Fortune's rocks_ a novel - Anita Shreve [128]
And it is as she is having this thought that Cote, still dissembling for his audience, turns slightly and spots Olympia on the sand — in her yellow gingham, her feet bare, her hair in knots along her back. She resists the impulse to walk away and instead returns his gaze as steadily as he bestows it. She can see the man’s surprise, his momentary bewilderment, the quick questions as his mouth relaxes from its smile.
The woman beside Cote speaks, and he briefly acknowledges her; but he does not remove his eyes from Olympia. The woman glances in her direction, doubtless wondering who it is that has captured Zachariah Cote’s attention so thoroughly. But if the woman recognizes Olympia, she gives no sign.
Olympia holds her ground as Cote extricates himself from the cluster of admirers and makes his way down the porch steps toward her.
What extraordinary nerve, she thinks as she watches him walk closer.
He stops when he is three feet away. For a moment, neither of them speaks.
“Miss Biddeford,” he says finally. He stares at her a long time, as if assessing how this encounter might unfold. A small smile begins at one corner of his mouth, the smile of a chess player who has possibly seen his way to a checkmate. “What a delightful surprise,” he says.
“I should think there is nothing delightful about it,” Olympia responds evenly.
“Of course, I knew you were in residence,” Cote says, ignoring her rude reply. “It is hardly a secret.”
She is silent.
“But are you truly living alone?” he asks. “Astonishing to think of it.” His posture is eerily familiar to her: One arm is folded across his chest, his chin resting on the knuckles of his other hand.
“How I am living, I believe, is none of your business, Mr. Cote.”
He puts his hands to his heart. “Oh, I am wounded,” he says, mocking her.
She continues, “But I am glad for this opportunity to tell you that I consider you to be the most despicable of all men.”
She watches as he takes in her bare feet, her disheveled hair, the unfashionable yellow gingham.
“This is rather rich coming from you, do you not think? But then I must make allowances for your impertinence, as you are certainly the most unfortunate of all women.”
“No,” she says. “I think the most unfortunate of all women is the woman who will one day be your wife. Or have you been refused already?”
“My, my, but you have changed, Olympia Biddeford. You used to be so sweet. And so accomplished. I did not know you for such a sharp tongue.”
“I would, on this occasion, wish my tongue as sharp as a razor,” she says.
“You little witch.” Cote’s lips are suddenly bloodless. “How dare you address me in this manner? You who have committed the foulest of sins? You who have displayed your wanton nature for all to see? Did you think I was blind to you and John Haskell? I knew from the moment I saw you by the side of the road in his embrace what you two were plotting. And I held my tongue. I held my tongue for weeks, Miss Biddeford. But you, you who were so much grander than I, could barely bring yourself to speak to me. Did you think that I would not notice your condescension? And did you think I would then stand idly by forever and watch you and Haskell carry on, with no thought of consequences? Did you think I could just let you ruin not only Catherine Haskell’s life but also those of your mother and father — whom I must say I can no longer admire? My God, Olympia Biddeford, you used to come to this hotel to fornicate with that man!”
He sputters this last and actually points at the hotel, causing several of the women on the porch to turn to see what the commotion is about.