“I have the most wonderful feelings about what is to happen tonight! There are so many ways the projects can go, such an array of possibilities! Ms. Ivory has seemed to take such an interest! And with Mr. Cox working along with her––”
Allana Delafosse continued to describe the varied possibilities, while the limousine wheeled its way through the quiet and somber evening streets of Bay St. Lucy, and Nina watched it all slide by––the shacks, the nicer bungalows, the few children in yards, playing. She watched through windows as the blue patches that were television screens flickered, and through adjacent windows as women bent to wash dishes, raised to shout jokes or gossip or insults or nothings at all to their families inside.
She said the right things to Allana and Margot as the village flowed past her, but all the while she could only see a vision of Frank that would not go away. It was the cynical Frank, the one who, after decades of work, had learned what The Law really was.
It was paper.
It had no more substance than that.
A sheet of paper.
And upon it, everything depended.
That little corner lot, the one with the battered swing set on it.
It had been there forever, a part of the Bay St. Lucy she’d always known.
And there, behind it, the Old Philliber House. Not such a large place, a rickety front porch, some fine trees in the back, the two old ladies, Nancy and Patricia Philliber sitting out on warm evenings, speaking to passers-by.
The school playground.
Roscoe’s Gas.
There, down that street, the smaller and more disreputable shacks, where first poorer families lived, and then indigents lived, and then criminals lived, and then nobody lived, and then Tom Broussard lived.
But all a fixed and solid thing. Blocks and blocks and blocks of permanence that tethered Bay St. Lucy together.
And yet there was no permanence and all.
Kafka.
“There was a man from the land who sought access to the law––”
“But the law was protected by a gatekeeper––”
“And there are more gatekeepers, each larger and more ferocious than the last––”
The law.
Papers.
All it would take is one paper. And this entire community could be a vast parking lot.
She had seen it happen. Frank had shown it to her:
Entire farms, hundreds of acres.
But these farms were not owned by human beings; they were owned by papers.
And one day the paper would come, like locusts, but much quieter, and with a power so much more awesome.
And then the farm would be gone, along with the people who had been its soul.
Now there was a housing development.
Or a Wal-Mart.
Such was the law.
“—But the law should be open to everyone, to all the people!”
“—and then the man from the land was dying––”
“—this gate, this access to the law, was meant only for you. I’m going now to close it forever.”
The Security Forces are the gatekeepers, she found herself thinking.
And Eve Ivory is The Law.
The limousine pulled onto Breakers Boulevard.
And the Mansion—huge, loud, obscene, gothic, godlike, musical, and glowing golden in the darkening twilight, appeared before them.
“All right,” she whispered, “we’ll see.”
Then she pressed her forehead on the cool glass window and listened to music.
The radio was not playing.
They were deposited at the main entrance to The Robinson Mansion, which, Nina realized even before entering, could not be viewed as a mansion at all, nor a house of any kind, nor even a land-fixed dwelling. The thing she was entering, with its chandelier spinning slowly and sparkling brilliantly like a Cinderella Ball Gown hanging from monstrous metal straps from a ceiling several hundred feet above—this thing could only be compared to the Titanic, dried, refurbished, upended, and wet-barred.
Nothing but the Titanic could have survived from those opulent years.
It had been sealed by millions of gallons of seawater just as the Robinson Mansion had been sealed by impenetrable layers of decadence, criminality, mortgages, hatred, intense sexuality, and The IRS.
The Titanic of course still lay under water.
The Robinson Mansion had been raised.
Nina was not at all certain this was a good thing.
She moved through the various state rooms, talking to Edwena Pelleter, Robert Barnsworth, Allana now and again, Jackson Bennett and wife, the Mayor, and City Councilman—
––but they were not really these people, for these people could not exist in surroundings such as this.
Champagne glass in hand, she entered the Music Room, where an improbable harp leaned against a stained-glass wall, the giant bay windows opposite giving out on a garden redolent with acacias and rhododendrons, which could not of course be growing in December, save for the fact that the garden, she could see now, was no garden at all but a greenhouse. She wondered where the access to the tunnel was in there.
