The steaks, the lobsters, the sausages and steamers and corn; the potatoes, the salads, the carved-out watermelons with fruit — here was the plenitude of New England, piled high on every counter, every table.
Netta beamed with pride. It was a wonderful sight.
The shipyard people will know that Jack cares about them, she thought, pleased that the picnic was being held at East Gate this time. They'll see all this and realize how grateful Jack is that they're trying as hard as he is to make a go of the yard. She knew that Jack had just negotiated a difficult contract with the yard workers. True, a picnic was no ten percent raise; but it was a breaking of bread together between management and labor. It was a celebration of past success, and a toast to better times ahead.
She wondered whether any of the yard help knew that Jack had convinced his father to take out a sizable loan on East Gate and pour the money into the shipyard. Probably not. Probably they looked around East Gate and thought, there's plenty of money here for everyone. When in fact nothing could be farther from the truth. Still, what could you do? Jack would never try to get leverage by hinting to his men about the loan; he wasn't like that.
Jack came into the kitchen just then, and Netta thought he'd never looked better. Why, he'd dropped ten years just since breakfast. Netta had a theory about that, and it had to do with Liz Coppersmith. When Liz was around, Jack Eastman lost the haggard look he habitually wore nowadays. Of course, Netta had seen Jack snap to attention lots of times when a beautiful woman walked into view.
But Elizabeth, she was different. For one thing, though she was pretty, she wasn't really what you'd call Jack's type. True, her hair was wonderful — thick and shining in rich shades of brown and red and gold; and her hands were very well formed, very graceful. But her height and shape were more or less average. And those eyes! My goodness! Gypsy eyes, dark and unfathomable.
Her smile, though, was sunshine itself — when she chose to let you see it. Her teeth were very white, very straight, and when she grinned, a small, easily missed dimple showed up on the left side that gave her a lopsided cheerfulness: somehow you wanted one to show up on the right side, too. Yes. Very intriguing, she was.
Certainly Jack thought so. Look at him, Netta thought with affection. The way he stares. One minute he's a man of the world on fire for her; the next, he's a boy who 's come to school without his homework. He doesn't know what to make of her, and that's a fact.
Netta smiled sympathetically. Jack had always, always had his way with women: the best, the brightest, the most beautiful of them had become meek as hens when he cornered them. And right away, he'd lose interest.
"What's wrong with that one?" Netta would ask him every once in a while. "She looks like she'd make a good wife."
And Jack, the confirmed bachelor, would smile that dry smile of his and say, "You know the old saying, Netta: 'Marriage is a covered dish.'
The man was raised in a bad marriage, of course; naturally he'd think that way. So here he was, past forty and still looking. Maybe that was his problem: he'd been looking so long that he'd forgotten what he was looking for.
Could it be Liz?
Ah, but when he catches her eye, she looks away, like right now, and not in a flirty kind of way, either. If she were flirting, there'd be a trace of a smile on those lips. And there most definitely wasn't. In fact, Liz was turning her back on him altogether, to talk with Victoria.
Jack couldn't see Liz's face where she stood beside the big Viking stove; but Netta could. Some faces — that face — didn't lie: the cheeks were flushed, the eyebrows pulled down in concern. The mouth was set in a determined line. But Netta was sure that none of it had anything to do with potato salad, which the conversation seemed to be about.
Well, well, well. Here was an interesting turn. Now, why would a woman like her reject the likes of a man like him? Netta — having raised Jack as she did — would be the first to admit that she might be biased in his favor, but it didn't take an Einstein to know that whether or not the shipyard made a go of it, Jack would still be a wonderful catch. True, he was forty-some and still a bachelor. But so what? Women seemed to dismiss bachelorhood as a temporary affliction— like flu season, or a heavy fog. Was Liz one of the exceptions?
Perhaps, Netta surmised, Liz Coppersmith simply lacked the confidence to take him on.
The doorbell rang, and Netta had to abandon her speculations to answer it. She was expecting their first guests, but what she got was someone — she supposed, a male — dressed in white shirt, white pants, white shoes, white face. He or she was smiling a simpleminded smile.
