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The candles in the ornate silver candelabra were flickering. Two, Erica noticed, had already gone out.
“Have some more chocolate mousse, Constance,” Monica urged. “I made it especially for you. I remember how much you loved it the last time.”
Aunt Constance hesitated. “I really shouldn’t,” she said softly.
Don’t listen to that moron, Erica silently instructed her aunt. She longed to shout out her advice, but didn’t dare. Not that her words would protect her aunt from Monica’s irresponsible prompting. Constance would eat more than was good for her because she had a passion for rich desserts.
“Just a little bit, dear,” Monica coaxed as though she were encouraging a recalcitrant baby to eat its cereal. She stretched out a bejeweled hand. “Let’s have your plate, Constance.”
“Monica,” Erica began in spite of herself, but it was too late. Monica had filled the small dish with mousse and was topping it with a dollop of whipped cream.
In a flare of anger, Erica pushed back her own dessert dish and rose from her seat. Her aunt was a grown woman, yet she had not one shred of common sense when it came to her health.
“Shall we go, Erica?” Sherman stood also. His gentle question made it appear as though they had agreed to leave the table together.
“Of course. Excuse us,” she mumbled, and followed her host into the hall.
The upstairs rooms were plushily carpeted and decorated in muted tones. Here, too, art hung on every wall. Sherman led Erica to one of the guest bedrooms.
“Actually, it was Regina who introduced me to collecting art,” he said. “We were married as soon as I graduated from law school, and we took an apartment in Queens. There we were, living on the pittance I earned at one of those large firms, plus what Regina made giving piano lessons.” He laughed. “Between the two of us, we barely had enough money to take in a movie after paying the rent. Instead, we’d travel by subway to Manhattan, where we wandered from gallery to gallery.
“Regina would stand as though hypnotized before whatever painting caught her eye. I’d ask her what was so special about that particular piece of art, and she’d explain—in great detail and with much enthusiasm—why she was drawn to the work. She’d go on about the composition, the brush strokes, the colors, and God knows what else.” He shook his head admiringly. “She knew more about art than any dealer I’ve ever met.”
She nodded, pleased to hear him speak in such complimentary terms about his first wife. He pointed to a small lithograph of a mother holding her young son in her arms. They were smiling at each other, their mutual love and joy apparent.
“That’s the first piece of art we ever bought.” He chuckled. “It cost us a month’s salary—hers and mine combined—but Regina insisted we get it to celebrate our first anniversary. And damn it, if she wasn’t right! It’s worth five times what we paid for it. Of course, that was years before she got her grandmother’s inheritance.” His voice grew cold. “And long before I started collecting myself.”
He strode from the room. “Come along, Erica,” he called over his shoulder. “No need to rehash ancient history.”
She followed him out. She had sensed he and Regina had been estranged at the time of her death, and now she was certain what she’d suspected was true. Erica shrugged. It was sad, but that often happened with married couples. In another sense, she was gratified. By speaking of his life as a newlywed and alluding to past unhappiness, he was regarding her as an adult, and no longer the young girl he had watched grow up.
They walked past the master bedroom and Monica’s sitting room to the smallest guest room at the end of the hall. The only furniture here was a scarred bureau, a simple table, and a high riser covered with a faded bedspread, all bits and pieces of a less affluent era. But the walls were another matter. They were covered with miniatures—small paintings, prints, and enamels.
She drew closer, fascinated by the care and effort that went into each work of art.
“Isn’t this exquisite!” she exclaimed over one in particular. It was an oil painting of a girl of about sixteen, sailing high on a swing, smiling as if she hadn’t a care in the world. The details were incredible. She could make out strands of her long brown hair flying behind, the lace of her white dress, the bark of the branch from which the swing hung. But best of all was the sense of suspended action. A moment captured forever.
“Lucky girl,” she mused. “She has no idea what life has in store for her.”
He ignored her cynical tone. “You have impeccable taste, my dear. I bought this lovely painting in London two years ago. Cost me a pretty penny, but it’s worth every pound I spent.” He removed it from the wall and handed it to her. “It’s yours, Erica. For your twenty-fifth birthday.”
His generosity left her speechless. She held the unexpected gift, then offered it back to him.
“Don’t you want it?” he asked, clearly amused to see how affected she was by his gesture. “I had the impression you really liked it.”
He sat down on the high riser.
She did, too. “I love it. I really do!” she said fervently. She felt compelled to explain herself so that he wouldn’t think her foolish. “It’s one of the most beautiful pictures I’ve ever seen, only...it’s yours,” she finished lamely.
“Yes, mine to give to you, if I so choose,” he said, a touch of his pomposity returning. “Monica and I wanted to give you something you really liked, and since you’ll soon be able to buy anything your heart desires, we decided to let you choose.”
She gulped. Each of these paintings was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. “You mean, you were planning to give me whichever painting I liked best?”
