Dearly Beloved Page 13

  This isn’t what she pictured when she imagined Ethan Thoreau’s home. A mansion, yes—this creepy gothic monstrosity, no.

  The chauffeur puts up his black umbrella, opens the back door, and offers a gloved hand to help her out.

  Sandy wavers for only an instant before placing her fingers in his leather grip.

  He holds the umbrella over her head as they hurry through the driving rain up the wooden steps of the porch that runs the length of the house. He turns the knob on one of the double doors and pushes it open. Sandy steps inside, vaguely wondering why it isn’t locked, then realizing that there probably isn’t much crime on the island. And what burglar would want to come out in this weather?

  The door closes behind her, abruptly shutting out the roar of the storm. She turns and sees that maybe she was wrong about crime on the island. Looking out of place on the old-fashioned door panel is a shiny silver deadbolt, the kind that, once it’s locked from the inside, requires a key to open it again.

  Her father wanted to put one of those locks on their front door back in Greenbury after someone broke into one of their neighbor’s homes.

  But Angie had talked him out of it, saying it would be a fire hazard.

  “What are you talking about?” Tony had asked. “We’ll just leave the key in the lock all the time so that if there’s a fire, we can get out.”

  “If the key’s in the lock, the burglar can just break the window, reach in, and unlock it anyway,” Angie had argued.

  They’d settled for a sturdy chain instead.

  But in Ethan Thoreau’s house, Sandy notices, the double doors don’t have windows and the key is sitting in the inside lock.

  She wipes her feet on the mat beneath her feet and looks around. She’s standing in a dimly lit entrance hall that rises two stories with a sweeping wooden staircase that leads to a second-floor hallway lined with closed doors. The decor is formal and old-fashioned with dark, heavy drapes over the windows and a tapestry-style carpet on the floor. The dark woodwork is elaborately carved, and the wallpaper is a deep maroon brocade that’s illuminated in patches where gaslight sconces dot the walls.

  “Wait in there,” the chauffeur says, and Sandy turns to see him pointing at a room that’s through an archway to the right.

  She nods and heads in that direction, again feeling an elusive pin prick of déjà vu.

  Frowning, she steps into the room and sees that it’s a parlor filled with heavy, old-fashioned furniture along with more dark brocade wallpaper, more sconces, more dark woodwork.

  She spots a gilt-framed painting hanging over the fireplace and is moving closer to inspect it when she hears a telltale click from the foyer.

  She knows what it is even before she peeks over her shoulder and sees the chauffeur moving away from the double front doors.

  The key that had been in the shiny silver lock is gone.

  And Sandy realizes, with a pounding heart, that she’s locked in.

  Chapter 6

  Jennie looks up from the magazine she’s been trying to read, startled by a knock on the door of her room.

  Must be Jasper Hammel.

  She’d told the man, when she’d returned from the beach, that she wasn’t interested in coming down for dinner.

  Oh, but you must, he’d said, his mustache twitching. I’m making my special rock cornish game hens.

  She’d insisted that she had a stomachache and wasn’t hungry, but he’d just smiled and said she’d probably feel better later. I’ll see you in the dining room at eight-thirty, he’d said.

  It’s eight-twenty now, according to the travel alarm on the nightstand.

  Sighing, Jennie rises from the wingback chair by the fireplace and goes to answer the door, prepared to be rude if she has to be. After all, the whole point of this weekend was to relax, not to be bullied into joining strangers for dinner and conversation.

  Throwing the door open, Jennie opens her mouth to speak, then clamps it shut again when she sees who’s standing there.

  “Hi, Laura.” Liza Danning tosses her blond hair over her shoulder. She’s taken it out of the French twist, and it falls past her shoulders in straight, silky strands.

  “Hi.” Jennie wonders what she could possibly want.

  “What are you doing?” Liza peers over Jennie’s shoulder into the room.

  “Reading.”

  “What?”

