Sooner or Later (10 page)

He slept well, and the next morning, feeling better than he had in years, he swam several laps, then enjoyed a late breakfast.

He eyed the attractive young woman lounging by the pool, speculatively. She was small and very slender and her dark hair was cut in shaggy bangs. As he watched, a nanny in a white uniform appeared, holding the hand of a little girl around five years old. She had curly red hair and blue eyes.

Buck’s heart missed a beat. His hand began to shake and the glass of orange juice crashed to the ground.

The waiter came running. He eyed Buck’s ashen face and said, alarmed, “Are you feeling all right, sir?”

Buck’s glazed eyes shifted to the waiter’s worried face.

“I asked if you’re all right, sir.”

Buck waved him away, impatiently. “I knocked the glass over, that’s all. Just clear it up.”

He never took his eyes off the child. Time had stopped, and he was looking at little Ellie Parrish Duveen.

“Margaux, come here, darling.” The illusion broke as the child ran to her mother, and he shook his head, letting out the breath that seemed to have stayed captured in his chest for an eternity. Sweat trickled down his back. For a minute, he’d believed it was her. Exactly the way she was the last time he’d seen her. A little red-haired, freckled kid, rigid with terror, clutching the arms of the big antique Chinese chair while the guards held him
down at her grandmother’s feet. A little red-haired freckled girl who stood in the way of everything he wanted.

The metal chair scraped harshly against the cement as he pushed it back and strode to the pool. He stood on the edge for a second, forcing himself to take deep breaths before he dived in. The cool water soothed his fevered senses, and he swam laps slowly for ten minutes before drying off and heading back to his room.

The waiter watched him go. “Thought for a minute there we’d have to send for the paramedics,” he said to himself. “Thank God he saved the heart attack for somebody else’s shift, not mine.”

Buck felt better after a shower. He told himself he’d lost his grip, something he could not afford to do. It was ridiculous to think that Ellie Parrish Duveen still looked like a red-haired little kid. Besides, there must be thousands of little girls like that in California. He had to keep control of himself.

His reflection in the mirror reassured him that he was doing all right. He looked good, he looked the role, and best of all, he did not look like Buck Duveen.

With his new luggage in the BMW’s trunk, “Ed Jensen” drove up the coast. In Montecito, he swept grandly up the driveway of the Four Seasons Biltmore, handed the convertible to a valet, checked into an ocean-view room, then strolled into the bar and bought himself a double bourbon, to celebrate.

Excitement stirred in him like sexual exhilaration as he looked around the familiar rooms. He’d been here before, but then he was humbler, less confident. Poorer.

He liked this rich life, it fitted him like a glove. When the Parrish money was his, he could afford to stay at the Biltmore for months. Forever, if he so desired. After all,
he deserved it. He’d waited twenty long years. A whole fuckin’ lifetime.

He relaxed in his comfortable chair, sipping the excellent bourbon, gazing out over the serene blue ocean. His plan was under way. At last.

I
T WAS
M
ONDAY AFTERNOON AND, AS USUAL
, M
ISS
L
OTTIE
was waiting for Ellie. Today was her birthday, and Maria had helped her choose the lilac floral dress with the matching little bolero jacket. Maria told her she’d had it for donkey’s years, though to Miss Lottie, it was as good as new because she didn’t remember seeing it before.

She was wearing her pearls, which were exactly like Ellie’s, the ones Miss Lottie had given her own daughter, Romany, on the occasion of her eighteenth birthday. She also had on her diamond rings and a scatter of old brooches, and the Vacheron gold watch she’d bought in Switzerland on one of their grand tours of Europe in the thirties, just before the terrible war.

“Something’s wrong with you,” Maria had said to her, this morning, when she brought her breakfast in bed and Miss Lottie mentioned the war again. “You seem to remember only the bad things that happened.”

“I do not,” she’d replied indignantly, attacking her boiled egg with a silver spoon.
“I
remember good things
too. I always know when Ellie’s coming. And when Bruno needs to take his pills.”

The old Labrador rested his big head on the coverlet, his eyes fixed on the silver toast rack. Miss Lottie slathered a piece of toast with imported French butter, unsalted the way she liked it, and held it out to him. Bruno dropped it, butter side down, onto the carpet, an antique Aubusson, pale green covered with curlicues, roses and lilies. He ate it, then licked at the butter stain.