"Oh! You must be the, uh, whatchecallit, the mime," Netta said, startled. "Come in."
The mime did a little hop in place, then made as if to cross the threshold but seemed to run smack into a wall that wasn't there. Looking surprised, he began groping the imaginary plane with his white-gloved hands, then stood back, scratched his head, made a dash over the threshold, and crashed into the wall that wasn't there again.
He was about to not go through for the third time when Netta, thoroughly fed up with waiting, snapped, "Go straight around back, then. You can hang out with the fellow with the ukulele — mandolin," she said, correcting herself. "Can't you talk?"
The simple smile got simpler.
"Oh, never mind. Just go." Netta sent him off and closed the door on him, muttering dark things about sticking Renaissance themes where they didn't belong, in New England picnics. She was about to jump back into the kitchen fray when she heard, from the top of the carved mahogany staircase, a scandalized giggle from the new nanny, a pretty young Irish girl named Deirdre.
Netta knew that Jack's father was upstairs, supposedly catching a nap before the big event; he'd asked specifically not to be disturbed.
"We'll see about that," Netta said under her breath, and began stomping heavily up the stairs in her Naturalizers. As far as she was concerned, the nanny, sweet and charming as she was, had exactly two choices: mind her p's and q's, or take a job waitressing at one of Newport's thirty thousand restaurants. Bedding down with the old man was not an option, not with all the other complications at East Gate this summer.
She saw a flash of amber dress head quickly toward the nursery and heard the quiet click of a heavy door fall back into place down the hall from Caroline's room.
First, the nanny. Netta, still breathing heavily from her not-so-agile ascent, marched directly into the newly converted nursery, a sunny guest room papered over with roses and with casement windows opening onto the tree-lined street. Pretty black-haired Deirdre, still flustered, was making an artificial fuss over Caroline's new doll, which the child — fearing doll abduction or worse — was clutching possessively to her breast.
Netta's intention was to warn Deirdre through Caroline. She said, more sharply than was necessary, "Caroline! I want you to be on your best behavior today. It's a very important day for young Mr. Eastman, who would be very upset if anything were to go wrong. All of us — all of us — must be on our best behavior today."
In a bored voice and without looking up, Caroline said, "Only today?"
"And every day," Netta said grimly. She gave Deirdre a pointed look which she hoped was enough to put the fear of God in her. Cornelius Eastman may have hired the girl, but it was Netta who could make or break her in a thousand different small ways, beginning with not bringing her tea.
Caroline tossed her blond curls back and said, "Is that Susy girl here yet?"
"Not yet."
"She can't play on my swing unless I say so," said the imperious child. "I hope someone told her that."
Poor Susy; there wasn't room in her own yard to swing a cat, much less to swing a swing. Frowning, Netta said, "I expect you to be nice to Susy and to all the other children, too."
Caroline surprised her by saying, "I know. Dada says that I'm the lady of the house now."
Mrs. Cornelius Eastman might have another opinion about that, but since she was holed up in Capri, she was hardly
likely to argue the point. Acting as Mrs. Eastman's proxy, Netta said, "It's early days for that, young lady," and left Caroline in her nanny's care, such as it was, while she went on to Jack's father's room.
She knocked and entered and found Cornelius Eastman changing his lisle shirt for a silk one. He had a cool, innocent look under that silver brow that she knew well: tuck a piece of butter in that mouth, and it would still be a hard little patty one week later.
"Sir, I wanted to ask you if you've been in touch with Mrs. Eastman this week?"
"Is it important?"
"I would have to say yes," she said, returning his calm smile. "Mrs. Eastman had wanted her room done over by September, but so far as I know, she hasn't picked out the wallpaper from among the samples we sent her. It's a special order, and then, too, the decorators are working her in as a favor, seeing as she won't have anyone else than them, and—"
"You honestly expect her in September?" he asked bluntly.
"I do."
