Misfortune (32 page)

As guests started to leave and the caterer set up a lunch buffet for the more intimate group, Frances slipped up the back stairs to her old bedroom overlooking the entrance to the house. The room was neat but unchanged: two white cast-iron beds with polished knobs, comforters with pink flowers and matching sheets and shams, a painted dresser, and two small armchairs upholstered in a coordinating sage green. She opened the bureau drawers, ones that had been filled with T-shirts, bathing suits, and tennis shorts. Now they were empty except for crisp lavender-scented drawer liners and several silk sachets.

Frances pulled an armchair over to the window and sat, watching the endless line of cars snake in and out of the driveway below. She saw her mother leave, talking animatedly to Malcolm Morris, her black hat bobbing as she held on to his arm and tried to balance walking in high heels on gravel. Frances watched Malcolm help her into her car. Now he’s met the other half of my family, she thought.

Frances wandered into her father and Clio’s room, where Clio had slept alone for the last fifteen months of her life. A large four-poster wooden bed with pineapple finials faced a marble mantel. An arrangement of dried flowers filled the unused fireplace, and a pale Aubusson rug covered most of the floor in front. On either side of the bed were round tables skirted in a gold toile with vignettes of a milkmaid and a lute player on the hills of France. The right bedside table held a gilt-framed portrait of Clio as a bride. On the left was a similar frame with a formal portrait of Richard, as well as a stack of books and a portable telephone. She stayed on her side even without him there, Frances thought.

She found what she was looking for in the adjacent marbled bathroom. The orange plastic bottle labeled Nardil, the brand name for phenelzine, Clio’s prescription for 15 milligrams three times a day, sat on the bottom shelf of the medicine cabinet. The prescribing physician was a Dr. Prescott. The prescription had been filled at Columbia Presbyterian Pharmacy, 168th and Broadway. There would be no trace of it at any Southampton drugstore.

Frances returned to their bedroom and sat at Clio’s bird’s-eye maple desk. One drawer held engraved stationery, stamps, and a letter opener. The other contained several invitations, a newspaper clipping from
Town & Country
on a small town outside of Paris, France, and a leather desk diary. Frances removed the worn diary and flipped through the pages, scanning notations for cocktail parties, charity events, meetings, reminders to buy gifts or send notes. Two entries were repeated. Every Wednesday was marked
3:00—FP at CP
, each Friday noted
10:00—RC
. Clio’s code. Apparently Blair hadn’t thought to give this to Meaty on Monday, along with the business documents, or else, perhaps, she hadn’t discovered it herself.

Frances replaced the diary and closed the drawer.

Moving back toward the bed, she felt reluctant to sit down, to disturb the sanctity of the perfectly folded sheets and smooth cover, so she leaned against one of the four posts. She dialed information and got the number for Henry Lewis.

A woman’s voice answered.

“Louise? It’s Frances Pratt. I don’t know if you remember me. It’s been a while.”

“I do,” she said. Her tone was decidedly unfriendly.

“I was wondering if I could talk to you and your husband about my stepmother, Clio. I promise to keep it brief.”

“I don’t know what we have to say.”

“Look, I know what happened with your Fair Lawn membership application. You must be very angry with my father.”

“I am,” Louise said bluntly. “I wish I could excuse his bigotry, but I can’t. I don’t have much patience for it, and neither does my husband.”

“I can appreciate that.”

“Can you?” Louise’s polite tone was unnerving.

“I just need a few moments of your time.”

Frances heard a muffling sound as Louise covered the telephone. There were voices in the background, but Frances couldn’t make out what was said. Finally Louise returned to the line. “Isn’t your stepmother’s service today?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m in Southampton.”

“When did you want to talk?”

“This afternoon? In an hour or so.”

“All right. We’re on Gin Lane, the right-hand side, seven-tenths of a mile past the Beach Club. There’s a sign by the driveway. Says Lewis.”

The living room had emptied by the time Frances descended. Penny Adler lingered at the front door, and Frances watched Blair say good-bye. She thanked her for coming and added, “You must stop by our gallery this fall. We’re expanding, thanks to Dad. Our new showroom will be open by October. It’s a terrific space for a sculptor who’s just signed with us. You really must come,” Blair said.

