Timothy (23 page)

I also spent several hours every afternoon writing on my laptop. Sometimes I took it out to my balcony and wrote with the sea breeze in my face and the sound of the gulls in my ears. I wrote short stories—I had no ideas for a novel, but plenty of ideas for short stories. None of them were any good, of course, but I kept trying. I would always spend an hour or so after dinner revising and editing stories I'd already written. I wasn't ready to submit anything anywhere yet, or to even show them to anyone, but I could see a steady improvement in them as the weeks passed—just as there was in my body.

Every morning Joyce came by to go over preparations for the ball and for my input on the decorations, the music, the food, the invitations, the guest list—everything. I helped her as much as I possibly could—she wanted my opinion on everything, which I really appreciated, but I knew she could have done the entire thing without any input or assistance from me. She clearly enjoyed the planning and preparations, and I said as much to her one morning after we'd decided on the invitations and what kind of hors d'oeuvres to serve.

“Don't FOOL yourself for a MINUTE, darling,” she replied with a wink. “Next year, YOU'LL be doing this on YOUR own, with ME to help out as NEEDED. And the year after? ON YOUR OWN.”

Carlo, of course, was in and out—board meetings and problems kept him traveling. Much as I didn't like him going off and leaving me alone, I kept my mouth shut and didn't say a word. The last thing I wanted for the time we had together was for me to whine and complain. He thought I'd be bored on these trips and so it was left at that. He did frequently promise to take me away once all the business was settled—he told me over and over that the summer was the busiest time for him and we would spend September in Paris if that was what I wanted to do.

I spent a lot of time researching Paris, figuring out what I wanted to do and see when we got there.

When he was at Spindrift, we settled into an easy routine together. If our life together wasn't quite the same as it had been when we were in Miami, it was easy and comfortable. We had an ease with each other I came to deeply appreciate—we enjoyed each other's company and I wasn't quite so insecure anymore. Maybe he didn't say he loved me as often as I would have liked, and maybe there were times when I felt like he was dismissing me from his life, but what we had seemed to be working. After all, I'd never been in a relationship before, and my mother had died when I was too young to have any memory of her—so I didn't have the example of my parents' marriage to go by, either.

My interactions with Carson were also better. I wasn't so foolish as to think he would ever approve of me completely, but he'd been so helpful over the matter of my costume—and his manner with me seemed to be much easier since he'd shown me Timothy's rooms. We met once a week to discuss the flowers and the menus for meals, and I found myself no longer quite as intimidated as I'd been. There were times when I would catch him watching me, a strange expression on his face, but I had no idea what it meant, and dismissed it. Carson was just Carson, and that's all there was to it.

My newfound confidence in myself and my role at Spindrift was noticeable, and both Carlo and Joyce commented on it.

Several times a week I went over to Nell's so Minette could visit with Charlie and Hetty, and we always had iced tea while the dogs romped together. The subject of Timothy never came up again—I wasn't about to mention him, and she seemed to no longer have any interest in the subject. We never talked about anything personal—only about the dogs, or the approaching costume ball. She did try on several occasions to get me to tell her what I was going to wear as my costume, but I flatly refused to tell her anything. I was keeping it a secret from everyone, even her.

It was the afternoon of the ball when she brought Timothy up again.

I took Minette for a walk, glad for any excuse to escape the madness of the house. Workers were everywhere, decorating and moving furniture, and deliveries were coming and going, and I just couldn't take it anymore. Carlo had taken refuge in his room after breakfast, and I grabbed Minette's leash and headed next door.

“It's so strange to have the ball without Timothy being there,” Nell said after a long silence while we watched the dogs playing. “He is so associated with this party in my head—and so many others, I'm sure…it must be very strange for Carlo.” She fixed her eyes on me. “You do know most people are coming tonight more out of curiosity than anything else.”

