A Ring of Endless Light: The Austin Family Chronicles, Book 4

by L'Engle, Madeleine;

  I was wondering if I’d feel cooler if I wore long white robes and had my head covered, like an Arab, and I almost fell off my bike when I saw Adam in the doorway to the lab, his arms full of hay.

  “Where on earth were you?” he demanded.

  “On earth. But I was thinking of being an Arab. It’s hot.”

  Adam didn’t need explanations. “We should all be wearing burnooses. Here’s your hay. John told me you’d be coming by. I’ll help you get it in your bike basket so it won’t fly all over the road.”

  “Thanks. How’s Basil?”

  Adam’s light came on, full. “Sends you his love. How about Wednesday, Vicky? Can you come over with John?”

  “Wednesday’s perfect.” Monday, I remembered, would have to be saved for Leo. “And how’s Ynid?”

  “Nearly to term. As a matter of fact, Jeb thinks it may be Wednesday. You’ll go out of your mind with delight at the sight of a baby dolphin. Okay, I think you ought to get the hay home safely, though I take a dim view of its ultimate usefulness.”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  “Sure, anything on the side of life’s worth a try. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Good. Thanks. Thanks a lot, Adam.”

  “Sure.” And he ran back into the dimness of the lab.

  I went for a swim when I got home, to cool off, but climbing back up to the stable made me just as hot as ever. We had cucumber sandwiches for lunch, which is about as cool as anything you can have to eat, and then I took a long, cold shower and dressed to wait for Zachary.

  I heard the familiar honk, and he came around to the screen porch. He had on black jeans and a white turtleneck and he looked spectacular. I wore a pale-blue sundress and Mother had lent me a misty white shawl. It was almost the first time I’d had on a dress since we’d been at the Island. Well, the other time had been at Commander Rodney’s funeral.

  “Those idiot swallows are cheeping away,” Zachary said. “I see you’re hoping to keep them from suicide. Or matricide. Anyhow, that nest’s too shallow. Ready, Vicky-O?”

  “Ready.”

  Leo was waiting for us at the dock. So was Suzy. I saw her eyeing me critically, and waited for her to make some kind of snide remark, but all she said was, “I polished all the brass on the launch. Appreciate it.”

  “Looks gorgeous.”

  “Like yourself,” Leo said.

  Zachary looked at me with the same appraising eye as Suzy. “She’ll do, by Jove, she’ll do. That dress brings out the color of your eyes, and you’re getting to have a splendid bod.”

  Leo scowled, and I could tell he didn’t like the way Zachary was looking at me as though he were undressing me. Leo stepped in front of Zachary and held out his hand to help me jump into the launch. Zachary followed, close on our heels, jostling Leo and immediately apologizing. Jacky came out of the boathouse and he and Suzy waved as we took off.

  “It’s a perfect day,” Leo said. “Water’s as smooth as glass. It was rough early this morning when I took a couple out fishing. Vicky, you’re saving Monday for me, aren’t you?”

  Zachary smiled his most charming smile, first at me, then at Leo. “It’s a good thing you have only one day off a week, pal. I can see you’d want to monopolize Vicky-O otherwise.” He put his hand on mine.

  I was not used to having people compete for me. It felt pleasant, if slightly confusing.

  It’s about half an hour by launch to the mainland—more than twice as quick as the ferry. Zachary and Leo did most of the talking. Zachary was trying really hard to be friends, and Leo, being Leo, responded without hesitation. There they were, night and day. Everything that Zachary said and did was calculated, not necessarily in a bad way, but Zachary planned things, like an artist, for effect. And Leo responded like a puppy who’s been thrown a stick to retrieve. And I thought, too, that Leo was trying to go more than halfway, to encourage Zachary to begin again, to remove that burden of guilt which Zachary didn’t seem to feel but which would have weighed Leo down. It was easy to know what Leo was feeling; there it was, right on the surface. What Zachary was feeling lay deep within, and he didn’t often open his doors to friend or stranger. Zachary was a private person but he had a polished façade. Adam, I thought, was equally private, but there was no façade.

