"Dear, you have to calm down a little. Now: you have the pin?"
Victoria opened the drawstring on the little silver handbag that was looped over her wrist and pulled out a tiny open heart of gold. "Okay, Netta," she said, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "Let's do it!"
She and Netta slipped off to the dining room. The table, Netta had to admit, was a tour de force. Meredith Kinney's staff had done a wonderful job, although it was Victoria who was the guiding light behind it.
Netta had been told about the old letter describing a dinner that John and Lavinia Eastman had given a hundred years ago, the letter that Victoria had used to persuade Meredith Kinney into using the same seashore theme for tonight's table. Netta had seen the letter — which Victoria was using like a recipe — but hadn't been able to make hide nor hair of the writing. So Victoria had read some of it aloud to her.
Netta was thoroughly impressed with the part about sand in the soup. Because with those silly little sand pails at every place — well, it was bound to be a mess, that's all. The party favors — bits of amber and other such stones — were already in the buckets, waiting to be dug out. Netta had been careful to put them in not too deep. No matter. There'd still be sand everywhere. Still, for now it was very pretty. They'd gotten everything right, from the dozens of candles intertwined with beach roses to the seashells that were scattered up and down the table.
The original crystal mermaid and dolphins, though, no longer existed. For maybe two minutes, Victoria had been stumped. Then she hit on the idea of an ice sculpture, and Meredith Kinney, a good sport, agreed to pay, and now the iceman was in the basement, chiseling away, and if the dumbwaiter decided to break down again, Netta didn't know how they'd get the blessed thing upstairs.
"It's nice to see the Meissen out again," she murmured to herself, tucking a dinner plate a sixteenth of an inch to the right.
"Yes." Victoria was deep in a frown, staring at the seating arrangement. "No. This is wrong. I can't put her on Jack's right. She'll freak out if she sees she's in the place of honor."
"Meredith Kinney might not take kindly to your having fiddled with her seating arrangement, either," said Netta.
Victoria hardly heard. "I have to make it seem more casual than that. I'll put her four down, on his right. With Jack at the head — yes, he can still see the pin pretty well."
She moved quickly between the first and the fourth places, switching placecards. Then she took a chunk of amber out of the fourth-place bucket and put it in her bag. And after that, she took the heart-shaped pin, so small, so easily missed, and tucked it just beneath the surface of the fourth-place pail.
Suddenly she gasped and looked up, her face as pale as the damask cloth that covered the fully extended table. "Oh, Netta — do you see what I'm doing — again? I'm switching things—again! What if this is wrong — again?"
"Whatever," said Netta, completely bewildered by the girl's manner. Why Lavinia Eastman's pin had to be returned in this roundabout way, Netta had no idea. She was willing to indulge the child in her whimsical secret plan. But now that the event was about to begin, it was time to put an end to all this.
"Time to go," she said, cradling one arm around Victoria's slender waist and ushering her firmly out of the dining room. "That will be Mrs. Kinney at the door."
****
Elizabeth Coppersmith stood in the middle of the still-empty tent and turned slowly around, taking it all in. This was her moment to enjoy the magic. Her Gilded Age to New Age theme had lent itself irresistibly to a treatment in white lights and shimmering surfaces, and she had pulled out all the stops — within a strict budget, of course.
But the beauty of the theme was that she didn't need solid gold; she only needed gilding. Gold leaf, gold foil, gold paint, and lots of it, all contributed to the sense that when you stepped into this tent, you stepped into a magical place.
Gold-sprayed boughs of long-needled evergreens, pinned by huge bows of foot-wide cascading gold French ribbon, lined the inside rim of the tent and led the eye upward to a cluster of fat, gold-leaf cherubs (on loan from a local church) that hung suspended from the peak, hovering benignly over the scene below.
Bright stars and gold suns, a leitmotif of the New Age, were everywhere, even hand-painted on the tablecloths and on the funky tiny tent that enclosed the palmist, who had agreed to donate half her reading fees from the night. (The "phrenologist," in reality a professor of Victorian literature, would read heads for free, of course: after all, he didn't know a bump on the head from a hole in the head.)