“It’s nothing,” Miss Lottie said guiltily, catching Maria’s exasperated glare. “Only butter.”

Bruno had two more bits of toast after that. She knew butter wasn’t good for him and only made him fat, but she figured when you were as old as she and Bruno, a little fat didn’t matter. Being happy did, even if the happiness was a small piece of toast.

But now, sitting out on the terrace waiting for Ellie, she was thinking about Europe again. She could remember that trip as clearly as a movie. The places they’d visited, the grand hotels on the Italian and Swiss lakes, the dresses she’d bought in Paris.

She sighed, regretfully, pushing back the green celluloid visor. She’d been a young woman then and had thought life would never change. That it would always be carefree and happy. Never imagining that she would be forced to live through the tragedy of the death of her daughter in the automobile accident.

Whenever that image crossed her mind, which it did frequently, she wondered why her brain had chosen to retain it when it had rejected so many other memories that were pleasant. But she knew she would take it to her grave, though she had no recollection of the events afterward. Not even of the funeral, though she knew there must have been one. And only the fact that she’d had to
raise her granddaughter had kept her from tumbling into a bottomless pit of despair.

Images of the young Ellie flickered through Miss Lottie’s mind in quick succession. The laughing child with her father’s flaming red hair and large feet, and her mother’s beautiful misty blue eyes. Ellie, six years old in a pink tutu, tripping over those feet in a clumsy pirouette, but she knew Ellie had
felt
as beautiful as a ballerina, and that was what mattered. Eight-year-old Ellie on horseback, taking a tumble and refusing to cry, even though they found later she had broken her arm. And the school essay she had written, tided “My Parents,” saying proudly that her grandmother was both her mother and her father, and she was sure she was better than everybody else’s put together. Then there was homecoming, and high school graduation, and the long dresses and all the parties. And then college.

She remembered Ellie and Maya on the red Harley and how she’d laughed about it later, though of course she never told Ellie that. Ellie had needed to learn a tough lesson: that nothing good comes without hard work, especially a college degree.

Then there had been the boyfriends, and the house full of young people. It had given her a new lease on life just when she ought to have been considering slowing down and maybe taking a world cruise, along with the other old ladies. But not a chance, not with a live wire like Ellie around.

Miss Lottie smiled, glad that not everything had been expunged from her faulty mind, and she still had a few treasured memories to sustain her. She thought that, after all, Ellie was like Romany. She had her mother’s zest for life, and love, and her offbeat beauty. She only hoped she would be happy too.

“Hi, Miss Lottie. Here I am.”

Ellie bounded up the steps to the terrace and Miss Lottie checked the Vacheron. “And almost on time, for once in your life. Whatever happened?”

“Your birthday, that’s what.” She knelt on the marble tiles and put her arms round her. “Happy, happy, happy, darling Miss Lottie. Many happy returns.
Feliz cumpleaños, bon anniversaire
… oh, just the happiest of birthdays in every language you can think of.”

“Feliz Navidad,”
Miss Lottie suggested helpfully.

“Happy Christmas, too, Gran, if you like.”

Miss Lottie threw back her head, laughing at her own silly mistake, and for a fraction of second, Ellie saw the girl she must have been.

“I may not always get it right these days”—Miss Lottie smiled—“but it’s close enough.”

“So, why are you wearing the eyeshade? Uh-uh, don’t tell me you’ve been at the computer again, shifting stocks around and losing your shirt.”

“Nothing so vulgar, dear. Besides, I’m not sure I have any stocks to shift around, or a shirt to lose. I just like to play with it. It’s fascinating you know, what you can do on that machine. Why, it even talks back to you, and it leaves little messages. E-mail, they call it. Or maybe it’s the Internet?”

“You’ve been surfing the Internet?” Ellie’s jaw dropped. “How on earth did you learn to do that?”

“The young man showed me. He was very competent, he knew his stuff, all right. I found it quite easy, and it’s so amusing, making new friends, chatting to them on the machine. It’s more amusing than the television programs. All violence and sex.”

“Miss Lottie, you should wash your mouth out with soap at once. That word has never passed your lips before.”

