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"This is Miss Isabel Amou. She is in graduate school, and she thinks speaking with your mother would be interesting and might help her with a project she has undertaken. Linden. It's nothing to be concerned about. I think you know by now that I wouldn't do anything that would cause your mother worry, but just the opposite. right?"
Thatcher was talking to him in a tone of voice that he might use to speak with a young contentious boy, trying to handle him the way Daddy might. I thought. Linden, however, continued to stand there like an immovable object, his features hardened, cold, full of distrust,
"I called to you before when we saw you walking home on the beach," Thatcher continued to fill the pregnant pause, "but I guess you couldn't hear me over the sound of the sea."
Linden looked at him with an expression that clearly indicated he had heard but didn't care to speak with Thatcher.
"What brings you in so early today?" Thatcher continued, determined not to permit any silences among us. "Didn't you catch anything artistic out there?"
He turned to me to explain. "Linden once told me he was a sort of fisherman, casting his artistic eyes at the sea like a rod to pull in his inspiration. Wasn't that how you put it. Linden?"
It wasn't told so you could use it as something with which to amuse people," he replied.
"Oh. no. that's not what I'm doing. I'm truly impressed with what you said, and from the look on Miss Amou's face. I would conclude she is as well. Isn't that right. Miss Amou?"
"Yes." I said, looking from him to Linden. He studied me with a pair of eves that looked capable of probing my very soul. What he saw didn't displease him. His narrow shoulders relaxed, and his lips softened.
"What is this project he speaks about?" Linden asked me.
"As he said. I'm a student doing a sociological project, a work-study assignment involving Palm Beach society," I began.
"We're not in Palm Beach society," Linden said sharply, his lips tight and bitter.
"Oh, but you are, Linden. One can't live here and not be part of that." Thatcher said.
"We can." Linden challenged. It would be a waste of time to speak with my mother. She doesn't attend any functions or socialize with any of the royals," he added, his words so dry they drew the corners of his lips down.
She has a history here, doesn't she?" Thatcher pursued. "Why don't you let her decide for herself. Linden? Miss Amou is not here to do anyone any harm. She
's not writing for the Sheet. or any other paper. This isn't an expose. It's a legitimate study project. Your mother might actually enjoy speaking with her. Linden."
"I doubt it." Linden insisted,
"Well. why don't we at least let her make that decision?" Thatcher pursued.
I wasn't sure if Thatcher was not used to being denied anything or if he was trying to ingratiate himself with me. but whatever his motive. Linden was moved by his determination.
"You're just wasting your time," he said. relenting. "Wait here."
He turned and went into the house. Thatcher smiled at me. "Difficult young man. He scares most people. and not only with his art, which sells from time to time but not enough to command any real numbers for him. I can show you some pieces at a gallery on Worth Avenue, if you like."
"Yes, I would like that," I said quickly.
"I thought so. The dark, the disturbed, the dangerous are far more enticing than what we would call normal and levelheaded, aren't they? It's why Iago is a far more interesting character in Shakespeare's Othello than Othello is himself. Don't you agree?" he asked with that impish little smile on his lips.
Despite my resistance, he was charming me. I could feel it through my body-- this warm, titillating sensation sparking little fires of passion inside me where I had never imagined they would start. For a moment or two. it took my attention away from the dramatic meeting I was about to experience. Talk about your kaleidoscope of emotions, I thought. I'm frightened, excited, and aroused all simultaneously.
"He's right, though. Just as I told you, they really are out of it when it comes to Palm Beach social life. I'm afraid this isn't going to be very valuable for you."
If you only knew how valuable itwas, I thought.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway seized my heart like a strong hand and squeezed the pounding down to a barely felt tap in my chest. She appeared from around the corner of the hallway. Her hair, the same color as mine, only streaked with some o-ay, was tied behind in a thick ponytail. She had a light complexion, and as she drew closer. I could see I had inherited my freckles from her. We had the same nose, the same turquoise eyes. but the shape of my face was closer to my father's.
Despite the simple way she wore her hair, the absence of any makeup, and the plain faded blue housecoat she wore, she had a quiet, truly angelic beauty. Her neck was slim, and all of her features had an almost childlike look; I was especially struck by the innocence and vulnerability in those eyes.
My adoptive mother would have been so disappointed. I thought, Regardless of the turmoil and difficulties in her life, my real mother looked relatively unscathed by age. With just some thin crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes, her complexion was milk smooth. She had a nice figure with a small waist and graceful hands. She wore no jewelry, no earrings, not even a wristwatch.
"Hello. Grace," Thatcher said quickly. "How are you?"
