Читать книгу The Arrangement - Suzanne Forster, Suzanne Forster - Страница 9

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“What have you done to your hair?”

They were the first words out of Julia Fairmont’s mouth as she flung open the doors of Sea Clouds and gaped at her estranged daughter.

Alison reached for and found Andrew’s hand, grateful to have him beside her. The woman terrified her and always had. Evidently there were going to be no hellos, no welcome homes, no hugs. Alison wouldn’t have been comfortable with that, anyway, but this was very strange.

“They shaved my head,” she explained to her mother. “It grew out this way, darker, so I left it.”

Julia still couldn’t seem to believe it. “But you’ve always been a blonde.”

Alison touched her dark waves. “Not always. I started lightening it several years ago.”

“Yes, and I assumed you would go on doing that.”

Alison felt Andrew’s hand tighten, as if to tell her she was doing fine. But they were outside, flanked by the marble columns of the grand portico, and Alison wasn’t certain her mother was going to let them in the house—or that she wanted to go in. Julia’s black halter dress was stunning, and her long dark bob softened her angular features, but her face was pale and masklike. She had on too much makeup, or maybe it was too much Botox. Something was wrong.

“Do you dislike the color that much?” Alison asked. She wondered what her mother thought of the blue silk shantung capri outfit that Andrew had helped her choose.

“It’s just so popstar. Not you at all.” She shot Andrew an icy glance, as if it was all his doing.

“Oh! Is this your daughter and her husband?” A younger woman appeared in the doorway behind Julia. Her round pretty face was wreathed in smiles as she edged beside Julia to extend her hand.

“I’m Rebecca, Julia’s assistant. Nice to meet you both! How was your trip?”

Andrew stepped forward to take her hand. “Andrew Villard,” he said, “and the trip was fine, thank you. This is my wife, Alison, of course.”

Alison and Rebecca exchanged nods. It would have been awkward to reach around Julia, who was still peering at Alison as if she were trying to piece her together like a puzzle.

This was exactly what Alison had feared. Worse.

Rebecca gently took over, whispering something to Julia, and then inviting Alison and Andrew in. “You must be exhausted,” she said, beckoning them to follow her into the mansion’s breathtaking pink marble foyer. “Did you leave your bags in the car? I’ll be happy to get them, but first can I fix you something to drink? Lemonade or a wine spritzer? It’s such a warm day.”

“We’re fine,” Alison told her. “We picked up some iced tea at the airport.”

Julia seemed to have found her voice. “Rebecca can unpack for you, if you’d like.”

“That’s very kind, but I can handle the bags.” Andrew gave Alison a glance. “We would like some time to freshen up.”

“Of course.” Julia nodded to her assistant. “Rebecca, show them to their room, would you? The second floor, facing the mountains.”

“Oh, Julia, did you forget? The guest room on the ocean side is all ready for Alison and Andrew.”

“My memory’s just fine, Rebecca.” Julia’s tone was as sharp as her glance. “I’m sure they’ll love the mountain view. Show them up, please.”

She and Andrew had just been downgraded, Alison realized—and Julia was making sure they knew it. They hadn’t been here five minutes. Unbelievable.

“Oh, by the way,” Julia added, “drinks are at seven on the terrace. You remember, Alison. We always gather on the terrace before dinner.” She looked searchingly at her daughter. “You will join us, of course.”

Alison didn’t know anything about drinks at seven. She just wanted to run. Somewhere in the murky depths of her memory, she could hear demons howling.

“That was terrifying,” Alison whispered, speaking more to herself than to Andrew. “She looked like a mannequin in a window display. Has she always looked that way?”

Rebecca had just left them in their suite of rooms with a cheery reminder about drinks at seven. Alison found her to be effusive and overly helpful, but then anyone would have seemed effusive compared to Julia.

The suite was actually a combination bedroom and sitting room, which opened onto a balcony with wrought-iron railings. To Alison’s eye, everything about the room was soothing and beautiful. The palm trees and elegant cane furniture created a cool garden of tranquility.

Andrew had gone over to check out the liquor cart, a wheeled brass-and-leather showpiece that was probably an antique. It was weighed down with crystal decanters, all filled a variety of expensive and exotic spirits, of course. Julia Fairmont’s hospitality was legend. So was her bitchiness, apparently.

“Do you think she’s changed her mind?” Alison asked. “Is she going to ask us to leave?”

“No, she has her reasons for wanting us here, just as we have ours.” He glanced over at her. “You can’t have forgotten what your own mother looks like. We went through the albums. I showed you the pictures.”

“I do know what she looks like. That’s the point. She’s changed. Didn’t you see it?”