  “I’m reading.” Jennie idly notices that Liza’s black sweater is cashmere with velvet trim and part of an expensive fall designer collection. Laura has one just like it, and she splurged more than a week’s pay to buy it. Of course, then she couldn’t come up with her half of the rent and Jennie had to cover her, as usual. And though that was a few months ago, Laura still hasn’t paid her back—as usual.

  “No—I meant, what are you reading?” Liza asks.

  “Oh . . . just a magazine. Country Living.”

  “Oh.” Liza wrinkles her nose. “I’m not really big on this country stuff. In fact, I’m going nuts out here. There’s absolutely nothing to do.”

  “What about your business meeting?”

  “Oh. That.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Liza shrugs. “I just haven’t heard from the guy I’m supposed to meet yet, that’s all.”

  “Well, the weather isn’t that great.” Jennie glances toward the window, which is rattling from the fury of wind and rain outside. “Maybe he couldn’t get here.”

  “You mean to the island? He lives here . . . supposedly.”

  Jennie frowns. “What? You don’t think he really does?”

  “I’m not sure. Who knows?” Liza throws her hands up and shakes her head. “But anyway, I wondered if you wanted to come down to dinner with me.”

  “I wasn’t going to—”

  “I know, I wasn’t either.” Liza lowers her voice. “He’s a little too weird for me.”

  Jennie doesn’t ask whom she’s talking about. Obviously, she isn’t the only one who’s put off by Jasper Hammel.

  “But,” Liza continues, “I’m starving. And I refuse to go down there alone. I bumped into that other person who’s staying here, Sandy something-or-other, going into the bathroom a few hours ago, and she was getting ready to go out for the night.”

  “Well, as I said, I—”

  “You’ve got to eat. And you have to admit, whatever he’s making smells pretty good. Come on.”

  Jennie hesitates. On the one hand she isn’t crazy about Liza’s tone, which isn’t so much cajoling as it is commanding. On the other, she isn’t thrilled by the thought of spending the entire evening alone with her magazine—and her memories.

  “Okay, I’ll come down with you,” she tells Liza, who promptly looks relieved and flashes a smile that actually seems genuine.

  “Thanks, Laura. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” Jennie gestures at the room behind her. “I’ll just comb my hair and meet you—”

  “That’s okay. I’ll wait here for you.”

  Liza’s already past her, walking into the room and glancing around. “It’s so frilly,” she says with a look of distaste. “Like the one they stuck me in. Only mine’s done in pink, not purple.”

  “Uh huh,” Jennie says, watching Liza pick up a gold-rimmed porcelain bud vase, examine it briefly, and plunk it back down on the piecrust table by the bed.

  “You know,” Liza gestures at the lilac-printed wallpaper, “this light color purple is the exact same shade as your eyes.”

  “I guess.”

  “That’s kind of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “I guess,” Jennie says again.

  Liza turns to meet her gaze directly, her own eyes sharp and narrowed. “Does this place give you the creeps?”

  “You asked me that before, when we were in town.”

  “I know. I’m asking you again. Because it seems even creepier now that it’s dark out and the storm is going full force.”

  “It doesn’t bother me,” Jenni
e lies.

  “Well, it bothers me. I can’t wait to get off this island and back to civilization.”

  Not knowing what, if anything, to say to that, Jennie goes to the dresser and runs a brush through her hair, conscious of Liza watching her. She sets the brush down and picks up a cherry-flavored Chapstick, running it over her dry lips.

  “Don’t you wear makeup?” Liza asks.

  “Not really.”

  “Mmm.”

  Jennie knows what she’s thinking. It’s what Laura always says to her, too—you’d be so much prettier, Jen, if you’d just take some time to fix yourself up. Wear makeup. Change your hairstyle . . .

  There was a time when Jennie used to take the time to make herself attractive. Back when she and Harry were together . . .

  But once Harry was gone, she hadn’t bothered. It seemed so unimportant, so frivolous, somehow, after what had happened.

  Laura had told her, after she lost Harry, that she should get right back out there and make an effort to find someone new. As if they were in eighth grade again and a boyfriend of the week had dumped her.

