Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances
Page 123
For a while even Eric had seemed to be an enemy. He hadn’t been there when I needed him: he hadn’t seen me through the virulent time of illness that had come over me. He should have seen that I was sick, that Tony Cavendish was a virus I had caught. You had to have antibiotics for a virus … an antidote … and Eric could have been that antidote. He shouldn’t have walked out and left me feverish and sick.
But I knew that was unfair. Eric wasn’t my keeper. He loved me and needed me. But he wasn’t responsible for my actions. As I wasn’t responsible for his.
You grew up slowly, I thought, tired and spent, and you fought maturity every step of the way. It was so much easier to stay young, immature, and unresponsible. It was painful to gain insight, painful to walk into the future. We would all, I thought, prefer to be children forever.
• • •
When I couldn’t sit still any longer I got up and lit some lamps, had a snack in the kitchen, standing up while I ate, tried to read, and gave it up as a bad job. I made a drink but only sipped at it, and then put it down with distaste. I kept looking at my watch, then getting up to check it with the other clocks.
Depending on the traffic, Eric had said.
I got up abruptly and went to the bedroom. I shed my clothes and got into a swimsuit. I went out the back door and walked to the hill. I had nothing to fear now. Eric was on his way. I wouldn’t be alone any more.
I went down to the beach because I wanted to say good-bye. Good-bye to my tenure here, which was just about up. It was a farewell to what I had thought my stay here would be, a peaceful summer in a rented cottage. It had turned out differently, disastrously, but I thought it would be all right now, and I was intent on bidding a wry adieu to what could have been a perfect, unmarred summer.
I was thoughtful and pensive, and it was a lovely night. Soft and tender, and brilliant with stars overhead. The moon was filling out, its contours ripening: it shone down with a cold, clear effulgence that bathed the earth and water. A pleasant breeze stirred the sand grass, making plaintive sounds in the night. Other sounds filtered through the silence — the call of a shore bird, harsh and wild, the distant baying of a dog.
And over and above all that, the sound of the sea, its ceaseless murmuring, the pounding of the surf as it broke on the shore, the sigh of its retreat as the water receded.
I walked to the water and stood at its brink. I stopped there, straining my eyes to find a horizon, searching for dark shapes that might be ships. I passionately loved that dark, measureless expanse which held in its depths things that had once belonged to men. And been lost below the surface in storms that had shipwrecked many people throughout time.
The stern, implacable sea.
I was so caught in thought that I didn’t hear anything at first. I don’t think I ever did hear anything: I believe I simply sensed another presence on the beach. But I was suddenly aware that I was no longer alone.
I turned, with a swift lurch of the heart in my chest, and put out a hand, in a defensive gesture, as if to ward off something perilous.
He stood there, limned in the moonlight, motionless and — etched as he was against the background of sea and sky — magnificent. As if the pose were deliberate, meant to impress its grandeur on me. As if he were giving me a gift. He knew he was stunning. How could he help but know? He knew the shock it gave. He must have known that all his life.
A gift of fatal attraction …
I could look at him now and savor his appearance, but see it with clear eyes, without being blinded. Anthony Cavendish had lost none of his splendor for me: Eric’s phone call hadn’t changed that. He was every bit as glorious as Cellini’s Perseus.
But I could see him dispassionately now. I could even remember — and vividly — my infatuation for him, my thralldom. But my feelings had undergone a profound change. There was no sexual adoration, no aching lust. Tony was only a mortal now: the golden god had vanished.
I felt, in my miraculous recovery, sorry for him. The necromancer had lost his magic touch. The prince had become the frog: the fable had reversed itself.
Yet I was not pleased to see him. I had really wanted to be alone, to have this half hour for myself. I was feeling almost reborn … new, in an almost mystical way, as if Eric and I were starting out all over again, thanks to the gods, and the mistakes we — or perhaps I — had made were in the past. The slate had been wiped clean. We had been granted another chance, and this time things would be better. This time we would reach for the stars.
Yet Tony was here, and my fleeting resentment vanished. I felt a kind of empathy for him. He was a wanderer, a loner, and rather touching, really, in spite of his magnificence. I thought, who really mattered in his life?
Caroline?
Maybe not even Caroline. Maybe only Caroline’s money.
Why, he’s a desolate personality, I thought, and went up to him. “Hello,” I said cheerfully. “I can’t stay very long, but shall we have a swim before I go back?”
“Yes, love,” he answered, and together we walked into the water, breasted the waves, and struck out.
The water was far from calm, but manageable. He was in the lead, with me following, and I didn’t object to it. I thought it would be best for his ego to have the ascendance.
It was precious little to give him.
I thought of how I had desired him, how nearly I had become his lover.
But I had not. There had been something more important in my scheme of things.
Eric Sloane. Eric …
My mind was filled with Eric Our reunion. What I would say to him.
“You’re not crying again?” I could hear him asking.
“Happy tears, I guess.”
Eric was coming back. He was coming back.
I trailed him in the water. I was in the most exquisite mood, my life to rights again, and I had only sympathy for Tony. I wanted to tell him that I wished him only the best.
