One morning Aunt Cora commanded Faye to prepare a warm footbath. She wanted it for herself, but she pretended that Aunt Betty wanted it. Faye loved Aunt Cora to distraction, but age hadn’t been easy on her and since Uncle Bart’s death she was irritable.
“Faye, where are you? That bath can’t wait. Betty’s toenails are a disaster—poor dear sister of mine. People said she was much more beautiful than I, but my feet are still going strong. When you get to be our age, the heart and the corns are what really matter.”
“I’m coming, Aunt Cora,” Faye called.
Aunt Cora appeared at the kitchen door. “Faye, look at these napkins. I see lint on them. Lint. And goodness here, mildew. Mildew!” She seized Grover’s napkin. “Young lady, these are filthy!”
Faye tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Cora. I got them out of the linen cabinet. Mabel always returns them very clean. I really trust her.”
“Well, I don’t trust her at all!” Aunt Cora slammed the napkin down. “That woman is vain as a showgirl. I’ve seen her in town, buying lingerie from the best stores! What business does a woman her age, unmarried, have with fancy underwear? I can guarantee you she’s laundering them instead of our napkins. Sanitation is at risk! Faye . . .”
Faye had scuttled off to get the door, which was trilling energetically. Whoever was on the other side was feeling a little impatient this morning.
“Can I help you?” she inquired, opening the door.
Before her was a heavy-set, stuffy-looking man who appeared almost sixty, with pursed lips. His hair and eyes were both flat and receding. When he had had more hair, it had been the color of muddy rainwater. He was a bit on the tall side, but not in any way athletic, and he wore a black sweater-vest and a golf hat. In his hand was a suitcase. He seemed to be well-off, whoever he was, and didn’t appear to care who she was.
“Hello, young woman. I am here to visit Miss Myrtle Haverton—my affianced.” He flushed and smiled as he uttered these words, as if he didn’t quite like them, but felt they were profoundly satisfying. “Will you tell her of my presence, young woman?”
Faye’s mind clicked. This must be Mr. Rivers! She now slightly understood Ed’s shock at hearing of the engagement. This was exactly the kind of complacent, sagging oldster that no young woman would willingly marry. And of all young women, Myrtle the least. How in heaven’s name had this even happened? But of course Faye must not blurt that out. Think Faye, think. “Oh! You are the wealthy businessman. From Florida, I believe?”
He nodded proudly. He did not seem to find being called “businessman” instead of by his name at all surprising. Clearly, he also felt he was identified by his office, not by himself. “Yes. I would say I have done well in business, young woman, having always a natural aptitude. I have even taken tests on the subject of financial aptitude. Perhaps you would like to take one yourself?”
Faye politely declined.
Mr. Rivers primmed up his lips. “Ah, well then. Ha, yes. My house is called Wind Downs. It’s a shore side residence situated on twenty-five acres with a private area of beach and an exotic hothouse, as well as commercial orange groves attached to the property. Fredric March sold it to me. I have always rather enjoyed the more social side of Hollywood.”
Faye remembered hearing Myrtle mention his home. It was presumably the main reason she had agreed to marry this man, whom she now felt Ed had described kindly with an effort to spare Myrtle’s feelings. Mr. Rivers was somewhat beyond fifty and singularly not young for his age. She was startled to hear he had any friends who were actors, but she now found a threadbare clue to why Myrtle had made this engagement. Even if it was a continent away from the movie studios, Fredric March’s old house probably still attracted some entertainment types and Myrtle’s eyes must have lighted up at the prospect.
“It must be quite a house,” she said, in view of this last idea.
He rocked back and forth on his heels, smiling. His demeanor was as personable as a sidewalk. “Yes, it is.”
Gee, this is interesting. “Won’t you come in? I think Myrtle went out for a drive. Why don’t you sit in the living room?”
Handing her his suitcase, Mr. Rivers gave a curt smile and asked to be shown his room. He again addressed her as young woman. Faye was rapidly tiring of his emphasis on using this expression instead of asking her name. She was not exactly sure which rooms the Carters were using, and she certainly didn’t want to stick him in Helene’s room by accident. She’d never hear the end of that.