  At least put on some mascara and use some gel in your hair. You’ll never find a man if you don’t at least try and look sexy, Jen.

  But she’d proved Laura wrong without intending to.

  It was almost a year ago that Keegan had materialized in her antique shop one Saturday afternoon in early May, wanting to look through the Haviland china she had on hand. It was for a Mother’s Day gift, he’d told Jennie, looking a little sheepish—his mom collected the stuff.

  It wasn’t until their third date that he’d told Jennie the truth—he was the one who collected antiques, including china. Most women, Keegan had added, thought that was a strange hobby for a man to have. But you seem different, Jennie. . . . You’re special. I don’t know you that well, but I want to. And I want you to know me, too.

  Jennie fell in love with him on the spot.

  But, she reminds herself now, Keegan—like Harry—is history.

  Jennie puts down the Chapstick, looks in the mirror again, and sees a reflection of Liza, behind her, zeroing in on the sketch-pad she’d carelessly left open on the bed. She’s standing over it before Jennie can divert her.

  “Is this what you drew today?” she asks, picking the pad up and looking at the sketch.

  “Yeah.” Feeling invaded, Jennie turns away from the bureau and is about to tell Liza she’s changed her mind about dinner.

  But Liza’s expression has softened. She smiles at Jennie and says, “This is good Laura. Really good. I mean, I’m not usually crazy about drawings of scenery—I usually like modern art, abstract stuff, better—but I think this is wonderful.”

  “It’s the beach behind the inn.”

  “Yeah, I recognize it. It’s got such a lonely aura. Sad. Not the place itself, but . . . your drawing. Is it your interpretation of what you see out there?”

  “I guess it is.” Jennie thinks that she obviously revealed too much in her sketch. She doesn’t want Liza prying into her private world, asking questions about her past, so she changes the subject. “Why don’t we go down to eat? I’m ready.”

  “Good.” Liza takes another look at the sketch, then puts it carefully back on the bed exactly the way she found it.

  Jennie picks up her room key from the dresser and tucks it into the pocket of her jeans. It’s probably not necessary to lock the door, but she can’t help feeling that she should.

  Just in case . . .

  In case what? she asks herself, and realizes she doesn’t know the answer.

  Somehow, she just can’t shake the feeling that this inn might not be as idyllic and charming as it seems. That her belongings aren’t safe unless the door is locked securely . . .

  And that maybe she isn’t, either.

  He hums to himself as he buttons his pristine-white pleated shirt, standing in front of a full-length mirror in the large master bedroom that overlooks the dark, storm-churned sea.

  So far, it’s been so easy . . . so wonderfully easy that he can’t help but worry that something might go wrong.

  Relax. . . . What can go wrong now? Everything is in order. Sandy Cavelli is downstairs waiting for you.

  He wonders what she’s doing right this moment, what she’s thinking, whether she’s frightened. Probably not. Not yet.

  But it won’t be long before she’s terrified.

  Before she’s suffering, just as she made him suffer all those years ago.

  Just as Lorraine suffered.

  He smiles at the thought of her . . .

  Lorraine LaCroix.

  He will never forget the first moment he laid eyes on her, in the lobby of the American Embassy in France. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, with that milky skin and deep red hair and eyes the color of emeralds. Her clothes were so impeccable, so stylish that he’d thought she had to be French. No, considering her last name, she’d apparently had French ancestors, she’d told him, but she was an American, working at the embassy as a translator.

  He will never forget how sophisticated she was, how she treated him with cool detachment until she found out who he was—rather, who his family was.

  Then, those emerald eyes had twinkled at him and her voice had warmed to him. She’d allowed him to take her out to dinner at the finest restaurant in Paris and to make love to her that night in his suite in the finest hotel in all of France.