  I leaned back against the seat of the launch and let the spray fly by me and the rays of the sun caress me. It was cool on the water and the wind blew my hair and dried the salt spray. It made me feel tingly with life.

  The dock on the mainland was far busier and more bustling than on the Island. Zachary told Leo we’d be back at eleven o’clock that evening, or shortly thereafter, and then he took my elbow and steered me along the dock, past coils of rope, past clusters of people, workmen in rough clothes, summer people in shorts or suburban-type dresses, to a small red convertible with the top down.

  “Thought you might like this for a change.” He patted it in a proprietary way, as though it were a prize horse.

  It was a change from the hearse, all right. “It’s yours?”

  “No car rental’s apt to have an Alfa Romeo, at least not around here. Talked Pop into it, as a reward for graduating from high school after all these years. Hop in.” He opened the door. “We’ll drive right to the country club.”

  “I thought the country club was supposed to be wildly exclusive.”

  “So ’tis. But money and connections can do wonders. We have a special membership for as long as we’re here. There’s an Olympic-size pool, and some pretty fair tennis courts, and Pop says the golf course is one of the better ones. He’s off with some cronies he’s picked up, making business deals. Won’t bother us.”

  The drive to the club was along the shore for a few miles. Then we turned inland in the direction of the city, and drove past the hospital, a large, cold cube, and I thought of Grandfather being rushed there, and Mother sitting in the emergency room and being horrified.

  Zachary’s glance followed mine. “It’s a reasonably good hospital as big hospitals go nowadays,” he said, “though once I got out of intensive care and into a private room I could have died and no one would have noticed; there was only one nurse and a couple of aides for the whole floor. Stay out of it, Vicky-O.”

  A small chill moved up my spine. “I intend to.”

  We left the ugliness of the hospital behind us and drove up through green hills. Zachary handled the Alfa Romeo more gently than the hearse, and I didn’t have to keep pushing my feet against imaginary brakes. The club was at the crest of a hill, a rambly white building. There were lots of expensive-looking cars parked around, and people with expensive-looking tans against white linen tennis skirts or shorts. Zachary took me into a wide entrance hall, carpeted in pale gold. At a leather-topped desk I was given a day visitor’s card by an elegant-looking lady with elaborately dressed lavender hair. A maid in a grey uniform and white apron told me that she’d take me to my dressing room, and I could join my friend at the pool. My dressing room, to which I was given my own key, was a largish square divided into a shower and a place to dress. There was a wide seat across the back, with fluffy white towels in a neat pile. A terry robe hung on a hook. In the shower there was a brand-new cake of soap, a shower cap, and a pair of Japanese thongs.

  I changed to my bathing suit, which was just a plain old bathing suit, nothing new or elegant suitable to my surroundings. Well, I’d just pretend it was reverse chic.

  I looked at myself in the mirror and I was not displeased at what I saw, which, as far as mirror gazing is concerned, is a fairly new state of affairs. I’m long, but no longer all angles of sharp knees and elbows. And my reverse-chic bathing suit was black and the sun had brought out the lights in my hair and I had just the right beginnings of a tan—not too much. Good.

  I went out to the pool.

  Swimming is something I can do. Between trips to the Island and swimming in the ocean, and our regular summer swimming in the spring-fed Beagle Pond in Thornhill, I’m at home in the water—not as
at home as Basil, but home enough so that I don’t feel self-deprecating or self-conscious. I balanced on my toes on the diving board and plunged in.

  Zachary was lounging on an inflated rubber raft. He looked pale in his bathing trunks, and not in his element. Not in the least like Adam. He was dabbling his fingers in the water and I swam up to him. “Coming in?”

  “Not yet. I’m feeling anti-water at the moment.”

  “Why?” I asked stupidly.

  “I looked to water to bring me beautiful oblivion, and instead I got a bellyful and strained my heart again. So no swimming or tennis or anything strenuous for a while. I meant it when I told your Mrs. Rodney I was going to take care of myself.”

  “I’m glad.” Zachary, as ever, was unpredictable.

  “So you swim, Vicky-O, and I’ll admire you. So will everybody else.”

