He paused for a moment, while crossing a narrow iron bridge, then continued, “All that was ever expected from Jeff and me was to keep what we had. That was all right with Jeff, but I never agreed with it. I feel that if you don’t grow, you stagnate and die. So I studied estate management and various other matters and began speculating in real estate with — I don’t mean to boast — as much success as the earlier Hamlynes had enjoyed.”
I said, “Yes, I imagine you would be successful,” but I doubt if he heard me.
“Business,” he said, “is my life. It’s a game with me, a game I enjoy. I’m not happy unless I’m building something, or pitting my wits against another’s. Jeff has that urge, too, but he travels in another direction. Great wealth embarrasses him. He’d feel better if we owned less and considerably better if I stopped increasing what we have. That’s the widest gap between us.”
“But what direction does he travel, if it’s counter to yours?”
“Well, for one thing, as you probably know, he’s a terrific sportsman. He excels at practically anything you can name — golf, tennis, polo, flying, and on and on. So sport takes up a lot of his time and most of his energy. And it’s damned expensive. So he spends it as I make it.”
“In proportion?”
“Not quite.” He smiled. “I manage to keep ahead of him, but it’s hard work.”
I remembered Sam’s warning, which I had later discounted, so I said casually, “Jeff’s the playboy of the Hamlynes.”
“Oh, yes. He’s strictly a playboy. Not in the pub-crawling sense of the term, though. It’s just that Jeff likes to squeeze the last possible ounce of joy out of living. It’s his nature. Whereas I’m always a bit suspicious of strangers, Jeff is the gregarious kind who makes quick and lasting friendships. His friends take up an awful lot of his time.” The first hint of any emotion was a smile tugging at his lips as he said, “Actually, Carol, I’m not too well liked on the Monterey Peninsula. Business, I suppose, and, yes, my nature, too. But everyone is wild about Jeff.”
I said, “You’re trying to prepare me for something, John. What is it?”
He took his eyes away from the road for a moment to give me an oddly thoughtful frown. Then his eyes swung away and he nodded. “I hope you don’t mind?”
“Go right ahead.”
“I have to be pretty blunt. You’re walking into a situation that’s going to require unusual delicacy and tact on your part. I don’t mean to go into it too deeply — Jeff will tell you about it — but there are a few things I’d like you to know before he arrives. You know virtually nothing about him, you see. After you were married you were together — how long?”
“One week.”
He shook his head. “He didn’t have to rush out here that quickly. I urged him to stay back there longer and, as he explained you couldn’t get away, offered to fly back and meet you.”
“He never mentioned that to me.”
He pursed his lips and mumbled, “That’s odd.” Then he said, “Anyway, matters are in a bad mess. You know what Jeff’s nature is like.” I thought, No, I don’t, but I’m beginning to learn. He continued, assuming we were in full agreement, “He has no morals at all and lacks ethical judgment. He claims that his philosophy of life is to live exactly as he pleases, but with due respect for the policeman around the corner.”
I felt as if I were beaten with a club. I whispered, “Nothing especially original about that.”
“But not quite true, either. Law is simply a minor irritation. When it becomes annoying it can be bought off.”
He slowed down to follow another ear over a grade and was silent until we had passed it on the downgrade. I was thinking, One of us is insane. We aren’t talking about the same person. His Jeffrey is not mine. Mine was the finest person I had ever known, even if it had lasted but a week. John’s Jeffrey was someone I could never have liked, much less fallen in love with.
John pressed the accelerator and started talking again. “We had a bad row a few months ago. That’s what upset his plans to join you in New York. For years I’ve been telling myself that what he did was none of my business, but it hasn’t been convincing. I had to take him to task.”
I asked in a voice that was more like a croak, “In what way?”
“Well,” he replied, “I forced him to turn over all business control to me. Otherwise I was going to dissolve the estate and divide it. But he knows as well as I that without a continuing income he’d go through his share in a very few years. So he gave me his power of attorney.”
“But, good Lord,” I cried, “it was his express purpose to divide the estate. Now you tell me — ” I paused, unable to go on.
A wry smile tugged at John’s lips. He dropped a hand from the wheel to pat my hand and said patiently, “I don’t think he’d lie about it, Carol. You probably just misunderstood him. I know now, of course, that I was partly in the wrong.”
Then I started to smile. “I see. You figured that if he backed my shows, then he would be able to spend it faster than you could make it.”
“I’m strictly a heel. I did think something like that. But I was worried about something more than that, too. Jeff is too damned attractive to women.”
“Speak for yourself, too. You’re exactly alike.”
He shook his head. “We haven’t the same kinetic attraction. I don’t do badly,” he smiled, “but Jeff is sensational. It was bad enough out here, but when I pictured him spending most of his time in New York immersed in the tremendous glamour of show business — well, that was too much. Sooner or later there’d be a terrible scandal.”
