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"Bronson," Mother cried. "Spying on us?"
"Hardly that," he said, stepping forward quickly to take her hand. "I did see your car drive up and wondered what was taking you all so long to ring my chimes. Poor Livingston is standing in the entryway fidgeting like an expectant father," he said, and Mother laughed.
"Livingston," Bronson explained to Jimmy and me, "is my butler. He's been with me . . . well, he's been around longer than I have. He actually worked for my father," Bronson said. He shook Jimmy's hand quickly. "Welcome. And you," he said, dropping his gaze to my feet and climbing up my legs and over my bosom to my face, "look absolutely beautiful. Like 'is other, like daughter," he declared, still staring at me.
"Now who's keeping us from dinner?" Mother asked, not hiding her annoyance at being ignored.
"Oh. Sorry. Right this way," Bronson directed, and he led us into the beautiful house.
Livingston, in coat and tails, stood just inside. He was a tall, lean old man who bent forward, making him seem to be climbing hills while standing on a flat surface. His hair was candle white and his eyes a pale, watery blue.
"Good evening, Livingston," Mother said.
"Good evening, ma'am," he replied in a somewhat raspy voice.
"This is Mr. and Mrs. Longchamp, Livingston," Bronson introduced. Livingston nodded.
"Hello," I greeted.
"Hi," Jimmy added.
Livingston went to close the door, and I turned my attention to the inside of the house. As we followed Bronson into the house I saw that there were paintings on all the walls, from Renaissance to modern. Colors and elegance were everywhere in evidence throughout the house, particularly in the hall, with its maroon velvet curtains, its marble floors and marble bench. We stopped first at the library, which was filled with rich leather furniture and dark oak tables and bookcases. Bronson showed us his office, where he had an enormous portrait of his parents above his desk. There was something vaguely familiar in his mother's face. She reminded me of someone, but I didn't have time to dwell upon it, for my attention was quickly drawn to the portrait of a young woman on the wall to our left.
She looked as though she was in her late teens. She had light brown hair brushed down over her shoulders and had a soft oval face with kind, light green eyes and a gentle smile. In the portrait she was seated on a wide cushioned chair. She had her graceful-looking hands crossed over each other on her lap, but there was something about her posture, the way her shoulders turned, that seemed odd. I thought she looked uncomfortable.
I looked at Bronson and saw the way he gazed admiringly at the portrait. There was a soft smile around his lips that resembled the smile on the young woman's face. In fact, as studied him and the girl in the portrait, I realized there were enough resemblances to make me suspect they were brother and sister.
"That's my sister Alexandria," he said, confirming my suspicion.
"Oh, she's very pretty," I said.
"Was," Bronson said, and he sighed. "She died a little more than two years ago."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"What happened to her?" Jimmy asked quickly.
"Despite what you see there, she was constantly in pain. She suffered from a degenerative bone disease. Posing for that portrait was a difficult thing for her to do, but she insisted on it. She wanted me to have it," he added, smiling at the memory.
"It's so depressing to dote on these tragic things," Mother said.
"What? Yes, yes, of course," Bronson said. "How rude of me, especially in light of Randolph's recent passing."
"Let's not talk about death and sickness tonight," Mother pleaded.
"Of course not," Bronson agreed. "Let me show you the rest of the house," he said to Jimmy and me. The tour continued. We passed under and to the right of the semicircular stairway with its white marble balustrade. He showed us his sitting room with its elegant French furnishings and even took us in to see his kitchen, where at the moment two chefs worked on our meal. The aromas were sumptuous.
"It's a gourmet feast," Bronson promised.
We went directly to the enormous dining room that had windows that soared up to the ceiling, framed by deep rose velvet swags lined with gold. There was a great teardrop crystal chandelier hanging over a table that could easily seat twenty people. The chairs were all high backed with arms and cushioned seats. The moment we sat down, servants appeared as if from out of the woodwork. There was a waitress and a waiter. The waiter brought out the iced champagne, and the waitress followed with our glasses on a solid silver tray. The bottle was uncorked and the champagne poured.
"I should like to begin by offering another toast," Bronson said, looking at me. "From everything I have heard . . ." He leaned toward-Mother to speak sotto voce. "And as you know, I have spies everywhere . . . I understand," he continued, sitting back and raising his glass, "that the new young owner of Cutler's Cove is proving to be a success. So," he said, "to the Cutler's Cove Hotel, whose future now looks bright again."
"Oh, Bronson, how can we toast a hotel? Toast people, not buildings," Mother complained.
"Very well," he said, undaunted. "To the two most beautiful women in Cutler's Cove."
"Now that's a toast," Mother said, and we drank.