  I turned and swam underwater the length of the pool and then pulled myself up, gasping for air, and walked along the slick wet border of the pool, back to Zachary.

  He had left the rubber raft and was sitting at a round table with a flowered umbrella to keep off the heat of the sun. There were a number of these umbrellaed tables scattered about, and people of all ages were sitting at them, from Suzy’s age up, all the way up. Lots of bright clothes and beach hats and bags stuffed with knitting and needlepoint. It was a world of people who didn’t have anything to do except whatever they felt like doing. A new world in which I wasn’t sure I felt comfortable. I’d felt much more at home and much more myself in John and Adam’s lab.

  Zachary waved at a few people but didn’t introduce me to anybody. He beckoned to a white-coated man, saying, “Want something to drink, Vicky?”

  I was thirsty. “Sure.”

  “How about a rum and Coke?”

  When I’d first met Zachary I’d lied about my age. Now I didn’t feel the need to. I didn’t even feel the need to remind him that I’m not quite sixteen. “What I’d really like is some lemonade, real lemonade with freshly squeezed lemons and not too much sugar.”

  He cocked one silky black brow at me, then turned to the waiter. “We’ll have two real lemonades. Anything to eat, Vicky? We’ll be going in to dinner early because of the concert.”

  “Just the lemonade.”

  The sun was hot, even in the shade under the umbrella. The canvas seemed to intensify the rays. I could feel myself flushing with heat; Zachary, on the contrary, just got whiter, so that his black brows and lashes were startling against his pallor. The waiter brought the lemonade and I sipped it slowly, letting the lovely sour tangy coolness slide down my throat. It was so hot that it was too much effort to talk, and I was surprised at myself for not feeling that I had to make the effort. I just sat there and sipped lemonade and watched people clustered about the tables and getting in and out of the pool. And because I didn’t feel that I had to struggle for things to say, I was more comfortable with Zachary than I’d ever been before.

  Time slipped by, as lazy as a bee that came and buzzed about our table and fell into the dregs of Zachary’s lemonade. I had another swim to cool off, and then went back to the dressing room to shower and dress. The soap smelled of sandalwood, and there was powder that smelled equally exotic. I took my time and felt luxurious.

  Zachary was waiting for me in a large room off the dining room, elegant and air-conditioned, with sofas and chairs and low tables set about in groups. There were flowers on all the tables, and a great bouquet in a silver bowl on the marble mantel, reflected back by a great, gilt-framed mirror. The floor was carpeted in something subtly flowery and soft to walk on, and the long French windows had equally subtle flowery curtains. It was, I realized, beautiful as well as expensive taste. The coolness felt marvelous after the heat outdoors.

  I’ve never thought of myself as being deprived. On the other hand, I’ve never been around people who don’t have to think about where the next dollar’s going to come from. And even if we had that kind of money, Mother and Daddy are both too busy for country clubs and the kind of living Zachary took for granted.

  He was waiting for me at a small table near one of the windows, where we could look out across the gardens to the golf course. Sprinkles were sending out little fountains of water over the already velvety green lawn.

  “Our table’s reserved for six o’clock.” Zachary looked at his watch. “What’ll it be, Vicky?”

  “What’ll what be?” Why did I always have to seem stupid in front of Zachary?

  “What do you want to drink before dinner? I’m on a moderate kick so I’ll just have a glass of dry sherry.”

  “I’m on an even more moderate kick. I’ll have a Coke with lemon.”

  His eyebrows drew together for a moment, then relaxed. “Added to which you’re underage and law-abiding. For your reassurance, I’m twenty, and in this state allowed to have alcohol.” He beckoned to a waiter and gave our order. A smiling waitress came over, bearing a silver tray with hors d’oeuvres.

  “The canapés are so-so. Try the caviar. It’s beluga; you can’t go too far wrong with that,” Zachary advised.

  Behind the waitress with the silver tray came a man pushing a steam table with a copper rolltop. He swung it open and there were dishes of all kinds of hot hors d’oeuvres.

  “I like the chicken liver and water chestnuts rolled in bacon.” Zachary pointed.