“I will go and ask,” she said, gesturing to the sofa. “Won’t you sit down?”
He did so, placing his suitcase with much care. “This house is of a similar size to mine. The architecture—is it perhaps neoclassical? I have made a great private study of architecture and am as naturally suited to design as to financial endeavors. I notice pillars which remind me very much of those in Monticello. Was this house constructed at that time, or after?”
His gaze was haughty and stiff, but his eyes slid over her in a sly, detailed analysis of her appearance. When she stirred, he glanced away and folded his legs, affecting indifference. Faye wondered if she should throw some sort of vase at him, but decided that might be viewed as an excessive behavior.
“You mean those two posts that support the porch? I wouldn’t call them neoclassical. Monticello was built in the eighteenth century, you know. Long before Bellevere,” she said, tersely.
He bent his lips in a benevolent smile. “Ah, but I can show you pictures. Two of the back pillars in an older plantation house I saw remind me perfectly of these in your home, young woman.” He waggled a finger. “I like this style of house very much. It is romantic.”
He shot a secretive glance at her again, but as she raised an eyebrow his eyes clouded and he withdrew onto the sofa.
“I have a name,” Faye said, crisply. “It’s Faye.”
He touched his flat hair. “Faye has a Teutonic sound, as in the works of Richard Wagner. I love his stirring music, don’t you?”
His smile flashed, showing teeth a little yellow with age. Like most young people of her acquaintance, Faye had no interest in opera, and she couldn’t think of a person Myrtle would like to talk to less than to this man. Something’s not right here. I can’t think he’s so very, very rich. Just enough to become a windbag, not to command the nation. I can see his motive, but what’s hers?
A little floored by the amazing visitor, Faye excused herself and went to find someone to help—or at least to get Mr. Rivers into his room and out of sight. But luck eluded her. After a thorough search of the house she could not find anyone inside and through the glass garden doors she could only see BeBe and Horace playing baseball on the lawn, or trying to. She doubted they had the authority to relocate Mr. Rivers. So she returned to the front room.
Mr. Rivers eyed her dourly. He had not appreciated being left alone for so long. “Excuse me, I’ve been waiting for half an hour. Where is my room?”
Faye apologized and offered to get him some cold cuts.
“Yes, that’d be excellent,” he said immediately, cutting her off. “I’d prefer a ham sandwich, though chicken will do if you are out. Crackers and cheese would also be appreciated, and some lemonade.” He put a hand self-consciously to his chest. “I have usually drunk spirits, but now I think lemonade improves the health. I’m quite vigorous as a result.”
The gaze he cast was beady, as if he suspected there was a doubt he was vigorous. Faye hadn’t been expecting a large menu order as if she were some sort of waitress and gave him only one sandwich and a small glass. He accepted them, munching slowly and—though how this was possible, she did not know—self-righteously.
“What is the size of your home?” he inquired suddenly.
Faye had been returning to the kitchen. She paused. “Excuse me?”
He took another bite of the sandwich. “Your home, if you don’t live here. What are its proportions? Is it as large as mine? I have great curiosity about such matt
ers.”
“No, I live here now. When I was a kid, I lived in a small, four-room house in Tennessee. There were fifteen of us kids, so we slept in little piles on top of each other on the floor. My parents never had a lot of luck.”
Bill was profoundly surprised. “Four rooms? In the whole house? Are you insane?”
Faye frowned. “Yes. I said a small house. A very small house,” she added, slowly.
She eyed him dubiously as he began wheezing through his chest. Myrtle had not mentioned that he suffered from spasms, though at his age that was certainly possible. Faye watched carefully, ready to catch him if he fell.
“No house is that small!” he finally articulated. “That does not deserve the title House. That is a garage.”
Faye pulled out the vacuum cleaner. “Then we lived in a garage.”
He barely seemed to have heard her words. “Aha. All right. I hailed from Tennessee at one time myself. I would certainly say I’m quite the mountain man, in fact. I lived in a place called Sapsucker Valley about fifteen years ago and . . .”
