The Hungry House (8 page)

Just before dawn
that second night I thought of a possible way to outwit Frank. He never rose before 11:00 a.m., at which time Margaret brought him a pot of coffee and croissants on a tray. Then, he sat in his bed for about an hour reading several papers and watching the financial channel. I could continue my office work by using Margaret as a go-between and leaving the house before Frank rose in the morning. Then, as soon as Mom was well enough, we would leave. It was a very weak plan, but it had to work.

Early Monday morning, I
went to the kitchen to speak to Margaret and found her sipping tea and working on the dinner menus and grocery shopping lists for the week.

"Hi
. Would you like a cup of coffee?" Margaret had quickly risen to pour a cup of coffee for me.

"Oh, no
. Thanks. But some tea from your pot would be really nice, if you have any left." A large teapot sat on the table, with a cozy over it.

"I've got plenty left.
" As she poured my tea, Margaret studied me appraisingly. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I have a little favor to ask you
. Would you give this folder to Frank for me? I'm going to be busy studying this afternoon--and --"

Margaret
reached out and patted my arm. "You look as if you've been pulled through a keyhole. Won't you tell me, what's wrong?"

Against my will, my
lower lip began to tremble. I pressed my lips together to try to still their trembling, but then tears began to fall.

Margaret came
to stand next to my chair and placed her hand on my shoulder. She whispered, "What's wrong? What has he done?" There was pure hatred in her eyes.

I
longed to tell her everything, but I did not know whom to trust. Margaret handed me a box of tissues.

I
wiped away my tears and tried to compose myself. "We just haven't been getting along. I think he is irritated and could use a break from me."

Margaret took
her seat. "Well, if he can't get along with you, he can't get along with anybody. But, I'll give it to him, if you wish."

"Thanks so much
. You're a Godsend."

Margaret
bent her head to read the sheet I had attached to the front of the file. I quickly left the house.

###

For weeks, I refused to answer Frank's telephone calls or voice messages. I explained to Mom that I needed to study for exams. Frank knocked on the cottage door and rang the doorbell so many times that Mom finally came to the door to inform him that he was interfering with her rest and recuperation.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

After that, Frank began to hide in his room, drinking even more than usual, so much so that he suffered horrendous hangovers each day. He eventually became so distraught that he began to examine his feelings. Of course, he still desired Vicky. And, he often imagined what it would be like to go to sleep and wake up with her in his bed.

But, as he analyzed
his anxiety about the situation, he realized that his worst fear was that he would never see her again. Life without Vicky presented him with an unimaginable future. She was the kindest and most gracious person he had ever known. In a short time, he had begun to believe that her radiant outer beauty was simply a projection of her inner nature. He could not erase from his brain the image of her face when she had looked at him after he had touched her breast. It had been contorted with revulsion, as if his touch had soiled her in some irrevocable way.

Frank began to try to make amends by sending flowers
every day. He did not have the cards addressed to Vicky for he knew she would have returned them, and he would have further outraged her. He sent roses, because he knew Vicky and her mom both loved them--two dozen-- one dozen cream colored, the other dozen pale pink. But, he realized that sending flowers would not be enough to build a bridge between them. It would take some monumental gesture on his part to do that. Day and night, he tried to think of what he should do. He knew that he only kept her tied to him because her mother needed the medical care he was providing. But he wanted to see her; he needed to see her.

He tried to think:
what does she like?
 
He knew that she loved both books and films. One day, he had a sudden inspiration. He went online, searching through the authors currently on contract in the book publishing side of the family holdings. It took him a day to go through their biographies and look at the first few pages of their books on Amazon.com. None of them would appeal to Vicky. There was no one like Pat Conroy, Frank McCourt, or Russell Banks. She read current authors voraciously but only certain types.

Next,
he turned to their film production studio. After thinking about it for a few minutes, he decided that she would be more impressed with a director than with an actor. He began researching the directors his family's film company had worked with in the past. One name jumped out at him--John Edwards. He knew that she repeatedly viewed one of the director's most recent films entitled
The Estate,
which was a satire of the typical lifestyle of English country gentry in the first half of the twentieth century. The director was notorious in the Hollywood community and elsewhere for his eccentricity and avoidance of publicity. But, he was scheduled to direct another film for Lakeview Studios, which was publicly traded, but Frank's family held most of the stocks.

