“Do you still?” he asked.
“No, of course not! That was long ago, when you were my dashing Hamlet. Oh, I had such a crush on you, I couldn’t see straight.”
“And what kinds of dreams did you have about me?” he asked, enjoying this lighthearted mood, thinking how refreshing she was.
“Oh, you know, little-girl-with-a-crush dreams . . . all mushy.”
“Do you think I might one day infiltrate the big grown-up girl’s dreams?”
“You never know,” she answered lightly. “I hope so.”
“And you can bet that I hope so, too.”
Finally releasing her hand, Larry sat back and announced, “I have a feeling that everyone you meet thinks you’re special.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that . . .” She allowed her voice to drift off, took a sip of wine, eventually muttered, “I’m just an ordinary sort of girl.”
“Like hell you are!” Larry picked up the menu. “I think we ought to order, don’t you? Do you know what you want, M?”
“Yes. I was thinking of having grilled sole.”
“Fish, eh? You grew up on an island?”
“Yep. In the North Sea. Just like you did,” she retorted and winked.
He inclined his head, amused, and motioned for the waiter, ordered grilled sole for two and a bottle of Montrachet. Once the waiter had hurried off, Larry changed the mood slightly when he asked, “How long have you been living in New York?”
“A few months. I’ve tried to find modeling work, but without much luck. It was Geo who arranged for me to meet the fashion photographer Frank Farantino. That worked out rather well. We did a shoot. He’s the one who decided I looked like Audrey Hepburn and said it should be played up. His stylists did a makeover on me.”
“You hardly needed that! Anyway, did he help you?”
“Frankie has gone to Morocco on a magazine fashion shoot, but once he’s back he’s going to launch my career,” M explained.
Larry leaned back in the chair, let her continue talking. He was listening attentively, found her voice pleasant, soothing. And he was genuinely enjoying being with her. This young woman was having quite an effect on him. As the evening progressed, he realized that being with her lifted his spirits, gave him genuine happiness, a feeling that had long been absent in his life. He wondered how to keep her with him . . . permanently.
Eleven
Laurence Vaughan stood staring out of a window in the library of his father’s apartment on Beekman Place. He loved this view of the East River and Long Island City beyond, especially after dark, and tonight was no exception.
It was two o’clock in the morning, but some of the colorful lights of the city were still brightly reflected on the rippling surface of the river. It flowed on toward the Atlantic under a high-flung sky. An ink-black sky, littered with tiny pinpoints of light. A beautiful, romantic, starry night . . .
Larry sighed, thinking of the unique and provocative young woman he had met earlier. It sometimes happened like that—meeting a special person when one least expected it. She was captivating in her dark beauty, and she was beautiful; there was certainly no need for her to emphasize her resemblance to a dead actress. He couldn’t help wondering why the photographer had considered this so important. M was a knockout as herself; she had no need to be an imitation of someone else.
Larry ran the evening through his head, thinking of the fun it had been, so lighthearted at times. It had also been extremely emotional for him. There was no question in his mind that he had been swept away by her. Not ever in his entire and somewhat adventurous life had he been so knocked for a loop by a woman.
Over the years, many women had occupied his time and his life, but none of them had captured him quite like she had. Even now, he felt taken aback at his extraordinary reaction to her.
Engulfed, he thought, that’s what it is. I’ve been engulfed by her. And excited by her . . . by the way she makes me feel.
Larry had wanted to bring M with him to this apartment after dinner, reluctant to let her out of his sight. Then, unexpectedly, he had changed his mind. This had occurred when they were outside Le Refuge. Once they were standing in the street facing each other, eyeball to eyeball, he had given in to the urgent need he had to hold her in his arms. As he had reached for her, she had reached for him, and they had drawn together, kissing passionately, clinging to each other. M had responded to him ardently, as aroused as he was and seemingly willing to follow his lead.
