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To Erica’s surprise, both aunts seemed to temporarily forget their grievances just before they left for the Hartleys, and embarrassed her by fussing over her the way they used to. They stood side-by-side and beamed up at her as she descended the stairs in the flowered dress she’d worn with Doug the week before.
“Erica, darling, you look downright beautiful,” boomed Aunt Constance. “That dress is the loveliest, isn't it, Betty?”
Erica tried for a smile. She hadn’t wanted to wear this dress, but she had nothing else quite as festive. She wore it in honor of her birthday, she told herself fiercely. Not for the Hartleys or her aunts.
“Indeed, it is, Connie. And I have just the perfect lipstick for you to wear tonight.”
“But I’m already wearing lipstick,” she protested.
“You can wipe it off, can’t you?” Aunt Betty said, hustling her back upstairs.
In the driveway, Erica pushed forward the front seat of her aunt’s Camry and was about to step into the back, when she felt Aunt Constance’s heavy hand on her back. “Oh, no, girl. You sit in the front, next to your Aunt Betty. It’s your special night.”
“But, Aunt Constance,” she began, embarrassed.
“Not another word,” Constance said. “I insist.”
Erica was forced to watch her aunt maneuver her massive frame into the backseat of the car, puffing with the exertion it cost her. Aunt Constance was still panting a minute later when Erica was fastening her seatbelt.
Did she always breathe that heavily? she wondered as Aunt Betty backed out of the driveway. Or was this further proof her heart condition had deteriorated?
She turned around to face Aunt Constance. “Did you remember to take your pill?”
“Of course, I did!” Constance snapped.
“Connie, she’s only asking because she cares,” Aunt Betty said smoothly.
Erica suddenly realized how often Aunt Betty had her own back, simply by stating the obvious.
“Hmm,” was Aunt Constance’s reply. “I’m fifty-eight years old. Old enough to remember to take a pill.”
A headache, Erica thought. I’ll say I have a headache. Or a toothache.
In the tense silence, her brain came up with one possibility after another, yet she discarded them all. There was no excuse powerful enough to relieve her of the unbearable evening stretching before her. Besides, she couldn’t disappoint Monica at the last minute. The dinner was in Erica’s honor, and there was nothing for her to do but attend.
“I wonder what delicacies Monica has prepared for this special occasion,” Aunt Betty chirped as she steered her blue Camry down the turnpike.
Her two passengers remained silent, but Betty, once again in her Pollyanna mode, didn’t seem to notice. “I hope it’s one of those heavenly dishes she learned to prepare in her gourmet cooking class.”
It was nearly eight, and the bright, sunlit sky had faded to a dull magenta. Erica tried not to think about the tiresome evening ahead. To distract herself, she concentrated on her aunts.
Aunt Betty was eagerly anticipating the evening’s festivities. She looked especially attractive in a pink suit that camouflaged her paltry bosom and bony figure. Aunt Constance did not share Betty’s good cheer. She dominated the backseat, holding herself as rigid as a general reviewing his troops. Like Erica, she was attending this dinner under duress.
“Since when do you go for rich, overcooked food and thick sauces, Elizabeth?” Constance asked querulously. “The last time we dined at the Hartleys, I was up all night with indigestion.”
“That was because you took three helpings of the chocolate mousse, Connie, dear. Don’t you remember?”
“Well, I couldn’t swallow any of that seafood mess she called a main course. Don’t you remember?” Constance asked, imitating Betty’s high-pitched question. “And I was hungry by the time she served dessert, so I ate the damn mousse.”
“I do hope this time Monica’s a bit more aware that we all need to watch our cholesterol,” Betty said diplomatically.
Erica held her breath and waited for Aunt Constance to take offense at this allusion to her heart condition, but she didn’t. No one said another word.
Ill-at-ease in her silent prison, Erica rested her temple against the window and watched as the car turned onto a darkened country lane. The only glints of light came from the large houses they passed, well screened by trees and overgrown shrubbery, and set back from the road.
The truce that hovered over the three women was an uneasy one at best. Erica knew a full-fledged quarrel could break out between her aunts at any moment. All it would take was one barb too deep, one dig too many.
And while she was glad Aunt Betty was apparently over her bout of guilt and dejection, Erica hoped the restoration of her aunt’s good humor wasn’t based on the mistaken assumption that she could depend on Erica to ease her financial burdens. Especially since Aunt Betty had made a few more provoking comments about her desired wedding gift. Erica had managed to remain noncommittal on the subject. She bottled up her feelings of being exploited with the result that she’d gulped down Friday night’s dinner as quickly as possible and had retreated to her room with a stomachache.
