Crossroads (11 page)

Chapter Fourteen

T
he party was in full swing. And Gwen was floating somewhere above all the chatter and the music from the band and the clinking of dishes and glasses. Nothing could get to her, not even a scolding from Cassie—which had occurred a few minutes earlier when Jewel Fairchild and Patsy Allen had walked in and handed the butler Gwen’s handwritten invitation.

“What possessed you?” Cassie had demanded.

“I ran into her and I thought it would be polite,” Gwen said lamely.

“She’s a horrible person.”

And because Cassie was so adamant about it, Gwen heard herself say, “She’s not all that bad. She did my hair for tonight.”

“She did what? How? Where, for heaven’s sake?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Why on earth did you let her do that when I tried for three weeks to convince you to go to Charles? Sometimes I don’t understand you. . . .”

“I know.”

“And while we’re on the subject, why did you decide to change your dress after we spent so much time picking out the green one?”

“I thought this looked nice.”

“I’m not saying it doesn’t, but where did you get it? I can tell it’s old, and it’s not something that’s been in our family, so why did you . . . Good lord, is that woman giving out business cards?” And sure enough, Patsy Allen was handing a Times Past card to a woman in a gown with huge puffed sleeves. Cassie drew in a deep breath and Gwen prepared herself for a lecture, but fortunately a woman wearing way too much rouge broke into their private moment to say, “Cassie, dear, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Go ahead, Mother,” Gwen said heartily.

Cassie murmured, “Later, Gwendolyn.” Then she allowed herself to be led away.

Gwen was free to retreat to the sidelines and watch the crowd in front of her. And to see the effect that Jewel was having on the guests at her birthday party. Because Jewel was getting second—and third—looks everywhere she went. She was spectacular in a strapless charmeuse gown that was the same violet blue as her eyes and clung to her curves in a way that left nothing to the imagination. Her dark hair gleamed in the lantern light, her ruby lips formed a perpetual smile, and everywhere men were sneaking glances at her, or not even bothering to sneak and indulging in long besotted stares. Several had found an excuse to leave the women they’d been talking to and had managed to put themselves in Jewel’s path as she strolled across the lawn. For a moment Gwen remembered another birthday party long ago that had been hijacked by a girl who was prettier than she, and old feelings, bitter and resentful, flooded over her. But then she remembered the movie house in Tyler where they showed art films in foreign languages, and the feelings melted away. Let Jewel have all the attention she could get. Tonight, Gwen could afford to be generous.

*                           *                           *         

The party—Jewel’s chance to break into the magic circle of the rich—was not turning out to be very magical after all. She kept her wide, friendly smile plastered on her face, but she was getting discouraged. Oh, she was getting plenty of interest—she always did. But she’d been around long enough to know the right kind of interest from the kind that never produced anything more than a minor piece of jewelry. Or a lot of broken promises about leaving the wife and children. Not that she’d ever been dumb enough to fall for that. The problem was, she was still an outsider here, even with Gwen Wright’s scribbled invitation in her tiny clutch bag. Rich preppies weren’t stupid, at least not when it came to spotting their own, and it only took a minute for them to realize she wasn’t one of them. No matter how vague she tried to be about her background, or how much she tried to suggest that she and Gwen had known each other forever, most of the men who had found an excuse to talk to her had melted away—usually with regret—after a few minutes of light but unfortunately revealing conversation. The ones who had lingered in spite of the revealing conversation were interested in the kind of relationship that wasn’t going to be any use to her. A girl who looked the way she did developed a sixth sense about that kind of thing. Still, she was here and she might as well make the most of it. She fluffed her hair off her shoulders and smiled at a man who was staring at her; he had to be in his sixties if he was a day.

And that was when she saw the latecomer. His long face was becomingly tanned, and although his features were ordinary there was something about him that made you look twice. He was older than she, but not “old-old.” His striped tie was of the sort called “regimental”—although she was not sure what that meant, except that, in a vague way, it was connected with something important. And at a party where most of the men were wearing light-colored suits or pastel blazers, that tie and his navy blue jacket made him stand out. Like the rest of the men present he called to her mind an advertisement of some long-established shop for men who carry tennis racquets or are mounted on handsome horses. But while he was definitely upper-class, in some way Jewel couldn’t quite describe, he was different from the others. She watched him as he walked onto the patio and stood scanning the scene in front of him. He wasn’t looking for anyone, that was clear; if he had any friends here he wasn’t in a hurry to find them. He slid his hands into his pockets and leaned up against the back wall of the house as if he might stay there all night. But for all of his casual pose, there was something coiled and slightly dangerous about him. Even from halfway across the lawn, Jewel could sense it. She was wondering if she wanted to try to work her way over to him, when Walter Amburn came up to greet him and lead him to Cassie and Gwen.

*                           *                           *         

“Gwen, Cassie, this is Jeff Henry.” Walter introduced the man who had come more than fashionably late to the party. At least, Gwen knew that was what Cassie would be thinking.

Sure enough, when she held out her hand to shake his, she said, “So glad you could make it, Mr. Henry.”

If he picked up on the frost in her tone, it didn’t phase him. “So am I, Mrs. Wright,” he said cheerfully, and went on to wish Gwen a happy birthday.

There’s something about him,
Gwen thought as she thanked him.
He’s like a pirate. One with sandy blond hair and good taste in
clothes, but still there’s something a little uncivilized about him.

“Jeff is interested in buying my painting of the little girl on the rooftop,” Walter said.