I tried to frame the words as we swam: “You see, Eric and I … so, Tony, I apologize for — ”
It would not be easy, but it would have to be said.
We cut through the cold biting water, almost side by side now, and I heard his breathing at times. It was invigorating, the bracing water, and the moonlight, and the blaze of the stars, white and dazzling. Salt sea smell, and my eyelashes stuck together with wet.
This man was my friend, my might-have-been lover. It would be difficult to tell him that things were different now.
I was hoping it wouldn’t be too awful. I pictured his cold fury, his anger. I didn’t want any more trouble.
I was quite upset when Tony, nearing me in the water, reached out and touched me. His hand landed on my shoulder, and then he drew up close beside me and slid an arm around my neck.
It was a preamble to what he assumed would be a night of love on the starlit sands. A gesture I took to mean, let’s go back now and do what we came here to do.
My heart gave an uncomfortable little leap in my chest. It wouldn’t be easy, I reflected. To tell him it was no go, and I was miserably sorry, but —
And then the involved explanation. Oh, don’t let him be hurt … or nasty, I was thinking, and I tried to free myself from his tentative embrace.
I was being awkward in my strokes because his arm kept hindering me. I thought it was my own slight struggle that sent my head under. Or that a current had me in its grip. That there was some undercurrent I hadn’t counted on. When I started to plummet down I was vastly astonished. I also had a horrid feeling of loss of control. Because I swallowed a lot of water, I found myself coughing and spewing when I surfaced again.
I was a damned good swimmer, and had no fear of the water. I had been raised by people who knew their way around as swimmers. When I was little more than a baby I had been ducked and taught.
I took a deep breath, which started me coughing again, and I tried to elude his arms. He was trying to put both of them around me now, but I wanted to be free to get my bearings.
I pushed him away rather roughly, said, “I have to go back, I must have a cramp or something.”
He didn’t answer. I thought that was odd, but put it down to a lack of comprehension. He didn’t realize I was in a bit of trouble. So I said it again. “Let’s go back, I seem to be tiring.”
Still he didn’t answer. But his arms clamped firmly around me as if, after all, he did realize my plight, and wanted to come to my aid. And yet, and yet … his arms were too closely around me, and he wasn’t helping at all. On the contrary, he was making everything more difficult, and I told him so.
“No, Tony,” I protested. “That’s not the way … you’re only smothering me. I can’t breathe.”
“Sorry,” I thought he would say, but he didn’t. He just looked back at me, with a kind of half smile, and his arms stayed around me, tighter now.
“Let go,” I said. “You’re hindering me, Tony. I’ve got a mouthful of water.”
I coughed, and pushed at him.
He still didn’t release me. I became vastly irritated, and tried to wrench away. This proved impossible, and, with a kind of mild astonishment, I stopped struggling and stared at him.
What was the matter with him? Didn’t he see that —
And then, in a flash, I got the picture. I was gasping and spitting out water, and suddenly I had a glimpse of his face. That face which had once meant so much to me. This face was intent, quiet, and implacable … and those arms were not trying to help me. Those strong, virile arms were, incredibly, like tentacles, winding around my neck and shoulders, and preventing me from moving.
I felt his power then, with surprise and the ghastly onset of fear. His strength was turned against me; he wanted to —
He wanted me to go under again.
He wanted me to —
To drown!
The blood drained away from my head and I felt faint. I wanted terribly to touch bottom, feel something solid underneath me.
I said, “Tony?”
It was a desperate plea.
There was no answer from him. Just that quiet, steady gaze. Calculating, taking his time, and, oh, so silent. If he had said something … if I could have heard his voice. Saying anything … something terrible, maybe, but something.
I’m sorry, but this must be done …
I knew for sure now. It was something he had to do. Get me out of the way, out of his way. Because I had interfered with his plans. If a new will was about to be drawn that left him out in the cold, then I was to die.
He was desperate now … a new will might be Caroline’s last, this time.
I could hardly believe it. That he would actually kill for money …
I was this man’s prey, I must be disposed of. If I were dead, I couldn’t inherit.
I took him by surprise. It was instinctive, a primal gesture. My leg shot up and I kneed him in the groin. There was a sharp intake of breath, then a long-drawn groan, and I knew I had hurt him.
I felt a primitive elation. I really hurt him, I thought savagely, and I felt his arms around me relaxing. As they loosened, I followed up my advantage.
I eeled away and plowed through the water. Momentarily disorientated, I started in the wrong direction, away from the shore. I realized my error almost at once, and changed course. There was the beach, getting nearer.
I wanted to look over my shoulder. He must be recovering from my attack. And shortly he’d be behind me.
But I couldn’t lose time looking back. And all the while my mind was racing, teeming with thoughts. One minute I was counting strokes … four, five, six … the shore came closer. In the next minute pictures flooded into my mind, like montages in a film.
He had wanted to do this earlier … all those jaunts on the beach, those midnight visits … he had been thinking of doing this … thinking of getting rid of me. And each time he had gotten cold feet.
No one knew we had been down here.
He could have done it at any time.
But this time he had to. This time he had no choice. He couldn’t wait any longer.