And here before her was a person in a tuxedo, who might have been one of the village’s multitudinous insurance salesmen—yes, she was sure he was an insurance salesman, but she had not known that when she’d taught him, or he would have failed—but she would not talk to him as Charles Morgan or Phillip Talbot or whatever his silly name might have been.
For here, in this room, on this marble floor, with this music seeping in from the very walls—here he was Count Rudolf of Buxteholde, a nephew to the Emperor Himself.
“And how is the Emperor?” she found herself asking, in her imagination. The answer she actually received was something about insurance, but the imaginary answer was, “Very well, he sends his greetings!
“Very well! He sends his greeting!”
“Please return them for me.”
“Indubitably! Will you and your consort by joining us in Sarajevo for the Grouse?”
“So much,” she said, archly, “depends upon the health of the old countess.”
“Ah yes. We hold her in our prayers.”
“So deeply appreciated.”
“Of course. Will you be certain to greet Ferdinand and the Reich’s Chancellor, Baroness von Nina?”
“It goes without saying, dear Rudolf!”
This two-pronged––real and imaginary––conversation continued for a short time.
“Great! So you’ll come by next Thursday to talk about a policy?”
“I’ll try.”
What fun, what fun!
Be careful, though, and don’t get carried away.
Fine to go down for the grouse; but no insurance policies.
The passageways wound on and on, rooms opening into other rooms, the two hundred or so citizens of Bay St. Lucy strolling from upper deck to lower deck to mizzen deck or captains quarters to the pool area to the dance area to the whatever else area, all asking in quiet tones:
“How much money did it take to build this?”
Or:
“How much money did it take to remodel it?”
Or the biggest statement of all: “Eve Ivory is going to be making the announcement.”
And it was true. There was no way to deny it, or to postpone it.
This was like opening the ultimate shower present. Or getting in the mail the official results of the biopsy.
Nina had no idea which.
She could not, though, deny that Eve Ivory The Magnificent had, if nothing else, a touch for the dramatic.
Just to the left of an anteroom was the grand entrance hall. This would have been used for dancing. Above and overlooking the dance floor itself, was an area ten feet deep and fifteen feet long, partitioned by a brass rail, where the orchestra would have sat.
There was only a speaker’s platform now.
Nina could not avoid the urge to visualize Mussolini stepping out of th
e palace doors and onto a balcony, two million Italian fascists cheering beneath him.
There were hardly two million straight chairs on the dance floor, though; there were only about fifty. Reserved for the town’s elite,
Of which, she supposed, she was one, since she had been allowed into the room. These chairs were now filling as the clock approached eight.
Nina found a seat. Allana immediately saw her and joined her, sitting on her left.
Then came Macy and Paul, to her right.
“This is so exciting!” gushed Allana.
She looked beyond Macy and whispered to Paul:
“Do you know what she’s going to say?”
He shook his head:
“No. Not exactly. Whatever the plan is, I think it’s going to have the school we want.”
“What about,” Allana asked, “The Auberge des Arts?”
He nodded:
“I lobbied hard for it. I think she’s going to do it. It’s just––”
“Just what, Paul?” asked Nina.
“—there have always been other people involved. People I never got to meet. People with a lot of money.”
Uh oh, thought Nina.
“I think she’s been trying to pull everything together under some sort of theme But she’s never let me in on the whole thing. I don’t think anybody in the town knows. She called me only a few hours ago. She said it was a ‘done deal’ and that we would all be surprised.”
Uh oh, thought Nina.
And then Eve Ivory appeared.
She walked out of the wall.
Then she approached the podium, grasped it, and looked down at the people below her, like a leopard looking down at the meat department of a supermarket.
“Hello, Bay St. Lucy!” she said, tapping once on the microphone and beaming as her voice filled the hall.
