Inheritance (5 page)

"You're raped every time you do it and don't want to," Laura said in a clear voice. And as she said it she realized she was right; it was the first time she'd known it. I'll never do it again, never, unless I really, truly want to and really care about somebody. And then he'll have to care about me, too.

"You're smart," Allison said. "God, that is a smart thing to say. Do you want to come up here a lot, and talk? It's a pretty room, isn't it? I used to hate it because it's so different fi-om my rooms in Boston—they're all velvet and satin, sort of like a warm bed—but now I like this, too. It's different, but it's just as comforting, and God knows I need that."

"You've got your mother's room, and your naother," Laura blurted.

"Well, of course, but . . . Well, you know Mother. She's wonderful and I love her, but she's perfect. And how do I go to somebody who's perfect and say, *Listen, I fucked up'?"

"If she's perfect she'll understand," Laura said, and they burst out laughing.

"Right," Allison agreed. "She's not quite perfect. But close."

Their smiles held and Laura felt warmth flow through her.

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Maybe they could be friends after all; only a little bit, because she had to be careful, but closer than any friendship she'd had until now. After all, here she was, sitting in a girl's room for the first time ever, talking about private things the way girls were supposed to. Even if she'd Ued a lot, she'd told some truths, too, and having to lie didn't change anything: it was still the kind of afternoon she'd always dreamed of. Why shouldn't it go on? Why shouldn't she have a real friend, just for these few weeks?

Allison was studying Laura's face. **I really would like to talk to you again and get to know you. I like you. Did I get it right about what you were doing in Mother's room? Or were you doing something else?"

The spell was broken. Laura's warmth was gone; she was tense and calculating. This is how it atways has to be. She ioweied her eyes and made her voice a little higho* than usual, soundiiig young, very earnest, very innocent. **No, you were right; I just wanted to see what it was like. Rosa mentioned ^tfaat every(Hie was gone—she doesn't know I came up here so pieaae don't blame her—and I thou^t Fd just take a little peek because I've never ever been in a hoose like this—it's like a fairy-tale castle, isn't it?—and 1 thought just once I coukl see how it felt to walk around in it and evoi pretend I lived here or might live somewhere like it, someday . . ."

She laisBd to eyes and looked at Allison with a litde quiver on \msx lips. '1 didn't mean any harm."

Allison's frown was deep and angiy. '*Yoa*re very complicated, aren't you? And maybe a good actress, too. I thii^ I wiU get to know you better."

Lmira jumped up. 'I'm sure it's aft» three. I have to go—^" She was at the door, pulling it opm, ahnost running into the hall and toward the staks.

Allison was close behind. 'I'm interested in you. And I intend to get to know you very well. In fact," she added, leaning fon^ard a little as Laura stood on the top stair, frx)zen, Tm going to find out everything about you."

Chapter 3

CLAY slipped the manila envelope into the mailbox at the Centerville post office, then pushed off on his bicycle to catch up with Laura. "That gives Ben the layout of the grounds and houses," he said as they rode toward Osterville. "I wrote him everything you told me about the alarm on the closet, and I said we'd find out what kind of a security system they've got. Oh, and what*s-his-name, the guard's, schedule—^"

"Jonas," said Laura. "And Billy and Al on the night shifts."

"Right. You know them all. All that shit that doesn't matter. But then you find an alarm and you don't even have the smarts to ask Allison or Rosa what kind of system it is and how it hooks up to Leni's closet!"

"Mrs. Salinger to you," Laura snapped. "And I wish you*d leave me alone. I couldn't ask, right then. When I have a chance, I'll find out. I've never let Ben down and I won't this time."

She sped ahead, rounded a comer and turned down a private drive she knew Clay had not discovered, to come out on the beach. It was early and no one was about; it was as if she had a private ocean, all to herself. She walked her bicycle in the soft sand, listening to the gulls and the wash of the waves, tasting the salt air on her tongue. Two weeks earlier, she would have preferred Main Street in Centerville, or even downtown Osterville, crowded with gift shops, fudge shops,

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bayberry candle shops, restaurants, and boutiques, because even though they were small they were more like New York than were the silent stretches of beach. And in some ways she still felt peculiar on the beach, alone in all that space and stillness.

