He’d insisted that Liz finally get a tour of her new city, and he told her he’d be back to pick her up in the morning. He arrived bright and early, and Liz was ready for him. They’d sped all over town in Roger’s black Porsche Carrera, the top removed, the wind in her hair. Liz had loved everything she’d seen. The white, sandy beaches and the crashing blue surf. The tall silver buildings glistening in the sun. The trendy shops along the palm-shaded downtown streets. The fabulous MarA-Lago, once the home of Marjorie Merriweather Post. And finally the Beaux-Arts architecture and exquisite furnishings of the Flagler Museum.
“Come here,” Roger said suddenly, grabbing Liz’s hand and tugging her away from the mansion. “Over here—look at this! One of my favorite things in all of Palm Beach.”
Not far away stood an enormous, strange, and beautiful tree covered in white flowers. It looked like something out of a children’s book, with its peculiar, twisting branches stretching into the sky. Behind it glittered the towers of the city. Liz was entranced.
“It’s called a kapok tree,” Roger told her. “It’s one of the biggest specimens around.”
Still holding her hand, he pulled her close to the tree, where they stood within the enclosure of one of its gargantuan roots, dwarfed against its trunk.
“This is magnificent,” Liz said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Roger was looking into her eyes. “And I’ve never seen anything like you,” he said. “Just getting you out of that house—wow, I can see the way your eyes suddenly sparkle!”
Liz blushed, glancing away.
From there it was on to the luscious Pan’s Garden, where exotic flowers grew in clusters and bright orange butterflies danced around a statue of the god Pan playing a lute.
“It’s so beautiful here,” Liz gushed. “Everywhere we’ve been today—everything has been so beautiful.” She laughed. “So much more color and style and fragrance than my hometown of Trenton, New Jersey.”
“I’m sure there’s beauty there, too,” Roger said, as they strolled down a path lined with bright orange birds of paradise. “Especially if you come from there.”
“Okay, mister, you can turn off the charm,” Liz said, laughing some more. “I like you. You’ve won me over!”
“I’m glad, Liz, because I like you, too.” He smiled over at her, and once again he looked so much like David. “I’m glad we’re part of the same family now.”
Liz nodded. She tried to say something, but the words didn’t come. She wasn’t sure just what to say.
“Ah,” Roger was saying. “And here we come to my favorite part of the gardens.”
They turned down a quiet path overhung in places with bougainvillea, bright red against the sharp blue sky. Roger gently placed his hand on Liz’s shoulder.
That was when she caught the fragrance.
Gardenias.
She saw the flowers then, growing on bushes along the sides of the path, delicate white blossoms amid the deep, emerald green leaves. The scent was almost overpowering.
Liz stopped walking.
“What’s the matter?” Roger asked her.
She looked at him. She couldn’t bring herself to say what she was thinking, but finally she saw understanding flicker across his face.
“The gardenias,” he said. “Oh, I’m sorry, Liz . . . I didn’t think . . .”
“It’s all right,” she said. “It just brought me back to the house, that’s all. Made me think about that place after forgetting about it all day.”
“Look,” Roger said, “let’s take another path . . .”
“No, that’s crazy. I can’t run away from a scent! Gardenias are beautiful and they smell so wonderful . . . almost otherworldly in their sweet fragrance. Let’s keep going, Roger.”
“That’s the girl.”
“Really,” Liz said as they resumed their walk. “I’m over all that silly nonsense. I had a good talk with Variola yesterday.”
“Oh, really? The chef?”
“Yes. She’s a very kind woman. I think we’ll be friends.”
Roger smiled at her. “Well, I’m delighted. I guess I never thought Variola was the type to be . . . all that welcoming.”
“She was very happy to include you for dinner last night,” Liz pointed out.
“You’re right. She was.” He smiled again. “What did the two of you talk about?”
“I confided in her some of my silly ideas. Did you know some of the servants talk about ghosts and witches?”
