Trophies (11 page)

I'd always liked the twins in an awed sort of
way — they were almost too glamorous to be human — and returned
their greetings with as much grace as I could muster. We'd never
gotten truly friendly but they never treated me as a pariah or the
family black sheep, and their distant kindness was appreciated.

"Are they doing that well?" I murmured into
Patricia's ear as we wound our way deeper into Prissy's maze. "That
suit must have set Ralph back — well, more than I'd pay."

She glanced wryly at me and my tailored
uniform as we passed beneath one of the spotlights. The insignia
glittered and the white was spotless. I was more proud of it than
ever and glad I'd put some time into preparations.

"Midas Miriam, I've always called her." The
grin slipped as she sighed. "I've never been able to compete with
her. Or him."

I took Patty's hand to keep us together as
several people I didn't know flowed past going the other way. "You
know, that's what it's always been like between William and
me."

Her glance was sad. "Even if I can't compete
with her, I still love her."

There was nothing I could say to that and I
still wanted us to have a pleasant evening. So I squeezed her hand
and let the subject drop.

Trés' oils were a completely different style
from his pastels. Bold strokes detailed realistic objects, but in
unrelated groupings and off-the-wall settings. In the first, a
perfectly-shaped mint-colored sphere floated near a window inside
an old-fashioned yellow kitchen. A pint-sized horse and rider
galloped across the tiled floor, the rider waving a tricorne hat.
The table was set for tea, but the sugar lumps were tiny boulders;
a crane maneuvered the silverware into position and a bulldozer
unloaded biscuits onto a serving plate.

"Every time I look at this one, I find
something new."

The oil well by the sink served as a soap
dispenser and a ginger cat atop the fridge stared haughtily down at
the tabletop construction site. I shook my head. "William's son did
this?" I located my brother through the crowd, nearer now but not
so much that I felt actively combative. A spotlight dusted his
profile as he gazed at the pastels. He was alone, and a quick sweep
of the showroom located Father's trim salt-and-pepper hair beside
the buffet tables, back still toward us, in conversation with his
brother, Patricia's father, my Uncle Preston. The lighting fell
full on Uncle Preston's confident smile, as if he was one of the
exhibits rather than a member of the audience, and as I watched he
nodded.

Patty stared at the painting as if she'd
missed my surveillance. "Oh, Trés is fabulous. He's been
out-drawing his art teachers since he was ten."

"Well, he must get that from his mother."

On William's arm now was an absolute stunner.
I could only assume her to be his wife — what was her name? Linda?
— for her eyes were red and swollen as only a mother's eyes would
be for her injured child. But that did nothing to detract from her
beauty, which began with ripples of soft honey-colored hair and
ended with sculpted calves that didn't need her high heels to look
good. In her coral tea-length dress, trimmed with white lace, she
was the epitome of English peaches-and-cream, a look I'd never much
cared for until I saw it on her.

Patricia let my snottiness ride. "Look at
this one."

I pretended to look while watching the
family. In their vicinity now was a younger version of Linda; the
two women even wore the same dresses and were almost the same size.
The daughter — Lindsay, I remembered, and about fifteen or so —
stared at me until I openly glanced her way. Then she found the
charcoals of extreme interest.

But Linda snuck a nod and small smile to me;
I couldn't help but return the smile. Funny, she didn't seem snooty
at all and despite her elegant looks not the sort of woman I'd have
expected William to marry.

Halfway around the gallery I started glancing
at the discreet price tags.

"You don't think he's asking a bit much for a
first showing?"

Patty shook her head. "Not according to Aunt
Edith, and surely she would have known."

We almost passed Patricia's younger brother,
Jacob, before I recognized him. He stood alone with his back to a
display, dark eyes just out of reach of the lights. Jacob was the
family changeling, his blond hair and black, pupil-less eyes like
no one else named Ellandun, and I know the twins used to rag him
over being found in a gully behind the house, or left behind by
aliens, and things similarly silly. He looked up, found me watching
him, and started.

"Charles?" His clipped tenor sounded rough,
as if he didn't use it often enough. "Is it my turn?"

