Joseph shook his head. 'The Westbrooks are not nice people, Katie. You can't trust them.'
'Don't worry,' I replied. I haven't trusted anyone in a very long time.'
The next afternoon the Westbrooks' groundskeeper, who introduced himself as Roger Hale, picked me up from the Strawberry, then drove to Patrick's private school, which was at the far end of High Street, backing up to Wist Creek.
No street in Wisteria was far from a piece of shoreline. The town, a parcel of land jutting into the mouth of the Sycamore River, was surrounded on three sides by water, the river and two wide creeks named Oyster and Wist. The next point of land outside of town and moving in the direction of the Chesapeake Bay was the Scarborough Estate, and the point after that was Mason's Choice, where the river flowed into the bay.
'Do you think you can find your way?' Roger asked me, when he had driven from the school to the estate. He parked in a multi-car garage that was to one side of the house. From now on it would be my job to transport Patrick to and from in a staff car.
'Yes, thanks.' It wasn't the route I was concerned about, but trying to drive on the right side of the road, which was opposite from the way I had learned in England. It's just a matter of concentration, I told myself, and decided not to bring up the matter.
'I'll leave a map in the car,' Roger said, as he pulled my bags from the back of it, 'and one on your bureau when I take your luggage to your room. You get on to the house now-Mrs. Westbrook is always anxious to see Patrick.'
Patrick had chattered cheerfully in the car, but as he and I approached the house, he grew quiet. He turned his head suddenly, looking at the tall windows to the left of the main entrance. Someone gazed out from the library, but the weather had cleared and the bright reflections on the glass made it difficult to see who.
'I always go in through the kitchen,' Patrick said.
'Sorry, but your mother told me to bring you in the front.'
He hung back.
'Come on, Patrick. She wants to see you straightaway.'
He stood rooted in the grass. If we hadn't just met, I would have worried that he had learned that ugly, defiant look from me.
'All right,' I said. 'I'll go in. When you're ready to join me, knock on the door. But I'll answer only the front entrance.'
'Our. doors aren't locked in the daytime,' he informed me.
I continued walking. You re mean.
'But I was being so much nicer than usual,' I replied.
He stared at me and I winked. 'Come on, the sooner you see your mother, the sooner we can go outside and play.'
When he and I entered the main hall, his mother emerged from the library.
'Darling, how was school?'
'Okay.' He edged away from the library door.
She held out her arms. 'Are you forgetting something? Patrick!' She sounded hurt.
He dutifully went back and kissed her.
'Trent has just arrived from Philadelphia. Come say hello to him and Robyn. You as well, Kate.'
Through the door I could see Robyn pacing back and forth, pressing a cell phone to her ear. Years in the sun had aged her skin. The vertical creases between her eyebrows had deepened noticeably, and her black hair had streaks of silver. She still had the bone structure of a beautiful woman, but Ashley's suggestion that she was the bad queen in Snow White didn't seem that farfetched. As Patrick and I entered, she glanced at me, then turned her back.
Trent was sitting at a desk, dressed in a business suit, reading some kind of document. He was still slender, with thin, almost colorless hair. He had adored Ashley but had been hopeless at playing. She and I had had a much better time with my father, who, though I hadn't realized it then, had the imagination and heart of a child.
'Trent,' Emily said, 'here's Patrick, and his new tutor, Kate Venerelli.'
Trent's blue eyes looked up over his reading glasses. He rose from his seat. 'Good God!'
I had thought Mrs. Hopewell and Robyn would have warned Trent about me, but the small, satisfied curve of Robyn's lips suggested they hadn't. The little color Trent had in his cheeks disappeared completely.
'You're a double for your mother.'
Patrick gazed up at me. 'You have a mother?'
'Everyone has one at birth,' I replied.
'How old are you now?' Trent asked me.
'Seventeen.'
I could see him doing the mental calculation. Ashley would be nineteen. As children, both of us had strongly resembled our mothers. What would Ashley have looked like now-another Corinne, his wife when he first met her?
'I was sorry to learn about your father's death,' he said.
I nodded, but Trent didn't see it, sitting down again, his eyes returning to the paper he'd been reading before he had even finished his sentence.
'Here's Patrick,' Emily said, sounding a little peeved that her son had not been acknowledged by Trent.
'Hello, Patrick,' Trent responded, without looking up. When Patrick didn't reply, Trent added crisply, 'Children speak when spoken to.'
And when looked at, I thought.
'Hi,' Patrick said, his lips barely parting. He had learned from his half brother how to greet a person coldly.
'So when will your charming son arrive, Robyn?' Trent asked.
'By now, I thought.' She returned the cell phone to her pocket. 'I'm worried.'
'You don't think he stopped by a few parties on the way up from Beach Ball University, do you?'
'No, Uncle Trent, I did not,' replied a deep voice, 'because I knew how delighted you would be to see me.'
'Brook,'' his mother greeted him with relief. He kissed her, his lips barely brushing her cheek.
Ashley's cousin and 'best enemy' had inherited the Westbrook look, a handsome, large-featured face, dark hair, and blue eyes.
I can't tell you how happy I was to leave sunny Florida and come back to this cold, damp place,' Brook said sarcastically. 'Exactly when is dear Grandfather coming home?'
'Tomorrow, Brook, and I'm counting on you,' his mother responded with a meaning-filled look.
'As always,' he replied casually, and sprawled in a chair, one foot up on the low table in front of him. His skin was deeply tanned. 'And who are you?'
he asked, eyeing me.
'Kate.'
'Kate Venerelli,' his mother said.
Brook blinked. I could see the change in his eyes. 'Katie!' he exclaimed softly, sitting up straight. His eyes traveled down and up me in a way that made me squirm inside, which wasn't much different from the way I reacted to him when I was five. I had steered clear of a boy who played hard enough to hurt, kicked nests of wild kittens, and threw rocks at a pet when he thought no one was looking.
'Kate is Patrick's tutor,' Emily said.
Brook glanced at Patrick. 'Hey, little jerk.' There was no fondness in his greeting.
Patrick simply stared at him, which made Brook laugh.
'You know, Patrick, I always thought you were stupid. But maybe you're not as dumb as I figured-maybe you've been faking it so you could get a pretty tutor.'
Emily took a step toward Brook.