“Yes, I kind of figured that. And Carlo's holding up just fine,” I replied, looking her right in the eye. It wasn't true—Carlo had returned from Buenos Aires a few days earlier in a very strange mood, and his moodiness had increased with each day. He hadn't come to my suite since he'd returned, and rather than our usual evenings of watching black-and-white movies, every night after dinner he excused himself and went up to his rooms.

I knew the party was triggering memories for him. The last time the ball had been given at Spindrift, Timothy had been the host. I'd found the pictures—Timothy had come as Michael Phelps, the Olympic swimmer, in a very skimpy stars and stripes Speedo with faux Olympic medals around his neck. One of them had been real, though—the gold medal Taylor had asked me about.

But rather than allowing my insecurities to come to the fore again, I reminded myself that it was only natural he'd be haunted by his memories. This was the first time the ball had been held since Timothy died, and it was an essential part of the healing process. Once Carlo made it through the ball this time, it would be easier the next. I was determined to make sure we had a wonderful time—so the new memories could crowd out the old.

I was finished with being jealous of a dead man. I was focusing on the positive and moving forward—and leaving Timothy's shadow far behind us.

“I'm sorry—it must bother you to have me bring him up,” She reached across the table and patted my hand. “That's why I haven't since that first time you stopped by here, you know. I could see that it upset you.”

“It's fine, Nell, really.” I insisted. “I can't pretend like he never existed. He did, and Carlo loved him. But he's dead, and I'm alive. That's what I hold on to now.”

“He was murdered, you know,” she said in a quiet voice. “But he deserved to be killed. What he was doing to Carlo was unforgivable.” She looked off into the distance. “I used to see him from the widow's walk. There was”—she shook her head—“there was a time when I was having trouble sleeping every night. I didn't want pills—my sister had a problem with sleeping pills, you know, and I was already taking enough pills as it was, so I said no thank you, I'm not taking more—and so I used to go up to the widow's walk to sit and breathe the night air and listen to the sea until I got sleepy. And of course from up there I could see everything that went on over at Spindrift—I have a clear view of his studio.” Her lips compressed tightly together. “Studio, he called it.” She sniffed disdainfully. “He'd have his men meet him out there. I used to see him waiting for them…and poor Carlo had no idea. One of them killed him, I'd be willing to bet on that.”

“You're so certain he was murdered,” I said after a moment.

“Someone took the
Rhiannon
out that night,” she replied.

At first I didn't know what she was talking about—but then I remembered the
Rhiannon
was the yacht in the boathouse. It was sitting there in dry dock, unused. I'd asked about it once, and Carlo simply replied he'd lost interest in boating. I'd let it go.

“I was up on the roof,” she went on, her hands shaking as she put her glass of tea down, “and I saw it leave. I didn't think anything of it, of course, but I had a very clear view of the beach—and there wasn't anything there, like they said there was, later. No towel, no bag, nothing. I did think it was an odd time for the boat to go out—it was almost dusk—but it was none of my business, and if Carlo or whoever wanted to take the boat out at that time of day, it didn't matter to me. I went down into the house and didn't see it come back.” She looked at me, her eyes wet. “And then, of course, the next morning I heard about Timothy…and then I wondered if maybe it did matter after all.”

We sat there in silence, the only sounds the waves in the distance and the dogs playing. She wiped at her eyes.

When I spoke again, my voice was unsteady. “Why didn't you say anything?”

“We don't talk to the police, don't you know that by now?” She stood up. “And have to testify in court, and be fodder for the gossip columnists and the tabloids and those horrible programs on television? No, we don't talk to the police, my friend.” She whistled for her dogs. They came on the run, their tongues out, barking and yapping around. “I'd best be getting inside.” She smiled at me. “I may not be coming tonight after all—I'm not so sure I'm up to it. Give Carlo and Joyce my regrets.”

“Nell—”

The door shut behind her. I sat there for a moment, petting Minette, my mind racing.

Someone had taken the boat out that night.

But the autopsy showed Timothy had drowned—he had sea water in his lungs. And he was a strong swimmer—surely if someone had tried to drown him…

I stood up, a little shaky, and walked Minette back to the madness at Spindrift.

