“How do you know all that stuff?”
“There was a feature story about planned communities in the Wall Street Journal a month ago. The local papers have had articles about it for over a year. I believe Newsweek had a—”
“Truce. Could a guy like Broll do well in a deal like that?”
“Depends. The ownership structure would be the important consideration.”
“Could you find out where he fits and how, and why Mary would have to sign something?”
“I imagine I could. But why?”
“Harry’s nerves are bad. He looks bad. He has a money orientation. If he misses out on large money because Mary runs and hides and won’t sign, it somehow doesn’t sound like Mary. It would be a cheap shot and a dumb shot. She isn’t dumb. Whether she stays with him or leaves him, it would be better for him to have money. She’s been gone for two months. If he was so certain she’d run to me, where has he been for two months? Time is running out in two weeks. So he comes around with shaking hands and a sweaty shirt and a couple of places he missed while shaving. Time is running out not on the marriage, on the money. It makes me wonder.”
“I’ll look into it,” he said as we walked.
End of discussion. We had arrived at the area where they park the showboats, the ones too big to bring around inside, and thus have to leave them on the river, not far from the fuel pumps, where two out of every three Power Squadron types who cruise by can whap them against the cement with their curling wash. The Jilly III is a custom motor-sailer trimaran out of St. Kitts, owned by Jillian, the widow of Sir Henry Brent-Archer. It is seventy feet long with a beam that has to be close to fifty feet. It rides a bad sea with all the stability of a brick church. Minimal superstructure to emphasize an expanse of teak deck as big as a tennis court, with more than half of it shaded by the big colorful awning tarp her crew of three always strings up as soon as they are at dockside.
The bar table was positioned, draped in white damask. A piano tape was playing show tunes with muted discretion over the stereo system I’d helped her buy the last time she was in Lauderdale. There were a dozen guests assembled, three conversational groups of elegant folk sipping the very best booze from the most expensive glasses. Jilly saw us approaching the little gangplank and came a-striding, beaming, to welcome us aboard.
A lady of unguessable years, who made damned well certain she gave you no clues at all. If she turned up as a Jane Doe, DOA, traffic, a hasty coroner could not be blamed for penciling in the apparent age as plus or minus twenty-seven. Tall, slender brunette of such careful and elegant grooming, such exquisitely capped teeth, it seemed safe to assume she was in some area of entertainment. But she had such a much better tan and better physical condition than most show business people, one might safely guess her to be, perhaps, a model for beachwear? A lead in a commercial water ballet?
But a coroner less hasty, more sophisticated, who searched the scalp and elsewhere for the faintest of traces left by superb Swiss surgeons, who slipped the tinted plastic lenses off and studied the eyes closely as well as the backs of the hands, base of the throat, ankles, wrists.… He might add a quotient of years in direct ratio to his quality of observation and his experience.
Jilly had a lively and animated face peering out from the careless spill of black hair, all bright questing eyes, black brows, big nose, broad and generous mouth. Ever since I had known Jilly, her voice had cracked like that of a boy in early adolescence, changing from the piercing, songbird clarity of the Irish upperclass countryside to a burring baritone honk and back again. It was so effective it seemed contrived. But a small sailboat had foundered one night in a bad sea, and she had clung to a channel buoy, permanently spraining her vocal cords shouting at the boat traffic until finally she was heard and she and her injured friend were rescued.
“Meyer!” she cried. “My word, darling! You’re of a surpassing radiance. Travis dear, what happened to him? Did he molt or something?” She linked her arms through ours and croaked, “Come on, dears. Meet the ones you don’t know and get smashed soon as you can because I am gallons ahead of you.”
The introductions were made. Jillian slipped away to greet more guests. We drank. The sun went down. The night breeze was gentle but cool, and ladies put their wraps back on. The party lights strung from the rigging were properly dim, flatteringly orange. The buffet materialized, as if the table had risen up out of the teak. The music tape was more lively, the volume louder than before.
