Fortune's rocks_ a novel - Anita Shreve [55]
Her father monopolizes Haskell’s attention, which is, Olympia thinks, a relief to both Haskell and her. Catherine, buoyed by her own good spirits or perhaps simply the joy of the sunshine after so many days of gloom, keeps her mother in continuous conversation — no easy task, although even she seems infected with conviviality.
Beside Olympia, there is Martha, and it is an effort to pull away from the adult debate and banter to pay attention to the girl’s odd and disjointed comments, each designed, it would appear, to elicit Olympia’s undivided attention. But from time to time, Martha does penetrate Olympia’s reveries, reminding her of how rudely she is ignoring her. So that after the pudding, when Martha asks her if she would like to go up with her to see her room, Olympia cannot refuse without drawing undue attention to herself. As they stand and excuse themselves, Martha pulls at her sleeve, eager to be gone from the table.
“The pudding was wretched,” Martha says as they move through the dining room and into the lobby. “I hate raspberries, don’t you? They stick to your teeth and hurt when you bite down.”
“Yes, they do,” Olympia says distractedly.
“I went out this morning early, before Mother was awake, and collected all manner of pearlish seashells, which seem to have washed up on the beach with the bad weather. You must tell me what they are.”
“I may not know,” Olympia says.
They climb the stairs to the fourth floor, where the Haskells have rooms facing the ocean. Along the way, Olympia is struck by the pale blue walls of the hallways and their high white ceilings. Through open doors, she can see other rooms, and beyond them the ocean, which seems to lie suspended just outside the panes of glass. The effect of the blue and white is of the sky and fair-weather clouds, and she thinks the interior an inspired design. Martha takes her through a door and into a room that leads to others at either side — bedrooms, Olympia imagines, for the room they have entered is clearly a sitting room. Wisely, the beautiful windows here have not been shrouded in heavy drapes, but rather are framed with muslin. The room is suffused with a delicate light through the gauze that might have a sedating influence upon the spirit, but Olympia’s senses are preternaturally alert; she is both curious and fearful of what she might find, in the way of a lover confronted with his beloved’s private mail. Even as Martha chats away and lays her prized seashells upon a table for inspection, Olympia’s eye travels to every surface of table and chair for some sign of Haskell and how he has lived in this space.
On a desk in a corner are several volumes and what appears to be an opened ledger filled with slanted cursive in indigo ink. A pair of spectacles lies next to the ledger, and these surprise her, since she has never seen Haskell with eyeglasses. On the pale mauve settee is a white crocheted throw curled into a soft mound, as though it recently sheltered someone’s feet. On the floor beside the settee is a book, Gleanings from the Sea by Joseph W. Smith, a silk ribbon defining its pages.
Martha queries her incessantly. Olympia does her best to identify the girl’s treasures, though there are several oddities she does not recognize — one shell a delicate opalescent, so fine it seems it might shatter to the touch.
“My best one is not here,” Martha complains. “Randall must have taken it. I know he did. Wait here. I know just where he will have hidden it.”
Martha strides out of the sitting room in the direction of one of the bedrooms. Olympia stands for a few moments, looking at the water. Many people are strolling along the beach and flirting with the surf, doubtless because of the good weather after such a dreary week.
Waiting for Martha, Olympia finds herself drifting slowly to the opposite doorway. She does not know precisely what she is doing or why; it is only that she wants somehow to be closer to Haskell, to understand how he lives. Silently, she steps over the