When they had finally drawn apart, a little stunned and reeling, he had been taken by surprise by the look in her eyes. It was one of undisguised apprehension. He had recoiled slightly, not only baffled but also worried. It struck him then that she was not very experienced when it came to men, even though she appeared to be a genuine sophisticate. And so, because he had serious intentions, he had taken her home instead of into his bed, dropping her off at the brownstone on West Twenty-second Street.
Detecting a sudden hint of disappointment in her as they had ridden downtown in the cab, he had put his arms around her and pulled her close to him. “Will you spend tomorrow with me?” he had asked, and she had nodded, giving him the benefit of a very big smile. “It’s already tomorrow,” she had murmured. “If you’re referring to Sunday, that is. It’s nearly one o’clock.” They had both laughed, and he had instantly known that whatever had troubled her outside the restaurant, it had vanished.
And so she would come here later. At noon, he had told her. They would have brunch and perhaps go to a movie, and he would let things take their natural course. He did not want to rush her, and he had all the time in the world to court her properly.
Turning away from the window, Larry moved across the library. As he did, his eye fell on the photograph of his mother in a silver frame, sitting on a walnut chest amongst other family photographs. He stood staring at it, thinking what a beautiful woman she was, with her mass of blond hair and light eyes.
Pandora Gallen. One of England’s greatest actresses but still his mother, and mother to his many siblings, and wife to his father. As he often did, Larry heard her light, musical voice echoing in his head, explaining something of importance to her. “You can know a person for forty years and never know them. Yet you can also meet someone and know them in an instant. It’s all about recognition, you see. Recognizing that you’re the same blood type. Or, if you prefer, from the same tribe.” She had smiled at him and given him a very knowing look. And he had instantly understood that at some time in her life his mother had met someone whom she had recognized immediately and wanted to be with.
As he had just done. He had told M she seemed so familiar to him he was positive they had met before. She had insisted they hadn’t, and yet he had recognized her. She and I are very alike, he suddenly thought. We’re the same breed. There was no need for her to tell him anything about herself; he already knew everything there was to know just by having spent an evening with her. She was from an upper-class family, well spoken, highly educated, and cultivated. Probably one of a brood, he decided, more than likely the youngest, both picked on and adored. It struck him that she had crossed the Pond to make it on her own steam, without the help of family.
He smiled to himself, liking this idea. Plucky, he thought, she’s plucky and courageous . . . and just possibly a carbon copy of me.
Larry found it hard to sleep. He tossed and turned for two hours; finally, in desperation, he got up. He went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of milk, and then sauntered into the library. This was a comfortable, charming room, and the one he used the most.
Turning on a lamp, settling in one of the big armchairs, he took a few swallows of the milk and put the glass down on the table next to the chair. His father’s chair. No, it wasn’t his father’s chair any longer. It was his. He had bought this apartment and its contents several months ago, and it was his home now, his only home, and the first he had ever owned.
“We really wanted to give you the apartment,” his mother had told him a f
ew weeks ago when she was in New York to pack up her belongings as well as his father’s clothes and objects of importance. “But we couldn’t, because of the others. They would have kicked up a fuss; that’s why we decided to offer it to all of you at a bargain price.”
All of us, he thought, grimacing.
He was one of six; he had three older brothers and two older sisters. All of them were contentious, competitive, contradictory, and complex. They had fought like hell when they were growing up in the big old house in Hampstead, and sometimes they still did, but they loved one another nonetheless. Or at least some of them did; others gave lip service to that idea. He did love his brother Horatio and his sister Portia, but Miranda was too aloof and remote for him, by far the most snobbish woman he had ever met. His brother Edward had made his life miserable when they were kids, but now there was a truce between them. Well, sort of. As far as his brother Thomas was concerned, Larry respected and admired him, the firstborn of the Vaughan tribe, but they had never been close. The age difference had probably been a stumbling block.
None of his siblings had wanted to buy the apartment, mainly because they did not want to live in New York. Edward commuted between Los Angeles and London; Thomas had a manor house in Gloucestershire and a pied-à-terre in London; and Horatio was a Londoner born and bred, and would never dream of living anywhere else on earth. Portia felt the same, while Miranda was a country bumpkin in rural Kent when she wasn’t working on set designs up in town. She owned a small studio near Eaton Square, where she stayed when she was working on a play, but mostly she preferred to muck about in the country.