“Now, really — ”
“Well,” he said stubbornly, “I hadn’t met you yet. How could I know you’d exert any restraining influence? And, Carol, I am deathly afraid of scandal. I have strong reasons for that fear. So I laid down the law and we had a bad time of it. Jeff speaks to me, now, only when it’s absolutely necessary. Nothing like this has ever happened before and it isn’t doing either of us any good. And the hell of it is that I was just as wrong as Jeff.”
The pain in his eyes and the thinness of his lips indicated that that had been a hard admission for him to make. He was definitely a strong-willed person. For him to make an error and then have to admit it was a major emotional upheaval. I began to think, with slight relief, that possibly his estimate of his brother’s character could also be in error.
“But,” he said with a sigh, “the damage is done. I don’t think I can rectify it.”
“You want me to help.”
He flashed a grateful smile and nodded. “Exactly. Otherwise, I would have kept my big mouth shut. I think you can bring us back together. Would you try?”
“Of course.”
The hardness drained from his face and he seemed at ease, like a person who has just accomplished a distasteful task. I wondered why he should have doubted my reaction toward the airing of the family linen and had beaten around the bush for so long, but did not pursue the thought at the time. It was to return later.
He said, “You’re a good sport, Carol. It hasn’t been easy telling you about this. I’ve really only known you a few hours and have to keep reminding myself that you’re one of the family. Thanks for the way you’re taking it.”
“Well,” I said, being typically feminine, “it may not be as bad as you think.”
John said primly, “Let’s hope you’re right.”
He drove on in silence and I divided my attention between John and the scenery. I was becoming slowly aware of the fact that John would be a difficult man to know and understand. It was apparent that he possessed mental blocks that influenced his rapid changes of mood, Or perhaps it was a single barrier of extraordinary importance to him. There was then no way of knowing what it might be.
His reflective mood passed after a few minutes and he speeded up the ear, suddenly anxious to get home. When we drove into Monterey he gave me a brief history of the role the town had played in early California history and poi
nted out some of the more obvious landmarks. I was surprised and thrilled by some of the old adobe buildings and wanted to inspect at least one, but John would not stop. He was afraid Jeffrey would “skin him alive” if we wasted any more time. We turned out of the town and took the highway over the grade toward Carmel. I looked back at the blue Monterey Bay and the curve of the long beach and the dunes and enjoyed everything I saw. It was truly beautiful country.
We were soon into thick stands of pine and oak and here and there were small groups of the famed gnarled and wind-blown Monterey cypress. We passed a neat white road gate and guard building and John explained that that was one of the many entrances to the properties on the tip of the peninsula known loosely as the 17 Mile Drive, where the Hamlyne estate was located. Ordinarily, he would have used the gate, but he wanted to take me through Carmel and another entrance.
We left the highway and drove down into the small village of Carmel-by-the-Sea and I exclaimed that it was like something an artist had dreamed up. John laughed and explained that it was, indeed, an artists’ and writers’ colony, but also quite a tourist center. One glance was enough to know that I would spend a lot of time in the cute little shops — if I stayed.
A block or so from the ocean and Carmel beach, we turned out of town and passed through one of the Del Monte Properties gates onto the Drive. A woman, evidently a gatekeeper, nodded pleasantly and waved at John. He told me, “You’ll meet all the gatekeepers later. No necessity for that now. They know the Hamlyne cars.” So, I thought, they’ll know me by the car I’m wearing.
The character of the homes changed the moment we passed through the gate. From the cute cottages of Carmel it was but a step to the large and small “estates” of the Drive. I was reminded, this time, of Long Island’s exclusive North Shore. The scenery, however, was considerably different. This was magnificent, almost overpowering; The ocean was every imaginable shade of blue, the golf courses were the deepest possible green, huge Monterey cypresses were scattered everywhere, and the shoreline, if it could be called a line, was amazingly rugged, with white spray swirling and foaming up the rocks and the cliffs. I simply sat and stared and gasped, rather appalled at the thought of living in the midst of so much beauty.
John was chuckling and smiling at me, immensely pleased by my reaction, as if he had designed it solely for my benefit. He pointed out the Chandler home on my left, a rambling stone and frame house that fairly screamed “Western ranch house” and yet was attractive and obviously comfortable. It nestled near one of the greens of the Pebble Beach golf course, with an excellent view of the ocean. John said that the whole area was known as Pebble Beach.
We passed the Lodge and I gathered the information that that was the social and entertainment hub of the Pebble Beach citizenry. We wound our way along a narrow road that followed close to the sea, with cypress and pine fighting for space up the slopes of the hills and even on the rocky cliffs.
John slowed down and pointed up one of the slopes. I could dimly make out ranch buildings, corrals, and meadows beyond the stand of timber. John said, “That’s where we keep our horses.”
“Is this Lynecrest?”
“Part of it. That up there is just known as the ranch. Lynecrest itself is the house. It’s just around the next turn.”
We climbed a fairly steep grade and came up on a rocky point that projected out into the sea. John turned from the main road to pass between two massive stone pillars. There was no gate, as one would find in the East, and the private road was simply dirt, unpaved. Nothing whatever had been done to alter the natural brush and timber at the entrance, but that, I soon learned, was camouflage.