I found myself inadvertently paired with a smallish, withered Englishwoman with a shrunken face the color of weak tea and hair dyed the color of raspberry ice. A Mrs. Ogleby. I had seen Meyer talking to her towering and cadaverous husband, pumping him about the latest Common Market difficulties. We carried our buffet plates forward where she could sit on a narrow shelflike bench built out from the bow where the rail was solid. I sat crosslegged on the deck with my plate atop the massive bow cleat.
“I understand that you are one of dear Jillian’s very favorite Americans, Mr. McGee.”
She managed to load the comment with sweetly venomous insinuation. I beamed up at her. “And she’s one of my favorite foreigners.”
“Really! How terribly nice for her. Actually, Geoffrey and I were old friends of poor Sir Henry long before he married Jillian.”
“Then Jillian isn’t one of your favorite people, eh?”
She clinked her fork against the plate and leaned forward and peered down at me. “Whatever gave you such an odd idea? She is very dear. Very dear to both of us.”
“I knew Sir Henry, too.”
“Really! I wouldn’t have thought you would have known him.”
“I was a houseguest at St. Kitts for a few weeks.”
“But that would have been after he was quite ill, I take it.” Her smile was thin and knowing in the light of the nearby party lantern. A truly poisonous little woman.
“No. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Ogleby, Henry and I swam our three miles every morning, went riding or sailing every afternoon, and played chess every evening.”
She paused and regrouped. “Before he became ill, Sir Henry had really fantastic energies. How strange we all thought it that he would marry someone that young, after being a widower so long. It seemed odd. But, of course, that was so awfully long ago it is rather difficult to think of Jillian as—”
“Just think of me, dears, no matter how difficult it may be,” said Jilly. “Hmmm. What is this you have, Lenore? I didn’t see it at all. May I? Mmmm. Shrimp, and what a deliciously fiery sauce! Difficult to think of me as what, Lenore darling?”
When Mrs. Ogleby hesitated, I said, “She was about to pinpoint the date when you and Sir Henry were married.”
“Were you, dear? It slips my mind, you know. Was it just before or just after that fuss with the Spanish Armada?”
“Don’t be absurd! I was only—”
“You were only being Lenore, which is part of the trouble, isn’t it? Travis, I was married to Henry long long ago. Matter of fact, I was but three years old at the time, and most of the people in the church thought it was some sort of delayed christening. There was talk that it was an unwholesome relationship, but by the time I was fourteen—eleven years later—I looked twenty, and everyone said that it had probably been all for the best. And it was, of course. Lenore, you seem to be finished. Dear, come with me and show me just where you found the shrimp, will you please?”
“But if there is any left, it should be quite obvi—”
“Lenore!”
“Quite. Of course. I shall be happy to show you, my dear Jillian.”
“I knew it would make you happy to have a chance to be nice to me, Lenore.”
Off they went. Old friends, smiling and chattering.
Twenty minutes later as I was moving away from the bar with some Wild Turkey straight, instead of brandy, Jilly intercepted me and moved me into relative shadow.
“Travis, if you are a truly thoughtful and understanding man, you have your toothbrush hidden aw
ay on your person.”
“I had the idea the party girl would need her eight hours.”
“Have a little mercy, dear. There’s but one way to settle down from this sort of bash. You shall divert me.”
“I can leave and then come back. You know. Like a house call.”
“Is its tender little romantical pride bruised because the party girl thinks lovemaking is therapeutic? To say nothing of being a hell of a lot of fun. Just stay on, dear. Stay by me. Smile like a tomcat with a little yellow feather caught in his whiskers, and soon now we can smile them off and sing out our merry farewells.”
“Giving Lenore more food for thought?”
“Thought? Christ, that poisonous bitch doesn’t think. She slanders, because she has her own terrible hunger she can’t ease in any way. She burns in fire, my darling, and hates and hates and hates. Poor thing. Brace yourself, pet. I want you horribly.”
