ANNIE HAD ALWAYS enjoyed the flair for originality on Broward’s Rock, unlike Hilton Head, where zoning laws determined everything from house color to yard decorations (one plantation prohibited children’s treehouses). As she and Max walked up the wide shallow steps that rose in gradual tiers, she realized zoning laws might have a reasonable basis. This house—or should she call it a mansion or a castle or perhaps an architect’s nightmare?—certainly qualified as individual. It rose at different points to four stories and the building materials included chrome, bronze, quartz, cedar, stucco, New England clapboard, tile and copper. Rooms jutted at odd angles and the whole was topped by a thirty-foot aluminum tower. A red banner wrapped around the tower was no doubt intended to look like a candy cane. It looked more like a spaceship in an alternate universe.
“I’d guess six,” Annie whispered.
“Huh?” Max took her elbow and steered her around a fifteen-foot, barnacle-encrusted, upside down anchor leaning against a pile of rocks. Holly garlands dangled from the flukes.
“Six architects at least.” She stopped, pointed to her right. “Max, look at that!”
A glistening glass whale spewed varicolored streams of water in the center of an enormous bricked fountain. Just past the fountain, huge boulders arched, creating a cave. Tongues of fire flickered within the cave mouth. Suddenly the fiery plumes billowed and a dragon’s head emerged. A Christmas wreath bright with holly encircled the dragon’s neck.
“Cool!” Max marveled. “Do you suppose Hot Breath’s guarding a treasure chest?”
“With golden doubloons? Maybe.” She moved swiftly ahead. “I guess you can take the girl out of the movie set, but you can’t take the movie set out of the girl. Let’s see what other wonders await us.”
They walked on a cobbled bridge across a moat to a massive wooden door studded with glass bubbles pulsing with changing colors: orange, purple, rose, aqua, gold. Each bubble was encircled by a miniature Christmas wreath. Max pulled a silver chain and a bell pealed.
When the door opened—
Max smiled. “Mr. and Mrs. Darling.”
—Annie was relieved to be welcomed by a slender older woman with a perfectly ordinary appearance. Dark red hair drawn sleekly back emphasized a bony face and intelligent eyes. A Christmas tree brooch was the only spot of color against a high-necked navy silk dress.
“I’m Alice Schiller. Please come this way.” She led them down a two-story flagstone hall. Along the wall marched a row of miniature spruce trees decorated with shiny green bows.
Annie was a little disappointed at the dusky medieval tapestries. Surely an old set of armor or a moose head or flickering candles would have been more appropriate. Their shoes clicked on the stones and far ahead light spilled through an arch and voices murmured.
Their guide stepped aside for them to enter a long drawing room where Marie Antoinette might have enjoyed cakes and conversation, the plush furniture decorated with carved acanthus leaves, scrolls, ribbons, flowers and scallop shells. Heavy maroon velvet hangings draped twelve-foot-tall windows. But the eye was drawn immediately to the far end of the room and the older woman in crimson silk who lounged in a Louis XV armchair on a low dais. The entire wall behind her was covered by an eighteenth century Flemish tapestry. A spotlight in the ceiling, not harsh but soft and silvery, played down over her, emphasizing the rich auburn of her hair, the blazing dark eyes, hollowed cheeks and bloodred lips, the fiery dress and an outflung hand, the long tapering fingers brilliant with glittering diamonds and rubies. Flocked Christmas trees strung with blue lights sat at either end of the dais, but they were small and didn’t detract from that lounging figure. The bejeweled hand made an imperious gesture.
A thin voice beside Annie said quietly, “She wants to meet you.”
Annie glanced into Alice Schiller’s dark eyes, noting that her auburn hair was flecked with silver. But those deep-set eyes, hollow cheeks and full lips…Annie glanced at the dais, then looked in surprise at the woman beside her.
Pale lips, bare of color, stretched in an ironic smile. “Yes, we still look alike. When we were young, I could fool everyone. Even her husband.” A shrug. “But that was a long time ago. And looks matter more to Marguerite. She says I’m a dowdy old fool without an ounce of style. But that’s all right. Style belongs to her. Come, it’s best not to keep Marguerite waiting.”