She felt even more peculiar about the forests of pine, beech, oak, sassafras and fifty-foot holly trees that shared this part of the Cape with drifting sand and clumps of wild grass bending in the wind. The idea of forests terrified her. How would she find her way out without street signs, and familiar sidewalks beneath her feet, shadowed by buildings cranmied together so that wherever you looked there was a place to get shelter from the rain or to hide if somebody had felt you pick his pocket?

There were no hiding places on the beach, either, but this morning Laura found its quiet and emptiness comforting. For the first time she felt its serenity, and she was annoyed when she saw someone up ahead and realized she didn't have the ocean to herself after all. It was an old man, she saw as she drew closer, very tall and thin, with a white, drooping mustache and white hair that reached his shoulders. As she approached, she was struck by the contrast of his heavy eyebrows and wide, sensual mouth in a face so thin it was almost gaunt.

"Have you ever noticed the way this shell swirls?" he asked conversationally as she passed within a few feet of him. They might have been old friends sharing an early morning stroll. "It's peculiar to this part of the country, you know; I've never found another like it."

Laura stopped and took the shell he was holding out to her. Pink and white and rose, it curled in on itself like a whirlpool reflecting the sunset. She traced its whorls with her fingertip: silken smooth except for a tiny raised ridge in the center of each curve. "I've never seen one like it either," she said, not telling him that she had never seen any shell at all.

"Like people," the old man said. "Like fingerprints. Each has its own character. No, keep it," he added as she handed it back. "I like to give them away to people who appreciate them. Just as I like to share the morning solitude with someone who appreciates it." He bent closer to peer at her. "But

Judith Michael

I've intruded on your solitude, haven't I? You thought you had all this to yourself and then I pop up and obstruct the view."

Instinctively Laura looked at the wide expanse of empty beach all around them and a small smile curved the comers of her mouth. The old man saw it and smiled broadly. "You think there might be room for both of us? Of course we can go our separate ways, but we might also share our pleasure." His speech had an old-fashioned cadence that reminded Laura of lxx>ks she had read, and his smile was warm and private, drawing her toward him.

But she held back. He had known she didn't want anyone else on the beach, and no thief can afford to hang around a mind reader. She put her hands on the handlebars, ready to walk off. "I don't own it. It's somebody's private beach; we shouldn't even be here."

"But now that we are, we can enjoy it," he said gravely, and she looked up, and met his eyes, slate gray, serious, intent on her own. "Are there a great many things that you do own and wish to protect from intruders?"

"No," Laura said sharply—why did people have to pry?— and she turned again to leave. "I don't own anything," she said over her shoulder.

"Yourself," he responded quietly. "And I hope you're the only one who does." Laura frowned. "Aren't you valuable enough to own?" the old man asked.

She looked back at him. "I never thought about it."

"I think about it," he said. "About myself, that is. How much I value myself, how much pride I take in myself." He studied her gravely as she stood some distance away, like a wary bird poised to fly. "Perhaps you don't take enough pride in yourself. I'm sure you care about yourself, but perhaps not enough, or for the wrong reasons. You might give some thought to that. Having faith in yourself."

Laura nodded, fascinated but also afraid, because once again the old man had seen inside her. How could he know about the things she'd been wanting for over a year, almost more than anything else?

He was still studying her about eighteen, he thought, and still gangly; not yet a woman. Long, well-formed legs, though, with good muscles, probably from riding her bicycle.

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Her hair was tied back with a ribbon, and she wore a cotton shift and sandals. She should wear silk, the old man thought suddenly, and then wondered why he would think that about a rather ordinary, pretty girl with poor posture and an uncomfortable wariness in her stance. Perhaps it was her eyes: daric blue, almost too big for her slender, delicate face, showing in their depths a strong will that did not yet know its own strength or direction.