"Your turn?" I didn't know Jacob all that
well, so I hoped he was being friendly. It was difficult to be
certain with his closed, give-nothing-away face. "For what?"

"To pay my respects, of course," he held out
his hand, "and to offer my condolences. Aunt Edith was a grand
woman. I don't have to tell you she'll be missed."

For Jacob, the quiet man who seemed
perpetually in the corner, that was a real speech and more words
than I'd ever heard him say before. I took his hand wordlessly. He
glanced down again, slapped my shoulder, and moved to join the
twins. In their glamorous presence he seemed more an odd duck than
ever. Like Patty, he grew up in their elegant, unified shadow and
like her he seemed to dwindle in the comparison.

The display Jacob had hidden showcased
sculptures carved from gemstones, small and perfectly-detailed
African and Indian animals. There was a sardonyx tiger, the orange
and white stripes of the agate beginning in the ruffles around the
big cat's face and tracing all the way down the tail. A
red-and-gold spotted jasper brought the cheetah to life; the camel
was of golden citrine; and the rhino was smoky quartz.

"I have to get that hippo for Aunt Edith's
collection." It was carved from a wonderful emerald with black
inclusions, the dark spots positioned perfectly to serve as eyes,
nose, mouth, tail, and feet, one of them raised.

"She already bought it," Patty said. "He's
holding it for her until the end of the show."

I glanced around the room but recognized no
one near, and finally admitted it: the people, including the
family, were as fascinating as the artwork. The spotlights,
positioned so perfectly for each canvas, flickered across faces as
people strolled about, lighting them like stars then throwing them
into shadows like the chorus, and the shifting play was
fascinating. "Now, I know there are two other artists in this show.
Which of this is theirs and what was done by Trés?"

Patty shook her head. "Everything you've seen
is Trés' work."

"All of it? The oils, these gem carvings, the
pastels, watercolors—"

She interrupted. "All of it. I told you he's
marvelous."

Her words raised a question in my mind. I
took a slower inventory of the room and compared what I could see
with my knowledge of Prissy's floor plan. "Patty, that's well over
half the show. What about the other two artists? Didn't they
complain?"

"Yes, well, there were a few heated words,
but he is — well, was Aunt Edith's great-nephew, after all. If she
wanted to show him off—" She stopped. "You aren't thinking—"

I shrugged; it would do no good to upset her.
"I suppose if it could seriously damage their careers, perhaps
giving them such a small section in a show might be a motive for
murder. But I find it difficult to believe, don't you?" I glanced
about again as we strolled past more of Trés' watercolors. "Have
you seen Prissy tonight?"

"Not yet, but that's not unusual, is it? She
generally takes time to fortify her nerves before making her grand
entrance." Patty ducked behind a free-standing display, her hands
flying to her chignon, where bobby pins peeked from beneath the
coils of hair. "Aunt Edith usually covered for her, but now—"

As Aunt Edith's principal heir, covering for
Prissy was now my job. I felt not up to it and ignored the hint.
And I knew all about Prissy fortifying her nerves; I'd split a
flask with her before previous shows and never got half. But Patty
seemed to have forgotten my insinuation and rearranged pins and
hair with a serene expression, so the tactic could be considered
successful. "Is the art world like the military?" I studied the
nearest display, where a watercolor sun rose or set beyond a
Caribbean isle. It would look grand over Uncle Hubert's fireplace.
"Does one need nerves of steel to survive and thrive?"

"Oh, give it a miss. Mum, there you are."

Aunt Viola, the rose hybridizer, slipped
behind the display. Her face brightened when our gazes met and she
pulled me down a foot so she could buff my cheek. Here was where
Patricia's mousy brown hair and trim little nose originated, as
well as the maternal nature and romantic overtones. The
practicality and old-fashioned common sense came via Uncle Preston,
who trailed behind his wife and squeezed my shoulder.

It always amazed me that Uncle Preston had so
many facial features in common with my father and yet appeared so
utterly different. They both had black hair now mostly grey, rugged
faces, prominent cheekbones and chins, and the signature Ellandun
green eyes and Roman nose. It took me years to figure out the
difference lay in mannerisms and expressions: Father was an
arrogant, carnivorous legal eagle, Uncle Preston an Anglican
dove.

