The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [79]
Shock widened Fleur’s eyes.
Annie followed her gaze.
Natalie Marlow and Neil Bledsoe, hand in hand, strolled barefoot in the shallows. Her face alive with happiness, the author gazed up adoringly at her companion. She was almost pretty, despite her stringy hair and pale face.
Annie wished she had an afternoon, a beauty shop, a dress store, and Natalie by the scruff of the neck. The author could be attractive. She had a strong, intelligent face, a determined chin. Why did she go around looking like Megan Hunter in The Moving Finger? Could it be that Natalie, too, lacked confidence, felt so unloved, so unworthy that she hid her femininity in artful self-defense? Annie didn’t quite think in terms of “Oh, pshaw!” But her immediate response was, “The author of Down These Steps? No way.”
Nevertheless, the writer who had brilliantly plumbed the depths of tortured love and hate in her first novel was clearly besotted with a man almost any woman, from six to sixty, would spot as bad news, despite his undeniable sexual magnetism.
“That’s the way Jaime looked at him.” Fleur’s voice was oddly flat and thin, unlike her usual rich contralto.
Bledsoe pulled Natalie into his arms, her face against his chest, her body tight to his.
He lifted his head and stared out at the end of the pier where they sat. For a long, long moment, across the shimmering water, the critic’s eyes taunted Fleur. A triumphant smile curved his lips, then he loosened his embrace, tucked his hand beneath Natalie’s chin and lifted her face to kiss it, a long, lingering, passionate kiss.
“Oh, Jesus God.” The blood drained from Fleur’s face.
Annie reached out in alarm to touch her arm.
Ignoring Annie, Fleur stumbled to her feet and turned away from the shore. She reached out to hold onto the wooden railing of the pier. Her body trembled and her face was ashen.
“Fleur! Mrs. Calloway, … are you ill? Please, let me help.”
“Have they gone?” It was a tortured cry.
Annie glanced back toward the beach. “Yes. Yes, they’ve gone.” She stared at Fleur. Incredible as it seemed, this beautiful and accomplished woman was physically stricken by the sight of Bledsoe loving another woman. Had Fleur Calloway once loved Bledsoe? Annie stumbled into speech. “I’m sorry.”
Fleur looked at her strangely.
“I didn’t know—I had no idea you’d ever cared about him.”
“Cared about him?” The author’s face crumpled. Tears began to spill down her cheeks. “Oh, God, if only I had. If only I had.” Her face sharpened, hardened. “I won’t see it happen again. I can’t bear to see it happen again.”
Max once again was king of his domain. Not that Lady Gwendolyn wasn’t heartily welcome at Confidential Commissions, but he was just as happy she’d stayed at the hotel today. He studied the number his secretary had found at the telephone company office in Beaufort, the telephone number of Bruno Calavecchia, next-door neighbor to Mrs. Grace Wilton Stone in Brooklyn, New York.
It was ugly indeed, just as Emma had warned.
Fleur told Annie haltingly. Some of it she didn’t say, but Annie, looking at faded snapshots, understood.
“This is Jaime in Laguna. She was fifteen.”
A vacation shot, obviously. Fleur appeared little different from today, slim and lovely in tennis whites. The girl standing beside her would never, no matter how she might diet or exercise or try, have her mother’s grace and beauty. Jaime was big: bulky shoulders, a solid girth, thick almost shapeless legs. She wasn’t ugly. In fact, her broad, open face had a wholesome prettiness and radiated good humor. Neither was she overweight, but she had the body build of a fullback, and she was very tall for a woman, a good head taller than her mother. The way Jaime stood revealed so much, head tucked to lessen her height, shoulders slumped to minimize their breadth.
“I wanted her to be proud.” Anguished eyes looked out over the water. “But ours