Timothy (25 page)

She stared at me, her mouth open. After a moment, she said, “Is that
really
what you think? You can't really believe that! But my dear—”

I walked out of my room without waiting to hear the rest of it.

I took a deep breath and walked down the hall, my head held high. I glided down the grand staircase and smiled at Frank and Carlo as I walked up to them. “Sorry I was gone for so long,” I said, managing to keep my voice even and light, almost cheerful. “Better late than never.”

Carlo looked at me, his face expressionless, but before he could say anything a couple dressed as what I took to be George and Martha Washington walked through the front door and we turned to greet them. I don't remember their names—but right after they moved on to the party, Joyce came down the stairs and stood next to me. “Darling, we need to have a talk—a serious talk,” she whispered under her breath as yet another group of people—dressed as Harry Potter and friends—came through the front door.

I just smiled at them.

Somehow, I managed to get through the ordeal of greeting the new arrivals. No one would have guessed that my heart was broken or that my marriage had ended earlier that night. I was polite and friendly, and made small talk with everyone who came into the great house—but it was all just a blur to me. I was on autopilot, careful not to let the emptiness and numbness I was feeling inside be seen by anyone. It was torture, sheer torture. The whole time Carlo stood next to me, but never said a word directly to me. With a big smile on his face he would introduce me, and I would just smile and nod, accept congratulations, shake hands, kiss cheeks. Every so often I would catch Joyce watching me, her eyes sad. The costumes were extraordinary, and some were incredibly clever, ranging from the Scooby gang to the Beatles to Lady Gaga to Tippi Hedron from
The Birds.
Some made me laugh out loud. Maureen showed up with a group of people, all dressed in costumes from
Dangerous Liaisons
, their faces powdered and wigs towering on the women's heads. Maureen tapped me with her fan and pulled me aside to whisper into my ear, “Find me later—I have some things to tell you.” I just smiled at her. I no longer cared about how Timothy died.

All I cared about was somehow getting through this evening.

Around eleven Joyce decided we no longer needed to stay in the foyer and I escaped into the party as quickly as I could without a word to either of them. I made my way to the nearest bar, got a glass of red wine, and disappeared into the nearby shadows while I sipped at it, watching the guests milling about or dancing. After a few moments, I took a deep breath and entered the fray, a smile plastered on my face. I played host as best I could, wandering around and checking ashtrays and drinks, making sure the buffet table was stocked, smiling and nodding politely to people as I passed within their line of vision. I never stayed stationary long enough for anyone to engage me in conversation—though many tried. My role as cohost enabled me to make a quick escape, with a promise to come back to finish the conversation—promises I had no intention of keeping. “Lovely party,” I was told over and over again, and I just smiled and nodded my thanks and kept moving, weaving my way in and out of the endless crowd of guests. I kept my eyes moving, trying to avoid Carlo and Joyce. The disc jockey was playing dance music at a rather high volume, and out on the dancing area there was a crowd of younger guests dancing madly.

I only saw Carson once, when he come out of the kitchen. He stood on the gallery, looking out over the party, an unreadable expression on his face. Was it triumph, celebration for what he had accomplished that night? I stared at him, wondering what drove him, what kind of person could take pleasure in seeing another suffer.

For just a moment, a spark of anger cut through the numbness, but it quickly faded away.

I might be finished at Spindrift, but before I left this house for good Carson would pay for what he'd done to me.

As long as I lived I would never forget the look of triumph—and hatred—on his face as I stumbled up the grand staircase in humiliation and disgrace.

And as long as I lived, I would never forgive him for it.

Finally, exhausted, I hid in the darkness just below the gallery, sitting down on a stone bench in the shadows, tired of people, tired of forcing the muscles of my face to smile. I just wanted to be get away from people, to catch my breath and recharge, relax for a moment and decompress.

Just above me, two women were talking in hushed tones—unaware that someone had just sat down below where they stood on the gallery.