“You’ve changed. You scared her half to death with your wild-ass hair.” He laughed and picked up a slender decanter that glowed amber in the waning light. “How about something to drink? Sherry? It’ll calm you down.”

“Ugh, I’d rather drink mouthwash.” Alison sat on the edge of a wicker chaise near the bed and tried to envision the many faces of Julia Fairmont, the ones she remembered and the ones she’d seen in the snapshots. But the masklike image never left the screen of her mind. It hadn’t seemed to bother Andrew, but for Alison it was too stark and disturbing to be dismissed.

To calm herself, she began to mentally rehearse some of the other details she’d conjured up about her mother, with a lot of help from Andrew. Julia had never worked outside the home, but had made a career raising money for various charities. She was allergic to cats, but not dogs, and had an aversion to the color red. Her musical tastes were highbrow, but she was addicted to reality television. And almost nothing had seemed to ruffle her except the sound of crying babies. Alison had no idea why, but a wailing infant could make her mother tremble and slam doors to block the sound.

There was more, but none of it came readily to mind. She still slipped into a fog at times and couldn’t remember anything, especially when under stress.

“Was she always that statuelike?” she asked Andrew. “She didn’t look quite real. You’d think she had the surgery rather than me.”

He started to say something, but Alison stopped him. “Why did we come, Andrew? She doesn’t want us here. She acted like we were avian flu carriers.”

Alison had caught the horrified flicker in her mother’s eye, even if he hadn’t. She could only guess what it meant. Maybe all wasn’t forgiven, and she and Andrew had been summoned for some kind of confrontation. Or her mother was repulsed because Alison really did look as strange and different as she felt.

He picked up a fifth of scotch and examined the label. She watched him, aware that he no longer drank alcohol.

“You know why we’re here,” he said.

His voice had taken on an edge that prompted her to change the subject. “I love this room,” she said, “but the house… It’s huge and bewildering. I’m not sure I could find my way back down to the foyer.”

“Julia mentioned on the phone that you wouldn’t recognize the house. She’s totally redone it since you were here last. I forgot to tell you that, sorry. It’s been pretty chaotic.”

As if by way of apology, he brought her an aperitif glass of something pale pink. She sniffed and then took a sip. Definitely not sherry. It tasted like strawberries.

“Julia is nervous, too,” he said. “Couldn’t you see that? She wants you here. She never stopped trying to see you after the accident.”

“Yes, but why? It’s not as if we were close in any normal mother-daughter way. Is she still angry with me? Is she curious? She has plenty of money, so this probably isn’t about the trust that was supposed to have come to me…unless she wants me to promise in writing that I’ll give up my claim.”

“Would you do that? The money was yours. It was you who decided to walk away from it. You could always change your mind.”

“And start another war? No, I can’t do that.”

Did he want her to go after the money? Was that the real reason they were here? She buttoned up the light cardigan she’d slipped on over her capri outfit, but not because she was cold. It was to hide the warmth spreading over her skin. When she was nervous she broke out in hivelike splotches on her chest and face.

“Let’s talk about something else,” she said.

He knelt next to her chair. “Alison, your mother almost lost you. She hasn’t seen you in four years. Give her some time.”

“But she invited us. At least she could be civil.” She touched her face. “Do I look that horrible?”

“You’re stunning. Maybe she’s jealous.”

Stunning? She could feel the red heat crawling up her neck. Soon the brilliance would invade her face and make her look like a burn victim. It had been a day of nasty shocks, and this was one more. Since the accident, Andrew hadn’t given her any reason to think he found her attractive, other than an occasional polite reference to her hair or her outfit.

Now, suddenly, he was dishing out compliments, and her mother, who’d always been so proud of her daughter’s beauty, was acting like she was a leper. It was too much.

Andrew rose and left her on the chaise, taking off his linen sports coat with the ease of someone who’d always worn fine clothes and took for granted the cachet they lent the wearer. She could still conjure up a mental picture of the first time she’d seen his face. Somehow he’d come into her line of sight, dark and striking in a white sweater that contrasted beautifully with his coloring. Undoubtedly, she’d seen the dark eyes first, framed by the tanned, strong face. But she couldn’t seem to remember exactly where the sighting was. A harbor somewhere, possibly on the bow of the Bladerunner, with a beautiful blonde on his arm.

The image reminded her that one of her goals while in Mirage Bay was to get a look at his boat, without him or anyone else around.

“Are you up to unpacking?” he asked. “I can do it if you’d like to lie down for a while.”