Roger nodded. “Oh, they always have. Dominique encouraged such talk. And so does Variola, I must admit. But you couldn’t really have been thinking that there was something supernatural going on at the house?”
“Oh, I let myself get freaked out about silly things. Like the fragrance of gardenias and the occasional sound of footsteps when no one was around. They sounded like they were coming from inside the walls.”
“Sounds like something out of Jane Eyre.”
“And then Dominque’s portrait . . . the way the thunder had clapped just as Thad tried to take it down and then the way he had fallen, almost as if she hadn’t wanted him to do it.” Liz laughed. “A hyperactive imagination, I guess I could say I had.”
“No wonder your imagination got the better of you, Liz. The two deaths of Audra and Jamison would have unnerved anyone who’d just showed up to live in a new place.”
Liz was nodding. “But it wasn’t only that. Variola told me some other things that helped me, too.”
“Like what?”
“Like that Dominique wasn’t always such a wonderful person, and that I was just as good as she was, and I shouldn’t ever compare myself to her.”
Roger smiled. He stopped walking and took both of Liz’s hands in hers. “Didn’t I tell you the same thing?”
“Yes. Yes, you did, Roger.”
“I told you that David wouldn’t want you to be like Dominique, that he would want you to be just the way you are.”
“Do you really believe that? He’s seemed so impatient with me on the phone whenever I’ve spoken to him.”
Roger lifted Liz’s left hand to his lips and kissed it. “Sweet Liz. My brother can be a boor sometimes.”
“Until he comes back,” Liz said, “I’m just so confused. I worry sometimes . . .”
“What do you worry about?”
“That I married him too quickly. It was impulsive. We barely knew each other. My mother was not happy at all. And I gave up so much . . .”
“Like what?” Roger asked, genuinely interested.
“My career. I was really hoping that once the cruise was over, I could start auditioning for musical productions. I wanted to be a choreographer. It was a dream I’ve had most of my life.”
“You don’t have to give up your dreams just because you’re married.”
“You’re right. But David was so . . . oh, I don’t know, so eager that I come here, and live here, and be part of Palm Beach society as the mistress of Huntington House.” She said the words rather pompously for comic effect.
“Once he gets back, you need to talk to him about all that.”
“That’s just it. Without David here . . . I’m not sure what our life is going to be like together. I just can’t picture it.”
Roger let go of her hands. “David’s always been a klutz when it comes to knowing how to treat a woman. He was a fool to leave you so soon after you arrived here. If there’s anything David needs to learn it’s that sometimes—no, not sometimes, most of the time—business must come second to relationships.”
“I hope he does learn that,” Liz said.
Roger touched her cheek. “I hope he does, too.”
There was a second when they held each other’s eyes. And then, from out of nowhere, a sudden black cloud appeared in the sky over them, raining down a mist on their cheeks. They had only time to look up and spot the unexpected storm before the downpour came. In seconds they were both soaking wet.
Liz shrieked. Roger whip
ped off his blue blazer and held it over their heads.
“Let’s make a run for the car,” he shouted. “Welcome to Florida! You never know when a rainstorm might blow in!”
They ran down the path that had been turned into a river. Despite being drenched, Liz didn’t mind the rain. It was warm and felt surprisingly refreshing. Liz and Roger laughed as they hopscotched through the puddles, and when Roger slipped and felt into a bed of calla lilies, they couldn’t contain their hysterics. They tumbled into Roger’s Porsche wet and muddy but laughing so hard tears were coming down their cheeks.
“My gallery’s nearby,” Roger said as he started up the car.
The rain was coming so fast and furious the Porsche’s windshield wipers could barely keep up with it. Liz’s hair was dripping down in front of her eyes, and her clothes were so drenched that every move she made brought forth a sloshing sound. That only made her giggle harder. Roger called them “a couple of creatures from the black lagoon.”
They pulled up in front of the gallery. They hopped out of the car and made a mad dash for the entrance. As they tumbled through the front door, a young man at a desk looked up in surprise at them. “Karl,” Roger called. “Bring us some towels from the back room.”