“Well, I suppose one shouldn't have expected this ball to be as good as they used to be, when Timothy was alive,” one woman said disdainfully. “Did you get a look at the replacement? Whatever was Carlo thinking! He's little more than a child. It's disgusting.”

“Hush, Nicola!” the other woman whispered, but went on in her equally sly and smug voice, “You're right, though, he isn't much to look at, is he? Little wonder there's so much talk that Carlo's already tired of him and thinking he made a mistake.” She sniffed dismissively. “I certainly hope he was smart enough to have the boy sign a prenup—but if he didn't he has no one to blame but himself.”

“I don't think he's in Kansas anymore,” the first woman deadpanned, and they both burst out in laughter. “Oh, I'm sure he's nice enough—he seemed like a sweet child—but to be married to Carlo Romaniello? To live in this house? He looks more like a schoolteacher or a paid assistant.”

“That's what he was, you know—to Valerie Franklin, you know—the editor of that dreadful magazine? That's what he was doing when they met. Can you imagine?”

“If he looked like Timothy, I could. But that mousy child? Whatever was Carlo thinking?”

“Clearly, he wasn't.” This was followed by more of the nasty laughter.

My stomach churned. I hadn't eaten anything since lunch and hadn't had anything stronger to drink than that one glass of red wine. I felt like I was going to throw up at any moment. I bit my lower lip and took a series of deep breaths, wiping the sudden wetness of hurt from my eyes. I glanced through the railing of the gallery—one of the women was dressed as Snow White, the other was Maleficent from
Sleeping Beauty—
a most appropriate costume for the bitch. I remembered meeting them when they arrived, but their names escaped me
.

I knew I should stop listening, should go back to the party, but I couldn't tear myself away—like when I had an aching tooth and couldn't stop worrying it with my tongue.

“And that nonsense about his costume not fitting properly!” the one called Nicola, the one dressed as Snow White, was saying. “Midge told me he actually had the
nerve
to try to pull off the costume Timothy was going to wear last year, and Carlo would have none of it! Apparently there was a terrible scene, and Carlo ordered him to go upstairs and change!” Her laugh was a nasty sound. “Trouble in paradise—I don't give that marriage another three months!”

“Midge would know, I suppose,” the other woman mused. “What did Carlo see in that boy? Do you think he was just lonely?”

I couldn't stand to listen to anymore, so I stood and turned to look at them. I was pleased to hear the two bitches gasp as it slowly dawned on them that I'd heard everything they'd said. “Ladies,” I said, inclining my head ever so slightly. They gaped at me, unable to say anything. I smiled at them and walked across the lawn as quickly as I could, my head spinning and my stomach still tied in knots. I saw Cleopatra—Midge Huntley—standing near the pool, and it took all of my self-control to not go over and shove her into the deep end. Miserable, horrible woman!

As I made my way around the dance area, I could hear Valerie's words echoing in my head:
You have no idea what people in that circle are like—you have no experience with them and they will eat you alive.

I smiled and nodded at people, uttered inanities that meant nothing when a response was required, but through it all I wasn't really listening. I didn't know where Carlo was and I didn't care. I didn't want to see him or talk to him.

“There you are,” Maureen hissed, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me out of the light into the shadows. “I've been looking for you everywhere. Where can we go talk?”

Her wig was crooked, and I straightened it for her. “The studio?” I asked. I didn't want to hear what she had to say—it no longer mattered, after all—but it would get me away from the party. So when she nodded, I escorted her through the darkness to the studio. There were some people on the dock, and others on the beach talking, but all the lights in the studio were off. I didn't turn on the overhead lighting because even with the blinds and curtains closed people would be able to see the lights were on. I pulled out my cell phone and used the dim light from its screen to negotiate my way through the darkened studio, and turned on the desk lamp. Maureen stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

It was a small lamp, and I felt confident no one would be able to see it through the pulled curtains. I sank down on the sofa and buried my face in my hands. I felt completely drained—this emotional roller coaster was wearing me out, and all I wanted was for the interminable party to be over so I could go to bed.