One bed. She shot a glance at the lovely swirls of the white iron bed with yards of sheer veil draped from the canopy frame. It appeared to be at least king-size, but there was just one. That was going to be awkward. Sharing a room was going to be awkward, too, even in this spacious suite.

“I’ll unpack,” she said, “but maybe I will lie down for a few minutes first.” She sounded formal, stiff. She always sounded that way with him. Why couldn’t she relax? What did she think he was going to do to her? Realistically, what?

She’d barely completed the thought when he came across the room, drawing something from the pocket of his slacks. “This is for you,” he said, handing her a small, black-velvet jewelry box.

She opened the lid to the most beautiful earrings she’d ever seen. The pink, emerald-cut diamonds sparkled so brightly they were almost painful to look at. Pale-yellow diamond chips surrounded the large center stones.

“Why?” she said, looking up at him.

“Because you wore diamonds everywhere. I thought you might wear them to dinner tonight.”

“They’re exquisite.”

“Alison, so are you.”

She sucked in a breath. “Why are you doing this?”

His shrug suggested that it was no big deal, but his gaze was focused on her face, intent on her eyes and her startled mouth—especially her mouth. Her stomach dipped and her pulse was quick, hot, crazy.

“You remember,” he said. “You even wore them to bed—and nothing else.”

She could feel heat flare to the tips of her ears, scorching her face. “Amnesia comes in very handy at times.”

She set the velvet box on the end table next to her, a clear rebuff. What looked like generosity on his part was beginning to feel like something else to her. Was this one more insidious attempt to control her, right down to what she wore on her earlobes?

“The earrings are yours, regardless.” He casually changed the tone of the conversation. “I’ll use the bathroom first, if you don’t mind. I’ll take a quick shower and be out of there.”

Her heart pounding, she watched him go to the valet stand, open his suitcase and take out his shaving kit. It wasn’t going to be easy getting ready with just one bathroom. They could take turns with their showers, but where were they going to dress? She hadn’t seen any dressing rooms.

“I’m going to hang my suit to steam out the wrinkles while I shower,” he said. “Shall I hang your dress?”

She agreed, aware that he knew exactly which dress she was going to wear because he’d packed her bag. It felt strange watching him go through her things, knowing that she’d granted him access to her dressing room and allowed him to pick and choose what she should take. She hadn’t thought about it at the time, but now it made her feel vulnerable.

He unzipped her garment bag and drew out the ankle-length black jersey gown that appeared shapeless on the hanger, but clung to every curve on the female body. It looked particularly good on a leaner figure like hers.

Once he’d disappeared into the bathroom, she breathed a sigh of relief and took advantage of the time alone to make a quick cell phone call. She keyed in the same number she’d been calling for days, but again got no answer. Concern weighed heavier on her heart with every attempt. She was going to have to rely on Andrew’s help, after all. Promising herself she would come up with a better plan, she turned off the phone. Right now, it was too risky to go herself.

She took a furry, animal-print throw from the back of the chaise and went to lie on the bed. Sleep had been her escape since the accident, but she couldn’t imagine drifting off in this situation. She had pills with her, but if she took one now she’d never wake in time for dinner.

The shower came on full force in the next room. He’d left the door partially open, probably for ventilation. Clearly, he was more comfortable with their accommodations than she was. But that didn’t stop her eyes from going straight to the crack in the door. Only the sink and mirror were in her line of sight, but that was enough to present what seemed like an irresistible opportunity.

Moments later the water abruptly stopped and the shower door banged open. He appeared at the sink, which allowed her to see him lather up and shave. He’d knotted a white bath sheet around his hips, and her eyes were unavoidably drawn to the knot. But his arms were the sexiest part of his body. She could have watched the play of his triceps, the ripple of cords and veins, for hours. God help her. This was not the distraction she needed.

She closed her eyes, but the memories came flooding back, anyway. She remembered so vividly when she’d first become aware of him in the periphery of her life, the wild infatuation and hero worship, the falling in love from a distance and never believing it could be reciprocated.

Was this the same man she’d felt all those things for? If she couldn’t answer any other question about her life, she wanted the answer to that one. She wanted to know if he’d hurt the other woman in his life—and if he meant her harm.

Her feelings for him were massively conflicted. She flinched when he got too close, yet a part of her still wanted that, and she couldn’t explain why. Or maybe she could. Maybe what she missed was the slow-burning dream, the wondering what it would be like with him. She wanted the Andrew Villard she’d fallen in love with from a distance.

Tony Bogart printed his name in block letters in the motel’s guest registry. He was in Mirage Bay unofficially, but he had no desire to hide his presence or his intentions. He wanted people to know he was investigating the murder of his brother—and possibly a second murder associated with his brother’s death, though he had no actual proof of that yet, just a telephone tip from his anonymous snitch.

