one would be able to see it through the pulled curtains. I sank down on the sofa and buried my face in my hands. I felt completely drained—this emotional roller coaster was wearing me out, and all I wanted was for the interminable party to be over so I could go to bed.
“Is everything all right?” Maureen asked, sitting down beside me on the sofa with a rustle of her petticoats. “You seem—distressed.”
I laughed. “You have no idea.” I said brokenly.
She tapped my arm with her fan. “Well, I’ve done some asking around, and even though no one really wants to talk about it over a whisper, there is some talk about Timothy’s death not being an accident.”
I almost said it doesn’t make any difference, but she kept talking.
“It was no secret, apparently, out here that Timothy wasn’t faithful to Carlo—the only person who didn’t know was Carlo,” she went on. “And of course everyone talked about it, but no one would tell Carlo.” She shook her head and reached up quickly to keep her wig from sliding off. “But there was a terrible scene at one of the restaurants in town the day before he died—Carlo was in the city, and Timothy was having dinner with the tennis pro—Chris Thoresson—and Taylor Hudson caused a scene.”
That aroused me out of my tor
por. “Taylor Hudson?” I heard his voice in my head: I was in Europe when Timothy died. “I thought he was out of the country when Timothy died.”
“No,” she replied with a grim little shake of her head. “He’s been Hermione Delano’s companion for the last few years, and they left for Europe the day after Timothy disappeared.” She stood up. “So, there just might be some fire where you smelled smoke.” She walked over to the door. “I’ll let you know if I find out anything else.” The door shut behind her.
I sat there for a few minutes, digesting what she’d told me—but finally just dismissing it. What did it matter, anyway? Carlo was still in love with Timothy—even if Timothy hadn’t been faithful to him. There was no point in telling him now.
My situation was unchanged.
The door opened, and I jumped. A man wearing a mask slipped through the doorway and quickly closed the door behind him. He had come dressed as a zebra, and I realized as he turned around again to face me that he wasn’t, in fact, wearing a body suit as I’d originally thought but actually had painted his body white with black stripes. He was wearing a pair of square-cut trunks, similar to the white ones I’d intended to wear, that had also been painted to match the rest of his body, as were the knee high leather boots. Like my white ones, they really didn’t leave much to the imagination. He slipped the zebra mask up, and I felt a chill go down my spine.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, the numbness giving way to fear. “I’m pretty certain you weren’t invited.”
“I was brought as a plus one.” Taylor Hudson smirked at me. “And I saw you come in here with Maureen Drury, so I waited until she left so I could talk to you alone.”
“Is that why you wore a mask? So Carlo wouldn’t throw you out on your ear?” I needed to get away from him, but my mind was too drained and tired to think of what to do or say.
“How little you know your husband.” Taylor turned a chair around and straddled it. “Carlo would never cause a scene at the Independence Ball.” He laughed. “I think I would have preferred seeing you in your angel costume. I understand you’re building up quite a nice little body—shame to cover it up with all those clothes.”
