Claire saw her father as he entered the house. A mental image of the Courbet hanging on her bedroom wall flashed through her mind.
Jean-Leon Ducasse was a tall man with a thick head of white hair. He was a Frenchman who had fought in the Resistance during the Second World War, and although he had immigrated to the States in 1948, he did not, to this day, consider himself an American. Everything about him was very European and Old World. He smiled as he came to Claire and kissed her cheek. “You look wonderful,” he said. He had no accent. His nose was large and hooked, but he remained a handsome man, young-looking for his age, his hair iron-gray. No one would guess that he was in his late seventies; he looked sixty, if a day. It never ceased to amaze Claire that so many women still found him attractive. Tonight he was alone. His current girlfriend was an attractive, wealthy widow in her late fifties.
Claire hoped that her worries were not reflected in her eyes. She smiled brightly. “You look great, too, Dad. Where is Elaine?”
“She’s in Paris. Shopping, I believe. I was invited to join her, but I did not want to miss David’s birthday party.” He smiled at her.
Claire thought he was being sardonic. She was almost certain he would not care if he had missed David’s birthday. But it was always hard to tell exactly what her father was thinking, or what he meant. Jean-Leon had raised Claire alone; Claire’s mother had died when Claire was ten, a victim of breast cancer. He had been preoccupied with teaching and later, after his retirement, with his gallery. And even when he was not teaching at Berkeley, he was either traveling around the world in the pursuit of another masterpiece or new talent, or lecturing at foreign institutions. Claire had been raised by a succession of nannies. They could have been close after her mother had died, but they were not. As a child Claire had never sat on his lap or been told stories at bedtime. “Well, I’m glad you could be here, Dad,” she said, still distracted. What kind of trouble could David be in? Surely it wasn’t serious.
She prayed it wasn’t something illegal.
Jean-Leon was glancing around, taking in her every guest and the decorations. “You have done a very nice job, Claire. As always.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Claire said softly.
An elderly couple came up to Claire, smiling widely. The woman, Elizabeth Duke, was tall and thin and quite regal in appearance, clad in a red Armani jersey dress, while her husband, who was in his early eighties and about her height, was somewhat stooped. William Duke embraced her first, followed by his wife. “Claire, the decorations are fabulous,” Elizabeth cried, smiling. “And that dress suits you to a tee, dear.” She wore a large Cartier necklace, set with diamonds. Somehow, she carried the ostentatious piece well.
They were an English couple, with homes in Montecito, Sun Valley, New York and Southampton, as well as San Francisco. Claire had known the Dukes her entire life, or so it seemed. They were avid art collectors, and close friends of her father. Elizabeth had adored Claire’s mother.
“Where is that handsome husband of yours?” William Duke asked jovially. He was retired, but the company he and Elizabeth had built from scratch in the fifties and sixties was a private one, with financial holdings and properties all over the world. He was fond of David, and at one time had hoped to have him join his firm. The deal hadn’t worked out, but Claire had never known why.
“He’ll be down in a minute,” Claire said, hiding her concern. Where was he? What was taking so long? She already had a headache. She fervently hoped that David would have changed his mood by the time he came downstairs—and that he would not drink too much that night. I’m in trouble, Claire. “He’s running a bit late.” She flashed what felt like a brittle smile.
Elizabeth Duke stared. “Is anything wrong, Claire?”
Claire tensed, aware of her father and William regarding her. “It’s been a long day,” she said, giving what was quickly becoming the party line, but she took Elizabeth’s hand and they slipped away.
“I do know that,” Elizabeth said kindly. “But don’t worry, you know how to plan an event, Claire, as everyone who is anyone knows. I can already see that this evening will be a huge success.” She smiled and leaned close. Whispering, she said, “William and I thought long and hard about what to give David for his birthday. We decided that the two of you have been working far too hard. So we are offering you the house in East Hampton for a month over the summer, Claire.”
It was a magnificent, fully staffed home with a swimming pool and tennis court on Georgica Pond. Claire grasped Elizabeth’s hands, about to thank her. But she never got the two simple words out. Somehow, she knew that she and David were not going to spend a month together in the Dukes’ Hampton home. Neither one of them would want to. It would be a month of bickering and arguments. Their marriage was over.
It was suddenly so clear to her that neither one of them had any interest in salvaging it. It had been over for years.
Oh, God, was her next single thought. She smiled at Elizabeth but did not even see her.
“Claire? I know you and David are struggling right now,” Elizabeth said kindly. “This might be good for you both.”
Claire was an expert at keeping her emotions reined in. She worked hard to keep a sunny façade in place. Perhaps she had learned to do so when her mother had died so suddenly, leaving her, for all intents and purposes, alone. She had certainly felt alone when Cynthia passed away, because her father had felt like such a stranger. Or maybe her father had taught her by example how to remain calm and composed no matter what. How to shove any feelings of a personal or emotional nature far, far away. Now, Claire felt a sudden lump of grief rising up, hard and fast, impossibly potent. It was accompanied by a real and terrible fear.
“I’m sure it will,” Claire said automatically, not even aware of what she was saying.