“I got a room with a partial view of the water, special for you,” the aging female desk clerk said, sliding an old-fashioned brass door key across the counter to Tony. Disco music throbbed at low volume from the clock radio on the rusting metal file cabinet behind her.

“You gonna want more than one of these?” she asked.

The woman’s too-quick smile revealed a missing back tooth and skin like fine red fishnet, yet she wasn’t above flirting. Her wink sent a flash of annoyance through Tony. She wanted something, probably a tip, but she’d done nothing to deserve that except BS him, and badly at that. Tony despised lazy con artists. They insulted their mark’s intelligence.

“I worked at this motel when I was a kid,” he said. “Every room has at least a partial view. Most have full views.”

“Yeah? You worked here, at the Sand Castle?” She turned the registry around to read it. “Tony Bogart?”

She tilted back, inspecting him with a gimlet eye. “Are you related to Vern Bogart? I went to high school with him.”

Tony nodded. She’d made no excuses about the view. That got her points for being ballsy. “Vernon is my dad.”

A quick, sly grin appeared, as if she were remembering. “Your dad was a handsome man,” she said. “Tall with real narrow hips, and sandy-brown hair, cut close to his head, a lot like yours. Nice pair of ears, too. A man’s got to have good snug ears with short hair.”

She tapped her long sparkly fingernails to the theme from the movie Flashdance. “What’s Vern doing with himself these days? Probably married with a pack of grandkids. How about you? You married?”

She cocked an eyebrow, and her sexual boldness made Tony feel sick to his stomach. But she was clearly a long-term local, and might know something. No harm letting her think she was seducing him while he pumped her for information.

“Dad moved away a few months ago,” he said, “after my brother, Butch, died.”

“Butch Bogart? That kid who got himself stuck with a pitchfork was your brother? The whole town was talking about that. Happened last winter, right? Hotter than hell that day, Santa Ana winds, electrical storms?”

“Stuck seventeen times,” Tony corrected. “Not very likely he did it to himself.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” She wrinkled her nose. “How awful for Vern—and you, too.”

“Yeah, well, life goes on. You do the best you can.” And sometimes you make a mess of it, like Vernon Bogart had, but Tony didn’t feel like telling this woman that his father had failed miserably with his children. He’d been too hard on Tony, probably because of the grief he couldn’t express, and too soft on Butch. He’d coddled and overindulged the latter to the point that Butch didn’t think anyone else’s rules applied to him.

“Did they find out who did it?” the clerk asked. “The last I remember they thought it was that local girl, Marnie something. She vanished, right? Did they ever find her?”

“Not yet.” Marnie Hazelton had been everyone’s prime suspect back in February, but Tony wasn’t so sure now. He had another lead, but he still had every intention of hunting down Marnie. Last February, he’d paid a visit to Josephine Hazelton, the crazy old lady who’d raised Marnie. She sold vegetables and odds and ends at the flea market, and people seemed to like her, but Tony’s gut had told him she was holding back. So he and Gramma Jo would go another round as soon as he was settled in.

After that, he had a social call to make on a cheating ex-girlfriend. That should be interesting. What Tony didn’t have was a solid motive for any of his suspects, except that his brother had been a classic bully who enjoyed harassing anyone weaker than he was, women as well as men.

“You tell your dad I asked about him,” the clerk chirped. “You never said whether he was married or single.”

“Single since my mother died over twenty years ago. He’s not the marrying kind.”

“Well now, that don’t matter. Don’t need to be married to have a cup of coffee, as far as I know.”

Tony nodded, trying to be polite, which was more than his dad would have been. Vernon had never cared about anything except riding hard on his two boys and fly-fishing on a river, any river. He wouldn’t have given this toothless floozie a second look, but then, he probably wouldn’t have given Pamela Anderson a second look. He wasn’t a big fan of the fairer sex. He thought women talked too much and did too little. “Whiny, conniving liars, all of them,” he was fond of saying.

The clerk shut off the CD player. “I wonder if I knew your mother. She probably went to school with Vern and me.”

“Mind your own fucking business.” Tony’s voice dropped to a whisper. He brought his fist down on the counter with enough force to knock over her empty coffee cup. “There is nothing you know or need to know about my mother.”

The clerk’s eyes widened. She stepped back from the counter, eyeing the phone that she’d just distanced herself from. “I didn’t mean nothing. I was just being nice.”

Tony flashed his agent’s badge. “You and I are going to be fine,” he told her. “Just make sure I get fresh sheets once a day. Fresh, not flipped—and don’t ever mention my mother again.”