Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [38]
It had started with a bet from Rachel-Ann. Jilly had been sitting in her sister’s bedroom, cross-legged on her water bed, watching Rachel-Ann get ready for a date. If you could call it a date—she was sneaking out with the son of one of the servants, meeting him in the pool house. Jilly didn’t even want to think about what she did there—she was already preternaturally worried about her siblings, since no one, not even Grandmère, seemed that concerned about their well-being.
“If you’re so hot go for a swim,” seventeen-year-old Rachel-Ann had said carelessly. “Grandmère just had the pool service in today so it should be relatively free from slime. I don’t see why she doesn’t just bulldoze the thing and have a new one dug. That pool is absolutely disgusting.”
“And you think that’ll make me want to go swimming?” Jilly had responded.
“Well, if you’re too chicken,” Rachel-Ann taunted. Her sister had been stronger then, confrontational. Not the fragile, wounded creature she was now. “No one’s seen the ghosts at the pool, y’know. They were found in the house, not on the grounds.”
“There aren’t any ghosts,” Jilly maintained.
“Just because you haven’t seen them doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Haven’t you smelled that tobacco-y smell? Or the perfume?”
“If I were you I wouldn’t call attention to any strange-smelling smoke.” Even at fifteen Jilly had been outspoken. “And everyone who walks into this house wears perfume, even Consuelo.”
“You’ll learn to be more discerning when you’re older. That’s French perfume, a very rare and costly blend, and it’s a far cry from anything a housekeeper would wear.”
“I thought you liked Consuelo,” Jilly protested. In the last few years Consuelo had been the closest thing to a mother Jilly could find, and she was devoted to her.
“I do. I just wouldn’t make her fashion choices.” Rachel-Ann had stepped back from the mirror, admiring her reflection. She’d dyed her red-gold hair a tawny brown, and she was even wearing brown-tinted contact lenses. She was more voluptuous back then, and the thin lace dress molded to her body like a second skin. “How do I look?”
“Gorgeous. Does Consuelo know?”
“Know what?”
“That you’re sleeping with her beloved son Enrique?”
“Richard,” Rachel-Ann corrected sharply. “He likes to be called Richard. And Consuelo’s plans aren’t necessarily his. She’s hopelessly hooked on the American dream, where her son becomes a doctor. Richard doesn’t want to be a doctor.”
“What does he want?”
“Me,” Rachel-Ann said calmly. “So, are you going for a swim?”
“What’s it to you?”
“We’ll be in the pool house and we’d like a little privacy. Keep your distance if you don’t want your precious innocence sullied.”
“Rachel-Ann, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Don’t start with me, Jilly. I’m a big girl now. I can take care of myself.”
But she couldn’t, Jilly thought. Couldn’t then, couldn’t now, and yet no one seemed able to help her.
Of course Jilly had had no intention of going swimming that night. She knew that her sister was sleeping with Consuelo’s son, but that didn’t mean she wanted to walk in on them, or even be anywhere near them. But the night was stiflingly, sufferingly hot, and the house was too old to come equipped with central air-conditioning. Grandmère had a window unit in her downstairs suite, as did Consuelo in the spacious servants’ quarters, but the rest of them were supposed to make do with whatever breezes the L.A. nights could come up with.
There were none that night. Jilly lay on the bed in her shorty pajamas, feeling a coat of sweat cover her body like slime. She tried a cool shower, she tried a fan, she tried cold washcloths and ice cubes. By the time she heard Rachel-Ann tiptoe back up to her room she couldn’t stand it anymore.
The pool was clear, clean and definitely refreshing. A few laps would cool her off and tire her out enough to sleep.
Back then the gates were kept closed, and Consuelo’s husband and son did a decent job on security. Of course, Enrique—Richard—would be tired out after his tryst with Rachel-Ann,