“Is everything all right?” Maureen asked, sitting down beside me on the sofa with a rustle of her petticoats. “You seem—distressed.”

I laughed. “You have no idea.” I said brokenly.

She tapped my arm with her fan. “Well, I've done some asking around, and even though no one really wants to talk about it over a whisper, there
is
some talk about Timothy's death not being an accident.”

I almost said
it doesn't make any difference
, but she kept talking.

“It was no secret, apparently, out here that Timothy wasn't faithful to Carlo—the only person who didn't know was Carlo,” she went on. “And of course everyone talked about it, but no one would tell Carlo.” She shook her head and reached up quickly to keep her wig from sliding off. “But there was a terrible scene at one of the restaurants in town the day before he died—Carlo was in the city, and Timothy was having dinner with the tennis pro—Chris Thoresson—and Taylor Hudson caused a scene.”

That aroused me out of my torpor. “Taylor Hudson?” I heard his voice in my head:
I was in Europe when Timothy died.
“I thought he was out of the country when Timothy died.”

“No,” she replied with a grim little shake of her head. “He's been Hermione Delano's companion for the last few years, and they left for Europe the day after Timothy disappeared.” She stood up. “So, there just might be some fire where you smelled smoke.” She walked over to the door. “I'll let you know if I find out anything else.” The door shut behind her.

I sat there for a few minutes, digesting what she'd told me—but finally just dismissing it. What did it matter, anyway? Carlo was still in love with Timothy—even if Timothy hadn't been faithful to him. There was no point in telling him now.

My situation was unchanged.

The door opened, and I jumped. A man wearing a mask slipped through the doorway and quickly closed the door behind him. He had come dressed as a zebra, and I realized as he turned around again to face me that he wasn't, in fact, wearing a body suit as I'd originally thought but actually had painted his body white with black stripes. He was wearing a pair of square-cut trunks, similar to the white ones I'd intended to wear, that had also been painted to match the rest of his body, as were the knee high leather boots. Like my white ones, they really didn't leave much to the imagination. He slipped the zebra mask up, and I felt a chill go down my spine.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, the numbness giving way to fear. “I'm pretty certain you weren't invited.”

“I was brought as a plus one.” Taylor Hudson smirked at me. “And I saw you come in here with Maureen Drury, so I waited until she left so I could talk to you alone.”

“Is that why you wore a mask? So Carlo wouldn't throw you out on your ear?” I needed to get away from him, but my mind was too drained and tired to think of what to do or say.

“How little you know your husband.” Taylor turned a chair around and straddled it. “Carlo would never cause a scene at the Independence Ball.” He laughed. “I think I would have preferred seeing you in your angel costume. I understand you're building up quite a nice little body—shame to cover it up with all those clothes.”

My cheeks burned. Did
everyone
know about the goddamned angel costume?

“I don't suppose you ever found my gold medal,” he went on. “I really need to find it.”

“I asked Carlo about it, and he said Timothy was buried with it.” I shook my head. “I'm sorry, I should have let you know. But—”

“You didn't want to rock the boat with your precious hubby.” He mocked me. “It's okay, I'm very well aware of how Carlo feels about me. He doesn't hide his feelings very well. He must be a terrible poker player.” He peered at me. “Like you. You might be fooling everyone else at this party, but you're not fooling me. You're miserable.”

“That's none of your business.” I stood up.

“So Carlo said Timothy was buried with the medal, interesting.” He tapped his chin with his index finger. “He wasn't wearing it when his body washed ashore…”

“So? That doesn't mean he wasn't buried in it.”

“I had a chat with the funeral home. Timothy wasn't buried with any jewelry. And there's something else rather curious about the body that was buried—the autopsy showed he had broken his arm as a child.”

“So?”

“I knew Timothy his entire life—and he never broke a bone. We grew up together, remember? His family lived down the street from mine. I would know.”