  In a short time I had a little plate loaded with tidbits, and when I had finished my Coke, which I drank too quickly because such elegance made me nervous, it was immediately and silently replaced. Then we were summoned into the dining room, which was as large and elegant as the huge salon. There were crystal chandeliers, which Zachary said were Waterford, and candles in silver holders, and flowers, and round, white-napped tables. My chair was drawn out for me and I sat down, rather clumsily, and helped the waiter hitch me in. I’m not accustomed to this kind of service, though I think I could quite easily get used to it, given the opportunity.

  The menu was enormous, a leather folder with pages of appetizers and fish and entrees and salads and desserts. There weren’t any prices.

  “Have whatever your little heart desires.” Zachary smiled his very nicest smile. “Once in a while you deserve to be treated like the princess you are. How about lobster?”

  Lobster is something we can have quite often on the Island, buying the lobster right off the fishing boats as they come into shore in the late afternoon. “I think I’d like something really exotic.”

  “How about pheasant under a glass bell?”

  I looked under the poultry section of the menu, and there it was. “Why is it put under a glass bell?”

  “Got me. But they make it with an excellent sauce here. I advise it.”

  “Fine—except—is pheasant an endangered species?”

  Zachary groaned. “Maybe in the wild. These are grown on a pheasant farm, especially for the purpose of being put under glass bells. Relax and enjoy.”

  “Okay. Pheasant under a glass bell.”—Because, I reminded myself,—as Adam said, all life does live at the expense of other life.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  I wasn’t about to tell him it was Adam. I looked at the menu. “For dessert I’m wavering between Baked Alaska and crepes suzette.”

  The pheasant actually came under a glass bell, though I couldn’t figure out what use it served except maybe to keep the pheasant warm. Zachary talked about going to law school and how it would help him to be in control of his life and not taken advantage of by the rest of the world, which seemed in his mind to consist largely of other lawyers, out to get people.

  For dessert we had peach Melba because it was quicker than Baked Alaska or crepes suzette and our time was getting short and I certainly didn’t want Zachary to speed in that open, unprotected car.

  And then we were in the little red Alfa Romeo on our way to the concert. We drove past the airport, and one of the huge jets came in for a landing, flying so low over us that I ducked.

  Zachary patted me.
“Take it easy, Vicky-O. That plane’s a lot higher over us than it seems. This is a really nice little international airport—not big enough for Concordes, of course, but it can handle pretty much anything else.”

  “I’ve never been on a plane,” I said.

  Zachary turned and looked at me in astonishment. “What!”

  “Look at the road, not at me. I want to get to that concert, please. I said I’ve never been up in a plane.”

  “What a little country mouse you are, despite your year in New York. Next week, would you like to go up?”

  Ever stupid, I asked, “In a plane?”

  “What else? I can’t preempt a jet for you, but there are plenty of little charter flights, the equivalent of your pal Leo’s boat. We can fly over the Island and buzz your family and then come back and have dinner at the club. Would you like that?”

  I gazed at another plane over our heads, its underbelly looking like a strange air fish. “Oh, Zachary, I’d adore it, but I’ll—”

  “I know. You’ll have to ask your parents. But you can reassure them that I won’t be doing the flying—at least not till I get a pilot’s license. I’ve started flying lessons so I won’t go out of my mind with boredom. Art—he’s my teacher—has his own little charter plane, and he’ll fly us.”

  “Oh, Zach—it sounds marvelous.”

  “Pop says that if I get through my first year of college without any problems—and he really means without any problems—he’ll buy me my own plane. I love flying, and Art says I’m a natural. It’s much better than driving a car. So it’s worth avoiding problems to have my own plane. So, how’s about we go flying on Saturday, next week? There’s a dinner dance at the club.”

  “Saturday’ll be fine.”

  The concert was held at an estate which had become some kind of foundation for the arts. There were chairs scattered about a vast green lawn, shining with golden light from the setting sun. Japanese lanterns were hung from the trees, great oaks and maples, and even some elms, and there aren’t many of the old elms left; these must have had a lot of attention.