He wondered: h
ow can I get him out here?
The man lived in Bel Air. He paced the library floor and thought. And drank more Scotch. Why would such a man want to come to Portland, Oregon? Frank again looked on the internet and discovered that the screenwriter for the project lived in Portland. Now all I have to do is convince little brother to help me. Then, he changed his mind thinking if I ask him for a favor, he'll turn me down flat.

Finally
, Frank decided to take the risk and telephoned his brother Eddie first thing in the morning, at least for Frank, 11:15 a.m.

His assistant answered,
"He's in a meeting. May I ask who's calling?"

"His brother Frank."

"
Oh! Y
es, of course, Mr. Armstrong. Is there any message?"

"No
. Just have him call me."

That night Eddie
called. His voice sounded stiff and guarded. "Hi Frank. Is everything all right?"

"Yes
. Everything's fine. I just happened to remember that the screenwriter for our film studio's latest project lives here in Portland, and I'm offering my home to help facilitate the project. You know, for hospitality, etc. After all, it is a really big house."

At that moment, Eddie
sat in his home office as he attempted to finish the paperwork of the day. His office was large and stylish. He sat at a rosewood desk, created in 1920 by a famous French designer. In fact, everything in his home office was created by Louis Majorelle and had been collected at great effort and expense.

"I'm not sure I
understand what you are saying."

"Well, the screenwriter lives in Portland, you know, Ted Wright
. And the director, John Edwards, lives in Bel Air. So, I thought if they needed to meet prior to the start of filming, they could meet here."

Suddenly, Frank had
an inspiration. "It could be a way for me to make amends for all the trouble I've caused the family." The silence on the line was deafening. "Well, I guess if it is not a good idea, then--"

"No, actually it is a good idea
. Thank you Frank. Of course, as you know, I don't keep tabs on the details of film production. But I'll have someone make some phone calls. I'll get back to you on this by tomorrow, Frank. Is everything all right? Are you really off the coke?"

"Yes, I'm off the coke
. Still on a little scotch but off the coke. And, no partying."

"Well, good, good
. Glad to hear it. Talk to you later."

CHA
PTER FOURTEEN

One morning weeks later, Margaret phoned the cottage to ask me to come over to the house for lunch. She said she was fixing a salad she thought I might enjoy. I agreed to come and join her. I had eaten little of late. I walked into the kitchen and suddenly froze. Frank sat at the table.

I
turned to go back through the door, but Margaret stopped me. "Please come back. Frank is desperate to talk to you about something. Don't worry. I'll be right in the next room, if you need me."

Reluctantly,
I walked over and stood by the table.

"Please, sit down."

"No, I'd rather stand."

Fran
k cleared his throat and spoke quietly. "I want you to know, I, that I am very, very sorry. I had no right to do what I did. All I can say is that I had too much to drink. Can you ever forgive me?"

After a moment,
I took a seat at the table. I stared at my plate and tried to gather my thoughts. "My mother can never know anything about this. And, if anyone else finds out or it happens again, one of my friends might kill you, Frank."

"
Agreed." For once, Frank looked humble and contrite.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not ready to sit and eat lunch with
you, Frank."

Frank shrugged
. "Okay. You don't have to eat. But, I wanted to let you know that I have some exciting news." He grinned and said, “'Guess who's coming to dinner?'  The director, John Edwards!"

F
or a few seconds, the words didn't register. Then, I leaned forward. "You don't mean
the
director John Edwards, the one who directed
The Estate
?"

"Yes, the very same
. John Edwards will be staying at the house for a while. It seems that he took his wife's death pretty hard and wants to get away from Bel Air. It was a year ago, but there are still too many memories. There will be lots of preparations to make. He's bringing his assistant, a recent film school graduate."

I
was stunned by the turn of events. John Edwards was one of my idols. I loved films as much as I loved books. To me, it was almost as if F. Scott Fitzgerald were coming to dinner. I absentmindedly began to spoon shrimp salad onto my plate and then took a bite. I felt as if I were dreaming.

"So, when is he arriving?"