The road curved through the trees toward the point and then we were out of the timber and John stopped the car for a moment and turned to look at me. There was a smile of great pride in his eyes, but also a question beneath the smile.
I had no preconceived ideas about the Hamlyne home, so that the impact of Lynecrest was like an electric shock — both good and bad. The grounds and gardens, embracing about three acres, were extremely formal, in direct contrast to the entrance, but in excellent taste. The building (it could never be called a house) arose from the very lip of a sheer cliff that dropped two hundred feet to the rocks and the sea. The two lower floors were made of native stone, but the exterior of the third floor was white plaster, which helped reduce the massiveness of the structure a small degree. The roof was gray slate over the central portion, with a slight pitch, but flat on the two wings, which drew back from the cliff to embrace a large circular driveway somewhat like a patio. There was a definitely Mediterranean porch at the entrance, but the general architecture was neutral, not leaning toward any particular style or period.
Great banks of plateglass windows gleamed in the sunlight, the iron grillework displayed could have supported a foundry, and the parking space off the driveway could contain a hundred cars comfortably. It was obvious that Lynecrest had been built for entertainment on a vast scale. I had seen a number of estates on the upper Hudson built in that manner for entertaining visiting royalty, but they had been built when royalty was fashionable. Lynecrest was not that old.
When I made a remark to that effect John said, “Our father built it when Jeff and I were very young. He had just divorced our mother and was planning another marriage with the divorcee daughter of an old San Francisco family. He wanted to impress them. And, besides,” he added thoughtfully, “he was socially gregarious. I can hardly remember a night when there were less than twenty people in the dining room. On week ends the place was like a hotel. In spite of the forbidding entrance,” he smiled, “some people actually made that mistake. Lynecrest was always so ablaze with light that strangers often came in inquiring for the desk clerk.”
“Do you or Jeff entertain like your father?”
“No. Jeff is too informal to care much about it and I’ve been too busy. However, I’ve often looked forward to the day when Lynecrest would again become the social hub of the coast. It was built for that.”
He fell into silence, waiting for my reaction. I said, “Well, it’s certainly beautiful and big and — ”
“But a bit forbidding?” he asked.
“No. It isn’t that. Truly, John, it’s beautiful.” Then I laughed and said, “I’m sorry, but I’m used to hotel suites that could probably be put in, one corner of your servants’ quarters. I imagine it would take some time to get used to this. Whatever happens, please see that I don’t ask the butler for a room key.”
John laughed, too, and put the car into gear to turn onto the graveled driveway. The huge carved-oak front door opened and the butler stepped onto the porch. I began to feel a little frightened.
John said, “There’s something you may like to know. Jeff was telling me that even before he fell in love with you he had already made up his mind that you were to be mistress of Lynecrest. No one else could possibly take over the reins. The house would be managing the woman.”
“Now, how could he picture me in this setting?”
“You don’t understand. I didn’t, either. I thought he was just talking through his hat. Now I’m not so sure. Lynecrest, you see, demands someone with your background. The place is a showpiece, a production, a stage. It requires talent to run it.”
“Oh.” What else was there to say?
John stopped at the porch and I glanced toward the butler, but the man remained standing by the open door until John should make a move. John frowned at him, glanced curiously at me, then looked back at the butler. He lost patience and barked, “Don’t stand there, man. If you will kindly inform Mr. Jeffrey — ” He paused as the butler’s eyebrows raised. We knew the answer.
The butler moved toward the car and said, “I am sorry, sir, but your brother is not here.”
“Oh, damn it! Did he go out somewhere?”
“He has not arrived yet, sir.”
John looked at me, more than a little exasperated. “Of course,” he said, “I could carry you over the thre
shold.”
“No, thanks. You’ve already been kind enough. I think I can make it if my knees don’t give out, if,” I added, deciding to be truthful about it, “if I don’t walk the other way.”
“Let’s go in, then. This is your home.”
What a way to put it!
The butler opened the door on my side of the car and I stepped out. I felt cold. I was not the clinging bride to be carried over the threshold into a cozy little cottage. I was the playwright lifting the curtain on a new production, and the main performer was not even present. As far as I was concerned, at that moment, he was the villain of the piece.
I have never been so angry in my life, but even as I entered Lynecrest I was wondering just who was right in what was obviously a feud between the two brothers. If I had only known what I was walking into I am sure that I would never have stepped through that front door.
Chapter Four
THAT HOLLOW FEELING of coldness persisted for some time, but it thawed a little before the beaming countenance of Brannen, the butler. He was a tall thin man with a slight stoop, narrow shoulders, and a head as smooth as a billiard ball. It was apparent that he was normally a stickler for formality, but at the moment he was savoring the pleasure of welcoming the Hamlyne bride. His deeply lined face was a mass of smiles.
But there was another quality in his pleasure that made itself known when he said, “I have seen two of your plays, Miss Moore — I mean, Mrs. Hamlyne. Excellent. I must say that you and Mr. Brandt are my favorite playwrights.”
Marriage Bed Page 4