In any case, no cash would be used, only gold "coins": little sun-disks that Liz had bought ridiculously cheap from a novelty shop. The first two sun-disks were complimentary; the rest, the guests would pay for.
Liz hoped that many paid-for discs would end up as wishes at the bottom of the marbelized fountain that stood, in a reasonable facsimile of majesty, in the middle of the tent. If not, then quarters and dimes would do just fine. Anne's Place would take whatever it could get.
Had she brought in too many palms and ferns? Could you have too many palms and ferns in a Victorian setting? She considered moving one last palm one last time — but her gown seemed to think not.
Feeling exquisitely feminine, exquisitely useless in her tight sheath of satin, Liz sighed a sigh of contradictory feelings. If only the guests got into the spirit of the night. If only Jack would peek in — and some of his dinner guests — at least to see what she had wrought. But who needed them, really?
"Lizzie!" hissed Victoria behind her.
Liz swung around, panicked by the tone in her friend's voice. It had to be the pin. "Oh, don't tell me his bedroom is locked again!"
"Nope, nope," said Victoria, "the pin's all set. I wanted to know — is everything all right? No last-minute, urn, crises or anything?"
"Everything's fine," Liz said. "Why?"
"Just making sure. Well, I've got to get back inside. We're almost done with cocktails and are about to go in and chow down. ‘Bye."
"Have fun," she said to Victoria's retreating, shimmering figure. She pushed away the thought of Jack seated at the head of the table, playing host to his own. Thank God she'd begged off when Meredith asked her yesterday to come see the decorations; it made it easier not to picture Jack now.
I'm acting like a rival warlord, she admitted, which was too bad, because she respected Meredith very much. Meredith had dropped in when the tent was nearly finished and was generous with her compliments. No doubt she was disappointed that Liz hadn't reciprocated.
Five minutes later, Victoria was back. "Lizzie, Lizzie," she wailed. "You're going to kill me ... I don't know what to do .... Please, please don't be mad."
"My God, Tori, what? Tell me!"
Eyes glistening, Victoria said, "I did an awful thing. I put you down on the guest list for dinner—"
"Tori, are you crazy?"
"—and I didn't have the courage to tell you, and now it's too late to change it, because Jack has probably seen the place card, and if you don't go, he'll think you're being petty and stuck-up — won't he? — and I know I shouldn't have done it, and it's all my fault, but if the chair is empty, it'll be so embarrassing for everyone, especially after the fights over the tickets, and if you could just come, maybe just through the main course? Because you said yourself you're in good shape here .... Oh, what was I thinking? I'm such a fool."
And she burst into tears.
"No, wait, Tori, don't cry. For goodness' sake, it's not worth that. You'll ruin your dress. But you have to understand that I can't just up and leave here. There'll be things for me to do."
"What things?" asked Tori between sniffles. "Everything's done."
"Tori, I'm manager of the event," said Liz patiently. "I have to manage."
"Well, Meredith is honorary chairman. You don't see that stopping her," Victoria said with a trembling lip.
"They aren't the same thing. You know that."
"Why are you being so difficult?"
/>
"Me? You're the one who's on the edge of—"
"You can leave the table the minute you have to," Victoria said in desperation. "I promise!"
"Okay, fine!" Liz said, exasperated. The plain fact was, she'd organized her part of the fund-raiser so well that she felt a little silly, standing around with nothing to do. "I'll stay for one course."
"Cool!" Victoria said in a lightning shift of mood.
Feeling vaguely manipulated, Liz left word with the others and allowed Victoria to drag her into East Gate for what amounted to a fifty-dollar bowl of soup.
They caught the small and very select tide of humanity flowing from the Great Room to the ballroom, where the table was set. She could see Jack, head above the rest, leading the company in. Who was on his arm? She'd soon find out.
Behind them all was Meredith Kinney, bringing up the rear. Liz went up to her with greetings and apologies in advance.
