Geoff was left to stare bemused at the back of the powerfully built man. Fear God. Honor the King, he reminded himself, and shrugged. Besides, he had nothing better to do. Why not a swim?
Four hours later Geoff was pulling into the cobblestone drive of Jim Fain's estate and wondering why he was letting himself be dragged around like a friendly puppy by different members of the Fain family. Since the war he'd lost his ability to exert himself, he knew, but lately he was beginning to feel as if part of his brain had been blown away along with part of his right side. Absolutely nothing stimulated him anymore. He found no thrill in sports, in poetry, in music—in the few things which gave him an occasional spark of pleasure after his injury. There was the very sexy interlude aboard the liner with Lotsy; for a day or two his juices flowed and he began to have hope. But by now he'd forgotten what all the fuss was about. There were no Lotsy's in Newport. He stood at the beautifully polished oak door waiting to be admitted, uttering a silent prayer that Jim Fain had called ahead.
No such luck. Mrs. Fain wasn't even in, which made his position even more awkward. Geoff began immediately to backpedal before the housemaid, but she laughed and said, "Mr. Fain does this all the time. We never know who's corning next. I think a robber could wander in off the street and we'd treat him just the same—stick him in a bedroom and show him all the silver. Do you have a bag in your car? I'll send someone after it."
Not long after that Geoff had dipped into the kidney-shaped pool that lay adjacent to the house. His temper had cooled along with his body temperature; the prohibited martini tasted as close to the English version—straight vermouth—as he could hope and finished off the job of mellowing his foul mood. Mergate was a dandy place, and the nicest thing about it was that there was no one in it but him. He sighed happily and closed his eyes.
He must have dozed off, because the water that was sprinkled on him felt joltingly cold on his sun-warmed body. He jumped and his eyes opened.
"Ah. Miss Fain."
Who else?
"Afternoon, Mr. Seton. I looked out my studio window and there you were. Thought I'd come by and be neighborly."
Amanda was wearing a kind of smock, and he thought she did look rather arty: no makeup, hair pinned back away from her face, dirty fingernails. She had freckles, which surprised him, and her lips were not as full as when they were painted. Her square jaw looked squarer than ever, but it was her gypsy eyes that held his attention most: as dark as the pupils were, that's how white the whites were. He thought of the pale, bloodshot eyes of her brother David and wondered which of the two siblings belonged to the milkman. No one in the Fain family looked like anyone else.
"That's your studio?" he asked, nodding toward the handsome carriage house close by.
"One of them. I only do gas-welding here, and clay work. The bigger pieces are done in a studio in Greenwich Village, which has a furnace. My father thinks I'm a fire hazard."
"I did get the impression he wasn't too keen on the line of work you chose. Maybe he's concerned for your safety."
"That's one way of looking at it. The truth is, Mother would prefer me to work with watercolors, because they're not smelly. Dad wants me to paint in oils, because he'd like his portrait done. Neither one of them wants me to run around wearing a welder's mask and asbestos gloves, obviously. They have this obsessive idea that it doesn't look feminine," she said with a straight face.
She was looking surprisingly vulnerable, and younger than when he'd seen her last, all dressed to the nines. "I have to say, I'm inclined to agree with your parents. It seems like heavy work for a g—you know, for not a man." God. One of his better fumbles.
And yes, the effect on Amanda was predictable and instantaneous. Her eyes lowered in that hex-look of hers, and her words fell on him like icy slush. "A quaint if uninspired view. But then, you are from a country that regards a woman as a versatile form of plowhorse."
"Tsk. Mother wouldn't be pleased to think so."
She tacked over to the other side. "No one's home. May I ask why you're here?"
"Why not? I've asked myself the same question. I have an impression—only that—that your father means to offer me a job over dinner."
"Oh God, not that liaison shit again!"
"What liaison shit is that?" he asked pleasantly. How she had the power to irritate!
"He has this idea that he's too gruff, too unpolished, to deal with trans-Atlantic clients. It started with Lipton. My father is always saying 'Howzzat?' and 'Come again?' to the man, and he has this idea that he needs a kind of translator, which is ridiculous. And of course, he's ashamed of his rough ways, which is also ridiculous. He is what he is."
"Absolutely. It's absurd to be defensive."
"Now you're making fun of me!" she said instantly.
It was hard not to smile but he managed it. The whole family was nuts. "Do you dress for dinner around here?' he asked, changing the subject.
"No—we go in naked," she snapped, and spun on her heel, heading for the carriage house.
