The Secret History - Donna Tartt [190]
Then, very abruptly, they stopped. Everything was quiet. I opened my eyes. Mr. Corcoran—leftover tears still rolling down his cheeks but his face otherwise composed—was looking with interest at a spaniel puppy who was gnawing furtively at the toe of his shoe.
“Jennie,” he said severely. “Bad girl. Didn’t Mama put you out? Huh?”
With a cooing, baby noise, he reached down and scooped up the little dog—its feet paddling furiously in midair—and carried her out of the room.
“Now, go on,” I heard him say airily. “Scat.”
A screen door creaked somewhere. In a moment he was back: calm now, beaming, a dad from an ad.
“Any of you kids care for a beer?” he said.
We were all agog. No one answered him. I stared at him, trembling, ashen-faced.
“Come on, guys,” he said, and winked. “No takers?”
At last, Francis cleared his throat with a rasping sound. “Ah, I believe I’d like one, yes.”
There was a silence.
“Me, too,” said Sophie.
“Three?” said Mr. Corcoran to me jovially, holding up three fingers.
I moved my mouth but no sound came out of it.
He put his head to the side, as if fixing me with his good eye. “I don’t think we’ve met, have we, son?”
I shook my head.
“Macdonald Corcoran,” he said, leaning forward to offer his hand. “Call me Mack.”
I mumbled my own name.
“What’s that?” he said brightly, hand to ear.
I said it again, louder this time.
“Ah! So you’re the one from California! Where’s your tan, son?” He laughed loudly at his joke and went to fetch the beers.
I sat down hard, exhausted and almost sick. We were in an overscaled, Architectural Digest sort of room, big and loft-like, with skylights and a fieldstone fireplace, chairs upholstered in white leather, kidney-shaped coffee table—modern, expensive, Italian stuff. Running along the back wall was a long glass trophy case filled with loving cups, ribbons, school and sports memorabilia; in ominous proximity were several large funeral wreaths which, in conjunction with the trophies, gave that corner of the room a Kentucky Derby sort of look.
“This is a beautiful space,” said Sophie. Her voice echoed amid the sharp surfaces and the polished floor.
“Why, thank you, honey,” Mr. Corcoran said from the kitchen. “We were in House Beautiful last year, and the Home section of the Times the year before that. Not quite what I’d pick myself, but Kathy’s the decorator in the family, y’know.”
The doorbell rang. We looked at each other. Then it rang again, two melodious chimes, and Mrs. Corcoran clicked through from the back of the house and past us without a word or a glance.
“Henry,” she called. “Your guests are here.” Then she opened the front door. “Hello,” she said to the delivery boy who was standing outside. “Which one are you? Are you from Sunset Florists?”
“Yes, ma’am. Please sign.”
“Now wait just a minute. I called you people earlier. I want to know why you delivered all these wreaths here while I was out this morning.”
“I didn’t deliver them. I just came on shift.”
“You’re with Sunset Florists, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I felt sorry for him. He was a teenager, with blotches of flesh-colored Clearasil scattered over his face.
“I asked specifically that only floral arrangements and house plants be sent here. These wreaths should all be down at the funeral home.”
“I’m sorry, lady. If you want to call the manager or something—”
“I’m afraid you don’t understand. I don’t want these wreaths in my house. I want you to pack them right back up in your truck and take them to the funeral home. And don’t try to give me that one, either,” she said as he held up a gaudy wreath of red and yellow carnations. “Just tell me who it’s from.”
The boy squinted at his clipboard. “ ‘With sympathy, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Bartle.’ ”
“Ah!” said Mr. Corcoran, who had come back with the beers; he had them all clasped together in his hands, very clumsily, without a tray. “That from Betty and Bob?”
Mrs. Corcoran ignored him. “I guess you can go ahead and bring in those ferns,” she said to the delivery boy, eyeing the foil-wrapped pots with loathing.