Thanks to Dad, Frances thought, remembering the legal documents and architectural sketches that she had seen in her sister’s Miata. She wondered when Richard had become part of that deal.

“I’ve got to head back to the city,” Jake Devlin said, rolling up his shirtsleeves as he came toward Frances. He had already loosened his tie. “Wish I could stay, really I do, but the gallery beckons.” He leaned forward and lightly kissed his sister-in-law’s cheek.

“When will you be back?” Frances asked.

“Saturday morning.”

“Oh.” Frances paused for a moment, then added, “I understand you’ve got an expansion under way. That must be thrilling.”

“Yeah.” Jake nodded and looked at the floor. “Wish I could say it was my own success, but, once again, I’m thanking your father.”

“So I hear.”

Jake lifted his tired eyes and glanced at her curiously. “Richard’s been extremely generous to us. Always. Don’t think we take it for granted.”

Always? Frances wondered. Or recently? She wanted to ask Jake about the specifics of the gallery’s development and Richard’s involvement, but the end of a long funeral reception seemed hardly the appropriate forum. Her inquiries would have to wait. “I’ll see you this weekend, I’m sure,” she said.

“Great. We’ll look forward to it.” His words sounded forced.

As Blair saw the remaining guests to the door, Frances wandered into the sunroom and found her father gazing out at the lawn.

“How are you holding up?” she asked.

“I can’t imagine life without her,” he said softly. “I expected her to bury me.”

Blair appeared and sat on the floor by her father’s feet. “Everyone’s finally gone.” She rubbed his legs, as if increasing his circulation could mend his broken heart. “Quite a tribute, Daddy. There must’ve been two hundred people here at one point or another. Clio would’ve been pleased.”

Richard smiled faintly in a crooked twist of his lips. “My girls,” he murmured. “I appreciate all you’ve done.”

“Don’t be silly.” Blair looked up at him. “We love you. I just wish there was something more we could do.”

Frances watched Blair’s nimble fingers massage his frail limbs. Why did her sister have such an easy time displaying affection? Her touch seemed to reassure him, and Frances noticed her father’s hunched shoulders drop slightly.

“Fanny, I’ve been thinking,” Blair said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Maybe you should part with your ramshackle residence and move in here.”

Stunned, Frances glared at her sister.

“Just think about it.” Blair flipped her wrist in Frances’s direction. “It makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it, Dad?”

“I don’t know that Dad wants his privacy invaded by me and two dogs,” Frances said, trying to dismiss her sister’s idea. Richard Pratt didn’t respond.

“Well, I think it would benefit both of you.”

The thought of Sam flashed in Frances’s mind. She had no interest in giving up her own home and her life in Orient Point to move in with her father. She stood up, feeling suddenly more awkward than usual.

“Where are you going?” Blair sounded irritated.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Dad,” Frances said, ignoring her sister. “There’s something I have to do. It’s important.” She left quickly to avoid any further questions.

Frances drove through town, down South Main Street, and headed toward Gin Lane. More than ten years had passed since she had seen Louise Lewis. She remembered her as tall and thin, with bony knees that knocked together and a thick French braid that slapped against her back as she ran. Louise had spent a considerable amount of time at the Pratt household visiting Blair. They had built a clubhouse in one corner of the attic with an old carpet remnant, two twin mattresses, and a badly damaged Chinese screen to separate themselves from the rest of the clutter-filled space. They’d paid dues; that Frances remembered because Blair constantly reported on the sums in their treasury. Boys and Frances, as the older sister, were strictly excluded from the club, but the giggles and gossip of Blair and Louise often floated down the stairs to where Frances perched, listening.

When had Louise married? Frances had heard nothing about her engagement or wedding. Blair, Frances’s most reliable source of gossip and goings-on, had never said a word.

Louise opened the front door before Frances could knock. Hanging on either leg were two daughters, their molasses skin prominent against her white linen skirt. Each girl was dressed in a flowered sundress, ankle socks with ruffles, and red leather sandals. Frances’s eyes wandered past Louise, up the staircase curving around to her right. A kilim runner partially covered the painted wood stairs. Nine oversize drawings of blackbirds ran along the wall. The decor seemed unusual for Southampton, where floral prints with coordinated stripes and oil paintings of golf courses seemed to fill every home. This interior felt exotic.