The long room looked curiously empty despite the assorted chairs and sofas. Like courtiers subservient to a queen, the other guests stood near the dais, watching as Annie and Max and their guide neared. There was easily enough space in the room for a party of fifty. Perhaps the grandeur and immensity of the room contributed to the sense of sparse occupancy, gave the handful of people standing near the dais the forlorn appearance of shipwrecked survivors on an uninhabited atoll, uneasy at their present state, wary of their future.
As they grew nearer, Annie was even more aware of their hostess’s gift for drama. Marguerite Dumaney’s presence made those near her bloodless and negligible. Her attendants were within range to be summoned, yet not quite close enough for conversation.
Annie managed a meaningless social smile. She knew Pudge and Rachel, of course, and she’d seen the brochure with the photograph of Emory Swanson. The others she tried to identify from Max’s description. The lanky man with longish gray hair and quizzical eyes and a sleek goatee must be Wayne Ladson, the stepson who lived here. The chunky red-faced man who rocked back on his heels like he was standing on a boat had to be Wayne’s brother Terry. Annie took one swift look at an elegantly dressed woman with a sour face; a dowdy, plump woman who stood very stiff and still; and an effervescent blonde with a sweet smile, and tabbed them as Donna, Joan, and Happy.
As she and Max stopped in front of the dais, Annie was acutely aware of Marguerite’s entourage. Her father appeared blonder than she remembered, in a bright green silk blazer. There he was, so familiar and so alien, her face, her honey-streaked hair, her gray eyes. But she didn’t know him and she never would. Not if she could help it. Pudge stared at her anxiously. Behind him loomed a ten-foot stone jaguar. The oversize sculpture made him look small.
Wayne Ladson’s tweed jacket hung from thin, stooped shoulders. He nodded toward them, his sensitive face formal but not unfriendly.
Terry Ladson’s eyes lit with appreciation as Annie neared. Sensual lips curved in a slow smile. Annie knew his type, always on the prowl, with a preference for married women.
Donna Ladson Farrell’s gaze passed over Annie and Max without interest. She cupped her cheek in her hand, quite consciously posed to afford the best view of her exquisitely made-up face.
Joan Ladson’s wispy gray hair needed a permanent. Her dress was nice quality but a decade old. Her hands were clasped tightly together, and she determinedly avoided looking toward her ex-husband.
Happy Laurance—and how unsettling it was to share the name—half turned to watch Annie and Max walk near. Curly blond hair cupped a round, kindly face that managed, oddly, to combine distress and welcome. She blinked and the anxious lines around her eyes smoothed out. Drooping pink lips pressed together, then curved determinedly in a sweet smile. “Hello, Annie.” The words wafted in a conspiratorial whisper promising a warm welcome, after, of course, Annie and Max were presented to the queen.
Emory Swanson’s hand rested lightly on the back of Marguerite’s chair with just a faint hint of possession. He was even handsomer live than in a photograph, his wiry silver hair tousled, his brown eyes bright with enthusiasm, his smile infectious. Annie suspected the smile was the product of careful practice. Without it, his face would have looked aggressive and challenging.
But these were the bit players. They faded into the background as Annie looked into Marguerite Dumaney’s unforgettable face, black eyebrows arching over eyes that glowed with intensity, a high-bridged nose, hollowed cheeks beneath gaunt cheekbones, skin smoothed by tinted powder, lips as scarlet as her dress. She slowly rose, her movements as graceful as a ballerina’s, and as studied.
Alice Schiller stepped to one side. “Marguerite, here are Pudge’s daughter and son-in-law, Annie and Max Darling.”
Marguerite stepped forward, long, slender hand outstretched, fingers heavy with rings. Rubies blazed, emeralds flashed, diamonds glittered. Vivid, talon-sharp nails echoed the color of her lips and dress. “My dears.”
The throaty drawl evoked a fleeting memory, a darkened movie house, Annie all of seven or eight and a woman’s face huge on the screen. Annie was grateful for Max’s tight grip on her arm. He was an anchor in a world with undefined boundaries.