“Thank you so much for coming tonight!”
There was some scattered applause and murmurings.
“I’m so happy to share with you the fact that we have come to the end of a difficult—but immensely productive—three weeks.”
Eve Ivory was dressed in ivory but did not look like Eve—who, Nina had always surmised, wore nothing at all earlier in her life and something unfashionable later. Warming herself behind the early evening bonfire that was her smile, she did not, on the other hand, look anything like Benito Mussolini.
She looked rather like The Ice Princess from The Lion The Witch and the Wardrobe.
There, in one of those jacket pockets! Nina found herself guessing: Turkish Delight!
“Before continuing, I wish to thank in particular several of the town’s citizens who have made this entire project not only possible, but immensely thrilling. First, there is of course the Mayor of Bay St. Lucy, Tom Waterston. Tom, will you please stand.”
Tom Waterson did, and waved.
Then he sat down.
“Chief of Aldermen, Lucias Johnson.”
Same.
“All of the members of the City Council who are with us tonight.”
This of course included Nina, so she rose.
And then sat.
“And so many others, but, finally, my ‘right hand man,’ as I’ve been calling him: your school superintendent, Mr. Paul Cox.”
Paul rose, to the beaming adoration of Macy, who, through the strength of her grip upon his hand as he smiled and waved to the crowd, gave Nina a good indication of how the two might have spent the phantom forty-five minutes.
Breakfast indeed.
Then he sat down.
A moment for everything to calm down.
Then Eve Ivory, to the business at hand.
“I have now to say a few words concerning—well, some very difficult matters. You all know the stories concerning my family. These are matters that preceded me, that happened here, in Bay St. Lucy, before my birth. I was not responsible for them. I did, on the other hand, fall heir to their consequences. My life, from its earliest moments, was not an easy one. I had many difficulties. I persevered, however, and with luck and fortitude, did well for myself. Much of my good fortune has been lavished on me by my late husband, who, I am deeply sorry to say, cannot be here at this podium to address you.”
Pause.
Collective breathing first from Eve Ivory from above, then from Bay St. Lucy from below.
“As a result of all things past, though, a circuitous and highly complex assortment of events has given me the privilege, and rather awesome responsibility, few individuals in our time are called upon to bear. In most towns and villages, the ownership of property divides, subdivides, passes from one generation to another, from one heir to another, so that no one individual or family owns more than an acre, a five acre block, a building, an estate, etc. But I have recently found myself, according to the terms of my grandfather’s will, in proprietorship of a great deal of the village of Bay St. Lucy. My first inclination, upon hearing the news, was disbelief. I had no idea how to respond to such a challenge. But after much thought—and, yes, prayer, for that came into it, also—I decided to meet the challenge head on. I decided to come here, meet you, work with your leaders, and prepare a plan that, were my particular land holdings to be scattered through the hands of multitudinous owners, would be impossible to fulfill. I’ve listened to many proposals, all of them thoughtful, all of them clearly meant to help ensure a prosperous Bay St. Lucy. Some of these plans I have been able to incorporate into the vision you will be sharing within the next minutes. Others, regrettably, have fallen by the wayside—for now. Not, I promise you, forever.”
A movement forward toward the rail, the podium rocking somewhat.
“I simply must point out, though, and I wish you to keep this always in your minds. The long term goal, of any master plan, is the welfare not only of you, but of your children. You want beautiful Bay St. Lucy not only to survive today, in the hard economic times that are our environment, but to prosper and grow into tomorrow. You want your children’s lot to be better than yours; and their children’s lot to better than theirs; and on, and on, into the future.”
Applause.
More applause.
Everyone standing now.
Eve Ivory nodding, and finally, palms down, gesturing for everyone to be seated.
Everyone was seated.
Finally she said:
“And so, all of these things said, dear fellow citizens—the time has come. The work has been done. The vision has been completed. And I now give you: the Bay St. Lucy of tomorrow!”