Louise motioned for Frances to come inside.

Frances followed Louise through an elegant living room with spectacular views of the Atlantic Ocean through a pair of doors to a deck off the side. Henry Lewis sat in an Adirondack chair, reading. A tray with plastic tumblers and a pitcher of iced tea rested on a table beside him. As Louise approached, he put down his copy of the
New England Journal of Medicine
, stood up, and shook Frances’s hand.

“You’re with the Suffolk DA?” Henry asked.

“Yes.”

“Malcolm’s office. It’s a good one,” Henry said, seemingly to Louise. The two girls extricated themselves from their mother and retreated to a corner of the deck, where several Malibu Barbies with platinum hair, suntanned plastic flesh, and neon orange bikinis lay amid an array of pink plastic accessories, a Barbie dune buggy, and several miniature beach chairs.

“Barbie’s changed quite a bit since my day, I see,” Frances said awkwardly.

Louise ignored her comment. “I heard you were in New York City.”

“I was after law school.”

“When did you leave?” Louise asked.

“I moved out to Orient Point in ’92.”

“Why?”

“I’d had enough, I guess.” Frances paused. “I needed a change.” She wasn’t about to disclose the real reason. Again the image of Pietro’s elegant form flashed in her mind, along with the sensation of his earlier embrace. He had been kind to attend the memorial service; Blair was right.

“What’s it like here year-round?” Louise asked.

“Orient Point, the north fork, is different from the Hamptons. It’s less a summer community. Beautiful landscape. A pretty slow pace.” She smiled. Louise didn’t return the gesture.

“I can’t pretend that I am unhappy about Clio’s death,” said Henry, interrupting the social preliminaries.

“Henry, please.” Louise looked frightened.

“It amazes me that we’re going into the twenty-first century with people just as close-minded about race as they’ve always been. People will trust me to open their hearts up, to hold their lives in my hands, literally, but they don’t want me to play on their tennis courts.”

Frances was silent, not knowing what comment might be appropriate under the circumstances.

“My stupidity. I just wanted my kids to have the same experiences that Louise had loved as a child, including the Fair Lawn Country Club, but your father is a formidable opponent. I guess I’ll have to build my own court.” Henry laughed, breaking the tension.

Frances relaxed her shoulders, realizing as she did how tense they were.

“What is it you wanted to talk to us about?” Louise asked, handing her a filled glass of iced tea. The liquid smelled of lemon and sugar.

“I’m interested in what happened at the Membership Committee meeting on your application. I was wondering if you knew anything.”

“We weren’t privy to the details. You should talk to the committee members. Those that are around, anyway,” Henry replied.

“Can you tell me anything?”

Henry and Louise glanced at each other, as if silently deciding who would speak. Henry began. “When Louise turned twenty-five and could no longer use the club on her parents’ membership, she joined as a junior. For the first several years of our marriage, it never occurred to us to join as a family. On the rare occasions when we were out here, I used the club as her guest. Exorbitant initiation fees were something we wanted to avoid. Then last year we bought this house. Our older daughter had started playing tennis indoors in the city and really loved it. The younger one’s just about ready to take it up, too. Louise planned to spend most of the summer out here with them, so membership made sense. We indicated our intent to apply at the end of last summer, sometime shortly after Labor Day. At that point, I became what’s called a provisional member based on the overwhelming presumption that the family of a junior member will be accepted. As I understood it, my provisional membership was a formality. But in our case, the expected didn’t happen.”

“Why not?”

“The party line? Something about crowds and parking. But the truth? I’m black.” Henry snorted in disgust. “You probably noticed that. As I understand it, Clio, exercising your father’s proxy vote, threatened to blackball me. The few supporters I had managed to work an abstention so that I could try to join again, which I won’t.”

“How can you be sure race was the dispositive factor?” Frances asked. While she didn’t mean to suggest there was any valid reason to exclude the Lewises, she wondered if a heightened, though understandable, sensitivity had made Henry jump to conclusions.