Three
I drifted in and out of a placid and amiable doze. Water slapped the triple hulls, whispering lies about how big the seas could really get. I cocked an eye at an upward angle at the battery digital clock fastened to the bulkhead over Jillian’s bed. Watched 4:06 turning magically to 4:07. There was a single light on in her stateroom, a rose-colored globe of frosty glass, big as a cantaloupe, standing next to its twin reflection in the dressing table mirror.
It was warm in her stateroom, not unpleasantly so, just enough to leave a humid dew, rosy highlights on our entangled flesh, sprawled and spent, atop a wrinkled dampness of custom sheets in a pattern of green vines with yellow leaves against white.
Jilly lay oddly positioned, her upper torso diagonally across my chest, face in a pillow, cheek against my right shoulder, her slack right arm hooked around my neck. Her long tanned legs were sprawled down there, off to my left. My right arm was pinned, but my left arm was free, my hand resting on the small of her back.
I traced the velvet geographies of that small concave area of the country of Jilly and then made a coin-sized circle of fingernails and thumbnail and made a slow circling motion against her there, a circle as big as a teacup. In time the pattern of her breathing changed. She shifted. She exhaled through slack rubbery lips, making a sound like a small horse.
“Is someone mentioning my name?” she said in a sleepy voice.
“Pure telepathy.”
She raised her head, clawed her hair out of the way, and peered up at the clock. “Gawd! What year is it? Don’t tell me.”
She heaved herself up, tugging her arm out from under my neck. She sat up and combed her hair back with the fingers of both hands, yawning widely as she did so. She shook and snapped her head back, settled her hair, then curled her limber legs under her and smiled down at me. “Been awake long, Travis?”
“Off and on.”
“Thinking? About what?”
I hitched myself higher on the pillows. “Random things. This and that.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Let me think back. Oh, I was wondering how it’s possible to make this bed up. It’s shaped to fit perfectly into the curves of this middle hull right up at the bow and—”
“There are little lever things on the legs down there, and when you push them down, then you can roll the bed back and make it up. You certainly think about fascinating things.”
“Then I heard a motor go on, and I was wondering if it was a bilge pump or a refrigeration compressor or—”
“You are trying to be tiresome. Didn’t you think about what I asked you?”
“Maybe I did. A little bit. Like wondering why it has to be me.”
“If one could know why a person settles upon a particular person, one would know one of the mysteries, wouldn’t one? I think it was because of four years ago. I think it started then.”
A friend of a friend had put Sir Henry Brent-Archer in touch with me. A problem of simple extortion. I had gone down to the British Virgins and spent three weeks at their spacious and lovely home and found exactly the right way to pry the two-legged lamprey loose, file its sharp teeth off, and send it unhappily on its way. And during the three weeks I had become ever more sensuously aware of Sir Henry’s handsome and lively wife. She made sure of that awareness.
“Because I kept it from starting?”
“Was I all that distasteful to you, my darling?”
“Not you. The situation. I liked Sir Henry. In spite of the fact I was working for him on a special problem, I was still a guest in his home. In a man’s home you live by his code. It does not have to be typed out and glued to the guest suite door. He did not want me to kick his dogs, overwork his horses, bribe his servants, read his diary, filch his silverware, borrow his toothbrush, or lay his wife. I accepted the obligation when I moved in.”
She snickered. “Would you believe that was the only time in the years I was his wife that I ever tried to be naughty?”
“There’s no reason not to believe it.”
“I was very grateful to Sir Henry. He came along at just the right time in my life. My whole dreadful family was sliding into the pit, and through him I could save them, so I snatched him up quickly. I liked him well enough for half the marriage, liked him a great deal for the rest of it, and started loving him after he was buried. Anyway, on that stupid night I lay and listened to my heart going bump, bump, bump. Then I got up and drenched myself with that lovely scent and put on the little froth of nightgown and crept through the night like a thief and slipped into your bed. And suddenly got lifted out bodily, carried to the door, given a great whack across my bare behind, and shoved out into the hall. I did not know whether to laugh or cry. I did both.”
“It was closer than you’ll ever know, Jilly.”