Lights in the hall went down, and they could have been in a darkened theater, except for the filtered light seeping like dust from the green house beyond the great windows.
The faint rasp of static began echoing through the room, and two vast screens fell from the ceiling.
Lights played across the screens, glowing red, yellow, blue, green—
––then blinding white, as the echo turned into a deep sonorous voice, which surrounded them, leaping in and out of rich orchestral music much as Nina’s dolphins leapt into and out of the ocean waves.
The dolphins turned into words, which, playing their way down the coastline in rich orchestral chords, were:
“MEGAVENTURES INCORPORATED PRESENTS: BAYWORLD! A NEW CONCEPT IN VACATION EXISTENCE!
The music swelled, thundered, rolled, eddied slightly, then mushroomed into a gigantic cloud of melody, lightning, and avalanche, overwhelming the people below and within it as though it were an avalanche of C chords and violin arpeggios.
Meanwhile buildings began to fill the screen.
Massive buildings.
High rise buildings.
Sandstone in color, they appeared, disappeared, dissolved one into another, opened out, zeroed in, and continually invited, invited, invited, revealing themselves as all that could be conceived in a quest for HAPPINESS HAPPINESS HAPPINESS forever, with everything that might be wanted hovering there before one, waiting to be experienced.
THE NEWEST CONCEPT FROM MEGAVENTUR
ES, BAYWORLD EXPLODES UPON THE BEAUTIFUL GULF COAST WITH A MAGIC ALL ITS OWN, ABSOLUTELY UNIQUE IN ITS RICH BLENDS OF CONCEPTS IN VACATION LIVING HERETOFORE UNHEARD OF, HERETOFORE UNIMAGINED!
––while the images went on.
This screen, that screen.
The huge hotels, Nina could now tell, were to be built exactly on the ocean front.
Where her small shack now stood.
They even had names.
Amber Breeze.
Bayview.
Dolphin Rider.
THE FINEST TREASURES OF BOTH SEA AND LAND: CAPTAIN KIDD’S FISHING PIER, TO BE THE LONGEST ON THE AMERICAN COAST, EXTENDING MORE THAN A MILE INTO THE BEAUTIFUL TURQUOISE WATERS OF THE GULF OF MEXICO! LAGUNA SLIPS, THE WORLD’S MOST LAVISH AND WELL EQUIPPED YACHT HARBOR: DUNES ’36, THE FIRST GOLF COURSE IN THE UNITED STATES DESIGNED EXCLUSIVELY BY TIGER WOODS HIMSELF, AND MEANT TO HOST, IN FALL OF 2016, THE FIRST ‘TIGER WOODS BAYSHORE CLASSIC GOLF TOURNAMENT,’ GRAND PRIZE WINNINGS OF MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS!
And there it was on the screens in front of them. The verdant putting greens overlooking deep blue ocean vistas. There was Tiger Woods himself, his beaming visage somehow transplanted to the beach, with yachts and mega-story hotels behind them.
This all continued for some time.
The music was so loud, and the darkness so complete, that not much could be ascertained concerning the response of the audience.
That was probably good, thought Nina, who had busied herself by counting hotels, and was now up to five of them.
What had the last been called?
Oh yes.
The Waverider.
It had, she was able to note by looking at the screen on the right, an indoor Olympic-sized pool on the twenty seventh floor.
How nice, she found herself thinking.
Wake up in one’s room on the fifty fourth floor; do a few weights and calisthenics in the gym on the forty third floor; a spot of tea in Burmaland, the small breakfast restaurant on the twenty ninth floor; and then finally a nice dip on the twenty seventh floor, swimming in water while looking down at water.
One could work one’s way down, the entire day, the Jacuzzi on the eighteenth floor, the beauty salon on the fifteenth floor, the small African Market Place Specialty Grocery Outlet on the ninth floor, the indoor driving range on the fourth floor, The Cinema Multiplex Sixteen, on the third floor—
Sea Change (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 1) Page 15