"Yes, all right; I'll call her," he said, not bothering to conceal his irritation. He perfectly understood Netta's little reminder that there was indeed a Mrs. Eastman alive and well somewhere, and that East Gate was still her home.
"I would do it, sir, but you know how awkward it is not speaking Italian. If she isn't in, that is, and I had to relay the message to one of the help. But if you'd rather I gave it a shot—"
"I said I'd take care of it, Netta!"
"All right, sir," she said, satisfied that she had ruined his amorous mood, at least for today. She left him to complete his toilette.
Still, there was no sense in thinking he would change. Cornelius Eastman had always had a weakness for pretty women, both upstairs and down. When he was younger, that kind of thing was distressing to see; now it was mostly sad.
How long had it been since that time he'd groped her in the nursery? Thirty-six, thirty-seven years? Netta had pushed him vigorously away without thinking; and give the man his due, he'd accepted that and had never tried any funny business with her again.
She caught her passing reflection in a hall mirror: old, fat, and gray. She grimaced automatically, then sighed resignedly. Cornelius Eastman was old and gray, too. But did he care? No. To the endless succession of Deirdres that were forever passing through Newport, he was not only charming but distinguished. Netta sighed and clucked softly under her breath: Mrs. Eastman would do well to come back home and mind her garden.
Downstairs, guests had begun arriving in force. A path leading from the portico directly to the grounds had been charmingly staked out with buckets of pink geraniums and, for later, bamboo-staked citronella torches; but some people naturally were bound to ignore the suggested route and head straight for the front door. It might have been awkward, but the to-ing and fro-ing of guests was being managed very deftly, thanks to Liz and Victoria.
And Jack! He was greeting the arrivals as if they were long-lost family. How pleased he was to greet the men and to see their wives and children again. Netta knew that Jack cared fiercely about the shipyard, but seeing him now put his devotion in a whole new light. Suddenly she understood: shipyards weren't about ships; they were about the people who worked on and sailed those vessels.
She was glad, very glad, to be part of the celebration.
****
Liz was aglow. Her Renaissance fair — despite Jack's and Netta's initial reservations — was a hit.
The juggler, a social sciences major dressed in a Harlequin outfit, had all the younger kids tossing oranges and potatoes up and down while he himself did amazing things with un-cooked eggs. For teenagers, there was a marionette show featuring hip, anti-authority skits that kept the kids laughing and begging for more, and a smelly-feely guessing game that had them all screaming in delighted terror.
Every female there over the age of twelve had fallen head over heels in love with the minstrel who wandered among them singing romantic ballads in an achingly sweet tenor. As for the males: they were happy enough being offered hearty snacks and ice-cold ale by a couple of lusty-looking serving wenches. There was also a winsome maiden, dressed in a white gown edged in gold, whose only function was to give the troubador someone to sing to. The mime did what all mimes are supposed to do and did it very well: irritate.
It was everything a Renaissance fair should be, and probably nothing like a Renaissance fair at all. But even Jack had been forced to admit that the price was absolutely right. (The juggler owed Liz a favor, the maiden was his girlfriend, the barmaids were two of Liz's cousins, the puppeteers were dirt cheap, the minstrel — a member of an Irish band — was engaged to Netta's niece, and the mime? He came along for the food.)
Yes, Liz decided, jubilant with the results so far. The day was turning out very nearly perfect. Cornelius Eastman had made a point of telling her, twice, that the picnic was the most delightful event he'd ever attended, indoors or out. Would he make that up? Twice? If nothing else, she now had a solid reference in the father. This time she deserved a gold star.
She looked around for Susy and saw her tossing two small potatoes—at the same time—high over her head and then cringing as she waited for them to come back down. A juggler she wasn't; but somehow she'd cajoled Caroline's little brother Bradley into bringing back the potatoes for her, a trick that was a lot more useful in life than juggling.
Susy wouldn't be there if Jack hadn't asked specifically for her to come. Liz couldn't begin to guess his motive — she hoped the gesture was more generous than calculating — but in any case, Susy was the icing on Liz's picnic cake. Her daughter was having a ball. All the kids were.