The Hartley house—a large white colonial with black shutters—stood on a rise of land well-forested with maples, white birches, beeches, and giant rhododendrons. Aunt Betty bypassed the deep, circular driveway and turned onto the blacktop leading to the three-car garage. Two cars were parked outside—a blue Cadillac that must have been Sherman’s and a red Audi that Monica probably drove.
Erica sighed. Another blue car. She was stepping out of a blue car. Doug had a blue car. So did Jason, although it was nowhere in sight. She shook her head to rid herself of unpleasant thoughts. She couldn’t worry about every blue car that crossed her path, could she?
“Erica, dear! Happy Birthday!”
Sherman strode toward them, short arms outstretched, his face aglow. Although his navy blazer was probably meant to give him a nautical look that conjured images of regattas and yacht clubs, his manner reminded her of a Greek restaurant owner greeting his favorite customers.
She allowed herself to be hugged and kissed as she mumbled the appropriate words of appreciation. When it was her turn, Aunt Betty giggled with girlish embarrassment. Hypocrite, Erica thought with distaste. Aunt Constance brought up the rear, carrying the walnut cake she’d baked for the occasion. She solemnly offered her cheek to Sherman, who then led his three guests past the oak door and into the house.
Although she’d been to visit several times before, Erica couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty and spaciousness of the large center hall. It reminded her of an old-fashioned ballroom. The tiled floor of black marble reflected the six-tiered crystal chandelier shimmering above them. An oak staircase curved dramatically up to the second floor.
Monica was just as dazzling, with an array of diamonds and sapphires on her ears, neck, and wrist. Her low-cut hostess gown revealed her creamy white bosom, while cleverly concealing the full width and breadth of her hips and buttocks. Although bleached blonde hair cascaded down her back, giving her an aging Goldilocks appearance, her sweet smile was heartwarming.
“Welcome, Erica, darling, and a happy, happy birthday.”
Erica was pressed to her perfumed breast and kissed on both cheeks. Was that something she’d learned in France? she wondered snidely, then suffered a pang of remorse. For all her airs and excesses, Monica seemed genuinely glad to see her.
Amid a flurry of greetings and compliments concerning lost weight, health, and new hair styles, Sherman took his guests’ wraps and pocketbooks.
“I’ll dispose of these, then mix us some drinks.”
He left, and Erica found herself face-to-face with Jason. He was wearing the sports jacket and pants he’d worn the night they’d gone out to dinner, and a pale yellow shirt that did nothing for his sallow complexion. He seemed very pleased with himself.
“Happy Birthday, Erica. May this be the first of many joyous celebrations.”
He bent down to kiss her. Too late, she realized he was aiming for her lips and not the cheek she had offered. She turned her head swiftly so that his lips landed on the corner of her mouth.
“Thank you, Jason,” she replied in her frostiest tone, the one that, in the past, could be depended on to elicit an apology and a sheepish look for whatever transgression he’d enacted. But tonight, he remained impervious to her displeasure.
He flashed her an audacious grin. “You’re more than welcome. I’ve a present for you, but you won’t be getting it until later.”
She flinched when he placed his hand on her shoulder, but he seemed not to notice.
“There’s no need to stand about,” he said buoyantly. “Let’s go inside. We’ve several trays of Mrs. Wiggins’s tartlets to devour, and I, for one, am starved!” He leaned closer to her in a conspiratorial gesture. “I don’t know about you, but eight o’clock is way past my dinner hour.”
He shepherded her past the three older women, who were all speaking at once. Erica was relieved to see Aunt Constance had given up the sulks and was booming away, holding up her end of the conversation. As they passed Sherman’s study, Erica stopped, her attention drawn inside to the several paintings covering the walls. Jason paused beside her and followed her glance.
“Impressive, aren't they? There are plenty more all over the house.” He laughed. “Collecting art has become Dad’s passion these last few years.”
She waited for the usual sneering remark to follow. Instead, his tone, as he spoke about Sherman, remained respectful, bordering on awe. She was puzzled by this sudden shift in affection. Then, she chided herself. She should be delighted father and son were finally getting along. Still, it seemed unnatural, after all those years of sparring and hostilities.
Sherman stood waiting for them in the living room, next to the well-stocked liquor cabinet. “What will you have, Erica, on this special occasion?”
“Some white wine would be fine, thank you.”
He beamed. “A woman after my own heart. I’ve chilled a wonderful chardonnay for tonight. I’ll get a bottle. Be right back.”
He returned with the wine, which he proceeded to uncork with a flourish. He poured some into a glass and handed it to Erica. “Here you are, my dear. Jason? What are you drinking tonight?”