There were no two ways about it; his father had sold him the apartment at a bargain price: exactly what he himself had paid for it twenty years ago. If it had gone on the market, the price would have been four times as much, if not more. But his father hadn’t been trying to make money, he had simply wanted to be rid of the apartment he no longer used, because he was rarely on Broadway these days. Larry had believed his mother when she confided that they genuinely wanted to give him the apartment but had been wary of his siblings, their older children.
Quite right, too, he thought, shifting his weight in the chair. The buggers would have made a hell of a stink if Dad had done that. Jealousy. He’d always been a target of their insane jealousy because he was the youngest; they considered him the most favored and spoiled.
“You’re also the best-looking of the bunch, and the most talented,” his mother had frequently reminded him, but he did not agree, felt she was endeavoring to make him feel better. And he had to give his siblings credit where it was due. They were all brilliant in their own ways, and good-looking to boot. Actors all, except for Miranda.
“The Glorious Vaughans” they had been dubbed by the press, who deemed them the first theatrical family in the land, theatrical royalty. Six brothers and sisters who won all the prizes, took all the bows on both sides of the Atlantic.
Larry saw Edward in his mind. Tall, slender, blond, and green-eyed. He was an elegant and charming man today, with a mind like a whiplash and a tongue to match, but he’d been a tantrum-throwing thug as a child. How cruel Edward had been when he was little. . . . Closing his eyes, Larry drifted with his thoughts, caught up in a memory from long ago. . . .
Laurence stood his ground, his feet firmly planted on the gravel driveway, the cheap child’s sword in his right hand, his left hand on his hip. He was seven years old, and proud of his stance. His father had shown him exactly how to stand and taught him to fence properly, and so he knew he was the best.
His twelve-year-old brother, Edward, unexpectedly jumped forward, brandishing his own sword and shouting, “I’m coming in for the kill, you knave!” But Edward merely leapt around, behaving like a wild circus dog and looking silly.
Thrust and parry, thrust and parry, Larry reminded himself, picturing his father’s performance as Caesar in one of his films. Taking a deep breath, he moved forward. Tin met tin in a clash of toy swords, and he immediately jumped back, hastily retreating from Edward, who was well known to be dangerous and never played by the rules.
His brother sprang closer to Larry, and suddenly he slashed out, catching Larry on his left arm. “You’ve cut me, Edward!” Larry cried. Much to his horror, he saw blood spurting through the cotton fabric of the fake chain-mail tunic. “You’re not supposed to do that,” he shrieked, backing away, dropping the sword he was holding, bringing his right hand to his arm, endeavoring to stanch the flowing blood.
“Coward! Coward!” Edward shouted, waving his sword over his head and advancing on Larry, crazily jumping from side to side and laughing wildly. “I will defeat you now, you alien dog! Not one of us. Not one of us. Changeling! Darkling! You’re not one of us.”
Growing frightened of his brother, Larry picked up his sword, then backed away and tripped, fell down on the gravel, his sword skittering across the drive. Catching his breath, he tried to push himself to his feet.
Enjoying his triumph over the younger boy, Edward knelt down next to Larry and began to pummel him on his shoulders, chest, and face. “No mercy for the enemy. Kill the enemy!” Edward snarled, a spiteful gleam in his pale eyes.
Wrapping his arms around his head, Larry endeavored to protect his face while still pressing one hand on the sleeve of his blood-soaked cotton tunic. He tried to get up, but Edward was much stronger than he was and held him down, gloating.
The clatter of high heels running down the front steps sent relief rushing through Larry. Their mother’s voice screamed, “Get off him, Edward! Get off him at once! You’re really in for it, my lad.” She was suddenly looming over Edward, furious, and grabbing him by his collar, she yanked him to his feet, shouting into his gaping face, “I’ll have your guts for garters, you little bugger!”