He laughed. “Not quite any painting, I must admit. But I had an inkling of the few you might like, so let’s leave it at that.” He patted her hand.
But she couldn’t let it go that easily. She wasn’t used to receiving gifts, and she continued to demur at his unexpected show of munificence.
“I don’t know, Sherman. This is a very expensive gift.”
He stood suddenly, as though recoiling from her remark, and walked to the other end of the small room. She knew she had offended him.
“Don’t behave like a ninny, Erica,” he said impatiently. “Your father was one of my dearest friends. I owe it to his memory to do the little I can for his daughter.”
“It is I who owe you so much,” she now insisted, deeply moved by Sherman’s loyalty to her father, all these years after his death.
“Good, good.” He took a roll of brown paper from the closet and deftly wrapped the small painting as he spoke. “Not another word on the subject. Except one. I’d appreciate you not mentioning your little gift to anyone downstairs. And it would please me if you opened this package on your birthday. Tuesday morning, and not before.”
Before she could respond, he handed over her new possession. “Here you are, and a very happy birthday to you.” He bent down to kiss her cheek.
She nodded, although his words made her uneasy. Why was she to keep his gift a secret? And from whom? Monica? But he’d just told her they had both decided to give her a painting.
He interrupted her speculations. “Come. I still have many more paintings to show you. They’ll begin to wonder what's keeping us.”
She gazed politely at the large abstract paintings hanging in the master bedroom—harsh and incomprehensible in her opinion, which she kept to herself. But she found the primitives in Monica’s sitting room colorful and uplifting.
The last room they came to was Jason’s. The same Mexican blanket covered the narrow bed as it had years before, a pair of jeans lay sprawled across the chair beside the window.
Sherman pointed to a lithograph of children playing in a circle. “You probably remember this, since we bought it when Jason was two. Not very important, but I’ve kept it for sentimental reasons.”
Erica nodded.
“Actually, I began collecting art in earnest only a few years ago. When I could afford to.” He sounded apologetic, although she didn’t know why.
Dutifully, she glanced around the room. The only other pictures were two boating scenes and a watercolor of a sand dune, none of which was unique or appealing. Even Sherman’s exuberance seemed to have petered out. She waited for him to finish talking about the pictures so they could go downstairs.
Instead, he sank onto the bed and pointed to the chair. Perplexed, she pushed aside Jason’s pants and sat facing him.
“Before we join the others, I’d like to express a sentiment that’s been growing in my heart these past few days.”
She said nothing, but continued to watch him, as fascinated as a rabbit captivated by the headlights of an oncoming car.
He paused, then continued with some embarrassment. “I know it’s much too soon, what with your husband’s untimely death and so on...”
Her mouth fell open, knowing yet dreading what she was about to hear.
“You and Jason have been dear friends since childhood. I’ve no doubt the two of you are deeply attached to each other in important and fundamental ways.”
He gazed searchingly into her eyes, as if willing her to speak. But now, her silence was deliberate. She refused to help him express what was obviously difficult for him to put into words.
He looked down at the floor as he stumbled onward. “I haven’t been the best of fathers.” He coughed, hoping she’d contradict him.
She didn’t.
“At any rate, I love Jason very much. He’s my only child, and I’m delighted to say we’ve gotten along better these last few weeks than ever before.”
He looked at her beseechingly. She stared stonily ahead, refusing to meet his eyes.
“He’s a dear boy, a bright boy, but he needs a firm hand to guide him. You’re level-headed, Erica, and I know how fond Jason is of you.” He laughed. “And I appreciate the spunk you’ve shown since you’ve returned to Manordale.”
Spunk. What spunk? If I had any spunk, I’d get the hell out of here.
“Frankly,” he went on, his manner growing more confident as he took her silence to signify agreement, “I think you’d be the ideal wife for Jason. He shows every indication of becoming a productive citizen. He could, too, with you to keep him on the right track.”
And what about me? she thought bitterly. Does anyone care what I want or need?
Still, she forced herself to speak calmly. “What you’re proposing, Sherman, is out of the question. I’m very fond of Jason, but only as a friend.”
“Of course, you’re fond of him. I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you if that weren’t the case,” he said a bit impatiently. “But very often, Erica, friendship can turn into something more...romantic. I know Jason cares for you. He’s told me several times how glad he is that you’ve come back home. He claims he’s never really appreciated you before.”
His small eyes bore into her, made her squirm with discomfort. Why was he going on like this, putting her in a false position? It was time she set him straight.
“I think you’ve misunderstood what Jason told you,” she said coldly. “We’re friends, nothing more. I could never care for Jason in a romantic way. I used to feel sympathy for him. I tried to help him in the past, and he was a good friend to me. We listened to each other’s problems, that was all.”
She stared back at Sherman, as though defying him to contradict her. She suddenly realized she’d put everything in the past tense. Was that how she felt about Jason? A childhood friend she’d outgrown?