Except, of course, Caroline. She seemed to have taken up permanent residence under the chestnut tree — either to make herself available should the kids beg for her company, or to guard her swing; Liz couldn't be sure which.
Liz was on her way across the grounds to ask Jack whether she should give the signal to throw on the steaks and drop in the lobsters. She was halfway to him, her heart trip-hammering as it always did at the sight of him, when she was intercepted by Victoria. The redhead had a look of panic under her white straw hat.
I knew it, Liz thought. Too confident, too soon.
"What?" she said. "What's happened?"
"The door to Jack's bedroom! It's locked!" whispered Victoria.
"So what if the—? Oh, surely not the pin thing, Tori. Just give it to him. Show him the portrait of Christopher's mother Lavinia, and give it to him. What's the big deal? Do you want me to do it?"
Victoria's chin came up. "I do it my way or not at all. Don't you understand that? It's very, very important. How many times do I — do you think Netta has keys?"
"Are you crazy?" Liz knew exactly what Victoria was thinking of: the board of keys hanging in the pantry. "You can't go fiddling around with rings of keys," she said in a hiss. "You could get caught! You could get arrested!"
"If I'm caught," Victoria said with an infuriating shrug, "it's because I was meant to be. I'm not afraid of my karma."
She turned and was about to march off to her karma when Liz grabbed her by the arm. "No, Tori! Not today!"
"Problem?"
Liz swung around. Jack was standing there, smiling and curious; but there was something about the set of his jaw that made Liz think the gold star wasn't — quite — hers for the taking yet. The memory of Caroline's birthday party was all too fresh, apparently.
"Hi-i-i," she said in an overly spontaneous way. "We were just trying to decide whether—"
"—we could fit everyone in a group shot," Victoria blurted.
Jack looked at Liz. "And why 'not today'?"
"Because ... I don't have my wide-angle lens," Liz explained. She turned to Victoria. "So never mind, Tori."
Victoria smiled prettily and said, "Whatever you say," which of course was a lie, and then began to saunter off toward the house to pick Jack's lock.
Liz had to try hard not to run after her and tackle her to the ground. With a fervent wish that was half-prayer, h
alf-curse, she let Victoria go and said to Jack, "I was just on my way over to you—"
"I noticed," he admitted in a rueful voice that puzzled her. "For the simple reason that I haven't been able to take my eyes off you."
Smile politely and say thank you, Liz told herself. But instead she said flippantly, "After the last fiasco, who can blame you? You're probably worried I'm going to let a bunch of coyotes loose on your lawn."
Clearly he wasn't in the mood for humor. The smile settled into something more serious. Grim, almost. "Liz, the other night we left things hanging—"
So to speak. "Oh? Gee, I thought the evening wound down in the usual way. We did the dishes—"
"Before that part."
"You mean, when I told you about—" She cleared her throat. "Christopher Eastman?"
"Of course not," he said, brushing aside her offhand reference to being insane. "I meant, outside. When we kissed. When you—"
Attacked his zipper; he was going to remind her that she had actually begun to unzip the fly of his trousers. Mortified, she said quickly, "That was the rum punch... an alcoholic indiscretion—"
"The hell it was," he said with a blazing look. "Look, you can't deny what happened between us. Whatever it was — and I'm damned if I know, right now — you can't deny it.''
"Yes, I can," she said, amazed at his timing. "Watch me."
There was just enough fantasy around them for Liz to wonder whether she was being wooed by Prince Charming himself. But that would surely be the biggest fantasy of all. In real life princes like him didn't pay court to beggars like her. Not unless they were on top of a haystack, anyway.
"We have to talk," he said, taking her by her arm. "I didn't think it would come to this, but it has."
No. She'd gone around and around the attraction in her mind and — no. "Ah, look," she said, brutally diverting him. "There's your father," she said, waving to Cornelius. "He seems like he's having a good time."
Time After Time Page 18