Meredith, a fiftysomething woman of intimidating poise, smiled a blue-eyed smile and said, "I'm pleased that you have any time at all for us. You've worked so hard. And how wonderful you look!"
Liz returned the compliment, aware that Meredith's gown of pale blue silk was simply classic, not historic. But the dog-choker she wore of pearls and diamonds — that was the real thing, something that might've graced the neck of Alva Vanderbilt Belmont herself.
They were swept into the once-empty ballroom on the hems of acres of jewel-toned taffetas (the favored fabric of nineteenth-century socialites) and beaded, sequined silks, the favored fabric of their descendants. Some of the men and women wore small masks, while others held more elaborate versions, feathered and jeweled, attached to ivory wands. It was a glittering display of wealth and whimsy, made all the more impressive by everyone's high spirits. Liz found it all fascinating, if slightly irrelevant to the life she lived.
She heard the oohs and ahs over the decorated table before she actually saw it. When she did, she was stunned: it was a replica of the setting that Victoria St. Onge had meddled with to such disastrous effect. Liz felt her cheeks flush with high color as she sought out Tori, obviously the mastermind behind it. But Tori was busy ooh-ing and ah-ing over the centerpiece, an exquisite ice sculpture of a mermaid cavorting among dolphins.
Ice, in August. It added to the sense of unreality that had been steadily mounting since Liz stepped inside the doors of East Gate minutes earlier. Fantasy was one thing — everyone loved a fantasy — but this. It was ... simply unreal. She felt instinctively that neither she nor the mermaid would make it through the first course.
The guests were left to seek out their own seats. Liz searched, like everyone else, for the place card that bore her name and found it several chairs to the right of Jack's.
Despite what Victoria had implied, Jack had no idea that Liz was one of the guests; she felt sure of it. He looked too disengaged, too bored, as he chatted politely with an elderly distinguished-looking woman. The smile on his face as he pulled out the woman's chair looked sewn on.
If he knew Liz was there, he'd be upset — even annoyed. After all, he'd kept a resolute distance from her since their final explosive showdown. True, they'd been forced to communicate several times over preparation plans. When that happened, he'd been polite, gracious, and remote. Just like Meredith. It was their way.
Liz was being attended to by her dinner partner, a party animal who looked as if he weren't above howling at midnight if the moon were right. But the alcohol hadn't kicked in yet; for now he was cheerful, mindless, and way too young to be interesting. Who had placed these cards, anyway?
She tried again to catch Victoria's eye, but Tori was chatting away with two or three people as they all settled in. Where was Dr. Ben? Way, way at the other end. She managed to catch his eye, anyway; smiling limply, she flapped four fingers up and down at him. Sooner or later, though, Liz was going to have to acknowledge her host, at least with a glance. To do anything less would be rude.
With a sense of reluctance that bordered on dread, she turned deliberately to gain his attention.
Chapter 26
She was wrong. He was aware of her.
When exactly he'd noticed her, she wasn't certain. But the look he gave her now was so scorching that she felt singed around the edges, even though she was four places away.
She lifted her chin. Her lips trembled as she formed them into a smile that couldn't begin to express the welter of emotions she was feeling: pride; hunger; fear; yearning; jealousy; anger; hurt — and pain. Mostly pain.
I love you so much, her look said to him. I love you for who you are, not for what you can do for me. Damn you. I love you more than you love me.
He looked inexpressibly handsome to her. Who else could wear a perfectly tailored tuxedo jacket over such an oddly shabby waistcoat? Who else could have such barely tamed hair — wild hair, really — and yet preside at a formal dinner with such offhand elegance? Who else could make every cell in her body respond with such complete, abject willingness?
She became aware that everyone at the table was looking at her. She thought they might be taking their cue from their host, but it wasn't that at all. It was because Meredith, in a short, pretty speech, was encouraging them all to attend the second part — Liz's part — of the fund-raiser.
Meredith added that the table motif was based on one that an East Gate hostess had come up with a century ago. "With that in mind," she told them, "take up your shovels and — dig in!"
