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"It's not complicated!" he insisted, actually pounding the sides of his leas with his fists for emphasis. The look on my face calmed him some, and the redness began to recede. "You know. I grew up here on this property. I watched him often and saw how he seduced one innocent girl after another, each one buoyed by his promises, kept afloat by his oaths full of hot air. I told you that before, but you didn't believe me. You will." he added. "You will."
He paused and looked around as if he could still see the ghosts of all Thatcher's women,
"He had his favorite places. That gazebo was one. Whenever I saw a chaise lounge had been put in it. I knew Thatcher would be there late at night with another victim. Or he would go over to that little knoll by the beach house and spread a blanket that just happened to be hidden behind the brush. Once. I spilled turpentine over it, and the smell ruined his evening. After that, he would get them into one of the sailboats. He's just like his father."
Linden's last comment stunned me. It was almost prophetic--only, of course. Linden didn't know which father I was thinking of at the moment. Or did he?
"What do you mean?" I asked in a deep whisper.
"Asher Eaton's no better. I've seen him take a woman or two during one of their famous all-night parties, walking her away from the guests to some secluded spot. They have no shame, I've seen it all."
I nodded. thinking Linden probably had gotten a backseat Palm Beach education living on the fringes of the social world here. All of that was going an while they, the sinners and the promiscuous, looked down upon Linden and my mother. It was a world full of hypocrisy and deceit, peopled by sanctimonious liars who paid lip service to the truth and honesty while they worshiped self-indulgence and
extravagance.
"That's probably true. Linden, but people can change, can realize that they have nothing meaningful in their lives and then try hard to find it."
"Nat the Eatons." he declared, clenching his teeth. He pulled back his lips so hard, I thought he would tear them.
"Were you able to work today?" I asked softly, hoping to change the subject and get him less agitated.
"Yes." he said, then evidently realized he had left everything down an another section of the beach. He must have either seen or heard Thatcher and followed to do what he had apparently been doing far some time-- spying on him.
He trekked off quickly and I walked behind. As we approached his easel. I saw that he finally had begun to paint a new picture, one that resembled his style and previous work. It looked like the bow of a boat heading into a deep, swirling fog. As I drew closer. I could make out a face emerging from the fog or being swallowed up by it. It looked like me.
Before I could study it, he threw a cloth over it and finished putting away his paints.
"Can I help carry something?" I asked him.
He turned and gave me one of his vacant looks, his eyes glassy and distant, the look of someone who was a complete stranger.
"Linden? Are you all right?"
He blinked rapidly, and then his body snapped to firmness.
"What? Yes. Can you carry this?" he asked, handing me his paints.
"Of course," I said, and he put his easel over his shoulder, his picture under his arm, and began to walk back to the beach house, his shoulders turned in and down like some Neanderthal plodding to a cave.
"I'm glad you're working again, Linden," I said. "You have a great talent and it would be a shame not to use it."
He paused and turned to me, his eyes sharper, his gaze firmer and more scrutinizing.
"Maybe you'll pose for me again," he said.
How his mind worked amazed me. He moved in and out of his memories, moved in and out of time, lost an immediate moment and then later on picked it up like someone who had noticed what he had dropped along the way. His thoughts were like radio waves waiting for a receiver strong enough to hone them in a
nd eliminate all the static.
"If you would like me to pose. I will." He nodded.
-"Good," he said, and marched on ahead of me mumbling, "Good."
I helped him put his things in his room, then went out to help my mother prepare our dinner. Linden remained in his roam, so I was free to tell her all that had happened.
"I couldn't see myself taking that ring and living with it all like some dark secret," I said. 'Was I wrong?"
"No, no." she said. "I can tell you what it is like holding everything in, wearing a mask of indifference while your heart cries for passion and love and truth. How many times your father and I would look at each other across a room full of other people and just for an instant reveal our hearts, only then to be terrified that someone had caught the glance, the tight, small smile on his lips or mine, the extra gentle and loving touch,