“Life”—Marguerite paused just long enough for every face to turn toward her—“is family.” Her deep voice throbbed with emotion. Her dark eyes were pools of yearning.
Annie could almost smell popcorn. But she couldn’t pull her eyes away from that haggard yet lovely face.
Marguerite swept off the dais, cupped Annie’s face in smooth, cold hands.
Annie fought away a shudder at the touch of those icy, dry hands.
Marguerite leaned so near that a silky strand of hair brushed Annie’s cheek. “You. Your father. My sister. A rapprochement after years of separation. What higher calling can we have than to come together?” Marguerite dropped her hands, whirled toward Pudge and Happy. “Come.” She clapped a bony hand on Annie’s shoulder.
Max’s grip tightened on her arm. He murmured softly, “Annie.”
Annie’s face flamed. She almost exploded, and then she saw her father’s stricken face, eyes wide with dismay, mouth parted in anguish. Annie’s anger shriveled like a popped balloon. She stared into his eyes and knew her father hadn’t invited this trumped-up scene. He was as distraught as she. Why should they let this bizarre old woman yank at their emotions like a puppeteer with helpless marionettes?
Annie ignored Marguerite’s tug. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Dumaney. I’ve always been interested”—this was true—“in the history of old films. I believe you were one of my mother’s favorite actresses. Of course, that was a long time ago.”
Marguerite froze, her head poked forward, her eyes drawn in a scowl, her bloodred lips pursed together.
Pudge stroked his mustache, hiding a smile. Happy gave a tiny gasp. Rachel giggled. Wayne Ladson’s eyes gleamed. Terry Ladson mouthed, Naughty girl, but kept his face turned away from Marguerite. Donna Ladson Farrell arched pencil-thin brows. Joan Ladson moved uneasily.
Emory Swanson bounded off the dais. “Marguerite, you always exhibit the most exquisite sensitivity.” He slipped an arm familiarly around her shoulders. “Your empathy has been prompted by your own sense of family, your devotion to your husband. You promised to show me his portrait…” and his hand was firmly on her arm, moving her away from the little pool of silence created by Annie.
Wayne Ladson strolled toward Annie and Max. He held out his hand. “Wayne Ladson. You’ll have to forgive Marguerite. She can’t resist grandstanding. So you’re Pudge’s daughter. Glad to meet you. Pudge was always my favorite uncle-in-law.”
Wayne led them around the room. Happy was effusive and gave Annie a hug. Donna’s eyes cataloged their clothes, and she warmed up a bit. Joan was nervous and Terry too friendly. Annie and Max spoke with everyone except Rachel, who peered at them from the shadow of an indoor honeysuckle trellis festooned with twinkling miniature Christmas lights. Rachel hung back, her eyes pinned on Annie, forlorn eyes almost lost in the shadow.
A trim young woman whom Annie recognized from the country club brought drinks. Annie opted for ginger ale. She wanted all of her wits quite clear and un-befuddled. She whispered to Max as Happy headed for them, “I was mean.”
“No.” His eyes were admiring. “You refused to roll over and play dead. The old devil could use a few more wake-up calls. But play it cool for the rest of the night. Remember, Swanson’s our objective.”
“I’ll be good.” She gave his arm a squeeze as he moved off after Swanson and Marguerite, who stood at the far end of the room looking up at a portrait.
Happy’s plump hands clutched Annie’s. “Annie, oh, Annie.” She might have just sighted a diamond necklace. “You are so lovely, so dear. I can’t tell you how much it means to Pudge to have found you after all these years.”
Annie stared into eyes brimming with well-meaning, but already flitting past Annie to watch Marguerite Dumaney and Emory Swanson as they gazed at the portrait that hung over a fireplace fit for a baronial hall. “Oh dear, that man. Oh, I wish I knew what to do. I am so afraid of what may happen. Marguerite is so vulnerable.”
Annie’s automatic defensiveness about her father and his late arrival in her life slipped away as she felt the tension in Happy’s tight grip and heard the quaver in Happy’s sweet, light voice.