“Oh really? Then how d’you suppose Romany got
here? Via the cabbage patch? Don’t be ridiculous, Ellie, of course I know all about sex. A lady doesn’t talk about it, that’s all.”

Ellie’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Gran, you never fail to surprise me.”

Miss Lottie grasped her silver-topped cane for support as she got slowly to her feet. “Sometimes I surprise myself,” she said with a wicked little sidelong smile. “Now, as ladies together, you can feel free to tell me all about your sex life. Experience counts you know, when you need help.”

Ellie felt herself blushing. “Miss Lottie, I don’t know where you’re getting all this from. And anyhow, I don’t have a sex life.”

“I told you, I get it from my friends on the Internet. I act as their adviser, sort of Ann Landers, or Dear Abby, you know. And at your age, you
should
have one. You can tell me why you don’t, over tea.”

Ramming the green visor firmly over her eyes, she strode through the drawing room and into the hall. “Bye, Maria,” she called. “Bye, Bruno. See you later. And
shalom.”

Ellie laughed, but she made a mental note to check exactly what was going on on Miss Lottie’s Internet.

At the Biltmore, Buck gave the valet his keys. Humming “Dixie” happily, under his breath, he waited under the awning for his car. An old white Cadillac circled into the drive and the valet rushed to open its door, forgetting all about him. Buck watched as everyone fussed around. The manager appeared, waitresses popped their heads round the door and the reception staff thronged round.

Must be a politician, Buck thought, still humming softly. Or a movie star.

The manager was helping an old woman out of the car, smiling at her, shaking her hand. Leaning on her stick, she walked slowly toward Buck. Her faded blue eyes lingered on him.

And time seemed to stop. The blood froze in his veins. He couldn’t breathe, waiting for her to recognize him, to accuse him …

The manager took her arm. She nodded a polite good afternoon and walked slowly past him into the hotel.

Buck’s heart was pounding somewhere in his throat. Fate, efficient as FedEx, had delivered his victim to him on a plate.

He closed his eyes, his strong fingers flexing; he could almost feel her buttery flesh bruising under his grip.

“Excuse me, but are you all right?”

He opened his eyes, and looked at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

She was very tall, gracefully elegant in a sunshine-yellow dress and strappy little sandals. Her long legs were tanned and her toenails lacquered a deep coral red. And her eyes, looking into his, were a delicate pale gray-blue.

“Do you need help?” she persisted, still staring anxiously at him.

“No, no, it’s okay. I’m all right.” He pulled his wits together. “Thank you …”

“Good afternoon, then.” Her long red hair swung prettily around her shoulders as she walked away, and Buck knew he was looking at Ellie Parrish Duveen.

His heart was doing double time. A pain cleaved suddenly through his chest, making him gasp, and he pressed a hand to it, feeling his heart jumping.

“Your car, sir.” The valet had the BMW’s door open, waiting.

Buck shook his head, unable to speak. Turning away, he walked slowly back into the hotel, and sank onto a
couch, waiting for his heart to find its normal rhythm. He hadn’t been prepared for this … he’d thought he would choose the moment … his mind was in chaos.

When his pulse slowed sufficiently and the pain had lessened, he followed Ellie into the pretty high-ceilinged room overlooking the ocean, where tables were set with pink finen cloths and tea was being served. Waitresses hovered near Lottie Parrish’s table and the old lady sat there, regal as a queen, except for an old green celluloid eyeshade crammed over her eyes.

Ellie pushed back her chair and went around the table to her.

“Miss Lottie, there’s no need to wear your eyeshade. We’re indoors now.”

“I know we’re indoors, Ellie. I’m not stupid.” She glared at her granddaughter and the waitresses giggled.

Ellie ignored them. “Of course you do. And I’ll bet you know exactly what you want to order.”

“Salmon and cucumber sandwiches, hot scones with Devonshire cream and strawberry jam. And Earl Grey. No teabags, mind you. Tea simply doesn’t taste the same out of bits of paper.”

Buck had heard her voice in his dreams for what seemed like a thousand years, which it might as well have been, incarcerated as he was in that lunatic asylum. And she had not even recognized him. He wondered whether it was because of his successful new image: the dark hair instead of the red; the mustache; the dark glasses. Or whether old age had simply blotted him from her memory. He shrugged. Either way, she was as good as his.