I put everything Nell had said out of my mind. I pitched in and helped a crazed Joyce with the finishing touches on the house before she left to go put on her own costume. Carlo was in a remarkably good mood, teasing me about my mysterious costume, and I was relieved to see it. He seemed like his old self again—as though he'd managed to put his painful memories behind him and wanted to enjoy himself.

My plan to help him forget was clearly working.

I was still in my afternoon clothing when Frank and Joyce arrived, several hours early. They were staying overnight—I'd had Olivia prepare the Lavender Suite for them—and I had suggested they just come early and get dressed at Spindrift. But Joyce wouldn't hear of it—and I couldn't help myself. I started laughing when they came through the front doors—Joyce was dressed as Little Bo Peep, complete with thick pancake makeup, thick mascara, and rouged cheeks.

Frank was one of her sheep.

“Go ahead and laugh,” Frank groused at me. “I need a drink.” He stormed off to where a bar had been set up in the formal dining room.

“Frank, I'm sorry,” I called after him. “I love your costume, really!”

“Don't worry about him,” Joyce said rather crossly. “He always complains about his costumes. I always tell him if he hates the costumes I come up with so much he's more than welcome to come up with his own ideas—but he won't do that. He just likes to complain. Where's Carlo?”

“Getting dressed,” I replied, and was pleased to see Frank returning with a drink, a twinkle in his eye.

He handed Joyce a rather large martini. “Not sure how I'm supposed to go to the bathroom in this stupid outfit, so there just might be an accident later.” He winked at me and took a big drink from his own glass.

Joyce gave him a dirty look and turned to me. “Don't you think you should be getting dressed yourself?” she groused as Frank handed her a glass of red wine.

“All right, I was just waiting for you two to arrive in case someone showed up early.” I bowed and dashed up the grand staircase.

My costume had been delivered that morning, and I had immediately hidden it inside my closet. As I unzipped the big bag, I gasped in pleasure at the sight of the wings. Ruth had done a great job on them—the real white feathers were soft and beautiful, and the halo itself was round and covered with gold glitter that caught the light and reflected it beautifully. I took my shower and shaved, and after drying myself I walked back into the bedroom. I pulled the pure white trunks on and looked at myself in the mirror. They fit snugly, like a second skin. They were also a little briefer than I would have liked, but it was too late to do anything about it now. I stared at my reflection. I turned and checked out my backside. The trunks delineated the crack of my ass—and I hesitated for a second.
Maybe it's too much? Too risqué?

Don't be ridiculous
, I reminded myself.
New experiences, and confidence. You can pull this outfit off.

I faced myself again in the mirror and smiled. My body looked good—I wasn't Timothy, but that hadn't been the idea anyway. No matter how much I worked I would never be that. But my muscles looked nice, my skin was nicely tanned, and the white of the trunks made my tan look even deeper than it really was. I put on a pair of socks and laced up the white leather boots that reached my knees. Once again, with the laces tied tightly, I examined myself in the mirror.

I looked really good. Better than I could have hoped for.

Carlo is going to be speechless
, I thought with a big grin.

I slipped my arms through the harness and snapped everything together in the front. The wings looked beautiful, and I slipped the halo on the top of my head.

I looked—
beautiful.

“Wow,” I said out loud, reaching out and touching the mirror's surface.

I put my other hand over my mouth and felt tears forming in my eyes.

All those years of loneliness, of being nobody, of being a shy, quiet person, of being ignored and looked over were in the past.

I was now married to a great man who loved me, and I lived in a castle. And I looked amazing—and tonight I was going to be the belle of the ball.

I felt like Cinderella.

I couldn't stop looking at myself in the mirror.

This was going to be the greatest night of my life.

I felt like I could fly, if I really wanted to.

There was a knock on the door, and Olivia poked her head in. “Sir, the guests are starting to arrive and Mr. Carlo—oh.” She stopped talking and her eyes goggled in her head.