I used to wonder what my life might have been
like if Uncle Preston had been my father; not even in nightmares
could I imagine him kicking out one of his children, no matter what
mischief they created nor how many schools expelled them. During
all the years of Father's disregard, Uncle Preston and Aunt Viola
had visited Boston twice yearly, always saving one day to spend
with me, and they'd sent Patricia over every summer since she was
eleven and I was twelve.

"All right, Charles?" Aunt Viola kissed me a
second time for good measure. I kissed back.

Uncle Preston gave me a gentle shake. "Come
and talk with me, lad."

It never occurred to me to refuse nor even
request a reason. We excused ourselves from the ladies and ducked
behind a display of oils I'd missed earlier. Uncle Preston, hand
still on my shoulder, eased me close enough to whisper and be heard
through the background chatter.

"Your father wants to see you."

He just did, or at least he'd had several
chances and hadn't even glanced at me. But I said nothing and gave
myself extra-credit points for self-restraint. I needed a quick and
courteous method of telling Uncle Preston to keep his nose out. I'd
no intention of chatting politely or otherwise with Father.

But to my horror he looked past me and raised
his chin, as if inviting someone to join us, before I had a chance
to stop him. I shot a glance that way. Father limped toward us
through a wash of light, his cane tapping on the hardwood floor
barely audible through the chatter. His eyes were fixed on me, not
as stern as I recalled but not gentle either. Over his shoulder
Linda and William watched, my brother's spotlighted expression
skeptical. Behind us, I heard a little gasp that had to be from
Patty.

Had they all conspired to trap me?

"Uncle Preston, no. I don't—"

"Shhh." His look was not kindly. "He has a
heart condition and arthritic knees. He's not going to eat you.
Don't you think it's time you two made up?"

To hell with courtesy. I shook off his hand
and returned his look. "It's not your business."

His cheekbones tightened, the skin of his
cheeks whitening over their angles. "We'll finish this later." And
he left.

The tapping was very near. I supposed I could
run for it, but that felt cowardly and I refused to allow my family
to reduce me to such behavior. There was no civilized choice but to
face my father.

He stopped behind the display, close enough
so the backwash of a single spotlight touched both our faces. At
this vantage point, the lines etched about his eyes and jaw were
impossible to miss and deeper than I'd thought, the grey of his
hair more advanced. Uncle Preston was right: Father still looked
fit, but the robustness was gone and the courtroom warrior was past
his prime, even if his black evening suit recalled childhood
memories. And it was something of a shock to realize I now had a
few inches on him and had to look down to meet his gaze.

I wasn't certain what I felt. Shocked
wariness layered my thoughts and no hard emotion seemed ready to
bubble to the surface. Good; perhaps I could get out of this with
some sort of dignity intact.

After all, I'd prepared for such a meeting
since I was twelve years old and first realized he wasn't going to
return to Boston to retrieve me.

Father took a deep breath and raised his
chin. "Charles."

It was the first word he'd said to me since I
was eleven.

Something inside me — something alive —
uncoiled from about my heart. Blood pulsed in my ears. Perhaps I
was wrong about the numbness.

I found I needed extra air, too.
"Father."

"I'm so sorry." He paused. "For your
loss."

Aunt Edith, he meant, and not anything that
had passed — or not passed — between the two of us. That apology,
it seemed, would not be forthcoming. I made appropriate noises
despite my contrary inclination. "Thank you."

"I wished to see you tonight. There's much we
should discuss and I'd like to arrange a time to do so." Tension
stood between us like another living thing. He watched me in
silence, as if waiting for something, pressed his lips together,
and tried again. For the first time in my memory, his articulate
voice sounded gentle. "I didn't wish to see you left alone at such
a time."

I'd expected judgment and condemnation. I'd
practiced for it, thinking through elegant put-downs and dignified
forbearance. I'd intended to win our war and walk away, back to my
battlemented, isolated citadel, and never deal with my family
again. Instead, Father handed me an olive branch.