Faye stifled a gasp. Could it be? No, it . . . it just wasn’t possible. But as his words dissolved and his lined face blended with her memories, she knew it just might be. My goodness, he was that man to whose pants Warnie and his band of hooligans set fire! She hadn’t heard the man’s name, being even younger than Warnie at the time, but all those “real American working men” had greatly disliked some businessman in town. Something about meddling in their affairs. So Warnie and his friends had acted up on the ill-will boiling around them, knowing they wouldn’t get in any trouble with their parents. Faye ducked and covered her mouth to hide a smile. Goodness, what a small world.
If she’d ever thought of taking this deluded oldster seriously, she couldn’t now. Not with the memory of him running down the street howling and slapping his pants, on which were branded the word DAWG. As Mr. Rivers continued to detail his fondness for the lesser essays of Emerson, which he had memorized in substantial quantity, tears started to stream from her eyes as she smothered laughter. After a minute she realized shoes were beside her, sturdy men’s shoes. They were not moving. When she raised her head, Mr. Rivers was standing beside her, looking down with a frown.
“Excuse me, young woman, are you sick? You seem to be coughing up phlegm. Should I summon a doctor?”
Fortunately, the ringing doorbell and the chatter of excited voices brought interruption. BeBe came in from the yard, clinging to Horace’s arm and swinging a baseball bat casually near Aunt Betty’s vases. Some distance back, Ed helped Helene remove her coat while the Halwells made small talk with Aunt Cora. Faye was shocked to realize it was evening. Shadows were gathering in the corners of the living room, and twilight was visible outside the glass doors to the garden. Quietly, she turned up the gas lamps and tuned the radio to some soft band music. BeBe ran eagerly to her.
“Oh, Faye, we had a great day! I’m getting to be quite the tomboy.” She winked and swung the wooden stick exuberantly. Faye ducked to avoid a sock in the teeth. “And we had a lovely talk. Horace has been to loads of movies, you know, so we went looking at things with an eye to sets . ..”
Myrtle pushed an arm around Faye and led her towards Horace, making some rather boring remark about open-topped automobiles. She clearly wanted all traces of conversation between Horace and her sister to die and be forgotten. Helene welcomed Faye with open arms. The two had become good friends in the moments when Helene had time to spend with Faye. Horace and his sister commented on her blonde hair.
“All you girls look so alike. All blondish, but different. Myrtle is a Swedish blonde, I’d say, and BeBe is a redhead,” said Helene.
“It’s natural!” BeBe exclaimed, in a sudden, dogmatic way, her eyes beady.
Myrtle shrugged. “No, it isn’t! She got a dye job. And a major perm. Naturally her hair is just like Grover’s. In baby pictures they’re identical.”
Faye realized she had forgotten Mr. Rivers. Someone must alert Myrtle to her fiancé’s presence. It wouldn’t do to have him looming like an unannounced elephant. “Myrtle—err—Mr. Rivers is here. He’s been here. Very anxious to see you.”
She pointed to Mr. Rivers, who stood with a hand folded proudly over his middle. Myrtle accepted her doom. He must sit next to her. Grover was already pulling him towards the table. BeBe loudly announced Myrtle’s impatience for him to arrive. Aunt Cora polished his chair so much that it was amazing he ever got to sit down. He was profoundly welcome—and not much talked to. But he was very interested in food, and once the dinner came he was happily occupied in asking Myrtle for the ingredients of each recipe. Faye squeezed into the last chair at the bottom of the table, near Ed and Helene. A lively discussion arose the moment Mr. Rivers’ beach house was discovered. Everyone wanted him to schedule a group visit. Everyone urged Myrtle to persuade him to let them piggyback. Everyone pretended to love Mr. Rivers, since he had once known an actor. Mr. Rivers appeared deceived. Myrtle was a little unenthusiastic, but Horace seemed to embrace the idea, and by the time dinner ended the plan was definitely on.
Wind Downs was to be visited.