  As dawn filtered through the plate-glass windows on that morning, he’d whispered that he loved her. She hadn’t looked horrified or shrunk away from his touch. She had simply smiled the mysterious, close-lipped smile that he would grow to know so well, and she had slipped down beneath the sheets to do incredible things to him. Things no one had ever done to him, not Sandy . . . not Liza . . . not Laura . . .

  No one but his mother.

  And he wouldn’t allow himself to think about that—not then, and he won’t now.

  He reaches for the bow tie that waits on the dresser and slips it around his neck, tucking it beneath the pointed collar on his shirt. With fluid, expert movements, he ties it, still humming to himself, watching his reflection in the mirror and remembering the last time he wore this tuxedo.

  That morning, his hands had been trembling, and he certainly hadn’t been humming.

  But then, as now, he was fantasizing about the woman who waited for him, and hoping that nothing would go wrong.

  Now, the woman is Sandy Cavelli.

  Then, it was Lorraine LaCroix—his bride.

  It had been her idea to plan a large wedding and to have it in his Manhattan brownstone. She said she wanted everyone they knew to bear witness when she became his wife. She said she wanted the most perfect wedding anyone could imagine, the kind of wedding she had only dreamed of when she was growing up in a bona-fide orphanage where she had been forced to live an austere, loveless existence.

  He remembered the intricate details that had gone into planning the affair, the details Lorraine had embraced with her usual fervor.

  Nothing but the finest for his fiancée. Waterford crystal toasting glasses for all of the guests and imported champagne and caviar. A silk wedding gown created especially for her by the most famous designer in Paris. A guest list that included not only their friends and her family, but New York’s social elite, as well as European royalty. Two tickets for a honeymoon trip that would take them around the globe, with reservations for the most exclusive hotels and resorts on every continent.

  And, of course, red roses. Hundreds of dozens of them. Roses for the brownstone, for her hair, for her bouquet, for his lapel. They were her favorite flower, and their fragrant aroma would forever remind him of her.

  He had sent one-hundred-and-two red roses—one for every day they’d been together—to her suite at the Waldorf-Astoria on the morning of the wedding, along with a carefully composed note that told her how happy he was that she was going to marry him . . .

  And how sorry he was for what had happened
the night before.

  After the rehearsal dinner, he had gone up to her suite with her, assuming he would spend a few hours there, if not the entire night.

  Lorraine had told him she didn’t want him to come in, that she didn’t want to make love to him that night. She had gone on to tell him something about how she wanted their next time to be after they were married.

  He hadn’t been able to focus on what she was saying.

  Stung, he had only stared at her, seeing only rejection on her face, hearing it in her voice . . .

  Once again, seeing and hearing Sandy Cavelli . . .

  Liza Danning . . .

  Laura Towne . . .

  And now Lorraine, too.

  Suddenly, he had gone into a frenzy, grabbing his startled fiancée and throwing her down on the bed. As she protested, then screamed, and finally cried hysterically, he had forced himself on her, violently invading her body with his mouth and fingers and ultimately with his penis, mercilessly thrusting into her over and over again until he at last was able to release several years’ worth of pent-up fury.

  Only when he had rolled off of her and seen her tear-stained, scratched and bleeding face, her torn dress, her terror-filled eyes, had he realized what he’d done.

  Too stunned to react, he had simply gotten dressed and left the suite, leaving Lorraine still whimpering and huddled on the bed.

  He hadn’t slept that night.

  He had lain in his own king-sized bed in the brownstone, listening to the traffic going down Fifth Avenue and wondering how he could have lost control that way.

  He was sorry, truly sorry.

  And Lorraine, he knew, would forgive him.

  Because Lorraine loved him. She wanted to marry him. She wanted to spend every moment, the rest of her life, with him.

  Lorraine was his, would always be his.

  At exactly noon, dressed in his tuxedo with a white rosebud carefully pinned on his lapel, he had taken his place in the drawing room on the first floor of his brownstone. There—in front of the twenty rows of rented white folding chairs, in front of the two hundred people who at first smiled and chattered quietly, then began to shift uncomfortably on their seats and check their watches—he waited.