“Your sister seems remarkably capable of taking care of herself.” Annie’s tone was dry as she disentangled her hands from Happy’s moist grip.
“Oh, Annie”—Happy leaned near as if they had been confidantes for a lifetime—“you simply don’t understand. Marguerite, of course, is brilliant, simply brilliant. And she is so beautiful. But don’t you think beauty can be a curse?” She looked earnestly at Annie. “It has always set her apart—”
Annie felt confident egotism and selfishness were likely more responsible than beauty, but she found herself nodding in agreement.
“—and made her so lonely. Of course, she was passionately in love with Claude. That explains so much about Marguerite. Nothing mattered but that she should have him. Nothing and nobody was going to stand in her way. And of course she got him. Marguerite always gets what she wants. But Claude never loved her as much as he loved the boys’ mother. That was Ellen, you know—”
Unfamiliar names and old emotions swirled around Annie like no-see-ums on a summer day, impossible to escape, uncomfortable to experience.
“—and I always thought Ellen died of a broken heart. Of course, everyone had warned her not to marry Claude. She was just a girl. Seventeen, I think. And she met him at a dinner party at her own house. Her father was an actor and Claude was going to produce his next film. Claude and Ellen ran way and got married not even a month later. Oh, her parents were so upset. Claude was that kind of man, you know, so attractive to women and always ruthless.” Happy shivered. “That’s where families have a responsibility. To make sure impressionable young girls don’t get carried away by their—well, children know so much about sex these days. It’s just dreadful what they see on television, and some of them having babies when they are just thirteen or fourteen…”
Annie blinked. A swarm of no-see-ums would seem controlled and directed in contrast to Happy.
Happy’s round face looked suddenly mulish and determined. “…I simply won’t let Rachel ruin her life. I won’t do it.”
“Rachel?” Annie looked toward the Christmas-bright arbor.
Rachel glared out of the shadow, her frown a sad contrast to the holiday’s lights.
“Even Marguerite is right sometimes.” Happy followed this obscure pronouncement with a decided head shake. “It’s not that working-class people aren’t perfectly wonderful. Of course they are. But Mike’s too old for Rachel. Why, he’s nineteen! And if he were truly nice, he wouldn’t take advantage of a girl who is really still just a baby, now, would he?” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I am so upset. And to have Rachel be so ugly—I don’t know what’s gotten into her. And Pudge. Well, he isn’t actually her father, though you’d think he was to hear him talk. Now, I’m sorry, Annie, but you might as well know that Pudge has quite a temper. However, I told him and I told Rachel, I will not permit this to continue…”
Not actually her father…
Nor Annie’s.
Annie didn’t want to think about Rachel and Pudge and Rachel’s apparently unwise romance with a boy named Mike. She looked toward Max, seeking rescue, but he was deep in conversation with Wayne Ladson, who stood with his hands in his pockets, talking to Max while watching his stepmother and Dr. Swanson.
From the sanctuary of the indoor arbor, Rachel’s dour gaze focused unwaveringly on her mother. Pudge talked earnestly with Joan, who had a slight flush on her pale face and looked more relaxed. Alice checked the time on her wristwatch. Terry continued to eye Annie with interest. Donna stood with her arms folded, her hard face petulant, her eyes intent on Marguerite and Emory Swanson. The aging actress and her attentive companion continued to look up at the portrait. Marguerite’s hands reached out as if in appeal.
Annie sipped her ginger ale and peered down the long room. “Is she talking to the portrait?”