The young man hurried off to comply with his employer’s order. Within moments he had returned, and Liz was drying her hair with a fluffy white terrycloth towel.
“Come on inside,” Roger was saying to her. “Karl, do we have coffee brewing?”
“Yes, sir,” the young man replied.
It was only at that point, as Liz made her way following Roger across the room, that she really got a look at the art that was hanging on the gallery’s walls. And what she saw nearly stopped her in her tracks.
The paintings were strange, to say the least. One was of an armless woman with a mouth open as if in a scream, standing against a bloodred background. Another was an enormous eye, filling the entire canvas. Others were of dark figures marching across bleak, gray terrain, dressed in black hoods so the viewer couldn’t see their faces. Still other painting displayed hands growing out of the earth as if they were ferns.
Roger noticed Liz looking. “Not my work,” he said, as if sensing her unease. “I’m showing an artist from New York. She’s very good, but rather disturbing sometimes.”
“I’d agree with the disturbing part.”
“Karl and I just hung her show. She’s all the rage in the art world. Her name’s Naomi Collins. Her show has its official opening next week, and she’s coming down from New York to be here for it. I hope you’ll come.”
A painting of a decapitated head on a platter caused Liz to look away.
“Here we are,” Roger said. “Some hot coffee.” They sat in a small lounge off the main gallery. Liz cupped the hot mug in her hands and drank. At the same time, she kicked off her wet shoes to let them dry.
“I enjoyed our time today,” Roger said, looking over at her.
Liz smiled. “As did I. I needed to get out of that house. Thank you, Roger.”
“You know, Liz,” Roger said, “when I’m with you, I . . .”
His words trailed off. Liz looked at him, waiting for him to continue.
But Roger said nothing more. He blushed suddenly, looking away. And then he was saved by his assistant popping his head through the door of the lounge.
“Mr. Huntington, you have a visitor.”
“Who is it, Karl?”
“Mrs. Delacorte.”
“Oh!” Roger stood quickly, setting down his coffee. “Bring her back, of course.” As Karl hurried away, Roger turned to Liz. “Mrs. Delacorte is one of the gallery’s biggest patrons. One of the richest women in Palm Beach.”
“Oh, I see,” Liz said, standing herself now. “Should I make myself scarce?”
“Not at all. She’ll want to meet David’s new wife.”
Liz suddenly felt mortified. She was still drenched, her hair a mess. She was about to ask Roger to let her run to the ladies’ room and try to freshen herself up, but before she had a chance Karl had returned with a tall, plump lady. She had iron-gray hair and wore a long strand of knotted pearls hanging over her ample bosom. Whether Liz liked it or not, she was about to have her first interaction with Palm Beach society.
“Roger, darling!” Mrs. Delacorte trilled, air-kissing either side of his face, fat fingers crusted with rings gripping his shoulders like talons.
“Mrs. Delacorte, how nice to see you,” he said.
Liz saw the woman’s large blue eyes latch on to her.
“Allow me to introduce my sister-in-law, Liz,” Roger said, gesturing for Liz to join him in greeting the woman.
Liz extended her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you. Please excuse us . . . we just got caught in the rainstorm. . .”
Mrs. Delacorte took her hand but quickly moved her eyes back to Roger. “This is David’s wife?” she asked him.
“Yes. They’ve only been married a short time.”
Mrs. Delacorte looked back at Liz, but continued addressing Roger. “But where is your brother? Word around town is that he brought her to the house and then took off again.”
“That’s right,” Liz said, refusing to stay silent and let Roger answer for her. “It was unavoidable. Business. He’s in Amsterdam at the moment, but I expect him back very soon.”
Mrs. Delacorte deigned to address her directly. “And where do you come from, dear?”
“New Jersey,” Liz replied.
Mrs. Delacorte lifted an eyebrow. Liz felt for certain she could see the little house on the working-class street in Trenton where she had grown up.