Literally throwing Edward to one side and looking totally undisturbed as he fell hard on the ground, his mother crouched next to Larry. She was appalled by the amount of blood covering his tunic. Larry’s face was bruised and bloody where his brother had hit him.
“My God! I can’t believe this!” Pandora exclaimed, and she put her arms under her youngest child and lifted him closer, held him for a moment against herself, hurting for him. She said, “Do you think you can get up, darling?”
He nodded.
Pandora stood, and bending over Larry, she helped him to get to his feet. Slowly they walked across the drive and up the front steps, and Pandora murmured to him lovingly as they stepped inside the house.
“Mother,” Edward said from the driveway.
Pandora glanced over her shoulder. Her face was white with shock, her anger unabated. “What?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt—”
“Like hell you didn’t!” Pandora raged. “You’re getting to be a menace. I’ve just about had it with you.”
“But, Mother—”
“Shut up. And stay out of my way. I don’t want to see your face. And I will certainly deal with you later. It would be wise of you to prepare yourself for harsh punishment.”
Edward gaped at her, his face now as white as hers. He was terrified of his mother when she was angry. None of them knew what she might do when she was in the grip of a fury such as this.
Turning away from him, Pandora led Larry into the hall, hurrying him down to the kitchen. “Molly was a nurse, you know, before she became our housekeeper. She’ll know exactly what to do.”
“I’m all right, Mummy,” Larry whispered and stumbled bravely on. . . .
Moving about restlessly as he slept in the chair, Larry swept out an arm and knocked the glass of milk off the side table. The crash awakened him. He sat up blinking, for a moment thinking it was already morning. And then, as he glanced around, he realized it was still the middle of the night. Rising, he returned to his bedroom and got into bed, shaking his head. How strange it was that such a lot of his childhood memories remained in his head and were so easily recalled. And lately remembering them had become a curious pattern.
With
in minutes he was asleep, Edward’s cruelty to him as a child forgotten.
Twelve
Geo looked up as M appeared in the doorway of her studio and smiled. “Well, there you are! Good morning, Miss M. How’re you today?”
“Fine, thanks, Geo, and you look pretty good yourself.”
Geo inclined her head, then said, “Your actor seemed very taken with you last night. Are you going to see him again?” She grinned. “That’s a stupid question, isn’t it? I’m sure you are.”
“I’m having lunch with him today,” M answered, leaning casually against the door frame. She took a sip from the mug of tea she was holding and gave Geo a smile that filled her face with sudden radiance. “And then we’re going to the movies.”
“I thought he was going to swallow you whole last night,” Geo remarked with a grin, her eyes dancing. “Gobble you up!”
“Like the boa constrictor and the Little Prince?” M raised a brow, laughing.
Geo also laughed, delighted by this response, and exclaimed, “I just loved that book when I was little, didn’t you?”
“Of course, it was my real favorite, I think, and everyone who reads it loves it, adults as well as children. It’s enchanting.”
Geo, intrigued by Larry and M after having so closely observed them together, now asked with great eagerness, “So, go on then, tell me everything that happened. Everything.”
“There’s not much to tell,” M responded. “We went to dinner at a little unassuming bistro Larry likes, and then he took me home. Truly, nothing happened . . . if you mean what I think you mean.”
“To his home? Is that where you went?”
“No, don’t be silly! He brought me here, to this house, to your house. I was back not long after one o’clock, and you were still out, weren’t you?”
“I was, with James Cardigan. We had something from the buffet at Iris’s, but then the apartment seemed to fill up with all sorts of people. Actors, actresses, and some other rather strange types, James thought, and so did I. Anyway, we decided to leave because it became so crowded. James didn’t want the evening to end, so he took me to a bar he knows in the MePa, and we stayed there for quite a while, having drinks and talking into the wee hours. I got to know him better . . . he’s really charming . . .”
Breaking the Rules (Harte Family Saga Book 7) Page 8