While Sherman busied himself with his son’s scotch and soda, she wandered aimlessly about the room. She stopped beside the grand piano, fingered the smooth, well-polished wood that covered the keys. It’s only a piece of furniture now, she thought sadly. I bet no one’s played it since Regina died.
Determined not to let morbid thoughts fill her head, she stood at an open window and contemplated the illuminated Japanese garden outside. How lovely and peaceful. She breathed deeply. If only she could remain here all evening, quiet and undisturbed, to restore her peace of mind.
“Hors d’oeuvres, miss?”
Erica gave a start. She smiled at the young woman, then studied the appetizers on the tray. She chose a tiny cheese quiche. It was heavenly. Mrs. Wiggins hadn’t lost her touch! She was seventy if she was a day, and her culinary skill was as excellent as it had been when she’d catered Erica’s parents’ parties all those years ago.
She sipped her wine. It was perfect. Dry, not too fruity.
Her shoulder muscles relaxed and the knot in her stomach dissolved. It was only a dinner, she told herself. And so far, the food and drink were first rate, even though the company wasn’t of her choosing.
She’d be enjoying herself thoroughly if Doug had accepted her invitation. She shook her head to rid it of this unbidden thought. Doug had made it perfectly clear that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—come tonight. And she certainly wasn’t going to waste time or energy thinking about Doug Remsen!
Alone for the moment, she strolled around the room. Except for the piano, the entire decor had been changed since her last visit. Now the room had a distinctive oriental ambience. It was evident in the quilted fabric on the sofa and chairs flanking the fireplace, as well as the flower-patterned drapes and in the exquisitely hand-painted screen in the corner. A porcelain Chinese lion stood on the glass and bronze table between the sofa and two arm chairs. The color scheme—muted shades of green, rust, maroon, and pink—was pleasing to the eye. It was a refreshing relief from Monica’s earlier venture in overstuffed upholstery and ornate French period pieces.
Now, the only overdone aspect of the room were the paintings. They hung on every wall and covered nearly every inch of space. There were oils, acrylics, watercolors, lithographs, woodcuts, and silk screens. They varied from geometric patterns to abstracts, landscapes to nudes.
She was astonished by the obvious mastery and quality of each work of art, as well as by the haphazard way they were placed. A modern acrylic painting of bold, garish brush strokes hung next to a Renoir-type oil of two young women resting against a gnarled tree. Her eyes darted from painting to print, greedily feasting on the artistic beauty of them all.
Sherman came to stand beside her. “Wonderful, aren’t they?” His voice rang with pride. “I know they aren’t hung properly. Monica scolds me each time I bring home another painting. She says the house looks like a museum, and a poorly arranged one at that. But I can’t help it. Whenever I see something that appeals to me, something I know is well worth the asking price, I have to buy it.”
“They’re extraordinary. Each and every one of them. You have a wonderful eye for art.”
“Why, thank you, Erica.” There was no mistaking the surprise and pleasure in his voice. “After dinner, I’ll show you the other rooms, if you like.”
“I’d like that,” she said, meaning it.
She moved closer to study the large oil painting hanging over the fireplace. It was of a solemn, middle-aged woman done in earth tones, the simple, angular lines reminiscent of a famous artist. She gasped aloud when she read the signature in the right-hand corner.
Sherman chuckled at her incredulity, then returned to the liquor cabinet to prepare drinks for the others, who were now entering the room.
“Dad’s making quite a name for himself in the art world,” Jason commented, standing where his father had been a moment earlier. “A few museums have already approached him. They want to know if he’ll lend them the Hartley Collection.” He sipped his drink. “I’m amazed. His taste is impeccable, though I must say, I hate a good deal of it.”
“But all these paintings!” She made no effort to hide her wonderment. “They must cost a fortune. Where does he get the money for them all?”
He patted her shoulder. “I’m sure I don’t know, Erica. And it’s none of our business, now, is it?”
Her ears began to burn. Stung as she was by Jason’s reprimand, indignation grew in her heart. How dare he? Of course, it was none of her business how Sherman got the money for his art collection. By doing legal work for Doug’s boss, for all she knew or cared. That wasn’t the point.
Jason’s attitude was the point. Since when did he see his father as some sacred cow, beyond speculation or reproach? Ever since she’d known Jason, he’d come whining to her with complaint after complaint about Sherman. And now this. It was very peculiar.
She felt a hand on her arm and turned to meet Monica’s glowing smile. Erica smiled back. Her aunts were nearby, as well, but their eyes were glued to the large oil painting over the fireplace.