“Mrs. Delacorte,” Roger said, cutting in, possibly aware of Liz’s discomfort, “did I understand your message correctly that you wished to buy one of the Naomi Collins pieces before the opening party?”
“You most certainly did,” the large woman told him, turning her gaze away from Liz. “I’m not going to get into any kind of bidding war with Amanda Merriwell.”
Liz assumed that was another of Palm Beach’s great ladies.
“Well, normally I prefer to wait until—”
Liz noticed how Roger’s voice cut off the moment Mrs. Delacorte raised her other eyebrow.
“But of course, for you, I’ll make an exception,” Roger said. “Which image do you want?”
“Which is the most expensive?”
He hesitated. “The armless woman, I believe. It’s thirty-five thousand dollars.”
Liz almost fell over when she heard the price.
“Then that’s the one,” Mrs. Delacorte said, taking a seat and pouring herself a cup of coffee. “Will you get all the paperwork completed so I can have it with me at the opening? Just in case Amanda Merriwell gets any ideas.”
“Absolutely,” Roger said. He looked over at Liz. “I’m just going to head to my office and get some forms . . .”
“Of course,” she told him, taking her seat again, this time beside Mrs. Delacorte.
“Pretty grisly stuff, don’t you think?” the lady was saying.
“You mean the paintings?”
“I don’t mean the wallpaper,” Mrs. Delacorte said, taking a sip of coffee, “though that could use some sprucing up, too.”
“I understand Naomi Collins is highly regarded in her field,” Liz said, playing as diplomatic as she could.
“Yes, she certainly is, and that’s why I must own a piece of hers.” Mrs. Delacorte smiled. Her thin lips were outlined in a lipstick that looked almost orange. “I can’t imagine where I’ll hang it, but I want it. You know all the other ladies in town will want one, too.”
“Then Ms. Collins’s show here will be quite the success,” Liz said.
“Any show here is a success. Any artist Roger takes under his wing becomes rich and famous. He’s brilliant at spotting talent.” She smiled. “And of course, he does pretty well himself. It’s about a fifty-fifty cut between artist and gallery, you know.”
“I wasn’t aware of the percentage,” L
iz replied.
Mrs. Delacorte stared off, not looking at Liz. “It’s funny, you know, how successful Roger has become. He was always the wanderer, the ne’er-do-well in the family. Practically the black sheep.” Her blue eyes found Liz again. “Your David, on the other hand, was always the achiever. He was always putting Roger to shame. His parents despaired of Roger, always pointing to the shining example of David.”
Liz didn’t know quite what to say. She just looked out into the hallway, hoping Roger would come back soon. “And then, all of a sudden, Roger’s fortunes changed. He settled down, purchased this gallery, and the rest is history. Now every emerging artist begs to be shown at the Roger Huntington Gallery. Roger can make or break a career. He’s in all the art journals. It’s been quite amazing, the success and respect this little art gallery has brought him.”
“Well, I’m pleased to hear that.”
“Are you?” That eyebrow shot up again. “I’m surprised that David’s wife would be wishing Roger well.” She sniffed. “I’m surprised David’s new wife would be here in Roger’s gallery at all.”
“Why is that? He’s my brother-in-law.”
“Maybe you’re too new to the family to know that the two brothers haven’t always seen eye to eye.”
Liz stiffened. “I’m not sure I should be discussing family matters.”
Mrs. Delacorte smiled. “You say David is returning soon? We must have a party, welcoming you to Palm Beach. It’s been ages since I’ve seen David. Not since that terrible business with the family yacht . . .” She seemed to appraise Liz. “How interesting that you’re not like Dominique in the least bit.”
Liz’s defenses flared up. No, she thought. I’m not as polished or as sophisticated as Dominque. I won’t fit in with your snooty society parties the way she did. But before Liz had a chance to respond, Roger had returned, paperwork in hand, and placed it on the table beside Mrs. Delacorte to sign. Karl was with him, standing beside his boss with a ready pen.
“Liz, it’s going to take me a while with Mrs. Delacorte,” Roger whispered, taking Liz aside.
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