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“Stand up!” Andreas commanded.
“Please, Andreas—”
“I said, stand up!”
She did as he asked. She stood up straight and tall, and did not stoop forward so the folds of her dress would better hide her burgeoning stomach. It was time for Andreas to know everything.
He saw right away.
“My God,” he said. “He has got you with child? How can this be?”
“I do not know,” she admitted. “But I do know one thing: I cannot let you destroy it.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Schuyler
chuyler lingered over her coffee the next morning, not sure how early would be too early to show up at the Chase house. When she couldn’t take the waiting anymore, she had the hotel call her a car and gave the driver the address.
He whistled. “Going to Sunny Dunes, are you? Nice spread.”
She could only imagine what kind of house would garner that reaction in a place like Malibu. They drove down the Pacific Coast Highway, snaking through the canyons, right against the beachhead. Schuyler saw surfers in wet suits sitting on their boards, waiting for waves. There were families picnicking by the beach, and a row of colorful houses facing the water, the only clue to their immense wealth the Aston Martins and Ferraris parked in the driveway.
The Chase residence was set right on the beach, an imposing modern structure that appeared to be made almost entirely out of glass. “It’s a landmark,” the driver said as he dropped her off. “One of the last houses built by a really famous local architect. Don’t break anything!” he joked.
“Thanks,” Schuyler said. She had expected a more traditional manor, something like the Nantucket ten-bedroom “cottage” that was Cordelia’s summer residence. This house reminded her of a museum, with its jagged roofline and aluminum panels. The driveway led to a double-height front door with a heavy iron handle. Through the glass panels for walls, she could see into the house—a serene and immaculate space that looked out over the ocean.
She buzzed the intercom and peered into the camera. “Uh, hi? I’m Schuyler Van Alen. Mrs. Chase is expecting me?”
“One moment,” a voice answered. Schuyler heard the sound of footsteps, and the door swung open to reveal a diminutive young woman in a black polo shirt and khaki pants—a uniform, Schuyler noticed, but a discreet one. The emblem “Sunny Dunes” on the pocket was all that gave it away.
“Hi, Schuyler, come on in. Mr. Jackson is ready for you.”
Schuyler followed the girl through the grand foyer and into a sun-filled living room. Double-height glass windows looked out over the ocean; the walls were beige and covered with stunning artwork. Schuyler thought some of the work looked familiar—de Kooning? Chagall? A stern-looking man of advanced age was standing in front of a Lichtenstein mural. “Good afternoon, I’m Murray Jackson. I work for Mrs. Chase. You must be Schuyler, the young lady with whom I spoke on the phone,” he said. “Do have a seat. Mrs. Chase will be down momentarily.
” He gave her a long once-over and left the room.
The furniture was upholstered in a rich creamy leather, and surrounded an enormous metallic coffee table that glinted in the sunlight. There was a grand piano in one corner, and Schuyler saw that the top was covered in framed photographs. There was a beautiful couple—her mother and Ben. Schuyler had never even seen any wedding photos. Cordelia had hidden them all away. They were so gorgeous together, Schuyler found it was hard to look at them, hard to feel connected to the two glowing people in the photograph. So that was her father.
He was so very handsome—not merely handsome but bright. There was a gentleness in him. He looked like such a happy person, she thought. A golden boy in all respects—born to sunshine and laughter. His smile was so full of joy that Schuyler had an inkling, for the first time, what had made Allegra give up her entire world for him.
He must be pretty special, Oliver had said.
Looking at the photographs, at the way he gazed at Allegra, Schuyler knew Oliver was right.
But most of the pictures on the piano were of a girl roughly her age, smiling at birthday parties, on the ski slopes, or on a horse bedecked with ribbons. There were photographs of the girl with an elderly couple who had to be her grandparents—Mr. and Mrs. Chase? And a few with a stylish woman who had to be the girl’s mother. There were no photographs of her with anyone who looked like he could be her father. The girl was very pretty, and had an appealing merriment to her. There was something familiar about the way her blue eyes crinkled with delight. Who was this girl?
Schuyler moved on to look closely at the art and was too busy inspecting the nearest piece to hear the footsteps on the stairs, but a voice from behind told her she was no longer alone. “How do you like the collection?” a woman asked.
Schuyler turned around to see the grandmother from the pictures: a tall, imposing woman dressed in impeccably crisp cream linen.
“This is a Richard Prince, isn’t it?” Schuyler asked. “I always thought he was terribly overrated and overpriced, but this truly is amazing,” she said, admiring an oversized landscape with a cowboy in the forefront. She’d always thought the Marlboro Man was such a cliché, but the painting was a revelation.
“Thank you. I’m glad to say we bought it when he was still affordable.” The woman laughed. “Decca.”
“Schuyler,” Schuyler said, shaking the woman’s hand, which had a nice firm grip.
“Yes. Jackson tells me you think you are my granddaughter,” Decca said, sitting on the couch across from Schuyler and studying her with a keen frankness. “I assured him that it was quite impossible, but he insisted I meet with you, so I thought I would humor him.”