"In one week."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The morning of John Edwards' arrival finally dawned, and everyone, except Frank, was up by six. This was due both to feelings of anxiety about being prepared and to anticipation about being in close proximity to such a wealthy and renowned man. I woke up wondering if we had forgotten anything, and even Mom seemed to be excited by the dramatic turn of events, even though she cared nothing for movies.

It had been decided that the drapes and bed linens in the room the director was to sleep in were not suitable and needed to be replaced, that the hardwood floors in the house needed to be re-waxed, and that the 100-year-old Persian carpets had to be professionally cleaned.

I
had found handmade soaps and shampoo for the bathrooms and had telephoned his assistant to learn about his favorite toiletries. When I asked about his favorite flowers, I was told that he had hated flowers since his wife's death and funeral. Frank's house was usually dotted with regularly replenished flower arrangements, but the florist was informed that the deliveries were to be temporarily discontinued.

After a telephone conversation with
Emile, John's live-in French chef, I had learned that Edwards had only coffee for breakfast and a simple salad for lunch but preferred French country cuisine for dinner. Emile was not coming with him to Portland. So, after much discussion, Margaret and I decided to use a catering service that would provide an exclusive chef to come in and cook dinner each night. A separate telephone line was installed in the director's room, after it was learned that he abhorred the idea of carrying a personal cell phone.

Edward's flight was to arrive at the Portland airport at 8:00 a.m
. He was an early riser. He had specifically directed that no one should come to retrieve him at the airport; his assistant had arranged to rent a car. By 8:30, Margaret and I stood peering out the largest, front leaded-glass window. At 7:00, Margaret had given a very grumpy Frank his coffee in bed. He had waived away the croissants, saying it was "too fucking early to eat." In spite of his nasty mood, Margaret had made him drink two cups of coffee and then get into the shower at 7:30. He now sat at the dining room table, glumly sipping from a gold-edged coffee cup. Margaret had retrieved his grandmother's bone china and sterling silver flatware from the attic. The silver coffee service had been removed from the top shelf of the pantry, polished, and was now filled with coffee, cream and sugar.

Finally,
a Mercedes pulled into the circle drive in front of the house. A tall man, who appeared to be about 40 years of age, dressed in a silk designer suit with a dark raincoat slung over one arm, got out of the passenger seat. Margaret, Frank and I went outside to greet him before he had a chance to ring the bell. A lit cigarette dangled from the corner of full, sensual lips. His graying, straight, jet-black hair framed a handsome, deeply tanned face. His intelligent, brown eyes swept over the group coming forward to meet him but kept returning to me. He seemed to immediately absorb and understand everything around him. As he stepped into the home, his assistant handed his coat to Margaret. His presence filled the large entryway, partly because he was a big bear of a man and because he handled himself with authority.

Margaret quickly introduced herself
. "I'm Margaret, the cook and maid. If there is ever anything I can do for you or your assistant, night or day, I'm here to serve you."

Frank gestured my way
. "John, this is my assistant, Vicky Howell."

John
Edwards' handshake was strong but quick. He shook Margaret's hand and then mine, saying "how do you do," then looked into my eyes, ignoring everyone else and making me extremely nervous in the process.

Then,
"This is my assistant, Matt Silverstein. Watch out for him--he's so smart, he's about ready to take over my job."

"John enjoys hyperbole
." Matt looked young but sophisticated. He was of medium height, with curly, dark hair and light brown eyes. Matt picked up two pieces of luggage, and John grabbed the third and fourth pieces, waving Margaret away when she reached for them.

"That's everything we brought, with the exception of some suits hanging in the ca
r."               I moved toward the door to take out the suits, but Frank stopped me. "We'll get them later. Show John and Matt to their rooms."

I
took John and Matt up to their rooms, and they seemed very happy with the accommodations.

"This way to the coffee, gentlemen.
" I led them back downstairs to the dining room, where the silver coffee service and four place settings of antique cups and saucers, napkins and silverware waited. On the long sideboard on the wall opposite the dining table were dishes, pastries, bagels, cream cheese, brie cheese, and fresh fruit.

John immediately placed a slice of
the brie onto his plate with some strawberries. "I don't usually eat breakfast, but this looks great."