That was a surprise. Walter had made his reputation with the portraits he did on commission, but he also painted his own works—many of them considered to be of museum quality. The painting he was talking about was a delicate, shadowy piece, a picture of a child sitting on the roof of one of the rundown bungalows near the river, with storm clouds above her and gray water behind her. Gwen couldn’t imagine it appealing to the swashbuckler standing in front of her. Clearly, there was more to Mr. Jeff Henry than one saw at first glance. You’d always have to be careful around him, she decided. You’d never be quite sure what was going through his mind. And suddenly, a vision of Stanley popped into her mind. She remembered what she’d thought of him, that there was nothing hidden or secretive about him. She remembered how tired she was of secrets and not knowing where you were with people.

And then she realized that she and her mother and Walter no longer had Jeff Henry’s undivided attention. Something had caught his eye. Gwen was pretty sure what it was, but she looked in the direction of his gaze anyway. Jewel was standing under a lantern—one of the lanterns Stanley had strung up earlier that day. Gwen felt herself smiling at the memory of him standing in front of her awkwardly holding his glass of lemonade, trying to decide if he should sit or stand. You could count on a man who was that transparent, she thought. And a few minutes later, when Jeff excused himself, she really wasn’t irritated when she saw him making his way toward Jewel.

*                           *                           *         

Jewel looked longingly toward the front of the house where she knew there was an attendant was waiting to retrieve the guests’ cars when they wanted to leave the party. Just a few hours earlier she’d been giddy at the thought of being at an event where they had valet parking. Now all she wanted to do was get the hell out. She’d played this night all wrong—she could see that now. What she should have done, or at least tried to do, was make friends with the women. They were the ones who ruled this world; they decided who was going to get the stamp of approval and who wasn’t. The men followed them. But you didn’t make friends with women by wearing a mantrap dress and the sexiest perfume you could buy. On the other hand, she’d never had much luck making friends with women no matter what she was wearing, so there probably hadn’t been any right way for her to play this night. Maybe Pop was right—if you were under it when you started out you were doomed to stay that way for the rest of your life. She didn’t care anymore. She just wanted to go home and sleep for a month. Unfortunately she was going to have to wait a while longer because Patsy wasn’t ready to go yet. Patsy was her ride for the night because Jewel’s twelve-year-old clunker was back in the shop. Again. Just add it to the list.

Jewel walked to the side of the lawn where there were two lacy iron chairs under some trees, and carefully wiped the seat of one before she sat. Her violet blue dress that had been such a mistake was on loan from Times Past, and Patsy would be upset if she got even a smudge on it. She lowered herself into the chair and closed her eyes with relief—it was the first time she’d allowed herself to sit since she’d arrived. Her feet were killing her.

“Mind if I join you?” asked a masculine voice. She looked up to see the man in the navy blue jacket.

If she hadn’t been so tired, she might have tried to flirt. But she’d finished with that for the night. “No, I don’t mind,” she said. He sat next to her and they looked out at the party in silence.

“Forgive me if I’m presuming,” he said finally. “But I don’t think you’re having a very good time.”

“I don’t belong here,” she said. The words just slipped out and after they did she could have kicked herself. Because now he would have to say something like, “What are you talking about?” or “Why, you’re the prettiest girl here.” And she would have to find some clever lighthearted way to explain herself.

“I know what you mean,” he said. “I don’t belong, either.”

“Of course you do!” The words slipped out again. “You’re one of them.”

“No,” he said, looking thoughtfully out at the party-goers. “I’m not in this league.” Then he added softly as if he’d forgotten she was there, “Not yet, anyway.”

There was something about the way he said it that piqued her curiosity. She forgot about her aching feet and her bruised feelings. She forgot how tired she was, and sat up to look at him.“You dress the right way, you speak the right way, I bet you went to one of those schools that are right . . . and you’re probably married to the right kind of wife.”

“Don’t have one,” he broke in.

“Okay, but I know I’m correct about the rest of it, so what are you talking about?”

He turned to her with a slightly twisted little smile. “Money. I’m talking about money, of course. What else?”

*                           *                           *         

Why the hell am I telling her this?
Jeff wondered to himself. But he knew why. There was something electric about this girl; even now, when she was obviously down about something, he could feel the energy in her. He looked at her lovely oval face, and her attractive mouth with its remarkably white teeth and her open, friendly smile that lit up her extraordinary eyes. So many women held no surprises, but every instinct he had said this one was different. Well, be honest, it wasn’t a matter of instinct; she’d already proven she was different with this very unusual conversation.

And then she proved it again. “Are you saying you’re poor?” she demanded. “Because I don’t believe it.”

He laughed at that, and she joined in. “I guess ‘poor’ is a relative term,” he said. “If you’re talking about the Wright family, and most of the people here tonight, I’m barely getting by. If you’re talking about the people I grew up with, I’m doing fine.” He paused, and then he said in a mock bragging tone, “I can even afford to buy a Walter Amburn painting. Of course I have to pay in installments, but I can do it.”

“But you don’t want to pay in installments,” she said. She was studying him carefully. The attention was actually rather pleasant.

“No. I think I’m going to be all right with it, but then I come to a house like this and . . .”

“You come to a house like this, and . . . what?” she prompted him.

What am I doing?
he thought.
I don’t talk this way to friends and
I don’t even know her.
But she was so pretty. And so different.

“I want,” he confessed. “Want everything. It’s embarrassing to admit, but . . .”

“Why?”

“I make a decent living, I work in a brokerage house. I own my own home, a house on Warren Street. It’s a good enough address. . . .”