ineffectual against the cool wind. It seemed to him that the shift in the air reflected the changing quality of his own mood.
Till now he had been successful in his plan of action, but with Nuala’s dinner party only two hours away, a premonition was coming over him. Nuala had become suspicious and would confide in her stepdaughter. Everything could start to unravel.
The tourists had not yet abandoned Newport. In fact there was an abundance of them, postseason day- trippers, anxious to stalk the mansions managed by the Preservation Society, to gape at the relics of a bygone age before most of them were closed until next spring.
Deep in thought he paused as he came to The Breakers, that most marvelously ostentatious jewel, that American palace, that breathtaking example of what money, and imagination, and driv ing ambition could achieve. Built in the early 1890s for Cornelius Vanderbilt II and his wife, Alice, it was enjoyed only briefly by Vanderbilt himself. Paralyzed by a stroke in 1895, he died in 1899.
Lingering for a moment longer in front of The Breakers, he smiled. It was Vanderbilt’s story that had given him the idea.
But now he had to act quickly. Picking up his pace, he passed Salve Regina University, formerly known as Ochre Court, a hundred-room extravagance that stood splendid against the skyline, its limestone walls and mansard roof beautifully preserved. Five minutes later he came upon it, Latham Manor, the magnificent edifice that had been a worthy, more tasteful competitor to the vulgarity of The Breakers. Originally the proud property of the eccentric Latham family, it had fallen into disrepair in the lifetime of the last Latham. Rescued from ruin and restored to reflect much of its earlier grandeur, it was now the residence of wealthy retirees, living out their last years in opulence.
He stopped, feasting his eyes on Latham Manor’s majestic white marble exterior. He reached into the deep pocket of his windbreaker and pulled out a cellular phone. He dialed quickly, then smiled slightly as the voice he had hoped to hear answered. It meant one thing less he had to worry about later.
He said two words, “Not tonight.”
“Then, when?” a calm, noncommittal voice asked after a slight pause.
“I’m not sure yet. I have to take care of something else.” His voice was sharp. He did not permit questions about his decisions.
“Of course. Sorry.”
Breaking the connection without further comment, he turned and began to walk swiftly.
It was time to get ready for Nuala’s dinner party.
3
Nuala Moore hummed as she sliced tomatoes on the cutting board of her cheerfully untidy kitchen, her movements quick and confident. The late afternoon sun was about to set, and a stiff breeze was rattling the window over the sink. She could already feel a slight chill seeping through the poorly insulated back wall.
Even so, she knew her kitchen was warm and inviting with its red-and-white colonial paper, worn red-brick linoleum, and pine shelves and cabinets. When she finished slicing the tomatoes, she reached for the onions. A tomato-and-onion salad marinated in oil and vinegar and generously sprinkled with oregano was a perfect accompaniment to a roast leg of lamb. Her fingers were crossed that Maggie still loved lamb. When she was little it had been one of her favorites. Maybe I should have asked her, Nuala thought, but I want to surprise her. At least she knew Maggie wasn’t a vegetarian-she had ordered veal the night they were together in Manhattan.
The potatoes were already bouncing in the big pot. When they had finished boiling, she would drain them but not mash them until the last minute. A tray of biscuits was ready to pop in the oven. The green beans and carrots were all prepared, ready to be steamed minutes before she seated her guests.
Nuala peered into the dining room, double-checking. The table was set. She had done that first thing this morning. Maggie would sit opposite her in the other host chair. A symbolic gesture, she knew. Cohostesses this evening, like mother and daughter.
She leaned against the door frame for a moment, reflecting. It would be wonderful to have someone with whom she could at last share this terrible worry. She would wait a day or two, then she would say, “Maggie, I have to talk with you about something important. You’re right, I am worried about something. Maybe I’m crazy or just an old, suspicious fool, but…”
It would be so good to lay her suspicions before Maggie. Even when she was little she had had a clear, analytical mind. “Finn-u-ala,” she would begin when she wanted to share a confidence, her way of letting me know that this was going to be a very serious discussion, Nuala remembered.
I should have waited until tomorrow night to have this party, she thought. I should have given Maggie a chance to at least catch her breath. Oh well, typical of me-I always act first and think afterwards.
But she had wanted to show Maggie off to her friends after talking about her so much. And also, when she asked them to dinner, she had thought that Maggie was arriving a day earlier.
But Maggie had phoned yesterday to say there was a problem with one of the jobs, that it was going to take a day more than expected to complete. “The art director is a nervous Nelly and is agonizing over the shots,” she had explained, “so I can’t start up until around noon tomorrow. But I still should be there by four or four-thirty.”
At four, Maggie had phoned. “Nuala, I tried to call a couple of times earlier, but your line was busy. I’m just now finishing up and heading out to my car.”
“No difference as long as you’re on your way.”
“I just hope I arrive before your guests so I’ll have time to change.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Just drive carefully and I’ll ply them with cocktails till you get here.”
“It’s a deal. I’m on my way.”
Thinking about the conversation, Nuala smiled. It would have been awful if Maggie had been delayed yet another day. By now she should be around Bridgeport, she thought. She’ll probably get caught in some commuter traffic, but at least she’s on her way. Dear God, Maggie’s on her way to me.
Since there was nothing more she could do for the moment, Nuala decided to sit down and watch the early evening news. That would still leave her time for a nice hot, relaxing bath before people started to arrive.
She was about to leave the kitchen when there was a rap at the back door. Before she could look through the window to see who it was, the handle turned. For the moment she was startled, but as the door opened and her visitor stepped in, she smiled warmly.
“Hello there,” She said. “Good to see you, but you’re not due for a couple of hours, so you can’t stay long.”
“I don’t plan to stay long,” her visitor said quietly.
4
After his mother moved to Florida, selling the house that had been old Squire’s wedding present to Liam’s grandmother, Liam Moore Payne had bought a condominium on Willow Street. He used it regularly during the summer, but even after his sailboat was put into storage at the end of the season, he frequently would come down from Boston on weekends to escape the hectic world of international finance.
The condo, a spacious four-room unit with high ceilings and a terrace overlooking Narragansett Bay, was furnished with the choice contents of the family home. When she had moved, his mother had said, “These things don’t work in Florida, and anyhow I never cared for any of it. You take them. You’re like your father. You love this heavy old stuff.”
As Liam stepped from the shower and reached for a bath towel, he thought of his father.