“So it’s you, dear man. The chosen. Relax and enjoy it. Why not? Am I trying to nail you down permanently? Of course, but through your own choice and decision. I give you full disclosure, dear. I have something over eight hundred thousand pounds, carefully managed by nice little Swiss elves. The income is about a hundred and fifty thousand of your dollars a year, and taxes take hardly any. There is the lovely house with the beach, the bay, and the view, and the boats and cars and horses. I am not exactly a junior miss, but I work very hard at myself, and I come from healthy stock. I suspect I shall go on about the same for years and years and years and suddenly one morning wake up as a shriveled, cackling little old witch. All I ask of you is that you come back home with me, darling. Be my houseguest. Be my love. We laugh at the same things. We enjoy the same things. Last trip and this trip we’ve certainly established … physical compatibility. Darling, please! We’ll travel when you want to and go where you want to go. We’ll be with people when you want to, and they will be the people you want to be with. Please!”
“Jilly, you are a dear and lovely lady—”
“But! I know, dammit. But! Why not? Do you even know?”
I knew but did not want to tell her. You see many such couples around the yacht clubs and bath clubs and tennis clubs of the western world. The man, a little younger or a lot younger than the moneyed widow or divorcee he has either married or is traveling with. The man is usually brown and good at games, dresses youthfully and talks amusingly. But he drinks a little too much. And completely trained and conditioned, he is ever alert for his cues. If his lady unsnaps her purse and frowns down into it, he at once presents his cigarettes, and they are always her brand. If she has her own cigarettes, he can cross twenty feet in a twelfth of a second to snap the unwavering flame to life, properly and conveniently positioned for her. It takes but the smallest sidelong look of query to send him in search of an ashtray to place close to her elbow. If at sundown she raises her elegant shoulders a half inch, he trots into the house or onto the boat or up to the suite, to bring back her wrap. He knows just how to apply her suntan oil, knows which of her dresses have to be zipped up and snapped for her. He can draw her bath to the precise depth and temperature which please her. He can give her an acceptable massage, brew a decent pot of coffee, ta
ke her phone messages accurately, keep her personal checkbook in balance, and remind her when to take her medications. Her litany is: Thank you, dearest. How nice, darling. You are so thoughtful, sweetheart.
It does not happen quickly, of course. It is an easy life. Other choices, once so numerous, disappear. Time is the random wind that blows down the long corridor, slamming all the doors. And finally, of course, it comes down to a very simple equation. Life is endurable when she is contented and difficult when she is displeased. It is a training process. Conditioned response.
“I’m used to the way I live,” I told her.
“The way you live,” she said. With brooding face she reached and ran gentle fingertips along the deep, gullied scar in my thigh, then leaned, and touched the symmetrical dimple of the entrance wound of a bullet. She hunched closer to me, bent, and kissed the white welt of scar tissue that is nearly hidden by the scruffy, sun-faded hair at my temple. “The way you live, Travis. Trying to trick the tricky ones. Trying to make do with bluff and smiles and strange lies. Filching fresh meat right out of the jaws of the sharks. For how long, dear, before finally the odds go bad and the luck goes bad once and for all?”
“I’m sly.”
“Not sly enough. Maybe not quick enough anymore. I think you’ve been doing it for too long, darling. Too many years of getting things back for silly, careless people who should not have lost them in the first place. One day some dim little chap will come upon you suddenly and take out a gun and shoot you quite dead.”
“Are you a witch? Do you so prophesy?”
She fell upon me, hugged me tight. “Ah no, dear. No. You had all the years when that was the thing you had to do. Now the years belong to me. Is it such a sickening fate you can’t endure the thought of it?”
“No, Jilly. No, honey. It’s just that …”
“Give us a month. No. One week. One insignificant little week. Or else.”
“Or else?”
She burrowed a bit, gently closed her teeth onto the upper third of my left ear, then released it. “I have splendid teeth and very strong jaw muscles. If you say no, I shall set my teeth into your ear and do my best to tear it right off your head, darling.”
A Tan and Sandy Silence Page 3