But Sherman, to her growing annoyance, remained undaunted. “The essential element you’re choosing to ignore,” he said pedantically, “is that you and Jason understand each other. You can relate to one another on a deeper level than most people can, because you’ve known each other since childhood.” His voice rose with excitement. “Frankly, seeing the two of you married is something I would welcome with all my heart.”
She shook her head vehemently. “Sherman, Jason is a weak and unhappy person, and I’m afraid he’ll never change. I’ve cared for him like a brother, but please believe me, I would never, never marry him, and that’s final!”
He sighed and rose heavily from the bed with obvious disappointment.
“My dear, don’t take my musings to heart. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. It was only a thought. A wish. I suppose celebrating your twenty-fifth birthday has made me ponder on the brevity of life, and how I’d like to enjoy my grandchildren before I’m too old.”
Grandchildren! What nerve! As though I’m supposed to turn into a brood mare in order to please him.
“We’d better go downstairs and join the others,” he said. “They’ll be wondering what we’ve been up to.”
She swept past him, eager to leave the room, but he grasped her shoulder. His grip was surprisingly strong.
“Just one more thing, Erica, before I forget.” His voice had lost its warmth and there was a sardonic ring to it. “Jason tells me you’ve become friendly with Doug Remsen. I’d be careful, if I were you. I understand the last woman he was involved with ended up in the hospital with broken ribs. A bad temper, I hear. I wouldn’t want anything like that to happen to you.”
“Now look here,” she sputtered. “I’d appreciate your staying out of my affairs—er—business.” She felt her face growing hot, and was furious with herself for not keeping her cool.
“Certainly, Erica,” he said smoothly. “I was speaking from concern.”
“And tell your son to stop spying on me.”
Was that a flicker of fear in his small blue eyes? She wasn’t sure, although she fervently hoped it was.
“Please don’t be hard on Jason. He only followed you yesterday because he cares for you.”
“Is that why he paid those boys to knock me down?” she asked angrily. “Or did he leave that part out of his report?”
She rushed down the steps, unaware that she was clutching her small painting to her chest until she was near the bottom. She was furious with Sherman for trying to tell her how to lead her life. And he had no right to accuse Doug of physically abusing a woman. Sure, he had a temper, but...
She shuddered. As far as she knew, Sherman never lied. Although, he’d certainly had made good use of his wily lawyer tricks to lure her upstairs so he could urge her to marry his son.
Aunt Betty met her at the foot of the staircase, her face drawn and pale.
“I was just coming up to get you. Connie is feeling ill. She says it’s just indigestion, but I’m taking her straight home. She’s lying down in the living room.”
“Oh, my God!”
Erica ran to Aunt Constance.
Monica was hovering over her, fussing with the cushion beneath her head. “I’ll get your water now, Constance,” she said, and hurried off.
Constance nodded, seemingly unable to speak. Her hand gripped her side in pain.
“Oh, Aunt Constance,” Erica moaned. She knelt beside the large, inert figure and took her free hand.
“It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have eaten all that damn mousse.”
“Are you all right? Should I call a doctor?”
“Don’t worry, girl,” she whispered so that only Erica could hear. “It’s not my heart.”
She nodded, relieved by her aunt’s forthrightness.
“Betty’s taking me home now, but I don’t want your evening ruined. Stay a while. Jason’s offered to drive you home later.”
“But I’d rather go with you now,” she said frantically.
“Nonsense. It’s only ten o’clock. Monica would be hurt if we all ran out on her. Besides, you’re the guest of honor.”
Erica felt Monica’s hand on her back and moved aside. She cringed as Monica, in a singsong, childish voice, said, “Here you are, Constance, dear. Bottoms up!”
Aunt Constance struggled into a half-sitting position against the sofa’s arm and drank the water. “That’s better,” she proclaimed.
“I’m so pleased,” Monica replied. She turned to Erica. “I was hoping you’d stay with us for a while. After all the anticipation, I hate to see the evening end so soon.”
Erica looked around. Jason and Sherman had come into the room. The three Hartleys fixed their eyes on her, imploring her to stay. She needed an excuse, any excuse, to release her from this disastrous evening, but her mind remained blank.
“Of course, she’ll stay,” Constance declared, settling the matter. “I’m ready to leave, Betty, any time you are.”
She helped her aunt to her feet. “I’ll walk you out to the car,” she murmured.
“Now, don’t run off and abandon us,” Jason said lightly.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” she answered gracelessly, giving vent to her displeasure.
She yearned to jump in the car and drive off with her aunts. She’d had enough of the Hartleys to last her a lifetime. In the hall, she caught Monica and Sherman exchanging anxious glances. Were they concerned about Aunt Constance or upset about something else?
Aunt Constance allowed Erica to help her into the car. “You go back inside and have a good time,” she mildly admonished.
Erica made a sour face. “I’ll try.”