Matt chose an onion bagel and cream cheese
. He pinched a bite from the bagel on his plate and chewed. His face lit up. "A
real
bagel!"

"Those are from Kornblatts' here in Portland.
" I had enjoyed their authentic bagels for years.

"I'll have to remember that."

Margaret popped her head through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. "Is everything okay in here? Need anything else?"

"No, thanks.
" Frank nodded.

Befo
re she could close the door, John spoke. "Everything is perfect. Your taste is impeccable." Margaret beamed and swung the door closed.

Finally, we
were all seated, drinking coffee and nibbling. The great moment had arrived, but we were eating in silence. Every time I looked up from my plate, John seemed to be staring at me.

John
broke the silence. "Frank, tell me the story behind this stately old mansion. Is it a recent purchase?"

"No,
my grandmother was born in this house. Her father was in the lumber business. Actually, no one but Margaret has lived in it for some time. But, I decided I really needed to get away from New York for a while, so here I am."

"Well, it
's a lovely example of French architecture."

"My great-grandfather wanted to create something similar to one of the
French chateau homes he had seen on his travels. However, the expense and size of the thing shocked the Portland of his day. They thought he went a little too far. Originally, he had planned to include all the land on this hill for several blocks in each direction as part of his estate, but in order to placate the town, he sold it off. People lined up to buy the land and build homes here, and it was full by 1928."

"
So, they were shocked but still wanted to be his neighbors?" John chuckled. "Do you mind if I smoke?  I know it's a nasty little habit."

"Go ahead
. Margaret will be asking you to smoke outside from now on, though. Sorry about that. She's very angry about me smoking inside the house; I don't think she'll let both of us do it."

"Oh, no, no
. Don't worry about it. She's absolutely correct on that score. In LA, my cigarettes and I are everywhere banished. Why don't you join me at the side of the house? Do you mind?"

I walked outside with my coffee to get some fresh air. A
t a distance from the service entrance, John lit up his cigarette and paced with it, looking around at the grounds. Frank stood smoking beside him. A light morning mist still hung at the far edge of the property and freshly mowed grass scented the air. I heard John say, "It's quiet here--and beautiful. You know, this is my first time in Portland."

Frank looked around, trying to see
the property and view through John's eyes.

"Some time during my visit, I'm thi
nking about taking a trip to your coast. I love the ocean."

"The coast is quite different here than it is in Southern California
. For one thing, the water is very cold, so you don't find many swimmers, just a few surfers wearing body suits."

"Really?"

"Yes, the thing to do on the Oregon coast is to wear a sweater and walk your dog--that sort of thing. Of course, some things are universal. Kids build sand castles at the beach here, just like everywhere else." They both laughed.

"What's the story behind that visi
on in the dining room?" Apparently, they had not realized I followed them into the yard. I had been examining bushes and froze in midair.

"Oh
--you mean Vicky. Not much. She's my assistant."

John smiled
."Yes, I heard you say that. Come on. It's just the two of us now. Don't tell me you haven't noticed how she looks?"

"Well, who wouldn't?  But
she's also extremely bright and a very nice girl--very well-brought-up, if you get my meaning."

John answered,
"Yes, I think I do." I decided to return to the dining room to prevent any further eavesdropping.

I
sat at the table and watched Matt eat. He appeared to be one of those people who could never get enough to eat and never gained weight. He finished his bagel and began working on a pastry and some cheese.

"You must
think I'm a pig."

"No, I don't think that
. As a matter of fact, I'm glad that you and John are eating. When we heard that he only has coffee for breakfast, we debated back and forth about whether we should even offer any food this morning. But then, for one thing, we didn't know about
your
preferences, so we decided to offer a breakfast buffet. I'm so pleased--even John ate something."

"Well, I was surprised myself
. I've never seen him have anything but coffee before noon. But I guess the fruit and brie cheese was more than he could resist."

"What's
he really like?  Or am I being too nosy?"

"H
e's brilliant but mercurial--as to mood, I mean. And he's one of these people who can exhaust himself working night and day on a film for months and then have to rest for months. He just puts so much of himself into everything."

"Well, I love his work, so he's doing something right."