Chapter 5
Outings went on incessantly during the next two months. Boating trips on the lake; drives into Chicago, so Myrtle and BeBe could share their shopping haunts with Helene; evening concerts of piano-playing—all that and more. The Havertons took it for granted that the Carters were the best possible friends. But sometimes Faye wondered why they had suddenly seemed satisfied to settle in humdrum Parkdale. If there was anyone who was used to seeking adventure, it was the cosmopolitan Horace and Helene. Surely they’d quickly notice there was nothing exciting around Bellevere. But here they were, evidently to stay. You’d think they’d have run out the door screaming with boredom by now.
Faye bent over the hot-chocolate machine. Appliances were still a stately, rather medical-looking white, but colors like pink, blue, and yellow were all the rage for plumbing gear. The bathrooms in the house were each based on a different color, with toilet, wall tiles, bath, and lavatory to match. Her uncle used to joke that it was just as well they had few visitors because he’d think it remiss if he didn’t make a custom bathroom for each one and asking people what colors they preferred in a toilet was awkward unless the friendship was of long duration. Dear Uncle Warren. Under that pompous demeanor, he was a real scream. Not that he’d admit it, of course. Why, his stern gray eyebrows would pop if the idea was mentioned! But she’d seen his eyes twinkle more than once when referencing the loo, as the Brits called it—and as he called it when he was being mischievous. Ed’s just like him.
“Faye? Faye, where are you? My hot chocolate is so far away!” Aunt Betty called.
Faye reached to the small table next to the sofa, an arm’s length out. “Careful. Sit up, or you’ll spill it on the nice robe Uncle Warren gave you.”
Her aunt frowned. “I do like this robe. But do you think green is considered truly feminine? Grover likes green ties.”
“But they’re dark green,” Faye reminded her. “This robe is light green like a debutante’s dress.”
Aunt Betty’s eyes slightly awakened. “Why yes! I had a beautiful green dress that I made myself. But now green seems more popular with the gentlemen. I suppose perhaps some colors could be called . . . oh, what’s that word Ed uses, that educated word?”
“Androgynous?” Faye suggested.
Aunt Cora bustled in, rapping Faye’s arm. “Faye, you pesky girl! Don’t you know your aunt needs her chocolate? You didn’t make her reach for it herself, did you?”
Faye assured her she hadn’t thought of doing such a thing.
Two days later, the Haverton party boarded the first of a series of trains that would take them into Florida. The station bustled with commuters as the Haverton party prepared to board. Faye, trailing along after the others, gripped the thick handle of her suitcase and held her blue hat over her blonde curls as a gust blew through the airy station. Golly, these curls are blowin
g all over my face. My perm will be flattened at this rate. Spitting strands of hair out of her mouth, she clattered across the metal walkway as men in suits and women with roses knotted in their hats careened on either side of her.
“Here, watch it, doll!” rasped one man in a deep voice. Hands touched her arms and plunked her back on terra firma. But she was soon knocked again from the other side and became increasingly uncertain whether the laconic tough had put her on her feet or her head. She struggled to keep her cousins in sight ahead of her. Finally, the long green-and-yellow-streaked train spread before her.
BeBe hung out of the window. “Faye, get on quick or I’ll lose my pearls!”
Faye knew what she meant. Another second and those dangling little orbs on BeBe’s outstretched arm would drop to the tracks and get plowed over by the majestic wheels of this ocean liner on land. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” Catching BeBe’s hand, she pulled up onto the steps as the train took off.
The usher closed the door firmly and eyed her coldly. Faye held onto her hat, blushing a little under his critical gaze. He looked a bit of a tough, like the man who had rubbed shoulders with her on the walkway.
“Ticket, miss?” the man said.
Faye dropped her eyes. She didn’t know how to say anything friendly. Like all men, a muscled fellow like him especially, he’d pretend he hadn’t heard her and look a bit disgusted if she spoke. The only one who let her ramble on, speaking anything on her mind, was Ed. But Ed was so sedentary. It would be like falling in love with a stamp pad.
“Yes, here it is. Sorry I didn’t board sooner,” she muttered.
Bellevere House (Vintage Jane Austen) Page 4