Happy’s face drooped. “I’m afraid so, yes, I’m afraid so. That is, Marguerite claims she’s talking to Claude and she’s very insistent. Absolutely insists they are speaking to reach other. Just as if he were…here.” Happy smoothed back a tendril of hair. “Oh, it’s such a worry. At first I was glad she’d met Dr. Swanson. She seemed so excited. And then”—Happy’s voice skittered higher—“I found out that he encourages her in the wildest, the most extraordinary ideas. Marguerite believes that she and Claude—that Claude comes—Oh, I don’t know whether she claims actually to see him, but she talks about the crystal path and how easy it is to travel and all it needs is effort and, of course, guidance. That’s where he”—the pronoun was sharp and Happy’s face tightened in a scowl as she pointed toward Swanson—“comes in. He’s the guide. That’s what he says, that he is simply the guide, that each person experiences the reality of an expanded universe in an individual manner. I think that’s just so much nonsense…”
Annie agreed, but Marguerite Dumaney was definitely animated, her haggard face uplifted. She was engaged in a passionate conversation, but not with the man who stood so protectively at her side. A conversation, by definition, requires at least two persons. A conversation is an exchange of speech. Yet Emory Swanson, his silvered head bent, was silent, his lips closed while Marguerite talked and listened, talked and listened, head tilting coquettishly, lips stretching in an adoring smile. Annie’s spine crinkled the way it did when she read a Douglas Clegg horror novel.
“…and I told him so.” Happy tugged at the neck of her pearl-encrusted pink sweater as if the collar choked her.
Annie realized she’d missed a spate of invective. It wasn’t hard to catch up. “I’m sorry. What did you tell Swanson?” Perhaps it was as chilling to watch Emory Swanson as Marguerite. His pleasant expression and relaxed stance were so at variance with a normal response to a conversation that simply could not be occurring. Did he hear Claude speaking? Surely not. But if he didn’t, his acceptance of Marguerite’s behavior was unconscionable. Annie decided she would ask him at her first opportunity.
“I told Dr. Swanson he’d better be careful. If he keeps up this nonsense, there’s no telling what Marguerite may do. Why, she was talking at one point about selling everything and using the money to go to the desert and build a huge monument of Claude’s face. Now, Claude loved himself better than anybody else, except maybe Ellen, but even he would think that was a waste. Claude was…” A tiny flush mounted in her plump cheeks. “Well, I don’t want to be vulgar, but Claude was definitely a natural man and he just immersed himself in food and drink and sex. Why, Claude would think a stone face in the desert was silly. And Marguerite”—Happy’s voice was suddenly firm—“has family responsibilities. And that reminds me”—she fluttered her hands—“I’d better see to dinner. Marguerite likes for everyone to be seated by eight.” She squeezed Annie’s elbow. “Perhaps we can talk some more after dinner. About you and Pudge. Dear Pudge. He is simply the sweetest man and I want you to know that, even though I am simply furious with him right this minute,” and she turned and pattered away.
As Happy scurried around the arbor, heading for an archway flanked by palms, Rachel glowered.
Obviously, Rachel and Pudge were in Happy’s doghouse. Annie glanced toward her father. Pudge slumped alone on a cobalt sofa, his face weary, gently stroking a calico cat curled in his lap. Annie tried to control the glad little quiver in her heart that Pudge liked cats, too. But liking cats wasn’t enough. She forced herself to look away. The conversational groups had shifted. Max was moving toward Emory Swanson. Wayne Ladson intercepted Marguerite as she drifted dreamily toward him. Alice stood beside a huge gong next to the palm-framed archway. Mistletoe dangled from the center of the arch. A few feet away, Terry’s face no longer looked genial. He looked, in fact, like a man who’d like to fashion a particularly unpleasant end for the charming Dr. Swanson. Donna flashed her brother a warning glance. Joan looked everywhere in the room except toward her ex-husband.
Annie’s nose wrinkled in distaste. It appeared their hostess intended to spend the evening chatting with her dead husband. Annie would have walked out the door except this was why Max had come, to see the crystal man in action. Annie didn’t want to have a damn thing to do with Marguerite Dumaney and her peculiar beliefs.
Annie looked again toward her father. Her gaze slipped across the shadowy indoor arbor. Rachel huddled beneath the arch of greenery, withdrawn, sullen, miserable. Annie hesitated. Obviously, Pudge and Rachel had made Happy mad. Was it any business of Annie’s if Rachel and her mom had a fight? None, of course.
Annie looked toward Rachel. Rachel’s lips quivered. Annie stared into sad, angry eyes and walked toward the twinkling Christmas lights of the arbor.