Naturally the guests were wildly curious about the contents of their sand pails. Cautiously at first, and then more recklessly, they began poking around with their shovels. Squeals and exclamations filled the air.
"Amber! With dinosaur DNA, I assume!"
"Ooh, a gold nugget. Fool's gold?"
"Wait, wait, I had it ... something blue —uh! Lost it again."
"Pooh — I don't have anything."
"Dig deeper. Shall I do it?"
"I'll trade my quartz for your amethyst."
"Beach glass! I love the color!"
"If I'm not mistaken, this looks like a crystal of copper sulfate."
"Liz?" said the party animal, handing her her little tin shovel. "Aren't you going to play?"
Liz, who had been trying desperately and unsuccessfully not to look at Jack, turned back to her dinner partner with a blank look. "I'm sorry? Oh — I don't think so. It's a little messy, isn't it."
"Hey, it's not our rug," the party animal said, grinning.
Liz sighed in distress and looked away. This was stupid and wrong, she realized, and now it's too late.
"Elizabeth!" cried Victoria from half a table away. "Do it! For God's sake, do it!"
Startled by the hysteria in her friend's command, Liz accepted the shovel from her neighbor. Almost without thinking, she plunged it into the pail and came up with her treasure. Not until she saw the round bit of gold sticking out of the sand did she understand why Tori was so adamant about making her join in.
The pin. She's giving the pin back to me. Baffled, Liz looked up at Victoria and said, "Wrong bucket, Tori."
Meanwhile the party animal had snatched the pin from Liz and held it up over his head. "Hey, everyone. She's got real jewelry!"
Those who hadn't yet found their favors searched more frantically, while someone wailed, "No fair! How come she gets something real?"
"Because," said Tori in a shrill voice of triumph, "life isn't fair! That's the beauty of it! Anything can happen to anyone."
"Put it on, put it on!" said someone, and the party animal handed the pin back to Liz.
Liz didn't know what to do. She turned to Jack, intending to pass the pin back to him.
He recognized the pin; she was sure of it. And yet he seemed to be somewhere else, despite the fact that he was following the general merriment that surrounded Liz and her treasure. He was squinting and leaning his head a little to the side—as if he were listening intently, trying to recall where he'd heard some song before. Liz watched him, almost with alarm, as hi
s face became ruddy, then pale, by turns.
His eyes opened in recognition, as if he'd remembered the tune at last. And then Liz caught her breath, as she watched, amazed, while golden light from the dozen candles in front of Jack coalesced into one shimmering column, and the column became a form, and the form became Christopher Eastman.
The shape — still shimmering and insubstantial — seemed to float to a position alongside Jack and lean over him, as if Christopher had something to confide in his great-great-grandson's ear. Liz watched the scene, not daring, not even thinking to breathe, deeply certain that it was the last time in her life that she would see her on-again, off-again phantom.
Her eyes glazed over with sudden tears. The golden light intensified into a burst of radiance that seemed to rain down on Jack like drops of sunlight.
And then her tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks, and it was over.
The whole time, she'd been surrounded by silence. If the guests had been keeping up their predinner chatter, Liz never heard them. She'd been somewhere else in time, someplace where spirits hung out and told jokes about humans.
And Jack? She knew that he'd been there with her. Together they'd been allowed a finite moment of infinite understanding: to know that they had loved; that they still loved; and best of all, that they would love again.
A dozen conversations took over the ballroom again. Jack stood up amid the noisy clamor. He looked at Liz. His smile was wise, his voice warm as he said, "I'd like to make an announcement."
Instant silence. "I'd like to, but I can't, until I finish a conversation I started in a restaurant with a goofy name I can't possibly remember. I remember the conversation, though, and so I'll pick up where I left off: Will you marry me?"
Little gasps, up and down the table.
And one fierce, jubilant, fist-in-the-air "yes!"
Jack laughed, dryly now, and said to Victoria, "Thanks, Tori, but I was asking Liz."
Nervous laughter, up and down the table.
Time After Time Page 37