“Everything will work out,” Elizabeth said softly. “I am sure of it.”
Claire knew she was wrong. “Yes, it will.” She had to hold it together, she had to keep it all in. Divorce. The word loomed now in her mind. It was engraved there.
Elizabeth squeezed her hand. Claire watched her rejoin William, and found herself facing her father. Claire felt uncomfortable, hoping he hadn’t overheard them, and then he said, “I heard you are short a few VIPs for Summer Rescue Kids.”
This was a welcome subject. “I am.”
“I think I can help. I have a client who’s new in town. I’ll feel him out for you.”
“Thank you, Dad,” Claire said, far too fervently.
He seemed to be looking right through her. No, he was looking past her. “And here’s your errant husband,” Jean-Leon added softly.
Claire’s gaze whipped to David, who was approaching, and then back to her father. What had that comment meant? But Jean-Leon only smiled at her and Claire turned her attention back to David.
He was more than handsome and self-assured in his dark gray suit, and the pale blue shirt and yellow tie did amazing things for his leading-man good looks. More than a few women were craning their necks to glimpse him more fully. As David paused to shake hands and accept congratulations, Claire stared. He was beaming as he accepted hearty back slaps from his male friends and soft kisses from their wives and girlfriends. Finally, he seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself.
David reached her father. His smile never faltered, but Claire knew it was a pretense. She watched them shake hands. “Happy Birthday, David,” Jean-Leon said smoothly.
“Thank you.”
“I hope you like your birthday gift.”
David extracted his hand. “What can I say? That was so generous of you.”
“So you do like it?” Jean-Leon’s tone never changed, but he seemed to be pressing—and Claire suddenly tensed.
“It’s a masterpiece. Who wouldn’t like it?” David returned, his smile frozen.
Claire stepped to his side, glancing anxiously from one man to the other. Clearly there was a subtext to their exchange, but just what was it?
“Then
I am very pleased. Where did you hang it?”
“In the bedroom,” David said.
“Hmm,” was Jean-Leon’s response. “A shame. A painting like that should be on public display.” He turned his stare on Claire. “You should hang it in the living room, Claire.”
Claire had the feeling that if she agreed with her father she would be disagreeing with David. And that was the last thing she wished to do just then. “How about a drink, Dad?”
“Fine.” Jean-Leon ambled away, moving into the crowd, greeting those he knew. David stared after him. So did Claire.
“Sometimes he really bugs me,” David said.
Claire jerked. “What is going on? How could you argue with him now?”
David just looked at her. “He can be a pompous ass.”
“That’s not fair,” she began.
“Oh, cut it out, Claire. You know that because he’s brilliant in the world of art, he thinks he’s smarter than everyone else—including you and me. But you know what? If it weren’t for your mother, he wouldn’t be where he is today. Her money bought him his success. Her money made him what he is today.”
“David!” Claire was aghast. “He’s my father! How can you say such things?”
He gave her a look. “Let’s do what we have to do. Smile, Claire. This was your idea.” He walked away.
She stared after him, his last nasty comment making her as angry as she had been earlier in their bedroom upstairs. She did not deserve such barbs. And he had no right to talk about her father the way that he had. His accusations were hurting her now, even though they were partially true. It was no secret that Jean-Leon had started both his gallery and his art collection with her mother’s generous support. But wasn’t that what spouses did for one another?
Claire watched David greeting the Dukes. He seemed a bit curt with them, she thought, and then she turned away. The night had only just begun, but she needed a moment to herself. She had a massive headache, and she was beginning to feel ill in the pit of her stomach. She hurried down the hall and into the sanctuary of the den.
The doors were open. It was a big room with the same smooth, pale oak floors as the rest of the house, but unlike the rest of the house, most of the room was done entirely in soft, natural earth tones. Claire plopped down on a rust-colored leather ottoman, cradling her face in her hands. Her marriage was a charade. There was just no point in it anymore. It was really over.
And David wouldn’t care if she raised the subject of a divorce. Claire was certain. She refused to abandon him if he was in the kind of trouble he claimed to be, but they could separate until the crisis—whatever it was—passed.
Claire began to tremble. She stared down at her shaking knees and realized she was finally losing it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was in here,” a man’s voice said.
Claire leapt to her feet in surprise. A man had walked into the middle of the room and he was regarding her curiously.
Immediately Claire smiled, wishing he would turn around and leave. She vaguely recalled greeting him at the front door, but did not have a clue as to who he was. Somehow she managed to walk over as if nothing were wrong, hand outstretched. To her horror, her hand was shaking. She slid it into his anyway, praying he would not notice. “I’m certain we met. I’m your hostess, Claire Hayden.”
He shook her hand, the contact briefly and vaguely surprising her. But his gaze dipped to her trembling hand. “Yes, we did, Mrs. Hayden,” he said, no longer smiling. He was grave. “Ian Marshall. I’m a friend of your husband’s.”
Claire pulled her hand free, aware of flushing. But it was too warm in the den. “Claire.” She smiled automatically.
“I hope I’m not interrupting, Claire?” His gaze was searching.