“And this is the picture you were telling us about, Sherman,” Aunt Betty said slowly. She scrutinized the painting before speaking again. “Lovely. Marvelous flesh tones. And sure to be worth a million dollars in a few years. At least that’s what a very close friend told me.” She gave a little laugh. “And he should know.”
So, Erica thought, Aunt Betty’s boyfriend is another art connoisseur. Maybe he's short of cash because he keeps buying artwork he can’t afford.
She shook her head, wishing she weren’t so suspicious of everyone’s motives. And what was she supposed to call him after he and Aunt Betty got married? Certainly not Mr. Jennings, which was how she’d addressed him on the few occasions they’d met. Ron, she supposed. She had no intention of calling him “uncle.”
“Very nice picture, Sherman,” Aunt Constance said brusquely. She turned to the young woman and her tray. “I think I’ll try some of Mrs. Wiggins’s appetizers.”
Erica grinned. Trust Aunt Constance to remain true to form.
She spent the next fifteen minutes skillfully avoiding conversation by examining the artwork around the room. Sherman, obviously gratified by her interest, came over from time to time to comment about the picture she was viewing. At the same time, she managed to down a fair number of Mrs. Wiggins’s tartlets. This might well be her last opportunity to eat these scrumptious tidbits. According to Monica, Mrs. Wiggins was planning to retire next month and move down to Florida.
The appetizers did more than placate her hunger and keep her occupied. They reminded her of her parents’ parties, when Mrs. Wiggins would arrive early, laden with trays of her specialties, with plenty of extras for Missy and Erica to munch on.
She remembered those occasions well. How, all dressed up in her organdy party dress and black patent Mary Janes, she’d open the front door to greet her parents’ guests and help Missy carry their coats upstairs. Then she would circle the living room—or the back yard, if it was warm enough—the silver platter in her hands, and offer hors d'oeuvres to the visitors.
“A penny for your thoughts.” Jason startled her, and she nearly spilled her wine. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “Although, I must say, you’re rather jumpy lately.”
“Am I?” she asked coldly. “Have you nothing better to do than to watch me?”
“And not at all friendly, I might add.”
She stared into his laughing eyes until he looked away. Aha, she thought triumphantly. He’s up to something. I’m sure of it now. Jason had never been able to meet her gaze when he had a guilty conscience. The realization cheered her up considerably, even though she hadn’t a clue as to what he had done or was currently plotting. It relieved her to know that at least some things remained constant in a world full of puzzling surprises.
The dinner was a disaster. Each course was drenched in a sauce or a dressing, often making it difficult to recognize what lay beneath. As far as Erica knew, no one at the table cared for this type of cuisine. Even Aunt Betty, who claimed she enjoyed gourmet food, preferred simple roasts and fresh vegetables, as did Erica and Aunt Constance. Jason was happiest eating junk food, and Sherman and Monica always claimed they were dieting.
Erica watched Monica with fascination. She absolutely gurgled with delight as the young woman she’d hired placed a seafood appetizer drowned in Newberg sauce before each person. Then, ignoring her own plate, she beseeched them to eat.
“I made this all by myself! Do you like it? Would you care for some more?” she asked each of them about the drowned Caesar salad, the overcooked veal Francese, the heavily buttered green beans, and the soggy pilaf.
Erica, who detested sauces and was not really hungry after eating all those tartlets, picked at her food. Poor Aunt Constance, she thought, when she caught her aunt doing the same. Even if she weren’t as sick as Aunt Betty claimed, she had no business eating anything set before her tonight. Aunt Betty, like Sherman and Jason, was making a noble attempt to eat everything she was served. But the strained expression on her face showed the effort it cost her.
“Would you care for more veal, Erica, dear?” Monica offered brightly. “We’ve plenty more in the kitchen, haven’t we, Chloe?”
“Enough for five more people, Mrs. Hartley,” Chloe answered. “Here’s the wine you wanted, Mr. Hartley.”
Sherman uncorked the bottle and held it up to Erica. “More vino?” He enunciated very clearly, the only telltale sign that he’d been drinking.
She nodded and passed her glass to him.
For perhaps the thousandth time, she wondered what had inspired Sherman to marry this mindless, overblown woman who was acting as though she’d just learned to cook and was celebrating her first dinner party. Monica seemed to mean well. Which was probably why she got on so well with her aunts who, for all their faults, had no patience with phonies and snobs. And Monica was lively and good-natured, pretty in a gaudy, showy sort of way.