I heard the water splash behind me, and knew he was swimming after me. I ground my teeth. This was life or death.
I thought quickly of my wrecked plant, wilted and lifeless. In a garbage pail. Tony had done that.
I thought, God help me, and I swam faster.
I knew he was not far from me, and I took a long, deep breath. Another breath … and then I plumeted down under the water. I hoped … prayed … that I was swimming toward shore. I was somehow saying, please, please …
In a flash, I thought of the massive urn on top of the armoire. That could have killed me.
Please, I thought. Please.
The attack on the stairs …
My car almost burned …
And now this.
The simplest kind of murder …
I had to surface. My lungs were bursting.
He was dog-paddling, his head turning from left to right He was only yards away. But the shore was close now. I could see the waves breaking on the beach. I was almost there. I was almost there.
I fantasized myself climbing the hill, streaking for the cottage, gaining it, and then inside, locking the door, and safe, safe.
I thought he was in love with me … what a fool …
I rode in on the waves, felt the slippery sand under my feet, and raced crazily toward the sandhill. I did it. Did it, I thought, with the breath wheezing in my throat.
I did it.
Then, horrified, I heard him panting behind me, his heavy footsteps … I saw him loom up. An arm reached out.
Sobbing, I shrieked, and veered round, just in time to elude his grasp.
He had me again.
This time my voice rang out, mad with terror. “No,” I cried. “No …”
I was blubbering now, retching, crying uncontrollably. I wanted to live, nothing more, even. Without love, without anything wonderful … but life. To go on breathing …
He lost his balance as I sprang aside; he almost sprawled on the sand. I sprinted, in the opposite direction, across the beach. I had nowhere to go. I realized this almost instantly. In this direction there was only a dead end, where the beach came to a steep, rocky ascent, a sheer stony hill with only tenuous footholds.
And I heard him tamping after me. Heard him with horror, despair.
Why hadn’t I left a note for Eric?
For the first time I envisioned my own death. Unthinkable only recently. But now I knew it could happen. I was alone with a madman, absolutely alone. This stark moment on an East Hampton beach. The whole world was sleeping, and I, with a murderer at my heels, was without help from any quarter.
I became maddened with terror. I thought of my dead body under the waves. Tossed, heiter skelter, in the churning waters …
He was almost on me. I had no alternative. My options had run out. I raced for the water again.
He followed me. The waves splashed over us. I was directionless now. I was without a plan. Gaining minutes, that was all. Putting off the inevitable, the hideous moment when those arms would wind around me again and push me down, down …
I was by now terribly tired. Tired and nearly mindless. I had done my best. God knew I had done my best. Girl from Manhattan drowned in choppy waters off East Hampton.
An item in the newspapers.
I was crying hard. I was crying for so many things.
I knew I was going to die. He could never let me live with the knowledge that he had tried to kill me. He was strong and he was desperate. He had to win.
It was that simple. Then he caught up to me. I was blind to his face, I couldn’t see it any longer. I was blind to everything. I had lost. It’s over, I thought, and there was only sadness now. I too could die. I had lived so little of my life.
At last Anthony said something. I heard it as if in a dream: I had come to terms with death; I was beyond help, and I was going to die.
Thickly, he said, “Damn you … Christ damn you …”
/> And then, as I became conscious of another voice, and a violent collision near me, Tony’s voice came again.
“I’ll kill you too … I’ll kill you both.”
After that, pandemonium exploded. A hideous thrashing in the water miraculously freed me from the octopus arms. I had a delirious vision of great whales churning up the water in a death struggle only yards away. I cried out, and then went mute; I could only try to stay afloat, with my heart thudding — like an animal writhing inside me. There was a tinny taste in my mouth, along with salt, and my stomach heaved mightily; I sank tiredly, wanting oblivion.
Then a life force surged in me again, and I fought my way to the surface, flailing wildly. I came up and breathed air again … and saw the stars.
The most horrible sound of all came next. Like a butcher’s cleaver hitting a block … a sound of bone striking bone. I saw the gigantic splashes in the water, and I knew that sound meant a lethal blow. I cried out once more, ran out of breath, and whirled down into watery nothingness.
I was not wholly unconscious: I was just unwilling to accept what was happening. I went almost inert, my mind finally boggling in sheer refusal to tolerate what was taking place.
I wanted no more of it. I had had enough horror.
Then there were arms around me again, different arms. They became life-supporting, and a voice spoke into my ear.
Dimly, I knew it was Eric’s voice.
“Don’t fight me, for the Lord’s sweet sake … Jan, don’t fight me.”
A long interval in the dark followed, and an impression that I was in an ambulance, riding crazily in the night, and then I knew I wasn’t in any ambulance, that that was simply my imagination. I lay on the beach, and next there was a bright light making me squint, and a voice saying something rapidly. That sounds like Tom, I thought, then I knew it was indeed Tom, and knew, too, that the other voice was truly Eric’s.
I was lying on the beach, limp, half dead from exertion and fear, and the three of us were alone there. Tom, Eric and I. We were in East Hampton, and I had been fished out of the water. Slowly, reality came back to me.