"Of course," he went on, "usually it takes a long time to have faith in ourselves. I've had seventy-eight years to work at it. But I think you'll do it;, one of these days you'll truly believe you are the most valuable possession you have." He smiled at her again. "And you'll protect yourself from intruders."

Laura stared at him. Without realizing it, she had moved closer and now stood beside him. "I have thought about it," she confided. "I'm going to change my whole life. I have to figure out how to do it, but someday I'm going to change everything; I won't even look the way I look now— '*

"I like the way you look," the old man said gently.

She shook her head. It was nice of him to say it and it was nice to hear, but he was old; what did he know? "I'm not beautiful or glamorous; I don't know how to dress right or even walk the right way."

"One foot in front of the other," he suggested.

"You wouldn't joke about it if you knew how serious it is,** she said angrily. "Rich people have a way of walking that's different: they come into a room as if they own everything and can just reach out and take whatever they want. They're not unhappy and they're not afraid they'll do something wrong; they just do what they want."

"You mean they have confidence."

"I guess," Laura said doubtfully, thinking that was a poor word to describe the way rich people made the world their own.

"But their confidence rests on their money," he said. "What about inside themselves? Don't you think ricb people ever worry abo'it love and friendship and health, and doing things well, anc .cing whatever they most want to be, deep inside?"

Laura shoc^ her head again. "Not like the rest of us."

Judith Michael

"And how many people have you known like that?"

"I haven't—a few."

There was a silence. So young, the old man thought, contemplating her small frown. And yet she is close to being a woman. "Tell me what you like about the beach," he said.

*The way it goes on forever." She turned to take in the shining sand, pale and sparkling in the sunlight, darker where the waves slid up and then retreated. 'There's so much space, like a huge house, and I can go from room to room and it's all mine."

His eyes brightened. "I've called it my castle ever since I was a small boy. Even when I was unhappy, if my father had scolded me or I was worried about something, when I came out here I was king of everything I could see. And I was always very selective about which friends I'd bring with me."

"I wouldn't bring anybody," Laura said decisively.

"No one? Not even your closest friend?"

"I don't have no—I don't have very many friends. I don't need them." He was watching her and she shrugged. "They're all right for people who need them, but if you're strong you don't." She looked at him as if daring him to contradict her. "You just need yourself. That's what you said a few minutes ago. You should believe in yourself."

"That wasn't exactly what I meant," he responded quietly. "Poor child, isn't there anyone you want to share your happiness with?"

"Don't feel sorry for me!" Laura said furiously. "I don't want anybody to feel sorry for me! I don't give a shit— " She bit her hp. "I don't care about sharing, and I wouldn't bring anybody here; it would be my secret."

Casually, as if she had said nothing unusual, the old man gave a bow. "May I visit you in your house? I'd like very much to sit down." He pointed to a hillock of sand covered with tufts of wild grass. "Lately I've begun to tire easily, and I would appreciate the use of your sofa."

Laura felt a sudden rush of warmth; he was trying to make her feel better. For the first time she laughed. "Please do. I'm sorry I can't serve tea."

He laughed with her but inwardly he was stunned at the change in her face. She wasn't (^dinary, he thought. She

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could be a beautiful woman, with a smile that would break men's hearts. She lay her bicycle on the sand and they sat down, contemplating the ocean's long gray swells and furling white caps that broke along the shore in rhythmic whispers. "I've never told my family about my castle on the beach," he mused. *They think I'm often tyrannical and occasionally wise, mainly because I've reached an advanced age, and I don't want them to think I fantasize empty rooms around every sand dune. And I certainly can't tell them that what I like best is the silence. In my family everyone has a vocal opinion on everything. The silence here is wonderful. I never get enough of it."

"It makes me feel odd, though," Laura said. "As if it's going to swallow me up."

"Ah." He nodded. "That's what an empty beach does. Swallows you up. A lot of people find the silence too much and they bring those terrible radios . . . they have a name . . ."

"Ghetto blasters."

"Blasters," he echoed. "I gather they're called that because they blast ghettos."