****
Eight o'clock rolled around, but without Jim Fain. To Geoff there seemed poetic justice in being stood up by a host who'd badgered him in the first place into accepting an invitation against his will, so he smiled as if he didn't feel in the least like a fool and resolved to carry off the dinner conversation, single-handedly if necessary.
He tried Mrs. Fain first. The woman clearly would have preferred a toasted cheese sandwich in the kitchen with her help over a game of mah-jongg, but she was holding down her end of the table well enough, with only a soulful glance at her husband's empty chair every once in a while.
"Your husband has quite an impressive facility in New London," Geoff said politely.
"Oh, yes," Mrs. Fain said breathlessly. "It frightens me to death to be there."
"Ma, everything frightens you to death," said David, whose mood had not improved since that afternoon.
"Well, it's so noisy. I'm sure I can't hear myself think."
"I'm sure, too," agreed David.
"David, shut up," said his sister.
Geoff beamed a bright smile around the table. "The pork chops are delicious."
"Why are those Bolshies hanging around the gate, anyway? I don't suppose you had anything to do with it," said David to Amanda. "It's made Dad hell to be around."
"Which you never are, so why do you care?"
"Why don't you let him just do what he has to do, without making trouble for everyone? Give the guy a break. He's worked his ass off since MacWright died, getting the yard right—"
"He killed Uncle Mac, and you know it."
"Come on! They had an argument over whether to take a commission from Russia for a fleet of torpedo boats. A mere difference of opinion! It was no reason to go off and have a heart attack. We weren't in the war then; business is business. MacWright never should've turned it down without checking with Dad first. They were partners, for God's sake! At least he should've checked!"
"Uncle Mac didn't want to be part of the war machine. Why should he? He was the kindest, gentlest man I ever knew. All he wanted was to build beautiful boats."
"Which he wasn't doing at the time. There was no business and the yard was on its last legs. How do you think Dad got in so cheap? And Mac wasn't our uncle, so cut it out. Stop acting like a baby."
"You hated Uncle Mac, ever since the day he showed me how to weld instead of you! You have this thing about sibling rivalry, just because I'm older—"
"Rivalry! You're a girl! Rivalry! Why they ever let you learn to read—someday I'm gonna go to Europe and pull out every hair in Freud's beard. I've had it with you and Freud and Bolshies!"
"What're you up to, David?" she asked suspiciously. "Since when are you on the side of the work ethic?"
"Give it a rest, Amanda," he growled. "You're on thin ice yourself."
Geoff hadn't bothered to redirect the conversation, or look at the ceiling, or cut his food with extra care. No, he was falling right in with the beat of things at Mergate. After all, Mrs. Fain didn't seem put out; why should he? He settled back in his chair and watched. Fain family living was definitely a spectator sport. Even when a long, strained silence ensued Geoff did not feel really uncomfortable. He had begun, like them, to believe he was invisible.
Amanda took a long time to chew and swallow a bite of pork chop. Then she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, placed it carefully back on her lap, and said clearly, "Father killed Uncle Mac as sure as if he shot him with a gun, and I'll never, ever forgive him."
Geoff decided that he was feeling uncomfortable after all.
The phone rang and Mrs. Fain jumped up. "That's your Pa."
Geoff felt glad for her. She wanted so badly to have something to say. The silence during her absence was more expectant than sullen; neither brother nor sister seemed to bear a grudge. He thought of his own brother and wondered whether Henry had ever felt he was competing against him. If so, Henry had won, hands down: great job, beautiful fiancée, money to come. All Geoff had was the prospect of Seton Place, and that, he hadn't earned.
Mrs. Fain returned; her eyes, so pale, so gentle, were filled with tears. "Your Pa is in the precinct station, signing a statement against those picketers. He says he's had about all he can stand."
"It's not against the law to picket!" cried Amanda, shaken.
"It is if someone throws a stone through a window," her mother said.
"I hope they throw away the key," added David. "Why are you crying, Ma? Dad's not in jail."
Amanda stood up. "I've got to go."
David got up too. "I'm supposed to meet someone, Ma. We shouldn't have started dinner so late."
Mrs. Fain sat down as her children left the room. "Well, your Pa does call beforehand when he can't make it."
The maid stuck her head in. "You folks done or not?"
Mrs. Fain rose. "I'd better talk to cook about Pa's dinner." She moved toward the kitchen door, and out.
That left Geoff, alone and apparently still invisible, at the beautifully set table. He looked around at the empty chairs and sighed. Then, on a whim, he lifted an exquisitely painted, gold-trimmed plate high above his head and read the mark underneath. As he thought: Meissen.