Claire had the unwelcome notion that he knew she was crumbling bit by bit beneath her immaculate exterior. “I was going to make a phone call. I’m with the Humane Society, and I wanted to check on a stray we picked up that had been hit by a car,” Claire said lightly, hoping that he would take the hint and leave.
He did not.
In fact, he just stood there, regarding her. He was a tall man, six-foot or so, with dark hair that was neither too short nor too long. He was clad in an impeccable suit, as were most of the guests that evening. His shoulders were very broad and Claire knew the suit had to be custom-made. Claire realized she was staring, but then, so was he. She also realized that the room was too quiet. “Can I help you?” she tried.
“I think you don’t like parties, Claire,” he said.
Claire felt her eyes widen as their gazes locked. His kind tone was like a hair trigger, and she turned away, even more shaken. “Of course I like parties.” But he was right. Parties were a part of her work. Rarely were they social events, and a time to eat, drink, or be merry. Parties were an opportunity to raise badly needed funds for important causes, or to pay back or laud those who had helped her in the past. Claire would never let anyone hold a party for her. Her last official birthday party had been when she was sixteen.
“Just not this one?” he prodded.
She whirled. “It’s my husband’s birthday,” she stressed. “It’s a wonderful evening for us both.” To her horror, her tone cracked on the last syllable.
“It’s okay. I know how tough these things can be.” His tone was kind, his gaze unwavering.
Claire felt her control disintegrate. Just like that, in an instant. To her horror, tears filled her eyes. She turned away before he could see.
“Hey. Don’t cry,” he said softly, from behind her.
Claire couldn’t answer. How could this be happening now? She fought to hold back a flood of tears. If she divorced David, she would be alone again.
But their marriage was over. She had seen it in his eyes, and she felt it, too.
She had been alone her entire life. When she had married, she had never wanted to be alone again.
But she was different now. She was a strong and successful woman. She was not a frightened, bereaved child.
“Here.”
Claire saw a tissue being dangled over her right shoulder. She accepted it gratefully and while she was dabbing at her eyes, she heard him wander past her. He was giving her some space with which to compose herself, but he was not leaving her, either. Claire peeked at him out of the corner of her eye and saw him studying the seascape above the mantel. Her heart seemed to kick her in the chest.
It was the most shocking sensation.
Claire stared at him, stunned.
He faced her with a smile. “That’s better. Beautiful women crying make me all nervous and jittery. I have a whole bunch of sisters, and every single one of them loves to cry.”
She had to smile. “How many sisters do you have?”
“Four. All younger than me.” He grinned. His dimples were charming—they made him look as if he smiled all the time.
“Growing up must have been chaotic.”
“It was hell. Pure and simple hell.” He smiled at her and winked. Then seriously, he said, “I’ve got big, broad shoulders. Feel free to use them any time.”
She felt herself beginning to blush. Worse, he seemed to mean it. “I’m fine now, Mr. Marshall. Truly, I am. I don’t know what happened. I never get so emotional.” She could not look away from his eyes. They were green.
“Ian, please. And all women are emotional. Trust me, I know.”
She smiled. “I’m not emotional.” She was firm.
“I doubt that.” He wasn’t smiling now. “Any woman who dedicates her life to bettering the worlds of kids and dogs has a huge and bleeding heart.”
She stared. “How do you know what I do?”
“I’m a friend of David’s,” he said. “Remember?”
Something had changed, and Claire didn’t know how or when it had happened. The room was still. Everything felt silent and unreal. Claire was very aware of the man standing just a few feet away from her; his presence seemed to charge the air around her.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked seriously. “Can I somehow make this a better evening?”
She was amazed. He really meant it. “No.” Her smile became wide and genuine. “Not unless you can make the clock strike midnight?”
He smiled in return. “Well, I could sneak around the house and change all the clocks.”
“But all the men are wearing wristwatches.”
“We could tell the bartender to pour triples.”
Her eyes widened. “Souse them all!” she cried.
“And no cake,” he added, dimples deepening.
“No cake. To hell with the birthday,” Claire agreed fervently.
“There’s always that yacht my friend has moored in the Marina—we can probably see the Lady Anne from your terrace.” His gaze was penetrating.
Claire’s smile froze. Her heart lurched with an awareness she should not have. An image of her and this stranger jumping into a car, driving down the hill, and sneaking aboard his friend’s yacht, hand in hand and barefoot, filled her mind. She stared at him.
“I’m sorry.” His gaze was searching. “I was only joking.”
Had it been a joke? She hesitated. “I hate to say it, but the idea is tempting.”
He didn’t speak. He waited.
Claire realized that if she said, “Let’s go,” he would take her hand, and they would. It was so tempting.
They stared at one another. Claire could hear her own heart beating. She was actually considering leaving her own party and doing the unthinkable.
He looked past her, towards the door.
Claire didn’t have to look to know who was there, and she stiffened. Reality hit her like cold water splashing in her face. She turned.
David stood on the threshold of the room. “Claire!”
Claire’s shoulders stiffened as if someone had placed a heavy yoke on them; she faced her husband. “Yes?” She was going to ask for a divorce. Soon—not that night, because it was his birthday, but tomorrow, or the next day.
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] Page 36