But she was so...common. Erica was prepared to take an oath that an original thought had never entered the woman’s mind. Her conversation revolved around her furniture, her hair, her clothing, or her next vacation. She was the very antithesis of Jason’s mother. Regina had been a sensitive, cultured, well-educated woman. And Erica had always thought Sherman valued culture. His latest passion bore that out. But the only cultured thing about Monica was the enormous pearl adorning her right hand, which at the moment, was fluttering inches from Erica’s face.
Monica caught Erica’s uneasy glance and mistook it for admiration. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” She beamed as she flashed the ring before Erica’s eyes. “Sherman bought it for me last year on our Caribbean cruise. It’s one of my most favorite rings.”
“It’s lovely,” she murmured, glad for once, she wore glasses.
“Oops, sorry dear.” Monica became aware of Erica’s discomfort and moved her hand. She smiled. “Now you’ll be able to buy yourself jewelry. Anything and everything that catches your fancy.”
“Erica’s husband can darn well buy her jewelry!” Aunt Constance blared across the table. “That is, whenever she decides to marry again. No need for her to fritter away her inheritance.”
Aunt Betty tittered. “Young women today are independent, Connie. They like to spend their money as they please, especially when there’s plenty of it.” She cast a sly glance at Constance to see how she was receiving this contradiction.
Erica sighed. If only they’d stop bickering, and stop concerning themselves with her life.
“Regardless of who buys it for you,” Monica continued, oblivious to the rising tension in the room, “jewelry is a wonderful investment. Isn’t it, Sherman?”
“I suppose jewelry slowly increases its value with time. However, I personally would advise Erica to invest in good artwork. That’s certain to appreciate, especially after the artist dies.”
Sherman must have realized Monica’s smile had faded because he’d failed to support her. He patted her hand and added, “I must say, darling, this meal is absolutely scrumptious. Better than anything we ate on our trip.”
Monica’s face lit up immediately. “Do you really think so?” Reassured by his vehement nod, she gushed, “That makes me very happy, Sherman, dear.”
“I mean it quite sincerely.” He took another bite of his veal to prove his point.
Erica marveled at his patience with his wife’s childish behavior. He seemed utterly enchanted. And Monica was too naive to be believed. It was difficult to remember that, at one time, she had actually managed Sherman’s office.
“We could play cards after dinner,” Monica was saying, “except I have this teensy-weensy problem of confusing poker with gin rummy.”
Everyone laughed.
Erica swallowed a sigh of exasperation. Monica was irritating, but obviously some people found her amusing. Was she for real? Was she truly as flighty and as shallow as she appeared to be? Or was this how she thought Sherman wanted her to be, and the act got to be a habit? Perhaps she was a good deal more clever than she seemed. In which case, maybe she’d had something to do with Erica’s accidents.
But that was ridiculous. Why would Monica want to hurt her? Erica nibbled at her lip. She was growing distrustful of everyone. If she kept this up, she would soon find some evil motivation behind Sherman’s new hobby of collecting art. Almost in penance, she turned to smile at him.
“If you’re still game, Erica, I’d be happy to show you the paintings upstairs,” he told her. “Buying art, good art, is an excellent investment. It’s a gamble, of course. But then, so is everything in life. However, the risk is minimal if you know your artists.”
“As long as she steers clear of gamblers, she’ll be fine,” Jason quipped.
He had remained silent during most of the meal, busily eating all he’d been served, and he was the only one to ask for seconds. He’d also had plenty to drink, judging from the way his words slurred together.
Blood rushed to Erica’s ears. “How dare you!” she spat across the table.
How dare he make allusions to Terry, a dead man! Or was he hinting at Doug?
A spark of insight struck her, and she put one more piece of the puzzle in place. Jason had been behind that tree at the duck pond! It was his car she’d seen as they drove away. He must have paid those boys to scare her.
But, why?
Sherman patted her hand. “I apologize for Jason, Erica,” he said, then turned a grim face to his son. “You’ve been rude and insensitive. If anyone here ought to steer clear of gamblers, it’s you. After all the thousands of dollars you’ve lost. Thrown away.”
Nobody spoke. The silence was palpable as all eyes stared at the dirty plates before them.
Sherman's tone softened. “Enough said about this matter.” He smiled as he looked around the room, encouraging them to resume conversation.
“I think we’re all ready for coffee,” Monica announced cheerfully.
Again, Erica wondered about her. Was Monica unaware of the tension in the room, or was she a hostess skilled at glossing over a difficult moment?
No matter. Erica grinned suddenly. Her world was turning topsy turvy. She’d never dreamed she’d enjoy hearing Sherman reprimand Jason.
In gratitude, she turned to her host. “I’d love to see the rest of the paintings, Sherman.”
He beamed. “My pleasure, Erica. Right after coffee and dessert.”